Taking proper liberties

“Fucking hell. Hark at Charlie big potatoes over here trying to give it the biggun.”

That voice you can hear is Kev. He's my best mate. We've been mates since before we even knew that being mates was even a thing. Got dumped down on a nursery floor as toddlers and have been pretty much inseparable ever since. We've never known a time in our lives when the other wasn't there. From the time both of us were old enough to form memories there we both were. Me and Kev, Kev and me. I'm Josh by the way and tonight as always I'm playing the role of wingman because that's what I do best. Where women are concerned Kev has the eyes of a hawk and the nose of a bloodhound. He can pick up the sight and smell of a single female like he was first in the queue when God was handing out that particular set of skills. He was also near the front for charm for his own good. As for me? Well I'm good at maths, not so great where members of the opposite sex are concerned. We couldn't have been more than five mouthfuls into our first pint before he's got us sat around a table with three women and the four of them are chatting like they've known each other as long as we've known each other. It's an impressive skill I'll give him that much even if he's just shot down the one single thing I've contributed in the opening twenty minutes of salvo. That's the point in the conversation where you all came in. 

I find that the world moves far smoother when you know your place in it. Invariably what tends to happen in situations like this is that it will transpire that two of the three are single and one will have a boyfriend. Mathematically speaking that should at least put me in the game. What will happen though, what always happens, is the two single ladies will end up fighting over Kev and I'll get stuck with the third one who'll get increasingly paralytic on my hard earned money over the course of the evening and I'll have to listen to her like an agony uncle banging on about how her bloke doesn't treat her right and how he's a complete arsehole and then there will be tears and everyone in the pub will look at me and mutter wanker under their breaths and give me evil looks because they think I've made her cry. I've seen this episode on repeat too many times and I've never laughed at it once. 

Whilst Kev does the talking, I'll pretend to be listening and for your benefit I'll wind the clock back for you all. As I've already alluded to we met in nursery and clearly had an instant rapport or whatever it is that toddlers have. If it was up to my parents we'd never have been friends at all whereas Kev's mum Trish has always treated me like a second son. My mum was sadly born with her own head up her arse and despite her best efforts to keep her baby boy away from someone called Kevin it didn't work. In her book Joshua's and Kevin's weren't born to mix. Not that she called me Joshua or even Josh for that matter. Up until the age of twelve it was always Joshie and Kev would rip the piss saying it at me in the most effeminate manner when her back was turned and she was safely out of earshot. In the end I had to beg her to stop but even now she'll slip up and I see Kev's eyes light up with opportunity. 

Neither of us saw much of our Dad's growing up, both were in the motor trade. Mine had a series of car showrooms selling a range of prestige motors. You know your Benz's, your Beamers and Audi's. Proper German engineering with a price tag to match. You should have seen my first set of wheels when I was 17. Fucking clapped out piece of shit banger of a Ford Fiesta. Dad by that point had decided that he was going to spend the rest of his life sticking it up some fat fuck from one of his showrooms. All mums mates reckoned she should have taken him to the cleaners but all she wanted was the house and to see the back of him which is fair enough really, each to their own. As for Kev's dad, well that's a different matter entirely for which he's paid for by missing long stretches of his boys life for differing periods of time if you get my drift. Another reason that my mum was adamant she didn't want us mixing. Trish reckons about the age of 3 or 4 I howled every day from morning to night because I wasn't allowed to see Kev and mum had finally relented having had enough and was at breaking point. I should really ask Trish one day how Kev was during the same period but given she reminds me at least once a year of me howling and has never once said about Kev's reaction I'm guessing he's always had the stiffer upper lip. Maybe I'll just save myself the embarrassment and not ask and take it on the chin that I was the whiny little cunt as a kid. We did at least save both sets of parents the trouble of bothering to having another child given we were always brothers from other mothers. The irony isn't ever lost on us both that despite our differing circumstances growing up, I'm the one from a broken home and Trish and Tony have been happily married for the best part of twenty years of which they've probably only spent three or four of total in each others company. As she likes to joke, the key to a long and successful happy marriage is apparently to live under different roofs. I suspect mum might add not to shag fat bints behind your wife's back but that one's clear and obvious, no VAR check needed for that call. 

Hang on a minute bear with me just one second. 

“My round is it? OK yeah no worries what are we all drinking ladies. Yep, yep, yep, no problem. Yeah I think I can manage. No I don't need to ask for a tray you melt. Anyone want any crisps? No. You sure? Get a couple of bags and split them open? Yeah? See little nod of the head there. Right I'll be back in a minute.”

Sorry about that. Always someone rudely interrupting. Anyways where was I? Oh yeah the secret to a happy marriage. Not sure I'll ever have to worry about it to be honest. Every girl I've ever really liked Kev's got in their first and I don't really want to be handling his soiled goods. There's more chance of me ending up doing a stretch inside with his old man than there is of me getting married and I've never in so much as nicked a Mars bar in my life. Did I mention I'm good at maths? I did? Oh I'm sorry. Don't know why but I've always had a brain for it. Algebraic equations, trigonometry, the whole shahboodle. As for women though, there's one set of life's complicated equations that I can't get my head around. Right explain this to me. Say a woman grows up in a pokey little council flat and she looks at a massive house and she wants to live in there. That makes sense right? No issues there whatsoever. But let's say he old man was a cunt growing up. Surely the same logic would apply as with the house? You'd go for something better no? Find yourself a gentleman who'd treat you right. Who wouldn't cheat on you, call you all the names under the sun and knock seven shades of shit out of you at 2am in the morning after ten pints drowning your sorrows all because your football team lost a fucking game of football and your mum didn't cuddle you enough as a fucking kid. But no, all women want to try marry their dads especially those who were complete fucking bell ends. Fucking liberties. Sorry we pre-loaded before we got in the pub and it's starting to kick in now. 

“Yes mate two pints of lager, two glasses of white, one rose, bag of ready salted and do I want salt and vinegar or cheese and onion? Fuck it make it one of both. Cheers guvnor. No I'll be fine without a tray I'll do it in two trips otherwise I'll never hear the end of it. Yeah I know thinks he's funny!” *Rolls eyes, grits crisps between teeth and edges across the room with three glasses of plonk gripped together praying I don't go arse over tit. 

“No Kev I didn't forget your pint it's on the bar. Why didn't I use a tray Kev? Probably because you'd not let me hear the end of it if I did. Yeah we'll keep on talking and you'll be wearing your pint when I get back from the bar with it.”

Right sorry about that. Fuck me for a group of people who didn't want crisps they've opened them up sharp enough and started tucking in. Better move quick otherwise they'll have hoovered everything but the crumbs and I'll look like a tight arse for wetting my finger and fishing out the remnants from the former of the bags. Absolute fucking liberties.