‘Fuck off.’
‘Ah, you’re the worst, mate. The worst! You act like someone’s done a massive shit in your head and you’re all like, “oh, woe is me,” and then the next minute you’re like the monster coming over the hill, a scary motherfucker.’
‘We’re getting old. Can’t handle it anymore.’
‘Speak for yourself, I’m always fine the next day.’
‘You’re a one in a million, lad.’
‘I know I am. Now, come on, Jimbo. Let’s get inside. The burgers should be done.’
‘Who has a barbecue in November?’
‘It’s bonfire night.’
‘It’s fucking freezing, mate.’
‘It’s an indoor barbecue.’
‘Oh, so you mean you’re grilling burgers and sausages inside? That’s not a barbecue.’
‘Ooh, did someone lose his sense of humour whilst driving a BMW?’
‘Have you got onion rings?’
‘Ha!’ Snowy laughs. ‘Have we got onion rings? We’ve not only got onion rings, but we’ve got corn on the cob, spicy chicken drumsticks, garlic bread – with cheese – and for those who think they’re too posh for a burger, we have hummus.’
Any excuse for a party, Snowy has it. Even as the dad of three-year-old twins, there’s always a reason for some sort of shindig. These days, the occasion gets tweaked to suit the kids, until they conk out, and then old-school partying begins. You see, Snowy used to be a tour manager, gigging all over the world, until fatherhood forced him to pack it in. He doesn’t half crave that lifestyle, though, and loves to drag us along.
The twins and a bunch of local kids are sat, crossed arms and cross-legged, on the patio in the back garden, wrapped up in coats, hats and scarves like Christmas pressies. Us lot, the grown-ups, stand around, all waiting for the firework display to kick off. A couple of older kids clamber onto the roof of Snowy’s new shed for a better view.
‘If anybody dares to touch the fairy lights, there’ll be no hot dogs,’ Snowy announces.
‘And if you cross the line, there’ll be no fireworks,’ Mikey adds, indicating the imaginary line with his arms. He’s a high school music teacher now, and my God, he loves to use that teacher voice. Although it doesn’t take him long to sneak through the house and admire my new car. I follow him.
He whistles, sizing it up. Then, he looks at me and back to the car again.
‘You’ll get fifty for this, Jimbo,’ Mikey says, sipping his drink. ‘But, don’t drive it anywhere. If you’re selling it, sell it now. Once you hit a hundred miles, its value’ll drop to about forty-five.’
Hold on. What the … What the actual? Fifty. Grand. What the fuck?
Now, I’m never sure whether Mikey knows what he’s talking about or if he’s a complete bullshitter. Still wearing his school ‘uniform’, Dumbo flying across his tie and his striped shirt tight around the middle, Mikey’s rarely seen without a glass of whiskey in one hand, a ciggie in the other.
‘I was gonna get meself one of these,’ Mikey continues. ‘But the missus was giving me grief. Said it wasn’t right for the kids. What did she expect me to do? Ring Noddy, see if he’s selling his little red and yellow car? I said to her, I don’t think your spray tan’s right for the kids, but I just got more grief. You’re a lucky man, Jimbo. A bachelor with a bimmer.’
‘Rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?’ I say.
Mikey loves to bitch about his family, but Christ, he’d be lost without them. The only married one in the gang, his wife is Victoria and likes to be called Tori. They had one of those massive weddings in a castle in Ireland and are still paying the bill seven years on. His two young girls – ballet obsessed, gymnastics obsessed – put a few extra lines on Mikey’s forehead, but they still manage an all-inclusive family holiday twice a year. I’d swap my life with Mikey’s in a heartbeat.
‘You want my advice?’ Mikey asks, pausing long enough for me to blink. ‘Don’t sell it. Don’t give this baby away to anyone. You drive this around and you’ll have a bird in no time. A classy bird, too. I mean, my Tori’s classy, but she’s got a dirty mouth. Gets it from her ma.’
‘Mate. It’s not exactly me life goal to get a girlfriend who only wants me for me wheels.’
‘Well, what is your life goal?’
Good question.
BANG! Red and blue fizz above our heads into white glittering droplets. Oohs and ahhs echo from the back garden. I look at my car, then back at Mikey.
‘How’d it go with Tori’s mate?’ he asks, and sticks his tongue between his teeth like a right sleaze. ‘Tapas, eh?’
Shit. I was hoping Mikey had forgotten about that. He leans back, resting against the BMW. I kind of wish he wouldn’t.
‘She was nice,’ I say, putting a strong downward inflection on the ‘nice’, a way to bring this chat to an end before it begins. ‘Where’s Griffo tonight?’
‘Working. But, don’t change the subject, gis a bit more juice than that. Come on, what happened after the patatas bravas? Did you double dip in the garlic sauce? She’s been after you for ages, according to Tori. What’s her name again …?’
‘Rebecca – well, Becca – I presume her full name’s Rebecca.’
‘So, not much talking then? All action?’
‘No, Mikey. Leave it.’
‘Such a prude.’
But I’m not a prude. You know what I am? I’m embarrassed. Yeah, I went on a date with Tori’s mate, but we didn’t go to the new tapas place for a meal. We just went there for a drink. It was all I could afford and as much as I fully support equality, I can’t let a girl pay for anything on a first date. Look, I know I’m old-fashioned in that sense, but so what? It’s how I was brought up.
‘Seeing her again?’ Mikey probes.
‘Nope.’
Mikey pushes himself off the BMW, tutting.
‘I suppose she wasn’t “The One”,’ he says, making inverted commas with his fingers whilst still holding his glass and ciggie. ‘You’re so hard to please, Jimbo. Yeah, you’ve got the whole sexy look going on, but who you holding out for? Salma fucking Hayek?’
‘Nah, she’s too old.’
‘Ha. Well, I hope you let Little Miss Becca down nicely. We don’t want another girl in Liverpool crying herself to sleep over Jimbo Glover, do we?’
I hadn’t needed to let Becca down nicely. I’m not soft. The way she sipped that Rioja when I told her what I did for a living, well, let’s just say I’m glad she didn’t choke. Girls like Becca want a fella with their own desk. Not one they share with other toll-booth workers. To throw her a lifeline, I told her I still lived with my ma. A white lie, but the final nail in the coffin.
‘You have a seriously warped opinion of me, don’t you, Mikey?’
‘Let’s go and get a top up,’ Mikey says, rattling the ice around his empty glass.
Inside, passed out on the pastel-pink sofa in the lounge, are Snowy’s twins, still in their warm coats and woolly hats, the CBeebies bedtime story glowing from the telly. Snowy gets the tequila out. I decline. God, I feel so boring. And guilty. Guilty for all the times I laughed at the designated driver or rolled my eyes at how dull people were for bringing their car. At least Snowy had raised a good point. I won’t have to cope with a rotten hangover tomorrow.