The AQALAN Initiative

By Edmund Fitzgerald

Dave loved Michelle more than life itself. But when, at 40, he finds himself alone, he can no longer cope. Big Al and James, concerned that their friend might top himself, need to formulate a rescue plan; and fast. Spanish language classes, a crash course in the traditional Andalusian dance of sevillanas and a week of fiesta in Sevilla ought to do the trick. Brilliant! Itʼ s a project requiring preparation, and in the case of tall, ungainly, rugby fanatic Big Al, a large dollop of humiliation as "second row forwards donʼ t do bleedinʼ flamenco".
With Osama bin Laden dead and the Arab Spring having reached its zenith, al-Qaeda splits into two factions. There may be a more intelligent way to Islamicise the decadent west. But could the AQALAN Initiative be strangled at birth, and the world thrown into turmoil, by a seemingly innocuous spat between two men attending a sevillanas dance class in south London?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781624882791

Book preview

Author

Prologue – These Miss You Nights

The door to the front room opened and the creature waddled in.

Da-dah!

Michelle placed her glass on the centre table, closed her eyes and counted to ten. It’s supposed to be Stars of the Silver Screen, you silly sod.

The beast nodded.

How many times have you worn that … thing?

The creature responded with a flap of its wings. Five flaps, plus one more as an afterthought.

Right. Six. Michelle shook her head and smiled.

Not angry. Just the most beautiful and loving of smiles.

… beep beep beep …

And with the time now at seven o’clock, we go over to our news studio for an update on national and international news.

The man pulled the sweat-drenched bedclothes from his body, turned on his side and fumbled for the digital radio alarm on the bedside table.

… being the latest of tumultuous events to have hit the Arab world in recent years. The overthrow of dictatorships in Tunisia and Egypt. A new Libya freed from the shackles of the Gaddafi tyranny. The decimation of the al-Qaeda leadership which began with the assassination of Osama bin Laden by American forces on Pakistani soil. These events have all served as a precursor to last night’s historic statement by the Chairman of the People’s Transitional Council of …

He turned off the radio, fell back into bed and lay still. Under normal circumstances he would have devoured every word, every morsel of such a momentous news event. But nowadays he was not living a life of normality. The big canvas of the world outside would count for nothing. He just did not care about anything any more.

The man stared at the crystal ceiling light washed by the faint, sickly-yellow glow of a street lamp. Slowly the fitting morphed into a misshapen, indefinite form as it began to dissolve behind a film of tears. To the man’s left lay the vague outlines of an unruffled pillow. He reached out and ran his hand across the soft cotton fabric before pulling it towards him. The smell always got to him. Her smell. Comforting yet heartbreaking at the same time.

In the shadows, the half-open door of the wardrobe revealed an emptiness which reflected his new life. The disorganised clutter on the now perfume-less dressing table mirrored his decline from cosy, loving relationship to cold, careless nothingness.

The numbness hurt. So much.

He buried his face into the pillow and sobbed. As he did almost every night.

If only he could turn back time.

Part I – London

01. October

Welling, southeast London

There is a corner of southeast London which has never deigned to align itself with the perceived wisdom on global warming. A place which stubbornly shuns the long, warm, sun-filled October days promised by environmentalists and doomsayers alike.

Cold, wet, miserable Welling. Southeast London to dyed-in-the-wool Londoners; northwest Kent to the pretentious. Although both camps tasted the same exhaust fumes, the self-proclaimed residents of the Garden of England somehow inhaled a superior class of carbon monoxide.

Alan Big Al Bannerman lifted his six-foot-three, seventeen-stone frame from the complaining Ikea armchair, ambled across to the bay window and gazed out onto a murky, drizzle-drenched Fairham Road.

Suburbia at its most mundane.

The autumnal, Saturday afternoon light was beginning to fade as his eyes followed a middle-aged woman, weighed down with Lidl shopping bags, shuffling along the shiny pavement in her long, grey trench coat. She waddled into the short driveway of number twenty-one opposite. Wrestling the keys from the depths of her coat pocket, she clicked the lock, pushed the door open and disappeared inside. Within the next minute, Big Al imagined, she would have the kettle on and be preparing for herself a tasty snack. He turned away from the window and peered into the gloom of the dimly lit room.

No chance of a cheese sarnie, I suppose? he sighed. Words wasted, he knew, but he needed to say something; anything to break the monotony of the match commentator’s vacuous ramblings.

Dave lay on the sofa supping from his umpteenth can of beer. The fifty-inch, HD, flat-screen provided the illusion of actually being at the game. But White Hart Lane was the last place Dave Simpson wanted to be. To Dave, the screen’s vividness merely amplified the slings and arrows of the outrageous misfortune of yet another Tottenham defeat at the hands of arch-rival Arsenal.

Do me a favour, Al. Sit down, shut the fuck up and drink your beer. You’re making the place look bloody untidy.

Big Al exhaled an exaggerated sigh of boredom, moped across the room and slumped into the leather armchair. He was not a fan of the so-called beautiful game. Far from it. According to Big Al, professional football was awash with overpaid sissies and cheats.

Now rugby was an altogether different kettle of fish; a real sport for real men. Big Al’s battered ears and crooked nose attested to his pursuit of choice, albeit in the past. For now, at forty years of age, his body would be unable to snap back from the knocks and bruises of tackles, falls and punches which were part and parcel of that fair game. His old rugby boots, confined to the top shelf of a bedroom wardrobe, could only kick at the accumulated dust of time.

Big Al shook his head and sipped at his beer. He admired his little pal’s multiple alliances when it came to sports. Football, basketball, rugby, golf; anything with a ball, Dave would follow it. In Big Al’s case, it was either rugby, rugby or … female beach volleyball. Much to his displeasure, however, precious little female beach volleyball was ever shown on the BBC.

Blimey! I haven’t seen such a convincing dive since Michael Phelps did the …

Al! Shut the fuck up!

Pansies, the lot of them! mumbled Big Al. He took another swig of beer. Football. A game for hooligans played by girlies.

Bored out of his mind, Big Al surveyed his immediate surroundings. Tatty magazines and out-of-date newspapers lay scattered across the chairs and dining table. Empty beer cans stood next to books and rugby trophies on the shelves. Shed clothing lurked in the recesses of what had once been a spotlessly clean lounge. Each week showcased a fresh smudge on the carpet accompanied by the malodorous whiff of some new, indistinguishable strain of takeaway; pungent testimony to Dave’s progressive disintegration into domestic chaos and despair.

Unsurprisingly, the last of a long succession of cleaners had resigned three weeks ago. Big Al cringed at the thought of what might lie beyond the kitchen door. He did not dare imagine the bedrooms either. Curtains, permanently drawn across the windows of the extension at the back of the house, served to blot out the wretched state of the garden.

Here, in the lounge, the meagre selection of framed photos shepherded into one corner of the shelving units never failed to sadden. Every Saturday for the past ten months and countless other midweek evenings, Big Al, from that same chair, had clocked those images. In particular, the most tragic of centrepieces: a snapshot of a proud couple standing in front of their new home. This home. It was the only dust-free photo. One of only two objects in the house Dave ever tended to; ever cared about. That second item sat a couple of metres to the left of the photo. The bright-yellow, plastic toy took its incongruous pride of place at the centre of the mantelpiece. Melancholy swept over Big Al at the very sight of it. He glanced down to his hands and fiddled with his beer can.

… gifting another free kick to Spurs two metres outside the Arsenal penalty box. Only a few seconds of extra time to go, so they’re going to have to make this one count.

Dave sprang from his seat and clenched his free hand into a fist. Come on, my sons! Come on!

… and as he steps up to take the kick … Ouufff!

The shout of the mob behind the Arsenal net rose to a crescendo as Dave turned away from the set and aimed a foot at the settee. Bollocks!

… and that’s it. Arsenal win by a goal to nil as the referee blows his whistle on a somewhat uninspiring game …

Dave reached for the remote, pressed the mute button, chucked the unit on the coffee table and collapsed on the sofa.

Oh whoopy-do! The end of another scintillating afternoon in the company of my best mate watching yet another skull-numbing session of pansyball, said Big Al sarcastically. I could hardly ask for a better way to spend my Saturdays, could I?

Dave ignored his friend and swigged at his beer.

Think I’ll give Kylie a bell and see if she fancies leaving Wembley stadium a bit early. You know, join in the fun, continued Big Al. Of course I’d be the perfect gentleman. I’d make her a lovely cuppa and knock her up a tasty cheese and pickle sandwich. Then, as she luxuriates in her good fortune, I’d whisper sweet nothings in her ear and – Bob’s yer proverbial.

Dave shook his head and said nothing.

Likely won’t happen, though, muttered Big Al.

Surprise me!

It won’t happen, Dave, because of technical issues. First off, your kitchen doesn’t know what a teabag looks like. Second, on the off-chance that your fridge might be stocked up with your favourite Dairylea triangles, I suspect the shit would be a festering, furry-green mush by now …

Wrong! I bought some a few months back. They should be …

And finally, mate. Fi-nal-ly. There’s no way anyone with Kylie’s class is ever going to dare venture into one of your bleedin’ bedrooms. Is there?

"That’s right, shit-for-brains. Blame me for torpedoing another one of Big Al’s Improbable Shags. Dave nodded at the crumpled can on the table. Re-fill?"

Go on. Twist my arm.

Dave slid off the sofa and slouched out of the lounge. He paused at the door to the kitchen and inhaled a lungful of air, bracing himself for what lay beyond. The dirty plates piled up in the sink. The waste bin overflowing with polystyrene boxes stained with exotic hues of Indian sauces and pebble-dashed with putrefying grains of egg fried rice. Escaped socks from haphazard attempts at loading the washing machine shared the floor with the odd grateful cockroach scampering back beneath the fridge, weighed down by its noxious plunder of lamb jalfrezi leftover.

Dave suffered an anxiety attack every time he pushed open that door. It was not just the diabolical aesthetic and sanitary considerations which panicked him. It was that the whole friggin’ mess served as a constant reminder of just how much Michelle had organised his pathetic life for him.

The clinking of pots and pans rattled through the open kitchen door and into the lounge. Big Al winced at the nerve-jangling clatter of something heavy and metallic hitting the deck. The big man shook his head, lifted himself from the armchair and wandered back towards the bay window with its panoramic view of Fairham Road. One of Welling’s better middle-class addresses, he thought, gazing across the street at the row of identical houses opposite.

His best mate had bought the 1930s, three-bedroom semi eight years ago, a couple of years into his relationship with Michelle. He had spent a lot of money on the place since: knocking out walls, building a new garage, putting in a new bathroom, kitchen and rear extension. Projects which, while daunting to most men, were a labour of love to a totally loved-up Dave Simpson.

Testimony – Alan Big Al Bannerman

I remember the new carpets had just been laid. A professional job. Invisible joins. Cream-coloured, though; designed to accentuate even the lightest of stains. His choice. Not Michelle’s. Obviously. The silly sod wouldn’t allow people through the front door until they donned specially procured carpet slippers.

As a piss-take he bought me a pair of those orange Garfield monstrosities; the kind worn by kids and simpletons. Good old James came off worse than me, though. This was mutual friend James Tanner’s first ever visit to Chez Dave. He was removing his beloved Panama Jacks when Dave presented him with a gift-wrapped parcel.

I decided you needed something to brighten up your otherwise miserable existence. So I bought you these.

James ripped apart the paper wrapping.

Go on! Put ’em on, said Dave, and come on into the lounge!

James had never met Dave’s parents. Of course, he’d heard talk of them. Dad was a deeply religious man who had very nearly dedicated his life to God until he’d been defrocked by a spot of carnal knowledge. He’d married the instigator of that corruptive tryst, a prim and proper primary school teacher of conservative Kentish stock.

To their credit, Dave’s parents politely refrained from glaring at James’ feet as he shuffled towards them with two prominent hairy bollocks and an erect, nine-inch dildo sticking up from each foot.

Oh, how we laughed …

But, damn it! As I look around me now, reminders of those good times still pain me. The carpet is no longer cream-coloured. In fact, the wearing of street shoes is now obligatory if only to keep one’s socks clean.

Over these past ten months I’ve slept on that sofa more times than I care to count. On many an occasion have I awoken, wandered around the lounge and flicked through the same old CD collection, which, like Dave, came to a complete stand-still last Christmas.

While the photos of Michelle have now been removed – with that one dust-free exception – there still remain remnants of old school memorabilia. Such as Dave’s favourite faded colour print of the school rugby team.

Sidcup. 1990.

There we are, grinning like idiots as we always tended to do when we were together. Big Al and Little Dave. The tall, gormless, second row forward, and the small but powerfully built hooker.

Dave. The brother I never had.

Sana’a, The Yemen – July (3 months earlier)

With its sun-bleached, whitewashed walls pitted by small-calibre gunshot, the ramshackle building stood in one corner of the Suq al-Milh. The old market square bustled with traders selling raisins, copper, cotton and salt. The waft of spices and freshly baked bread filled the air. Women, dressed in the traditional black abaya, stood in huddled clusters and whispered gossip. The menfolk sat around small tables gesticulating with their arms and exchanging the news of the day while they sipped on strong Yemeni tea and puffed on shisha.

Sana’a has known civilisation for more than two millennia. Yemenis have traded in that marketplace for over a thousand years. Blessed by a hospitable climate and its proximity to key trade routes, it was no wonder the Romans referred to the Yemen as Arabia Felix: fortunate Arabia.

But not so fortunate in today’s world.

By rights, the Yemen should be a bustling, prosperous country. But crossroads bring together many types of traveller. The mix can produce both a thriving culture and devastating conflict. Internal strife and civil war continued to reduce much of the state to abject poverty; an excellent raw material for the master craftsmen of manipulation, expert in the reshaping of human beliefs and desires.

The Visitor was cautious. He had spent the last hour walking through the narrow streets of the old town. The labyrinth of twisting, turning lanes, alleys and dead-ends – some barely wide enough for a moped – furnished a protective hive for inhabitants while offering no escape route for unwanted intruders. The perfect defence against the infidel.

Once the Visitor was satisfied he had not been trailed, he surfaced in the suq and ambled around the stalls, sniffing at peppers and sifting fresh spices through his fingers.

A tall man, he blended in well. The circuitous three week journey to Sana’a had endowed on his cheap, charcoal suit a worn-in credibility. His habitually well-coiffured beard and hair, jet-black despite middle age, had not seen a clipper for some time. He had eschewed his usual Boss eau de toilette in favour of the cheap, musky scent of locally produced soap. Now and again he glanced up at the white four-storeyed building and triangulated his distances. It always paid to know the territory, and never more so than today.

The Visitor looked at his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Time. He made a beeline towards the narrow passage running alongside the house, paying scant regard to the traditional plaster decorations, the geometric shapes and horizontal bands common to the buildings in the vicinity.

The instructions had been clear and unequivocal. He was to enter through the shoe repair shop to be reached from the side alley. He should arrive at 12:45 pm, give or take five minutes. Missing that narrow window of opportunity would result in an aborted meeting and the house being abandoned immediately. The consequences of that would be dire, particularly with regards to his own survival. The bluntness of the order did not surprise him. Such was the nature of the people he was dealing with.

At 12:45 pm precisely, the Visitor entered the shop. Two heavily built men stood behind a counter stocked with polishes, brushes, wooden forms for shoes and vicious-looking leather punches and awls. Another two bruisers of equal brawn occupied chairs flanking the entrance. All four sported the traditional calf-length shirt, the zanna, strapped at the waist by a leather belt holding the jambiyya, the ceremonial dagger, symbol of virility and indicator of the bearer’s clan.

As-salamu alaykum, said the Visitor, nodding to the men behind the counter. I wonder if one of you gentlemen might direct me to the train station. The Visitor knew full well that no such luxury existed in Sana’a.

One of the standing men waggled his index finger, signalling that the Visitor should follow him around the counter and into the back of the shop. From there they took the stairs to an upper floor where another stocky character stood guard before an intricately carved, solid wood door. The two henchmen nodded to each other. The door creaked open and the Visitor was ushered in.

Big Al

Dave and I became best mates at the local county primary school. By some fluke we managed to bluff our way through the eleven-plus exams and earn ourselves a grammar school education. Our short-lived elation at our amazing brilliance was emphatically quashed, however, by our respective fathers when they informed us of our on-going scholastic fate.

Their decision was unilateral and irreversible. We would be attending one of the very few remaining single-sex establishments in Kent; a place where our malleable young minds wouldn’t be lustfully idling over flashes of knicker from the girls on the netball court.

As my father so succinctly explained it, my education was to be focused on academic study …and rugby. Character building, sonny boy! as Dad would repeat ad nauseam; an encouragement which did nothing to soften the blow of realisation that Dave and I were doomed to spend the next seven years of our informative lives living like bleedin’ eunuchs.

Those were the wilderness years. In retrospect, however, our parents were spot-on. Deprived of watching breasts develop, there was nothing else to do but to knuckle down and study.

Dave and I did everything together at Sidcup Grammar School for Boys. Some of this was of our own free choice, but all the crucial decisions were invariably directed by the fickle fingers of fatherhood. We had set our sights on the path of least resistance and preferred to stick with languages for our A-level streaming. Our modus operandi was flawless. We’d pass the French and German exams, skip university and get cushy jobs in a bank with an extensive foreign branch network. Then, with our linguistic skills, we’d do lots of travelling overseas and sleep with hundreds of those loose continental types.

The fickle fingers, however, had other ideas. Ignoring all pleas for clemency, our cushy plan was clubbed to the ground like a Canadian seal pup, and the fearsome spectres of Maths and Physics surfaced in its stead.

In short, secondary school was neither enjoyable nor a doddle. Academically we were rewarded with reasonable A-level grades in two science subjects, but emotionally and sexually we felt we’d been permanently time-warped to the age of eleven.

With the High Priestess of Free Love surely owing us some favours, we left school expecting that the promiscuous nineties would make amends by laying on for us a constant supply of tasty women on an infinitely replenishable silver platter.

As usual the theory eclipsed the reality and that’s when I lost my last microbic vestige of religious belief.

Sana’a, The Yemen – July

Four of the men, including the Emir seated at the opposite end of the oblong table, were Saudis. Each wore the familiar white dishdasha complemented by the braided black ogal which encircled the head and held the flowing white gutrah in place. The other four attendees of indeterminable nationality sported nondescript dark suits and open-necked shirts.

The Visitor reflected on the punctiliousness of the gathering. This eight-man executive – the standard al-Qaeda structure – was analogous to a company board of directors. Just as any western business would create regional boards along the lines of its corporate HQ, so al-Qaeda had set up franchises to emulate the structure of its own top echelon. Long gone were the days of rag-tag groups directing strategy from caves. These organisations had learned both discipline and meticulous planning from those they sought to destroy.

Al-Qaeda – The Foundation – had developed a command structure for committees such as this. Each of the seven heads of function would be a trusted colleague of the chairman; the Emir. The Visitor scanned the faces around the table and wondered which man took responsibility for which branch of operations. Which man ran the foreign purchases committee, entrusted with acquiring weapons from overseas? Who represented the military executive responsible for organising terrorist training and directing the madrasa education centres? Who among these men governed the sharia and political committees charged with issuing edicts and laws governing an Islamic state? Which three would head up the finance, security and information functions?

The Visitor knew he was sat in the presence of a full shura, the strategic and political nerve centre of an al-Qaeda franchise. Outside of the committee the Islamic army waited, prepared to execute the shura’s decisions and decrees.

For reasons of utmost security, there would be no written record of what the Visitor would learn today.

The meeting of the shura lasted just under two hours. There was no debate; no dissent. When the Emir had asked if he had any questions, the Visitor had been so stunned by the information imparted to him that he could not think of anything to say other than to confirm his understanding of the proceedings.

The committee remained seated as the chairman thanked the Visitor and directed him to leave the room. The man followed the stairs to the ground floor, nodded to the heavies in the shop below and stepped out into the bright sunshine. He reached inside his jacket pocket for his sunglasses and stood for a while in the middle of the narrow side alley as he pulled together his thoughts.

The oppressive heat of the meeting room and the jumble of words, instructions and promises that rattled around in his brain had given the Visitor a thumping headache. Before returning to his hotel he would need to find a place to sit down and mull over the events of the last two hours while they were still fresh in his mind.

He strolled through the narrow alleyways behind the Suq al-Milh and soon came across a coffee shop at the intersection of two colourful and bustling streets. He took a table next to the window and ordered sabaya, Yemeni bread soaked in honey. He instructed the proprietor that the honey should be from Hadramout, reputed to be the best in the world for taste as well as its medicinal and aphrodisiacal properties. The sabaya came accompanied by a glass of qishr, a beverage made of spiced coffee husks and ginger. Sipping on the flavoursome brew he stared out through the smeared window of the café and reflected on his lot.

Here he was, a dedicated believer in the Islamic Jihad who, approaching fifty years of age, had waited patiently for the chance to prove himself to his peers. His summons to Sana’a had promised to provide him with his big opportunity; his crowning glory. He had entered the meeting with high hopes of what they would ask him to do. However, not only was the session not with whom he had expected, but the mission he had been tasked with … was unanticipated, to say the least.

Fuck it!

The Visitor looked up at the ceiling and expelled a lungful of air. His own personal ambitions had been railroaded by the tumultuous events in North Africa and the Arabian Peninsula. Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Syria; the list went on. Until the very recent past, al-Qaeda could have guaranteed insurrection and brutal domination of these states. But now there was new and unexpected competition; the clamour for democracy from the Arab peoples themselves. Freedom. Liberty. Self-determination. These were the latest battle-cries from the streets. Not Death to America, but Death to Repression.

And if all that was not a substantial enough bugger-factor, the cold-blooded murder of the Great Emir at the hands of the American infidel had only served to place another obstacle in the Visitor’s path to eternal salvation; the final nail in an already banged-up coffin.

Fuck!

He shoved the plate of food to one side and took one last sip of qishr. Throwing some coins on the table he stood and exited the café. As he wandered back towards his hotel, he tried to maintain focus on the single positive thought that battled through the fog of his dark mood. If the task handed to him was the Will of Allah, then so be it. His Will shall be done.

Who was he, a mere servant to The Call, to do otherwise?

Welling

Big Al’s school reminiscences were interrupted by Dave who had re-entered the living room clutching two beers, one of which he handed to his friend before collapsing on the sofa. Bunch of tarts, the lot of them!

I don’t know why you bother, mate, said Big Al. I can think of more productive ways to spend a Saturday than drooling over a gang of overpaid yobs on the box. You should do some jogging or nip down the gym. You were fond of the gym before … Big Al winced and let the moment pass. Get your life back is what I’m saying.

Dave fiddled with the ring of his lager can. Another lecture from the big man. Of course he was right. Since Michelle had gone, Dave had not been living; he had been merely existing. And even that had become an effort.

I exaggerate not, Dave. We’ve been sat here, pissing away our Saturdays, for what seems like an eternity. We’ve done nothing but watch sport on that damned goggle-box. We’ve drunk our way through hundreds of cans of beer and guzzled a shed-load of stale cheese and pickle sandwiches. None of this is helping. You know that, don’t you?

Dave shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. He leaned forward, clasped his beer in both hands, and stared at the carpet.

Big Al slid to the edge of his chair. Ten months, Dave. Ten bleedin’ months. Carry on like this and I swear I’m going to turn up one day and find you dangling from the light fittings. Big Al sighed. What’s done is done, buddy, and no amount of self-pity or … Oh, I dunno, mate.

Big Al could have gone on, but he had made his point. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and glanced up at the pictures appearing on the TV. As he read the captions crawling across the bottom of the screen, he leaned towards the coffee table and grabbed hold of the remote control.

Let’s see what’s happening in the real world, said Big Al as he poked at the mute button.

"Experts in Arab affairs have been postulating for some time that the unprecedented calls for democratic change sweeping through North Africa and the Middle East – the so-called Arab Spring – together with the death of Osama bin Laden and other front line leaders may well have put pressures on the leadership of al-Qaeda to rethink its strategy.

"Those same experts are of the opinion that the new Emir’s unprecedented live appearance on al-Jazeera, in which he categorically denied a split in al-Qaeda ranks, has only served to add grist to the rumour mill.

More news as we have it. Meanwhile, we return you to our football programme.

Blimey! Big Al jabbed at the mute button and reached for his beer.

Testimony – James Tanner

I remember with fondness those halcyon days at Wing Air. I’d just left school and had been working in the airline’s IT department for only a few weeks before Dave joined the company as a trainee revenue accountant. The spotty little git would regularly pop into my office to query transactions when his figures didn’t add up. Before long we’d started chatting and we’d occasionally nip out for a lunchtime sandwich together.

We found we had a lot of things in common, Dave and I. First and foremost we were blessed with the same sense of humour. Then came a shared passion for sports of all kinds. Last, but not least, we both had a similar taste in women.

With time we became the closest of friends.

Zoom forward twelve years since those first, early encounters and Dave was about to hit thirty when he went through what he declared to be his midlife crisis. He craved a new direction. He was desperate for something, anything, to change.

Enter Michelle.

Michelle worked as a weekend barmaid at the Tiger’s Arms, a yuppie-type pub in upmarket Chislehurst, Kent. For her day job she managed a health food store in Bromley High Street. Michelle was bubbly, blonde, blue-eyed and, excuse the parlance, as fit as a butcher’s dog. Not that she’d ever set foot in a butcher’s shop, mind you. Vegetarian. Didn’t touch meat.

Michelle was in her mid-twenties at the time – so a few years younger than us lads. An absolute stunner, she rapidly became the untouchable goddess of our sad, laddish world of puerile fantasy. If Bo Derek was a ten, Michelle was a twelve.

Dave, Al and I all fell in love with the same Fantasy Barmaid. Our fixation on Michelle was all-consuming. And frankly pathetic. We wouldn’t place an order for drinks until Michelle became available to serve us. For nigh on six months our conversations with her never got much beyond, Three pints of Guinness please, love! On an exceptional night we might add peanuts to our order, and she might ask for a clarification on plain versus roasted.

Best of all was when she repeated a more complex request. She had this sexy way of counting the items on her fingers while flicking her big, blue eyes to the ceiling. Occasionally we’d make the order more convoluted just for the hell of it.

Yeah. As I said. Pathetic. But Close Encounters of the Exaggerated Order Kind were the closest we were ever going to get to having a lengthy conversation with our very own Fantasy Barmaid.

Or so we thought at the time.

02. Gunpowder, Treason and Plot

James

These past ten years have just flown by, yet I remember it all so vividly.

It was a Friday night and the eve of Dave’s thirtieth birthday. The three of us headed off to the Tiger’s Arms for a few jars and another letch at our favourite Fantasy Barmaid. We ambled in and took up our usual position at the far end of the counter where Michelle always served. Al asked us to name our poison. He raised his voice a touch, clearly for the benefit of Michelle.

"Oh, come on, Dave! It’s your birthday. How about something with a bit more oomph in it?"

Nope. I’m okay with the Guinness thanks, lads.

Al turned to the bar and was taken aback to see Michelle already standing there. Waiting.

So, that’ll be three pints of Guinness. She winked at Dave. Nothing special for the birthday boy then?

Al and I stood with our jaws bouncing on the floor. Dave’s face turned to a shade of crimson.

Hey, you guys, she went on. It’s a bit quiet in here at the moment. Why don’t you take yourselves off to one of those tables over there by the window, and I’ll bring your drinks over to you.

We didn’t budge. We froze. Like the landing crew of the USS Enterprise about to be beamed up by Scotty. Not a muscle twitched. Not a murmur.

Michelle must have been halfway through pouring the beers before Al croaked, Err, okay! and we shuffled off, moving as a single amoeboid organism to one of the empty tables – the one with the best view of the bar, of course. We took our seats, and a good minute passed before Al punctured the silence with one of his acute but unhelpful observations.

"I suppose you guys realise that Michelle just graced us with a fourteen-word order confirmation followed by thirty-five words of gratuitous … well … niceness. That’s forty-nine words in nineteen seconds. A world record. Al jabbed his index finger into the air. The question I want answered is, why?"

I glanced across the table at an unsmiling Dave. Strange, I thought. But then again, he sometimes had his introspective moments did our Dave. Probably recovering from Michelle’s wink and her unexpected sociability. And who could blame him?

Schtum, lads! whispered Al. Here she comes.

Right, guys. Two regular pints, Michelle planted the tray on the table, and an extra special effort for the birthday boy.

Strewth! There was that wink again. She placed the third pint in front of Dave. Al and I gaped at the smiley face she had expertly etched into the creamy head of the dark stout.

Thanks. Great, said Dave bashfully. He lifted the glass to examine Michelle’s handiwork. I’ll try not to destroy the artwork until I get to the end.

Al and I looked back and forth from the smiley face, to Michelle, to Dave, to each other. We were agog at the apparent normality of this conversation. We waited eagerly for Michelle’s response.

Oh, not to worry. There’s plenty more where that came from. Michelle smiled and was leaving the table when she stopped and turned. By the way, Dave. Did you get a chance to pop into that new veggie place we talked about?

Dave? Veggie place? Talked about?

Tom Soya, right? said Dave. No, I haven’t. Not yet, anyway.

Shame. You’ll find they do a yummy Deep South tofu and bean gumbo pancake.

Tofu? Bean gumbo fucking pancake?

I’ve been a bit busy, I’m afraid, he spluttered. Maybe next week. I’ll, umm, let you know.

Yeah! Do that! Michelle beamed her most sensual of smiles, pivoted on her heels and slinked off to her bartending duties.

Al and I had followed this conversation as if watching a long rally at Wimbledon. When Michelle had left, it took us some time to locate the ball. Dave