Taken for a Ride

By Fenton Park

Arnold Pickle (aka Branny) is 25 years old, still lives with his parents, has a terrible job and is awful with women.

To make matters worse, he’s attacked by a pigeon on his lunch break and suffers the humiliation of shrieking in front of three attractive girls (Janice, Sam and Adele).

Moments later he’s shocked when Janice approaches him in the sandwich shop and asks him out on a date.

Soon after, Sam asks him out too. And then Adele.

While bragging about his new found pulling power to his mate Des (who has never had a girlfriend), little does he know that the three girls have all been treated so badly by previous boyfriends that they’re looking to get their revenge on the male species.

Their plan is to find a gullible geek, date him for a laugh and make his life a misery – and Branny has become their victim.

But in a comedy that leaves you guessing the outcome to the very end, one thing is for sure – the girls couldn’t have chosen a worse target.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fenton Park
• Release date: Apr 8, 2013

Fenton Park

Fenton Park is an English author living in the beautiful surroundings of the New Forest. To contact Fenton, or to be the first to hear when his next book is out, please email him at [e-mail]

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Is it wrong to laugh at other people’s misfortune? Because I know people laugh at mine.

Take today for instance. Walking through town I had a difficult moment. Three pigeons were on the pavement, and when pigeons block your path what do you do? Walk boldly towards them in the hope that they’ll scatter? Shoo at them with a flick of your foot? Go round, perhaps?

I chose option A. Walk on pretending I’m not scared and the little sods will see who’s boss. But they didn’t follow the rules. Two flew but one wouldn’t play ball. It started trotting and got confused; walking in front of me and cocking its head to look back.

Not wishing to be beaten I lunged forwards stamping my foot, but this just attracted interest from those around me. Not only was a small boy shouting, ‘Man scared of bird’, to his disinterested mother at the cash point, three girls on a bench were watching – and that was far more concerning.

I decided to steady my pace, hoping it may just move aside and let me pass. But it remained in front and, worse still, it was now bobbing along just ahead of my feet, peering back as if to ask where we were both heading. To passers-by it may have even looked like we were together, and I was tempted to start clarifying to people that this was not actually my pet pigeon.

So, Mister Pigeon, you think you can win do you? I said, the young boy squealing with delight, ‘Mummy, Mummy. It’s Doctor Doolittle. Doctor Doolittle’.

Trying not to be distracted by the little shit (that’s the boy I’m referring to, not my new pet) I decided to quicken my pace. Realising I was closing in, my feathery friend began jogging - looking left then right over its shoulders as the tempo built. Fanning its wings I could almost taste victory as it seemed inevitable I’d won. But then it did what I was dreading the most. It flew in my face.

Instinctive reaction? My knee jerked up to protect my body, my hands covered my face and I screamed through my fingers. In fact, it was more like a squeal. But, analyse as you will, one small child pointed and three girls on a bench pissed themselves laughing. Not just a subtle titter either. No. They totally wet themselves and rolled into each other like laughing women seem to do.

Indeed, if we could put the distress of my bird assault to one side for a moment, why is it that girls fall into each other when they find something hilarious? Is it really necessary to clutch one another as if the act of laughter is so debilitating they might lose balance?

Maybe it’s just what they do. Like wrapping hands round coffee cups and leaning forward when gossiping. When you think about it, it’s a fundamental difference between men and women but let’s not worry about that now. My priority was to quickly regain composure.

The small child I could handle. Cupping my hand to the side of my mouth I whispered, Shut it, you cocky little twat, before realising his Mum had stopped stuffing money into her purse and was standing statuesque and in utter disbelief that a twenty five year old man was swearing at her son in Basingstoke High Street.

Sorry, I said glibly, extending my arm to offer the child an apologetic handshake, before realising that probably looked even odder than taking a pigeon out for a walk in the first place.

But what about these girls? What do you do in that situation? Use it as an excuse to go and talk to them? You know; something like, ‘Eh girls. That was a laugh wasn’t it. Pigeons eh. Fuckers!’

Of course not. You press on, chuckle a little to yourself, then shake your head with a smile to let them know that you saw the funny side too. Which is what I did, and I felt like a complete prick.

So back to my main point. Is it really wrong to laugh at other people’s misfortune? I mean, what’s the harm giggling at someone slipping over on ice and then discreetly waiting for the next unsuspecting Muppet to go flat on their arse as well? And is it really so bad to drive past an old lady struggling with her shopping and chuckle to yourself, ‘Go on Grandma. Heave ho. You can do it. That’ll teach you to spend your pension on Eccles cakes and ginger beer’. It’s not malicious if they don’t know you’ve done it. But as for these girls; they knew they’d hurt my feelings. They knew.

I’m Arnold by the way. Arnold Pickle – and if you’re female you’re probably pissing yourself again now, and clutching someone nearby.

I’ll be the first to admit, it’s a ridiculous name. God knows what my parents were thinking. They knew I had to be a Pickle, but to make me an Arnold was absurd. I can appreciate if you’re famous and have lost sight of reality you’re likely to name your child Tomato Plum or Tixilix Non Drowsy. But normal folk don’t tend to pick daft names. Not people whose children, one day, will attend a normal school, have a normal job and try to find a normal relationship. There are millions of names to choose from, but people like me lead a life of misery because our parents were just not thinking. Not thinking at all.

But let’s look on the bright side. You also don’t get forgotten. I met a girl once whose surname was Holiday. Almost every time she was in the pub some bloke would say to his mate, ‘Eh Barry, would you like to cum on Holiday with me?’ Benny Hill, eat your heart out. Classic smut, brilliantly delivered, yet I always felt sorry for her - though not as much as I did for an Irish girl I worked with called Shagme. She insisted it was pronounced Shah-me, with a silent G, but as my mate once said, ‘Just ’et over it love’. ’od he was funny.

So it was Monday and so far the pigeon attack was the only memorable event. Until then my day had been relatively normal. I’d woken at 6.48 when my alarm went off. I have a thing about the number eight. Don’t go there, can’t shake it off. A bit like checking every door on my car even though it’s got central locking. Well, we all have our things. But I don’t get up then. No. I use that early awakening to have a lie in.

Now there’s no way I’m the only person that does this. You know, wake myself up with a loud beeping noise to enjoy going back to sleep – and not just once. Oh no. I do it about six times until I finally hit the moment. The moment? What’s this I hear you enthuse? If I say it’s the micro-second when you know if you don’t get up you’ll be late, millions of you will say, ‘Arnold, I know precisely what you mean’. Well, maybe not millions, but I bet twenty or thirty of you know what I’m on about.

So you get up, you tend to have misjudged it anyway and this results in you starting your day sitting in traffic, checking your watch every five seconds yelling ‘Come on! Come – fucking – on!!’ at an immovable row of brake lights in front of you. But on the upside, at least I can relax once I get to work. Because if I’m honest, the biggest stress is simply getting there on time. After that, my job as an administrator in a finance team is pretty easy.

And if my role’s not dull enough, the company cleans carpets, which is even more boring. It’s also why I’m out at lunchtime being attacked by bloody pigeons!

Let’s face it. If you’ve got an important job, you don’t go round the shops at lunchtime. You carry on working. Look around next time you’re in town between midday and two. It’s full of fed up people with crap jobs aimlessly killing time. No-one with a decent career does it because they’re too busy and important; proving to one another they can carry on their meetings, morning into afternoon without fresh air, food or a piss.

And for the lucky few who’ve reached the true pinnacle of success, they call someone in and tell them to fetch sandwiches. It should be on everyone’s career plan. Earn big money then summon an unwilling employee into the meeting room to write down your food order.

‘Fetch my sandwiches you young, unsuccessful person. For I am important and can no longer walk to a sandwich shop because my time is precious and expensive. The sandwich must be brought to me. I’m also so senior and disconnected with everyday society, I have no idea what a sandwich costs. So I’ll throw you a tenner and hope it adequately covers the price of the tasty purchase’.

If you want to know why I know so much about this, it’s because it happens to me. And whilst it’s the most condescending and personally deprecating activity anyone could endure, you can still make it fun.

The first thing, having taken the important people’s food order, is to go and do some shopping. After all, how will those suited, company car driving, expense account tossers know how long it takes to reach the sandwich shop? But then, and this is where I gain greatest pleasure, I get extras. Not because I want to buy them nice things. No. I do it simply to see what patronising crescendos they deliver as I re-enter the room.

‘Hey, you bought Penguins. Bananas too. Oh wow, Wotsits. Coke! What’s your name young man? Come and work for me. We need someone who can think on his feet’.

It’s painful but I have to liven up my days somehow.

So, here we are. The losers and low earners walking around town every lunchtime.

We should form some sort of club that meets for an hour, I thought. Which is really where my story begins, because I said it. I said it in Greggs, my favourite sandwich shop.

A sausage roll please, I smiled, then grabbed a bag of crisps from the little basket on the counter and patted it to show I was buying that too.

Is that everything? the little shop assistant asked, with that look in her eyes that begged me not to make a late impulse decision for the iced donut that was clearly beyond her reach.

You know what? I said, handing her the money. I should start a club for people like me who’ve got boring jobs and want to do something at lunchtime.

The comment was really just to myself, as I knew she wouldn’t understand. After all, while the rest of us were wandering aimlessly in town, this was the most exhilarating and productive period of her day. But I was surprised to hear a voice behind me say, I agree. And as I turned to look, there standing next to me was one of the pigeon laughers. She’d followed me in, and she’d spoken to me. Two things women never do. I get neither followed nor spoken to. And until now I never thought I would.

So what was she doing in Greggs? What was she doing in bloody Greggs?

What are you doing in bloody Greggs? I blurted out, which I think was the last thing she was expecting - particularly as we didn’t know each other, and now everyone in the shop assumed we did. But she was clearly a pro. Considering we had an audience, and a hungry one at that, she recovered from my outburst with grace.

Sorry I laughed at you, she said calmly.

No problem, I replied.

She was attractive. Pretty in a nice normal way if you know what I mean. And if a girl’s good looking she can piss in your pint and you’ll still love her if she talks to you. Yep, we’re a sad lot us blokes, but a girl speaking to me in the sandwich shop was the closest thing I’d had to a shag in ages and I wasn’t going to let the pigeon thing blow it for me now.

Shall we walk? she said. And before I knew it we were strolling out of the door together, and all I could think of was, shall I eat my sausage roll now or hold fire and see what happens?

CHAPTER TWO

Sunday lunchtime. If there was one thing Janice hated, it was arriving at the pub first. Do you sit and wait? Glance at the door? Look at your watch and tut from time to time? Not because you want to of course, but as an act to show others you’re not some weirdo who just walks in for no reason. You are in fact meeting someone. Or do you confidently march up to the bar, elbow your way in and order yourself a lager top and check out the male talent while you’re at it.

For Janice, it was neither. She arrived, saw her mates weren’t there and chose to wait outside. Well not exactly by choice. It was her way of making sure they knew they were late - and that she was pissed off. A simple but effective piece of anger showmanship that would unsettle you if you didn’t know her, but you’d find funny if you did. As the minutes passed her irritation grew, causing her to rip her phone from her handbag. ‘Where r u?’ She hit send and watched the text leave. It beeped immediately. ‘2 mins. Sorry x’. At least Adele was on her way.

For fuck’s sake, Janice muttered.

She glanced down the lifeless street and shook her head. She’d been cheated on yet again in her most recent relationship, she had a shit job and was stuck in a rut. Was this all life could offer? Meeting friends for drinks on Sunday because there was nothing else to do. Adele appeared, running, trying to conceal how funny she thought it was that Janice was fuming.

Just come on, said Janice, pushing the pub door and heading back in.

Adele smiled as she ordered the drinks.

You’re seriously impatient y’know. I mean, I was only a few seconds late and you’re getting all pissed off with me.

The two girls sat down, Janice still not having spoken. She couldn’t remain silent for long.

And where’s bloody Sam?

Popping round to finish with Dave and then she’ll be over, Adele replied nonchalantly, taking a long sip of her drink.

What? She’s just going to drop in on him, dump him, say cheerio, and then come round here like nothing’s happened?

Well, what do you expect her to do? Adele looked surprised.

I don’t know. How about a few hours of talking things through, of begging, of tears, of mutual heartbreak, of soul searching, of… of…. well surely it’s not just a handshake and a ‘thanks for all the sex’ for Christ’s sake, blurted Janice a little too loudly as a man sitting on a bar stool looked over his shoulder. All I’m saying, she continued in more of a whisper, is that it feels – well, a bit clinical.

Janice’s point was lost on Adele.

Jan, they’ve been going out for three weeks, which is the longest relationship she’s had since ‘you know what’ happened years ago. As far as I know she’s only shagged him four times and that was when she was pissed. He chats up other women left right and centre, and he’s dull as shit. Let’s get real girl, this isn’t love. And you, my friend, are being far too romantic. Tears and soul searching after three bloody weeks. Have you heard yourself?

But, Adele, look at us. We’re in our mid twenties. By the time Sam walks through that door, we’ll all be single. The two of you treat blokes like fast food. You get them, take a bite, then spit them out.

I don’t think she did that with Dave, said Adele, shaking her head.

Did what?

Take a bite, said Adele pointing to her mouth with a smile.

Can you please be sensible for one moment, Adele. Janice’s irritation was growing.

But if she did take a bite, you’d be right about her spitting it out because she’s been on a diet you know, she said, amused by her own quick wit, but stopping as she saw the look on Janice’s face.

Sorry, she said. You carry on.

No forget it. You know what. I can’t be bothered talking to you about it, because you’ll just take the piss, said Janice. All I want from life is a bit of excitement and for men to stop messing me about. But here I am, feeling miserable and lost, I haven’t got a clue where my life is going, and you, one of my best mates, is knocking out jokes about blow jobs.

She put her drink down. For a moment Adele thought her friend was going to cry.

Sorry babe, she said quietly. I do understand – honest I do. And so does Sam. I just think if we don’t try and laugh about our crappy love lives it’ll just get us down even more than it does already.

Janice smiled and nodded. Adele was right, and the two sat in empathetic silence; short-lived as Sam burst into the pub.

That guy is such a prick! she screamed, causing the man at the bar to look over his shoulder again, this time throwing in a disapproving tut. Glaring daggers back at him, Sam slammed her handbag onto the table.

Once again I’ve wasted my time on a loser. Christ, I must have been seriously shitfaced to ever sleep with him. She paused for breath. Right. Do us a favour and get me a double vodka and coke because I’m absolutely bursting for the loo.

As the door to the ladies swung shut, Adele apologised to the man before turning back to Janice with a glib smile.

Well babe, it looks like her chat with Dave went well. What was that you were saying about our crappy love lives?

CHAPTER THREE

I’m Janice by the way, she said.

We’d only walked a few paces but I was still wondering whether to take a bite of the sausage roll. My routine was to take it out of the bag as I left the shop and throw the bag in a bin by the door. It’s what I always did and I’d done it today without thinking. To make matters worse it was incredibly hot, so I’d tucked my crisps under my armpit and was juggling it to avoid being burnt.

Deciding I had to take a bite, it all went badly wrong. The moment it touched my lips it was so unbearably painful I had to change tack and prise a chunk away with my front teeth. Now blowing loudly to cool it, I was panting like I’d just completed a marathon, and flakes of pastry were flying out at all angles.

Realising this was making a very poor first impression I bailed out, let it drop back into my hand, then threw it on the ground; smiling as if buying lunch, walking fifteen yards, then chucking it on the floor was the most natural thing in the world.

That’s a nice name, I said, now pretending I also wasn’t wiping my greasy hands down the sides of my trousers, and hoping Janice didn’t comment on the crushed crisp packet still wedged under my arm.

And……. do you have a name? she asked with a warm smile.

My mates call me Branston – well Branny for short, I said. It’s a nickname. Based on the Pickle?

I put a question mark there because my voice went up slightly at the end of the sentence to check she’d got the logic. And to be honest, this was all true. My mates do call me Branny. As well as tosser and fuck face of course. But that’s just friendly banter isn’t it?

Oh. Okay Branny, she laughed. "And is that what you’d like me to call you, or do you have a real name?"

Well, the problem is I have a very crap name, I said. And if I tell you, you’ll laugh. You’ll then make your excuses to end this conversation and walk off. I’ll then never find out why we’re walking down Basingstoke High Street together and will spend my dying days working out what it was all about.

Good. I was relaxing and getting into my flow. You see, you may be thinking, okay, I’ve got you sussed. You’re a geeky bloke with a silly name and an all round spotty virgin. But that’s not the case. Yes, I do have a very crap name. Accepted, I do not generally find myself in women’s company when most of my mates seem to achieve this very naturally. But geeky? No, I wouldn’t say so. I’m just a regular guy, in a boring job that goes drinking with his pals, watches footy on telly, and enjoys a beer and a laugh. But me and women; for whatever reason, life has decided that my mates’ girlfriends will love me to bits but single women don’t want to know.

I promise I won’t laugh at your name, said Janice with mock sincerity. Come on, it can’t be that bad.

Right, I said, hesitating. Okay. Well – erm - basically – it’s Arnold Pickle.

We’d stopped walking now and Janice looked straight at me.

Fair enough, she said without a flinch or a smile. In that case I’ll call you Branny too, as long as that’s okay with you.

And that was that. Here was a girl who five minutes previously had almost wet herself laughing when I was assaulted by a pigeon, now being nice to me.

What’s this all about? I asked, perhaps a bit too abruptly. I mean, I’m not trying to be funny, but I don’t make a habit of meeting people in Greggs and I have a feeling that you don’t either. So, what’s going on?

Branny, she smiled. Too many questions, too early on. You clearly have a lot to learn.

And with that we walked, we chatted and we exchanged phone numbers.

Back at work I was starving but excited. A note on my desk told me to call my boss urgently, and no later than 1.45; some problem with an irate client. A separate stack of papers came with the instructions, ‘Please photocopy and return to me by 2pm. Ta Phil’.

I looked at my watch. It was five past already and I’d let them both down.

Plonking both items to one side I wondered why, at twenty five, I was still dealing with all this crap, and when would I get the promotion that reflected my loyalty, hard work and dedication. But then deciding I’d missed their deadlines anyway I logged onto Facebook. My update was short and simple to my mates.

‘Gentleman - may I have your attention. A certain Monsieur A Pickle, aka your good friend Branny, has just pulled in his lunch hour! Oh yeah – I’ve still got what it takes baby!’

As I leaned back in my chair with a sense of satisfaction, the back of my head touched something soft causing me to swivel round to find my boss had been behind me the whole time. Not helping matters, my screen was now playing a video clip of a dog skateboarding - posted by one of my mates.

My boss spoke quietly, and unemotionally, but was quite red in the face offering a clue that he wasn’t particularly happy.

Branny, he said, gesturing with a slight turn of his head. Get your lazy arse into my office right now because you and I are going to have a little chat.

A squirrel joined the dog on the skateboard, causing me to crack the faintest of smiles, and deciding my promotion was probably on hold for another year anyway, I clicked ‘Like’ before closing down my browser to take the walk of shame past the disapproving gaze of Accounts and Credit Control.

CHAPTER FOUR

Joining her friends at the table in the bar, Sam was calmer.

I tell you, she said. Blokes think they have all the power. But when you go round to see them, take them by surprise and tell them they’re history, they just crumble right in front of you.

Adele leaned forwards. Sam had her attention and she knew she was going to love this chat.

Why, what happened?

"Well, I got round to Dave’s right, and he was playing some game with a mate of his on the Playstation. So I said to him I needed to talk and he had the cheek to look up at me and say he was two nil up and they were in the dying seconds of extra time. So I walked to the wall, pulled the plug out and went right up to his face and said, ‘Well your time has run out. Because you’re a twat, your mate’s an ugly bastard and we’re finished.’ And then I just headed for the door. He was chasing behind me saying ‘No, come on babe. Don’t do this. What’s the problem?’ So I stopped, looked at him and said, ‘The problem is, I’ve been told you’ve been playing around with two other women and quite frankly love, I don’t do threesomes!’

But you have had a threesome haven’t you? interrupted Janice.

Eh? Sam didn’t like her flow being disrupted.

I’m just saying that you did once have a threesome with that Lenny from the pizza delivery place and his mate Kinner.

For Christ’s sake Janice, don’t you get what I’m saying? What I mean is I don’t do threesomes when I don’t even know the other two women. And I actually don’t do threesomes with women anyway. I’d only do it if it was another bloke and even then I do have my standards you know.

So you don’t do foursomes then, Janice said smugly.

What are you on about?

You said he’s been playing around with two other women. So if you were involved as well, that’s a foursome. A threesome would be if there was only one other woman; or another bloke if you wanted your moral standards upheld.

Well, whatever, said Sam not really understanding the joke. But at the end of the day, he pissed me about and now it’s over. And I loved ditching him. And the more blokes piss me about the more I’d like to get my revenge on them all.

Well, how would you do that? asked Adele with mock intrigue, knocking back the last of her drink.

Do what? said Sam.

You know, get your revenge, Adele persevered.

I don’t know. Maybe we should all cheat on our next boyfriends and see how they like it. Sam was struggling to find any logic in her argument and Janice saw another opportunity for a jibe.

Okay. And how would that work? she said. None of us has a boyfriend right now. Am I correct? Am I also right in thinking that we’d all quite like a nice one? Sam and Adele were silent. So why, if we all found a nice fella, would we then go and cheat on him to get our own back on a load of blokes who’ve shat on us in the past and don’t even know what we’re doing. What are we expected to do? Cheat on someone we like and then go round to a previous boyfriend and tell him what we’ve done to make him feel bad? Janice stood up. I’m getting another round in. Do you both want the same again?

As Janice waited at the bar Adele turned to Sam.

It is a bit farfetched you know babe.

Sam was deep in thought and didn’t respond. Adele fell quiet knowing she’d lost all contact; instead glancing around the pub to see if she could see anyone she knew.

As far as pubs go The Greyhound was pretty uninspiring. With only one, very large, room extending to glass double doors that led to a small beer garden, and a bar surrounded by regulars, you wouldn’t be blamed for wondering why three twenty five year olds would come here at all. But they’d had some great nights over the years. It was also the closest place to home where they could get a drink and they felt like they belonged.

When they were sixteen Jez, the six foot, twenty stone, bearded landlord and his wife, who didn’t look too dissimilar, turned a blind eye to their underage drinking. Being allowed to stay for lock-ins also made them feel special. Adele remembered the time she’d said to Jez that anyone could be on the front page of the Sunday papers by the following weekend if they really wanted to.

So how do you figure that out? he asked, polishing a glass as he looked inquisitively through his thick rimmed spectacles.

Easy, Adele replied. Just do something really outrageous and you’ll be looking at your own face over your cornflakes by Sunday morning.

Not a man to let things lie, Jez put the glass down to show he was joining this conversation. Leaning forwards with both hands on the bar he looked straight at Adele, bearing down from his raised platform.

Adele. What are you talking about? he said slowly.

Jez, continued Adele. It’s not complicated. All I’m saying is that it’s Thursday today and I bet I could be on the front page of all the newspapers by Sunday. That’s all.

But if that was the case, my dear, he said, the papers would be full of chancers who simply decided to pull a stunt to get into the news.

"Well, no actually Jez, it’s not like that. Because to get onto every front page you’ve got to do something pretty outrageous, which takes me back to my first point. This isn’t about pulling the odd silly stunt. What I’m saying is if you do something crazy enough, then on the