Read Online Goodnight Steve McQueen by Louise Wener - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louise Wener
Ads: Link
take a piss.
“Woof, woof.” “You what?”
“Woof, woof. Still in the dog-house, then?”
This is Ruth. Of all Alison’s friends I like her the least. She’s tight and pushy and mean spirited and there’s only so long you can forgive someone for being a cow just because they’ve got wonky fallopian tubes.
“Well, I’m sure we’ll work it out,” I say. “More of a misunderstanding than anything.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will,” she says, breathing smoke at me across the table. “Alison’s been in such a rut lately but she’s so much happier now you’ve decided to give up the music and get yourself a job. She’s so relieved. We all knew you had to come to your senses sooner or later. I mean, it’s not like your band is actually going anywhere, is it?”
I don’t know what to say. I notice that the right side of her mouth moves up and down as she talks and that the left side always stays perfectly still. I notice that Vince has been listening to every word she’s said.
“And anyway,” she continues, “I know some people in tele sales who might be prepared to give you a go if you fancy it. Call me next week and I’ll pass on the numbers.”
I know the kind of job Ruth is talking about: fifteen grand a year and two weeks’ holiday that you’re too scared to take; free membership to Commuters Anonymous and a lifetime subscription to the ‘team’. That’s the kind of person they want: someone who’ll put up with any old shit and let everyone else take all the credit. Someone who’s prepared to whoop and holler and suck up and cold-sell and wear the company logo like a tattoo where their individuality used to be.
I don’t care how bad things get. I don’t care that I’m not actually qualified to do anything else. The day I take a job which advertises for team players is the day I set fire to my own small intestines with lighter fluid.
Vince has fucked off somewhere with Kate and Matty and I’m starting to wonder where Alison has got to. I’ve been
making polite conversation about house prices and car prices and trekking holidays to Vietnam for almost an hour now, and it feels like my head is about to explode. No one wants to talk about anything interesting like James Caan in Rollerball or new ways to kill Jamie Oliver. If they mention a film it’s only because they’ve read about it in the Guardian and they’re still wondering what they’re supposed to think. If they mention music it’s only to say how it’s all gone downhill over the last couple of years, and you know it’s only a matter of time before one of them wants to talk about Coldplay or Travis or Badly Drawn Boy.
“Hey, here’s an interesting piece of pop trivia,” I say, addressing the table in general. “Did you know it was Joe Dolce’s “Shaddap You Face” that kept Ultravox from having a number-one single with “Vienna” in 1981 … I mean, imagine that.”
No one seems to know what I’m talking about, and for some insane reason I suddenly decide this would be a good time to start singing.
“You know, it went like this: “What’s a ma dda you, HEY! Godda no respect, HEY! Whadda you think you do? It’s a nice a place, HEY! It’s a nice a face. AHHHhhh… sbudupa yer… faa ace
Everyone is looking at me like I’ve just farted. Maybe I should have left out the ‘heys’. Maybe this is a good time to go and see what’s happened to Alison.
I look everywhere. I comb the bar from top to bottom (including a very informative diversion to the girls’ bogs) and I eventually find her sitting outside on the pavement. She’s crouched up against the window with her knees to her chest; smoking a cigarette and calmly watching the world go by.
People are beginning to make their way home: singles clutching early editions of the Sunday papers, couples stopping to window-shop in estate agents’ for flats they can’t afford, gangs of pissed-up girlies tottering home in their high heels
and flimsy skirts and
“Woof, woof.” “You what?”
“Woof, woof. Still in the dog-house, then?”
This is Ruth. Of all Alison’s friends I like her the least. She’s tight and pushy and mean spirited and there’s only so long you can forgive someone for being a cow just because they’ve got wonky fallopian tubes.
“Well, I’m sure we’ll work it out,” I say. “More of a misunderstanding than anything.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will,” she says, breathing smoke at me across the table. “Alison’s been in such a rut lately but she’s so much happier now you’ve decided to give up the music and get yourself a job. She’s so relieved. We all knew you had to come to your senses sooner or later. I mean, it’s not like your band is actually going anywhere, is it?”
I don’t know what to say. I notice that the right side of her mouth moves up and down as she talks and that the left side always stays perfectly still. I notice that Vince has been listening to every word she’s said.
“And anyway,” she continues, “I know some people in tele sales who might be prepared to give you a go if you fancy it. Call me next week and I’ll pass on the numbers.”
I know the kind of job Ruth is talking about: fifteen grand a year and two weeks’ holiday that you’re too scared to take; free membership to Commuters Anonymous and a lifetime subscription to the ‘team’. That’s the kind of person they want: someone who’ll put up with any old shit and let everyone else take all the credit. Someone who’s prepared to whoop and holler and suck up and cold-sell and wear the company logo like a tattoo where their individuality used to be.
I don’t care how bad things get. I don’t care that I’m not actually qualified to do anything else. The day I take a job which advertises for team players is the day I set fire to my own small intestines with lighter fluid.
Vince has fucked off somewhere with Kate and Matty and I’m starting to wonder where Alison has got to. I’ve been
making polite conversation about house prices and car prices and trekking holidays to Vietnam for almost an hour now, and it feels like my head is about to explode. No one wants to talk about anything interesting like James Caan in Rollerball or new ways to kill Jamie Oliver. If they mention a film it’s only because they’ve read about it in the Guardian and they’re still wondering what they’re supposed to think. If they mention music it’s only to say how it’s all gone downhill over the last couple of years, and you know it’s only a matter of time before one of them wants to talk about Coldplay or Travis or Badly Drawn Boy.
“Hey, here’s an interesting piece of pop trivia,” I say, addressing the table in general. “Did you know it was Joe Dolce’s “Shaddap You Face” that kept Ultravox from having a number-one single with “Vienna” in 1981 … I mean, imagine that.”
No one seems to know what I’m talking about, and for some insane reason I suddenly decide this would be a good time to start singing.
“You know, it went like this: “What’s a ma dda you, HEY! Godda no respect, HEY! Whadda you think you do? It’s a nice a place, HEY! It’s a nice a face. AHHHhhh… sbudupa yer… faa ace
Everyone is looking at me like I’ve just farted. Maybe I should have left out the ‘heys’. Maybe this is a good time to go and see what’s happened to Alison.
I look everywhere. I comb the bar from top to bottom (including a very informative diversion to the girls’ bogs) and I eventually find her sitting outside on the pavement. She’s crouched up against the window with her knees to her chest; smoking a cigarette and calmly watching the world go by.
People are beginning to make their way home: singles clutching early editions of the Sunday papers, couples stopping to window-shop in estate agents’ for flats they can’t afford, gangs of pissed-up girlies tottering home in their high heels
and flimsy skirts and
Similar Books
