Other Room Services

Chapter Two

So anyway, here we are on the Cardiff Express. Another great call from The Express. It's the Deputy Editor's office:
"Jeremy, it's Charlie from Nicky Brigss' office. I've just been onto Murray at EMI and he couldn't tell me. Do you know when your Kylie review is running?"
Murray is Kylie's PR. He's a sweet. A mate of Chris and Amanda from Blanch House.
"Charlie. You don't know and Murray doesn't know."
"No, do you know when it will be running?"
Ah, he joys of working for The Express. The perfect place for the incognito writer, for someone on the run. No need to bother with safe houses or sticky-on beards. No. Simply get a job with The Express. Not only doesn't anyone read the paper, not only don't the PR people care, but the deputy bastard editor of the paper itself doesn't read it.
Mind you, I can see her point.
So anyway, here we are on the Cardiff Express, chuffing its way through the English countryside past a field shared by horses and cows - you see, the struggles of the countryside. You townies, you just don't understand what it's like. Animals of a different hue being forced to share living quarters - and on our way to the International Arena for Night One of a two night knickertastic extravaganza. Big Barry Manilow. Could life get any better?
Tonight we're staying in the exotically named The Big Sleep hotel, a grade up from The Ibis and, crucially, about 200 yards nearer the Cardiff International Arena. I get in, check in. The Big Sleep is supposed to be Britain's first 'designer chain' hotel. Fine. I can do designer. Curiously, the designer style they've opted for at The Big Sleep is minimalist. £58 for a nights big sleep and breakfast. "But we only do a continental breakfast, sir". A great phrase. Continental breakfast. Like a croissant and a box of cornflakes from a Kellogg's Variety selection and a glass of freshly poured orange juice was some strange and exotic beast. Everything else is OK. There's even an adult channel on the telly. No free viewing period, mind, a sure sign that it's about as erotic as some home improvements show. Still, it's only £4 and it comes up on the bill as "other room services". That'll fool them back in the office when I submit the bill for expenses. After last week, I know the routine. Over to the UGC (the cinema - oh, do pay attention) and "Excuse me. What's the next film on?" Hope it's not The Scorpion King even though I still haven't got a clue what it is."The Panic Room - it's good. Got Jodie Foster". Made by the geezer who did Fight Club (good at the time, crap in retrospect) and Seven (great film). Wee, popcorn, in. It was OK. Passed the time. A fairly formulaic 'who's going to live, who's going to die' thriller that started off going nowhere and ended up going nowhere and didn't really go anywhere in between. If we weren't in Cardiff and it wasn't Barry Manilow I was going to see and if we weren't going up to Manchester to see Enrique and his Dancing Iglesias tomorrow night and I was at home putting up some shelves in the shoe cupboard... I could get quite used to this running around going to gigs caper.
So anyway. It's 6.32am and the phone goes. What with the room services and now the phone... so much for The Big Sleep. Gill. "Is the pet insurance up to date?" It seems that Lexa (small white dog) has been sick, badly sick, and Gill's taking her to the vet. "OK". About an hour later, the phone goes again. Gill. In tears. Lexa (ex-small white dog) is dead. Luckily, the girls are having their own Big Sleep over at Helen's and so that one doesn't have to be crossed yet. Lexa's dead. A bullet of mortality shooting through our previously impregnable little unit. Without wanting to sound harsh, if any of them had to go, she'd have got my vote. She'd have got everyone's vote I imagine, but that doesn't mean I wanted her gone. She wasn't very old, but she had a good life. Well, an easy life. I wonder (selfishly) what the long term implications might be. Now that our little unit has been cracked, what else might happen? Now maybe there's a crack in the protective glass. Things could get out. Things could get in. Psychobacteria. Back in London, en route to the North. I don't know why I'm back in London when i could have gone straight from Cardiff to Manchester, but back in London I am. Three hours to kill. Gill phones with word about The Juicy Awards. I'm surprised it got in so quickly. The answer is, as ever, retail. I go and get some money and buy a Roberts radio for Gill, a pair of trainers for me (the others got muddy in the garden) and a new CD player and cassette deck cos they were all dusty and covered in crap because I didn't take them out of the kitchen when all that work started. OK, so a tube or whatever of Mr Sheen would have been cheaper but really. How much fun? Oh, I know. I'll go into a supermarket and buy some furniture polish. That will make me feel better. That will make me feel powerful again. The other thing with shopping is that it's got to be notes. A credit card just doesn't do it. I've got to do the whole deal - get the wallet out, peel off the notes. Maybe I'll lick a finger as I peel off the notes.
The train to Manchester is full. It seems there's a football match on and the train is full of Manchester United fans and Arsenal fans on their way. (What do you mean? Of course the Manchester United fans were travelling up from London). "We're going to win the league". "No you're not". That was basically the inter-train debate. (We could get a 'train of thought' gag in here but fuck it. Maybe next time).
Le Meridien was a bit more upmarket - at £200 a night it should be. (Manchester was full of Arsenal and Man U fans up for the match, remember). Still Kenco bastard coffee in the room but there are nice little touches like a dressing gown (one) and little Japanese style slippers (curiously two pairs - why two?) and the shortbread biscuits (also two) nestling next to the sachets of coffee. A sense of duty forces me to check out the telly (£7.95 - Room Services) and - now here's the bonus of a £200 a night hotel - there's a freeview period. So I look and it's another home improvements show. The Brits really have no idea. Off. I'd have a bath but then there'd be the question of which pair of slippers to wear and I'm not sure I want more decisions at this stage of the game. Enrique was fab. All glistening muscles and white vest. Didn't sing a word all night but held the microphone beautifully. Actually I don't care about that whole 'singing live' thing. Who cares? The testosterone's real and that's what people go for. Arsenal won the match and I can't work out what's worse. When they won and they were dull and boring or when they win with panache and style. I think I prefer hating them now. There's more the sense of a curmudgeon about it. Old Man Steptoe would have done that.
5.30am. On the way out. Stop to pay the bill. The internet connection and something from the mini-bar and "Room services - £7.95". So much for the free viewing period.