Blue Collar

dannykingbooks.com

‘An absolutely hilarious, laugh-out-loud book by someone who has been there’ Bruce Reynolds, mastermind of The Great Train
Robbery

‘One of the few writers to make me laugh out loud. Danny King’s brilliant at making you love characters who essentially are
quite bad people’ David Baddiel

SERPENT’S TAIL

3a Exmouth House

Pine Street

London EC1R OJH

www.serpentstail.com

This eBook edition first published in 2010

Copyright © Danny King, 2009

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead
or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced,
transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in
any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as
allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as
strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised
distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s
and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

eISBN: 978-1-84765-163-1

Contents

Acknowledgements

1 Polite awakenings

Hang on! A quick jolt of panic as you race an even quicker finger across the old brain calendar and double-check the day,
before you’re able to relax again, sink back into your stupor and drift off, safe in the knowledge that this is a genuine
Saturday morning. And not just a practice one like last Thursday.

No, that’s that; everything’s hunky-dory and you’re all done for the week. You’re able to take it easy and write off a small
chunk of your life until lunchtime when you’ll give Jason a bell to see if he’s up for a couple of pints and a bucket of balls
down the golf range before you give any thought to tonight.

There’s only one thing.

When, and more importantly why, did you decide to hang a load of bits of bamboo from your bedroom ceiling just over your bed?

OK, maybe this has got a little bit specific but this was what I found myself wondering after one phenomenally successful
Friday night down the dogs.

I’d been Michael Winner all night long and won nine out of thirteen races. Straight up, absolutely incredible. All right,
I’d only put a couple of quid on each time and I’d never got anything more than twenty or twenty-five quid back on any single
race, but I still walked away with a couple of hundred quid in my back pocket. I was absolutely made up. Fantastic. I didn’t
have a clue what I was doing either. Well, I’m no expert. All I did was have a quick look at the form guide, ask luckless
Jason which one he was going to stick his money on then go for one of the other ones, usually the one in the stripy waistcoat
running in the middle of the track, and hey presto; four-to-one plus my stake back? Stick another fifteen quid in that pocket
of yours, young man and see who’s up for a high-five. No? No one? OK, never mind, what’s next?

Of course, there was always the slight niggling regret afterwards that I didn’t cash in my mortgage and/or my gold teeth and
stick the lot on any of my winners but to be honest I’m not brave enough to bet big. It’s only a bit of fun for me. A night
out, a few beers and a bit of a laugh. I work too hard for my money to go chucking it away on dogs, horses or scratch cards.

No, it’s just a bit of fun. And what fun it had been too.

Of course, it narked Jason off something rotten, particularly when the only time I didn’t win anything was when he stuck his
two quid on the same dog as me. What a Jonah! Still, somebody’s got to cough up if I’m going to be kept in scampi and chips
for the rest of my life.

And champagne?

Oh God, yeah, that was right, I’d been drinking champagne last night too. Jesus, I must’ve been in a good mood.

It was at this moment that the bed gently rocked and a lovely warm pair of buttocks pressed back against my thigh. I almost
smashed my head into the bamboo mobile in surprise and pulled back the covers to see who I was in the bed next to.

It wasn’t Jason. Thank fuck for that.

But who was it?

And hang on a minute, where was I?

And how did I get here?

I’ve never been one for blanking out before, and indeed, reckon it’s all a load of old codswallop when people tell you they
can’t remember what they did the previous evening.

‘Here, Tel, you remember dancing on the table in the pub, flashing your arse at everyone and chinning old Stan?’

‘Er… no.’

But this was different. This was a genuine, bona fide, couldn’t see the woods for the trees, missing-in-action memory blank.

I couldn’t remember a thing.

Not a thing.

And this seemed like a shame because I appeared to have pulled an absolutely corking bird at some point in the evening.

‘Blimey, how did I do that?’ I either said or thought, as I cradled my thumping skull between ten nicotine-stained fingers.

The lady in question was still sleeping, so I let her sleep for the time being and tried to get my bearings. What had I done
last night? And who was she?

After a few seconds, she slowly turned beneath the sheets so that she was now towards me and I was able to see her face.

I still didn’t recognise her, not at all, and I hate to admit this but I had a terrible attack of the scumbags and wondered
if I’d splurged my winnings on a prostitute. If I had it would’ve been the first time in my life, so I couldn’t really see
that. Besides, this didn’t look like a prostitute’s bedroom. Nice lilac sheets, an enormously thick and fuzzy duvet, half
a dozen fluffy pillows and stuffed toys all over the shop. Actually, the place was a bit of a mess what with the piles of
clothes, shoes, books, ornaments and bric-a-brac cluttering up just about every available surface.

No, if this girl was a prostitute then she was in desperate need of one of NatWest’s small-business advisers to come in and
sort out her place of work, because she was scoring low on a few basics.

Also, I still had my pants on, and what sort of prostitute leaves a bloke in his trolleys all night?

No, this girl was no prostitute, and certainly no prostitute I could afford, though I still had one last lingering doubt knocking
around with my headache that made me wonder if I shouldn’t just tap her on the shoulder and ask her if I owed her anything
at all.

Perhaps not.

So, who was she?

I didn’t know, but whoever she was, she was absolutely gorgeous. Shoulder-length blonde hair, a spotless complexion and a
face as cute as a vicar’s daughter’s. She was still sleeping for the moment and looked peaceful to the point of angelic. She
had a few traces of make-up around the eyes and lips, though she didn’t look like she really needed it. She had a tiny upturned
mouth, half a button where her nose should’ve been and lashes that looked like they could’ve picked up Radio 1 – even on the
motorway.

I laid my head on the pillow next to hers and stared at her delicate features for about five minutes until all at once she
screwed her brow into a tangle of pain and coughed the word ‘fuck’ into my face.

‘Oh fuck, oh fuck, my head, my head. I’m in so much pain,’ she sobbed, curling up into a ball and pulling at her hair and
eyes.

She eventually opened them and I saw that they were like little emerald islands, floating in two bloodshot pools of regret.

‘Please, get me a tablet. Please please please,’ she pleaded, giving me directions to the kitchen and begging me to hurry.

I found the kitchen roughly where she’d described it and nosed through half a dozen cupboards before locating a big box full
of tablets and plasters. I selected some suitably dynamic painkillers and knocked back a couple myself, then returned to the
bedroom and asked the patient if she wanted one or two.

I was close, and watched her shotgun three in quick succession and drink a big glass of water before sinking back beneath
the covers. I climbed in after her and tentatively tried a bit of snuggling. To my continuing surprise she seemed all for
it so we settled down and nestled in each other’s arms, groaning, moaning and wondering who the fuck the other was.

To older generations, this probably seems like absolutely outrageous behaviour, especially on the part of the girl – or ‘slag’,
as I believe they were sometimes tarred back then.

‘I didn’t share your grandad’s bed until after we were married and I didn’t see him after that first night for another eighteen
months because he was away fighting the Germans,’ my grandmother once told me, which I took to mean he’d either been in the
trenches in the First World War or turning over BMWs with the Official England Supporters’ Club.

Well, you know, that was fair enough for back then but times change. Not always for the better, I grant you, but they change
all the same, and like it or lump it you have to change with them or else get left behind.

I’ll give you an example of what I mean. OK, here it is; now, I like to think of myself as an old-fashioned kind of romantic.

I’m not really interested in bed-hopping my way through life and chalking up another carcass for the lads. Some blokes are
like that, but not me.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not interested in kids or donkeys either and honestly enjoy/suffer from the same urges as everyone
else. I seriously do and can’t think of many things better than lying in the arms of a beautiful woman – albeit in my pants.
But I’d take a beautiful woman I knew and had a relationship with any day of the week over some saucy anonymous barmaid with
enormous knockers and three days to live. That’s just what I’m like. I like the women in my life to be in my life for a bit
longer than that bloke who came around a few years back to tune all our videos to get Channel 5.

Actually, I think I’d probably just like to find a wife, though I’ll keep that under my hat for the moment as that’s the sort
of comment that usually goes down even worse with women you’ve only just met than ‘How much?’

So, with that all said and done, here’s the example. A few years ago – and I’m talking twelve or thirteen here – I was on
holiday in Gran Canaria with a couple of my mates when I met a really nice girl. I can’t remember her name, I’m afraid, but
she ticked my romantic job sheet down to the last box and had my insides doing loop-the-loops just smiling at me.

I met her on one of those stupid jeep safaris that drives you up into the mountains and takes you on a tour of the island’s
accident black spots. She’d sat next to me in the back of the last jeep and we’d got on really well. Everything I’d said came
out as funny and fascinating, at least to her it did, if not to the other passengers, who had to endure seven hours of merciless
giggling and flirting – the poor bastards.

Anyway, after our day in the mountains, me, my mates and the new love of my life’s mates all met up for dinner and a night
on the slates. We had some lovely food, a few gallons of Harvey Wallbangers and danced into the wee small hours, jumping up
and down and making up our own lyrics to ‘Come On Eileen’ when we gave up trying to work out what Kevin Rowland was singing.
It was a really great night. Really really really. Then, at about four, the club closed and it was time to say goodnight.

By this point, me and my sweetheart were all but inseparable. I know it sounds stupid but I’d grown genuinely close to her
over the course of the evening. To me, this wasn’t just some silly holiday romance or a one-off knee-trembler, this was the
start of something real. Something life-changing. Long after this holiday was over, I was going to see this girl again. And
again. And again.

And as luck would have it, she only lived in Hertfordshire, so this was more than just a pipe dream. That day, on that mountain,
in that jeep, and under that sun, I’d met the girl I was going to spend the rest of my life with.

So when my mates, her mates and her discussed the idea of going on to this little twenty-four-hour bar down by the beach to
get in a few last drinks, I told them I was going home. Seriously, I said this.

‘It’s been a fantastic night but I’m dead on my feet and I’m going home. Have a couple for me and I’ll see you tomorrow,’
I promised my confused future wife, giving her the gentlest of little kisses before strolling off into the night like Sir
Galahad with a particularly bad case of concussion.

What an idiot!

What a dick!

So why had I done this? Simple – because I desperately wanted to see her again and I didn’t want to go ruining everything
by getting really drunk and cheapening our love by trying to hang out the back of her on our first night together. I was more
than happy to wait and utterly convinced that I was doing the right thing by her and that she would recognise my honourable
intentions. Coming from a typically proud working-class family, I’d been brought up to believe this sort of nonsense.

I reiterate, what a dick!

Almost inevitably, both my mates banged her in the bog while I was tucked up in bed back at the hotel thinking noble thoughts
and I never saw her again.

Both of them? I mean, I could’ve just about understood one of them, but both of them? And in the bog?

‘She was well up for it,’ Paul and Andy had explained the next day. ‘I think you loosened her up a bit, know what I mean.’

‘How could you do that? You know I liked her.’

‘Well, you went home. She didn’t know why you did that and was all confused.’

‘What, so you both gave her one to clarify my position?’

‘You should’ve come along, then, mate, if you liked her an’ everything. You were well in there, you were.’

‘Oh, what, you think all three of us could’ve banged her, then, do you?’

This was a real wake-up call for me, and from that day on I dropped my naively chivalrous gentlemanly tactics in favour of
striking while the iron was hot. It’s unfortunate, but that’s just the way it is these days. Because if you’re not willing
to take a girl to a twenty-four-hour bar when she wants to be taken to a twenty-four-hour bar, there’s no shortage of blokes
who will.

And so this was probably the reason I found myself waking up in the bed of a knee-knockingly attractive girl, whose name I
didn’t know and whose life was a complete mystery to me, a dozen or so years later.