Don’t You Forget About Me(80)

That’s handy as I did want to direct some satire her way with my date story. Omelettes and eggs.

The other contributors are an uneven bunch, some jittering, some speaking for ages, some barely speaking at all. A couple are really good: a date with a sensitive man on Guardian Soulmates, who it turned out was only working with disadvantaged kids because of his community service, and the girl who ended up going home with the date’s divorced dad. The latter was very likely invention, but it was hilarious – you were right again, Lucas McCarthy.

‘Georgina, is Georgina here?’ Gareth calls from the stage, sheaf of papers in his hand. My eyes involuntarily move to Mr Keith among the judges. I’m feeling more buoyant about his presence though – surely when news reaches his ears that That’s Amore! was running a petting zoo, he’ll see it my way. (It’d be awful if anyone were to email their news desk.)

I step up to the microphone, noting that having done this before doesn’t make it one bit easier.

‘My Worst Date,’ I clear my throat. ‘Wasn’t a first date. My parents asked to meet my boyfriend of three months. Let’s call him Dave. My mum said she’d throw a “fizz and picky bits evening.” Fizz and picky bits is mumspeak for prosecco and olives, dips and so on, with some breaded things from the oven. Shortly after arriving, my mum offered Dave breadsticks and a pot of hummus. Strike one.’

‘He said: “I’m afraid I’m both a coeliac and a chickpea refusenik, Mrs Horspool.” It would’ve been helpful if he had told me he was coeliac, and it was news to me too, given he’d seen off several Hawaiian deep-pan pizzas in my company. I wasn’t aware Papa John’s catered to gluten intolerants. Later he said, “I’m not a coeliac-coeliac. I just find wheat doesn’t agree with me and people prefer labels don’t they? They’re easier to grasp.” I’d have thought it was easiest to grasp the breadstick.’

Some laughs.

‘I could already sense that he was becoming sillier in the face of stern social pressure, imagining it would jolly things up, when actually it was going to go very badly. Like a pilot recklessly grabbing the controls and pitching into the sea when he should ignore the dinging lights and turbulence, and let the aircraft steady itself at that altitude. Then we had the “and what do you do for a living” chat.

‘Dave was a comedian, sometimes on the television.

‘My stepdad said: “And what might we have seen you on?”

‘“Ketamine?” he quipped. I don’t know if you’re keeping track of the strikes but I count this as strike two.’

I glance up, more laughter. They’re a half cut and eager to be pleased group, but I’m still gratified.

‘“Does it keep the wolf from the door, as it were?” my stepdad said, offering a sour cream Kettle Chip.

‘“More or less,” Dave said. “I have other gigs on the side too. Social media stuff. Twitter.”

‘“That pays?” my stepdad said.

‘Dave said, “It can do. I write tweets for humorous accounts.”

‘My stepdad sniffed. “Other comedians?” he said. “Can’t they write their own?”

‘“No, corporate ones,” Dave said. “The PG Tips monkey, that’s me. Sorry to ruin the illusion.”

‘Dave grinned at their blank faces.

‘“The chimps’ tea party?” my stepdad said.

‘“The knitted one,” Dave said. “With Johnny Vegas. You know: MUNKEH!” He bellowed this, spraying shards of soggy crisp.

‘“Have I got this right,” my stepdad said, reaching sixty-seven-year-old system overload. “People log on to their computers online, to read the remarks of a stuffed toy, which is in fact, you pretending to be a stuffed toy?”

‘“In one,” said Dave.

‘“Good grief,” said my stepdad. “I’m probably not the right customer for that sort of polytechnic talk.”

‘Dave was drinking wine, at a clip, and he was on flu meds, which his doctor had warned him not to mix with alcohol. At some point during glass four, he went full-on stoner philosopher.

‘My mum asked if he wanted marriage and kids. (Thanks, Mum.) He said “It’s a case of whether you choose the red pill or the blue pill isn’t it?”

‘“Viagra?!” said my stepdad Geoffrey.’

A laugh, a proper laugh.

‘Dave went on to explain the plot of popular sci-fi action-adventure The Matrix to them, in relation to his hard-left politics. My mum was surprised to discover she was in a simulation created by capitalism, especially as she’d just had the kitchen done.

‘“I like Fulwood!” my mum said.

‘“It’s a constructed reality,” he said. Then burped. “You should read Noam Chomsky’s Manufacturing Consent.”

‘“Got to grow up some time, sonny Jim,” said my stepdad.

‘“Have you?” my boyfriend slurred. “Have you? Numbers, man. Who cares. You’re seventy,” he said to my stepdad, who said, “I’m sixty-seven, thank you very much!” My boyfriend looked at my mum and thankfully decided not to risk it. “She’s thirty …” he pointed at me. “And this house is what? A hundred years old? Right! Numbers. All meaningless.”