How To Lose Weight And Alienate People. Ollie Quain
He gives Monday a thumbs-up. Monday pads over to him and rubs his head on Luke’s shin.
Luke adores Monday and Monday seems to like Luke a lot too, which is saying something as in the eleven years since I collected him from the Cat’s Protection League he has found fault with most of the men I’ve been with. Yes, I’m aware that the words, ‘Men I’ve Been With’ aren’t likely to inspire Danielle Steel’s next romantic bestseller, but it’s the closest I can get to describing the connection I make with members of the opposite sex. I am with them, and then I am not. Not in the way that Adele is. She is an emotional car crash. I’ve never even come close to having a minor prang let alone careered into a major pile-up. This is because I am always in the driving seat and plan exactly where I am going. Adele instantly hands over the keys and never bothers with GPS.
‘That Fry bloke … was he on speedo?’
I make a face at Luke for using another annoying Aussie-ism. ‘Speedo’ is what he calls cocaine … because it speeds up time.
‘No, he’s just come out of rehab.’
‘But he managed to apologise for hitting you?’ asks Luke.
‘Nah …’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘I wouldn’t have expected him to.’
He laughs. ‘Oh right, is that one of the rules of joining a private members’ club, then? You have to behave as rudely as possible at all times? I would sign up myself but I may only be able to manage “faintly offensive” during opening hours. “Wholly insulting” could take some practice.’ Then he mutters to himself, ‘What a pretentious wanker.’
This is classic Luke. Maybe it’s because he grew up on the beach in Sydney where life was one long fun-packed family barbi, but he is so grounded. He is entirely unaffected by everything that everyone else I know is affected by. He doesn’t concern himself with what people do, how they live or what they look like. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks about what he is doing either, as long as he is content within himself and sticks to his plan. Case in point, he graduated from university in Australia with a first-class degree, and then worked for five years in an ultra-dull-sounding recruitment job, just so he could save up for a deposit on a property in Sydney to keep as an investment for the future. Then he travelled over here to fulfil his ultimate dream: becoming a DJ. Not because he eventually wants to be the idolised centrepiece of wild parties where the crowd scream his name and supermodels nosh him off behind the decks – which I thought was the whole point of deejaying – but because he is genuinely into the music and wants to ‘share’ this passion. It goes without saying that when we very first met, I warned him that his plan was unlikely to work out. After all, for nearly two decades it has been mandatory for every bloke under thirty inhabiting the hipper UK towns to know how to mix, run club nights and produce their own tunes on set-ups in their bedroom. Everyone is a DJ, or a promoter, or a producer; other typically young male-dominated industries have suffered as an effect. You can’t get a decent plumber for love nor money over Hackney way. Anyway, Luke ignored what I said, found work on a building site so he had a reliable job that required no overtime and then set about finding some gigs.
To be fair, he has managed to land a few. Mainly through his flatmate, Warren, who knows everyone in Clubland and also throws the odd party himself at an underground venue in South London. (That’s underground as in literally below street level, not underground as in madly cool.) But Luke always has to play the thankless slot at the very beginning of the evening when punters are thin on the ground. It’s the bar staff turning up for their shift who tend to congratulate him on his set. This does not bother him in the slightest; he’s thrilled to be part of the environment. For me this would be like meeting someone for a drink at Shoreditch House who enjoyed full membership all year round, whilst you were still waiting for your application to be processed and approved. Which I am. Small acorns have grown into large oaks since I’ve been on their sodding waiting list. Roughly, twice a year I get to the top and am offered a contract, but I can’t afford the fee because I will have just spent/be planning to spend an eye-watering amount of euros at the Ibiza opening/closing parties. So, I go back to the bottom.
‘Are you hyped for Saturday night, then?’ asks Luke, as he puts his knife and fork together and pushes his plate away. He hasn’t eaten all his potatoes.
‘That depends on what we’re doing.’
‘We’re celebrating your birthday.’
‘Yeah, I know. But how?’
‘It’s a surprise,’ says Luke, then he winks at Monday. ‘Isn’t it, little mate?’
Monday blinks at him and kneads the carpet with his two pristinely white front paws.
‘A surprise …’ I repeat.
‘Yeah, a surprise!’
‘Putting an inflection on the end of the word doesn’t make it sound more appealing.’
‘Everyone likes surprises,’ Luke argues.
Not me. I don’t even put my MP3 player on ‘shuffle’. In fact, I like surprises even less than birthdays. Combined? No, thanks.
‘I’d prefer to know where we are going, Luke.’
His face crumples slightly but he pulls it back. ‘And the award for most ungrateful reaction to the news that someone has gone to the trouble of organising a nice treat goes to … Vivian Ward! Jesus, you can be such a witch sometimes. You’ll have a great time, I promise, not that you deserve it,’ he says, and pulls off his T-shirt over his head. ‘Now, I suggest you make some amends by getting your kit off.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because I want to have some of that really bad nookie we’re so good at.’ He reaches into his pocket, fishes out a condom and Frisbees it into my lap.
‘Ok-aaaaay.’ I pick up the sealed plastic pouch faux-wearily and shove the trunk with my foot to get the leftover potatoes out of my line of vision. One of them has a large blob of mayonnaise next to it. ‘But please, let’s make sure it is a whole different level of unsatisfactory this time. Dull, perfunctory humping only. Do you mind if we have the TV on in the background?’
‘Nope, we’ll switch it on when we’ve finished … then we’ve got something to look forward to,’ says Luke, dexterously unbuckling his belt and jeans with his left hand. With the right he throws his T-shirt towards the doorway where it drops on Monday’s head, making him look like a furry-legged ghost. ‘Sorry, little mate, this is not for your eyes.’
I wriggle out of my skinny-leg trousers, which are almost identical to the ones that arrived today, and lie back on the sofa. ‘Let’s press on. Try to keep it under five minutes, yeah? Then we can actually enjoy what’s left of the evening.’
‘Got it.’ His jeans come off.
And then so are we. No awkwardness, no hesitation, no more admittedly fairly laboured sarcastic build-up, which I am well aware is only funny if you are us, just no-holds-barred, relentless shagging accompanied by some slightly feral grabbing, licking, sucking, biting and maybe a bit of light (non-scab forming) scratching. This is certainly not the Calvin Klein approved, black-and-white lurve-making that goes on in advertisement for Eternity. It’s full-on fucking; the purely-for-pleasure stuff my mother would warn me against as a child. Corinthians Chapter 6 Verse 18; Flee fornication. Every sin that a man doeth is without the body; but he that committeth fornication sinneth against his own body. There is no gentle whispering or delicate contemplation, just ecstatic yowling and frenzied gulps for breath. It’s been like this since the moment I met Luke; one knock-out session after another. The sort you might want to record for posterity … so on occasion, we have. When I watch the footage back, I am always amused – and rather impressed – by the assorted surfaces we manage to utilise.
Tonight, we end up on the new island unit in the kitchen, possibly the most uncomfortable material in the flat – no, Europe – but Luke likes it. Probably so he can give