by Max Frick
the verge of shouting – ‘Good for you, Missus!’ – when some primal reflex contorted his features into an artless expression of undisguised loathing. He had just located the source of the music.
A loyal subject to even the most destructive of his ruling passions, Tony drank in the scene before him and savoured his rising anger.
Near the very centre of the park, at either end of a tartan picnic blanket, two optimally bronzed cosmetic cosmopolites, and their dog, were actually ‘enjoying’ a picnic. An array of dainty dishes, neatly arranged on the blanket, encircled the picnic’s centrepiece – a silver ice bucket from which the neck of a green bottle protruded, resting urbanely against the rim.
The girl, striking ‘mermaid on a rock’, was wearing a floral-print sarong of yellow on pale-blue with matching pale-blue tankini. A pair of barely-there kitten-heeled mules completed the ensemble, and the sun burnished to a translucent (fools-) gold the feathered ends of her ultra-luxurious, hyper-shiny, frizz-tamed, glide-through, volume-enhanced, re-hydrated, style-savvy, ice-latte, natural-looking hair, which was swept back from her forehead and held in place by a pair of azure-lensed black plastic sunglasses.
The guy, in open-fronted, short-sleeved, light cotton shirt and three-quarter length white utility pants, was crouching ‘foremost footballer in a team photo’. His black hair, well gelled, seemed to be moulded from the same material as his (and her) sunglasses, which, worn on his forehead, were at least nearer their rightful place. A thin pair of neatly cropped and tapered sideburns pointed downwards and inwards over a stubbled jaw to where a very small triangular beard nestled between his bottom lip and chin dimple.
Clearly it was all about looks with these people.
She furtively looked at the other sunbathers, but only to see whether any of them were looking at her. And if they were, or whenever she thought they were – which was often, for she lived her life under the imagined gaze of other people – she would flash her boyfriend a smile that purported to contain behind it a world of contentment and satisfaction and happiness, yet it neither came from anywhere deep inside nor did it radiate outwards, but originated on her lips and stayed there, like a two-dimensional reproduction of how she thought happiness was supposed to look.
He looked frequently at himself, at a bicep, perhaps, or from one well defined hirsute pectoral to the other, at his crotch or the position of his feet, and his satisfaction at what he saw shone like love-light in his eyes and told in the assuredness of his movements – chiefly, picking an olive, say, or a piece of cheese from one or other of the dainty dishes and popping it lovingly into the mouth of the girl.
Their dog, a tiny toy poodle perched ornately atop the closed lid of an actual wicker hamper, looked moochingly back and forth between pick and pop like some petite, candy floss-haired tennis umpire, in ribbons and bows, yip-yip-yipping.
‘Does Chantelle want some?’ the girl could be heard to say, in a babyish voice, possibly her own. ‘Does chantelle want some?’
Preoccupied with the spectacle, Tony had ceased to hear the music, but the bogus sentiment of its chorus, issuing from the miniature speakers of a de-personalised personal stereo soon recaptured his attention.
I’ve suffered, rode the fashions and the fads
But one thing will remain
I will always stay the same
Just one of the lads
Just one of the lads
Just one of the lads
‘Just one of the lads?’ he echoed incredulously. ‘Just one of the fuckin lads? When the fuck were any of these cunts ever “just one of the lads”? I mean, look at these cunts! Fuckin look at them! These are exactly the type of cunts I’m talkin about! Who the fuck do they think they are? No, wait. Who the fuck do they think we think they are? That’s the fuckin real question! Check out their sun bed tans, man! We’ve only had one day of sun and they’re vernear fuckin orange!’
Billy walked on.
‘Fuckin posin cunts!’ continued Tony. ‘All their best gear on to come and sit here! And look! They’ve got a fuckin wicker hamper, for fuck sake!’
Billy reluctantly stopped.
‘They’re not botherin anybody,’ he said.
‘Not botherin anybody? How are they not botherin anybody? Look at that cunt’s beard! That’s got to be botherin people! And that wee dog looks like it’s been brought along deliberately just to annoy cunts! Who else do you see havin a fuckin picnic down here?’
‘Yip yip yip,’ went the poodle.
‘Does Chantelle want some?’ Said the girl.
‘And what the fuck does he keep feedin her for? Can she not fuckin feed herself?’
‘That’s love for you, I suppose,’ said Billy. ‘come on, let’s go.’
‘Fuck off! Love! Love’s got fuck all to do with it! That’s just a big fuckin act! I’m tellin you, man, the world’s full of cunts like this these days, pretendin to be happy, pretendin to be successful, pretendin this, pretendin that. Nobody gives a fuck anymore about actually bein anything, as long as they can look like whatever it is they wanted to fuckin be in the first place! Listen to that song! Prime fuckin example! About two weeks ago that cunt was a fuckin backin dancer in a boy band, and now, after gettin a few tattoos and a well fuckin publicised drug 'habit', he’s been re-fuckin-born as a bona fide rock star! Surprise, sur-fuckin-prise, at the exact same time as indie music or alternative music or whatever you want to call it just happens to be makin a comeback! And nobody bats a fuckin eyelid! Every cunt just accepts it! To cunts like these cunts here he’s the real fuckin thing! And like I say, the world’s full of cunts like these these days. Does that not fuckin annoy you?’
‘Em, not really, no.’
‘Yip yip yip,’ went the poodle.
‘But fuckin look at them, man!’
‘HOWF HOWF HOWF,’ went Dooly.
‘How about you try not lookin at them?’
Dooly had spotted the poodle.
‘No, fuck that! They want to be looked at, so I’m goin to look at them! That’s what they fuckin live for! Comin here all dressed up with their poncy fuckin picnic! Make a few cunts jealous and go home happy, that’s a successful day for them. It’s all about bein seen. But I’m tellin you, man, they’ve got fuck all more than you or me! If they had half the money they want us to think they’ve got they wouldn’t be sittin fuckin here! Fuckin posin cunts!’
Just then, a stray ball from the five-a-sides that had now resumed came rolling off the grass near to where they stood, bobbled over the path, rolled down the banking into the river and stopped, floating at the water's edge, bobbing lightly on the ripples.
‘Pass the ball back, will you, mate?’ shouted one of the players, a different one.
‘Are you goin to get that for them?’ asked Billy.
‘Me?’ said Tony. ‘Am I fuck! Fuckin Cheeky cunts.’
Inwardly, Billy shook his head.
‘Here,’ he said wearily. ‘Hold him a minute, then.’
Tony had to smile, or rather he had to try not to smile, as Billy handed him Dooly’s lead and went to fetch the ball. He looked at Dooly. Then he looked at the poodle. He looked at Dooly, then he looked at the poodle. He looked at Dooly looking at the poodle. Then he looked at the hand that was holding Dooly’s lead, and simply let go. Or, rather, he didn’t simply let go, he actually pulled the lead a bit tighter first, and then let go, and Dooly shot off after the poodle like a whippet from a trap. Or at least as much like a whippet from a trap as his considerable size would allow. Chantelle turned tail and sprung from her podium in panic, a manoeuvre that somewhat perplexed the young couple, until a Great Dane crashed through their picnic.
The poodle darted ahead on nippy little legs, yip-yip-yipping as her nose-cone rent the air and the jet-stream swept tail-wards her ribbon ends and ears. Dooly bounded after her at a graceless gallop, howf-howf-howfing as the strap handle of his lead slap-slapped him on the back. Together they circled picnic tables, jumped over sunbathers, ran rings round the five-a-sides, race
d up towards the houses, turned down towards the river, jumped back over sunbathers, re-circled picnic tables and slalomed through trees before careering back towards the young couple, whereupon the poodle gambolled, from no inconsiderable distance, into the unready arms of its owner (the guy) who, stooped, had been waiting to snatch her up out of harms way.
It is by no means certain, had he not been slightly off balance, that he would have stood his ground, faced, as he was, with a Great Dane growing rapidly towards him – pink tongue flailing, chamois leather ears beating like wings, eyes fixed firmly on its quarry. A scream, a yelp, a yip, a crash and a groan were heard in quick succession, as a leaping Dooly sent him reeling backwards over the already ruined picnic, where he fell heavily onto its centrepiece, still clutching the poodle to his chest.
‘Holy fuck!’ exclaimed a wide-eyed Tony, and he caught hold of Billy’s arm. ‘Wait!’
The guy tried to get up, but a sharp pain somewhere, made manifest in a grimace, forced him to remain where he was. The poodle lapped happily at his face, and her tail, sticking straight up, wagged briskly. The girl looked on horrified as Dooly righted himself with a shake and carried on regardless.
He gave a preliminary sniff at the poodle’s hindquarters while the poodle snapped and yipped over both shoulders. Then, stepping a tentative forepaw up onto the supine guy’s ribcage, he draped the other paw loosely over the poodle’s
