Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘I suppose talent will out, eventually,’ Gene concedes, somewhat distractedly, as he peruses the drinks menu.

‘Fuck talent!’ Ransom scoffs. ‘Talent-schmalent! I mean look at Mourinho. Look at what he did. He called himself “The Special One”. The Special One! He gave himself that name! It’s like …’ Ransom throws up his hands exasperated. ‘It’s like … why the hell wait for someone else to realize how special you are? Life’s too fucking short! Make yourself special! Immortalize yourself! Book your own place in friggin’ history!’

Gene waits a couple of seconds for the rousing conclusion of Ransom’s diatribe to fully resonate into the surrounding atmosphere, then places down the menu. ‘Uh … in reply to your earlier question,’ he mutters, ‘a glass of lemonade would be great.’

‘A lemonade?’ Ransom’s visibly underwhelmed. ‘They do freshly prepared smoothies here. Have a strawberry smoothie. Have a blueberry and banana smoothie.’

‘A lemonade’s absolutely fine,’ Gene avers.

‘Or a fruit mocktail. They do this ginger and lavender mocktail with loads of freshly squeezed lemon in it. What’s that thing called again?’

Ransom turns to the long-suffering waitress, enquiringly.

‘A Ginger Mule,’ she answers, her hand hovering over her pad.

‘A Ginger Mule. Can you make that with extra Spirulina?’ Ransom enquires. ‘And a shot of vodka? Maybe a teaspoon or two of powdered kale?’

‘That would be two mocktails combined,’ the waitress informs him, grabbing the menu and scrutinizing it for a second. ‘A Ginger Mule and a Sea Breeze, so it would cost twice as much …’ She places the menu back down on to the table. ‘Then there’d obviously be the price of the shot on top.’

‘The cost is irrelevant,’ Ransom informs her, haughtily, then turns to Gene. ‘D’you like Spirulina?’

‘And I can’t promise how good it would taste,’ she interjects.

‘I don’t know what Spirulina is,’ Gene confesses.

‘It’s plankton,’ Ransom tells him, ignoring her interjection, ‘the stuff whales feed on. It’s great. It’s a super-food. It makes your shit come out smelling like Play-Doh.’

‘Really?’ Gene looks mildly nauseated. ‘And that’s supposed to be its chief selling point?’

‘Why not?’ Ransom demands. ‘D’you like the smell of shit? Are you especially attached to the smell of shit? Is this some weird, little picadillo you’ve developed during those long, hard years manning the front lines, perchance?’

Ransom grabs Gene’s military cap as he speaks (which sits — with the torn jacket — on the plush banquette beside him) and plops it, unceremoniously, on to his head.

‘Uh …’

Gene scowls.

‘I mean who likes the smell of shit?’ Ransom declaims, outraged. ‘It’s shit! That’s why it’s called shit! It stinks like shit! It’s shit !’

‘I may be totally off the mark, here’ — Gene slightly adjusts the angle of the cap on his head — ‘but I think the word you’re after is “peccadillo”. The original, Latin root is peccare , or “to sin”.’

Ransom gapes at him, astonished.

‘I helped my wife cram for her Latin exam at Divinity School’ — he shrugs, his colour rising — ‘and a couple of things just seemed to stick …’

‘Spirulina’s a type of algae produced by water and sunlight,’ the waitress volunteers (plainly eager to move on). ‘It’s meant to “refresh the colon”, and that’s why your …’

She twizzles her hand, expressively, keen not to enter into any further detail.

‘It makes your shit float,’ Ransom enthuses. ‘It’s like four, friggin’ flushes before those torpedos will quit the bowl!’

The waitress winces.

‘Sorry,’ Gene apologizes.

‘She’d better get used to it!’ Ransom snorts. ‘This is a golf club for Christ’s sake! Pretty much all pro-golfers ever do is witter on about their friggin’ bowel movements! Why else d’you think they flog date brownies in the lounge? An’ huge slabs of friggin’ banana cake? Bran and raisin muffins for breakfast? If you’re backed up and you’ve got eighteen holes in prospect it’s a minor, fuckin’ catastrophe! Golfers need to be kept regular. It’s critical — a top priority — one of the ten Golfing Commandments …’

‘Thou shalt not be constipated,’ Gene murmurs.

‘Is it fresh ginger in that mule of yours?’ Ransom turns back to the waitress. ‘Or is it that filthy, condensed sugar-syrupy crap?’

‘I think it’ll be fresh, but I’m not one hundred per cent sure,’ the waitress confesses.

‘Well if you don’t know, then how about you toddle off and ask someone who does?’ Ransom suggests.

‘The smoothies sound delicious,’ Gene steps in, diplomatically. ‘Why not try a smoothie?’

‘I don’t want a smoothie,’ Ransom informs him, indignant. ‘I’m having a double Scotch. The mule’s for you.’

‘But I already ordered a lemonade …’

‘Great — a lemonade and a double Scotch.’ The waitress quickly scribbles down the order and then scoots off, expertly sidestepping Toby Whittaker as she goes.

Toby is holding a half-pint of brown ale as he approaches.

‘You won’t believe this …’ he exclaims, carefully steadying the glass in the wake of the speedy waitress.

‘Try me,’ Ransom harrumphs, already bored.

Toby places his glass on to the table, pulls out a chair and sits down, uninvited (much to Ransom’s evident irritation). ‘So I asked for a half of brown at lunch and the barman says they don’t stock it. I’m consequently obliged to neck a glass of draught Guinness instead …’

Ransom yawns, majestically.

‘Anyway, I head to the bar this evening, ask for a bottle of lager and the barman — different barman — says, “We’re also offering brown ale, sir,” and suggests two varieties, both organic!’

‘Incredible!’ Ransom expostulates, sarcastically.

‘This place is amazing!’ Toby continues, seemingly undaunted. ‘Beautifully designed, state-of-the-art facilities, stupidly luxurious, attentive staff — nothing’s too much trouble. They even have a twenty-four-hour concierge service. I mean we’re on the outskirts of Luton , for heaven’s sake!’

‘I hate to bust your bubble,’ Gene gently informs him, ‘but I think you’ll probably find that you can order a half of brown in most reputable establishments around here without too much trouble — and a few not so reputable, come to that. We’re only forty-five minutes from London, after all.’

‘Who drinks brown ale anyway?’ Ransom snorts. ‘Old men and dick-heads, that’s who.’

‘Your regiment’s stationed locally?’ Toby surmises, his eyes resting, somewhat quizzically, on Gene’s casual clothes and military cap.

‘Lesbians and cyber-punks,’ Ransom mutters, darkly, ‘and people at sheep dog trials. And scientists. And Morris Men. And student friggin’ engineers …’

‘Uh, no,’ Gene puts his hand to his head, embarrassed.

‘This is Gino,’ Ransom interjects, ‘my new caddie.’

‘Gene,’ Gene corrects him, removing the cap and placing it down on to the table, ‘and I haven’t formally —’

‘Toby’s my “ideas man”,’ Ransom interrupts again.

‘I’m a Sports Strategist,’ Toby expands. ‘I’m into futures. You should visit my blog.’

‘Toby’s the guy behind Turbo Golf.’ Ransom grins. ‘He’s campaigning to reduce the standard game to nine holes.’

‘It’s simply a question of convincing the professionals,’ Toby explains. ‘Ransom’s fairly progressive by golfing standards, but the rest are a depressingly traditional bunch.’