you mean you’re grilling burgers and sausages inside? That’s not a barbecue.’
‘Ooh, did someone lose his sense of humour whilst driving a BMW?’
‘Have you got onion rings?’
‘Ha!’ Snowy laughs. ‘Have we got onion rings? We’ve not only got onion rings, but we’ve got corn on the cob, spicy chicken drumsticks, garlic bread – with cheese – and for those who think they’re too posh for a burger, we have hummus.’
Any excuse for a party, Snowy has it. Even as the dad of three-year-old twins, there’s always a reason for some sort of shindig. These days, the occasion gets tweaked to suit the kids, until they conk out, and then old-school partying begins. You see, Snowy used to be a tour manager, gigging all over the world, until fatherhood forced him to pack it in. He doesn’t half crave that lifestyle, though, and loves to drag us along.
The twins and a bunch of local kids are sat, crossed arms and cross-legged, on the patio in the back garden, wrapped up in coats, hats and scarves like Christmas pressies. Us lot, the grown-ups, stand around, all waiting for the firework display to kick off. A couple of older kids clamber onto the roof of Snowy’s new shed for a better view.
‘If anybody dares to touch the fairy lights, there’ll be no hot dogs,’ Snowy announces.
‘And if you cross the line, there’ll be no fireworks,’ Mikey adds, indicating the imaginary line with his arms. He’s a high school music teacher now, and my God, he loves to use that teacher voice. Although it doesn’t take him long to sneak through the house and admire my new car. I follow him.
He whistles, sizing it up. Then, he looks at me and back to the car again.
‘You’ll get fifty for this, Jimbo,’ Mikey says, sipping his drink. ‘But, don’t drive it anywhere. If you’re selling it, sell it now. Once you hit a hundred miles, its value’ll drop to about forty-five.’
Hold on. What the … What the actual? Fifty. Grand. What the fuck?
Now, I’m never sure whether Mikey knows what he’s talking about or if he’s a complete bullshitter. Still wearing his school ‘uniform’, Dumbo flying across his tie and his striped shirt tight around the middle, Mikey’s rarely seen without a glass of whiskey in one hand, a ciggie in the other.
‘I was gonna get meself one of these,’ Mikey continues. ‘But the missus was giving me grief. Said it wasn’t right for the kids. What did she expect me to do? Ring Noddy, see if he’s selling his little red and yellow car? I said to her, I don’t think your spray tan’s right for the kids, but I just got more grief. You’re a lucky man, Jimbo. A bachelor with a bimmer.’
‘Rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?’ I say.
Mikey loves to bitch about his family, but Christ, he’d be lost without them. The only married one in the gang, his wife is Victoria and likes to be called Tori. They had one of those massive weddings in a castle in Ireland and are still paying the bill seven years on. His two young girls – ballet obsessed, gymnastics obsessed – put a few extra lines on Mikey’s forehead, but they still manage an all-inclusive family holiday twice a year. I’d swap my life with Mikey’s in a heartbeat.
‘You want my advice?’ Mikey asks, pausing long enough for me to blink. ‘Don’t sell it. Don’t give this baby away to anyone. You drive this around and you’ll have a bird in no time. A classy bird, too. I mean, my Tori’s classy, but she’s got a dirty mouth. Gets it from her ma.’
‘Mate. It’s not exactly me life goal to get a girlfriend who only wants me for me wheels.’
‘Well, what is your life goal?’
Good question.
BANG! Red and blue fizz above our heads into white glittering droplets. Oohs and ahhs echo from the back garden. I look at my car, then back at Mikey.
‘How’d it go with Tori’s mate?’ he asks, and sticks his tongue between his teeth like a right sleaze. ‘Tapas, eh?’
Shit. I was hoping Mikey had forgotten about that. He leans back, resting against the BMW. I kind of wish he wouldn’t.
‘She was nice,’ I say, putting a strong downward inflection on the ‘nice’, a way to bring this chat to an end before it begins. ‘Where’s Griffo tonight?’
‘Working. But, don’t change the subject, gis a bit more juice than that. Come on, what happened after the patatas bravas? Did