Other Room Services

CHAPTER 9: Other Room Services (with apologies to

Things had got off to a bad start. I'd asked the cabbie, some bloke I met at the train station, where a man would go to find some hookers. He said I should go and have a look at MFI. Momentarily, this bothered me. If he'd said that I should go to B&Q I could have rationalised it. Said that maybe he thought I'd said wanted some 'hooks'. But he'd said MFI. What did he think I want? How could he have mistaken 'hookers' for 'kitchen worktops? But... he didn't say I should go in MFI. He said I should go and have a look at MFI. Was it some kind of Midlands patois? Like in London people say that you should go and have 'a butcher's hook' when they mean a look, so maybe in Nottingham to 'go and have a look at MFI' meant something else. Then again, maybe it was just that our sexual tastes were very different. Whatever, it was clear that it wasn't going to be easy to throw myself into issues pertaining to the modern man.
Tomorrow I'm going to sit in a 'sweat lodge' (no I don't know what a sweat lodge is) with a group of men and discuss issues pertaining to the modern man. So I just figured that tonight I should swig Jack Daniels from the bottle in the company of a couple of local hookers while watching the hotel porn. Maybe I'll put a £20 note up my nose. That sounds like issues pertaining to the modern man covered. (I read the papers: I know what's going on). We're off to see The Vines and The Libertines in the appropriately named Rock City, two bands renowned for their interest in issues pertaining to the modern man.
The journey was a treat. One of those times in life when you wonder just how life could get any better. You know, you find yourself in situations which are just so perfect you wish there really was such a thing as a time machine and you could zap back in time tio that school careers advisor and show him. "There! Told you I'd be OK" and he would shake his head in wonder and put his hands up in defeat. Mr Goldberg, I think that's wghat his name was, he was the careers advisor. He used to sit in his office and told us as we filed in, one by one like the passengers on some Noah's Ark that was en route for a dating party, "Ah yes. I've been looking at yoou and I think law would suit yoiu. Tghere's a course at Middlesex Polytechnic that's particularly good..." It didn't matter. Boy, girl. Blonde hair, dark hair. Thin, fat. Bright, stupid. It didn't matter. The law course at Middlesex Poly was perfect for us. Looking back, I can't remembre whether I was secretly impressed by his candour or depressed by the dull predictability of it all when I found out that the admissions officer of The Law Faculty at Middlesex Poly was his best mate and that they'd done some sort of deal. Mr Goldberg. I wonder whatever happened to him. Died, I guess. Well, it was a while ago and he was about 70-odd. So maybe I don't even need a time machine. Maybe he's been reincarnated as that woman who's sitting opposite. She's about 20. Could be. Could be but I don't think I'm going to risk it. You and I might recognise that life really doesn't get any better than sitting at Bedford station on the delayed 14.55 to Nottingham listening to Phil Collins's new album (Testify on EastWest records for those currently compiling their Christmas present lists) but there's every chance that the 20-year-old female reincarnation of Mr Goldberg might be hoping for something more from life. Bloody lawyers.
I like these trips. They give me a chance to read newspapers, somerthing I've studiously avoided doing since I became a journalist. I've read red-tops, middle market papers and broadsheets. I bought Heat, The New Statesman and The Wire. We just passed Kettering and I've had to take off Phil Collins and put on Johnny Cash's new album (The Man Who Comes Around on Lost Highway records.) I've always thought of Kettering as a real Johnny Cash kinda place. All fire and brimstone and men in black hats. Anyway, The Wire was the only one which wasn't full of Angus and Mr X (who, for legal reasons, we shall call 'John Leslie'). The Statesman piece was by John Gray and frankly uninelligible. It was three pages long but only had about five words. Five very long words. The sort of words you could take a break from reading, go off and cook a meal and come back and finish reading. Words that take longer to read than it takes towatch an episode of EastEnders (which I might stop watching if they get rid of Trevor). Lynda Lee Potter in The Mail was the best. I can't remember exactly what she said, but the gist of it was that 'John Leslie' should be made to sit at Bedford station on the delayed 14.55 to Nottingham and listen to Phil Collins's new album (Testify on EastWest records).
It never happened. I tried but it never happened. Forget the CitiLodge Hotel. OK, so it's central but listen. No mini bar. No Corby trouser press. And don't even think about your 10 minute freeview periods. There wasn't even a pay-for-view telly. Issues pertaining to the modern man? Schmissues.