THE KISS OF LIFE a British story

  Once upon a time in jolly old England there was a bloke named Lionel Thompson. He lived in London. He didn’t live in a mews flat in South Kensington. He sort of was in touting business, so he would take the tube to the West End every other night. Not exactly the kind of employment a decent bloke would like to have. Lionel knew that, and the girls knew that too. They would chuck him sooner or later but soon enough, despite them being British and ‘not really keen on long-term commitments’. Lionel just couldn’t be arsed getting a job and starting a career. He did make a profit of sorts and that was what counted for him, what with the dole to cap it all.

  His ordinary day started at about ten in the morning. On that particular morning he woke up at 10.45 muttering things about how he hated ‘this bleeding country’ and would just love to emigrate. Even in his more inspired moments, Lionel wasn’t exactly imbued with nationalistic fervour. He didn’t know who England had played in the last World Cup. He wasn’t devastated on hearing the news of Queen Mum’s death. He had no idea how many kids Tony Blair had. He could sell his homeland for a eurocent were he asked to. But the Soviet Union had collapsed in 1991, and no-one else seemed interested.

  His flat was a ropey place. He hardly ever took the trouble to pay the rent anyway, and the landlady had got sort of used to it. She was a covert alcoholic and had difficulty remembering all her lodgers at once.

  Lionel sat up in his bed and spent some time staring at the wall. The wall constituted a gallery of posters with skinny females and Britpop bands stuck on with Sellotape. When Lionel realised that he had been gawping blankly at The Verve for about five minutes or so, he fetched a hoarse ponging sigh, reached out for the button on his stereo, pressed it and heard nothing because the ‘bloody bugger’ wasn’t turned on at the mains. He fixed that – the socket was under the bed, just above the floor – and got up humming off key along with roaring Oasis ‘Fuck knows what it is that makes me feel alive…’ He made his way to the bathroom. ‘Bathroom’, he mused. ‘Sodding euphemistic Yanks. They never call a thing what it should be called.’ He liked remembering long and clever words like ‘euphemistic’ once in a while. The teachers in secondary school used to say he was a bright boy, which notion Lionel suspected to be bollocks, and his father wanted him to go up to uni (the word ‘matriculate’ jumped obligingly to Lionel’s mind). That was an ambition never to be fulfilled. He was a rubbish swot and totally ballsed up his exams. The failure – rather predictably – left Lionel feeling as thick as could be. Not that he cared much at the time, though.

  As he ‘looked back through the vistas of the past’, he turned on the hot and cold taps, had a lazy shower and cleaned his teeth. ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness’, his great-grandmother used to say, and Lionel wouldn’t argue with that, but a line had to be drawn somewhere. He never bothered to drag a comb across his head – didn’t even have one (no comb, that is). After a brief but thoughtful sojourn at the loo – ‘Shite, what makes Americans call it a bathroom, I still wonder. Do they bloody piss into the bath? Ah, that’s silly…’ – he made for the kitchen and stuck the kettle on the cooker, only one of whose rings worked at all. Lionel checked out the fridge and the breadbin. A stale half-loaf of nauseating English bread – ‘one top word, this nauseating…’ – was normally all he was able to find. It was a normal day. He made himself three butties with something he had got from the bottom shelf of the fridge and gobbled them up, chasing them down with slops he called coffee for conveniences’ sake. On better days he could be lucky to find a tin or two he had stashed into the defunct microwave the night before – before he got ‘really bloody pissed’ (Lionel did go on a little bender now and then). If this was the case, he would gorge himself greedily on tuna fish or beans. Beans gave him a socking great heartburn sometimes. He’d much rather have fish and chips, but Sue wasn’t with him anymore.

  When Lionel had had his breakfast, he put on his trousers (the way he called his jeans that used to be blue), a T-shirt with the ancient slogan Modern Life Is Rubbish, his sleepers, and took out the dustbin. ‘Hey, it’s about time I took SOMEONE out’, he thought in the process. The empty bottles that had once contained the most disgusting kind of plonk to be found in the UK – the only one he could well afford – rattled their way down the rubbish chute, making Lionel shudder and think of how miserable his cherished independent life was.

  All his school friends had long got hitched and settled down to married life. They didn’t make quid out of bleeding theatre tickets ‘like good-for-nothing muggings does’. He might as well have gone to gaol straight after school. Nicking some upper-class pillock’s sodding car would have done the trick. The temptation had been there all right at the time.

  He shuffled back home. He never cared to lock the door.
 
  Lionel’s eyes fell on the littered floor. ‘It’s been getting more diversified’, he thought as he considered the old socks, biscuit wrappings, tattered London maps, and multi-brand fags that were scattered about there. He rummaged through an enormous pile of junk in what he called his pantry and got the hoover.  It did some puffing, spat out a few dead cockroaches and went phut for good. ‘Just what Sod’s law is about. Some frigging life. Who are we? Why are we here? What is the meaning of all this?’ Suddenly he gave a start. It dawned upon him that he was, in fact, supposed to be taking someone out that day. He had met the lass a couple of days before. She had helped him up when he tripped over a kerb and slumped on the pavement right at her feet. She had looked gullible enough. What the fuck was her beautiful name? Judy? Jenny? Jessica? Juliet? He had better remember before he made one hell of a howler. Bingo! Spot on! Kate was the name. He should have given her a ring first thing in the morning. Now, there was a little problem. Lionel’s phone had gone dead in March when the telephone company had grown tired of sending him mind-boggling bills. They invariably ended up in his bin.

  He changed into his trainers, slipped on a sweatshirt, which vividly reminded one of a used nappy, and left his flat in a great  hurry. He rushed downstairs as the lift was out of order and charged out of the block of flats. It was a foggy afternoon, and Lionel short of ran into a pram.

  ‘Watch where you’re bloody going!’ the mum who was trundling the pram called after him. ‘Watch what your brat becomes when it grows up!’ Lionel shouted back. ‘Wish Ben was at home after all, not in that stinking snug of his at the pub, swigging his Bud,’ he thought in the meantime.

  Luckily for him, Ben was in, swigging his Bud at home just for a change.

  ‘Hi, just popped round to use the phone. You weren’t having a kip, hopefully.’

  ‘No way, go ahead. Like a tot?’

  ‘Nah.’

  Lionel dialled the number he had jotted down on a shred of paper.

  ‘Hello, Kate speaking. Who’s there?’

  She sounded kind of posh on the phone.

  ‘Erm… Hi. It’s Lionel. I’m a wee bit late, I guess.’

  ‘Lionel who?’

  ‘Lionel the Pavement-Hitter. Thanks for getting me back on my feet the other day.’

  ‘Wow, it’s you. Sorry. I’m being a little scatty just now. Had a long lie-in today. What are you doing?’

  ‘Ah, nothing special. Just mopeying round. Wondering if you could gimme a kiss of life if I’m lucky enough to get into a car accident this time around.’

  ‘Fnarr. Quick, are we?’

  ‘Don’t ya get uppity with me, young lady.’

  ‘Was that a joke? Ha. Ha.’

  ‘I was dead serious. I say, are we going out tonight?’

  ‘I AM going out. Dunno about you.’

  ‘That’s handy then. Where do we meet?’

  ‘Now let me see. I like buskers.’

  ‘Pathetic hippie types. Quite a bunch of them in Hyde Park.’

  ‘So it’s Hyde Park then. Speaker’s Corner. Is seven all right by you?’

  ‘Seven’s great.’

  ‘See you then. Ta ta.’

  ‘Bye…’ he was beginning to say as the pips went.

Apparently she was one of those girls who were always eager to have the last word and hang up on you. She might, eh, need a softly-softly approach.

  Lionel looked down at Ben, who was sitting around, a broad grin shining through his five days’ growth of beard.

  ‘Li, you bastard. What kind of a romp are you having tonight? Known the bird long?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in good time. I could do with a beer right now.’

  ‘Go grab a six-pack in the fridge.’

  ‘Will you give me a lift to Hyde Park? I’m fagged out for no bloody reason.’ Lionel called from the kitchen.

  ‘Sure I will. And don’t you get all drippy and superstitious, my sweet little boy. Life ain’t about making a fuss.’

  Lionel gave an approving burp and sprawled out in Ben’s squeaky wheelchair, which the bloke goodness knew why possessed. The date didn’t sound like a damp squib so far, Lionel thought.

  ‘Well, you know what, my car’s playing up. Sometimes you just can’t go into third, the boot rattles all the way, and the bonnet don’t shut like it should either. I reckon she’s done her time.’

  ‘Are you looking for a new one?’ Lionel asked, resigned and disinterested.

  ‘Yeah’, Ben replied and reached for another beer.

  At around seven they struggled to their feet.

  ‘Do you think it’s time?’

  ‘If you’re asking me, I’ll say yes.’

  They were sniggering stupidly as they reversed down the drive into the foggy street.

  ‘Lots of fog and lots of fags in this mean old town!’

  ‘HA HA HA HA!!!!’ Ben answered quite sincerely, turning the wheel like crazy.

  ‘It’s ages since I had this good a time!’ Lionel roared.
 
  ‘How are you gonna work on her?’

  ‘Oh, she’s one feminist cunt, sure as fuck. Lie back and think of England, I’ll tell her, so I will! Lie back and…’

  Suddenly Lionel heard the brakes screech dreadfully and Ben shout ‘Wanker!!!’ and then – BUMP – and nothing.

  The next thing he knew was someone giving him the kiss of life. Lionel tried to open his eyes but then thought better of it. Voices came through. ‘…tried to dodge the lorry… …nearly missed… …barmy guys… …isn’t it daft to drive drunk… …slewed sideways and hit… …freaky weather…’

  The kissing ceased.

  ‘Kate? This you, Kate?’ Lionel called weakly.




1999

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