Five fucking hours. Five fucking hours of motorway stretching up to Manchester, listening to Dixon and his mates while all I was thinking about was standing Nadia up. I had called to tell her I couldn’t make it, but she just didn't get it.
"Alan you are fucking pussy. I thought you were good, strong man but you are weak. Papa was wrong about you - I have no time for men who have, how you say - no testicle. Why don't you go buy Dixon some new boots so he can walk over you some more! I will go for drink with someone else, someone confident."
Gutted. Not only has Dixon ruined my work life, he's now ruined any chance of me ever having any luck with the ladies. Twice. Why does this shit always happen to me? I'm such a pussy. The car consumed the road as my mind pranged with all manner of hatred towards the biggest coward on the planet. Me.
Finally, after hours of traffic we arrive in Manchester. They were staying at the Lowry; at least it looked like a decent place. Then Dixon dropped a even bigger cunt bomb.
“Oi oi boys! Team Dixon has landed!!! Lets get our fucking coke on! Hold on Alman, where you going? Your not staying here shag, not at the price of these rooms no chance! We got you a doss down at a the youth hostel! Be back here at eleven tomorrow to pick us up”.
So while Dixon and friends were pissing and snorting it up on the town enjoying their boutique hotel, I was in a shitty YMCA being kept awake by a drunk Australian backpacker couple fucking in the corner of the dorm. I tried to call Nadia to explain, but got no response. Just an accidental answer, and the loud sounds of electro music. God knows where or who she was with, all I know is that I'd blown my chance and it was all Dixon’s fault.
I had to ferry them around the next day. First to the match - they didn't have a ticket for me and I had to drive around for two hours while waiting to pick them up. Chelsea won 2-0. Quite possibly the worse possible result for me. Cue a hours worth of Chelsea songs in the drive back to Manchester, then a chauffeur driven tour of the best the city has to offer that lasted until 6 in the morning.
Three hours sleep before we began back to London, as they wanted me to wait outside the hotel from 9 am in case they decided to leave early. We didn't leave until mid-day. Then I had to spend the entire journey listening to them go on about how many drugs they had taken and the back street strip bar they went to. Dixon squawking and shoving his camera phone under my nose, a grainy video depicting a polish striper doing unmentionable things with a root vegetable. Him and his mates laughing and shouting like some baying pack of hyenas.
When we get back to London, Dixon makes me drop everyone off then get the tube home from his house. Then just when I think it couldn't get any worse, my phone chimes. Its a text message:
From: Toby
28-09-08 18:37
Oi Alman! Guess who went Russian Friday night?
That Nadja bird couldn't resist the power of my remix.
Thanks for fucking up - you got my balls dipped!
Put your fucking hands up!! LOL
No. No. No no no. Not Toby anyone but Toby. I don't believe this.
This is all Dixon’s fucking fault. All Dixon’s fault. All Dixon’s fault….
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