by Calvin Wade
“No problem. Is everything OK?”
“Not really, Muscleman,” Joey said, he still subconsciously dropped in my old nickname from time to time, “I’ve just come out of the gym and my car’s not here.”
“What do you mean mate, not there?”
“I mean it’s been nicked, Simon. Someone’s bloody nicked my new Mercedes.”
SIMON – May 2012
It was Sunday afternoon, two days after the theft of Joey’s car. I had called around at his house to ask him if he would be one of the two ‘Best Men’, at our wedding. On Friday night, Joey had phoned me back to say the police had found his car on the access road to Botany Bay shopping centre, less than a mile from where it had been stolen. Relieved and back in a jovial mood, Joey had agreed for us to meet up on Sunday, as I said I had something important to ask him. We were out in the back garden, having a beer. Despite my best intentions of getting into shape, people kept offering me free beer and I kept taking them up on their kind offer. It would have been rude not to!
“I don’t get it, Joey. Why would someone steal a car from David Lloyd’s gym and then dump it at Botany Bay?” I asked.
“I asked the police that, Simon. They have two theories. The first is that it was just a couple of kids’ joyriding. Someone walking their dog along the canal, reported that they saw two kids in hoodies, by the Mercedes, acting in a self-congratulatory manner, high fiving each other and saying how amazing something had been.”
“They might have been talking about the buzz of driving your car.”
“Exactly. The second theory, is that the thieves took it to see if they could get the stereo system out of it, took it down the access road to Botany Bay, but were then disturbed by passers by. “
“The first theory sounds more plausible to me, but I’m no expert. Have they checked it for fingerprints?”
“They have but the only fingerprints they found were mine. The little thugs must have been wearing gloves.”
“Was it damaged?”
“No, thank god. Bit of a scratch on the front bumper, no idea how they managed that, but that’s about it.”
“You’re lucky to get it back in one piece.”
“I know. Still, I hope they catch the idiots that took it. I’d love to sit in court and watch them get sent down, thieving little gits. Anyway, on a brighter note, what’s this important thing that you were going to ask me?”
“Remember me saying to you on Facebook that Will’s having a bit of a panic about his Best Man’s speech?”
“Yep, I can give him a bit of a pep talk if you like. Give him a few breathing techniques to try and maybe teach him a few good jokes.”
“Actually, Joey, I wanted to ask if you would be a second Best Man along with Will?”
“What would that involve me doing?”
“Both of you would be at the front of the church with me, but the rings will be passed to me by Will. You would do the Best Man’s speech but Nicky wants me to stress to you that it’s important it isn’t rude, it doesn’t have a load of bad language in and at no stage does it cause her any embarrassment.”
Joey game me a wry smile, “Can I cause you embarrassment?”
“Within reason! I know a Best Man’s speech is meant to embarrass the Groom, but as long as it doesn’t end up embarrassing Nicky too, then that’s OK.”
“Good. I can manage that. I’ll do it then, mate. Thanks for asking!”
Joey reached over and shook my hand.
“No problem. Thanks for stepping in. If you can mention about knowing Colin too, in your speech, that’d be great.”
Joey frowned.
“Can you not do that? Speaking about your dead brother isn’t going to help me whip the audience up in to a giggle frenzy.”
“OK. Maybe I’ll mention him. I just thought as you knew him too, it would be a nice touch.”
Joey brushed my comment aside, “We’ll see. Anyway, what about the Stag Do? Do I get to sort out the Stag Do?”
“You can if you want, but it’ll only be something local for about ten of us.”
Joey gave me an aggrieved stare. This comment seemed to rile him even more than a request to mention my brother.
“Hang on, mate, I think you’ve just contradicted yourself there. You said I could sort out the Stag Do, but then you went on to say it was only for ten people. That doesn’t sound right to me. So where are you thinking we take these ten people?”
“I was thinking maybe Leyland, Chorley or Preston.”
“Don’t go too mad, Simon! A weekend away in Leyland, Chorley or Preston. I could fire an elastic band that far. Come on, it’s your Stag Do!”
“I don’t want a weekend away, just a night out.”
“Simon, you can go to any of those places any time you want. Your Stag Do is a one off mate. Come on buddy, live a little.”
Joey punched my arm. I immediately thought back to Nicky’s warning about Joey’s potential to spoil my day. On the one hand, I was beginning to think he had the capacity to ruin not just my Wedding Day but my Stag Do too, but on the other hand, something inside me was telling me he was right, I needed to be less cautious with things and just run with whatever he had planned.
“OK, Joey, tell me where you’re thinking.”
“First choice, Vegas.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. I was thinking Leyland, Joey was thinking Las Vegas!
“No chance, I’m skint mate.”
“Benidorm? You can get cheap last minute flights to Spain and the accommodation won’t be any dearer than here.”
“Joey, listen, it’s my Stag Do and I want to stay local.”
“Mate, I can’t be Best Man and go out on a Stag Do to Chorley! My reputation is at stake. If we did that, my mates in the pub would never let me live it down. Can we not compromise on this? I’m happy to be joint Best Man, do the bits that Will doesn’t want to do, but you’ve got to let me sort the Stag Do out.”
Somehow, I don’t know how he managed to do it, but somehow, Joey always ended up making me feel sorry for him. He was a rich man, with a brand new Mercedes, who didn’t work, but I always ended up thinking, ‘poor Joey’.
“Alright, Joey, you can sort it out on one condition.”
“I’ve a feeling I’m not going to like this one condition.”
“It’s for one night only and it’s in the North West.”
“That’s two conditions.”
“On two conditions.”
“So an overnight trip to Manchester or Liverpool is OK?”
“Yes.”
“Or Chester?”
“Yes, Chester’s fine.”
“What about Blackpool?”
“Always plenty of women on Hen Do’s in Blackpool.”
“Joey, I don’t fancy Blackpool.”
“Why not? I love Blackpool.”
“That’s probably why I don’t like it. We have very different tastes.”
“Where do you fancy?”
“Liverpool. Just a few good pubs in the City Centre and then wander down to Matthew Street.”
“You know what we should do then?”
“What?”
“Toss a coin.”
“That would mean I would have a 50-50 chance of doing something I don’t want to do though, Joey!”
“How many nights out have you ever had in Blackpool, Simon?”
“None. I want to keep it that way.”
“That’s ridiculous. You might have the best night out ever there. Free your mind from the shackles of conservatism.”
“You only want to go to Blackpool because you think you will score there.”
“I have a fine record in Liverpool too, I’ll have you know. I love Liverpool, it’s a laugh. Unlike you, I am happy either way.”
I sighed, a pronounced sigh.
“Go on then, toss the bloody coin!”
“I haven’t got a coin. Have you?”
I delved into my pockets and took out a bunch of coins.
<
br /> “Great. Let fate decide. Toss a coin. One side is Blackpool, the other Liverpool.”
“Joey, you’re going to fix this somehow so Blackpool wins!”
“No, I won’t. You toss the coin.”
I put a 10p to one side and put the rest of my money back in my pocket.
“Which side is which?” I asked.
“Simon, you decide, I don’t want you accusing me of cheating.”
“OK. Heads is Liverpool. Tails is Blackpool.”
I flicked the coin really high and watched it rotating, pleading in my mind for it to land on Heads. I tried to catch it on the way down but missed, so we both stooped over it as it landed on his grass.
“Tails,” I said dejectedly. Joey punched the sky, which was better than him punching my arm again, “Do we have to go to Blackpool?”
“It wasn’t me that decided on Blackpool, Simon, it was fate. Destiny has decreed that we are going to the Benidorm of the British Isles. Stop moaning Simon and start getting excited. The time of your life is just around the corner!”
With that, Joey punched my arm again. I should have listened to Nicky’s warning. What had I let myself in for?
SIMON – May 2012
Twenty four hours after Joey Neill and the toss of a coin had sent my Stag Do plans down a path I had never intended on going, my mobile phone rang. I am always mildly excited about my mobile phone ringing as it doesn’t ring often. No-one rings a window cleaner to say they need them within an hour for an emergency clean. We just show up routinely, about every four weeks, unannounced and get on with it. Nicky, Will, Chloe and my Dad ring me occasionally, but not very often. The mild excitement soon subsided when I saw it was Joey.
“Hello, Joey.”
There was a lot of background noise, pub-like background noise.
“Any plans you have for this weekend, cancel them.”
“I haven’t got any plans for this weekend.”
“Good, because we’re going to Blackpool!”
As there was a lot of noise in the background, Joey was shouting down the phone. I took the phone away from my ear and shouted back.
“We can’t go this weekend!”
“Why not?”
“I’ve got a cricket match!”
“You just said you had no plans.”
“Apart from cricket, I haven’t.”
“Sod the cricket! I’ve heard you aren’t much good anyway.”
“I’m not, but Will is and I was hoping to ask a few of the cricket lads on the Stag Do.”
“Ask them. They can postpone cricket matches you know.”
“It’s a bit short notice. I’ve got to ask a few others too, like my Dad and Arthur. They’re old. They need a month’s warning before they do anything.”
“You don’t want Nicky’s Dad on your Stag Do, mate. Arthur hates you.”
“I know, but I had to ask him.”
“No you didn’t! He hates you. Anyway, he probably won’t want to come to Blackpool and the short notice might work in your favour too.”
“We’ll see. Why do we have to go this weekend, anyway?”
“There’s a bloke in the pub, Barry, who owns a coach firm. He was supposed to be taking a coach load of pensioners from Croston to the Prince of Wales in Southport on Saturday, for a surprise 90th, but the old dear died yesterday, so he has a spare coach this weekend.
As Joey was saying crazy things, I presumed he must be drunk.
“Joey, we don’t need a coach. We’ll only need a minibus.”
“Simon, believe me mate, we’ll need a coach. The way things are going we may even need two. I’ve put you down for eight seats mate, get ringing around. If you need any more, give me a tinkle. I’ll give you another buzz tomorrow with a bit more info.”
Joey hung up. As every minute passed, the decision to involve Joey in my wedding was becoming and bigger and bigger regret. Nicky thought it was all hilarious, but it was alright for her, she wasn’t the victim of Joey’s madness. I just knew this wouldn’t be the end of it, there would be more crazy stunts on the way and by Sunday evening, I knew I would be ready to strangle him.
JOEY – May 2012.
FHM just isn’t what it was. Somewhere along the line, probably earlier this year, all the young, trendy directors kitted out in their John Smedley and Moncler gear, must have been sitting around their swanky boardroom in their ultra-modern office, no doubt overlooking the Thames, trying to establish why their sales chart looked like fork lightning and someone must have said,
“We’ve got too many tits!”
The rest of the board must have looked at each other wondering whether this was an astute observation on their fellow board members or a well thought out analysis of the content of their magazine.
“Think about it,” the genius must have continued, “Nuts has tits, thousands of them and so has Loaded and they’re both cheap as chips relative to us. We’re nearly four quid. We need to lose a few tits. We are the halfway house. We’re the third shelf down. Porn on the top, Nuts and Loaded second top, then us, then GQ, then kids stuff. Cookery and Gardening towards the bottom. We need to stop aiming at the late teens, early twenties demographic who haven’t yet found the bottle to reach up to the top shelf and then place their lurid content in front of a smiling Sales Assistant. We need to aim for an older demographic. There’s a credit crunch, graduates are not getting jobs. We need to aim at late twenties, early thirties again. We need to be a bit more cultured. OK, we can keep a few bikini shots and knickers, but let’s leave something to the imagination. Let’s get back into fashion. Let’s have more clothing, more clubbing but not your seedy joints, your £20 entrance fee type places. Let’s have more sport, more icons, more sporting icons, more style, more panache, but fewer tits.”
The board must have done their “hands in the bucket” bit or whatever board members do, don’t ask me, I’m more likely to lead a military junta in Central America than I am to be given a place on a board, but anyway, no doubt the results were unanimous. FHM would change. Less smutty, more cool. When would this change be implemented? I’ll tell you exactly when, to the second. This change would be implemented the second Joey Neill’s annual subscription cheque to FHM is cleared by his bank.
If my cheque hadn’t already cleared, I wouldn’t have even bothered with FHM. I’ve taught myself how to dress well. I don’t need to learn from FHM. I can’t influence famous woman to strip off in my bedroom though, but they can
Without a subscription, I would never have found myself flicking through their advertisements one lazy, end of season Saturday afternoon, when Jeff Stelling on Sky Sports had gloomily announced that Hartlepool had lost at home and my line of ten homes that was set to pay £175 from a £1 stake had gone down. As I read those advertisements, I realised that the companies who advertised had probably paid a twelve month subscription like me, as their products were down in the gutter along with my mind. There was an endless stream of escort agencies, erotic masseurs, supplements to enhance penis size but then I saw it, the advertisement to beat all advertisements. The Holy Grail. It simply said in big, bold letters, “THE PERFECT WIND-UP FOR YOUR STAG”, then in smaller lettering it explained and the explanation was wonderful. It was meant to be. The phone number was even a Chorley dialling code.
Simon Strong and I had drifted apart. As kids we had been best mates, but as adults we had headed down different paths. My path was filled with exploitation and debauchery. In my mind, Simon’s path had been filled with that rubber foam that they have in kids playgrounds these days. Simon’s path was steady, boring and mundane. I lived a lot. Simon refused to even live a little. Despite these differences, largely because he was short of friends and his nineteen year old son was crapping himself about doing a speech, I was going to be one of two ‘Best Men’ at Simon’s wedding to Nicky.
Poor Nicky, she was top quality, God knows why she had stuck it out for so long with Simon’s conservative ways. My eye would stop roving for a woman like Nicky
. I always wanted him to let loose and surprise her. To be bold not boring. Now I had the opportunity to influence things. For one weekend only, he would be forced into living the life he was always scared to take on. Proper rock ‘n’ roll. Unforgettable. Crazy. Ridiculous.
There were going to be fifty four of us going on his ‘Stag Do’. They were mainly my mates, my party crowd, who hardly knew Simon or didn’t know him at all, but would never turn down a wild weekend away. Every single one of my mates, to a man, absolutely pissed themselves when I told them about that FHM ad and what I was intending to do to Simon Strong.
“Legend”, that was the word they used, “Joey Neill, you are an absolute legend.”
It was going to cost a fortune. A grand. When you think about it though, a grand split fifty ways was only £20 a man. £20 a man for the stunt to end all stunts. We would be talking about this for the rest of our lives. When I put it to the lads like that, it wasn’t even up for debate. It just had to be done. We used to cry with laughter just thinking about it. I knew the lads would think I was the best “Best Man” that had ever lived. Simon Strong might not like it, but as I say, we had drifted apart anyway.
WILL – May 2012
I was having a fag. Since the smoking ban had come in, The Bay Horse had put a few flags down outside the pub, put a few chairs and tables on top and sectioned it off. The politically correct could probably spot us from a distance now with their heat seeking devices and avoid us like the plague they considered us to be. Society is becoming divided into the haves and the have nots, but it’s those who have tattoos, have a drink habit or have a nicotine habit (or all three) who are made to feel like the outcasts of our generation. There should have been a sign up to mark the smokers territory which said something like, “Dedicated to the lepers of Modern Day Society”. I wasn’t even a smoker myself really, I just smoked when I drank, ridiculous I guess, but that’s what I did.
That Friday night, Joey Neill strutted out smugly from inside the pub, looking like a man who had just mastered the art of sucking his own knob. I hated him. He was so full of his own self importance. He always had been. The thing that irritated me most about him was the way he looked down at my Dad. Joey always gave me the impression that my Dad was just some commoner to pity, just because my Grandad had been a window cleaner and his family had all been lawyers. That didn’t make him better than us, it just made him think that he was. He wasn’t even a lawyer himself. Joey was a nothing, a layabout. When his Mum died, Joey sold the solicitor’s practice that had been in the family for four generations and proceeded to spend his fortune on fast cars, champagne, fancy holidays, fake tan and moisturiser.