Q Darts ch15

Chapter 15

It was the Summer. The clocks had gone forwards or backwards or
whatever it is that clocks do and the days were getting longer, trying
to make the most of the sun.

One day, it just so happened that we were all in The Castro when The
Poet had an idea.

"We should go on holiday," he said.

He said it just like that, as if it was a simple thing, a thing that
had been mentioned before and was more or less decided.

Captain Vegas leapt up. Today he was looking more like Elvis than
ever. Ever since the win a change had come over us all. We were still
ourselves only more so. It was as if the win had somehow allowed our
true essence to come out. It seemed that The Poet had been right, it
was just a question of adapting, amending what was already there.

"I said," said The Poet, glancing at Captain Vegas and perhaps
misunderstanding his leap, perhaps thinking that he was going to object
to a holiday, "that we should go on holiday."

"Holiday," sang Captain Vegas, "if we took a holiday ooh yeah, ooh
yeah. It would be, it would be so nice."

"Exactly," said The Poet. He gave Captain Vegas a look that said while
he didn't agree with singing in particular today it was acceptable.
"Holiday. This is AkiMat's first time in England and we should make the
effort to do something exciting for him. We should go on holiday. He
deserves a holiday. If anyone here deserves a holiday then it's
AkiMat."

Captain Vegas stopped singing. Abruptly. In mid ooh yeah. He was still
standing and now he used his vertical position to make a new
point.

"What about me?" he said. "Don't I need a holiday? I work in that chip
shop every night, you know? Do you think that's a holiday, because it
isn't? That isn't a holiday at all. Frying chips isn't a holiday. Let
me tell you if there's anybody who needs a holiday here then it's
me."

The Poet fixed Captain Vegas with a gruesome stare and I'm sure that
he would have said something vituperative, something cutting, if at
that very second he hadn't been flattened by 16. You see, ever since
the first mention of the word holiday 16 had been running around the
room. He was like Roadrunner on lysergic acid. Mention of holidays
always did that to him. And now he went right over The Poet. He left
Roadrunner footprints from The Poet's head to his toes and everywhere
in between. Just like in the cartoon.

"Beep beep," said 16, "beep beep." And he continued on his journey,
his legs rotating in a circular blur from the knee, around and around
the room.

"What about me?" said Captain Vegas. "What about my holiday? I NEED A
HOLIDAY. OOH YEAH."

"Help me," said The Poet in a very small children's story voice. "Help
me. Somebody help me."

So. This is how things stood. The Poet was on the floor. Captain Vegas
was upright and jiggling his hips like a demon. 16 was Roadrunner.
Seven and AkiMat were looking on, open-mouthed, amazed, wondering,
probably, where the hell was Wil-E-Coyote. It was up to me to sort
everyone out. Again.

"STOP!" I shouted. "STOP!" And everyone stopped. Not in slow motion.
Dead. Just like that.

"A holiday is a good idea," I said. "A holiday is a great idea. For
all of us." I caught the hint of a rebellion in Captain Vegas's eye.
"FOR ALL OF US. A TO ZEE." But then I thought of something else,
something important. I looked at The Poet.
"But what about the darts league?" I said.

"We've got two weeks break," said The Poet from his position on the
floor.

I gave a little leap. "Hoorah!" I said.

16's legs spun a fraction, Captain Vegas's hips wiggled an inch, The
Poet covered his head against any possible blows.

"Hooray!" I said again.

"Hooray!" said Seven.

"Hooray!" said Captain Vegas.

"Can I get up now?" said The Poet.

Walking into the travel agents we were like the Magnificent Seven. Only
there were six of us. And we weren't that magnificent. Erico Morricone
was doing the soundtrack, Sergio Leone framed us. It was great.

"Hey," said 16, leaning jauntily against a cardboard cut-out cactus
that was attempting either to advertise a package holiday to Mexico or
promote Joe Blow's cactus emporium on Hathersage Road. "We're going on
holiday pardner."

"Sure are boy," replied Seven, plucking off one of the cactus's
cardboard thorns and placing it between his kissable lips. "We sure
are."

"No time for idle talk," I said, looking at 16, at Seven, at everyone.
"Split up and rendezvous by the saloon at high noon."

"Yep," said 16.

"Sure thing," said The Poet.

"Howdy," said Seven.

"And one word," I said. "Watch out for them there Indians. They're
pesky varmints and you can't trust em. Now go."

With a rattling of spurs the others did as I said, marching off to far
corners of the shop.
I narrowed my eyes to the midday sun, moved the toothpick I was
chewing from the left to the right of my lips and looked around.

The place was Saturday afternoon full. Straight couples sat tweely at
agents' desks booking that romantic holiday for two. Or it was old
couples going on a coach weekend to Blackpool pleasure beach. I was
thinking. What kind of holiday was suitable for five gay men and a
couple that included Captain Vegas and Leia Organa? I scratched my
head.

What do five gay men do on holiday? What do they like?
Then like a bolt of white lightning I realised I was wrong. That was
the wrong question. I was approaching the problem from the wrong angle.
If the win had taught me anything then it was this. I had to chose a
holiday not because I thought it was suitable for five gay men and a
Captain Vegas but because I thought it would be a holiday I enjoyed.
The holiday we chose would have to adapt to us. That was the point. If
anything was a bastion to be overcome it was
that. Stereotypes work both ways.

So with my eyes newly open I set off on a world tour of the shop,
being careful not to get my spurs caught in the carpet.
I bumped into The Poet once lazing on a Jamaican beach and Seven
unexpectedly on a day trip to Lanzarote. Apart from that I was alone.
Occasionally I selected a brochure that I thought looked enticing. I
formed a neat pile of them in my arms. I was a cowboy on a mission.
Nobody could doubt that.

Until finally it was rendezvous time. Saloon. High noon. Morricone
reaching a crescendo.
"So what have you got?" I said, grinning broadly above my pile of
brochures, the ones I had accepted as most suitable. "Who's
first?"

"Vegas," said Captain Vegas. "Croupiers. Casinos. Chips. Roulette.
Stage. Music. Lights. Camera. Action. Elvis."

"Predictable," I said. "The Poet?"

"Himalayan mountains," said The Poet. "The Dalai Lama. Tibetan monks.
Cold showers in verdant waterfalls. Stoicism. Dawn prayers and
self-flagellation with swishing palm fronds. Lentils. Lentils. And more
lentils."

"No comment," I said. "Seven?"

"The Spice Islands," said Seven. "Tropical fruits. Guava. Papaya.
Kumquats and lychees. Kiwi and pomegranates. Bananas picked by the
bunch. Coconuts eaten fresh from the tree."

"Nice," I said. "But diarrhoea. Lots of it. 16?"

"South of France," said 16. "Water parks. Theme parks. Promenades with
the rich and famous. Water scooters. Parascending. Memories of Diana.
Skiing. Mountain-climbing. Dinners in fancy restaurants. With the rich
and famous. Shops. Shops. Shopping. Luis Vuitton. Jean Paul Gautier.
Calvin Klein. Sex. With the rich and famous."

"Good idea," I said.

"Yes?" said 16.

"Yes," I said, "but too expensive. Rule one for sex with rich and
famous."

"Yes?" said 16.

"Gold credit card."

"Yes," said 16. "I see. Yes."

"Well," said The Poet with the first hint of any palpitation that I
had seen in days, "what about you then? What have you come up with, may
I ask Mr Loop Garoo sir?"

"Um," I said, quietly confident. "How about this? Greek island.
Secluded spot. Lying on beach. Getting a tan. Evenings in town. Going
to clubs. Hi-NRG music. Disco divas. Fun but cultured. Me and Seven.
The Poet and AkiMat. Captain Vegas. 16. Well?"

The Poet shook his head. 16 shook his head. Captain Vegas shook his
head. Seven shook his head. Even AkiMat shook his head.

"Too gay!" they all said together. "Too fucking gay!"

Already I could see the headlines. "GAY DARTS TEAM STAYS AT HOME FOR
SUMMER." or "HOME ALONE IN GAY DARTS SHOCKER." Then I remembered
AkiMat. He had yet to reveal his holiday destination.

"What about you?" I said, quite frankly fearing the worst. I was
thinking futon. I was thinking sumo weekend in Potters Bar. I was
thinking wooden seats in a kabuki theatre.

"Wait," said AkiMat. "And look."

Very carefully AkiMat tore a page out of the brochure he was holding.
His hands started slowly, making folds and creases and then gradually
they picked up speed. Soon they were a blur of motion. They made 16's
Roadrunner legs look like chicken-feed.

"What is it? What is it?" said Captain Vegas doing a fine impression
of that famous Antipodean comic talent Rolf Harris and he mimed the
holding of a slender didgeridoo.

"Look," said The Poet, "it's a... it's a...."

AkiMat's hands stopped as quickly as they had started. He held up the
finished article.

"It's a six-berth Impala cabin cruiser," I said.

"Yes," said AkiMat. "Two weeks cruising. The Norfolk Broads. The life
on the river wave. Good idea?"

"Good idea," said 16.

"Good idea," said Seven.

"Good idea," said The Poet.

"Good idea," said everyone.

Above our heads fireworks exploded, singeing the ceiling of the city
centre travel agents. We didn't care. We were going on holiday. That
was a fact. Jack.