Diary of a Grumpy Old Git (17 page)

Trevor shoved the plate closer to me and an acidic smell drifted up into my nostrils.

‘Eat the biscuit,’ said Trevor.

‘I’m not hungry,’ I said.

‘Neither was I,’ said Trevor.

I tried to remember the day we dipped Trevor’s Kit Kat in the urinal. I’m pretty sure we didn’t make him eat it.

‘Eat it,’ said Trevor. ‘Or I’ll call Josh and tell him you’ve screwed up. That I’m resigning the account and telling all your other clients to do the same
unless your company puts you out to pasture.’

I looked at the Kit Kat. OK, so it had been pissed on. But would it kill me? Would it even make me ill? Didn’t people in lifeboats sometimes drink urine to survive?

I lifted the Kit Kat slowly towards my mouth.

Trevor let out a squeal of laughter and clapped his palms together. ‘Oh my God. You were actually going to do that, weren’t you?’

I think Trevor has stopped now. As soon as he’d done his Kit Kat prank yesterday, he switched back into serious mode and went through the brochure like a normal, sane
adult. I made a few changes to it this morning, sent it over, and he approved them right away.

Josh came over to my desk to congratulate me, and I sank back in my chair so I wouldn’t have to high-five him again.

‘Well done for getting that off the desk so quickly,’ he said. ‘I thought Trevor was going to be a much trickier customer.’

It’s very simple, Josh. Clients are pushovers as long as you’re prepared to eat chocolate wafers they’ve marinated in their urine. That’s the first lesson of
business.

I was still thinking about Trevor on my way home when a GE Business Catering van drove past. It had ‘We bring a lot to the table’ written on the side of it. That was my slogan. That
was the campaign I won my bronze award for.

I should have been proud that a line I wrote ten years ago was still in use. It should have restored my confidence after the Kit Kat incident. But realizing that my biggest professional
achievement amounted to nothing more than a few words on the side of a van delivering soggy sandwiches to bored businessmen only made things worse. When I think back to the early promise I showed
when I invented the nickname ‘Chalky Balls’, it’s nothing short of tragic.

A new action movie opened today starring Vin Diesel, The Rock and Nicolas Cage. Jo said it sounded like the worst film of all time, and before I realized what I was doing, I
suggested we should go and see it. She agreed, and I’m meeting her outside the multiplex in the retail park at seven tomorrow.

I’m not entirely sure, but I think that counts as a date. I was tempted to refer to it as such to see if it made her throw up in her mouth, but I didn’t want to risk it.

We didn’t really do ‘dates’ last time I was single. As far as I remember, we used to go down to the local bar and drink ourselves senseless in the hope that we’d wake up
with Miss World. It wasn’t a very reliable system, but it was better than all those speed dates and compatibility questionnaires you have to bother with now. Trying to get a shag these days
is like applying for a fixed-rate business loan.

I’ve spent all day getting ready for my date tonight. I’ve showered, brushed my teeth, sifted around in the bathroom cabinet, found some Old Spice, dabbed it on,
realized I smelled like 1979, showered again, put on my only pair of genuine Calvin Klein pants, worried that if Jo somehow ended up seeing these she’d realize I had high expectations,
replaced them with my Primark pants, ironed my jeans, thought they looked too neat, found a different pair, put my vest on, took it off again, put my shirt on, buttoned it all the way to the top,
thought this looked too formal, undid the top three buttons, thought this looked too sleazy, did one of them up and brushed my teeth again.

Now I’m worrying that Jo is going to turn up with loads of friends and say, ‘You didn’t think it was a date, did you? You’re such a hilarious old codger.’

I’d forgotten about all this crap. It’s almost as bad as sitting on the sofa with Sarah watching home makeover shows and dying inside. Almost.

Jo met me in queue and gave me a quick hug. She wasn’t wearing her fake glasses, and I wondered if this was because of our date, but it was actually because we all had to
wear huge 3D glasses.

It was the first time in about ten years that I’d been to one of those kinds of cinemas. Sometimes I’d go and watch something miserable and subtitled with Sarah, but it’s been
a while since I’ve seen the kind of film where beefy male models rob banks. It featured lots of shots of them walking away from explosions without flinching. As someone who soils their
trousers whenever a car backfires, I found this rather difficult to believe.

It was quite hard to hear the dialogue above the noise of idiots grazing on popcorn and answering their phones, but I don’t think anyone minded. Two hours of loud noises and bright colours
would have kept that lot happy. Any shape they could recognize as a person or a car was a bonus.

I kept my glasses on when I went to the toilet halfway through, to see if they’d make real life look more 3D, but they just made me slip on some popcorn.

After the film we went to a theme restaurant in the retail park. I’m not sure what the theme was, but I think it was the futility of existence. Every few minutes the waiters would run up
to a table carrying sparklers and start singing ‘Happy Birthday’. It was quite apt because I felt like just being there aged me by several years. I think it was one of those
‘fun’ places.

Jo said the film was the worst thing she’d ever seen and I agreed with her. Then she said it was also the best thing she’d ever seen and I agreed with her again. For some reason, the
bill came to more than it would have done in a good restaurant, but I paid it anyway.

Then we left and got into the cab rank. I knew this was the bit where I was supposed to make a move, but it had been so long I’d forgotten what to do. Was I supposed to ask her if we could
kiss or just angle my head to the side and open my mouth? I was just about to try the latter when I remembered about the onion rings on my burger. If I blasted her with onion breath, she’d be
going home in an ambulance rather than a cab. I decided I’d hold off until next time.

Yeah. Like there’s going to be a next time.