AWKWARD SITUATIONS FOR MEN

Danny Wallace

AWKWARD SITUATIONS FOR MEN

EBURY PRESS

79 10 8

First published in 2010 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing

A Random House Group company

Copyright © Danny Wallace 2010

Danny Wallace has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner

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ISBN 9780091937577

For E.B. Wallace

Whom we love very, very much

INTRODUCTION

Hello. My name's Danny Wallace, and I am a man. Not just that - I've been a man all my life, and I intend to keep it up, too.

This book is, I hope, a modest attempt at capturing the incredible wonder and glorious majesty of being a man in the twenty-first century. Most of the stories are specific to me. But hopefully that means they'll somehow be specific to you as well. Whether you're a man yourself, or even if you just met one, once.

So what follows pretty much represents the story of my life over the past year-and-a-bit. A year in which I had a pint with a man I did not know. A year in which I was discovered by my wife to be a secret pyjama wearer. A year in which I was forced to eject a minor celebrity from a party, found myself naked in a shower with a stranger, turned up to places too late, turned up to places too early, was mistaken for the black film actor Danny Glover, realised I didn't know how to walk behind women at night, discovered the finest sandwich known to man, was taken for a deaf man in a chip shop, found that staring at children is frowned upon, and had a heated disagreement with a bishop.

But in among the trials and trips and stumbles and fumbles are moments of glorious triumph, too. Moments where the blushes are vanquished or the pride reinstated. Those are the moments that make our Awkward Situations for Men - mine and yours and everyone else's - something close to worthwhile.

A few thanks ... First of all my undying gratitude to all those at ShortList magazine - particularly Phil Hilton - for allowing me to incorporate many of the columns I've written for them. To Lisa Thomas, for making that column happen in the first place. And, of course, my huge and sincere thanks to my wife, my friends, and the two or three pals who are my friend Colin ...

See you in there.

Danny

AND SO WE BEGIN.

I am at the age where my friends are suddenly having children. I have even been asked to be a godfather, although I am still learning the rules of what you can and can't say.

Recently, one friend was telling me about his baby boy.

'He's got a new sound that he does,' he said, looking tired and pale. 'He just sits there and goes NYUP. NYUP. NYUP. For hours and hours. He was making it all last night. NYUP. NYUP. NYUP.'

He smiled, weakly, in a 'What can you do?' kind of way. I tried to sympathise.

'He sounds like a dick,' I said.

My friend just looked at me.

'But he did,' I said to my wife, as she silently collected our things.

SPRING

THE SANDWICH

I am standing on the high street as the drizzle soaks through my jacket on a fine British spring afternoon, and I am staring - bewildered and alone - into the middle distance.

I have just taken a bite of the finest sandwich I have ever tasted; perhaps, even, the finest sandwich ever made.

'There was lettuce involved,' I tell my friend Colin, later, my wild eyes shining as I relive it. 'And some kind of ... sauce'

Colin looks amazed. Later, I am sure, his amazement will turn to jealousy. But for now, we are just two men talking about an incredible sandwich.

I had been in the queue at Subway when it happened. Usually, like millions of other dull and unimaginative men, I would order a Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki sub. It is what I normally do. It is predictable. Safe. Trusted. I know where I am with a Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki sub, and it is usually just outside Subway with sauce down my top and a piece of tomato on my shoe.

But not today, my friends. Oh, no. Today was different.

I'd been in a hurry. I had a train to catch. Things to do. And the queue was moving slowly.

In front of me, a man in a black leather jacket was taking his time. Not for him the simplicity and ease of choosing a predesigned sandwich. No. He was going off-menu. Improvising a new and elaborate creation. He was a lunchtime maverick, operating outside the boundaries, like a law unto himself. I watched as he selected his ingredients, mixed and matched, chose the perfect bread and then the right sauce. He added a little cheese, I think, and certainly a smattering of jalapenos. He asked for some salt and pepper, and requested it not be toasted, and then he made the server take out some of the lettuce, because it was 'just too much'.

At first, I was annoyed at the man.

Who is this clown? I thought. Who does he think he is, laughing in the face of sandwich convention? Why does he not simply order a Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki sandwich like the rest of us?

But I maintained my dignified silence. Soon he would be finished, and I would finally be able to order my drab and soulless lunch.

'Ah, hang on,' I suddenly hear him say. 'That's not what I asked for - I asked for the six-incher. Not the whole sub. I told you that.'

There is a slight harrumph from the server, who mutters something about not being told to stop, and a sigh is passed down the queue as we realise our wait will be extended by a few more seconds. I look at my watch. And I think of my train. And I suddenly say, 'Look, I'll have the other half. I don't mind. I just want to get out of here.'

The man smiles at me, and says, 'Are you sure?', and I nod graciously but with eyes closed to indicate that this is an extraordinary gesture on my part. He leaves with his six-incher, and I watch him head into M&S, and then I pay for mine and hurry along the street towards the tube.

And it is there, on the high street, that I take my first bite.

'It was a taste sensation,' I tell Colin. 'Light without being frivolous. Substantial without being overbearing. It was a thing of such beauty that words cannot do it justice.'

'Who was he?' asks Colin. 'Who was this man?'

'Who knows?' I say. 'But oh, what taste he has! He probably drives a classic Jag, and drinks freshly brewed coffee on his Eames chair while his supermodel girlfriend naps on the Chesterfield! He probably has a cat named something classical, and a favourite red wine! I bet he uses moisturiser and summers in Italy!'

'Definitely!' said Colin, wide-eyed. 'If his Subway sandwich is anything to go by!'

In that moment, I wanted to be that man. A plan started to form in my head. I would hang around in Subway all day from now on, and when he eventually walked in and ordered his sandwich, I would start to constantly follow him round. I would follow him into out-of-the-way but achingly cool little cafes that I would never have found, or designer boutiques that I never knew existed, and I would buy exactly what he did. I would trail him from aisle to aisle in the supermarket, picking up pasta sauces I'd never tried because I'd always bought Dolmio, or cocoa beans from the Andes which I'd never tried because I'd always just bought a Twix. I would be this man's copycat, and he my guru. It would work. It had to. Because that sandwich was bloody incredible.

'Imagine the museums I'll go to!' I said to Colin. 'Imagine the people I'll meet! The things I'll see!'

'And you're sure this bloke won't mind you following him around all the time?'

'He'll never know! And if he does, I'm sure that we will become great friends. He will see in me a soulmate to mentor. We will be united by exquisite taste.'

'We should go to Subway,' said Colin, suddenly. 'Maybe you can re-create that sandwich!'

I laugh, and shake my head. Poor, simple Colin. If only life were that easy, I think. Alas, it is not.

For a few days, I think about the man in Subway and his incredible sandwich. And then, one day, a week or so later, I spot him again, striding down the street with a Starbucks panini in his hand.

And my heart stops.

He is wearing the worst trousers I have ever seen. Bright red slacks with stupid pockets. The sort of trousers you'd buy in M&S on a dull and grey Wednesday afternoon after you've just been all picky in Subway. I am shattered.

Later that week, I return to Subway.

I wait quietly, and then say, 'Chicken Teriyaki, please.'

THE DIVERSION

It is a glorious day, and I am sitting in a cab in mild traffic, somewhere in central London, when I look out of the window and see someone I know.

It's his day off, and he is enjoying a coffee in the midmorning sun, alone and relaxing with the paper, and he seems to be very content indeed.

The cab creeps forward, but only a few feet, and I decide to give him a ring to let him know I'm staring straight at him. He will be surprised and delighted, and we will do that thing that people do when they're on the phone and can see each other, where we make big exaggerated faces and wave a lot.

I get my phone out as the cab inches forward again. I look up. The lights are on red, but I cannot miss my opportunity. This has to happen now.

I scroll through until I find his name, and then I press 'call'. I stifle a giggle. I try and catch the cabbie's eye in the rear-view mirror. He will not believe this. What a coincidence! Two people who know each other, quite near each other! But the cabbie is listening to Jon Gaunt on talkSPORT shouting about immigrants and thus probably not in the market for friend-based whimsy.

The call connects and I hear the ringtone. I watch, a smile plastered right across my face, as immediately, my friend lowers his newspaper, takes a sip of his coffee, and reaches into his pocket for his phone.

I try and come up with a witty thing to say when he picks up. Maybe I'll start with a wry, 'Enjoying your coffee?' and then he will laugh, and then look startled, because how did I know? Or maybe I'll say, 'Hey, what's in the newspaper?' and that would be funny too, because how did I know he had a newspaper?

I chuckle and decide to just go with the moment and follow my heart, and there is a tense moment as the ring-ring continues, and my friend has to turn his phone the right way round, and now he's looking at the screen, and he can see my name, and he's not smiling yet but he will be, and he finds the right button, and he ...

Oh.

'Hello, I'm unable to take your call right now. Please do leave a message after the beep.'

Eh?

There's been some kind of mistake! It's gone straight to answerphone! He must've accidentally pressed 'Divert'!

I stare at my friend, and I blink a couple of times. He puts his phone away and shakes his paper, and picks up his coffee and takes a long sip.

And like that, I am dismissed.

Beep.

I am startled. What do I say? What message do I leave? I can't say, 'Are you enjoying your coffee?' Who knows when he'll listen to this? What if he's nowhere near a coffee? I'll sound mental. Do I tell him I could see him? But then he'll know he rebuffed me! And he'll know I know he rebuffed me!

'Hi!' I say, and then I clear my throat. 'Yes ... me here. Danny. Just phoning to ... you know ... say ... I hope ... newspaper's good.'

I hang up. Newspaper's good? What the hell does that mean?

And then the lights change, and the cab roars into action, and we move off through the streets of Soho, leaving my friend and his coffee far behind.

'It's hard to argue with him, isn't it?' says the cabbie, but he's referring to Jon Gaunt, who is very easy to argue with, because he's always wrong.

'Yes,' I say, but I am still thinking about my friend. How dare he decline my call? It was a nice call! It was a call of friendship and coincidence! And it's not like he was busy! He was sitting outside drinking a latte and reading the Mirror, grateful for a few moments to himself on his one day off of the week! That's exactly the right time for a pointless call!

I suddenly realise something with horror. All those calls I've ever made to all those people that haven't been picked up ... all those times the phone has rung out, or gone to answerphone, or not rung quite enough times to convincingly have gone to answerphone ... what if I was rebuffed each time? What if they weren't just busy, or they hadn't just left their mobile in another room, or it wasn't that they were simply running out of battery? What if each one was a conscious decision? A decision weighed up in mere seconds? What if I was a constant rebuffee?

There was no way of knowing. I had to assume the worst. I was an outcast. I'd witnessed it. I was a man from whom it was not worth taking a phone call.

I am filled with embarrassment and annoyance at my mate. I want to call him and have it out, but what if he doesn't answer? He'd win again! I frown. You can't treat friends like that. In fact, I pompously decide, you can't treat human beings like that. It should be against the law. I vow to write to some kind of European MP about this, but then I hear Jon Gaunt saying that you can't trust European MPs as far as you can throw them, and I am filled with hatred and annoyance for the world, and I agree with Jon Gaunt, because when you feel like that it's hard not to.

My phone rings.

Ha! I think. It is him. He's finished his coffee and, flushed with guilt and regret, he wishes to apologise for not picking up. I fish the phone out of my pocket and look at it. How should I react to one so heinous?

But it is not him. It is my friend Colin.

I press 'Divert', and I silently fume, all the way home.

FISHING

There are three of us in a rented Vauxhall Astra, pulling into the driveway of the Perthshire cottage in which we'll be spending the next two days. Our assorted womenfolk will be joining us later ... and it is our intention to impress them.

'We'll catch our dinner!' says Richard, and Marc and I look at him in awe.

'What, like a deer or something?' I say.

'No!' says Richard. 'We will fish! We will immerse ourselves in that most noble of battles - the battle betwixt man and fish - and we will win!'

'Yes!' says Marc.

'Stupid fish!' I say. 'They will rue the day!'

Richard goes off to find a fishing rod, and I sit down with the book Marc has given me as a holiday present. It is entitled The Book of Predictions, by Irving Wallace, Amy Wallace, and a bloke whose name used to be Wallace but who inexplicably changed it to Wallechinsky. Those are the worst type of Wallace. Sometimes I think we should take them off the mailing list. The book was written in 1981 and features a variety of different experts predicting how the future will turn out. It is possibly the most fascinating book I have ever read.

'By 1988', it screams, the US will have destroyed the Soviet Union 'along with 100,000,000 Soviet citizens', prompting the UN to set up new headquarters on the moon. The world will be brought to its knees in the early 1990s because of the terrifying war between Iceland and Malta. Basketball will be stopped because we are all so tall that people grow weary of watching burly giants stuffing small balls into tiny nets. A computer will make its own scientific discovery in 1989 and be nominated for the Nobel Prize! Robots will clash in space! All disease solved by '91!

How exciting the future used to be!

'Are you going to sit there reading all day, or are you going to be a man?' asks Marc, suddenly there. I put the book down. I am going to be a man!

We stand, the three of us, facing our old enemy - the sea. None of us has really fished before, but how hard can it be? Not as hard as it will be when all fish die, in 1993, that's for sure.

We cast our newly untangled line into the water. It goes maybe four feet. This is fine for now. Subtlety is key: get the fish used to the idea of a line, and then strike like the panther. But nothing happens for a very long time and we get bored. Suddenly, Marc remembers something.

'We're supposed to use bait, aren't we?' he says.

'Bring me a worm!' yells Richard. 'And I will bring you a fish!'

We all feel really manly - just as this weekend was intended to make us feel. Marc runs off to fetch a spade and I pick up my book again. The strange thing about the future, I think, wisely, is that it's always thrilling until you're old enough to realise that none of it has happened yet. It's almost as if no one's bothering to work on the technology to bring us magic carpets any more.

'This is the best I could do,' says Marc, holding the United Kingdom's smallest worm. Richard attaches it to the hook and flicks the line back into the water. The line goes four feet again. The worm goes considerably further.

'What else can we use as bait?' says Richard. The only food we've brought to the cottage is what we bought at a delicatessen seventy miles away. It is not traditional fish bait.

'Do fish like cheese?' I ask. 'Or prosciutto? We've got a lot of prosciutto.'

'Olives?' asks Marc, and we all laugh at him, because that's stupid.

'Bring me some speck!' shouts Richard, who really is becoming a man.

Marc and I run off and fetch some speck and a Portobello mushroom. We are suddenly in a rubbish, middle-class version of City Slickers, but we are doing our best, and that is the mark of a man.

'Will speck work?' I ask, panicking that we will lose our battle with the fish, of which we've seen nothing.

Richard looks at me, calmly.

'Danny, speck is cold-smoked slowly and intermittently for two or three hours a day for a period of roughly a week using woods such as beech at temperatures that never exceed twenty degrees Celsius,' he says. 'If they don't eat it, they're idiots.'

Marc says nothing, but closes his eyes and nods slowly.

Two hours later, we've used up most of our speck, and Marc has dropped and trodden on the Portobello mushroom. We've seen and caught nothing. The girls arrive in their jeep.

'What's for dinner?' they say.

I attempt to distract them.

'Did you know that by 1985, shortages and high prices of dairy products will lead to intense new interest in soybeans?'

I am ignored.

'Are you fishing ... with olives?' asks my wife.

'No,' we say.

We put our fishing rod and olives down and sheepishly join the girls, who have brought meat, and vegetables, and breads. I realise we are not men. We are boys. And no matter what we were told when we were kids, we will never be men. We will just be large, ungainly children. This has always been the future.

'Oh, look!' says Richard's wife, as we reach the cottage.

A fish has just made a beautiful, arcing leap, splashing down on to the otherwise calm, sun-dappled, early-evening waters.

Richard, Marc and I look at each other, vexed. I put my book away.

I could have predicted that would happen.

THE ANECDOTE

'And then he sort of stumbled backwards,' I say, to the small crowd around me, who are listening, rapt, to my every word. 'And he fell into the bath!'

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