“Oh, so I need your blessing, do I? Oh, I see. So it’s a power thing? I need your blessing before I can start seeing this guy? Is that what you’re saying, Danny?”
“Hanne, please, stop asking me questions….”
“I don’t need your blessing for anything! Do you understand?”
Aha! A way out!
“Yes! Yes, I understand!”
“And you accept that?”
“Yes! Absolutely! Yes to that.”
“Good. So … I’ll ask you again,” said Hanne. “Do you have any objections to me seeing this man?”
I took a deep breath.
“Yes.”
I’ll be honest. The meeting with Hanne hadn’t gone quite as well as it could’ve. I imagine that if the Grown-up Scouts did exist, they’d have asked for their badge back. Although I would doubtlessly have secured first prize if someone had ever thought to invent an award for Britain’s Reddest Woman.
I started to wish that I’d refined my scheme somewhat. Saying yes to everything anyone asked me was suddenly starting to feel like asking for trouble. And not telling anyone what I was up to could also bring its own problems—not as bad as the problems I’d face if word did get out, but still …
I started to feel like maybe a drink would be a good idea.
I phoned Wag.
“Listen,” I said. “Do you fancy meeting up a bit earlier?”
“When?” said Wag.
“An hour?”
“See you there.”
* * *
“So,” said Wag, putting his pint down, “you’re late.”
“Sorry,” I said, slightly out of breath, and sitting myself down.
I was twenty minutes late for meeting Wag, because on my way out of the Tube, a man sitting on the steps had asked me if I could spare any change. I’d said yes and had handed him what I could spare. Five minutes later another man I was walking past asked me whether I could spare any change. But I’d given all my spare change to the first man, so I had to go to a cashpoint to get some money out, and then find a shop to buy something from so that I would have some change, which I could adequately call “spare,” to give to the second man. And after I’d done that I’d bumped into the first man again, who didn’t recognise me and asked me whether or not I had any spare change at all.
Wag just looked at me.
“Why didn’t you just say no?”
Good question, I tried to change the subject.
“Nice tie,” I said.
“I’m not wearing a tie.”
There was an awkward silence.
“So, did you get me a pint?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Wag. “But I drank it.”
“Oh.”
“Your round.”
“Right.” I went to get the beers.
Wag and I sat in the corner of the Horse & Groom and quietly sipped at our pints. He’s a good friend of mine who shares a love of table football and intellectual chitchat. I’d met him a couple of years ago at a wedding, and we’d been hanging out ever since.
We’d discussed this and that already. His burgeoning musical career, for one thing. He was about to set off for Germany with the boy band, Busted, after he had just returned from a tour of the same country with Right Said Fred (though for some reason he always forgets to tell people about this). We’d also touched upon some of his odd ideas about life. For example, he is a firm believer that his haircut—the mullet—will one day be regarded as the height of style and cool, and all he has to do is wait. For another, he truly and deeply believes that one day men too will bear children, despite the widely hailed success of the current system. Admittedly, he was perhaps not the best person with which to discuss my troubles with Hanne….
“What you’ve got to understand, Danny,” he said, “is that you obviously have a problem with moving on. You nearly managed it with that Lizzie girl, but it didn’t work out. And because of that, you resent Hanne for trying to move on with her own life. Am I getting close?”
He was getting nowhere near to being close, to be honest, but I played the game and nodded. Wag looked delighted.
“I’m good!” he said. “Aren’t I good?”
I nodded again, and said, “Yes.”
“Deep down, this is all to do with Lizzie,” he said. “Let me break it down for you …”
And this is where I started to drift off …
It sounds like a cliché, but I started to fall for Lizzie the moment she had gotten her purse out and showed me a picture of a big prawn.
“This one’s my favourite,” she’d said. “Look at the size of it.”
It was the day after Boxing Day, and we were with mutual friends in a small pub just off Brick Lane.
“It certainly does look like a very big prawn,” I’d said.
“Show him that other one you’ve got,” Rohan had said, the man who’d brought us all there. “The one of the Big Egg.”
“Aw, Danny doesn’t want to see that,” Lizzie’d objected. “It’s just a picture of a big egg.”
But I did. I really did want to see a picture of a big egg.
So, Lizzie delved deeper into her bag and produced a photo she’d taken herself, of a big egg.
“This Big Egg isn’t actually there anymore,” she’d said. “It used to be in Geelong, near where I’m from, but protestors had it removed.”
I had had a look at the Big Egg. Just like the prawn, it was pretty big. Only a bit more eggy and less obviously prawnlike.
“You probably think it’s a bit weird, me having photos of Big Prawns and Big Eggs in my bag,” she’d said.
But I didn’t. I had thought it was the coolest thing on Earth.
“And that, my friend, is why you will never get married. Not to a woman, anyway.”
“Sorry, what?”
“Were you listening to a thing I just said?”
“Yes.”
“So, what did I say?”
I had absolutely no idea. “Something to do with a woman?”
Wag made a tsk noise and raised his eyebrows.
“Sorry,” I said. “It was just … you know. I was thinking of Lizzie.”
“Oh,” said Wag. “Right.”
“I suppose today with Hanne made me think of Lizzie. I’m at this crossroad, though, Wag. I can feel it. I’m changing, and it’s a good thing. When Lizzie left, it was just another reason to stay in and lay low—dumped by my girlfriend, then left by a fantastic girl I hadn’t even had the chance to properly date.”
“At this rate they’ll be ditching you before you’ve even met them,” said Wag helpfully. “They probably already are. Right this moment, all around the country, dozens of girls are probably dumping you left, right, and centre and not even having the good grace to tell you about it. They’re probably keeping your favourite CDs, too, and bad-mouthing you to mutual friends you didn’t know you had.”
“Thanks for that, Wag.”
He smiled a “that’s okay” smile. Wag was in high spirits tonight, and so we drank and laughed and drank some more. Mainly because he kept saying, “D’you fancy another pint?” and I kept saying yes.
And with each sip I felt a little bit better.
“So … do you have pictures of any other big things?” I asked as we left the pub and walked up Brick Lane. “Or is it just prawns and eggs?”
“Not with me,” Lizzie’d said. “But I can get you some, if you like. There’s a picture I’ve got of the Big Pineapple …”
“That sounds perfect,” I’d said. “A picture of a big pineapple would be perfect.”
Lizzie had smiled.
“Okay. Are you around tomorrow? Are you coming to Rohan’s for New Year’s?”
“Yes. I definitely am.”
I made a mental note to ask Rohan where and when it was, and whether it was all right if I turned up after all, having already said no to the invite. As usual.
“Cool. Well, I’ll bring a picture of the Big Pineapple,” Lizzie’d said, cl
imbing into her taxi.
“And if you’re lucky,” she had said, just before closing the door, “I’ll bring a picture of a big cow as well …”
I think it’s fair to say that I’d never looked forward to seeing a picture of a big cow quite as much.
“Right,” said Wag, when the bell finally sounded for last orders. “Let’s go to a club, yeah?”
“Yes,” I said with all the assurance of a man quite certain of his decision.
Wag balked. “What?”
“Yes. Let’s go to a club. Yes.”
“A club?”
“Yeah.”
Wag looked confused. The pints had taken their toll, but my faith and enthusiasm in what I was doing had grown. It is quite amazing what several pints of lager can do for your confidence.
“What club?”
“Eh?”
“What club are you on about?”
“It was your idea,” I said. “You said, ‘Let’s go to a club.’”
“Did I?”
“Yes! You always do!”
“Well … only because I don’t expect you to agree! Since when have you wanted to go to a club? Why do you want to go to a club?”
“Because you asked, Wag. Come on. It’s Saturday night. We’re in the middle of London. This is what we’re supposed to do at twenty-six.”
“But … it’s nearly eleven at night! What’s gotten into you?”
“I told you! Life is for living! Strangers are just friends you haven’t met yet! Sometimes the biggest risk is never taking one!”
“You’ve changed your tune!”
“Yes. I have.”
Wag looked worried.
“You said let’s go to a club, mate. I said yes. You know what we have to do now,” I said.
And with that we went in search of a club.
“So … all these pictures of big things,” I had said tentatively. “Is that, like, a hobby of yours?”
“No, no,” Lizzie’d said, smiling. “My brothers send them to me. As a joke. And it’s not ‘big things.’ It’s ‘Big Things.’ Capital b, capital t.”
“How do you know I didn’t use capitals?” I’d said.
“I just do,” she’d replied.
“Big Things,” I had said, trying somehow to make sure I’d said a capital t.
“My brothers sent them to me. To remind me of home. They think it’s funny. I think it’s geeky.”
“I think it’s … cool,” I had said, and immediately wished I hadn’t.
“Big Things are dotted all around Australia. For some reason it’s quite an Australian thing.”
“To build huge concrete representations of …”
Lizzie’d handed me another picture.
“A rolling pin?” I’d said.
“Yep. Rolling pin, bananas, barrel, lobster, koala …”
“Ah,” I’d said. “Now, a big koala makes sense. I mean, that’s Australian.”
“Yeah, the Big Koala.” She had laughed. “Imagine how proud that makes us feel. There’s even a Big Ned Kelly.”
“Wow,” I’d said. “A Big Ned Kelly. I would love to see a Big Ned Kelly.”
“You should get yourself an Aussie girl, then,” she’d said, and she had smiled in a way that made me feel a bit, well, fizzy.
Yes. Fizzy. Shut up.
“I suppose I should,” I’d said, suddenly slightly flushed.
I’ve just realised I’m making it sound like Lizzie and I have only just met. But the fact is that’s how it felt. In reality we’d known each other for a number of months, but only in the way that friends-of-friends usually do. Lizzie had gone out with a friend of mine for a while, but we’d never hung out; never got to know each other. We always had to be somewhere else with other people, doing other things, and suddenly I realised that I didn’t really know her at all. And suddenly I really wanted to.
“So what would you build, then,” she’d said, “if you had to build a Big Thing for me to take a picture of?”
I thought about it. Whatever I said had to be good. This was the kind of thing girls asked you when they were checking you out. It was a sort of basic psychology test. If I said something like “a lovely big puppy,” then that would be good. Saying something along the lines of “a really huge knife” or “a giant smiling knocker” … well … that would clearly be quite bad.
What do girls like? And what do girls like that I like?
“I … would have to say …,” I had said, reaching desperately for girl-friendly ideas, “a baby.”
Lizzie had just looked at me.
“A baby?” she had said, flatly.
I’d clearly just made my answer too obvious. She had known instantly why I’d chosen a baby. Because that, in my mind, is what a girl would want to hear. I had had to do something. I’d had to change my answer.
“Hang on, though, because it’s not just a baby.”
“What is it, then? A two-in-one thing? Both a baby and a bottle opener?”
“No. It’s a … special kind of baby.”
Lizzie had raised her eyebrows, waiting for my elaboration.
I had it!
“It’s a Chinese one.”
Lizzie had somehow managed to raise her eyebrows even farther than they were already. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, because Lizzie, as far as I could tell, wasn’t made of cartoons.
“A Chinese baby?” she’d said.
“A massive Chinese baby,” I had corrected her.
“Sorry,” she’d replied, but I’m not sure that she was. “A massive Chinese baby?”
She was right. I did indeed seem to have specified a massive Chinese baby. Why the hell had I specified a massive Chinese baby?
“That’s correct,” I’d said firmly, like I’d thought it through. “A massive Chinese baby.”
“And why would you build a massive Chinese baby?” she had said in a tone which I hoped was gentle amusement but could just as easily have been the way experienced therapists talk to disturbed children.
“Well … there’s nothing cuter than a Chinese baby,” I’d said, which I thought was fair enough. “I mean, that’s not to say other Chinese people aren’t cute too. Well, no, that sounds patronising …”
Lizzie had folded her arms.
“… What I mean is, Chinese babies are cute, and so are … well … Chinese pensioners, now that I think about it. But, you know, anything in between I can take or leave, to be honest …”
Suddenly this wasn’t going so well. But I was sure I could rescue it.
“Let’s face it,” I’d said. “People would come from miles around to see my massive Chinese baby.”
People would come from miles around to see my massive Chinese baby? What the hell was I saying?!
I stopped speaking immediately and stared into my drink.
Lizzie spoke next.
“Um … well, I think that if there …”
But I wouldn’t find out what Lizzie thought. Because suddenly Rohan was there with fresh cans of lager and a bowl of little carrots, and he sat down next to us, and we started to talk about London and Australia and how much Lizzie was looking forward to going back, and not one more word was said about massive Chinese babies for the rest of the evening.
The rest of the year, in fact.
It was twenty past three in the morning, and Wag and I were as drunk as we’ve ever been.
We’d ended up, somehow, sitting in the corner of a club in Soho, talking to three Australian lads in town on holiday. I was using all the Australian knowledge I had to impress them.
“So you’ve got a Big Pineapple, haven’t you?” I said. “And a Big Prawn. And you’ve got that Big Ned Kelly, too.”
But the men were looking at me blankly.
“You know … those sculptures you’ve got all over the place? You must’ve seen them. The Big Barrel and the Big Mosquito? The Big Worm? The Big Orange? I’ve never been over there, but I’ve seen pictures that this girl I was sort of seeing showed me, and
it sounds amazing?.’
I was still getting blank looks. I decided I probably just hadn’t said enough Big Things. So I continued.
“The Big Can. The Big Cod. The Big Carrot. The—”
“Big, Boring Bastard,” said Wag, and everyone laughed.
“I am talking about Australian culture here, Wag,” who was annoying me now, so I’ll tell you his real name is actually Wayne. “It is important that these gentlemen know that we in the United Kingdom are taking an interest.”
“But they’re Austrian,” said Wag.
I looked at the three men.
“Are you Austrian?” I slurred.
They nodded.
“I’m terribly sorry. I thought you were Australian. Why did I think you were Australian?”
Everyone just sort of shrugged.
“But I’ve been talking to you about Australia and being Australian for about …”
“Twenty minutes,” said one of them. In an Austrian accent. It was then that I noticed his T-shirt had the word “Austria” on it.
“Yes. Twenty minutes,” I said. “Well, I hope you’ve at least learned a little something about Australia from our conversations. Good day to you and welcome to our country.”
Wag and I sauntered gracefully away from the Austrians, or as gracefully as it’s possible to saunter while still swaying quite a lot and bumping into people, and stood at the edge of the dance floor.
“Drink?” said Wag.
“Yes!” I nearly shouted, correctly identifying a Yes moment. “Yes, yes, yes!”
I was pointing in the air and jabbing my finger with every “yes” and continued doing so long after Wag had gone to the bar.
It was probably this that attracted the man wearing the sombrero.
At first I assumed he was a Mexican, but slowly began to realise that a real Mexican probably wouldn’t be wearing a sombrero in a London nightclub. And he’d probably have a real mustache, not a stick-on one. A Mexican with a stickon mustache would be like a super Mexican, because he’d have two mustaches, and that’d be cool, because a super Mexican could probably use his poncho as a cape, and then I realised I was saying all this to the man’s face.
“Tequila?” he said by way of a response, revealing himself to be a novelty tequila seller. He revealed what at first glance appeared to be a gun holster but was actually holding a whole bottle of the stuff. “It’s one pound a shot.”
Yes Man Page 4
