The cafe with five faces, p.32
The Café with Five Faces, page 32
“Yeah, I remember. We were about ten miles from home after driving for nine hours, and I just got a little bit too confident and drove a little bit too quickly, and before I knew it, we were performing a graceful pirouette into a ditch.”
“Just how lucky were we that a friend of one of our students was passing with a tractor?”
“Hard to believe, but completely true,” concurred John-Jeffrey. “And the accident is, of course, the reason I needed help with a car insurance matter and ended up dancing with people I didn’t know at an Opole singles’ night…”
I detected some repetition was in the offing and, with a degree of wishful thinking, heard another customer in another room. I drained my own cappuccino and sneaked away.
I think dear old John-Jeffrey needs some divine inspiration – as well as the previously mentioned luck. This picture was taken on the seafront in the Central District of Beirut.
2019: 52: Cape Town: The Malevolent Frying Pan
I had an idea that Cape Town wasn’t destined to be a room filled with joy. Things had not been going well in the worlds of Mike, James and John in recent weeks, and the atmosphere was laden with despondency with some potential for anger as I looked enquiringly over the bar into the eyes of three of my most loyal customers. Gloom or otherwise, the request for three beers was delivered in accordance with my expectations and, hopefully, served in accordance with theirs. Their appetites also appeared to be in a decent state of repair and I disappeared into the kitchen to craft three manouches with zaatar designed to fill the void.
Food on the bar and with first glasses almost empty, one might reasonably have expected an upward swing of the mood barometer. What I hadn’t taken into account was that they were talking football at the end of a season in which their beloved Manchester United had spectacularly failed to deliver little other than insipid disappointment.
“Is there anything more irksome or hurtful than starting a home game at odds of 11/2 against?” Mike asked, aghast that such a nightmare scenario had ever come to pass. “Especially when you’re playing Manchester City?”
“Sure there is,” replied an equally disconsolate James. “When the odds of 11/2 against are completely justified.” You could tell Mike wanted to explode against the tone of resigned acceptance with which this message was delivered, but he probably realised he hadn’t got much of a leg to stand on and so placed his anger on temporary hold.
“It was a weird end to the season.” John decided to maintain the flow of conversation in a bid to prevent the premature release of Mike’s pent-up fury, although in doing so, sowed even more seeds of discontent. “Whoever thought we would be subjected to that previously unheard-of collocation in the language of English football, the ‘De Gea howler’? Who saw that one coming?”
“And not just once either,” commented Mike in the downtrodden voice of one who had experienced the sporting equivalent of post-traumatic stress.
“Do you think it’ll get worse before it gets better?” queried James. “I mean, our situation?”
Mike sighed, increasingly the most common form of non-verbal output heard in my café. “I suspect so.” James and John gave their friend some time to think, as they detected a rant was on its way. This was hardly a remarkable deduction on their part, as rants were part of the daily fabric of life when Mike was in the vicinity. By his standards, this was quite a sombre affair, tinged with disappointment and regret, rather than ire. “By the end of this season, even though there had been some great games and spectacular comebacks, in Europe in particular, I was almost bored with football.” This clearly wasn’t what James and John had been expecting, and looks of genuine surprise were exchanged.
“A little bit of this might be sour grapes as a Man United fan, but really, I’d had enough. Money has just taken over to such an extent, even with my own team, that football just isn’t the fun it used to be. Bayern Munich, PSG, Juventus, Barcelona and Man City all won their leagues again, as I confidently predicted at the beginning of the season, even though Bayern and City were made to fight rather harder than expected. I was really pleased the English Premiership filled all four places in the two European finals, but that’s where my interest ended – I didn’t even bother looking when the finals were, let alone watch them.
“As for United, let’s face it, other than the first nine or ten games under Ole Gunnar Solskjær, they performed like a team playing for sixth and that’s exactly what we got, achieved by, for the most part, producing some pretty drab and mediocre stuff, despite having some of the very best players in world football. And when you come to think about it, finishing sixth, behind what I regret to say is the best team in Europe at the moment in Man City, and the four teams who reached the finals of the biggest two tournaments in European, if not world football, should not be seen as too much of a disgrace. And yet, for many of us, it’s a complete disaster. Especially when you consider City and Liverpool look like they’ll dominate for another two to three years at least.”
“For me, one of the most annoying things is that Guardiola and Klopp were two names high on United’s managerial wanted list in times not-too-distant past,” James noted correctly. “We missed out on both of them and they go on to transform our two greatest rivals into the best teams in Europe.”
And with that, so ended the friends’ analysis of football at a very despairing time in their club’s evolution. There was really little else to say.
And then they moved on to politics. If one single topic could be guaranteed to send the collective spirit into freefall, not that there were much lower depths to plunge, this was it.
“Who on earth would be prime minster?” John signalled the new subject after the delivery of three more beers. “Well, other than the thirteen or so Tories who have put their names forward to succeed Theresa May?”
“Just eleven left standing now, but you have to wonder, don’t you?” James decided to get his tuppence-worth in before Mike had time to collect his thoughts and pronounce them. “Tony Blair blew his reputation by taking Britain into a war in Iraq. David Cameron blew his reputation by caving into his cry-baby right-wing and calling a referendum no one else wanted. And Theresa May lost her reputation, and now her job, by actually believing anyone could deliver on the promises of the 2016 referendum – enough said on that one.”
“Until recently, suggestions that Johnson, Rees-Mogg or Gove could take over the leadership of the Conservatives and thereby become prime minister without an election seemed ludicrous,” John continued, marvelling that Mike was remaining silent for so long on such a personally emotive subject. “I couldn’t have imagined anything worse! Except perhaps Corbyn, and even he’s only equally as bad. But now it seems like Johnson is the bookies’ favourite to do so, unless common sense prevails and launches an unlikely takeover of the Tory party.”
“And unfortunately, with UKIP and Brexit party members joining the Tories just to make sure a neo-fascist is elected, the bookies are likely to be right.” Mike finally gave his verdict on the proceedings. “Rumour has it half of the parliamentary Tory party will quit if BoJo becomes leader – he represents no one other than himself and the interests of the very few. Any by and large, he can’t even manage that competently.”
“Now who does that remind you of…?” pondered James rhetorically.
“How dare anyone let that man soil our soil?” said Mike angrily, without bothering to give name to the president in question.
“Did you see what Trevor Noah, the US TV host, said of Johnson and the Trump?” John laughed, although anything regarding these two is scarcely a laughing matter. “‘I’ve never seen two people who look like failed clones of each other!’”
“Tragic, really, when you think they might be in charge of two once-great nations at the same time in the near future.” James clearly did not see the funny side.
Mike had been winding himself up slowly but finally took centre-stage to say what he thought in no uncertain terms. “So, this is the week when the UK finally sank to one of the lowest points in its recent history by not only inviting the Trump but also according the moron privileges of state which should be earned through decency and respect, two words and concepts he appears not to have knowledge of. The Trump supports two of the most extreme right-wing politicians in what one might term mainstream UK politics: Nigel Farridge, who is about to be barred from the European Parliament for not declaring huge amounts of financial support received from his personal sponsor, Aaron Banks, and Boris Johnson, who has had to pay fortunes for legal advice to prevent a court appearance to face blatantly true allegations of lying on a scale few public figures could ever aspire to. Three total crooks trying to dominate transatlantic politics. Think, especially at this time, seventy-five years after the D-Day landings, of the millions who have fought and died for freedom and democracy, just to have those three try to screw it up for everyone.
“The Trump supports Brexit, regardless of the damage it will do to the UK, in fact, probably because of the damage it will do to the UK, purely in the interests of the joke policy, ‘make America great again’. He sees the UK ‘taking back control’ from the EU” – at this point the speaker laughed with a degree of irony which would have exceeded ten out of ten, were such a score possible – “as a chance for the US to transform the UK into some kind of American satellite. From the frying pan into the fire doesn’t even begin to cover it. Especially when the EU isn’t even a malevolent frying pan.”
There was silence for several long seconds while those assembled tried to frame a response, or possibly work out what the final addendum to the argument meant.
“I wonder,” James mused, “how often comedy films are portents of reality.” This seemed like a drastic change of direction, but only for a brief moment. “The film Love Actually – made in 2003, was it? – had real elements of truth: a bully of a US president treating the UK with total disrespect and complete self-interest.”
“Except, in this case,” Mike interjected angrily, “the US president in question wants to push the UK out of the EU so it becomes a weak vassal state America can toy with as it wishes, infecting us with its low-quality, unhealthy produce and whatever else it fancies. And they want to trade in the NHS, even though the stupid git doesn’t know what NHS stands for! Unfortunately, we don’t have a Hugh Grant-style prime minster strong enough to stand up to him and reject his bullying shit. Relationships, if we have to have one, are two-way, not a one-way street in which the Trump declares what goes and we humbly follow!”
No one ever argues with Mike. And it isn’t out of fear. It’s because, arrogant and obnoxious though he can be (although far, far removed from the arrogance and obnoxiousness of Trump, Johnson, Farage and the like), he is invariably right. Hastily emptied glasses were banged on the bar in appreciation of his blunt, to-the-point assertions and, let’s reluctantly face it, wisdom.
“I suppose one thing you can say in favour of the Trump,” Mike began, to glasses which hit the bar in astonishment rather than approval, “possibly the only thing, in fact, is that, unlike Russian interference in European elections, which is inevitably subversive but also secretive, his meddling is open and blatant. And, of course, absolutely ill-informed and stupid.”
“Runs in the family, apparently,” added James. “Remember Trump Junior saying something along the lines of ‘Daddy told Mrs May what to do – it’s her fault for not listening’? And that was something totally farcical about suing the EU!”
“And on the subject of the Brexit debacle, the Trump has declared that it won’t be a problem at all for Ireland. Oh well, that’s alright then, isn’t it?” The utterance was drooling with richly warranted sarcasm. Mike shook his head in disbelief to such an extent I was relieved it wasn’t attached by mere screws. “All solved in one bland sentence, after the combined minds of the UK, EU and Ireland have been unable to settle it in three years of hard negotiations. In wades an American bullshitter, totally out of his depth; he spends an hour listening to the one-sided arguments of right-wing extremists like Duncan Smith and Farridge and declares it easy. Does he listen to any opposing, more liberal-minded views, which are actually based on facts and reality? Of course not! If one of his admirers or arse-lickers suggests something, that’s all he needs to know to go public and offer a solution to any problem the world faces. And, of course, he’ll make out it was his idea, at least until it goes pear-shaped, at which point some poor sod will be fired as a ‘stone-cold loser’. What a political numbskull! All you had to do was look at the uncomfortable, disbelieving face of Leo Varadkar, the Irish Taoiseach, who was unfortunate enough to be sitting next to him, to know what total bollocks he was talking!”
“Based on recent speeches,” John added, taking advantage of Mike’s need to breathe, “I think it’s safe to suggest that the Trump is so deluded that if he wasn’t president, he’d be sectioned.”
“Without a doubt,” agreed Mike. “If people hallucinate or fail to see what’s in front of their eyes, one has to assume there’s something wrong with them, doesn’t one? Apparently, the huge anti-Trump protests in London and the rest of the UK were fake news! Bollocks to the pictorial evidence! Blind as well as dumb!”
“The only fake news I can think of is the mythical crowd who came to greet the unwelcome sod,” James concurred.
“The only crowds I saw were the same ones present at his inauguration: vast empty spaces. He’s one of those people who has the ability to photoshop everything he sees in real time.”
I had refilled the drained glasses for fear of them being smashed in either appreciative banging or angry slamming, and a few seconds were passed in savouring the newly poured brew.
“And who benefitted most from this unwanted whirlwind?” Mike wasn’t for allowing too much time to pass unused, but he did reconsider this particular initial hypothesis. “Actually, that could be a real question. BoJo and Farridge are the ones who have got all the publicity, but, given the national distaste for Trumpism, that could actually work against them. And the only really honest thing the Trump said during his visit was that everything regarding UK trade was on the table, including the NHS, and that’s the one thing I don’t think anyone in the UK will accept. Did you see May’s look of disgust when it came up at the joint press conference?”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” said James. “Otherwise, we’ll be heading down the same road to hell as the US.”
“It’s such a shame that Change UK, the great hope of British politics, seems to have suffered from cot death in terms of being a viable political party,” Mike bemoaned. “I really thought they could save us from all this crap.”
“Hear, hear!” came the choral, if rather deflated, response.
“Instead of which, we now have Mr Self-Interest, Boris Johnson, saying that if the UK doesn’t leave the EU at the end of October, that will be the end of the Conservative Party, while the majority of us believe that if the UK does leave the EU at the end of October, that will be the end of the UK as any kind of viable world force. And we all know where Johnson’s loyalties lie. ‘Fuck Britain, so long as I’m PM; Trump will help us.’”
It was becoming increasingly like hard work to find a room in my café where customers were actually happy. And I strongly deny this has anything to do with my produce. Mind you, this is Britain at a time when it is being torn apart and humiliated on the international stage, where there is no place to hide and anger is palpable in all walks of life. Mr Cameron, I did actually respect you as a good prime minster, but just look at the can of worms, maggots and rats you opened. Don’t even bother trying to justify the decision to call a referendum – you can’t.
Reflection or dejection? Hard to say really! Either way, this is in Cape Town.
2019: 53: Granada: A Picture Painted in 147 Words
The sun was shining again. After all the recent negativity, I appreciated the warmth, along with the near-cloudless sky, which was in such marked contrast to the grey, sombre or stormy climes of recent days (and I’m not only talking about the weather). I was taking a well-earned late morning break with a self-made cappuccino in Granada, when my mood was lifted even further by the approach of my three favourite open-air customers (no offence intended to all the others). I was even happier to see Mark leading the way with the face-lightening smile which had been so conspicuous by its complete absence on our last encounter. Matthew and Lois were back and, for a while at least, all was well again in his world as we viewed it, although I presumed the inner turmoil I had recently been exposed to lay not far beneath the surface.
Greetings exchanged and customers settled, I hastened to prepare a Chemex for two and a pot of green tea for one.
“Did you miss us, then?” Matthew was asking as I wobbled uncertainly back outside. I can make the stuff; I’m just not all that hot at carrying it.
“Don’t be daft,” Mark responded, with a slightly nervous look in my direction. I’m nothing if not discreet, when it’s the right thing to be, and this was a case in point.
“We never noticed you weren’t here,” I lied, convincingly so, I thought, especially as Lois looked almost hurt. “Just joking, of course we did.” I had to pitch the answer somewhere in the middle to keep both parties happy.
“It was a little odd, though,” Mark confessed in a sudden outburst of honesty which rendered my attempt at diplomacy pretty well null and void. “I’m not used to being the one left behind with no one to go out with and everyone I know in far-flung parts of the world.” It was true the three of them travelled so much and had very few local connections other than each other, so I was fairly sure Matthew and Lois would be more than able to empathise, even if their responses might be laced with their everyday common or garden version of sarcasm.
