Matt Beaumont - Staying Alive

But as I said, I feel pretty good. I’m not expecting the worst. As the pixie doctor assured me, testicular cancer isn’t that common, and far be it for me to do anything uncommon. Being the original Mr Average, departing from the norm isn’t my thing and I’m wearing the mid-grey suit to prove it. Last night’s panic attack was silly, irrational, and totally induced by (other people’s) drunkenness.

Ginger nut isn’t alone. A woman is with him, her arm linked comfortingly through his. She turns to him and says, ‘Fancy some tea, Mark?’ He nods and they get up. I watch them amble off hand in hand. Love’s young-ish dream. I wish someone had come with me. (Purely for company—I am so not worried.)

Obviously not Megan. Not now.

I almost returned her call before I left, but I chickened out. What was I going to say? Let me get this straight, Meg. A man who looks exactly like me was seen in your road trying to punch in the window of your boyfriend’s car? That is incredible! But what a sick bastard—going round impersonating women’s exes. Some sort of weirdo vigilante for jilted blokes. Have you ever heard of such a thing?

Somehow I didn’t see that convincing her, a lawyer.

‘Mr Collins?’

I don’t even bother to correct the receptionist this time.

‘Doctor Morrissey is ready for you. It’s the third door on the left.’

Her tone is far more sympathetic than the last time I was here. Does she know something?

Don’t be daft—hospitals, paranoia and all that.

I walk down the corridor and tap quietly on the door.

‘Come in,’ Morrissey’s voice calls out. I ease the door open and step inside. The elfin one isn’t alone. A nervous grey-haired man is sitting beside her. He’s wearing half-moon glasses and he peers over them at me with moist, kindly eyes.

Wait half a bloody mo—…I’ve seen that look before. Vets in Practice —they save it especially for dogs that they’re about to dispatch to doggy heav—

For Christ’s sake CUT IT OUT . Remember: HOSPITAL plus MURRAY COLIN equals gibbering PARANOIAC .

‘Please, take a seat,’ Morrissey says with a smile.

I smile back.

Go on, give me your worst, which I know for a fact isn’t going to be bad at all. And make it snappy, because I’m a busy man—I’ve got three words to discuss in Croydon .

wednesday 3 december / 10.16 p.m.

I’m flying.

(Metaphorically, of course. I don’t like flying flying.)

‘It’s really good to see you smiling again, Murray,’ Jakki slurs, leaning her head on my arm.

Amazing, isn’t it? I am flying, girl.

I nod vigorously. Since I’m simultaneously draining my glass, most of my drink ends up on my shirt.

So what? I’ll buy another…beer…shirt…whatever.

‘I mean, you’ve been so down since.. .’ She mouths the unutterable M-word. ‘I thought you’d never get over her.’

I am so over her. I am more over her than any man has ever been in the millennia-long history of jilted blokes. Want to know just how over her I am? She could—even as we speak—be having deviant, unprotected sex with the entire Bar Council and I really wouldn’t give a damn.

‘I’m doing OK,’ I say.

‘So why all the time off lately? You haven’t really had the flu again , have you?’

Course not. I have the constitution of an ox; an exceptionally big and strong ox; Super Ox. Disease sees me walking down the street and hides in a shop doorway.

‘Not…exactly…I just needed a break.’

‘Well, it’s done you good. Mind you, Niall isn’t too chuffed.’

‘When is he? Fancy a trip to the toilet?’

‘Excuse me?’ She’s shocked.

I tap the side of my nose.

‘Oh, for that ,’ she says, knocking back her Breezer. ‘I’d never do coke.’

‘If they made it in a range of six fruity flavours, I bet you fucking would,’ Vince says as he crashes between us and into the bar with the impact of a Scud.

‘You what?’ Jakki asks again.

‘Narco-pops,’ Brett says, completing Vince’s thought as he, too, joins us. ‘Top way to market toot to the teenies.’

‘Bacardi would love it,’ Vince says, slapping his partner on the back. ‘They could hand out little sachets at the school gates.’

‘Or at Busted gigs.’

‘Or free with Happy Meals.’

‘You two are sick ,’ Jakki says.

‘No, we’re marketing professionals, darling,’ Brett explains, ‘and our highly paid minds never sleep when it comes to seeking an edge for our clients’ brands.’

‘Stop giggling, Murray,’ Jakki says. ‘You’re only encouraging them.’

‘Leave him alone, Jakks. He’s all right. He’s our flexible friend,’ says Vince.

Jakki’s brow furrows so Brett explains. ‘As in, “Barman, do you accept Account Supervisor?” Talking of which, you gonna get some drinks in, Murray?’

I pull myself together and order two more of the blackcur-rant-flavoured Belgian beers that are tonight’s novelty choice—an alcopop for those too cool to ask for an alcopop. I’ve already put my one remaining card behind the bar and I’m running up an Enron-sized tab.

My one remaining card: an RSPCA Visa. I got it because the idea that a small proportion of my profligacy might help some abandoned puppies and half-starved donkeys appealed to me. When the card arrived and I saw the fluffy kitten on it I let out an involuntary aaah . But the first time I used it—slapping it on the bill at a client lunch—I was laughed off the table and—wimp that I am—I banned it from my wallet. Now it has made a comeback. Well, in the absence of Barclaycard, Morgan Stanley et al , it’s saving my (and with it, I hope, some poor animal’s) bacon now.

I hand over the drinks and give Vince a discreet look. Brett spots it, though, and says, ‘You sure? You’ll do your schnozz a serious mischief.’ It’s as if he can sense that I’m a rookie and his concern is quite touching.

‘Leave him alone,’ Vince says, coming to my support for the second time in the space of less than a minute. ‘First rule of the market economy: it’s the consumer’s inalienable right to fuck himself over.’ He slips me another wrap.

I have one of those moments. You know, those moments. The moments that overwhelm you when you’re exceptionally drunk. The sort of moment where nothing else matters except the here and now, and that is invariably accompanied by a slurred, spit-spattering I love you guys, I really fucking love you . Brett is sober enough to see it coming and he leaps in to cut me off: ‘Go on, fuck off to the bog.’

10.28 p.m.

I close the cubicle door and, despite the fact that this is my second such excursion tonight, I immediately have an anxiety attack. It may be my second time tonight, but it is also only my second time ever . What am I doing here? This is not me . Locked toilets, rolled-up banknotes and white powder that may have arrived in Britain inside someone’s bottom. I’m not even properly equipped. No Amex. All I’ve got to cut the stuff up is a Homebase Spend amp; Save card. How un-cool can I get? And the lack of hipness is the least of my concerns. What if the card swipe machine at Homebase can somehow sniff cocaine and automatically cancels the reward points I’ve painstakingly accu-mulated before summoning the manager? ‘ We’re sorry, Mr Colin, but we can’t allow you to leave the store with that Black amp; Decker hot air gun, which is clearly intended as a weapon in a drug turf war .’