On Saturday night I go to the pub with Tony, and Simon Evans (I must use the surname here to differentiate him from me). They also work at Hendersons. Would I call them my friends? I would use the term loosely. To me, everyone is an acquaintance who I don’t completely trust, but some are closer than others. Perhaps the word ‘colleagues’ might do in this case.
We actually live quite near each other, in that suburb. It’s real name is Appledale, but I like to call it that suburb because it has a bit of a sick reputation. This reputation, however, is based on how it was 20 years ago, long long before I moved here.

It was a basically a breeding ground for crime: very low employment and thefts and burglaries commonplace. And yet people chose to live here. Maybe they were ok with it, but I don’t think they should be. Why should anyone have to accept that?
In the last ten years, the area has been vastly improved and is now a pleasant place to live. There are drugs, and although I have nothing to do with all that myself, I regard drugs more as people’s personal choice of entertainment than a crime problem. In fact, I think the fact that they are owned and distributed by criminals is very unfair: if drugs were legalised the damage done would be massively reduced and people would be free to have their idea of a good time without being cracked down on. I do believe in some degree of regulation though.

I also call it that suburb because it is not really a suburb but it feels like it being just that bit further from the main town.
There are three pubs in the area, and this time we’ve chosen the Red Dragon and Duck. Now, we didn’t choose the name but we thought it might be worth a try as it is not somewhere we’ve been before.
It is very quiet there, especially for a Saturday night: it is a two-bar pub with lots of interesting military-based decorations. I think this is to do with the fact that Sidborough is fairly near an army base though no-one really thinks it’s an army town, unlike Fort Goldfax which has a strong association with it, so much so that some people try to avoid it. I remember in my uni days how irritating the squaddies were on nights out and would have greatly preferred to drink in Sidborough, but Fort Goldfax is where my acquaintances of the time wanted to be.

There are plenty of books on a shelf in the corner. Among them are Score! by Jilly Cooper, The Liar by Stephen Fry and Atomised by Michel Houellebecq. There are also some magazines: Bizarre, Cosmopolitan and Autocar.
The walls are a lightish shade of red, and there are lanterns each side of a rectangular mirror just opposite the bar. I wonder if it is really your reflection or your alter ego in the mirror? Sometimes it seems like it’s one or the other. The lanterns lend an archaic, albeit cosy atmosphere. It seems so icy outside now, especially in contrast to here.
 
‘Bizarre!’ remarks Simon Evans, ‘One of my favourite magazines! Let’s give it a read.’ He takes the magazine from the bookcase and starts reading.
Tony decides to read Atomised.
‘Very philosophical reading.’ I comment.
Evans enters the conversation ‘Do you normally buy books or get them from the library?’
‘I buy them,’ says Tony, ‘It gives me more time to read them and I have money to buy several books, virtually every book I want in fact.’
In response to this I say ‘I buy my books as well sometimes, but I believe in supporting libraries, and especially local libraries. I sometimes like to borrow books from there.’
‘Libraries are for geeks.’ Says Evans, in a bored way.
‘’Well that proves how little you know about them, doesn’t it?’ I say to him.
‘I’ve never been to one.’ he admits.
‘There you go then!’ laughs Tony.
‘What is a geek anyway?’ I ask.
‘It means whatever you want it to mean!’ says Tony. ‘But I visited this website once, and took a test. I came out quite high on the geek score, slightly below average on the dork score, and average on the nerd score. According to that, a geek has a passion for learning in general. A nerd has a passion for learning a particular thing, and a dork is someone who finds socialising difficult.’
‘I am none of those things in that case.’ says Evans.
‘What about you, Simon?’
‘I don’t know. Silly test.’
‘Oh come on, Simon. You’ve got to give an answer.’
‘Ok, none of them.’
‘Hmmm…. We’ll let you off this time.’ He changes the subject:  ‘So, how’s your first pint of ale, Tony boy?’
‘A tad bitter. I actually quite like it though. I will stick by tequila when it comes to my favourite choice of drink though.’
‘Fair enough. I guess I can’t totally convert the world to it. I try my best though!’
‘I want to convert you to tequila. You miss out on a lot just drinking beer, believe me.’
‘I don’t drink spirits!’
‘That’s because you’re a narrow-minded old fart.’
‘Excuse me! I’m two years younger than you are!’
‘Yeah, but you’re two inches fatter as well!’
‘Are you talking about my cock by any chance?’
All throughout this slanging match, I remain silent. My eyes are on a girl on the other table: she is wearing a Gothic dress and black leather gloves. She seems like a femme fatale.
I gesture towards the bar. ‘I’ll get my round in. Tony, what would you like?’
‘Well, I really shouldn’t mix ale with tequila, so I’d better have some more ale! I’ll have a T.E.A this time, I reckon.’
‘Simon?’
‘I’m not drinking the same as that twat. I’ll have an Old Speckled Hen, please sireee!’
I wait at the bar for ten minutes, and during this time size up the drinks. The range is ok: there is something for more or less each taste, but there is not a huge range. The ales on tap are T.E.A., Old Speckled Hen and I.P.A. In terms of lager there is Kronenbourg, Carling, Carlsberg, Tetleys and the usual bottled lagers such as Becks and Corona. I’m thinking: should I get an ale to be the same as the others, or get a Corona because I would like one? Actually, I’d also fancy an ale. But I think I’d fancy a Corona more. Maybe I’ll have Corona. Dare to be different, as they say.
I pocket my change and bring the drinks over to the table.
‘What a munter.’ I hear Tony saying.
‘Yeah. Bet he’s on his own, sad fuck.’ says Evans.
‘Who are you talking about?’ I ask him.
‘That bloke over there.’ Evans points without really making any effort.
I look over but all I notice is a group of people at a table.
‘I don’t know who you mean.’
‘Never mind. Can fuck himself anyway.’
‘Probably will be later.’ Laughs Tony.
Evans changes the subject: ‘So, did you see the match?’
‘No, I didn’t. 1-0, wasn’t it?’
The conversation goes round in circles at this point, starting at football, carrying through football, ending with football, starting with football once more.
‘Which team do you support then, Holmes?’ The word Holmes is used to differentiate me from Evans.
‘I don’t tend to follow the football. Don’t get round to it.’
‘Holmes, are you some kind of poof or something? The correct answer is: you like football. Now, which team do you support?’
‘Well, ok…’ I think of the team which they support. ‘Manchester United.’
‘Respect!’ they both shout. They subsequently give me a high five.
‘So which formation do you think they should play?’ I ask both of them.
‘4-4-2’ says Tony.
‘4-5-1’ says Evans.
‘4-5-1? You’ve got to be joking!’
‘4-5-1 is the formation that Manchester United should play and that is that.’ insists Evans.
‘Oh come on…’
‘Shut up!’ Evans slaps Tony while he says this. ‘I’m right.’
Tony pauses for a while, then says ‘Ok, 4-5-1 it is.
‘What do you think, Holmes?’
‘Uh… 4-5-1.’ I say, in a bored way.
The femme fatale girl walks by, which switches the topic of conversation.
‘Bit of alright, isn’t she?’ Tony says, looking at her and back to the group.
‘Don’t talk like that,’ says Evans. ‘We don’t want you near her, ugly c***.’
‘Bullshit, mate! I’m fit! Certainly more so than that bloke at the table.’
‘Well he’s a complete loser. He doesn’t count.’
‘Evans,’ I ask ‘do you actually know that guy?’
‘Well, no, but I do know that he’s a saddo.’
‘Well, no you don’t. You don’t even know him.’
‘You should have seen him! Then you’d know what I’m talking about.’
‘Absolute twat.’ says Tony.
‘You know nothing, you two.’ I insist.
Evans glares at me in a menacing way. ‘You don’t seem to trust me, Holmes. I don’t like that.’
‘Anyway,’ says Tony, ‘I’m going to get some fresh meat while it’s still around.’ He goes over to the bar, where the femme fatale girl is now.
‘Fresh meat!’ I echo, mockingly. ‘Fresh meat!’
‘If he wants that girl anywhere near him, he’s going to have to pay for it.’ Says Evans.
‘Yeah!’ I laugh. ‘You can say that again.’
‘If only he’d realise how ugly he is. He think he’s such a stud, though. That’s the problem.’
‘Er.. well. I meant more that phrases like fresh meat…’
‘Oh shut up, Simon. You know what it’s about.’
‘Do I?’ I ask, quizzically.
‘If he were hot, it’d be fine. It’d work.’
‘I don’t think so.’ I laugh.
‘You’ve got a lot to learn, pal.’
Tony comes back to the table. He raises his fist in celebration. ‘I pulled!’ he says.
‘Well done, mate!’ says Evans. ‘How much did you pay for it?’
‘Didn’t have to pay,’ replies Tony ‘anyway I’m off to give her the good shagging she needs. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’ I say, with a smirk.
‘What’s funny Holmes?’
‘Nothing. Enjoy your fresh meat.’ I wink.
‘Eh, I wouldn’t say that when she’s around. She’d drop me like a shot.’
‘Well, enjoy it’ I spit this word out with a grimace, ‘anyway.’
‘Sure will, Holmes. Can’t wait.’ He rubs his hands together.
When Tony’s gone, Evans shakes his head. ‘She must have been drunk.’ he says.
‘Maybe his chat-up lines are good.’
‘It wouldn’t make any difference with him. Anyway, forget him. Want another drink?’
‘Ok, I’ll have another Corona.’
‘Corona?!’ He looks at me as if I’ve just asked for a jar of maggots.
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘It’s just a bit odd, that’s all. Never mind.’ He rolls his eyes.
I look around while he gets the drinks. The tables have emptied since we came in. I’m guessing people are off to the clubs in town. In the far corner, a couple are holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes. On a nearby table, a group of people in football shirts are playing some kind of drinking game, and one of them, a bald guy, tall and wide, takes his shirt off and begins to sing very loudly. The couple look rather annoyed.
Evans comes back with a Corona, as promised, and another Old Speckled Hen. He sits down and takes a packet of Marlboro from his pocket.
‘Smoke?’ he asks, offering me a cigarette.
‘No, thanks.’
‘What do you mean no?’
‘I just don’t smoke, that’s all.’
‘Holmes,’ he says, menacingly, ‘smoking is cool. You want to be cool, don’t you?’
‘Irrelevant. I want to be myself.’
‘Jeez.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘That is such a cliché. You just can’t stomach it, that’s what.’
‘No, it’s not that. I just think it’s a bit unhealthy.’ I don’t totally dislike smoking, but resent being pressured.
‘Keeping healthy is a waste of time.’ He says. ‘One should live a little. I guess I’m just going to have to go and have a smoke myself then. Laters, loser.’
I watch him go with a trace of amusement. His words have cut through to me though, and I feel slightly put down.
By now, the couple have left. They might have anyway, or it might be to do with the behaviour of the group near them. It is impossible to tell.
The rest of the people go on talking, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. I’m slowly getting rather bored. Along with this, the loneliness sinks in. When Evans and Tony are gone, I realise the fact that I can’t relate. None of this is anything I can join in with. It is just groups of people, in a bubble, going from home to the pub. The bubble around them never bursts. Not that I’m complaining, but you wonder why they don’t just have house parties. I guess Tony wouldn’t have met that girl if we’d been at a party, but it’s just… how will things go in the morning? Being drunk never helps. I realise that I’ll never know, because even when he tells us, what he’s saying may not be the truth.
Evans comes back, seeming a bit agitated.
‘Hardly anyone out there.’ He says.
‘I think everyone’s going home now.’
‘Yeah, they sure are. Well I’d better finish my drink.’
We finish our drinks in silence.
Once Evans has finished his drink, he takes it back to the bar.
‘Well I’d better go. You coming along?’
‘Sure.’
When we reach Beech Lane, Evans departs to make his way back to Sidborough, and I say goodbye.
A group of students passes on the other side of the street. They are laughing amongst themselves, and making jokes about the theme of Sidborough becoming more like Fort Goldfax.
I turn the junction to the left and keep on. I am nearly home. A cat crosses the road.
I finally come to my house. I enter, take my shoes off and go through to the kitchen where I make myself a cup of chamomile tea, and put my takeaway in the microwave: tonight I have Chicken Korma with rice.
Over dinner, I choose to watch a bit of telly. There is a nature programme on. There is this guy dressed in a plain t-shirt and jeans. He then takes something like.. a maggot in his hand and says ‘Now I know this thing looks pretty grotesque. I cannot imagine anyone thinking this is worth saving, but they are in short supply.’ Everything is judged purely on the outside. Not even from the outside in. Can his outside judgement even be objective and correct or is it just what he’s supposed to think? There may be people who disagree with him. It may actually be a caterpillar or something like that but whatever it is there must be someone, perhaps of the same species, who would care if it died. Surely the guy is coming to conclusions too quickly? I always thought that life is not something that is to be declared expendable within seconds.
Feeling somewhat frightened, I flick over the channel. Russell Brand is shouting his mouth off again. He is going on about his father and his brown willy and brings out a chart of colours. The amusement which comes from watching this drowns out my fear slightly.
On the next channel is adverts. A guy with six-pack abs and a bucket load of charisma is trying to sell us perfume. In the next advert, a woman in a short short skirt is trying to sell us a car. In the advert, following that, we are being sold perfume again, this time by a young couple and in the advert following that we are being asked to buy a game that involves pretending to be a gangster who shoots everyone because it is part of the job. How fucking boring. Perfume and cars are bearable, though I think there’s some manipulative advertising going on here. What’s with these shitty computer games though? Maybe they should have a shooting in Sidborough and see how much people enjoy that.
Getting bored with the telly, I elect to read Trainspotting, which is a book that has nothing to do with trainspotting and a lot to do with heroin and dysfunctional young people.
After reading twenty pages I moan with tiredness and decide to get some sleep. I get a good night’s sleep but I am disturbed by a dream involving doing bank robberies with Alan, which we start to do regularly. The dream cuts to a scene where I go round a strange town and everyone is angry with me.