the inventor of custard and thousand-island dressing pudding.
My brother seemed to be thinking along the same epicurean lines. However, to my horror (emulsified with a small amount of schadenfreudian delight), he appeared to be proposing to sing.
I closed my eyes and looked down, ashamed not just for Lewis but for my whole family. So this was the cutting edge of British alternative humour. Finishing with a song. Good grief.
I shall draw a veil over this performance, but let history record that this pretended paean of praise for Mrs Thatcher - comparing her to various foods, with only a hint of sarcasm most of the way through (‘as English as Blueberry pie’) - ended with the couplet ‘Maggie, you’re a Spanish omelette, like an egg you just can’t be beaten, / Maggie, you’re all the food that I eat ... twenty-four hours after it’s eaten.’
The puzzled patrons of Randan’s, who had been worriedly thinking that perhaps Lewis wasn’t quite so right-on after all, and had had his head turned by a sniff of fame and a glimpse of the flexible stuff, suddenly realised their man was still okay (phew), and it had all been an elaborate joke (ha!) as well as a knowing dig at more conventional comedians (nudge), and so duly erupted with applause (hurrah!).
I breathed a sigh of relief that at last it was all over - barring encores, of course - clapped lightly, looking at my watch as I did so. A glance revealed that the besieged bar was under further pressure now that the attacking forces had been reinforced following the end of Lewis’s act. I suspected that for all my scorn I might yet be grateful for Gav’s rugbying skills that evening, not to mention his Neanderthal build (perhaps that was why he found rugby so attractive; he was a throw-back!).
I looked at my watch again, wondering if Lewis would be unduly insulted, and Gav overly disappointed, if we didn’t go back-stage to see the great performer afterwards. Things had gone so appallingly well that Lewis would undoubtedly be on a high and hence unbearable.
Perhaps I could plead a headache, if that wasn’t too un-butch for Gav to accept. (‘Ach, have another few beers and a whisky or two and it’ll soon go away, ya big poof,’ would be the sort of reply my flat-mate would favour, as I knew to my cost.)
‘Excuse me, are you Prentice? Prentice McHoan?’
I’d noticed the woman sidling through the crowd in my direction a few seconds earlier, but paid no real attention, assuming I just happened to be on her route.
‘Yes?’ I said, frowning. I thought I recognised her. She was short, maybe early forties; curly brown hair and a round, attractive face that looked run-in without being worn out. I coveted her leather jacket immediately, but it wouldn’t have fitted me. A glint in her eyes could have been animal lust but was more likely to be contact lenses. I tried to remember where I’d seen her before.
‘Janice Rae,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘Remember?’
‘Aunty Janice!’ I said, shaking her hand. I suspected I was blushing. ‘Of course; you used to go out with Uncle Rory. I’m sorry I knew I recognised you. Of course. Aunt Janice.’
She smiled, ‘Yeah, Aunt Janice. How are you? What are you doing?’
‘Fine,’ I told her. ‘At Uni; last year. History. And yourself?’
‘Oh, keeping all right,’ she said. ‘How are your parents, are they well?’
‘Fine. Just great,’ I nodded. I looked round to see if Gav was on his way back; he wasn’t. ‘They’re fine. Umm ... Grandma Margot died last month, but apart from that -’
‘Oh no!’ she said. ‘Margot? Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, well, we all were.’
‘I feel terrible; if only I’d kept in touch ... Do you think it would be all right if I, if I wrote ... to your mum and dad?’
‘Oh, sure; yeah; fine. They’d be delighted.’
‘Even if I’d just made the funeral ...’ she said, downcast.
‘Yes ... Big turn-out. Went ... not with a whimper.’ I nodded at the empty stage. ‘Lewis couldn’t make it, but everybody else was there.’
Her eyes widened; it was like a light went on beneath her skin, then started to go out even as she said, ‘Rory, was he -?’
‘Oh,’ I said, shaking my hand quickly in front of her, as though rubbing something embarrassing out on an invisible blackboard. ‘No; not Uncle Rory.’
‘Oh,’ she said, looking down at her glass. ‘No.’
‘’Fraid we haven’t heard anything for, well, years.’ I