I woke up around midday to find the sky crying, (or roaring with pain, as my dear old dad used to say). Weather chick on the news said it was to be a day of incessant rain, so when Tom called wanting to hook up at The Greasy Spoon for a spot of lunch, I said "Yeah, why not?"
I grew up with Tom. We've known each other since we were at primary school. I suppose you could say he's my best friend. We're certainly as close as two men can get, you know, without pushing warm sardines up each other's bottoms.
He's an affable rogue, face full of charismatic angles, great sense of humour.
He's a graphic artist and a piss artist, for that matter, but good fun to be around.
I approached The 'Spoon, under cover of a brolly with some trepidation having not been there since the episode a couple of years ago when, wandering the high street late at night in sub-zero temperatures, I desperately needed a wizzle.Everywhere was closed, apart from the trusty 'Spoon, so I ducked in. The place was empty apart from the hirsute Greek owner and his two sons. I nipped upstairs to discover the toilet frozen solid and a big sign on the door saying "Do not use!!"
Fuck that, I thought unfastening my fly and unleashing the hose.
As I began to empty my bladder (a true torrent of urine) footsteps came a-thundering up the stairs. The owner's eldest son, shouting the odds. He tried to force the door open, but what could he do?
Well, force the door open, drag me out of the place, (hose still pumping) and throw me to the frosty ground outside with a venomous missive to never return, that's what.
Thankfully the owner or his sons were nowhere to be seen as I took my place at a window table and waited for Tom to show, casually eye-flirting with a gaggle of good looking girls at a nearby table.
Tom wrapped a strong arm around my neck and knuckled the top of my head when he arrived, half an hour late.
Last time I saw him, he'd been rather unwell, having developed an infection in his ear which left him unable to balance. He'd spent two weeks crawling round his flat on strong medication with cotton wool stuffed in his ears.
Most amusing.
Taking his seat, Tom noticed the gaggle of pretty girls.
“An interesting thought has just flashed crossed my mind,” He murmured, staring unashamedly at the girls.
“And what’s that?”
“Whether or not I'd like to bone the blondie in the middle. The answer that immediately suggests itself is yes.”
Changing the subject completely, Tom explained he'd arranged our little luncheon to announce something; he's getting hitched in May to long-time girlfriend Pia.
They're planning to go camping on their honeymoon at the northern-most tip of Norway to watch the non-sunset (it just doesn't get dark mid-summer) whilst eating in full dinner dress at their camping table.
Fair enough.
He was wondering whether I might like to be his best man.
Best man? ...Me?
I was pleasantly shocked back by the notion. Never thought anyone would consider me best man material. Even Tom. I enquired what was involved.
Organise the best stag do in history, get him to the church on time, guard the rings and make the funniest best man's speech ever at the reception. That sort of shit.
Sounded easy enough. I agreed. We got up for a celebratory bear-hug. The gaggle of good lookings girls
Tom said he wants to hold his stag do in Barcelona. “A weekend of all out male bonding, drug and alcohol abuse.”
He suggested I get in touch with his mates ASAP to set thing in motion. He'd email me over a list of all their names and contact details.
Lunch over, Tom offered me a lift home in his car. I accepted and nipped off for a quick slash afore departure. I ducked in the ladies' accidentally, and, realising my mistake, walked back out and into the gents' to disturb one of the pretty girls from the nearby table taking a wee.Odd.
The drive back took forever, mainly ‘cos of all the rain-induced traffic. I skinned up on the way.
Even Tom, a man well-versed in the mind-altering effects of powerful drugs, was dealt a severe blow by da herb and found it tough to continue.
As we crawled along Green Lanes in the mother of all traffic jams, he mumbled something about how he thought all the windows in the buildings along our route were like millions of eyes spying on him, watching his every move.
He pulled up outside mine and an unstoppably wild grin spread across his face.
"Glad you're gonna be my best man, man."
"Yeah, me too."
Before I got out of the car, Tom impregnanted the atmos with the ghost of his lunch. The smell was instant and foul.
I bade him a fond farewell and waved him off standing in the pissing rain.
Shit. I'd left my fucking umbrella in The Spoon.
