A message from my eldest: the company they work for is having a works outing, an all-expenses-paid few days in Brighton. I mentioned my eldest a few weeks ago: they’d bought a motorbike. And now they’re driving down on it, which means I’ll get to see it. Maybe even vroom the throttle a bit. I had extracted a promise that I could have a go on it myself, but privately I acknowledge I won’t be: I haven’t driven a bike for around 20 years, when I realised that I was the bodywork and that maybe parents of three small children shouldn’t go zooming around town on a Moto Guzzi. There would also be the problem of insurance, because, well, do I have to explain the problem of insurance? Also, their helmet probably wouldn’t fit me, I’d skid on a pile of leaves or something, and it would all be very unpleasant.
As it is, I feel very unpleasant, by which I mean I have a rotten cough and a cold and something bad is beginning to happen in my mouth: the kind of all-over itch and sensitivity that suggests the beginnings of gum disease. This is not something I’m looking forward to. No one does, of course, but the idea of going to a dentist fills me with a feeling of existential dread. Financial dread, too, come to think of it. I haven’t been to the fang doctor since I cracked a tooth about four or five years ago. It was all handled relatively sensitively, but I wouldn’t count it as one of the better experiences of my life.
The eldest will be accompanied by about 15 coders and software engineers, from all over the world, although there seems to be a statistically anomalous number of Brazilians. The firm they all work for specialises in streaming arty films; you may have heard of it; you may even subscribe to it. Well, New Statesman readers are incredibly cool, after all.
The eldest, whom I will henceforth call A—, is happy to be going to Brighton. The company’s annual shindig is usually held in London, and A— lives in London already so doesn’t even get to stay in a hotel. I am asked if I know of any places where one could park a motorbike securely. By a strange coincidence, the local Facebook groups suddenly become full of people saying their motorbikes have been stolen. It would seem it is impossible to park a bike anywhere in town without it being stolen in five minutes. I go native and post a question about whether anyone has space in a garage.
“How much are they willing to pay?” goes one reply.
“How much are you willing to pay?” I ask A—.
“Nothing,” says A—, who possibly has an idealistic view of how capitalist society works. My gums begin to itch.
I go to the local chemist, which mainly operates as a place for the local junkies to get their doses of methadone, which are consumed in situ, presumably because that’s the law these days.
“What’s that mouthwash you use when you have gum disease? I forget the name,” I say to the pharmacist.
“Corsodyl,” says the man behind me, a wreck with a tattoo going all the way round his neck.
“Thank you,” I say, but the chemist says they’ve run out. I wonder if they had any in the first place. I score some from another chemist and go back to a message from A— asking for pub suggestions. As A— is fond of craft beers, I suggest the Hole in the Wall, a tiny but utterly delightful pub which always has a good selection.
“I’ll be with between ten and 15 people,” says A—. “It looks a little small.”
Who the hell goes to the pub with ten to 15 people? I ask myself. My gums start throbbing again.
In the end I suggest the Hope and Ruin, an achingly cool joint on the main drag from the station. It’s all deliberately covered in graffiti, is an artful mess, and reminds me of the achingly cool places I used to drink in in the Eighties. That is, post-punk indie achingly cool, not Duran Duran achingly cool, if you see what I mean. We agree to meet at 10pm, which is late for me but the coders will have been to a team-bonding exercise earlier: a cookery course.
“FFS,” I text A—, who among other achievements is a trained sushi chef.
“I know,” replies A—, “but it’s mainly an excuse to get drunk.”
And we all fit into the Hope and Ruin, which is as achingly cool as ever, and we stay till midnight, and at one point I even get sort of chatted up by a very nice young lady at the bar. We even swap phone numbers.
“Don’t bother, Dad,” says A—, “she’s obviously very high.” And indeed her phone number is an illegible scrawl.
The next day A— comes round with the bike. It is achingly cool; as, indeed, is A—. My gums, though, just ache, as does my head, a little bit.
[See also: My four years in Wittgensteinian austerity]
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This article appears in the 16 Oct 2024 issue of the New Statesman, Make or Break