Worst Person Ever Part 28

Neal handed me the martini-it was perfection. I felt like Noel Coward or James Bond or one of the great debonairs of all time, greeting the early evening with style. I exhaled and took stock of my day. In one of my more philosophical moods, I asked, "Neal, have you ever taken a large and satisfying s.h.i.t, only to look in the bowl afterwards to find ... nothing?"

"Phantom s.h.i.t, Ray. Happens all the time."

"Nonsense, Neal."

"Let me guess: afterwards little to no wiping required."

"Why ... that is correct. None, really. A shame with all that five-star loo paper available."

"Perhaps it's interdimensional leakage, Ray. That could explain it."

"Interdimensional leakage? What is wrong with you? I s.h.i.t in the real world, Neal. My s.h.i.t does not enter a parallel universe or time stream."

"You're the one who spoke the words 'parallel universe' and 'time stream,' not me."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning that even you believe there are unsolved mysteries in this universe."

"I grudgingly concede the point."

Neal handed me another well-deserved drink. "I watched your bug-eating challenge on the show's website. Great stuff, Ray. Bold."

"The entire planet has no Internet except here on a.r.s.ef.u.c.k Island? How does that happen?"

"Calm down, Ray. They've got some smart young kids on the show, with solid IT skills. They set up a very robust LAN, with a rewards program where you can get discount car rentals for-"

My overtaxed brain shot sideways from both ears. "Car rentals? Your driver's licence expired the day Nirvana taped MTV Unplugged in New York-and there are no cars to rent. They've all been melted by nuclear war."

"No war just yet, and who knows-diplomatic talks might stave it off."

"Neal, if you keep spouting this naive claptrap, I'm afraid I'll have to stop having my philosophical discussions with you."

"That's not fair, Ray. I'm trying to keep our spirits up."

"Another martini. Please." So delicious.

A martini is a c.o.c.ktail made with gin and vermouth, garnished with an olive or a lemon twist. Until the 1950s, the standard proportion was one part vermouth to three or three and a half parts gin. In recent years, martinis made with vodka rather than gin have become much more fashionable. Many people have martini shakers in their homes-either received as wedding gifts or purchased in an ironic retro mood. They never get used. They're kind of like the fedora hat of the beverage world.

I looked around. "Where's Mother's room?"

"Down the hall. She's watching some telly and eating crisps."

I pointed at a set of French doors. "What's out there?"

"The infinity pool."

f.u.c.ker.

Neal looked around as if to make sure n.o.body else was near. "Ray ..."

"Yes, Neal? Smashing martinis, by the way."

"Ray, do you feel slightly, I don't know-guilty-for starting the nuclear crisis?"

"Guilty? Why should I feel guilty?"

"Well, I mean, we could have crashed the plane and prevented that atomic bomb from going off."

"Neal, you're thinking like a little girl. The planet is choking-choking on a continent-sized lump of plastics, and Lieutenant Jennifer whatever-the-f.u.c.k-her-name-was, in her heart of hearts, thought she was doing the right thing. We should commend her."

Neal looked genuinely distraught. "But I keep asking myself what a better person might have done. The world's going to end because of you and me. Not only that, we can't get a trans-Pacific Internet connection and the ladies at k.u.m Guzzling Traktor s.l.u.ts were going to do a special Skype performance just for me today. They call it 'The Missile Silo'-a part of their ongoing celebration of the Cold War's end. Pretty ironic, given that we've gone and started it all over again."

"Neal, Neal, Neal, Neal, Neal, Neal, Neal. Come over here."

Neal came close and I slapped him, one-two. "Stop that line of thinking right now. Jason Bourne would have done exactly what I did-"

"Kack his trousers?"

"Not my proudest moment, Neal, but yes, Jason Bourne would have shat his pants, given the situation."

"Really, Ray?"

"Yes, Neal, really. The thing about Jason Bourne is that he only really shines when he's being chased. Without the forces of evil pursuing him, Jason Bourne is basically council house trash living on KFC and the proceeds of his illegal Polish and Romanian girlfriends who'll toss you off for a tenner at the local lottery ticket kiosk."

"So Jason Bourne is almost just like you and me."

"Or," I clarified, "I am basically Jason Bourne. Simple logic."

"What about James Bond, then-would he have tried to stop the bomb dropping?"

"He'd have been at the back of the plane f.u.c.king a goat. Again, pure logic."

"I never studied logic, Ray."

"Well, Neal, I'm not one to lord it over people, but yes-I did study logic."

"Fancy prep school?"

"No. A f.u.c.king h.e.l.lhole."4 I swallowed an olive and changed the subject. "So. How is my piece of red plastic coming along?"

Neal gave a weary sigh. "To be honest, I wish it would come along a bit quicker. It's hard going through life with a persistent prostate ma.s.sage. I hope Mother Nature will soon take her course."

My suave, contemplative mood continued, well into my third martini. "Neal, I truly think that wormy-fleshed canker I call my ex-wife is up to something sinister. Any ideas what it could be?"

"Fi? Not that I can think of. Maybe she wants to ... dunno ... get back together with you."

"Highly unlikely, Neal. Oh, by the way, I found where she hid the Cure T-shirt, so I pinched it and hid it beneath her tent. We can get it later."

"You're the greatest, Ray."

Then the doorbell rang and Neal went to answer it. It was Billy, of all people. He and Neal hugged like old friends.

"Billy, fancy a drink?" Neal said.

"I do. How's your p.u.s.s.y fatigue coming along?"

"I think I've rounded a corner and will make a full recovery."

"And your ankle?"

"Ditto. Raymond-look who's here!"

"h.e.l.lo, Billy."

"h.e.l.lo, Raymond."

"You two sound like you need more alcohol. What'll you have, Billy?"

"A greyhound, please."

"Perfect. We have fresh pink grapefruits from the tree out back. Why, what's this we have here?" From beneath the bar Neal produced a professional juice squeezer. "One greyhound, coming up!"

A greyhound is a c.o.c.ktail composed of vodka and grapefruit juice. For some reason, it's just kind of gay.

While Neal pulped the grapefruits, Billy and I regarded each other with deep suspicion.

"So, Billy," I finally said, "tell me, what's the deal with being gay?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, I look at a gay situation, as it were, and nothing the least bit s.e.xual happens."

"Right."

"So, what happens with you?" I was drunk enough that the question was sincere.

Billy picked up on this, and looked thoughtful. "Well, imagine you lived on a planet where people got s.e.xual stimulation almost entirely from their ears, and everywhere you looked advertisers were using slick airbrushed photos of ears to sell cars and soft drinks, and all the people on this planet wanted to do was to sit in their bedrooms rubbing their ears together and sticking their fingers in each other's ears for hours and hours and hours. That's what it's like for me when I look at straight people having s.e.x ..."

I was all ears, so to speak. "And?"

"Wait a second," said Billy. "You're not getting off on this conversation, are you? Fiona said you could be weird about this kind of thing. Were you seriously considering f.u.c.king goats in Bonriki?"

"Neal! You told Fiona about our discussion?"

Neal put a mint sprig in Billy's greyhound and handed it to him. "Nothing wrong with exploring other modes of being, Ray. And remember, you didn't really f.u.c.k a goat. You only f.u.c.ked a goat in your heart."

"I was doing no such thing! I seem to remember us talking more about f.u.c.king sheep in the end."

"Well," said Billy, "haven't I stepped onto a minefield?"

I reached for a paper napkin and knocked over a drink I hadn't seen beside a plate of garnishes. "Oops. Sorry, Neal."

"Not to worry. Just some coconut milk and sugar I was going to turn into an energy drink. You all right?"

"I got it all over my pants, but give me a damp cloth and I can wipe it off." I looked up. "Billy, why are you even here? Shouldn't you be out kidnapping toddlers for Fiona to char-broil for dinner?"

"I'm actually here on Fiona business."

"Go on."

"She has a surprise for you."

I knew it! My eyes narrowed into thin, snaky slits as I stared at him.

"She does. And she wants me to bring you to see it."

"Do you know what this surprise is?"

"Yes, I do."

"Will it involve public humiliation?"

"Definitely not."

"So it's a good surprise, then?"

"Definitely."

"If you're lying, I get to make you my slave for one week."

"Slave? I'm not f.u.c.king any goats for you, but if Fiona's surprise is anything less than splendid, I'll be happy to be your personal a.s.sistant for a week."

I sighed. How far the once mighty human race has fallen-from the majesty and glory of slavery down to the sterile, joyless realm of the personal a.s.sistant.

Well, a personal a.s.sistant is better than nothing. "Okay. Let's go."

4. I did have a scholarship to a fancy place, but Mum spent it on a Benidorm holiday with her best friend Sheila. I only learned of this decades later. I was on a TV shoot about pedophiles in the private school system, and this bloke we were filming looks up at me while we're changing batteries and says, "Gunt? That sounds just like 'c.u.n.t,' " and I say, "Yeah. I get a lot of that." And so he says, "You're Raymond Gunt?" and I say, "Yup. That's me." And he says, "Why ever didn't you accept that scholarship we gave you?" and I say, "Scholarship?" Yes, that's how I found out about it. At least I escaped a decade of a.r.s.e-rapings, but still, it would have been nice to be more posh, you know, using all the magic fancy words that leave Pippa Middleton all moist and gagging for it.

47.