The comedy evening was being held in a large function room at the rear of a pub. The stage was at one end, the bar at the other. Above the stage was a banner that read ‘LAUGHABLE!’, and there were about twenty tables set out on the function room floor. Our group had pre-booked a table that seated six. There were seven of us now, so I grabbed a chair from another table and seated myself between but slightly behind two of my colleagues. One of them was my supervisor at work called Ian Pepper. Mid-forties and dull as a fucking concrete bell. He turned his head towards me for a chat. ‘You alright back there, Gary? Can you see the stage okay?’

‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks. So, are you a big fan of comedy?’ I asked.

‘Not really. Don’t see the point of it.’

‘So what do you like to watch, you know, for entertainment?’

‘I quite like watching golf on the TV.’

‘So what’s the point of golf?’

‘Well, there’s an outcome, a winner, an achievement if you like.’

‘Fair, but if a comedian makes you laugh, then you’re the winner as well.’

‘But they never do. Listen, Gary, do you think you could fetch a round of drinks for the table? Would you be able to do that?’

‘Yeah, sure, what does everyone want?’

I took the orders and made my way to the bar. It was empty apart from three girls stood at the centre of the counter. They were loud and excited, their minds made jaunty by booze. As I made the order, the tallest one of the group took a step towards me. ‘Alright, shortarse, are all those drinks for you?’ she said as she looked down at me and laughed.

‘No, they’re for my mates.’

‘What mates? Like you’ve got any mates.’ She turned to her friends and on cue they both laughed along with her.

I got a bit of a sweat on and was desperate for my order to arrive so I could clear off back to the table. The tall one was still looking down at me, sucking her fizzy drink through a straw and giving me exaggerated seductive gurns. I felt hated. She had a pale round face with straight, jet-black, centre-parted hair down to her shoulders. She was wearing a black apron dress and the overall effect was of a budget Victoria Beckham. I think she was drunk, that or in the first flush of a session.

Her little blonde bird-faced teammate joined in:

‘Are you not getting us a drink, then, shorty?’

I just stared ahead of me at the bottles of spirits behind the bar. Sparrow Face repeated herself:

‘Are you deaf, mate? Are you getting us a drink or what?’