Anonymous

By Richie Andrews

Set over a period of two weeks, Anonymous follows the exploits of Joe and his friends as they indulge in England’s binge-drinking culture. His appetite for a good time is often hindered by his best mate Gav, who has a tendency to land them in trouble at the drop of a hat. Meanwhile, brothers Rich and Max are on holiday in Los Angeles. There, they learn that while a new place will always bring surprises, some things never change and the here and now is never too far from the past.

**Recommended for over 18's only**

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781291579543

Book preview

Anonymous

ANONYMOUS

By Richie Andrews

Copyright Text

Anonymous

Copyright © 2013 Richie Andrews

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-291-57954-3

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a database and retrieval system or transmitted in any form or any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission the owner of the copyright.

Nineteen Eighty Four by George Orwell (Copyright © George Orwell, 1948)

Reprinted by permission of Bill Hamilton as the Literary Executor of the Estate of the Late Sonia Brownell Orwell.

Edited by Leo Tanney

Cover art by PsychoSpike Design

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Epigraph

So long as they [the Proles] continued to work and breed, their other activities were without importance. Left to themselves, like cattle turned loose upon the plains of Argentina, they had reverted to a style of life that appeared to be natural to them, a sort of ancestral pattern ... Heavy physical work, the care of home and children, petty quarrels with neighbours, films, football, beer and above all, gambling filled up the horizon of their minds. To keep them in control was not difficult.

-George Orwell, 1984

Prologue - LAX

The man in the chair had been working all night. Ten hours of sitting in a tiny room and looking at dials. Ten hours of making sure nothing untoward happened to the machine under his supervision. Ten hours of work, of the same job he’d been doing for the last fifteen years. Looking forward to the end of his shift, as he always did, he spoke to the hundreds of people whose lives had been entrusted to him.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Los Angeles, where the local time is eleven a.m. and the outside temperature is seventy five degrees Fahrenheit. About twenty four degrees Celsius. Please remain seated and keep your phones turned off until we reach the terminal.

Rich was awake, his brother Max asleep. He looked uncomfortable, but had been bored to death by the in-flight films and TV programmes. The eight cans of Stella Artois he’d got through had helped him on his way though.

Once the plane had stopped they got up with everyone else and shuffled their way to the exit, both glad to get out of the plane and into LAX airport. The passengers filtered through the terminal and passed customs like a herd of sheep.

It took about an hour for the two brothers to get outside to a taxi rank. Rich, being a heavy smoker, took his opportunity and lit up before finally getting in a cab. The driver was Mexican.

Where are you two from? he said, after setting off.

England mate, replied Max.

England? We always get lots of English come here for the summer. Where you plan on going? Disneyland? Universal Studios? If you want to go to Hollywood, I’ll give you a business card so you can call us, we can take you there for cheap.

Ok mate, said Rich. He wasn’t that bothered. Tired from the flight, all he wanted right now was a nice hot meal, maybe a few beers and then a relaxing night doing nothing.

Max looked at the taxi driver. In England there were plenty of Indians driving taxis and he wondered whether or not most of the ones here would be Mexican. At least the driver wasn’t some nutter like Travis Bickle. He could just picture De Niro driving him and Rich back to the hotel at two in the morning. 

I get bad customers last night, said the driver. "One was drunk, very drunk and he finds out I am Mexican, then he starts shouting ‘Arriba Arriba’ in my face and I get mad, I call him an idiot and he just carries on. Then he says, ‘I think I’m going to puke’, so I say to him, ‘don’t you dare puke in my cab you gringo bastard!’ And then he gets aggressive and I have to kick him out and drive away."

Rich felt sorry for the bloke. It was bad enough having to drive people around for a living but the last thing you needed was for them to start acting like pricks.

The taxi pulled up outside their hotel and the two brothers got out. They paid the driver and gave him a decent tip. Rich liked the idea, but Max thought maybe the driver’s little sob story was purely for sympathy and if so, it had worked a treat.

1. Start As You Mean To Go On

It’s five o’clock when I get into the flat. I pick up the newspaper - the date at the top reads Friday 20th June 2003 - and take a quick look through the sport section before putting it down again. I’m in a rush because I’m meeting Gav in the Black Swan at six. I’ve got a meat and potato pie and a portion of chips from the chippy, which I get plated up and start eating.

I was expecting to finish earlier but we had a rush job come in early afternoon and my boss agreed to take it on. I didn’t mind too much; we didn’t really have much else on at the time and I’d rather be getting my teeth into stripping down an engine than cleaning up the workshop. It ended up taking a little longer than we thought, but I can never complain. My boss took me on as a school leaver years ago and gave me a chance when he had a few lads who wanted the job to choose from. He’s since taught me everything I know about being a car mechanic and I really couldn’t have asked for more. He’s a sound bloke and I know that me having to stay an hour longer on a Friday afternoon is fuck all compared to what he’s given me.

I get halfway through the pie before deciding that it tastes like shit, so I finish the chips off and scrape the half eaten pie into the bin. What a waste. There’s no way I can stomach it though.

After that I have a quick shower and a change of clothes, put the dirty plate in the sink under water to let it soak, and walk out the door, down the corridor and into the street. 

I get to the local corner shop and go inside, buy twenty Lambert & Butler and carry on my way to the pub. The walk only takes about ten minutes and I’m soon there.

When I get into the pub it’s pretty empty, but I don’t expect it to be busy at this time. No sign of Gav though. There are only a few old boys in the corner, pint of mild in one hand and a roll-up in the other, and a group of young lads around the pool table. They’re not actually playing pool though and only one of them has a drink.

Melissa, a young girl with nice tits and a cute smile, is working on the bar. I go up and order a pint of Fosters, which goes down like a dream. I certainly deserve a drink. I‘ve been working like a dog all week, up to my eyes in grease and oil for 11 hours a day before getting home, having a shower and going to bed a couple of hours later. Not that there’s ever anything worth watching on the telly. Nothing but shit reality TV and soaps. I caught a bit of ‘Only Fools and Horses’ the other night. Older than me and it was the highlight of my week.

I’m just about to talk to Melissa when Gav walks in and orders a pint.

All right, Joe? he asks.

Yes mate, not bad cheers. What you been doing all day? Wanking? I laugh; it was his day off today. He’s an electrician, fully qualified but still working for the company that took him on for his apprenticeship. He doesn’t like the idea of going self-employed, reckons he hasn’t got the time or patience for tax returns and dealing with clients. He prefers the easy life of letting someone else do the paperwork.

We go back a long way. I remember the first day I met him. It was my second year of secondary school and he was sat behind me during a maths lesson. I’d never seen him before. He was completely new, having just moved into the area with his dad. They still live together now. His parents had split up because his mum had been sleeping with one of her work colleagues behind his dad’s back. Gav was the first person I’d ever met who had a broken home and at the time I couldn’t imagine what it was like for him. I still can’t to be honest. It certainly had an effect on him somehow and shaped the way he is as he doesn’t really take after his old man, whose acceptance of his wife’s behaviour apparently surprised no-one. There is no way Gav would have reacted so calmly, doing everything by the book to ensure she was left with nothing after they moved out and came to my town. Their relationship is good though, Gav seeming to look up to his dad as much as he tries to look after him. Anyway, in that maths class, he kicked the back of my chair so I turned round and gave him a funny look. He just stared at me so I ignored him. At lunchtime that day I was sat with an old mate of mine, Steve, when Gav came over and started having a go at me, saying how he was going to kick my arse all over the school field at half-three. I stood up and had a go back and the little twat wouldn’t shut up, so I jumped on him, pinned him to the floor by his throat and gave him a few harsh words. After that we were right as rain and became good mates. Now we’re pretty much joined at the hip. I’m the only person who he’d never raise a fist to. I think it’s because I’m the only person who’s ever had a hold of him and put him in his place. Truth is though, he’d kick the fuck out of me if we ever had another fight. We both know it, but it’s never mentioned.

After we exchange conversation about our day, which consists of me telling him about working late and him complaining that his was as boring as ever, we get a game of pool set up. He sorts out the balls while I look through the rack of cues to find the best one. It’s the same in any pub you go into; there’s always about six cues, and only one of them is any good. The other five are knackered. I find the good one and chalk it up. The chalk dust goes everywhere and I do my best not to get it on my sleeve, not wanting to look a twat with blue all over it.

Gav tells me to break as I’m stood nearer that end of the table, so I put the cue ball in the middle of the D line and smash it towards the yellow and red triangle. It breaks well, sending balls all over the table. A red goes into the pocket and I pot two before missing and deciding to go for a piss. As I get through to the toilets and walk across the piss-soaked floor towards the urinal, I hear Gav take his shot and pot a ball. Whilst pissing, I hear him take another shot and pot again. Now I know for a fact he didn’t have a pot on when I left the table. I also know Gav likes to cheat to cover his shitty pool skills. When I get back to the table I notice I’m conveniently snookered as well, so I can tell there have been some hands involved. I’m not bothered though. I just clear up and pot the black.

Another game, demands Gav.

No, fuck that, let’s go down to the Late Bar, I tell him.

The good thing about living in a town centre is all the pubs, bars and clubs you have to choose from. We actually live more on the outskirts but the Black Swan is only about five minutes from the middle of town. The Late Bar is the next one along, before hitting the main square. It’s a great place and on the weekends it lives up to its name, staying open until about four in the morning. During the week it’s like one of those trendy bars that do food. Nothing gourmet, just homemade beef burger and chips, or nachos and chilli, that sort of thing. Friday and Saturday nights are good in there, always a DJ on and plenty of women. It’s a haven for young, single lads like us.

We also feel more at home in this part of town. On the other side, about ten minutes out, there’s a more expensive area. The more privileged and posh reside there, with their detached houses and fancy cafés. There are a couple of bars, one of which is currently closed due to renovations while the other is just fucking annoying; it’s always full of pretentious, shallow twats in suits who care more about their appearance and wallets than anything else and think they’re above us. Obviously, they’re not. Like us, they’re drunk. But while we’re drunk on lager, cider and cheap spirits, they’re drunk on wine, bonuses and profits. We might talk about our wages, our jobs, a week in Lanzarote and some ten year old car we’ve seen in the paper and they might talk about their salary, business, five star holiday resorts and their brand new Audi.

But they’re not above us, not really. They’re different, and we don’t mix, but I’m not having it that they are better than us.

We’re a little closer to town after the short walk and things are livening up. The afternoon shoppers are all gone and the piss heads are around, on the prowl looking for their fix of whatever it is they’re after, be it sex, beer or drugs. This place is where it all happens on the weekend. Gav and I concentrate on the first two. We don’t do drugs, mainly because we see people on drugs all the time round here and they all look like wasters. Skinny runts with bad skin, sweaty fuckers gurning away, wild-eyed and dehydrated. Bollocks to that. You’re fucking with your mind by doing it.

We get to the Late Bar and it’s heaving with tarts. Miniskirts and tight tops galore. I can see Gav’s got a hard-on just looking around. He’s got that animalistic look in his eyes and I can see now he certainly hasn’t spent all day wanking.

What can I get you? asks the spotty, student-looking weed behind the bar.

Two pints of Fosters, mate, says Gav, and don’t let any of that puss from your face leak into the fuckers.

The barman looks awkwardly towards the floor as he gets two glasses and begins pouring, whilst I look the other way with a grin on my face that I can’t hide.

Good old Gav. To everyone else he’s a complete prick but I can’t help but find him funny. He just doesn’t care, and that’s what’s so amusing about it. The downside though is that he can sometimes get us in some right shit.

I remember a few months ago we were in London; we’d gone down for a weekend just to have a gander at Soho Square. The bright lights and big nightclubs were something we’d fancied for a long time. There’s no lit-up metropolis where we are. There’d be no room for stuff like that because the streets are all taken up by kebab houses and run down shops. While we were there, we somehow managed to end up in this fucking gay bar. No word of a lie, the place was heaving with Village People lookalikes and skinny lads who walked like women. Gav caught on the moment we got our drinks and nudged the biggest bloke he could see. And when I say ‘biggest bloke’, he looked like Geoff Capes.

Is this a bar for faggots? Gav asked him. Next thing we know it was like a big UFC free for all, men in hot pants rolling around on the floor, trying to take each other’s heads off.

There’s some tasty flange in tonight, Joe, Gav points out, as he looks around the Late Bar.

It’s heaving, mate, I say as I catch a glimpse of a blonde and a brunette in the corner. Gav clocks me looking and suggests we go over.

It’s a bit early, mate.

Nonsense, you’re not going to pull standing here looking, are you? says Gav, leading the way.

He looks like he hasn’t had it for months and I should know because I fucking haven’t either. For some reason I’m just not on form when it comes to women at the moment.

All right, darling? he says to the blonde.

All right, she says, not looking too impressed.

Fancy a drink?

I don’t come here to stay sober.

I laugh, I think that means yes, mate. 

He goes back to the bar and gets the drinks in. I chat to the women but to be honest they’re not my type.