The cafe with five faces, p.46
The Café with Five Faces, page 46
“Come in and take a pew,” I invited genially, forcing them to choose between a table containing a sprawling rocker and a fuller one with two women and a bandana-clad semi-undesirable. Jimez, despite being in awe of The Presence, nervously took a seat opposite him but made zero eye contact, while Jen collapsed onto the adjacent chair, causing a wince of concern on my part for the welfare of my reproduction Biedermeier.
“Two glasses of red, Chaelli,” ordered the inebriated one. I tried to recall whether I had ever before witnessed Jen drink anything containing alcohol, but, ignoring the potential danger to the convivial ambience and my furniture, I was there to serve and so complied.
I assumed Anna had resumed her earnest, if unknowing, nodding role in my absence. The others had met before, however briefly in some cases, and Anna was the sort who found the shadows a preferable alternative to crowds of four or more, especially when most of the said crowd were strangers. It seemed as though as I was correct.
Quite how the conversation had shifted from arranged and forced marriages to the vapidity of reality television was beyond me, but that’s the drawback of having to leave the interaction occasionally to do one’s job.
“I really don’t mind shows where people are judged on talent,” Jimmy was expounding. “I can watch The Voice, for example, and even like it, but when it comes to programmes like I’m a Celebrity or Big Brother, or Love Island, I just can’t see the point.”
“I don’t claim to have much intelligence,” Jimez said, almost modestly, “but what little I do possess feels insulted watching those. Which is why I don’t,” he added, somewhat needlessly. It was quite something to hear him speak at all in the company of Jimmy and The Presence; presumably he had felt emboldened by being in agreement with the former.
“Sad thing is, they’re extremely popular,” Jen pointed out, coming close to sounding sober, “but I agree, I leave the room if they’re on.” She took a sip of wine. “As I live alone, this is rarely a problem.”
Talking about television one avoided began to seem as insipid as the earlier discussion over the state of Matthew’s underwear. Nawel seemed to concur. “I actually really like British television, although I admit I only watch the crime series and historical dramas; you do those really well.” I accepted the compliment on behalf of the producers responsible.
“Jimez has been inspired again,” declared Jen, changing the subject, for which most of us were relieved, the potential victim excepted.
“No, no, no, there are too many people here!” Jimez, turning red, valiantly tried to save face and hide whatever light was about to be revealed under some convenient bushel.
A sober Jen is hard to stop. A less-than-sober Jen resembles a juggernaut without brakes. “He’s been spending his evenings, alone, watching American Christmas romcoms...”
“Studying the genre,” interrupted Jimez.
“…and he’s realised how formulaic they are.”
“That shouldn’t have taken long,” muttered Jimmy, fortunately out of earshot of the budding author.
“And now he’s thinking he should write one.”
“Well, it looks easy,” said Jimez, seeming to underestimate his own abilities (although he did have a point). “A man and a woman meet and there is usually some sort of conflict between them. Quite often, one is divorced or widowed and has a kid or two. Slowly, the two protagonists are drawn, or thrown, together and start to fall for each other. Just as they are about to kiss, there’s some jeopardy which drives them apart. Then one or both of them realise they can’t live without the other and make some huge sacrifice, so there’s a happy-ever-after conclusion.”
“Indeed,” concurred Jimmy. “Not exactly challenging to watch but great escapism if you’re in the mood and have little wish or ability to think.” Jimez looked encouraged, although I don’t know if this was Jimmy’s actual intention.
Jen, who under the influence of wine, had lost any semblance of filters in her output, decided Jimez, still unbelievably one of her closest (and most long-suffering) friends, had not yet been sufficiently placed in the spotlight. “If that project doesn’t work, he’s going to write a Christmas number one.” She looked at me, as we had frequently lived through aspirations devoid of any real hope where Jimez was concerned. In this case, I averted my gaze, preferring to make a close study of the errant spider’s web to which Nawel had unwittingly drawn my attention.
“Now, look here, son,” uttered The Presence, aroused from mindlessness by the topic of music and ignoring the fact he and Jimez were of a pretty similar age. “That’s a lot easier said than done, you know.” It was like the voice of experience addressing a youthful upstart, neither description seeming to fit the two participants.
“I know that,” protested Jimez, who was so used to being on the defensive, it was little wonder he never moved forward. “I have a title, though, and I have a singer or two in mind; friends of mine, not anyone famous.”
“The problem is,” Jen began, by way of explanation, “apart from American Christmas romcoms, he’s also watched About a Boy a few times and has decided writing a one-hit wonder like Hugh Grant’s father is a good solution to his financial woes.” She sighed in despair, before adding, “I mean Hugh Grant’s character in the film, not Hugh Grant himself.”
I had a sense of déjà vu. I was sure the previous year had ended with similar ideas of self-perceived genius coming from the mouth of a guy sadly unable to take the first step towards achieving any of them. I joined Jen in sighing, rather too obviously, before sending Jimez a hopefully motivating smile.
“I don’t think I’ve seen that film,” commented Nawel.
“I have the DVD; we can watch it later,” promised Jimmy, keen to make up for his late arrival.
“Try not to confuse Hugh Grant and Jimez,” whispered Jen.
“What was that?” demanded Jimez.
“Nothing.”
Jimez looked annoyed. “My ex used to walk around the house muttering to herself and then criticising me for being deaf because I never answered her.” I was surprised Jimez could recall this, because his ex must have been so long ago an ex, the strain on his little grey cells was probably quite painful, especially after a glass of vino.
Jen said something about hearing damage caused by long-forgotten punk concerts, which Jimez, fortuitously, did not hear.
“Any more drinks?” I asked, deciding to call time on the persecution of the relatively innocent.
In honour of Nawel, an image of a Tuscan-like villa in the mountains of Algeria’s Chréa National Park (where skiing, contrary to one’s expectations, is sometimes possible).
2019: 68: Cape Town: The End is Nigh
This particular Friday the thirteenth, that of December 2019, was probably the bleakest Friday the thirteenth ever. Many would say ‘definitely’. It was the day when the British electorate somehow managed to green-light something which our venerable and esteemed former Speaker, John Bercow, has, correctly in my view, decreed the biggest national mistake since the Second World War.
By way of analogy, imagine all the turkeys in the United Kingdom having a December ballot in which the choice lay between a traditional turkey Christmas and a progressive, forward-looking vegetarian festive season. For reasons never made clear to anyone, the head turkey was in favour of the former, as he had an escape route, and through various means such as avoiding interviews, evading scrutiny and hiding in fridges, he managed to persuade a sizeable minority of those eligible to vote that he was right and would get it done. As a result, due to an archaic electoral system which deprived many of a real voice, the turkeys did indeed vote for Christmas and suffered the inevitable consequent demise.
Now the head turkey in question, slavishly supported by his henchfowl, the likes of Priti Chicken and the in-bred Eton mafia, and financially backed by blinkered, mega-rich cronies, who were also safe from the damage their actions and policies were designed to lead to, tell the rest of the poultry population, “We won, so shut up.” Faced with the prospect of being devoured or seeing one’s country flushed down the pan, we say…
“No, we won’t shut the fuck up, because we care, and we know we are right and with the evidence to prove so.” Mike completed my train of thought in his usual, rather unsubtle, but flawlessly accurate and direct manner. Well, he had to do something while waiting for me to pour three beers for him and his regular Cape Town compatriots.
The resulting glasses were very quickly half-drained, Mike’s to lubricate his vocal cords and those of James and John to prepare their hearing for the anticipated whinging. They were, of course, not to be disappointed.
“What a difference a year makes,” the vocal one continued forlornly. “Twelve months ago, give or take, I was sitting in this very spot, defending the Tories and complaining about how misunderstood ‘we’ (and there were air quote marks to accompany this word) were and that ‘we’, as was the case then, really did care for people and that no one gave ‘us’ any credit for it. This year, ‘they’, as I can no longer bear to be associated, have finally proved me wrong and that they actually just don’t give a shit about anyone who isn’t giving them loads of money.”
“Unless they’re called Donald Trump,” James interrupted, “in which case, every word is clung on to as though it is gospel.”
“Sad, but unequivocally true,” concurred Mike. “I have to confess to feeling politically lost, even homeless now the Independent Group for Change has folded. I mean, here I am; I studied International History and Politics up to degree level, so I do know what I’m talking about; I was a member of the Conservative Party and an often active, even vociferous, supporter for fifty years; and now the damage done by the far-right neo-fascist rump of the party which has weaselled its way into office means I’ll never be able to vote for them again, even if I live another thirty years. There’s no way whatsoever they can do enough to excuse or even mitigate the harm they have already inflicted on the country in just a few short months.”
James and John could not argue. Mike was full of bluster, yes, but he had an unerring knack of hitting the nail on the proverbial. Beer was downed in unison whilst thoughts were mustered for a renewed onslaught.
“What we basically have now, of course,” the orator continued, as we knew he would, “in Britain and America and, no doubt, in many other countries, is government by the rich, white men for the sole benefit of the rich, white men. As one of my Armenian friends pointed out recently, this is just as it’s always been, which is incredibly out of place with where the twenty-first century should be. What we also have at the moment, to counter the misogyny and male lunacy, is two of the best prime ministers in the world serving, dare I say, less powerful nations in Finland and New Zealand. Both women, obviously.” He cast his mind back a few months and added, “Not that Theresa May was a huge success, of course, but, in her defence, she was blighted by the cancer Brexit and the demonic European Reform Group.”
John decided someone else should have a turn and took advantage of Mike reconnecting with his glass. “I have to say you’ve got more balls than me, being so openly critical, because I’ve seen you making the same comments on Twitter, saying things I wouldn’t dare say publicly. Aren’t you at all concerned that you’ll get targeted by the Johnson Youth?”
“What’s the Johnson Youth?”
“You know, those online bully boys who threaten violent retribution if you dare criticise Johnson, Jacob Rees-Mogg, Priti Vacant and co. They’re like the 2010s British version of 1930s Germany.”
“Sad how little progress we’ve made as human beings in the last ninety years, isn’t it?” questioned James rhetorically. “But wouldn’t Johnson call them off, seriously?”
“Of course he wouldn’t!” retorted Mike. “Actually, he can’t win, really. If he calls them off, everyone will know they’re under his control; if he doesn’t, they’ll do people in in his name anyway. The joys of being prime minister.” There was a pause. “Having said that, it could just as easily be the svengali, Cummings. He seems to possess Rasputin-like influence over our feeble-minded leader. Hopefully, as in 1917 Russia, it will mark the beginning of the end of the regime, although, preferably, not a communist one!”
“Who are you blaming for it all now?” asked James.
“Long list,” declared Mike. “The root cause is the heinous European Reform Group, a collection of over-privileged prats who wanted, and still want, and worse still, expect to get, everything their own way. Then it was David Cameron, for trying to appease them. In the referendum, it was the media for making fascist Farridge and blundering Boris seems like harmless lunatics, and Corbyn for showing no leadership whatsoever, plus, of course, a series of massive lies from Leave EU, which, somehow, they were allowed to get away with, and a feeling in some quarters, that a vote for Leave was a protest vote against the government, which, of course, it never should have been. And then there were rumours of foreign money and interference from whatever sources. More recently, it was the fault of the Lib Dems and Labour for granting Johnson a general election when we were so close to getting a Final Say referendum. The election was only about Brexit anyway and the pro-Remain parties won it by a familiar margin of 52–48. The final reason was our outdated political system which allowed a party with less than fifty per cent approval to win a thumping majority which will permit them to run riot over our European values for the next five years. And, to be honest, given the state of the opposition, it’s more likely to be ten long and painful anni horribiles. And excuse me if my Latin grammar is a little off-piste.”
“Well, you did ask,” John pointed out to a shell-shocked James. “And let’s be honest, that was a bang-on, if rather lengthy, summary.
“I think now I’ll be leaving this sinking ship known as formerly Great Britain,” Mike announced to a stunned audience of three (in my case, it consisted of a nightmare vision involving an ailing cash register), “that is, of course, if I can manage it before the widely and deservedly derided Priti Evil, Priti Vacant, or whatever the pretty bitchy home secretary’s name is, closes the borders.”
“Seriously?” James and John were in harmony with their concern.
“Seriously. Someone responded to one of my online comments recently that I couldn’t possibly be a Tory. But deep down, I still am; a genuine, moderate Tory of the Kenneth Clarke and Michael Heseltine mould. No Tory should accuse me of stabbing the party in the back, as I feel as though I’ve been stabbed front, back and both sides by their betrayal. I can honestly say that I’ve finally been driven out of the Conservative Party, as it now seems to present itself to the world, by the likes of Johnson and the pitiful ERG. They just don’t seem to believe in liberal democracy anymore. No wonder Putin is gloating so much.”
“What does Putin have to do with it?” demanded James, as I tried to count how many pejorative adjectives had thus far been used to describe the ERG, all of them, in my view, warranted.
“Some time last year, he gleefully declared liberalism had become obsolete,” Mike answered. “My response at the time was to call him a wanker, not to his face, obviously, and note that, as a communist, he should be an expert in what being obsolete means. But now, with both Trump and Johnson in the world and in positions of power, he may well have a point. I mean, Britain has a government so mean, they are actively preventing vulnerable children being reunited with their families, and so extreme, they’ve branded a group of climate change activists as having an extremist ideology and therefore classified them as terrorists! Call that liberal democracy? What a sad joke.”
“Talking of jokes,” James began, in tones displaying mild incredulity, where the modifier ‘mild’ was surplus to requirements, “I hear they’re giving a knighthood to Iain Duncan Smith.”
“Beggars belief,” said John predictably, as his catchphrase hadn’t yet been heard on this particular day.
“Humph,” grunted Mike in disgust, equally in accordance with forecasts. “You might as well give one to Frederick West.” Likening a peacetime politician to a mass murderer was, in my not-always-very-humble opinion, a little extreme and not particularly fair, but one can only wonder what on earth this particular recipient has ever done to deserve it. Supporters of the Labour Party would probably quote the fact that he wasn’t seen sufficiently fit to lead the Tories into a general election as being meritorious of some recognition, but no one gets knighted for that, surely! There again, these are weird times indeed.
“Well, if the Americans can actually elect a president who believes aeroplanes were used to defeat the British in 1776, one has to say anything can happen,” said James.
“No wonder we lost,” muttered John. Three pairs of eyes moved in his direction to make sure he was, in fact, joking.
“You have to feel sorry for the Trump in some respects,” Mike said, as disbelieving eyes swivelled towards him instead. “I mean, imagine getting your dream job against all expectations and then finding out you’re completely shit at it.” Astonishment turned to derision.
“Johnson will be another,” added James. “Years of plotting and conspiring and lying and cheating to get a job he simply doesn’t have the ability to do.” Derision turned to concerted sighs of concern, despair and disillusionment.
“It’s weird mirroring, isn’t it?” asked Mike, initially seeming to assume we all knew what ‘it’ was. Exophoric referencing isn’t always easy to follow. He clarified, “The Trump wants a wall to keep the Mexicans out and Patel wants a wall, although not a solid one, obviously, to keep the Europeans out.” He reconsidered. “Or perhaps those Brits seeking freedom in. What’s the supposedly free world coming to, I ask you?”
“I don’t know about keeping the Mexicans out of America,” commented John. “I reckon the Mexicans might eventually contribute to the cost just to keep the Trump, the white supremacists and the gun lobbyists out of Mexico!”
