As he speaks he turns to apprehend Valentines shrine, a slight frown denting his forehead. May I deduce from your shrine that you are a devotee of the goddess, Kali?
Um
Valentines eyes also turn towards the shrine.
Because while I respect your enquiring spirit I sincerely do he smiles at her, ingratiatingly I happen to know, from intense, personal experience his hand flies back to his heart and his eyes briefly flutter towards the ceiling that there is only one God, and the best way to draw close to him is through combating the ego. There really is no other path. Kali is a digression, a deviation, an exotic fancy, a macabre, physical projection of your destructive inner God-instinct, a charming but invidious pipe-dream
I only use the shrine for chanting, Valentine interrupts him, slightly panicked.
Let me put it this way, Karim persists. When Dorothy wanted to speak to the Wizard, what did she do?
Do? Valentine echoes, mystified.
Yes. What did Dorothy do? he repeats.
Uh Valentine thinks for a few seconds. Well she took a trip to Oz, I guess.
Exactly! Karim slaps his diary on to his knee, delighted. She headed straight for Oz! She didnt waste her precious time deifying the red shoes or becoming a loyal devotee of the Wicked Witch what earthly good would that have done her?! Dorothy sensed and quite correctly that the shoes and the Witch were just a colourful distraction, a part of the sideshow
I take your point, Valentine murmurs, somewhat piqued (and not a little beleaguered), turning to face the door through which she can just about discern her brother gradually descending the stairs (her grumbling mother in tow).
Well Im very glad weve sorted that out, Karim mutters, tucking away his diary and turning towards the door himself, his round face breaking into the broadest of smiles. Now for the fun part, eh?! He chuckles, rubbing his soft, plump hands together in gleeful anticipation of their imminent arrival.
If theres one thing Ive learned about this business, Ransom hypothesizes, airily, its that nobody will take you seriously unless you take yourself seriously. Thats the chief piece of wisdom I offer any dumb kid whos honestly thinking about entering this rat-race: I say, Take yourself seriously. Take yourself really fuckin seriously. Because if you dont take yourself seriously, then trust me no other fucker will, either.
I suppose talent will out, eventually, Gene concedes, somewhat distractedly, as he peruses the drinks menu.
I suppose talent will out, eventually, Gene concedes, somewhat distractedly, as he peruses the drinks menu.
Fuck talent! Ransom scoffs. Talent-schmalent! I mean look at Mourinho. Look at what he did. He called himself The Special One. The Special One! He gave himself that name! Its like Ransom throws up his hands exasperated. Its like why the hell wait for someone else to realize how special you are? Lifes too fucking short! Make yourself special! Immortalize yourself! Book your own place in friggin history!
Gene waits a couple of seconds for the rousing conclusion of Ransoms diatribe to fully resonate into the surrounding atmosphere, then places down the menu. Uh in reply to your earlier question, he mutters, a glass of lemonade would be great.
A lemonade? Ransoms visibly underwhelmed. They do freshly prepared smoothies here. Have a strawberry smoothie. Have a blueberry and banana smoothie.
A lemonades absolutely fine, Gene avers.
Or a fruit mocktail. They do this ginger and lavender mocktail with loads of freshly squeezed lemon in it. Whats that thing called again?
Ransom turns to the long-suffering waitress, enquiringly.
A Ginger Mule, she answers, her hand hovering over her pad.
A Ginger Mule. Can you make that with extra Spirulina? Ransom enquires. And a shot of vodka? Maybe a teaspoon or two of powdered kale?
That would be two mocktails combined, the waitress informs him, grabbing the menu and scrutinizing it for a second. A Ginger Mule and a Sea Breeze, so it would cost twice as much She places the menu back down on to the table. Then thered obviously be the price of the shot on top.
The cost is irrelevant, Ransom informs her, haughtily, then turns to Gene. Dyou like Spirulina?
And I cant promise how good it would taste, she interjects.
I dont know what Spirulina is, Gene confesses.
Its plankton, Ransom tells him, ignoring her interjection, the stuff whales feed on. Its great. Its a super-food. It makes your shit come out smelling like Play-Doh.
Really? Gene looks mildly nauseated. And thats supposed to be its chief selling point?
Why not? Ransom demands. Dyou like the smell of shit? Are you especially attached to the smell of shit? Is this some weird, little picadillo youve developed during those long, hard years manning the front lines, perchance?
Ransom grabs Genes military cap as he speaks (which sits with the torn jacket on the plush banquette beside him) and plops it, unceremoniously, on to his head.
Uh
Gene scowls.
I mean who likes the smell of shit? Ransom declaims, outraged. Its shit! Thats why its called shit! It stinks like shit! Its shit!
I may be totally off the mark, here Gene slightly adjusts the angle of the cap on his head but I think the word youre after is peccadillo. The original, Latin root is peccare, or to sin.
Ransom gapes at him, astonished.
I helped my wife cram for her Latin exam at Divinity School he shrugs, his colour rising and a couple of things just seemed to stick
Spirulinas a type of algae produced by water and sunlight, the waitress volunteers (plainly eager to move on). Its meant to refresh the colon, and thats why your
She twizzles her hand, expressively, keen not to enter into any further detail.
It makes your shit float, Ransom enthuses. Its like four, friggin flushes before those torpedos will quit the bowl!
The waitress winces.
Sorry, Gene apologizes.
Shed better get used to it! Ransom snorts. This is a golf club for Christs sake! Pretty much all pro-golfers ever do is witter on about their friggin bowel movements! Why else dyou think they flog date brownies in the lounge? An huge slabs of friggin banana cake? Bran and raisin muffins for breakfast? If youre backed up and youve got eighteen holes in prospect its a minor, fuckin catastrophe! Golfers need to be kept regular. Its critical a top priority one of the ten Golfing Commandments
Thou shalt not be constipated, Gene murmurs.
Is it fresh ginger in that mule of yours? Ransom turns back to the waitress. Or is it that filthy, condensed sugar-syrupy crap?
I think itll be fresh, but Im not one hundred per cent sure, the waitress confesses.
Well if you dont know, then how about you toddle off and ask someone who does? Ransom suggests.
The smoothies sound delicious, Gene steps in, diplomatically. Why not try a smoothie?
I dont want a smoothie, Ransom informs him, indignant. Im having a double Scotch. The mules for you.
But I already ordered a lemonade
Great a lemonade and a double Scotch. The waitress quickly scribbles down the order and then scoots off, expertly sidestepping Toby Whittaker as she goes.
Toby is holding a half-pint of brown ale as he approaches.
You wont believe this he exclaims, carefully steadying the glass in the wake of the speedy waitress.
Try me, Ransom harrumphs, already bored.
Toby places his glass on to the table, pulls out a chair and sits down, uninvited (much to Ransoms evident irritation). So I asked for a half of brown at lunch and the barman says they dont stock it. Im consequently obliged to neck a glass of draught Guinness instead
Ransom yawns, majestically.
Anyway, I head to the bar this evening, ask for a bottle of lager and the barman different barman says, Were also offering brown ale, sir, and suggests two varieties, both organic!
Incredible! Ransom expostulates, sarcastically.
This place is amazing! Toby continues, seemingly undaunted. Beautifully designed, state-of-the-art facilities, stupidly luxurious, attentive staff nothings too much trouble. They even have a twenty-four-hour concierge service. I mean were on the outskirts of Luton, for heavens sake!
I hate to bust your bubble, Gene gently informs him, but I think youll probably find that you can order a half of brown in most reputable establishments around here without too much trouble and a few not so reputable, come to that. Were only forty-five minutes from London, after all.
Who drinks brown ale anyway? Ransom snorts. Old men and dick-heads, thats who.
Your regiments stationed locally? Toby surmises, his eyes resting, somewhat quizzically, on Genes casual clothes and military cap.
Lesbians and cyber-punks, Ransom mutters, darkly, and people at sheep dog trials. And scientists. And Morris Men. And student friggin engineers
Uh, no, Gene puts his hand to his head, embarrassed.
This is Gino, Ransom interjects, my new caddie.
Gene, Gene corrects him, removing the cap and placing it down on to the table, and I havent formally
Tobys my ideas man, Ransom interrupts again.
Im a Sports Strategist, Toby expands. Im into futures. You should visit my blog.
Tobys the guy behind Turbo Golf. Ransom grins. Hes campaigning to reduce the standard game to nine holes.
Its simply a question of convincing the professionals, Toby explains. Ransoms fairly progressive by golfing standards, but the rest are a depressingly traditional bunch.
If it aint broke why fix it? Ransom shrugs.
I mean who really has the time for an eighteen-hole game in this day and age? Toby persists. If your average game was nine holes itd totally transform the sport on countless levels. Itd democratize it for a start. Itd dramatically reduce the average age of the golfing demographic. Itd halve waiting times on popular courses. And think of the environmental benefits! Im basically re-thinking golf for a new, techno-savvy generation. Ive invented several variations on the game: Punk Golf, Target Golf They basically turn the traditional game inside out. You can play Target Golf by downloading a special program on to your phone. It sounds really high-tech, but its actually
Lets not bore Gino to death with all of that, Ransom groans.