The Upgrade: A Cautionary Tale of a Life Without Reservations (23 page)

Then, still absolutely paralytic, I must have headed off to bed, completely forgetting that there was a taxi driver sitting outside Anna’s house, meter running, waiting for his money.

A quick flashback. Two years earlier—almost to the day—I had a similar incident with a cab driver. I had spent the night out with, among other people, my ex-girlfriend, who also happened to be my business partner. Concerned that she’d be able to get home safely, I’d insisted that she take one of my two credit cards in order to pay for a taxi. I kept the second card to pay for my own journey home.

Unfortunately, what I hadn’t realized was that the card I retained
had expired the previous day, leading to an amusing impasse when the driver refused to let me go into my apartment to get another method of payment, fearing that I was planning to run off. He instead drove me to a police station where, as a direct result of my getting smart with the desk sergeant, I was arrested and held for a night in the cells.

After that I vowed never to rely on a credit card to pay for a cab again, but, rather, to ensure that I always had at least twenty quid in cash in my pocket, no matter how drunk I got. Twenty pounds being more than enough money to get home, unless of course you send the cab driver in the wrong direction for twenty minutes.

“Get up!”

Being woken up with those words is always bad news. Being woken up having those words shouted at you by three policemen standing over your bed, one of whom has an extendable baton poised to hit you, is really, really bad news.

As I would later discover, the cab driver had called the cops after waiting an hour for me to return with his money. The police had tried ringing the doorbell, but I hadn’t answered, by reason of being passed out.

It’s at that point they’d racked their brains for a lawful solution and realized that there are only a small number of occasions when it’s justifiable to kick someone’s door down. The belief that a crime is in the process of being committed is one such occasion. That wouldn’t really wash as technically my “crime” had been committed over an hour ago. Another occasion is if the police genuinely believe that a third party is in imminent danger. They had no reason to believe anyone but me was in the house, so that was a non-starter as well. Which just leaves the third time when kicking a door in without a warrant is justified: a
genuine belief that someone inside was ill or seriously injured. Ding!

The fact that I’d been very obviously drunk when I went into the house and was now not answering the door could only mean one thing: I had choked on my own vomit and died. There was nothing else for it; using one of those metal battering ram things you see on cop shows, the police had smashed the living shit out of Anna’s front door to “rescue” me.

You’d have thought that discovering me alive and well, but asleep, they’d have been delighted. Apologized for the door, even. “We’re just glad you’re OK.” But no—by the time my eyes were open and I’d started to process where I was, they’d hauled me out of bed—mercifully still wearing my clothes—handcuffed me and thrown me into the back of their van.

Welcome back to London, I thought, when I woke up for the third time in twelve hours, this time lying on a wooden bench inside a cell at Marylebone police station. I’d already been fingerprinted and had my DNA taken; they’d been thrilled to discover a match with my previous arrest record—and even more so when they found it was for exactly the same crime: making off without payment. Unable to interview me while I was still drunk, they’d thrown me into a cell until morning.

The first time I was arrested, I was terrified—worried what it would mean for the company I was then in the middle of starting, worried about what the consequences generally would be for me getting a criminal record, and just generally terrified at being locked in a police cell for the first time in my sheltered life. This time, though, I just felt bored. I knew that I would be interviewed in a few hours by two policemen who would probably be about nineteen years old and who would either slap me on the wrist in a “we’ve all had a drink, you idiot, don’t do it
again” way, or would take a dislike to me on the basis that I’m a smartass middle-class dickhead with a law degree, and would decide to charge me.

That second possibility is what had transpired the previous time. I’d avoided court, and a criminal record, only by calling the Crown Prosecution Service (or CPS; the UK’s state prosecutors) and convincing them to drop the charges, which I’d managed to do because—after all—I’m a smart-ass middle-class dickhead with a law degree.

Whichever route the police decided to take this time, I knew nothing terrible would happen to me and that I wouldn’t end up in jail. More importantly, I knew that I’d have an amusing story for my blog—or maybe even a freelance article—which would in turn help promote my book. I had turned into an accidental career criminal, in so far as accidentally committing crimes now directly benefit my career.

Another hour passed and finally, as expected, came the clanking before the door swung open. The custody sergeant marched me down to the interview room where, as expected, sat two policemen and a tape recorder. They explained my rights, I explained that I didn’t want a lawyer, and then I began to tell them the whole story.

They laughed a couple of times, and I made a mental note to include those parts of the story in the blog post. And then came the moment of truth. “As this is your second offense,” said one of the policemen, “but the last time the charges were dropped, we’re happy to let you go with a caution.”

“Hmm,” I said. It’s important at this point to understand that, in the UK legal system, an official “caution” is an actual punishment, with actual consequences. For a start, to be eligible for a caution, you have to admit that you’re guilty of a crime. Even though a caution isn’t technically a conviction, this admission forms part of your criminal record, which means it will appear if you’re ever subject to a background check. Also, you’re generally only allowed one caution—next time it’s straight to court.

Knowing all of this, I knew that the smartest thing for me to do would be to do what I’d done the previous time: refuse to admit any guilt, agree to be bailed to appear in court in a month’s time and then try to sweet-talk the CPS into dropping the charges in the meantime. It would probably mean having to go to court for an hour or two to set a trial date, but hopefully things would go no further. Yes, that was the smartest thing to do.

“Would you like to accept the caution …” Had I been sober then the problem would have hit me far sooner. Instead, it was only when the interviewing officer asked me the question for the second time that I finally sobered up enough to realize the jam I was in. If I accepted the caution, and the accompanying criminal record, then I would almost certainly experience problems if I tried to apply for a visa to travel or live anywhere outside Europe.

Given how much traveling I was doing, I really, really didn’t want a criminal record. But if I
didn’t
accept the caution then I’d be given a court date that could be anything up to two months away. And given how much work I’d have to do—dealing with the CPS, writing letters, making phone calls and all that crap—I’d be basically stuck in London all that time.

Then if things went badly with the CPS, I’d have to wait for a second court date, during which I’d actually be fined, or—Jesus—given community service. If I didn’t accept the caution then my nomadic experiment was over, in the short term at least. If I did accept it, the experiment was very likely over in the long term.

Suddenly having an amusing story to tell about being arrested again didn’t seem like such an upside. I took a deep breath, which still tasted of rum.

“Yes,” I said, “I’d like to accept the caution.”

I had no real choice: I could hardly bear to stay in London for two more weeks, let alone two months. The custody sergeant slid the piece
of paper across his desk for me to sign. I was being given a “conditional caution,” which is like a normal caution but with the added demand that I pay the cab driver the fare I owed him; the total on the meter by the time he eventually drove off was £135.

He also handed me a sealed plastic bag containing my phone, my belt and Anna’s keys. “Probably not much use now,” he said, “they’ll have boarded up the door after you were arrested, but it’ll definitely need to be replaced.”

Of course: the fucking door. Anna was due back in less than twenty-four hours and I had to get it fixed before then. I’d probably have to pay an obscene call-out fee for an emergency door replacement company but at least that was better than having her arrive back to a missing door.

Truth is, it wasn’t Anna’s reaction that scared me—we’re old friends and, as a fellow writer, she would probably see the funny side of it. Hell, I should probably give her first dibs on pitching the piece to her editor: “the night my friend got my door kicked in by the police.” No, the person who scared me was Anna’s boyfriend, Drew, who worked for a “private security company” in Iraq.

I’d only met him a couple of times and he seemed like a thoroughly nice guy but—let’s be honest—he was basically a hired mercenary; God only knows how he’d react to the drunken idiot who’d got his door kicked in. I really had to get back and fix that door.

Finally the custody sergeant was ready to let me go. He gave me my copy of the caution and reminded me that if I didn’t pay the cab driver within ten days, I’d be arrested again and sent to court. Likewise, if I got arrested again in the next six months, I’d definitely be sent to court.

He swung open the big metal door that led out to the main reception.

“Oh,” he said, “and your friend is waiting for you in the car outside. She couldn’t find anywhere to park.”

“My friend?”

“Yeah, I have to say, the bloke she was with didn’t look happy at all.”

“My … what friend?” I murmured.

“The girl who owns the house, I think. She called earlier to say she’d come back and found the door boarded up. We usually leave a number on the door for the homeowner to call.”

Oh. Fuuuuuck.

“And you said she’s with her boyfriend?”

“Looked like it. I wouldn’t like to be the one who got that bloke’s door kicked in. Good luck, mate.”

To Anna’s, and particularly Drew’s, credit neither of them killed me. In fact, they both thought my night in the cells, and my groveling apology were hilarious.

“It was kind of a shitty door anyway,” said Drew, “we were going to get it replaced. And now we have an excuse.”

“And I’m paying for it,” I said.

“Exactly. Win-win.”

I looked down at my caution and the £135 underlined on it; I made a stab at guessing how much the door would cost—a couple of hundred quid at least—and then added on the price of the wine and flowers I should probably buy Anna and Drew to say sorry.

My one night free stay was going to cost me at least £500, plus my new criminal record. Yeah, win bloody win.

After replacing Anna and Drew’s door, I decided that I should probably avoid friends’ houses in future. At least in a hotel, the police don’t need
to kick down doors—they can just ask reception for a key. I headed a mile or so up the road to the Raglan Hotel in Muswell Hill, a swanky suburb of North London. The Raglan is a really nice place—the rooms are modern, the service is good and I was able to blag a rate of $150 a night, which was an absolute bargain for London. All of which could only mean that there was a huge catch.

And there was: Muswell Hill is several miles from the center of town, almost an hour, in fact, by a variety of trains and buses. Realistically that meant adding $100 a day just for cabs, putting the total per night at almost three times my budget. In London that still constitutes a bargain.

Still, at least money would soon be no object. The closer my book publication date came, the more keenly I could taste my impending fame and success. Thanks to some advance press, and my drunken travelogues from Spain, people had actually started to pre-order the book on Amazon. I’ve never understood why someone would want to order a book before it’s out, any more than I’ve understood people who line up outside shops the night before things go on sale.

But just because these people were obviously mentally ill didn’t mean I didn’t want them as readers. Even if, as Robert said, “it’s probably just all the people who hate you ordering copies for their lawyers.” Still, whatever the reason, a week before publication, mine was officially the 97,000th most popular book on the site. When you take out all the books about wizards and vampires that was almost certainly the top ten. Rebecca had been working hard too.

She’d lined me up an appearance on Sky News—the UK’s big satellite news channel—to review “this week’s big stories on the Internet.” The fact that I had no idea—or interest in—what people on the Internet were talking about (unless they were talking about me) was irrelevant. On the day of the show, the producer emailed me a list of stories about which I’d be expected to opine. My favorite story concerned a new company that rented dogs to rich people in New York. I made a
joke about them being just “for Christmas, not for life.” The host and I shared a fake laugh and then it was back to proper news for Sky and back to my hotel for me.

On the way “home,” I checked my Amazon pre-sales rank and discovered, to my delight that, on the basis of my performance, the popularity of
Bringing Nothing to the Party
had dropped by about 10,000 places. Had people actually canceled their pre-orders after seeing me on television?

Rebecca was also doing a sterling job in drumming up well-known names to provide positive quotes about the book that could then be used on the cover and in marketing materials. She’d asked if I knew any successful authors and, as well as Zoe, I suggested that she should try Mil Millington, the comic novelist who wrote
Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About
.