Ball of Confucian

V and me are sitting in Confucius, a bar near Brick Lane, waiting for Candy and Glen to arrive for our semi-regular Friday evening drinks thing.

Candy has decreed that we meet in this new, trendiose place that purports to be Japanese. Naturally it is filled to capacity with conspicuously non-Japanese City workers necking pints of Kirin, your actual Japanese people being too fashionable to be seen dead here.

The place is clamorous with chatter and dreadfully ironic retro dance pop that reminds me of the Bontempi organ I got for Christmas when I was 13.

“Jesus, this place sucks,” groans V, looking around the place.

“I’m telling Candy you said that.”

“You forget that while you are scared of Candy, I am not.”

For a moment we sit in silence and gaze at the LCD screen on the wall, just above where I am sitting. It is showing a Manga-type cartoon of quite exceptional violence. A woman with long black hair, clad for no apparent reason in stockings and suspenders, is wandering around a city with a ludicrously phallic gun. She's blowing a succession of people away, as teenagers do.

“God - where are they?” whines V. “Why are they always late?”

“Well, she works at Canary Wharf and he always makes sure he arrives after she does. Have you noticed that?”

“No. Why would he do that?”

“Dunno. He’s a bit awkward. Maybe he just prefers having Candy around to do all the talking.”

V is about to say something disparaging about Candy but something on the screen catches her attention. Her jaw drops. I turn around and note that the cartoon action has taken a rather graphic and somewhat unexpected turn toward the hardcore pornographic. Stuart Little this ain't.

A crowd of suits gathers round our table, obviously keen students of Japanese culture. One of them keeps looking at the cartoon, glancing over at V and leering at her. I realise he is doing this because – simply, moronically – V has long black hair, just like the girl in the cartoon. V looks up and catches him in the act.

“Help you?” she says.

“You tell me babe,” the suit replies with a chuckle.

V gives him a saucy grin and a raised eyebrow.

“Nice cartoon, eh?” he says, smiling back. He plays with the stupidly big knot in his tie and fiddles with his hair.

“Maybe if you’ve never actually had sex,” replies V, cheerily.

“I have babe, I have, don’t you worry.”

“No, I mean with someone else.”

The bloke turns bright red, mutters something about lesbians and goes off to the bar to the sound of ironic cheers from his mates, a few of whom are looking at V admiringly.

Between two of the suits, a hand appears, then an arm, then a torso. Someone is trying to squeeze through. Presently, Glen appears at the table in all his naturally woven, hemp-clad splendour.

“Hi there,” he says, gazing raptly at the screen. “Ah - hentai.”

"What?" asks V.

"This type of cartoon. It's known as hentai," he says, pushing his specs up his nose like some kind of porn academic.

“How on earth would you know a thing like that?” asks V.

"Me and Candy have got some at home," he says, shrugging.

I notice V visibly shuddering. Glen shuffles forward and attempts to kiss her on the cheek. She pulls back involuntarily, he misreads which way she is going and ends up sticking his goateed chin in her left eye.

“Sorry, sorry,” says Glen. “Er, is Candy not here? I thought I saw her from the, er, from the door.”

“Dunno,” says V, rubbing her eye, “what with being blind now, for fuck's sake.”

“Sorry.”

There is, in fact, a girl who looks very like Candy from the back – severe brown bob, business suit, shouty – sitting nearby. I quickly work out that Glen had a recce of the bar, saw her, thought she was Candy and thought it was safe to come in. Now he is trapped, hellishly, alone with me and V. I go off to the bar and get some drinks and snacks. As I return, V and Glen are in stilted conversation.

“So, yeah, waste management’s a fascinating area to be working in right now,” says Glen as I set the drinks down on the table.

“Fascinating, yes I can see how it would be,” says V.

I take my seat beneath the hardcore 2D porn.

“Sorry Glen, the only organic drink they had was this chilled sake."

“Oh. Did you ask to see the certification?”

“I’m afraid not, no. Sorry.”

Glen frowns and studies the glass of dark liquid.

“Because some places are less than scrupulous about their certification, you know. It’s a widely documented-”

“Whither the snacks?” asks V, rescuing me. I put a bowl of Japanese cracker things in front of her and she seems momentarily satisfied.

“Is anyone else coming?” asks Glen, plaintively.

“Bored of us already?” asks V.

Glen looks horrified. “No, no, really,” he says, raising his hands in placatory fashion. “I’m not at all bored, I just you know, wondered, if…um…”

“Well,” V cuts in briskly, “I emailed Rachael but she’s not out, as per usual. Richard’s at some London Jocko piss-up thing, so it’s a Friday night in with the twins for her. She’ll be up to her elbows in bathwater as we speak.”

“Sounds like a cracking evening,” I venture.

“I can think of worse things,” says V, surveying the bar.

“What about Jody and Ian?” I ask.

“Doing dinner for some of her new babymates,” says V.

“She’s hanging out with babies?” asks Glenn.

“No, no. Mums she’s met in the village through Molly. Her 'new' mates. Ian’s roasting a suckling pig for them, the gigantic show-off twat. Never did that for us. No doubt we’ll read all about it in Jody’s next column.”

“So it’s just us four – when Candy comes?”

“Yes sirree. Everyone we know is either short of a babysitter or too knackered to come out on account of their kids. So it's just us. The last men and women standing. Having fun. Being free."

In the melancholy silence that follows, V stares at the screen on the wall, shakes her head, sighs, takes a large glug of wine and shoves a handful of bar snacks in her mouth. All too quickly, they make a reappearance.

“Jesus Christ! What is this shit?” she exclaims, spitting the offending savoury items into her hand and flinging them into the ashtray. I pick one of the crackers out of the bowl and sniff it. The aroma conjurs up the image of a urinal in mustard factory.

V is still spluttering, swearing and gargling with her wine when she grabs a passing barman.

“Excuse me mate, what are these?” she says, holding a cracker out at arm’s length.

“Is wass-a-bee crackers, Japonais,” says the French barman.

“I think there’s something wrong with them. They’re revolting, try one, go on.”

The barman shrugs and wanders off, perhaps to apply his knowledge of Confucian thinking to the problem.

V studies the cracker. It is like a big peanut that has green and white mould growing on it.

“London,” she sighs, somewhat enigmatically. “I bet Jody doesn’t have to put up with this kind of bollocks. What’s wrong with dry roasted nuts, or even good old run-of-the-mill salted? Salted peanuts made this country what it is.”

“Yeah, and at least they came on that cardboard thing with the naked stunna.”

V tuts at me, shakes her head sadly and continues to study the cracker.

“I had wasabi crackers when I was in Osaka,” says Glen, picking one out of the bowl and popping it in his mouth. “Good source of protein, no preservatives. Tasty. Natural.”

“But Glen. Can you be sure they are vegan?” asks V.

“Hmmm. Probably fried in vegetable oil,” says Glen. "Of course, standards of preparation are lower here than in Japan. There’s not the care, there's scant regard for vegan needs.”

“Authentically Japanese, do you think?” asks V. "Made in Japan? The real deal Glen? In your considered opinion?"

“I would imagine so. They taste like they are,” replies Glen.

“Lot of air miles for a snack” says V, grimly.

Glen looks bereft as he swallows the cracker.

“Would you like some more sake Glen?” asks V. Before she can answer, we are distracted by a commotion by the door. I look up to see that Candy has arrived and is barging her way through a sea of ironic mullets and people who favour microscooters above all other forms of transport. She arrives at the table, cocks her head and allows herself a tight smile by way of greeting.

Glen stands up abruptly to greet her and knocks over the crackers in the process. Wordlessly, Candy grabs his head and engages him in a distressingly long and sensuous French kiss.

V and me look at each other and try not to pull faces. I find myself thinking a familiar thought when we’re out with Candy and Glen: Why do we do this, with them? We don’t even like each other that much. Why Lord, WHY? 

Then I remember: they're our fellow childless friends. It's not like we hate them. It just reminds me of  when you bump into other British people abroad and they feel compelled to be friendly towards you because they have this one thing in common with you.

Finally, the couple prize themselves apart.

“VSL, Glen, if you’re buying,” says Candy.

Glen scuttles off to the bar.

“Hello V, good evening Mark. Couldn’t you have got a better table?”

I scuttle off to the bar.

Comments

[MQ]

Great piece... but just one question:

Why has Jonathan written remarks on this like he's marking a GCSE English essay?

[City Slicker]

Excellent
Engrossing dialogue
great visual imagery

[jonathan]

Marvellous, just marvellous. What a clear picture you paint of this terrible faux-Japanese bar and its awful clientele (the inexplicable preference for motorscooters is a delicious detail). I do hope that you escaped to somewhere with a sticky pool table and dry roasted peanuts on tap after that interminable first round... but somehow I doubt it...