Today I arranged to meet Fat Mac for coffee. It’s the first time I’ve met him for almost six months, during which time he’s been going through various life-changing experiences, several of which have been tragic.
The most recent time I met him for a pint, back in December, somehow, and I don’t know how, I ended up at 3am in the Bongo Club as part of a multi-racial party of people who were mostly less than half my age. I was dazed and confused, and even worse – the DJ didn’t know who Brian Wilson was. Fat Mac had earlier that evening either fallen down a manhole or got lost in a bush on the way to the Bongo Club.
So today, I carefully planned to avoid going to the pub by meeting him in St Andrews Square, with a view to having a coffee at the Virgin Money Lounge.
“Hi Rodz. Ah’m nae goin tae thae ponsey bourgeois Virgin megalounge place. Ra pub is roon ra corner. I’m aff theres. Ye can hae a coffee there if yez wan, an watch me drink.”
“Fat Mac!” I said, noticing his reduced bulk, “Nice to see you. You are no longer fat! I already know someone called No Longer [No Longer Grim Jim], so you will have to be Previously Fat Mac. Is that OK?”
Ignoring my question, he said, “Ah’ll hae a pint a Guinness.”
Three pubs later, Previously Fat Mac became a bit disorientated, but I’m fairly confident that he got home OK. I got home OK as well, not via the Bongo Club.