The Storm

Handcuffs. Actual bloody handcuffs. Fitted with inappropriate gusto by the chubby, malodorous prick of a cop that was clearly intent on ruining my hitherto delightful evening. It wasn’t my first time; I’d been cuffed before - another episode that kicked off in a promising fashion but then nose-dived into disappointment and embarrassment. On that occasion, I was clapped in irons by my then girlfriend, Ethel. Contrary to what her name suggested, she wasn’t actually a brittle, grey, dusty grandma from the 1800s - more a challengingly libidinous red-headed fellow teen with a passion for soft-core sado-masochism who took a shine to me because I smelled nice and was kind to animals apparently. I vaguely remembered petting her dog once, or cat; or alligator. Something four-legged with a cold nose anyway, I didn’t really pay too much attention, being mostly busy trying to get her bra off at the time. But now, after a cosy evening in with a ‘Friends’ box set, much white cider and periodic snogging, our ardour had escalated to the point at which it demanded our full attention so we moved into her bedroom. Having successfully (if rather ham-handedly) managed to undress each other and complete the mandatory poorly-executed foreplay, we were ready for the main event. But just as I moved in to clinch the deal, she rolled away from me and went rummaging through the drawer in her bedside table. A moment later she turned back to me, proudly brandishing a pair of pink fluff-covered restraints and a smile so filthy the British Board of Film Classification would refuse it a rating. Being young, generally broad-minded and incandescently horny (also three sheets to the wind), I offered up my wrists. In short order, I was securely handcuffed to the bed frame, with my arms pinned above my head and the remainder of me stretched out in eager anticipation. Boy; this was exciting! But then, just as she moved to clamber on top of me, our breathy intensity was tactlessly interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing in the echoey hallway. Ethel frowned; clearly wrestling with the decision of whether to mount me or go take the call. In the end, her decision wasn’t in my favour.

’Sorry Ken. I’d better answer that - it might be Nan. She struggles with the stairs as she’s only just got her new knees and the guide dog had to go back ‘cos she turned out to be allergic to it.’

And with that she was gone.

For an hour.

And then she eventually returned with apologies and a recipe for homemade hair perming lotion she’d obtained from her phone correspondent Keely, who simply couldn’t call back later because she’d been invited to an after-club party which stood a chance of being attended by some semi-professional footballers with ‘hot bods’, plus ‘the price of that L’Oreal shit just takes the piss anyway. And it smells like damp cats.’

By that point my mood was beyond redemption; I was dismally and entirely immersed in the misery of the incarceration experience. And the erection I’d been proudly sporting earlier had withered into distant memory. And my arse itched: not sure what fabric conditioner she or her Mum favoured but it must have been named something like ‘Carpet O’Nettles’. I demanded my immediate release then threatened to engage the services of a lawyer whilst going to great lengths to explain precisely how she was flouting The Geneva Convention and why she could be arrested for unlawful imprisonment. I even threw in an erroneous reference to The Minsk Protocol because it sounded important and I wanted to make it plain I was proper cross. (I was no Henry Kissinger; that stuff had cropped up in History. I was also reasonably confident she was no expert on military conflict in the Ukraine). In fairness, she was quick to free me. Regardless, I scorched her with the full glare of my disdain whilst scratching my backside furiously which I felt diluted the impact of my anger somewhat. I dressed and left. We didn’t date again.

But here now in the today the scenario was far less colourful, with zero chance of sexual content. Though that might depend on who I ended up sharing a cell with. My mind nervously tip-toed amongst thoughts of heavily muscled psychos with face tattoos who had designs on more than my chewing gum or cigarettes. Not that I’d taken up smoking again but I’d need currency if I was going to survive inside. I’d need a sharpened toothbrush stashed up my bum too; standard survival kit in the joint I imagined. Thus far I’d progressed no further than an interview room - a modest, featureless space with bare walls, illuminated in a minimal style by the sole strip light overhead that winked off then back on occasionally. I sat at the table in the centre of the room, facing two empty chairs, pondering what might be next to befall me as I breathed shallowly to limit the amount of rank air I inhaled. The place oozed body odour and regret. And how did I come to be subjected to such an unpleasant theatre? By being a gentleman that’s how; a gallant hero selflessly risking all to defend my lady’s honour. Or more precisely, by informing a policeman that he didn’t have to be such a colossal wanker all the livelong day. After some light head-butting. And thus, did I join the ranks of Prague’s non-indigenous criminal fraternity.

Up to that point it had been a splendid evening; a splendid week in fact. Me and Jess (my girlfriend of only a few months’ duration whom I adore and who makes Nicole Scherzinger look like Mama Fratelli off of ‘The Goonies’) had arrived Sunday evening after a pleasant, mostly uneventful journey other than the scrum that was Departures at Gatport Airwick’s North Terminal. I’d dozed for most of the passage - both coach number one and the plane. Sleep was my favourite pastime and I excelled at it. Well; maybe second favourite since Jess became part of my life. So for most of the two-hour ‘simpleJet’ flight time I was away with the fairies, somewhat dark though my visions turned out to be (something of a lottery that dreaming thing). I was paintballing with Debbie McGee, she of millionaire magician-marrying fame - and it wasn’t going well. My mood was fractious as she continually gave away our position to the enemy by talking needlessly loudly and making no effort to stay hidden. The fluorescent pink leotard and matching top hat she was wearing didn’t help either. I was also continually marked by the flock of seagulls swarming overhead, taking turns to swoop down in an effort to claim the four-foot tuna and red onion baguette I was inexplicably carrying. Suddenly ravenous, I heaved it from my shoulder and opened my mouth to take a bite, ignoring the impact and splashes from the numerous Dulux ‘Lemon Punch’ colour-filled projectiles now exploding on and about my person. Then one of the gulls flew into my mouth, its beak scraping the back of my throat. I choked myself awake. Then jumped further out of my skin as I glimpsed a flash of bright white plumage perched just below my chin. After some hyperventilation and concerned enquiries from the cabin crew, thankfully this simply turned out to be a napkin that Jess had placed there because I’d been snoring and drooling a bit in my sleep and she didn’t want me to spoil my best cardigan.

The third leg to the central terminus and the second via coach that day dragged mightily, us having been on the road for many hours and wanting to just be at our destination already. It seemed illogical that the flight itself was the shortest portion of our A to B. We managed to keep our sanity for the three-hour drive by playing ‘Words with Mates’ (I lost mostly - bloody app: don’t tell me ‘buttox’ or ‘spamlike’ aren’t words blast you) and debating worst celebrity haircuts and poorest choice of marriage partners (theirs; not ours).

Finally, after a mercifully brief cab ride, we arrived at our home for the next ‘who knew how many’ days. We were staying at ‘The Grand Mark’ in the New Town district; a five-star establishment whose grandiose, now flood-lit exterior actually prompted a ‘Wow!’ from me on first look. Thus far the town had appeared stylish yet austere architecturally speaking, but we appeared to have come across a gem. I looked to Jess wide-eyed as our driver extracted our bags from the boot.

She smiled back. ’Don’t worry lover. I got a great deal on ‘Book_A_Posh_Hotel_Late_Now_Now_Now!!_But_Ssh!!’ dot com or similar. No need to sell an organ to fund it. At least not yet.′

‘No problem. I’ve got a Casio SK-1 gathering dust in the loft that I could shift on eBay if push comes to shove.’

‘I don’t think that would cover it babe. But thanks for the thought.’

‘Not even with its own carry case and stand?’

‘Come on you lemon. Let’s get luxurified.’

Man - that word would score some serious points on ‘Words...’ Especially on a treble.

Our room was superb. Jess had acquired us a ‘Superior’ suite which more than lived up to its title. The bed was mammoth enough to spread-eagle an eagle on it. And the complimentary bathroom toiletries looked like they cost more than my first car. After a quick freshen up we headed out, keen to explore. Our neighbourhood offered up a seemingly endless choice of bars and eateries which we set about sampling with great enthusiasm, somewhat road weary though we were. And that evening really acted as a template for the next few days as we wiled away the hours eating, drinking and enjoying the heck out of each other. Though alas Jess never seemed to get my oft-used ‘Czech Please!’ gag when it was time to settle a bill. Prague is a place for walking; it’s a bustling city but not like New York crazy - flagstone streets and designer pavements, overseen by block after sturdy block that all seemed to be squaring up to fight each other but were reluctant to make the first move. And the more of the city you take in the more you appreciate how it’s put together. My first impression of its stern countenance was misplaced; the buildings are actually astoundingly stylistically varied the further afield you venture; Gothic, Baroque, Romanesque (Jess taught me some stuff) - it was all here. With an embarrassment of riches when it came to spires and other pointy bits. And the music; man, the music! In the squares, in the streets - wherever there were people. It flowed everywhere you went, as did the beer. Cafes, parks, clubs, with added cafes, parks and clubs thrown in. And a zoo too. Just a staggering place. And a place I staggered in more than once. But atop the hedonism we did find time to fulfil our cultural quota too, spending many hours in the plentiful museums and galleries that populated our corner of the city. I had culture coming out my ears. Cholesterol too probably. But we couldn’t stray too far from base camp, and not just because we wanted to stay within easy reach of the hotel for our afternoon delight.

The reason for our limited perambulatory range was a certain Professor Anton Crispe - the art historian/detective/connoisseur who Jess was fingers-crossed hoping was going to assist us in determining whether the painting I owned was the genuine article or not. And if it was, school me on how fabulously rich I was going to be. And we were at his beck and call, waiting on an invite that we couldn’t be confident would ever be extended. I’d inherited the piece when I took on my dear Aunt Maddy’s pub on her passing - my beloved ‘Pulton Arms’, in my treasured home town of Pulton on Dorset’s fair South Coast. And the pub was now home, my business and pretty much my whole world. I’d only recently grasped the reins and I’d got off to a challenging start with the venture, courtesy of a local business owner keen to oust me and get her mitts on my property - looking to corrupt and repurpose it to serve her own ugly ends. In the midst of that debacle, I was beavering away behind the scenes restoring our kitchen and reintroducing food service; broadening our offering to tempt more of Pulton’s populace and their cash through our door.

Thankfully, with the help of my invaluable and valiant friends and colleagues I’d prevailed and the pub was now very much on the up and up. The whole episode seems somewhat surreal now; ridiculous even when I think of what transpired and the ludicrous lengths I went to in defence of my livelihood. Some might call me heroic; but only if they’d been on the brandy or I’d slipped them a tenner. Heroic; like earlier. Bastard cops. But the painting remained as an unanswered question. Jess was convinced it was the real deal (she was an arty sort herself) and went hunting for an expert who could confirm it; and unearthed Professor Crispe in the process. Since then she’d spent considerable hours and effort trying to make his acquaintance - a painstaking process as he would only communicate via letter and only through his assistant Klára who informed us that he believed more expeditious means of dialogue to be ‘too efficient to be polite’. So the dispatches continued, as winter gave way to spring and thoughts of the typically buoyant summer weather and booming trade started to pop up on our mental radar. But all Jess received was questions about the painting followed by more queries; anything and everything to try and establish its provenance, all of which she answered as well she could but with mounting frustration.

‘If he just looked at the sodding thing he’d know right away!’

Klára assured us she was doing her level best on our behalf but after so many weeks with no firm offer of a meeting Jess’s patience was done.

‘Look, enough with the pen-pal bullshit. Let’s just bloody go there.’

‘What, Prague? How do we know he’ll even see us?’

‘We don’t. But what’s the worst that could happen? He’s a no-show and we get to enjoy Prague in spring - hardly torture.’

‘What about the pub?’

‘You’ve got J.D. and Janine. And Halo - I think they’ll do just fine without you. They did before the era of Ken dawned. And we haven’t had a proper break from work for yonks babe.’

This was harsh but fair. J.D. was my ever-capable Bar Manager who’d essentially helmed The Pulton Arms since long before my arrival, ably assisted by his feisty sidekick Janine and his pug Halo who ensured the floors were cleared of any dropped snackage.

″S’pose so.′

‘And there’s always Bruno if there’s any trouble.’

Yes, Bruno - my Chef who’d turned out to be a stellar talent when it came to both the lunch menu and incapacitating burly no-gooders keen on my ruin.

‘Yeah you’re right but it’s my place; you know?’

‘Yes I know. But again; what’s the worst that could happen?’

To be honest the whole idea sounded as appealing as an Easter Egg hunt on LV-425, but I couldn’t architect a solid argument to the contrary. Plus why call an unnecessary end to my only recently resuscitated sex life?

‘Okay; let’s do it.’