The Impossible Cottage

By Alastair Cavendish

Alex is a young guy about town in trendy gay London. He knows life could better and does what he can to try and make it so, but the finer things in life always seem to elude him.
Maybe he just needs to re-define "finer", after all even a simple pop-tune CAN be perfect; can't it?

Join him on his adventure to find out and see if he also finds out a few things about himself; sometimes even he's just not pretty...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781471705281

Book preview

The Impossible Cottage

The Impossible Cottage

by

Alastair Cavendish

Copyright © Alastair Cavendish 2012

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4717-0528-1

The right of Alastair Cavendish to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This is a work of fiction, any character resemblance to entities or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without permission - except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Dedication.

This book is for

David H

And

Chackley

One

I blame the fucking lottery! Really I do, I mean if it wasn’t for them and their oh-so-wannabe adverts showing me how perfect my life is supposed to be; all yachts and cars and diamonds and all then, well, perhaps I wouldn’t be so pissed to be here now in this shit job, with this shit life.

I’m not going to get down on you about it, but you know that lottery really is the death of ambition; before the lottery people had big dreams, dreams that they worked and slaved towards. Now all you have to do is pop a pound over the counter and suddenly, on the walk home, you’re working out whether to get a blue or red BMW - and you’re hoping that that big house for sale won’t get sold before you can make an offer. (Because, even though you’ve won the lottery, you aren’t going to be taken for a mug.)

But that’s why I'm here I think; selling fucking phones just off Oxford Street, with a knob for a boss, a boss I could cheerfully murder by the way; I’m here because I think, I hope, I pray, things will one day get better. I mean, I should be arranging helicopter transfers for my beau and I over Monte Carlo or something, not pimping fucking free minutes if you’re born an a Tuesday and you live within eight miles of the London Eye - or whatever the latest stupid promotion is.

It’s Wednesday, if I don’t win tonight, there’s always Saturday or fucking Euromillions on Friday – mind you that’s twice the price to enter. But I bet even if I did get my numbers up I would just have a heart attack and die on the spot and whoever found me would pinch my ticket and I would be so poor the council would have to bury me in a cardboard box or something.

ALEX! Fuck, it’s the boss; Clive the knob, he’s seen me dawdling; he sidles up to me on the tight spiral staircase and levels his mouth to my ear.

Get down there you fucking wanker and see to those customers in some kind of bad stage whisper so they don’t hear downstairs. I just don’t get his facial hair, I mean dude, have you not got a mirror at home? I’d love to run a like a public service system where we went round in converted ice cream vans shaving off silly beards and sideburns and stuff. I’d run this knob over before I shaved him though, for certain I would.

Sorry Clive, I was just seeing if we had any C911’s up here actually I was thinking I might go to the shitter to crack one off the wrist but I guess I need to try and bag The Yellow Jersey. I need to cum soon though, like really ejaculate, like a huge farmyard animal.

The Yellow Jersey doesn’t even exist, it’s a mythical thing in our office, based around the Tour-De-France I think; you know they give it to the winner of each stage. Well, we here at Phones-R-Shit, have a Yellow Jersey contest every morning; it’s why Clive hates me, ‘cos I win it quite a lot. He knows I'm going to be big someday, someplace and he’s only ever gonna be a twat in a shop, so he hates me. I don’t mind, or at least I don’t see any mileage in minding, I try and take it as a compliment - I just think of ways of executing him in the meantime. But yeah, The Yellow Jersey, you get it for the most contracts through the till in your name in a day. Selling, it’s easy. It’s me. Well, when I can be arsed.

By the way, don’t expect to like me straight off the bat. I know I come across as a bit of a wanker at first. But I’ve tried that good first impression shit and to my mind it’s not true. I mean, have a slightly dodgy photo on your internet profile (and by slightly dodgy I mean not professionally shot, and not the brilliant) and the people who agree to meet you might be pleasantly surprised in that oh, you look better than your photo kind of way when you do meet. Get it shot professionally and have all your spots and wrinkles airbrushed out and everyone will be well pissed when they meet you. Besides those that do want you when you look perfect aren’t looking to date you in those instances; they’re looking to date an idea and certainly not someone who farts in bed.

Okay, I NEVER fart in bed. Well, not on the first date anyway. And I do hope that by the time we get too the end of this well, then perhaps you’ll like me a little more. You see I think we’re all a bit boring now and then, even to those we’re supposed to excite.

Downstairs the shop is busy, it’s always fucking busy; not sure what it is with phones but there’s always a steady stream of people ready to spend more and more money on the latest upgrade - but you have to be picky to win The Yellow Jersey.

Ideally you don’t want tourists, we get a lot in here, it being the West End and all; the tourist will want the shittiest pay-as-you-go, they won’t top up much either, they just want a number so the folk at home can message them and stuff and something they don’t care about losing if they get mugged. You don’t want chav’s without a credit or debit card ‘cos you cant stitch them into a lengthy contract – what you really want is your pretty average punter, wanting a pretty average phone, because you know you can then up sell him and he’ll be holding plastic.

I spot a likely buyer; taupe (that’s beige right?) coloured trendy styled cardigan, possibly GAP, 45 maybe, Seamaster watch, nice shoes, probably Grenson’s. I’m pretty sure he’s something like a top film-director and will want me to appear in some movie or other. Game on.

Hello Sir, my name is Alex, how can I help you?

Well, I’m not sure you can – says the film guy. My mind whirs: little do you know Mr. Spielburg, I am the fucking KING of salesmen, you are NOT leaving here without a swipe of your chip and fucking pin. That’s what I’d like to say but I can’t.

I shall certainly try Sir, what is it you’re looking for? is my almost automated response. I add a smile naturally; I like smiling.

Well, I’ve got a phone, and it does all the phone things but I wonder about you know emails and messaging stuff and cameras says the film director – no doubt he needs a camera phone for helping him choose movie locations and to do in street casting and things.

Perfect. The Yellow Jersey is mine. Not that I’m gonna need it in Hollywood – it can get pretty warm over there I reckon.

But anyway, it’s as I'm dealing with this guy, and well, I'm not being funny or anything, I did solve his ‘problem’ he wanted a decent media player more than a phone - but it’s as I'm dealing with him that it dawns on me that Clive is a fucking bender as well. And by that I mean as well as me - if you didn’t already guess.

I'm almost certain.

But didn’t Tracy say he had a kid?

I catch Tracy’s eye over a group of Japanese tourists; she sells a lot Trace, fucking mental and usually great fun. Though she’d describe herself as bubbly, she knows I take deliveries at the tradesman’s entrance but she never plays the fairy card on me. I like Trace; she should be the fucking boss not the cretin we’ve got; I catch her eye and like drop my jaw towards what Clive is doing; some kind of sashay with a customers carrier bag; and I make like my best wrinkled nose and squint ‘is he a fag too?’ face and she sort of shoots me an open mouthed ‘oh my god!’ look.

That changes things. Doesn’t it?

I don’t believe that every man is potentially gay, I mean, there’s NO WAY I’m interested in ladies bits so I’m prepared to accept a lack of attraction the other way but I can’t believe that, given enough beer, a guy would refuse a blow job off another hunky guy.

I mean, if Trace went down on me at the Christmas party or something I wouldn’t suddenly think I’d gone straight and start putting up shelves and stuff. But there had been no blow jobs with Clive, nothing, not a hint, until now today, this; this sashay, camp as a row of pink tents thing.

When I’m done with my film director guy’s paperwork – a film director who now I’m pretty sure is actually just a cheese salesman but not even at Fortnum’s by the way, I head to the office.

Wobbly is in the office. I'm sure it’s like illegal or something to call him Wobbly, on account of his gammy foot which makes him limp slightly, but they do; he takes care of all the paperwork after we clinch the deals. Wobbly is the oil of our machinery and incredibly cute. I’d love to fuck him but he has a girlfriend, some fat slag who meets him from work sometimes. I guess he doesn’t have too good an opinion of himself what with his foot and all; oh and he has that ‘strawberry blonde’ sort of red hair; I bet they teased him rotten at school, ginger and sort of half-handicapped, but not really on either account if you see what I mean - and as if either matter anyway.

I wish I’d been at his school to protect him and he would like fall in love with me on account of my being his hero. We’d maybe end up opening a dance bar in Greece or Ibiza or something and we’d call it Funky Moves and have hundred-euro dance contests every night to keep the punters flocking in and we’d be in magazines and shit. Mind you, Wobbly might think I was taking the piss if I suggested calling it Funky Moves, what with his leg; you have to be so careful nowadays, you know all this political correctness malarkey. But I meant Funky Moves to encourage people to dance, honest I did. I hate it when folk just stand at the bar in like a dance club if you know what I mean?

Rich? I ask; his real name is Richard but to be honest I'm not going to lie and pretend I never called him Wobbly but now I think about it, I’m going to try and stop.

Do you think Clive ever took it up the shitter? this in my most conspiratorial kind of voice, looking for some secret coded message in his reaction.

You can almost hear the gears in his head turning; he really is a dish, thin as a rib. I wish I could tell him to fucking forget about his foot, I mean, it’s barely even noticeable but I'm sure he seems himself as some kind of freak. I’d love to marry him and go off and adopt Romanian babies or something but how do you start to tell people things like that? I vow in my head I will never call him Wobbly again.

Erm, if he was gay, would you do him? he replies like I’m operating the ovens at a concentration camp or like he’s just trodden in a rotten corpse himself or something.

Ugh! What a thought; Clive naked – ugh…it’d be like doing your Nan.

NO WAY! I answer, maybe a bit too aggressively.

Yeah, never thought about it before he could be says Wob…er Richard with a raise of his delicate off-red eyebrows.

God I need a wank.

Two

Oh no, this is not good.

I don’t have a wood chip ceiling; or walls; I hate fucking wood chip. What fucking time is it?

SHIT!

Mentally I check out my body, like a commander at the helm of a spaceship; I quickly call for damage reports from the extremities of my physique. My toes, legs and torso seem okay, my fingers, arms and elbows check in. My head is fucking pounding like I’ve done two rounds with a boxer - but that’s sort of normal for Thursday mornings. Six-thirty or thereabouts, my vision can’t make out the exact minutes. I'm in some random stranger’s bed.

Obviously we’ve had sex, of some kind; there’s condoms (thank you god) and lube packets in the arena but my biggest worry isn’t that, it’s where the fucking arena actually is, I have to get to work!

Oi mate! I sort of whisper, tapping the guy on the shoulder, I have no fucking idea who he is, what he’s called or where I am. I’m not even sure I’ll know what he looks like until he turns round

I went clubbing didn’t I, Wednesday night, at my fucking age, (about 24 chronologically, 98 mentally, and 21 in Internet years) you can’t NOT go, for gods sake I mean come on girlfriend – so yeah, maybe I shouldn’t have necked that other E but so what?

So what?

So what if I wake up in some strange guys bedroom not knowing where I am, so what do you do then?

Where am I mate, I have to go to work? do I sound like a slut I wonder?

Oh yeah, yeah, right sorry says the lump; actually he’s not bad looking, to call him a lump is a bit unfair, he’s more estate agenty, or how I imagine younger estate agents might look without clothes  - could do with a bit of lypo sure he could but that’s half the world nowadays, nice eyes, bit bloodshot. (Oh I remember! The tequila slammers! SHIT!) Could almost picture him agonising over the inevitable early hair loss. Don’t even ASK me about that! Sure I fucking worry, every day. God, what am I like? Just don’t make me look like a crusty politician God, that’s all I ask.

Tube’s right down the next street over, on the left he says as he stretches himself out from what we could laughably describe as a futon. Only about five minutes away, maybe ten he adds. Oh well, could be worse, not entirely sure what he actually said but hey.

Where you gotta go? he asks as I catch sight of a red tub of what I think old people call ‘hair pomade’; I half expect him to try and sell me his flat.

Tottenham Court Road is where the office is, I live in Leytonstone in a poxy attic space but where are we now I wonder? Tell me I’m in Bond Street please I think as I formulate words that might work.

Damn! It IS worse than I thought; Boston fucking Manor, never even heard of it. OH MY GOD! Zone ten million. The other side of the world from where I live. What the fuck was I thinking?  Really, what was I thinking? This could NOT be worse. Well not whilst I retain the use of all bodily functions it couldn’t at least.

I ask the estate agent for, and get from, a freebie type tube map in case I can’t get a phone signal; I’m on auto-pilot now and fretting, my head hurts, I’m dressed like a twat and my feet hurt as well. (Great set Johnny DJ or whoever you were!) What a knob I am, what was I thinking?

I get plenty of time to think about what I was thinking on the fucking train when it eventually comes. This one’s not even going underground either it’s so far out, it’s underneath trees not brick tunnels. I know what I was thinking, I was thinking that him, the estate agent-a-like, (‘Greg’ apparently), was possibly ‘the one’. You know THE one, Mr. Fucking Wonderful himself.

Like a jigsaw, as the poxy train grumbles its way into civilisation, my memory starts to reassemble itself. I don’t really like jigsaws though, not even on the best of days if I’m honest.

It had all started innocently enough; did I want a drink? Did a bear shit in the woods? Did Jackie Kennedy have a black dress? I don’t even really know what that last one means but it always gets a laugh. I know her hubby got his brains blown out but I suppose asking if Jackie Kennedy had brains on her shoes just isn’t funny somehow.

In his clothes ‘Greg’ had looked great as I recall; maybe the booze helped but I’m not a body fascist or nothing - but morning after the night before, I’m not sure he was really my type. Well, maybe he was, I dunno but honestly, next day, how many people do we REALLY want to stay in touch with?

Okay, I’m lucky I don’t have to work out to shed fat as I don’t hardly carry any but I have legs like a chicken because of it, though when these FAT older men come onto me online or in person it can get quite embarrassing. Like HELLO??! I don’t mind them as friends but to tell you the truth the mechanics of it scares me. I like rimm…. well, I like doing things, let’s say, that could very well suffocate me if a pie-eater climbed aboard or fell asleep on me. Some pisshead did once you know; fall asleep on me I mean, when I was rimming them. I’ve never gotton over it. How rude – but I kept a civil tongue.

So anyway, yeah, ‘Greg’, he’d made all the right noises; job, (something or other, I just don’t recall but I don’t actually think it was selling flats), company car, (which I’m pretty sure is how he talked me into going to that shit-hole place) enjoys a ‘bottle of wine on the sofa and a good DVD’. Versatile and, I do remember checking; safe sex only. All boxes ticked, why wouldn’t I road test him?

But he had wood chip walls! What’s wrong with these people? And you know, once I’d shot my load, he just didn’t do it for me anymore and I just fell asleep. If he ever did do it for me; I’m just not certain. Who wants to drink wine and watch a DVD with wood chip wallpaper hanging over you? Any civilised person would decorate if that was their life’s ambition –  watching DVD’s - then invite people home to drink the poxy wine. I bet he always does the lottery. I bet he’d love a Hot-Tub.

The journey is a big a bastard as a tube journey can be without bombs. As it gets nearer to town it just gets busier and busier and at Holborn, where I change onto the Central Line, it’s like some kind of torture. Badly dressed sweaty business types dripping perspiration everywhere and onto their free newspapers and piling up their briefcases to make like an assault course to the door. My mistake was slinking into the corner seat when the train wasn’t so full. There’s no way I’ll be at work on time; but the key here is at what point I make the work call; that’s if I don’t have a heart attack right here on the fucking train. If I call early enough I can blag it as transport problems but when we emerge into the daylight where I can get a signal, the time suggests I could have just slept in. 8.05am. You have to put yourself in the mind of the recipient when you call with crap.

The answer machine at work picks up as I knew it would - but it does time the messages.

Clive, it’s Alex, listen, the Central line is fucked up and there are no trains into town at the moment, so I might be a bit late I record onto the machine.

An Eastern European type woman, I'm guessing a cleaner on her way out of the city after a night shift gives me a weird look – I have, after all, just come from town. And luckily, just as I'm about to hang up I get one of those weird shrieky tube noises, which will add to the illusion that I’m on way into town, not out of town.

He’ll think I'm already on the tube and lying anyway so when I don’t turn up just a few minutes late and like an hour late, he can’t say I wasn’t on the tube when I called. He’s too thick to understand anyway. How do you explain a shag to straight people? Oh yeah; he might not be a straight person. I almost forgot.

Oh and by the way, when I say ‘Eastern European type woman’, that’s because she was you know; Eastern European lookin; I mean, she wasn’t a chav. Chav’s are too fucking lazy to get up and work especially at the early part of the day. And now look, I'm sounding like a bigot about Eastern Europeans AND chav’s. I’d fuck either, not the girlie ones though.

When you’re in a hole, stop digging.

And I do like some Chav’s, boy Chav’s, not paedo age boy chav’s just, you know, tracksuit wearing, spitting, spliff smoking lil’ hardo wannabe types. I like sucking them off when they’re pissed. No future in them though – I want a Ferrari in the drive, not a fucking shopping trolley up on bricks.

*

Alex, it’s just not acceptable that you come into work, nearly an hour late, looking like you been dragged through some kind of hedge backwards— says Clive when I eventually get there. Like we even sell anything before ten anyway.

—if you carry on like this all the yellow jerseys in the world won’t help you, I just can’t have you letting the team down. Take this an official verbal warning, if this behaviour continues we will have to let you go. He adds.

Bollocks! I reckon if I was fast enough I could at least fire two staples from the machine on his desk into his face. If I pressed hard enough against his skin I might be lucky enough to hit a main artery or something. But his blood would ruin my shirt.

Yes, I'm sorry, it won’t happen again, but I can’t control the tube Clive! I should be on the stage. I do what I imagine is a sheepish little manoeuvre with my feet.

Don’t bullshit me Alexander he says; I so hate him right now and no one calls me that, only my Nan and she’s dead. I can’t tell from your breath that you’ve been partying. If you don’t want a future here, I'm sure we can find plenty of young boys who do.

Boys? The twat; calling me a boy. Fucking retard, still I think I got away with it. Well, I didn’t really, not with an official warning but still. Who cares, the man’s a loser, end of.

I’m not a boy Clive I answer and turn to leave but his voice stops me at the door.

Oh and Alex--

I turn and his pointy-head, eyebrows and weird facial hair all morph together to make some kind of happy grimace. I think that’s last night’s intoxicants doing that, adding to his natural repulsiveness.

…That teaching assistant girl’s deal didn’t fly on chucky, it’ll have to count to next months targets. He sounds happy.

Bastards!

I need my bonus and he’s talking out of his arse, I bet Wobbly could have got her through on finance just by changing her time at present address but I just can’t be bothered to argue today. I’ll make it up with