Another day, another dollar courtesy of the magazine industry.
I arrive at the offices of the company where Good Man magazine is housed, just off Great Portland Street, and sign in. I’m about to step into the tiny lift at the end of the lobby when an Essex accent addresses me.
“Alright mate, how’s it going?”
I turn around to find it is Dean, a chubby bloke who writes stuff about health for the magazine. I know him vaguely from earlier stints here.
“Not bad mate,” I say. “How’s it going with you?”
“Back up to 42 inches,” says Dean, frowning.
Dean writes so many features for Good Man on dieting and exercise regimes that his weight rises and falls more often than the Venezuelan Stock Exchange. The last time I saw him, he had recently been forced to do the Atkins Diet induction period for two months instead of two weeks, and consequently looked like he had been vacuum packed. The next time I see him there’s a good chance he’ll have a six-pack.
We step into the lift. It is mirrored, unflatteringly lit and only big enough for three people, two of whom are Dean. He is wearing a lot of aftershave and sporting a slick of hair gel. He shoots his cuffs a couple of times and checks himself out in the mirror.
“Good weekend?” he asks.
“Yeah, top thanks. You?”
“Yeah, just chilled. Ate quite a lot. Went to a stag night and had a poker evening. Fucking plastered on Sunday afternoon. Did you see the game? Fuckin' 'ell, jog on Lampard... ”
“I’m not that into football.”
“Right. Blimey, do you smell something?” he says, sniffing the air. “Cor!”
“Oh, sorry. It’s me. Baby piss.”
“Didn’t know you had kids.”
“I don’t.”
“Oh.” Dean looks perplexed. “You know that Stevo’s bird dropped?” he says as we step out on to the editorial floor of Good Man.
“You’re joking! I didn’t even know he was pregnant.”
“It arrived couple of weeks ago. Little girl called Sam. Or was it a boy? Can’t remember.”
“Wow. I can’t imagine Stevo as a dad.”
“Another one bites the dust mate. It’ll happen to us all soon enough.” Dean furrows his brow and blows his cheeks out. It's as if Stevo has caught some kind of disease, or worse, lost his hair.
“Anyway, we’re meeting the poor bastard at lunchtime in The Champion for a few jars if you fancy it. Wet the baby’s head.”
“Yeah, it’d be good to see him.”
“Alright, catch you later buddy boy.”
Dean strolls off and I sit down at an empty desk to await orders from the chief sub. I spend a few moments pondering just how much, exactly, I detest being called 'buddy boy'. Soon, my mind turns to Stevo. He is assistant editor on the magazine and is perhaps one of the most popular people I have ever met. As well as being Australian, which gives him a minor head start, he is handsome, has nice hair and is naturally gifted at a wide variety of sports. He is also funny, smart and good at drinking. He's younger than me.
Come to think of it, it’s a wonder more people don’t detest him.
His vacant desk – he’s on paternity leave – is next to mine. On it sit a number of small gifts and a large ‘Congratulations!’ card, which I pick up and read. The multitude of heartwarming messages inside indicates what a well-liked member of the team he is: Always thought you were gay… Well done you Ozzie cunt… Get well soon, and All the best mate! stamped in ink in a corner. This last message is from a guy in the marketing department who writes the same message on every card that comes round the office, regardless of what is being celebrated or mourned. His line manager had a rubber stamp made up, bearing the words that he inevitably wrote.
A moment or so later, the office doors swing open and Tony, Good Man’s wiry chief sub, bustles in and gives me my instructions. I am to take care of the food pages.
After a morning spent avoiding the American football that is perpetually in flight around the office, and editing recipes for time-poor single professional males who want to sidestep prostate cancer in the long term and avoid eating anything that may make their sperm overly smelly in the short, lunchtime arrives. I head for the lift and find Dean and four other guys waiting. We all get in and spend the next two minutes staring at the ceiling, in order that we avoid staring directly into each other’s eyes. Annoyingly, the ceiling is also mirrored. I note that Dean is going bald on top, and that Dean has noted that we have all noted that he is going bald on top. He casually clasps a hand over the back of his head.
The Champion is busy. Stevo is nowhere to be seen.
“Must be held up changing nappies or summink,” muses Dean. “Drink?”
“Why not. Just a pint.”
“Cooking, drinking or wifebeater?”
“Eh?”
“Cooking lager, drinking lager or wifebeater lager?”
“I don’t get it.”
“Carling, Carlsberg or Stella? Weak, medium or strong?”
“Oh yeah, right. Very good. I’ll have a Pride actually. Please. Mate.”
As I’m waiting for Dean to be served, I take a look around the bar for a table. Through the various little groups of blokes congregated around the bar I spot a lone, unkempt figure sitting slumped at the corner table, partially obscured by the huge 1950’s Wurlitzer jukebox. It’s quite easy for tramps to slip into this place as there are three entrance doors, and the one on the corner is just a couple of feet away from the partially hidden corner table. The poor guy is sprawled back in his seat, holding on to his pint with one hand, head down, hair hanging in a curtain. His clothes – black sweatshirt, dirty jeans – look dirty. He probably smells.
“Pride’s off mate,” says Dean, tapping me on the shoulder. “Iveta’s just changing the barrel.”
“Righto. Cheers.”
The guys from Good Man are positioned just behind me. I turn round and wait to be absorbed into their circle by social osmosis. All it takes is for whoever is talking to make eye contact with you and you’re in. Tony the chief sub is talking about Stevo’s pre-relationship exploits in the disabled toilet on the fifth floor with Hilary, the office secretary. I catch his eye as he delivers the punchline.
“So he tells the security guy he’s sprained his cock and asks ‘Is that disabled enough for ya, cobber?’”
Everyone laughs. I chuckle reflexively. Dean nudges my arm and I accept my pint. A couple of guys make space and we join the body of the group.
“Lovely carbs. Welcome back into my life,” says Dean, taking a long draught from his pint of lager and sighing contentedly. “Bit docile in here, innit? Stick something on the jukey will you Mark? None of your indie schmindie Arctic Monkeys rubbish. Bit of Snow Patrol or whatever.”
I wander over to the jukebox. As I’m flicking disconsolately through the dismayingly comprehensive collection of Sting and Phil Collins albums, I notice that the tramp in the corner is moving about. He is hitching himself up on the banquette, huffing a bit and scrabbling around in the pockets of his manky jeans, presumably for money to buy another beer. A couple of women sitting at the next table look at him with distaste and edge away a little. It’s a pitiful sight. Suddenly, the tramp stands up and stumbles shakily between tables, heading for the bar. As he passes behind me, he stops. I tense up, sensing he’s about to hassle me for cash.
“Marky?” he says. I turn round, quickly. The tramp sweeps his hair away from his face. It’s Stevo.
“Stevo! Congratulations!"
Stevo smiles weakly.
"My God. What the fuck has happened to you?”
“Never have a kid mate,” he says, before stumbling off to the bar.
Ah yes - that's their fiendish secret weapon
Posted by: JM | Jul 24, 2007 at 16:04
It's been a long time. I though after your last post you may have been to busy trying for a sprog to blog.
My rug rat is now 8 months old and I'm past the looking like a tramp stage. They don't half curtail your social life. No popping down to the pub for dinner if you can't be bothered to cook.
On the other hand when the smile at you the little buggers really do melt your heart.
Posted by: AFC 30K | Jul 24, 2007 at 12:41