Diary of a HomeTourist, part 1. Friday.

Are we still doing HomeTourist stuff on Culture Vultures? I can never remember the latest idea – I’m usually at least two projects previous – but at least I’m consistent. Anyway, here’s my diary of the weekend. Well, Friday. Expurgated for reasons of taste, decency, decorum and the odd threat of getting bundled into a moving vehicle, taken to a disused warehouse, and forced to listen to Stealers Wheel while being read my rights by a Mr Pink wannabe. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental, unintentional, and completely the fault of your own hyper-active fantasy – though it would be fabulous if you’d let me know if you imagine you think you recognised anyone (I’m working on characterisation at the moment, would appreciate the feedback.)

Friday, 11 am. In a meeting with the dullest human being in the Northern hemisphere. If I said he was a half-wit I would be guilty of overestimating his intellectual capacity by a factor of four. My brain has turned to jelly, the sort that hasn’t quite set properly, and I’m sure I can feel it dribbling out of my ears and collecting in a sweet smelling puddle around the bottom of my chair. My jaw is moving, my tongue flapping, and my vocal chords are vibrating mechanically, which in normal circumstances would indicate speech, but these aren’t sentences I’m hearing, just a jumble of monosyllables . . . mmm . . . uuh . . . aay . . . (technically they may be diphthongs, but let’s not quibble over technicalities here.)

Phone beeps a little beep. Message is something about a friend in a fracas, arrested and spent the night in jail. That cheers me up. Nothing like the misfortunes of others to put a smirk back on your face, is there! Makes even this meeting that bit more bearable. Text back making arrangements to get the gossip over lunch.

2:15 pm. Arrive a little late at The Midnight Bell. Already ordered a pint but told the Vedett is off. I’m asked what I’d like instead. I survey the row of tempting tipples and I point to the one I’ve never dared pronounce. “Saah Gresh,” says Richard, nodding approval, “I’ll bring it over.” I’m feeling bloody relieved I never asked for the Saggers I always fancied. Tastes good.

My felonious friend is already there, sat with his boss. He shouts something about a quick meeting and says he’ll be with us soon. His sense of time is slacker than the elastic in my favourite boxers – they may be grey and a bit gone in the wrong places but they don’t make ’em like that any more – so I settle in for what promises to be a bit of a wait.

Two pints of Sagres and a hummus and roasted red pepper sandwich later he swans over, all smiles, not looking the slightest bit guilty. Recounts the tale from when I left him in the pub last night (around seven, we’d only had a couple of bottles, both had prior, pressing engagements, and he seemed sober then.) Loch Fyne – champagne – hotel bar – Mojos – mojitos – Bridewell – hotel mini bar – home – pub. Fairly typical night. Trouble seems to have occurred in Mojos when some twit ill-advisedly employed the “P” word (rhymes with Jacqui) as in, “I didn’t realise they let fucking P’s in here . . . ” My friend was in no mood to dispute racial relations or the niceties of non-discriminatory language and punched him square in the jaw instead. He may be just shy of five foot six, dressed in perfectly pressed linen trousers and the most effeminate flouncy shirts available to humanity, but he’s a Sikh that takes no shit, and he’s got a mean right hook that I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of. There ensued a squalid bar brawl. My friend, along with his accomplices and the aggrieved party, were carted off to clink. “Do you know who you are addressing, sir?” he was heard to ask the duty sergeant. “The future Prime Minister of England!” Have I mentioned my friend has political aspirations? He’s not just a vigilante.

While in the chokey he asked for some tissues. When he was refused he informed the constabulary that he was about to do something requiring a Kleenex as “there is nothing else to occupy me,” and enquired whether they should like to clean up after him instead. He got tissues. A whole box.

He does not say whether he employed the tissues for anything other than dabbing at his broken tooth, but something tells me probably not as his next opine – yawning, weary, semi-coherent – is for “more booze . . . and a blow job.” I offer to go to the bar. And advice from a friend; “The snug at The Midnight Bell is not an appropriate place for that kind of talk,” I tell him, “unless you want to get yourself arrested again.” I ring Beeston Line and put him in a taxi home.

4:15 pm. Am in Starbucks, St Paul’s Street, ordering coffee. I intend to stay here for an hour or so and write another blog post that I’ve kinda, sorta, promised – something silly about what to do on Sundays in Leeds, so that shouldn’t take me too long . . . I sit in the corner, the place I never get disturbed. I don’t intend to drink the coffee, just coddle it for a bit while I collect my thoughts.

The alarm goes off. Nobody moves. It’s a really loud alarm. The staff seem to be unperturbed, they still rattle the beans and splodge the cream and hiss the steam, all as if nothing is happening. I have put down my pen and closed my notebook. I catch the eye of a lady at the next table as she slowly, almost imperceptibly slowly, closes her novel and lowers it to the table. Our look acknowledges that the siren implies that we should be making a dash for the exits, but we are too English to kick up a fuss, would prefer rather to fry here with our frappuchinos than be seen to flap. After a good ten minutes of ear piercing yawling and red light flashing the blond barista decides that it’s time to look decisive and make a decision . . . “I really think it would be considerably for the best if we could ask you ask to leave, if you don’t mind, thank you very much . . . ” We are delighted to have the decision taken out of our hands. It is perishing cold out. We all breath a big sackful of a sigh and head our separate ways.

5:30 pm. I head for the pub. Wetherspoons in the station. Again, not because it’s my local but simply if you want to get a taxi to South Leeds on a Friday night then you don’t really have much choice unless you enjoy crawling along the one way system watching the contents of your wallet tick away.

The pub is rammed. It takes me ten minutes to buy a pint and another ten to locate an empty chair. I ask the dubious looking gent at the table if I may join him. He gestures with grimy fingers towards the seat opposite. I’m in direct through route to the toilets and every other second get jostled by an agitated punter who left the journey too late. I have a bit of a wait ahead of me. Lucy and Rowena will be at least half an hour. I get out my book and stare rigidly at the pages.

Lucy arrives first, straight from rehearsals, carrying a small CD player and a guitar. When Rowena arrives I book the taxi immediately – operator says five minutes – but then she realises she hasn’t bought booze and has to dash to Sainsburys. We pile in the taxi, rattling – we must have eight bottles of wine and a crate of beer between us.

We are off to Beeston for dinner with Masala Magic. They are friends of mine. I live with Harvi. But I have nothing to do with the business – apart from eating there. Tonight is the first supper club type event they have done. The idea is they provide a three course meal, free, for six people every Friday – BYOB – and the guests just tweet . . . I’m not sure about the business model, but what do I know! If anybody fancies putting their names down just get in touch.

Nobody really knew what to expect. Certainly nobody expected the DJ would be a two and a half year old, and that they would be obliged to join in with The Wheels on the Bus, several times. Still, the food was amazing (check #masalamagic for the conversation) the company was delightful, and the evening was a great success . . . but I’ll leave the details to the lovely @pencoles who has promised a proper review by the end of the week. All I can say is that by

11 pm. we were merrily sozzled and feasted to the full. I was in bed by midnight . . . long day!