My friends. Ace my erstwhile friend, Ice Cube once said, today was a good day. (Erstwhile because…well, it’s along story. But he knows why.)
It began as usual, with my traditional early breakfast meeting with the team. 11am sharp – no fucking slouching. I nominate a different breakfast venue each week, and this time it was the turn of Nandos.
‘The full English, mate!’ I said to the waiter, my napkin already tucked into my shirt collar. ‘And don’t skimp on the extra egg, sausage, bacon, steak, beans, chips or horse meat! If you have any.’
‘We only do chicken,’ he replied. ‘And no breakfasts.’
‘Shit,’ I shot back, lightning fast. ‘Just bring us a load of whatever, then.’
‘How hot would you like it?’ he asked.
‘Well, I’d like it hot mate. Cook it. Obviously.’
‘No – how spicy, sir.’
‘Er – maximum. As hot as it can be. And then make it hotter.’
There were some grumbles from a few members of the team (or all of them, actually, thinking about it) but before long a mound of violently hot chicken arrived and it was into the first item on the agenda: eat breakfast.
Once we’d finished, popped out for a breath of fresh air, had a lie down, had a thorough and explosive dump, had another lie down and a plate of ice each, we were ready for business.
‘What time is it?’ I asked my PA, Mandy…no. (Sorry. Mandy was the last one. My PA…er, thingy. My PA. You know – hair, glasses. That one. Jesus. Erm…no. It’s gone. It’d just be simpler if she changed her name to Peeyay by deed poll. Fuck it. I’ll call her Peeyay and hope it sticks.)
‘It’s half-past two,’ Peeyay replied.
‘When’s my next appointment?’ I pinged.
‘An hour and a half ago,’ she ponged.
‘Fuck,’ I…er…panged. ‘Right. I have to go – there’s no time for items 2-14 of the agenda. Let’s pick that up, like, whenever. Or just get on with it.’
And with that, I was into a cab and right on time for my lunch meeting.
My diary simply read ‘P.U.B.’, with an unfamiliar address.
Who’s initials were they? Where would I be headed? What would I do when I got there?
Then I arrived, realised what P.U.B. stood for and I’ve been here ever since, in the beer garden, surrounded by mucky skippers in short skirts.
Told you it was a good day.
Have a good time, all the time, my friends. Dave loves you.
I am Dave Knockles! And I am wankered!