I awoke early, as usual. I had been drinking the previous day and the booze usually woke me up about 2 hours before my alarm went off. I did the usual ritual of reading a little, watching some dull morning television, listening to some music on headphones, so not to disturb the neighbours, having a shower, etc. Morning things, but my morning routine was always 2 hours longer than it needed to be. Eventually, I walked to work in the rain, to save money on bus fair.
I got into the office, said hello to a few people and opened the mail. I had taken the previous day off sick because I was unable to get out of bed in the morning due to drunkenness and I had spent the whole day in the pub.
When the boss arrived, late as usual, he called me into his office. It was a short, one-sided discussion.
�If you take any more days off sick then you won�t get paid. You�ve had your 10 days annual paid sick leave.�
�Fine,� I said.
I stormed out of the boss�s office and made myself a mug of coffee.
The morning went slowly. I spent most of it gazing out of the window at the featureless tower blocks and up into the grey, lifeless sky. It rained constantly.
I had lunch in the pub with Dougie, who I worked in the office with. I had chips and beans and a pint of lime and soda water. He had lasagne and orange juice. It had become something of a ritual to go there at lunchtime and escape from the people at work. We often didn�t talk very much. We�d usually eat and drink our soft drinks (although occasionally, I would have a pint of lager) and listen to the music they played behind the bar.
The afternoon dragged on even longer than the morning had. Even though it included a trip to the local post office to buy some stamps for the boss and two hours in a different part of the building checking my email and surfing the internet. This became boring after a while, especially as I did it almost every day, but at least it got me out of the office and I didn�t have to pretend I was doing something. For, in truth, I never actually did anything much in that place, except attempt to look busy in order to keep people off my back.
The final hour, from 4 till 5, was always the longest. This particular day, Tracey who had recently been promoted to a slightly higher administrative post than she had been in previously, was acting out all of her �boss� fantasies on us, the scumbag workforce. Certain people in the office let her get away with it, but I basically ignored her whenever she started that kind of shit with me. For one thing, she was completely stupid and I�d never let stupid people talk to me like they were better than I was. Also, she was younger than me.
We were all lined up, ready to leave.
�It�s not 5 o�clock yet,� Tracey said.
A few people muttered their dissent. True, the clock on the wall did say that it was around 1 minute to 5, but we all knew that the clock was around 2 or 3 minutes slow. I said nothing. I had made the mistake of speaking out before. Sometimes I had even walked out, leaving everyone else standing there at the door, but that kind of thing had never worked out well for me. Anyway, what�s another few seconds?
Once she had deigned to let us leave, I walked with Dougie over the Albert bridge into town and Krista ran up to us. She had worked in our office some months back, so we persuaded her to come for a drink.
�Do you like the card I just bought the boyfriend?� she asked, holding up a garish greeting card with �Bon Voyage� on it.
�Where�s he going?� I asked.
�Oh, nowhere. It�s a joke. He was noising me up this morning so I got him this to let him know who�s boss.�
Despite having said this, Krista was reluctant to come for a drink with us, as she had to pick up her son from her mother�s house and get back home before her boyfriend got in from work.
In the pub, I bought a round of drinks and we caught up on some of the office gossip Krista had missed. She asked if we were going to the upcoming big 40th birthday party of one of our workmates. She seemed excited about it and said that she hadn�t had a night out in months.
Krista was a nice girl who was intelligent but also pretty street wise. Not the sort of person to take crap off anyone and I had always liked her for that. At first, when we worked together, I had disliked her a little for what I took to be her immaturity, but I soon began to realise that a lot of what she said was a front to hide her true self. She came across as quite an insecure person, underneath all the bluster. She was very self-critical and always going on about what a state she looked. I�d tell her she was beautiful and I meant it. She had a simple sweetness about her that was rare in people. She was genuine.
Krista gave me the remains of her vodka and coke, as she didn�t want it all, and then we left, said our goodbyes on the rainy street. She went back over the Albert bridge and Dougie and I walked into town. He went to his nighttime job, as a chef in a trendy new bistro called -------------- which was situated in a swish part of town. I nipped into the Shoe Horse Bar for one then got a bus to Captain Jack�s.
I ordered a bottle of Weston�s cider and poured it into a glass, sitting down at a table. I scanned the place for familiar faces but couldn�t see any until, around 10 minutes later, I noticed Frazer. He was a friend of Gram�s. He seemed a bit drunk but was probably on something else as well, knowing him. He was in with some crazy guys who he introduced me to. One of them was on crutches and had a neck brace on. They were all in full wind up mode but were a good laugh, if a bit loud for me. Things were being thrown about � light-hearted insults as well as beer mats and cigarettes � and the bar staff were looking over at our table more and more, so I eventually decided to leave. I had only had 3 drinks and it was a bit much to deal with on such a small amount.
I walked down the street to the Sea Horse, went straight up to the bar and ordered a pint of cider. I didn�t notice JB, who was also standing at the bar. He poked me with his umbrella and said hello. He was talking to this other guy, who I�d not seen before, about �House of the Rising Sun�.
�The guy who wrote it was one of those blind blues niggers. What the fuck was his name again?�
�I know when the Animals did it, it was credited to �Trad, arr. Burdon��, JB said.
�Wasn�t it Blind Willie Jefferson who wrote it?� I said.
The guy who I hadn�t met before beamed at me and shook my hand.
�That�s it! Well fuckin� done! This guy knows his stuff!�
JB shook my hand too, and told me he didn�t know that. I felt a little self-conscious, as if I had just told them some amazing secret instead of who had originally written some shitty old song.
We talked for a while, mostly about music. The other guy was called Willie and, it turned out, JB had never met him before either. He told us he was a window cleaner and tried to get us onto the subject of politics but we were more interested in discussing the merits of the classic rock acts on the TV screen in the far corner of the bar.
Eventually, Willie stopped trying to talk politics and told us that he liked Meat Loaf. We found this hilarious! All those pompous, over-blown soft rock ballads and ridiculous fashions. But Willie would not be swayed. He thought he was one of the best singers ever.
JB said how he had once gotten a pint poured over his head because he had dared to suggest that Dean Martin was a better singer than Frank Sinatra. Some guy in a pub had taken great offence to this and emptied his drink over him. I told him that I�d take a soaking too, for that. Dean was better.
We also talked about how music isn�t there to be understood � it�s something to be felt, to make you feel. Joy, sadness, melancholia, whatever. Its sole purpose was surely to make you feel.
Once Willie left, JB and I moved into the lounge, where the karaoke was just about to start. There weren�t many people there, except Dick the compere (who also worked behind the bar most nights) and this drunk woman and her equally sossled boyfriend. She came over and sat with us and eventually persuaded her boyfriend to join us. Her name was Betty and she asked us to excuse her, because she�d had a bit to drink. She went off to the ladies�.
Dick was testing out the karaoke machine by belting out a Beatles number. �Can�t Buy Me Love�. His voice was okay, in a sort of club singer sort of way.
�Dick fancies himself as a bit of a singer,� JB whispered to me.
JB was always telling me how he used to be in a band in the 60s and 70s and how he really missed performing, so I said why didn�t he sing a song right there and then.
�Nah, it�s not the same as playing live,� he said, over the sound of Dick�s best Beatles impression bellowing out of the speakers far too loudly for the tiny pub we were in.
�But it�s just a laugh. You don�t have to take it so seriously. Look, I tell you what, if you do a song then I�ll do one too.�
After I had said that, JB warmed to the idea and we began looking through Dick�s karaoke books for songs we wanted to sing.
Betty returned to the table and whispered something to her boyfriend, who had just been sitting there, saying nothing, while she had been away. She giggled and then proceeded to knock over her vodka and coke all over the books of karaoke songs laid out on the table.
Once the mess had been cleaned up, JB and I decided on which songs to do.
He chose �When a Man Loves a Woman�, and I picked �Gentle on my Mind�, a song I knew from Glen Campbell�s old rendition.
JB opened up with his number. His initial reservations seemed to leave him at once, as his voice took flight and soared. It was a tricky song to sing, but he did it extremely well. When he finished, the tiny crowds� applause was heartfelt and sincere. This guy could really sing! I had always suspected that he could, from the harmony parts we had done together sitting around pub tables, but here was the conclusive proof!
Then I did �Gentle on my Mind�. The song had far too many lyrics which all ran together in quick succession, but I think I managed it okay despite this, and the several drinks I had consumed.
Later on, JB and I did a duet of �Hey Jude� and both complimented each other on our voices. He also said it was rare that we both instinctively knew which parts to sing in the song. You don�t get that with everyone, especially because we weren�t singing something traditionally thought of as a duet.
Both JB and I also ended up singing duets with Betty, who kept telling us all night that she couldn�t sing at all. Some young casual guy surprised us all with a great Elvis number, but mainly it was Dick, the compere, who was doing the singing.
�He hates it when people can sing better than him,� JB told me, while Dick was taking a break. This consisted of him leaning on the bar looking pissed off. �He hates being upstaged�.
Later on, JB and I went back into the bar and watched some more classic rock on TV. He gave me a couple of valiums, for which I got him a pint of lager. I took them occasionally, as they really helped me when I was coming off the booze and feeling a bit shaky.
I decided I should leave at around 10.30. I lived on the other side of town and would have to get a couple of buses to get back before closing time. I always tried to avoid closing time as there was usually all kinds of trouble around.
I said goodbye to JB, who told me he�d had a really good night, and caught a bus. On the ride home, I felt happy and content. The day had started off on a pretty low note but now I was feeling good. The next day was a Saturday and I knew that I wouldn�t have to be up early, and do the whole work routine. I was glad.