Part Nine: The Connells and Deep Blue Something (oh, and Nick Drake)

I didn’t think it got much worse than being kicked out of a seaside amusement arcade whilst enjoying a game of 2p shove and listening to The Connells, but it just has.

I’ll start at the beginning. Having got back to my luxury Bayswater apartment two days ago, I was stopped in the downstairs corridor by my neighbours Ray and Julian:

‘More salami there, Jonathan? You’re doing a roaring trade, aren’t you?’ Ray said, nodding at the Head bag on my shoulder and probably smelling the 184 sticks therein.

‘Yes, they’re selling like hotcakes. A fresh supply here, just in from Moscow.’

‘They deliver it in Head bags, do they?’ Julian asked, the first time I’ve ever heard him speak. I was trying to think what to say when Ray answered for me.

‘Oh Julian! Does everything have to be shrink wrapped in acres of non-recyclable plastic before you’re happy? You’re such a drain on our planet’s resources!’

‘Yes, that’s right. Just doing my bit for the environment. See you later.’

I had barely taken the bag off my shoulder and sourced a fresh can of Coke when there was a knock at the door. Julian.

‘Oh, hi, Julian. I’m really sorry I was rude to you just then – I didn’t mean to…’

 ‘Don’t worry, Jon. He’s the real drain on my resources. Anyway, I want to ask you a question.’

As usual when someone says this to me, I felt a bit nervous. I grabbed my Coke.

‘Is it about the noises at night? Sorry about those; it’s just that sometimes I get really angry with my team in Football Manager and…’

‘No, not that. How many sticks of salami have you sold since I last saw you?’

‘Honestly?’

‘Yes – I’m guessing less than ten.’

‘Try less than one and you’re getting even closer.’

Julian smiled, probably realising that I’m more desperate than he thought.

‘OK – well let me help you. I’ve got some contacts I can sell them too. How about I give you three hundred pounds for all that’s left?’

‘Erm, I’m not sure. Can I check with my business partner?’

‘Is that the fifteen year old Russian boy? Yes, perhaps you should.’

Feeling like Noel Edmonds must on Deal or No Deal when he pretends to call the banker, I called the speaking clock and pretended to talk to Vladik.

‘He says he’ll settle for four hundred pounds, but no less. Deal or no deal?’

‘You’ve been watching too much television, Jon. Three eighty.’

‘Deal’

‘OK, I’ll go and get the cash. By the way, what is the correct time?’

Having done the exchange, I decided to hold off telling Vladik and to spend some of the money on a day trip. Bayswater seems to have lost something since I was last here, so I did what any loner with some money and a free day would do – I found a map of the UK, closed my eyes and pointed my finger at the place where I would spend the next twenty-four hours.

 ****************************************

There’s not an awful lot to do in Milford on Sea if you’re under 65, and that’s a shame because the train journey took me the best part of three hours. The most popular activity seems to be sitting on benches and looking out to sea, but even I got bored with that after three hours. Luckily I found one amusement arcade and dutifully changed five pounds into two pence pieces so that I could mindlessly slot them into the 2p shove machine to a soundtrack of The Connells and Deep Blue Something, the top two at the moment in my nineties’ chart.

I was frustratingly close to winning a pile of two pences and a plastic Marge Simpson key ring when a banging noise disturbed me from the drone-like state I’d fallen into. A child was hitting the 2p machine opposite to get money out of it. I went over.

‘Excuse me, that’s cheating. You must stop or I’ll call the manager’, I said, sounding as authoritative as I could. The boy turned to me, revealing a shaven head and a Wolverhampton Wanderers football shirt.

‘Piss off or I’ll get me dad on yer.’

‘I don’t think there’s any need for that. Besides, I wouldn’t get so excited wearing that shirt. You know your team is going to be relegated by Christmas, don’t you?’

‘Dad!’

The scene caused not only the boy’s father to come running over, but also the arcade manager. And the stupid boy was quicker than me to explain what had happened.

‘Dad, this man was banging the machines to try and get money out then blaming me. And he says Wolves are shit! I think he’s drunk.’

The father stared at me with a look that I’ve only seen once before – on the dancefloor of Krystal’s nightclub in Leicester after I trod on a girl’s toe.

‘What you still doing ‘ere?’

‘It wasn’t me! Your boy…’

The manager helpfully chipped in.

‘Come on, out! I think you’ve had enough fun for one day.’

Turning to the father, he even apologised for me.

‘I’m sorry sir, we’ve had a bit of a problem with tramps coming into the arcade this year – it’s the bad weather. I hope your boy’s OK.’

Leaving with my tail between my legs, I took a quick bit of revenge by jamming the 10p shove machine with some of my two pences.

I said that it got worse, and it did. I was just about to find a quiet bench and calm myself with some Nick Drake when my mobile rang. Saul Pope’s name came up on the screen.

‘Hello. What do you want?’

‘You lucky man, Jonathan. I think you’ll thank me for this!’

‘Why?’

‘Do you fancy a holiday?’

‘Maybe’

‘Good – as you know the film is coming out soon and the book’s getting some good reviews on Amazon at last, so I need your blog to support that by getting a bit livelier than a few problems with a game of shove ha’penny.’

‘It’s not shove ha’penny, it’s 2p shove!’

‘Whatever. Basically, I’ve bought you a plane ticket so that you can do what you should have done all those years ago.’

‘What? Oh, you don’t mean…’

‘Yes, I’ve got you a single ticket to St. Petersburg, so you can go and find Olesya and patch things up.’

‘But what if I…oh, do I have any choice?’

‘Not unless you want The Man to find out where you live.’

‘When do I leave?’

‘Tomorrow morning at 6.30.’

‘What?’

‘Get yourself back to Bayswater and find your passport. One day you’ll thank me for this, when you’re living happily ever after with her.’

‘And you’ve got your sequel written.’

‘Good idea. Perhaps we can co-write it…’

Not a chance. I snap my mobile shut and start walking to the station. One day I’ll start living for myself again. On the train I start planning how to get the maximum expenses out of Saul Pope for this little joke he’s played on me.

Part Eight: Coach Trip

Saul Pope is the most mendacious, conniving and nasty author on this earth, and that’s saying something when you think of what Mills and Boon have put us through. I’ve just found out the real reason why I was temporarily evicted from the luxury apartment in Bayswater owned by a fifteen-year-old Russian. But the good news is I was on Coach Trip for a week.

 Scottish Paul’s boiler expired three days after I arrived at his place in Hereford, sending me sprawling off the settee and onto the greasy carpet as it announced this at three in the morning. Surely he’s got enough money to do some repairs around his aunt’s old flat and perhaps refit the carpets at the same time, though he didn’t seem to take too kindly to my suggestions when I woke him up and told him what had just happened.

 I spent the next day wrapped in a blanket whilst he worked at the local post office, trying to ignore the crick in my neck and trying to work out whether there was any way I could avoid boiling up a kettle of water to wash my hands and face. Anyone would think I was camped on some remote Nottinghamshire field, not in a flat in the very hub of Herefordshire.

 Luckily there was a way of avoiding this – all I needed to do was work out where Scottish Paul kept his passport. An afternoon peak at Channel 4 gave me my getaway; after Coach Trip there was an announcement asking for a new couple to urgently join the show. I called the number on the screen immediately:

             ‘Can you get you and your partner to Dover tonight? We need you in Bologna by tomorrow lunchtime.’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘Great! Do you know the format of the show? You know what’s expected of you?’

            ‘Of course.’

 I’ve never actually watched a full episode of the programme, but consider myself a quick learner, hence I didn’t really feel I was lying. Having found Paul’s passport (he keeps it in a faux leather holder in a hallway drawer, like 85% of all English people), I made my way to the post office:

             ‘What? We’re going to be on that crap?’

            ‘Yes’

            ‘Why?’

            ‘Well, what have you got to keep you in Hereford for the next few days? We’ll probably be voted off as soon as they can choose us.’

 Bologna was actually quite fun, once I’d moved away from the bloke who always moans about the food, though I wasn’t too keen on wine-treading and refused to drink the wine there – I can’t believe, given the state of some people’s toenails, that they still tread wine. A bit of flirting almost got underway at the evening meal when a flush-faced but pretty young Australian contestant, deciding that I was a celebrity after she heard about Russia, The Man and Jonathan David, offered to give me a foot massage. Mum’s always said that I’ve got really tickly feet, and so it proved as I inadvertently kicked Felicity in the face as she brushed against my left sole. Paul ended up kissing her rather than me, but that’s a good thing. Maybe they show Coach Trip in Russia; Olesya could have seen it.

 We lasted longer than I thought, mainly because of Paul snogging his way to at least one vote per episode, but in the end we were let down by the fact that we quite liked the food and the local people, unlike the other contestants, and the inevitable lovers’ tiff that took place during a pottery-making session in Ljubljana. At least he didn’t throw the pot back at her…

 Back in Dover, I realised that I was still temporarily homeless – luckily Paul offered a few more nights on his freezing settee in Hereford. Aware that he probably wouldn’t put up with his flat smelling of nearly 200 sticks of salami for much longer, I messaged Vladik as soon as I got back to find out when the Bayswater apartment would be free again. I got an immediate reply:

             Jonathan, flat is free now. Has always been free. Sorry I betray you but Saul Pope offer me part in film.

             Vladik, what are you talking about?

             He think you boring. Told me to remove you from flat to make you do exciting thing so your blog is more interesting. Now you on Trip Coach he says you succeed. I see this is Russia, is good show.

 I couldn’t believe what I was reading. Saul Pope is now in the business of bribing minors with parts in films in an effort to shift more copies of his pathetic novel!

             Vladik, please be careful – Saul Pope is very stupid to have made you do this to me. I am disgusted with him, though admit it’s rather clever at the same time. I don’t blame you, but please don’t let him flatter you.

            Jonathan, you are good friend. Saul Pope will not flatten me or my father kill him. I come to England soon, but please do not put me on programme Coach Trip. Really it is crap programme, only for old and stupid people maybe.

I will return to Bayswater in the morning. After such shocking news of Saul Pope’s teachery, there was only one thing to do – listen to a song that makes it seem like it’s always 1992, a time before the world was quite so dark, and that song is a slab of cheesy rave called Don’t Go by The Awesome 3.

And if you’re bored this summer, you might want to take a look at my earlier adventures in this book. It’s just a pity the author’s such a devious twit…

Part Seven: Google Face-offs

Another blog, another location. I’m in Hereford, on the bed-settee in Scottish Paul’s living room to be precise, after a difficult two weeks back with Mum and Dad. Mum was disappointed by my inability to sell even one stick of salami at the Co-Op in Leicester, and Dad by my inability to get off the internet when he wanted to use it. Mum had been kind enough to use her contacts at check out to get me my own stall in the Co-Op for a day; unfortunately the locals were more interested in whether I had any haslet or tongue, having used my free sample. I now have 185 sticks left. Dad claims that he has rediscovered Baywatch and needs the internet to watch old episodes, and pointed out its kitsch value and the fact that it’s the most watched TV show of all time when I laughed.

Before I left I did manage to sell the 1987 coconut Boost and some of my Garbage Pail Kids stickers on eBay, which left me with enough money to get a single ticket to Hereford. Dad took pity on me and gave me enough money to get back to London which I will do once Vladik has ended my exile, though I had to promise not to tell anyone about his Baywatch fascination (no-one reads this blog, anyway, according to the so-called writer Saul Pope, so it won’t matter if I mention it here).

I called Paul from the station:

‘Paul, it’s Jonathan. Sorry I haven’t spoken to you for a year, but I’m at the station.’

‘Which one?’

‘Yours.’

‘What? Hereford?’

‘Yes – I need somewhere to stay.’

There was a pause, to the extent where I was scared that the phone would eat the remnants of my last twenty pence piece.

‘Well, you’d better come round then. Do you know the way?’

I don’t think life has exactly treated Paul kindly since being published in Russia, The Man and Jonathan David, hence his retreat to the flat he inherited from his aunt. Still, I was expecting a warmer greeting when I rang his doorbell – I didn’t write the thing:

‘I thought you’d be in Moscow.’

‘Why?’

‘The filming’s started.’

‘Apparently they don’t want me. Has Saul called you?’

Paul shuffled a little on the doorstep.

‘Erm…I’m flying out next week to film a few scenes. I’m playing myself.’

‘But…’

‘Look, come in – we’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Even if you do smell of Russian salami.’

Half an hour later, salami stick number 185 was almost finished. For the first time ever, I found that I was keeping Paul entertained with a new game I invented in Leicester:

‘Paul, who’d win a Google face-off between Heaven 17 and Kim Wilde?’

‘Easy – Kim Wilde. She easily outsold Heaven 17.’

‘You’re wrong! ‘Heaven 17 music’, 9,480,000 hits, ‘Kim Wilde music’, 824,000!’

‘Are we playing for salami? I owe you a stick. Try Nik Kershaw v Joe Dolce.’

‘A close run contest: Nik, 207,000, Joe, 199,000!’

‘Well, I suppose that’s some modicum of comfort for Nik. Now he’s in a final against Midge Ure.’

‘Midge’s thrashed him! 311,000 to 207,000!’

We played and laughed for so long that we could have almost avoided all the serious stuff – until Paul asked me to do a ‘Jonathan v Olesya’ contest. I’d almost forgotten about her with all my worrying about the salami:

‘If Jonathan wins, you’ve got to go back there this year. If Olesya wins, you’ve got to try and forget all about her and move on.’

‘That’s not fair – you know I’ll win.’

‘Try it in Russian if you think it’s not fair – I’ve got Cyrillic keys.’

‘OK, you’re on. No…I can’t believe it! Have you fixed Google? Jonathan still wins!’

‘Well, you’d better get back out there. You don’t seem yourself without her. It’s like you’ve lost the thread of your life.’

I paused and looked at Paul, suddenly realising that he’s my only real friend.

‘If I go, will you come with me? You’re not the same without Yuliya either.’

His smile showed me the old him was still in there somewhere, thank goodness.

‘We’ll see – let’s talk about it tomorrow.’

Before curling up on the bed-settee, I sent a couple of text messages – one to Vladik and the other to Saul:

Vladik, hi! In Hereford arranging your football trial. When can go home? Am sleeping on uncomfy settee.

Mr Pope, if you want me to keep promoting your book then please reconsider putting me in film. Everyone else seems 2B in it…

Part Six: How much annual leave do international salami dealers get?

This blog is written by Jonathan David, the hero of Saul Pope’s story ‘Russia, The Man and Jonathan David’. He was hoping for a nice, quiet life after the exertions of a starring role in a novel, but it wasn’t to be. Having been located by the author, he’s now forced to write a blog and help promote the book. If he doesn’t, Saul has threatened to reveal Jonathan’s current location to his nemesis, ‘The Man’… 

Below is part six of his story. If you’d prefer to start at the beginning, then click here.

 

 

I’m writing this in my bedroom. Not my bedroom in my luxury Bayswater apartment (which actually belongs to a 15 year-old Russian boy), not even in the ‘mini-bedroom’ that comprises one-quarter of my converted municipal garage just outside London, but my original bedroom, the one that I slept in for as long as I can remember until I left home to seek my fortune at the University of Northern England (Goole Campus). The bed I’m now lying on still has tattered Garbage Pail Kids stickers adorning its scratched, veneer outer surface (no wonder I never brought any girls back here), and the walls are decorated with the same nightmarish eighties zig zags that I chose during a rather flustered and rash moment in Fenwick’s when I was nine.

 

My mother, a stickler for cleaning, claims to never come into my room – apparently she’s saving it for when I give up trying to make it in the real world and come to live back at home. As soon as I got back home, I checked whether she was good to her word by sliding my hand down the side of the bed – it was still there. A coconut Boost wrapper, which has been there since I planted it before I left for university almost ten years ago, lightened my gloomy mood somewhat. So it’s true that some things never change. As I held the mini comfort blanket in my hand, I wondered whether I should list it on eBay – they don’t sell coconut Boosts any more…

 

So, why have I moved from the hip, cosmopolitan and fast-paced Bayswater to the suburbs of Leicester, which doesn’t even try to tick any of those boxes? It’s only a temporary move – I hope. Last night I received another untimely text message from Vladik:

 

Jonathan, please, check emails now

 

He must have been waiting for my response, because when I turned over and went back to sleep I received another one:

 

Is urgent, I mean check mail now bruv

 

More inappropriate slang from his new English teacher. Expelling as much air as possible in a momentous sigh (which was for effect and rather pointless, as nobody else heard it), I turned on my laptop to discover my temporary eviction notice:

 

Hello Jonathan!

 

You must leave flat 5 minutes after read this message! My father have terrible dream that bad person break to my new flat and live there. He take jet to London to check if true. Please go! Come back when I tell you is OK. You can to leave clothes etc in garage because he is not look there but please take 200 sticks of sausage as father will find stink. Sorry I betray you.

 

Keep it real,

 

Vladik

 

I’m not sure what mystified me more – the nineties style hip hop closing, or the fact that he thinks he’s ‘betrayed’ me (I assume he right-clicked and made a bad choice with the thesaurus). Snapping the laptop shut, I leapt up, swept the Coke cans – which looked like a modern art installation strewn across the Versace tiles – into a plastic bag and placed them along with most of my other belongings into the garage. Fifteen minutes later I was stood at Bayswater tube station with the salami and a change of clothes in my Head sports bag, wondering whether to go to my other temporary home or back to my original home. Putting things to chance, I decided to go back to Leicester if Mum picked up the phone before five rings. She managed it in three:

 

‘Jonathan? It’s a bit early for you to be up and about, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I know it’s before nine, but I’m phoning to let you know I’m coming up to stay for a bit.’

‘Why? What about your job at the salami factory?’

‘It’s not a job in a factory; it’s a job selling exclusive salami. I’m an international salami dealer, and I’m taking some time off.’

‘How much annual leave do international salami dealers get?’

‘I don’t know yet. Can’t you just be pleased that you’re going to see me?’

‘I’m worried about you. Dad says you still sit around all day doing nothing but listening to music and writing lists, and…’

‘Oh, Mum, I’ve heard it all before from him! I’ll see you in a couple of hours.’

 

It wasn’t until got to St. Pancras that I remembered off-peak trains don’t run until after 9.30, but I felt the need to keep up the pretence of assumed wealth and so spent nearly all my remaining cash on a return ticket to Leicester. I managed to avoid the overtures to conversation of the over-curious middle-aged woman opposite – she was bursting to ask about the exotic smell emanating from my bag – by creating the a new list and then imagining I was in a disco where only that music was playing:

 

            Music: Top 5 Eighties Guilty Pleasures

            1.      I Could Be So Good For You – Dennis Waterman

            2.      Tarzan Boy - Baltimora

            3.      Eye Of The Tiger - Survivor

            4.      Brother Louie - Modern Talking

            5.      (Keep Feeling) Fascination Human League    

 

I got so carried away in that disco – only me and my beautiful, missing Olesya were there, having fun and dancing close and tenderly to my guilty pleasures – that it took a stern rap on the inter-city’s window at Leicester Station to bring me back into the real world. Dad had come to pick me up. Struggling off the train with 190 sticks of sausage, I inadvertently stuffed the list into his hand:

 

            ‘Still up to your old tricks, son? Nothing to feel guilty about if you like a bit of Dennis Waterman.’

            I could feel my face going red.

            ‘Hmmm.’

            ‘Hmmm? Is that all you’ve got to say? You go to Russia, panicking your mum, then when you come back you practically ignore us, and all you’ve got to say is hmmmm? You need some discipline – you need a job!’

            ‘Dad, I’ve got a job. I’m an international salami dealer.’

            ‘I Googled it, son. There’s no such thing.’

            Is that all people do these days – ‘Google’ information, rather than use a bit of common sense to work things out?

            ‘Well, a meeting tomorrow with one of Leicestershire’s leading delicatessens says you’re wrong!’

            I made a mental note to take the Yellow Pages to my room when I got home – I’d need a name and address if I was going to convince Mum.

            ‘Good – I’m fed up with having a son who’s a dole scrounger!’

            ‘I’m not a…’

            ‘Why couldn’t you have written a book like that Saul Pope? It’s interesting, what he’s done.’

            ‘That book’s ruined my life!’

            ‘But he’s a millionaire because of it.’

            ‘No, he’s not!’

            ‘The Leicester Mercury says he is – ‘Leicester’s favourite son’, they call him. He’s taken that title off Lineker.’

           

Mention of my favourite footballer and the so-called writer in the same breath led me to take a vow of silence. It lasted all the way home, until I got into my old bedroom. Having peeled all the Garbage Pail Kids stickers off my bed, I clicked play on my Walkman, opened my last can of Coke and sat at my old school desk. If I want to get back to that disco, just me and her and some wonderful eighties music, then a part of me has to die. I opened the Yellow Pages and looked for a place where I could sell my wares…

Part five: Ruses and Plans

I don’t know what’s worse – the fact that I found out that my meeting at number 24 Leinster Gardens was a ruse thanks to a fifteen year old Russian, or the fact that I went there anyway, just in case. Vladik texted me in the night to tell me to look at my emails when I woke up:

Hello Jonathan!

I think you still do not know about how to use Internet proper. I Google 24 Leinster Gardens and see it is ‘false façade’. I do not know what it is and Internet does not help me but my new English teacher tell me that it is not real balding. He laughing when I explain what you do there. One more time people fool you in England, as with garage that they tell you is flat!

My new teacher also tell me that Hereford is not ‘coming up’ team and is not near to London but it is in Whales. Dear Jonathan, please sell my sausages soon and please find me good football team. International School Trainer, he is from Spartak Moskva, tell me that my off ball play is as Juninho or Andrey Arshavin – I think they will not play at Hereford.

Take it easy, man!

Vladik

His new English teacher, whoever that may be, is not only teaching him tacky Americanisms to close his messages with, but even has the cheek to mock me. I’ve got a feeling that I should be going back to St. Petersburg soon, to reclaim my old job and try and get in touch with Olesya. If I can find the strength…

I went to Leinster Gardens anyway, just in case the buyer still wanted the sausages and had just chosen the address as a post-modern comment to show that it’s possible to do business even outside the façade of a supposed prestigious terraced house. He hadn’t, and I waited alone for about an hour. Never mind – I’ll sell the sausage somehow, and it was quite interesting to see how convincing number 24 is – it really looks like a house, though on close inspection (which I had plenty of time for) there’s no letter box and the windows are blacked out.

Back at home – having decided that as I don’t like confrontation I shouldn’t go to Portobello Road market to challenge the idiot trader who sent me to Leinster Gardens – I was relaxing on my bed, on the fifth consecutive listen of Usura’s Open Your Mind. I’d even got the Margaret Thatcher morphing into Stalin thing from the video going on in my head, when suddenly my mobile rang, causing me to spasm in shock and almost crush my Walkman. Nobody ever calls me…

‘Erm, hello. Who is it? Vladik?’

His is the only number saved in my phone.

‘Saul Pope here.’

 ‘Oh. How did you get my number?’

‘Vladik. I popped over to see him while I was in St. Petersburg – we’re planning locations for the film.’

Vladik is a traitor.

‘Oh. Will I be in the film? I am the main character in the book.’

‘No – they want someone a bit more photogenic. The search is on for a young Hugh Grant to play you.’

‘Well, I’m quite free these days; I haven’t got a lot going on if you need anyone for a crowd scene…’

‘Thanks, Jonathan, but I think we’re fine on that score. Look, I’m phoning about the book. The publishers are on my back, sales are dropping, and they say the blog’s not helping – it’s too boring.’

‘Well, let me stop writing it, then.’

Pope, the so-called writer, laughed.

‘No, no, no, we’re not going to do that, Jonathan. We just need to tweak it a bit.’

‘How?’

‘Well, you need to start doing more exciting things with your day. Trotting around Paddington Library talking to yourself or selling salami to your neighbours is just not cutting it. Remember when you were in Russia? You tried to chat up those two women who turned out to be prostitutes?’

‘The ones that tried to rob me?’

‘Yes, those ones! The readers loved that. Or remember when you pretended to be a secret agent when you were tracking The Man, but then had to run home because you got scared?’

‘Of course I was scared – he was looking through my kitchen window and shouting abuse!’

‘Exactly! It was entertaining! And you need to become entertaining again. You need an aim, rather than sipping Coke and listening to nineties music all day. Why don’t you phone Vladik up and tell him to piss off, then give all of his salami away to the homeless? Angry, but still in touch with humankind.’

‘I’m not going to tell a fifteen year old boy to piss off. Besides, he’s probably my only friend.’

‘Ok then, what about going to visit Scottish Paul? The readers found him charming.’

‘I haven’t spoken to him for more than a year. Don’t think your book did him any favours either.’

‘Well, you’ve got to do something. I didn’t want to say it, but what about the ‘O’ word?’

‘You mean…’

‘How about you go back out there, go and wait outside her flat again – the readers found that cute – and when she comes out you can declare your undying love for her. You never know, maybe she’ll…’

‘No, no, no, no, no!’

‘Well, you need to do something. You’ve got no aim in life. You can’t even plug my book properly. If anyone reading this blog wants a copy, by the way, just click here. Jonathan, you’ve got to sort yourself out…’

I cut him off here, because I’d already stopped listening. He’s right, I do need an aim. I don’t want to turn thirty still living in this flat, alone and without a proper job. I’m going to go back to St. Petersburg. Once the sausage is sold, I‘ll buy a one-way plane ticket and get myself back out there, Man or no Man after me, Olesya or no Olesya at my side…

Part Four: Birth of a Salesman

Five things I miss about living in my converted municipal garage:

 

1. I didn’t need to keep Coke in the fridge – it stayed cold enough just being in the room, which saved time trekking to and from the kitchenette. There’s something wrong with the underfloor heating in my new luxury Bayswater apartment, and warm Coke is somewhat unpleasant.

 

2. I could spend the evenings watching the world go by through my binoculars. When Mum knew I was moving to London, she bought them for me because she thought I may go to an opera at some point. I tried to use them here to watch the world go by, but someone opposite spotted me right away and I think they called the police (I had to pretend I wasn’t at home).

 

3. I’m worried about the Chinese restaurant opposite, and whether it’s still open. They didn’t use to get many customers, and some days none at all (I knew this from checking with my binoculars). If they’d had no customers by 9.00 I would go and order something, even if I’d already had a microwave meal. Maybe I’ll go back this week to check on them, and get some sesame prawn toast.

 

4. I didn’t have to iron my clothes. Nobody noticed if I wore the same clothes for several days, either, but round here people are very well turned-out. I have found my time available for such simple pleasures as lying on the bed and listening to cassettes or playing Football Manager curtailed as a result.

 

5. I didn’t have any pressure from Vladik and his associates (see below).

 

 

The first thing I had to do when I turned on the laptop this morning was delete yet another email from Vladik, demanding to know how many sticks of sausage I’ve sold. He doesn’t seem to understand that it’s only been two weeks since I took the job – I’m still warming up.

 

I sold my first sticks this morning to the couple downstairs, Ray and Julian, who seem like nice neighbours to have (if one has to have neighbours). My washing fell onto their balcony overnight (I told you looking good is stressful round here), and I had to go down and fetch it:

 

‘I’m sorry about that. I’ll go now. Bye.’

‘Can I ask you a question?’ said Ray, apparently the more talkative half of the couple. I always feel nervous when people ask me that, and I nodded meekly.

‘I was just wondering where you get that fabulous salami from. We can always smell it in the corridor, can’t we, Julian?’

Julian nodded in a similarly meek manner, but my brain was already whirring. Young people. Trendy area. Like a bit of innovation. I cleared my throat.

‘Well, I’m meant to keep this to myself, but I’m actually selling the sausage on behalf of a Russian-based dealer. I’ve got a meeting with a vendor on Westbourne Grove a bit later today; she’s looking to buy the lot. The pigs they use are fed on a special, secret diet, which gives the sausage its unique, rich flavour. They’re the only sticks of their kind in the country.’

Ray’s eyes lit up.

‘What’s it called?’

‘Well, it’s quite difficult to translate, I can’t…’

‘Oh, do try!’

I was silent for a few seconds. My brain wasn’t keeping up.

‘I suppose the closest translation is, erm, “Moscow”.’

‘Moscow?’

‘Yes, a simple name, but one that represents the lead city of the new, brave, forward-thinking Russia – a world city that’s full of innovation. That’s the credo behind this sausage.’

‘Can we try some?’

 

I spoiled the sales pitch somewhat by inviting them up to the flat for a taste, only then realising that I had a) only one plate and b) no proper knife. The Moskovskaya sausage was cut with a butter knife and served up on a side plate rescued from the sink, but I nevertheless managed to sell them five sticks at fifteen pounds each.

 

I spent the afternoon acquainting myself with Paddington Library in an attempt at celebration, but found that I couldn’t enjoy myself because of an odd guilt that was itching away at me. Had I lied to those men about the sausage? No, not exactly. It is called Moscow, the recipe probably is a secret concoction (of preservatives), and it’s unlikely that anyone else has imported it into the UK. My conscience felt a bit clearer. But what about Vladik?

 

‘I can’t believe you’re thinking of giving him all the money from that sausage! It’s you who’s done all the work!’

My bitch alter-ego does know how to ruffle an innocuous and supposedly soothing trip to the library. I found a seat near the large-print books and whispered back to him from behind my hands, hoping that no-one else would see what I was doing.

‘But I promised!’

‘You said you’d sell the sticks for ten pounds. Here’s your chance to make twenty-five quid. Where else are you going to get any money from? You’re too proud to sign on!’

‘I promised Dad that I’d get myself a job down here. And I have. It’s just that I’m not earning any money from it. Look, bitch, I need to go before anyone asks what I’m doing talking into my hands. I’ve got to email my boss.’

‘Well, don’t come crying to me when you run out of money and have to move back to that garage.’

 

I dashed out of the library, calling only at Portobello Road market on my way home. Without even grabbing a refreshing, cool glass of Coke, I switched on my laptop and emailed Vladik.

 

Hi Vladik,

 

Sorry for not answering earlier – I’ve been busy getting my business plan together for selling our sausage. I sold five sticks this morning for fifteen pounds each to a local vendor, meaning that I have seventy five pounds for you. I have just got back from canvassing at a local market, and have set up a meeting tomorrow with an interested trader at his home address, 24 Leinster Gardens. He says that he wants to buy all the sticks!

 

As for your trial with Fulham football club, I’m afraid there’s no news yet. Would you consider an alternative? I have a friend living in Hereford, which is not too far from London. They are an up-and-coming team, and I am sure he would let us stay there for a night or two. Let me know if you’re interested, and I will contact their manager.

 

Your friend and business partner,

 

Jonathan

 

PS Did Ivan do anything strange to the underfloor heating? It’s always too hot, and is making walking around barefoot ever so slightly uncomfortable. Please ask him at the earliest opportunity, and, just in case I need to fix anything, please confirm that you will bear the cost of any repairs.

 

I hit send and flopped down, exhausted, onto the bed. I’m approaching my thirties, living in a flat owned by a fifteen year old wannabe footballer from Russia, and spending my time fretting over selling sticks of sausage. Sometimes I wonder whether I might be a little odd, and not at all like other people.

 

There’s one escape when I start thinking like this – I listen to the oddest song I know, just to check that it still sounds as strange as it always does. Having looped ‘No Idea’ by Earth Leakage Trip five times in a row, I breathed a sign of relief, levered myself off the bed and readied myself to face the world again. It still sounds very strange – as far as I know, nobody else has ever mixed seagull sounds, the little girl from Poltergeist and a children’s record called Happy Monsters together in a song before.

 

The so-called writer Saul Pope would not appreciate such fine things – no doubt he hasn’t even got a list of his ten favourite samples in songs. So please help him to afford some better culture by purchasing his lowly, but quite interesting, novel. If you click here you can even get a signed, limited edition version.

 

Anyway, time for bed – I’ve got an important meeting at 24 Leinster Gardens with that market trader in the morning. Hopefully I’ll be able to get rid of all that sausage…

Part Three: Sausages and Bayswater

I waited three hours at Heathrow for Vladik and his security guard to finally emerge from customs, red faced and complete with two of the family dogs. We quickly got the formalities out of the way – huge bear hugs from both Vladik, who has grown a lot since I last saw him, and Ivan, who (in a cheesy eighties way) always reminds me of the Soviet boxer with the mega punch from Rocky 4. I could feel the bones in my back cracking as he grasped me. They both seemed a little tense and flustered, and in a hurry to get out of the airport. I asked Vladik if everything was OK – he replied that they’d been waiting for me in the VIP lounge, and had got chatting with one of his father’s business associates. I didn’t believe him then, and only yesterday learned the real reason for their delay…

 

The flat is amazing, but then again I guess most flats would seem amazing to a man used to shivering under three blankets in a converted garage, and prone to tarrying a little longer than usual in the corner shop because it’s warmer there. Not that I’ve been able to spend much time in the flat – now that he’s grown an extra three inches, Vladik’s keen to use his extra height for his football, and has somewhat grandiose ideas that he could become a meaty, old-fashioned centre forward for one of the big London clubs. We’ve spent practically the entire two weeks in the local park practising heading from corners and free kicks, and my football knowledge has been tested to its limit. Once Vladik goes to bed, I’ve been having to stay up all night on the laptop playing Football Manager to try and work out how to make the best use of his skills. Good job I brought my laptop with me.

 

I made use of the fact that I wouldn’t have to pay the phone bill to make a couple of personal calls, the first to Mum and Dad:

 

‘Hello?’

‘Mum, it’s me. Has London Mark called?’

‘Yes, I’m fine thanks Jonathan. Thank you for asking! No, nobody has called for you at all, unless you count an automated message telling you that you’d won a yacht.’

‘Maybe that was him using a different tactic. I hope you used the script I gave you for…’

‘Jonathan, he hasn’t called you! I don’t know why you’re so afraid of him, anyway. From the book he seems so…’

‘Oh, Mum, don’t you start as well! I’ve had enough of everyone telling me how he’s the real hero!’

‘But it’s true! I’ve had enough of people round here telling me that after reading the book they’re more scared of you than of The Man! I’m sure Mark means no harm – he was trying to help you in Russia. Why don’t you move back up here? Surely you’ve had enough of that silly garage by now.’

‘I’ve got news for you Mum – I’ve moved up in the world. I’m now living for free in a luxury flat in Bayswater, and I’ve got no plans to move on any time soon.’

 

For once, dear bloggers, I wasn’t lying to my dear mum. Vladik and Ivan are going back to St. Petersburg tomorrow, but I am staying here, all thanks to me discovering last night the real reason for their lateness at the airport. I was sipping Coke, lying diagonally across my king-size bed and wondering whether to turn on the under floor heating (I didn’t want my feet to get cold when I came back from the toilet), when I got distracted by a heated conversation between the two Russians. My Russian has faded somewhat since the heady days when I could understand all the announcements in the St. Petersburg Metro, but as I began to comprehend the problem I knew exactly what to do.

 

‘We can’t take it back through customs. We’ve already lost enough money by paying to bring it into the country. If we take it back they’ll take it off us, and your father will laugh.’

‘We can ask Jonathan to help.’

‘But you said he’s chicken shit.’

‘Ivan, it’s only sausage.’

 

I had thought that there was a strong smell of salami emanating from Ivan and Vladik as they python-hugged me at the airport, and also thought it rather odd that they only seemed to have brought one set of clothes each to England (Vladik bought a Fulham tracksuit, his new favourite team, on his first day back here). It turned out that their bags were stuffed full of sticks of Moskovskaya salami, which they had been intending to sell to the Russian ex-pat community, though things hadn’t quite worked out. Downing the rest of my Coke, I seized my chance:

 

‘Vladik, I can take it for you and try to sell it.’

‘Jonathan, nobody near your garage in province will take this sausage. I think it only sell to people in London.’

I smiled wickedly, possibly for the first time since the day I managed to rumble The Man over on Bolshevik Avenue.

‘Yes, Vladik, you’re right. But you don’t want your dad to laugh at you.’

‘My father will be angry, like when you ruin car. He want me to be the good businessman.’

‘So let me help you, then. As you say, I probably can’t sell it in my town, so it’d be more convenient for me to live here for the time being.’

Vladik paused and sighed, upset that the mint condition of his flat was about to be ruffled by a long-term resident.

‘Jonathan, you more clever than before. My father call you dickhead when you work for us for only 20 dollars in one hour. He pay cleaner more, and you do four jobs. But OK. And you contact Fulham Football Club?’

‘Vladik, I will try to sell all the sausage, and I will try to arrange a trial with Fulham for the next time you come over.’

‘Not Leicester City. I will not go to pork pie town 100 miles away. And what about key? You need key make for flat from special shop.’

‘Don’t worry about that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, I, erm, got one made last week. Just in case…’

            Vladik smiled.

            ‘Jonathan, you definitely more clever than before.’

 

And so I find myself the sole resident of a second-floor luxury apartment in Bayswater, with nothing to do other than lie here, listening to Seven Ways To Love by Cola Boy (who were actually St. Etienne, if you didn’t know), and occasionally pretend to sell the 200 sticks of salami lurking in the kitchen by emailing Vladik and Ivan a ‘sales update’. Oh, and I must drop Fulham an email, but first I’ll spend a few days playing Football Manager, just to check whether Vladik is likely to fit into their style of playing….

 

For once, I don’t mind plugging the so-called novelist Saul Pope’s book, seeing as he’s probably living in some crummy flat in a London wannabe town rather than rent-free in a luxury apartment in the country’s hub. So if you’re interested in a slightly above-average novel with a keen line in self-depreciatory humour and eighties cultural references, then click here - you even get free delivery, apparently…

 

Oh, before I forget, the other phone call I made was to Olesya’s number in Russia. Unfortunately I hung up after a couple of rings, shallow-breathing and my heart fist-pumping into my ribcage, but I’ve promised myself I’ll try again soon…

Part Two: Reference Books and Spartak Moscow

Spent the morning in the local library, trawling my way through an interesting local history book in the reference section. I’m sure the library assistants were looking at me suspiciously. Just because I’m under forty and like to frequent their premises, does that make me a weirdo? I suppose they’d rather me be lying in bed with an enormous hangover of a morning, stinking of kebab and next to a woman whose name I don’t even know. It sounds quite fun in a way, but I don’t think I’ll ever be your typical twenty-something bachelor.

 Spent the rest of the day on the web, and had a nice surprise in the shape of an email from Vladik, my former pupil:

 

Jonathan, hello!

I have your email address from writer Saul Pope. I hope is OK I write you. I very much enjoy our lessons when you live in Russia, I think we have a good relationship. I know there is problem because of my father’s car, but now all is OK. He fix it, and all blood is gone. But of course it is expensive to do. I hope one day he forgive you and again you will be my tutor. Write me please, and tell what you do now. Do you live in famous pork pie city Lester?

 

So the so-called writer Saul Pope has permeated every nook and cranny of my personal life. How does he even know Vladik? They probably met at the Russian launch of the novel, held in a hotel near The Kremlin and an event that I, dear reader, leading protagonist of Russia, The Man and Jonathan David, was not even invited to. But at least he’s got me back in touch with Vladik who, despite being ten years my junior, was one of the nicest people I met in Russia (a list that also includes Scottish Paul, and the obvious person whose name I cannot bring myself to say right now). Having nothing else to do now that even the local library staff have me down as some kind of oddball, I replied straight away:

 

Hi Vladik,

How lovely to hear from you! I hope that you and your family are well, and I’m also pleased that your father’s car is now OK. I knew the blood would wash out – I tried to explain this to him at the time, but he was shouting at me rather nastily. I would love to come and teach you again – how is the football practice going? I haven’t seen you in the English Premier League yet!

 

Leicester (note the correct spelling) is not actually the home of pork pies – that’s Melton Mowbray, which is just down the road. And you should know that there’s a lot more to Leicestershire than simple food production – for example, it was the first place in the UK to have a multi-storey car park. I don’t live there at the moment, because I’m hiding out in a converted municipal garage just outside London; this is because London Mark (you probably remember him from the book) keeps trying to contact me. I know everyone thinks he’s a great guy for what he did, but I don’t trust him and I’ve decided to get away from where he can find me. Besides, The Man may also track me down to Leicester, seeing as Mr. Pope was kind enough to write my home address in his novel…

 

Anyway, take care and write back soon.

 

Your friend and teacher,

Jonathan

 

After ten minutes of messing around on Subway Navigator, I checked my mail again and found a reply. Doesn’t he have any schoolwork to be getting on with?

 

Jonathan, hello!

I think you ‘chicken shit’ because you hiding from London Mark! He also was at book lunch, he is small and very quiet, and you are big and very quiet! I think you win in a fight. I know The Man also, maybe I tell him your new address (joke)!

I am not in Premier League now because you don’t help me. In Russia you teach me much of wing backs and attacking full backs. I think one day I will be like Steve Guppy from Leicester (note the correct spelling!). But maybe my new chance will be soon. We have new trainer from Spartak Moscow at International School St. Petersburg, he teach me more good than you (joke)!

You live in London! At first I don’t know what is ‘converted municipal garage’ but I look in Google Images and I see this is terrible! You will come to live at my new flat for 2 weeks. Next Friday I will come to London with security guard to see flat my father buy me in Bayswater. It has 2 bedrooms, is comfortable, no mushrooms on walls!

Write me, and we will meet next week.

Vladik

 

Should I take charity from a boy in his mid teens who calls me chicken shit, mocks me for being afraid of The Man and is already far richer than I’ll ever be? Of course I should. If it means a brief holiday from my freezing converted garage, which does, incidentally, have mould on the walls, then I’ll take it. It sounded so urban and hip in the advert. Oh, where did it all go wrong?

I wrote straight back.

 

Dear Vladik,

I understand that you’re only joking about me being ‘chicken shit’. Also, my garage is probably a bit nicer than the ones you’ve found pictures of on the Internet, in fact it’s rather urban and hip, but I’d like to slow down a little so it’d be nice to spend a couple of weeks in Bayswater. We can catch up on your football training and revise some English (I see that you’ve forgotten, for example, that in England we don’t include an exclamation mark in salutations, a simple comma suffices). Let me know which flight you’re on, and I will meet you.

 

Your friend and teacher,

Jonathan

 

PS Don’t tell your parents that you’re meeting me

PPS Be careful of bogus coaches. I know that your school is very prestigious and expensive, but this makes it more likely that your coach is a fraud and not really from Spartak Moscow. Football was invented in England, and I still believe we produce the best coaches. One day I’ll come back to Russia full time and teach you properly.

 

I write that I’ll be back in Russia full time more out of hope than anything else. I can’t afford it at the moment, and I’ve got no reason to go back. In the meantime, roll on next week…

 

Mr. Pope is still demanding that I plug his book through this blog – apparently sales have not yet topped the million mark, and if they do he promises to give me a modest share of his fortune. So if you’d like a copy of a reasonably good novel which has totally exploited its lead character, then click here.

 

Let’s finish with a song once again. Another happy early nineties tune, this time Wind It Up by The Prodigy. Equal rights and justice is the slogan in the video…from my new temporary residence in Bayswater, I can maybe start planning the day when Mr. Pope will have to give me both…

 

Part One: Life in a converted municipal garage…

Ten benefits of blogging as a hobby

1. It doesn’t cost much (unless you write bad things about people and they sue)

2. You can comfortably listen to music at the same time, unlike when you’re talking (one of my least favourite hobbies)

3. Ditto with eating

4. You don’t need a loud voice to be heard

5. At last the quiet people have got a good excuse for staying in of an evening

6. It doesn’t matter whether you’re from Leicester, Leeds, Lichfield or London, in the world of blogging there’s only one big, happy family.

7. Well, apart from the fact that I’m being forced to write this blog by Saul Pope to promote his novel (more of that later)

8. It’s a marvellous reflective tool, which can help me understand where my life may be headed (so Pope tells me)

9. Most of what’s written on blogs is more interesting than watching cheap makeover/house conversion programmes (admittedly, it’s a close call)

10. You can even do it from the comfort of a converted municipal garage, as I am doing right now

Yes, I’m back, no longer basking in the luxury and paranoia of life in a ninth-floor apartment towering over Bolshevik Avenue, St. Petersburg, but instead wrapped in a blanket and taking my Coca-Cola at room temperature in a garage nestled in an over-crowded satellite town ten miles from London.

Luckily the money I earned from spending another year as Vladik’s personal English teacher, gym trainer, football coach (he wants to make the Russian national team by his 18th birthday; I wore my Leicester City  shellsuit to one of the English lessons and the job was mine) and latterly driver (also how I lost that job) means that I have enough to live upon for the foreseeable future, meaning that I comfortably ‘between jobs’, able to devote my time to making lists, recording new cassettes of my favourite songs (no plans to move to MP3 just yet) and looking at the reference books in the local library.

And no, I’m not ashamed of this – you, dear taxpayer, don’t support me; I worked hard for those New Russians, and, if you remember, was even brave enough to take the job after I thought they were gangsters. Of course, they weren’t anything of the sort – instead they were nice, very rich, people who liked to have various types of servant. Maybe one day they’ll forgive me and I’ll get my job back…at least that would get Mum off my case.

Why an overcrowded satellite town just outside London? Because London Mark’ll never find me here. You may remember him from the book, he was a bit odd and nowhere near as great as this so-called  Pope has puffed him up to be. Not long after the exciting ending of the tale, he started calling me, and somehow he even got my home address in Leicester. He keeps saying something about a letter he should have given to me. Mum and Dad are on red alert should he call again, and under strict instructions to follow the script I’ve left by the phone (‘no…he’s moved to Luton, where he’s working for a taxidermist who doesn’t like people taking private calls in the office), but in the meantime there’s no suggestion that he’s tracked me down to here.

And why am I writing this blog? Not for fun…I’m a neo-luddite that hates computers (that list at the beginning was just me trying to motivate myself). Unfortunately I’m being blackmailed by an author from Leicester called Saul Pope, who somehow found out about my story and made it into a novel. He claims to know where The Man lives, and says he’ll reveal my location to him unless I help to promote the novel with an amusing blog and a plug for the book.

So here goes…click here if you want to purchase a quite funny novel that won’t be winning the Booker Prize any time soon. Have a look at the other links on the right for a synopsis and some extracts. Enough, Mr Pope - I refuse to partake in any more of your dirty work.

As for Olesya…she’s not someone I can talk about at the moment. Maybe in a future blog…

I’ve been told to end with a song, so how about something to cheer everyone up? Why did Sunshine on a Rainy Day by Zoe disappear off the radar so fast? An uplifting classic, a bit like eating three packets of iced gems in a row and discovering that you still don’t feel sick…