by Rob Grant
Today's inter-lodge football tournament had been postponed until further notice, unsurprisingly. Yesterday's had been a bloodbath. You can't take people who haven't done any serious exercise since Bobby Darin last topped the charts and expect them to survive a full-blown football tournament. A table football tournament would probably have produced a crop of career-threatening injuries. As it was, there had been countless strains, seven broken bones of various severity, five concussions and two heart attacks before the competition had been called off. The emergency helicopter was getting more exercise than the lot of them put together.
At the point of starvation now, he climbed the stairs to the cafeteria. Such was his hunger, he was almost looking forward to breakfast. Almost, but not quite. Although the cafeteria was fairly crowded, there was none of the conversational buzz that usually fills the air in eating establishments. Perhaps it was too early in the morning for people to be feeling chatty. Perhaps everyone was too depressed to talk.
Grenville saw, to his intense disgust, that the seating problem had still not been sorted out. He tracked down the duty Residential Consultant to give her a good barracking. Either she was a new girl, or the others had all requested transfers to other blocks on the estate, specifically to avoid Grenville's tongue, leaving this poor, unwitting wretch right in the firing line, the cowardly bastards.
'Excuse me, miss. I was under the impression that something was going to be done about the seating, as a matter of urgency.'
She smiled and looked down at her clipboard. 'Really? I don't have any record of a problem with the seating.'
'Well, look around you. Can you not see a problem?'
She looked around her. She did not particularly see a problem.
'I'll give you a clue, shall I? Haven't you noticed that people are standing up to eat their breakfast?'
'A lot of them are, yes.'
'All of them are, yes. Why do you think that might be?'
'I really have no idea.'
Grenville believed that. He believed she probably never had an idea. 'They are standing up because they can't sit down. They can't sit down because the clone of Albert Einstein who designed the seating decided to bolt the chairs too close to the tables for human beings to fit in them. The problem with the seating is, the seating cannot be sat upon.'
'I see. Yes. That is a problem, isn't it?' And she made the mistake of smiling.
'It is indeed a problem. And it's not a funny problem, young lady. It's a serious problem. I think it's a basic human right to be able to sit down to eat, don't you? Slaves on galley ships were allowed to sit down to eat. Serial killers on Death Row sit down to eat. What have we done to be denied this simple dignity? We are here voluntarily. We are not here to suffer unnecessary privations and humiliations because of the incompetence of the camp's administrators, are we?'
'Of course not. You should fill out a complaint form. I've got one h--'
'I've filled out a complaint form, thank you. To date, I have filled out ten complaint forms on this very subject. And, yesterday, I got rather cross that someone appeared to be using my complaint forms to wipe their arse with, because my complaints were not being acted upon. You can get some idea of quite how cross I did get by observing that a chair has been ripped from its bolts on that table there, and then by admiring the dent in yon wall over there, which was the ultimate destination of that liberated chair. And had the then duty Residential Consultant not ducked in the nick of time, he would no longer be in possession of his own teeth.'
'I see,' she said and looked back down at the old clipboard. Grenville would have loved to get his hands on one of those clipboards, to find out quite what was so fascinating about them.
'And at that time, I was fervently assured that the seating problem would be addressed forthwith and sorted in time for breakfast this very morn.'
'I see,' she said, and didn't look up.
'Which it has not been.'
'No.'
'And you don't even have a record of the problem on your magic clipboard, do you?'
'I don't, no.'
'Well, perhaps you could tell me exactly how much furniture I have to rip up to get someone's attention, and how far I must hurl it, and precisely at whom?'
'I'm sure it's being acted on as we speak.'
'I'm equally sure it isn't.'
'Why don't I go and get the Residential Manager?'
'Why don't you do that? He and I are very good friends. He'll be delighted to see me again.'
'It'll take a few minutes. Will you still be here?'
'I'll be right over there, my dear, standing at that table by the window, eating my breakfast. I need to be near the window in case the Residential Manager needs throwing through it.'
'Right.' She smiled uneasily. 'Back in a tic.' She turned to go, then turned back. 'What shall I tell him your name is?'
'You won't need to bother, love. He'll know.'
She scarpered, no doubt grateful to be still blessed with teeth. Grenville crossed to the buffet table and picked up a tray. As usual, the fresh fruit section was stocked with canned fruit, and the 'freshly pressed' juices were watered-down cordials.
Grenville smiled brightly at the serving assistant, who had the temerity to be wearing chef's attire. 'Good morning, young sir. And what superb epicurean delights has the swill-meister cajoled out of his satanic cauldron today?'
The server looked at him, puzzled, scratched his head like a monkey and said, 'It's all labelled.'
'It is indeed. It is all labelled. But the labels hardly do it justice, do they? This, for instance, is labelled as "Low-Fat Oatmeal", which doesn't even come close to conveying the true horror that lurks bubbling in the pot, posing as food. You should, in fact, adjust the label to read "Shite", or "Watery Shite", if I may be so bold.'
'Would you like a complaint form?'
'No, no, no. I would simply like a steaming bowl of shite, please.'
'Have you got your card?'
'I have indeed.' Grenville handed his card over. 'I see you have still not managed to resolve your dispute with your fresh fruit supplier, more's the pity. While I once upon a time truly enjoyed a glass of orange-coloured water posing as fruit juice, that has not been the case since my fourth year on this planet.'
The youth handed Grenville his card back. 'I'm sorry, sir: I can't serve you.'
'And why would that be, my young friend? Are you too close to the chimpanzee in your evolutionary development? Are your thumbs not yet opposable?'
'You're out of food credits.'
'No, that's a mistake.'
The youth shrugged, apologised again and moved on to the next customer.
Grenville called him back. 'Just one second here, good fellow. Swipe the card again.'
Reluctantly, the kid took the card and swiped it through his reader again. And again, he returned it. 'Sorry. You're definitely out of credits.'
'That's not possible. I've got enough credits on there to buy a small Pacific island. I have sufficient credits to purchase an entire field of oats all to myself and spend the rest of my life seeking out the arcane alchemical secret of how to turn them into sloppy human excrement.'
'Would you like a complaint form?'
'No, I just want my breakfast.'
'I can't serve you, mate. Sorry.' And the youth moved on again.
Grenville stared at his card.
There was a young sous chef from Hitchin...
FIFTY-SIX
Jeremy stepped out through the hospital doors and breathed. There was something about hospital air that did not feel right. It was artificial, in some way. It was air from your childhood, preserved. There were daffodils lining the path. Normally, Jeremy thought daffs were a bit naff: cheap, or something; but the flash of colour filled his spirit. The whole Jason business was, in his opinion, ambiguous at best. Sending the stinking idiot cokehead in to see that kid might have been a good thing, but, on the other hand, it might just have finished the poor mite off. The moron
had a vocabulary of what? Twenty-seven words? Twenty-nine, if you were being generous. And fully half of them were synonyms for cocaine. Why, then, was he feeling so good? Was it because, for the first time in his adult life, he had actually thought of somebody else? His mobile beeped. Jeremy had it set to just a single beep. The very notion of setting a ringtone was disgraceful, frankly, and ought to be punishable under law. He checked the display. It was Derrian.
'Hi, mate, it's Derrian.'
'Yeah. I guessed somehow. I have this modern thing, see, called "caller ID".'
'Yeah, you twat. Listen: did I see you on TV last night?'
'I dunno. Were you watching the Bravo Channel's excellent documentary The World's Largest Cock?'
'No, mate, I think it was that Living TV game show My Arse Cheeks are Open and Anyone May Enter.'
'That'll be it, then.'
'No, but seriously, were you standing next to the fucking Prime Minister and his unspeakably ugly wife?'
'She wanted me, big time.'
'Jesus. What kind of cock did you have to suck to get that gig?'
'Oh, lots of cock. Lots of big, ugly cock.'
'I bet. Listen: I'm having a birthday bash--'
'Shit. What are you? Twenty-nine now?'
'We're not talking about it. I've booked the chef's table at Gordon Ramsay's at Claridges. Next Friday. Can you make it?'
Now, Jeremy knew that Derrian must have bumped someone off the invitation list at this kind of notice, for that kind of gig. You have to book that particular table months in advance. On the chef's table, in the kitchen at Claridges, you don't even get to order, you just get what the chef thinks is special. He'd tried, once, to book it himself, but he'd been about two months too late. So he knew there were only a limited number of places available, and he thought he might try a ploy.
'The chef's table? What kind of cock did you have to suck to get that?'
'Lots of cock, mate. Lots of big, ugly, diseased cock.'
'Well, I'd love to come. Can I bring a friend?'
It was a test, really, of his current pulling power. Derrian would have to burn someone else off to accommodate his outrageous request, and by rights, he should have told Jeremy to sod right off, but he didn't.
After only the tiniest of pauses, Derrian said, 'Well, of course, mate.'
'You have got to stop calling people "mate", Derrian. You sound like a bloody barrow boy.'
'Oh, Christ. Am I doing that?'
'It must stop. Mate.'
'You know you're cockney rhyming slang, don't you?'
'Yeah. Jeremy Slank: money in the bank.'
'Right. Catch you later, you big fucking slanker.'
Well, well, well. Jeremy Slank est arrive. He'd been walking down the path during the phone conversation, and he found himself, now, outside the hospital gates, standing by the flower stall. There were some nice red roses on display, and he thought about buying them.
He'd got a round-robin email from Jemma that very morning, with a change of address on it. It was impersonal, and she may not even have realised he was in her address book. Now, maybe she was moving to another love nest with the ancient Keith, or maybe, just maybe, she'd come to her senses and left him in the hope of finding someone to date who still had his own teeth and wasn't drawing a pension. Maybe, even, Keith had experienced a senile moment and kicked her out himself. It struck Jeremy that Jemma was the type of girl who would be rigorously honest in a relationship, and he'd lay down good money she'd made the ridiculous mistake of telling old Keith about the nearly blow job in his flat. However it had happened, all pictures of the doddery bastard had been expunged from Jemma's blog. It was a fairly safe bet she was suddenly single.
And her new address was only a couple of Tube stops from the hospital. The change of address had been dated from today, so it was a fair bet she'd be there, actually moving in.
Well, he'd already been a knight in shining armour once today, and here was another damsel in distress. Well, maybe not a damsel. She was a bit too feisty to qualify as a damsel. And distress was probably putting it a bit strongly. Still, he'd give it a try with his trusty lance. He could help her move in, then take her out to dinner somewhere nice. The Palais du Jardin in Longacre. Yes. Some pan-fried foie gras with Sauternes jelly and a couple of lobster thermidors should do the trick. He asked the flower seller how much the roses were, then changed his mind. Jemma was much too classy for an adolescent manoeuvre like that. She'd see right through that little ploy.
On the Tube, on the way to Jemma's, he actually gave up his seat for a large Jamaican woman who was struggling with her shopping. Dear me. How gallant. Sir Galahad or what?
He was actually nervous ringing the doorbell, like he was fourteen years old again. What if he'd read the whole thing wrong? What if Keith opened the door? Worse yet, what if Keith opened the door, recognised him as the would-be usurper, the nearly recipient of the almost blow job, and started beating him up with his Zimmer frame? But no, it was Jemma who answered. She was wearing sloppy clothes, and was flushed from exertion. There were cardboard boxes stacked all along the hall. She smiled when she saw him, and brushed an errant lock of fringe behind her ear.
'Bloody hell. What do you want?' And before he could answer, she went on, 'You know, I was just thinking about you. You could have called, couldn't you? I mean, I know I was way out of order, but it was an honest mistake. Not that anybody seems to believe me. I thought we were friends. And didn't you promise you'd keep in touch, about the project and all that? Honestly. Men. You're a law unto yourselves, you lot.'
'To answer your first question: what I want more than anything right now is for you to shut up for two seconds.'
Jemma shook her head, and looked quite cross. 'I won't be shut up, Jeremy. If you don't know that about me--'
'You're right. I don't want you to shut up. I never want you to shut up. How about, though, you hit the pause button for just a couple of seconds?'
'What f--?'
Jeremy cupped her lovely face gently in his hands and kissed her. That was more like it. Now this was a proper 'first kiss' kiss.
FIFTY-SEVEN
From Private Eye, Week Ending March 24th:
CELEB WATCH
TV CHEF IN WELL FARM RAMPAGE
Celebrity Chef Grenville Roberts was once again on the warpath this week. Allegedly. The object of his latest tantrum: the Government's widely publicised new Well Farm initiative in Norfolk. Apparently disgruntled with certain aspects of the regime there, Roberts, it is claimed, went postal in the cafeteria, wrenching furniture from its moorings and hurling a circular table through the huge panoramic window like a giant frisbee, before dousing several staff members with lukewarm porridge. Inside sources claim he then stole a staff member's tractor and carved several obscenities into the lawn with it, including, we are told, some very specific instructions on how the Prime Minister might spice up his sex life all on his own. He was then purportedly chased by the in-house security team, but they were unable to prevent him from reaching the institute's sports stadium and doing some similar damage to the pitch. The security team, without powers of arrest, and fearful both of personal injury and lawsuits, could only look on helpless as he etched a single, gigantic expletive from one goalpost to the other.
He was finally brought under control when the local constabulary arrived, and he spent the night in custody. Or should that be custardy? Under the terms of a legal deal between the Well Farm's lawyers and Mr Roberts' agent, prosecution will not be pursued, and Mr Roberts has agreed to refrain from public comment. The official statement from the Well Farm spokesman said: 'Mr Roberts felt he had genuine grievances, and whilst we disagree with his response to those grievances, there is no bad blood between the parties. The Well Farm initiative is set to be a rip-roaring success, but of course, these are early days, and in any enterprise of this magnitude, there are bound to be one or two annoying teething problems. We wish Mr Roberts well, and hope to have him back as our guest in the
very near future, once all our little glitches have been ironed out.'
And the corpulent cook's punishment for spitting out the dummy in this petulant display of berserker rage? Humiliation? Ignominy? Banishment from our screens? Incredibly, quite the opposite. The very next day, Roberts' agent, Seth Meriden, announced plans for an upcoming BBC TV series entitled Roberts' Rampages, in which the furious foody will visit various catering establishments and 'sort them out' in his own inimitable style. A spokesman for the BBC commented: 'We like our chefs to have fire in their bellies. Grenville is certainly fiery. He is also a magnificent chef. We believe this show will put him firmly where he belongs: right at the top of the celebrity chef food chain.'
Heavens. I feel a tantrum coming on. Somebody pass me a wok.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Mum was helping Hayleigh redecorate her wall.
Jason's pictures were, most assuredly, coming down.
The decision had caused a certain amount of confusion in some quarters, but Hayleigh's mind had been made up, and there had been no point in discussing the matter further. The pictures were coming down, the advance order with Amazon for the upcoming Big Boys Cry album had been cancelled, and white surgical tape had been painstakingly wound around the cast on her leg to obliterate every last trace of purple from it.
'This is a nice one.' Mum held up a cheeky poster of Jesse McCartney.
Hayleigh smiled and nodded. 'Okay, that is, like, moderately cute,' she said, grudgingly. She wasn't a big fan, unlike Jade Kolinsky, who would happily have thrown herself under a racehorse just to get noticed by him. 'Over there, d'you reckon?' She nodded vaguely at the wall near the couch.
'Here?' Mum held it in place.
Hayleigh shrugged. 'Fine.' She wasn't too precious any more about who took what place in the poster rankings. She had made a permanent unbreakable sacred vow to herself never to give her whole heart to a single crush ever again. At least, not one she'd never actually met.