Worlds Apart - Part 1

September 2004: Bournemouth, England.

The prodigal son had returned. Stood in the doorway of a Dorset pub - unattractively cross-eyed, watching the rain drip from the end of my nose - I realised the travelling experience had changed me. The transition ironically made me feel as nervous as the day I’d gingerly sloped into the arrivals hall in New Delhi. I shook my head regretfully. Inside the four walls that lay before me, everything would be exactly the same as when I’d left . . .

‘Alan’s got a girlfriend?’ I said, spitting beer back into my pint glass.

‘Erm, well yeah,’ said Bob. ‘We assumed you knew.’

‘Knew?’ I wiped the spittle from my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘Just exactly how was I supposed to know?’

‘Didn’t you get our texts?’

‘Did anyone bother to read my emails more to the point? My phone’s been out of action for months.’

‘And I suppose that’s our fucking fault is it?’ Jimmy waded in with his usual subtlety. Everyone knew this wasn’t about who had or hadn’t sent emails or texts. The root of the problem was buried much deeper. Jimmy and Maria were still a long-term item. Ellie and Bob were still engaged and had relocated back to Dorset in anticipation of married life. Now even Alan had a girlfriend. I remained the last man standing. It didn’t help today was Mel’s 30th birthday.

‘I can’t believe I don’t know this. Why did … why didn’t anyone mention it in any of their emails? This is big news.’

‘It’s not that big,’ said Jimmy nonchalantly.

‘In all the years I’ve known Alan he’s never had a girlfriend.’

‘Well, I dunno if she’s technically his girlfriend.’ Bob tried to play it down.

‘I’ve never even known him go on a date,’ I said despairingly.

‘No … yeah, he did.’ The intense concentration on Jimmy’s face as he wracked his brains made me smile. It was obvious he was already struggling. ‘Remember that time with what’s-her-face?’ He stared at Bob for inspiration. Bob gazed blankly into space.

‘If you’re talking about the girl with the thick glasses …’

‘That’s the one.’ Jimmy rocked back on his chair, clicking his fingers. Bob continued to look puzzled.

‘It was one date to the cinema … seven years ago,’ I said.

‘So?’

‘So,’ I threw my hands in the air, ‘it was hardly fucking Romeo and Juliet was it?’

‘There was that other girl with the lisp,’ Bob interjected.

‘OK, can we just slam the brakes on the loony train here?’

‘Yeah, I remember her,’ Jimmy started.

‘No, but you don’t Jimmy do you,’ I interrupted sharply, ‘because no one ever met her … apart from Alan allegedly, and he only dated her for what, twenty minutes? I seem to recall she went home to get changed after Alan spilt beer all over her. He never saw her again.’

There was a stony silence. I’d made my point.

‘How long’s this been going on for?’ I asked solemnly, as if enquiring about some illicit affair.

‘Errm, I dunno. A few weeks?’ Bob looked at his feet.

Jimmy scanned both of our faces. ‘For fuck’s sakes you two, can’t you be happy for the bloke?’

‘I am, I am,’ I said with a certain amount of guilt, ‘It’s just …’

‘Yeah, we know,’ mocked Bob, ‘you’re a sad loser.’

‘Well I’m the only sad loser you could find to be your best man,’ I said belligerently. Bob shrugged his shoulders. We sat in silence. I sipped my beer, scanning the defensive faces across the table.

‘Anyway,’ Bob sighed, attempting to lighten the mood, ‘we should be talking about your travels.’

Jimmy rolled his eyes in apathy.

I’d fancied the idea of travelling for a long time but forever found excuses not to go. I was always too secure in my job, too settled with a girlfriend or too reluctant to rent out my house and face the prospect of having it wrecked by complete strangers, especially after working so hard to get it just how I liked it. I comforted myself with these excuses. The ‘idea’ of travelling was great. I visualised myself as this confident globetrotter, boldly going where no McGrath had been before. It was the sheer inconvenience of giving everything up – the overwhelming feeling of anxiety, leaping from the cocoon of my comfort zone out into the big daunting world – which had always convinced me staying put was by far the best option. It just so happened 2003 had been such a shit year, my decision was largely made for me.

The troubles started to emerge during November 2002. The agency I’d been working for hadn’t performed at all well. Although disappointed, I wasn’t entirely surprised to be hauled into the office with the rest of my colleagues. My attitude was nonetheless nonchalant. I assumed a few job cuts might be on the cards but was confident I wasn’t in the firing line. I’ve never been desperately excited or enthusiastic about my career or its prospects. Promotion never interested me. I was well paid for what I did. I went through the motions, got good results and was pretty much left to my own devices without too much scrutiny. Ironically, my success inversely mirrored my lack of interest. My laissez-faire approach meant I didn’t become nearly as stressed as everyone else in the office. Less stress led to better returns which resulted in winning the award for making the most money for the company three years running. My feet were well under the table. This meeting wasn’t going to change anything. There’d be a few redundancies, a shake up of personnel but I was confident I’d plod on as I always had.

In the cramped stuffy conditions of our Salisbury office, I stood in complete disbelief as we were all told the office was due for closure, redundancies across the board. It was a shock, a very strange feeling. Not only had it been unexpected, I’d always associated redundancy with failure. You only got laid off if you were really dire. My ebbing self-confidence was vaguely restored when I heard of a few clandestine meetings taking place. The Directors from our Head Office in London hand-picked a chosen few for possible transfer. I was flattered to have my name mentioned. At the initial meeting in a secluded Dorset pub I was offered a five-figure pay rise along with a relocation allowance. Okay, so I wasn’t going to have such an easy ride of it. I’m sure they wanted their pound of flesh in return for the substantial remuneration and I could think of better places to live and work than London, but I still had my connections in the capital. My girlfriend Mel lived there for Christ’s sake. The financial incentive would sweeten the bitter pill of actually having to look the part and do some work. It was a chance to begin again, the offer too good to turn down.

When I was summoned to our Head Office in Hanger Lane to close the deal I was surprised to learn the salary increase would be a six-figure sum. Unfortunately for me, this included pence. The initial generous offer of an additional £10,000 bonus was watered down to £1,500 with an allowance of £250 for moving to the capital. It was an insult, not to mention a complete waste of time. I wasn’t alone. The other members of the so-called ‘elite’ were all offered similar crummy deals.

Out of principle, I held out until the end of my notice period, March 2003. I was determined to get my hands on the redundancy money despite it being worth marginally less than the pay rise offered to move to London. The first three months of 2003 could hardly be described as busy. For those sticking it out, it was a time for doing as little as possible, touting for other work, attending interviews and doing the crossword. In spite of the enthusiasm for my career plummeting to a new all-time low and the prospect of languishing on the dole having certain merits, I pushed myself to attend interviews, hoping I could walk directly from the one job to the next.

It’s strange how you somehow get a gut feeling for a company in those first few fleeting moments of an interview. I don’t know if it’s justifiable or appropriate to form an opinion on a prospective employer based on the style of their entrance lobby or the greeting you get from the receptionist but this is what I found myself doing. The vibe was particularly good during my initial visit to a small firm of building contractors in Portsmouth. The interview was relaxed and informal. We had a smoke. I was offered a whisky. The salary was more than reasonable. The deal was almost signed and sealed that afternoon. I was almost certain I’d fit in, but with most of their work in Hampshire, the travelling aspect niggled in the back of my mind.

Foolishly, I opted instead for a local firm who were carrying out building works almost on my doorstep. The salary wasn’t as competitive but they attempted to sell me the job on their illustrious bonus scheme.

‘You can earn £5000, £8000 on top of your salary … every year. Talk to anyone in the office. They’ll all tell you how wonderful it is.’ The chubby, prospective manager was clearly excited by the deal. I, on the other hand, had always found myself shafted by these so-called fantastic incentives. They’d promised, but never delivered, far too many times before. The fact the offer was being sold to me by someone who appeared to model himself on David Brent did nothing to allay my fears. Now, however, was the time to negotiate. Normally calm and professional in an interview, I found myself arguing my corner in bullish fashion.

‘I feel the only way to move this interview forward is for you to agree to pay me another £5000,’ I said, without batting an eyelid.

‘What?’

‘Well, if you’re confident I’m going to get between five and £8000 in any case, pay me an additional five.’

‘We can’t do that.’

‘Of course you can. Just include a guaranteed bonus of £5000 for the first year within my terms and conditions and we can negotiate further.’ I couldn’t believe I was being so assertive but the bloke was such a tit, I lost all sense of protocol. He opened his mouth to speak but I was on a roll. ‘I’m not asking you to pay 5k on top of my bonus … if I earn more on the scheme, I’ll just take the extra.’ I sat back with smug satisfaction, watching him huff and puff for a few brief moments.

‘I’ll have to get Director approval for that,’ he croaked, leaning forward in his chair for a swig of water. ‘We can’t offer you the same salary as you’ve been advised elsewhere, but I’m sure we can trim around the edges and make you into a ‘complete’ surveyor.’ He cupped his hands to make the shape of a globe. 'With the right training, I’m confident we can propel you from the mediocre surveyor you are today into the finished article.’

Two and a half hours I listened to this crap. He poked and probed the depths of my knowledge until he stumbled on a potential weakness. Once he’d struck gold, it was like watching a dog with a fucking bone. By the time I left the interview, I hated the wanker. It didn’t stop me accepting the job. The project they had in mind for me was ten minutes down the road as opposed to a three-hour round trip. How bad could it be?

In the summer of 2003, it was a shock to hear my Grandad had been admitted to hospital. He was as strong as an ox and although Nan had left us some years earlier following long-term illness, he’d coped admirably. He continued to walk everywhere, insisting the fresh air and exercise did him good, only venturing into his immaculately cared for car for the weekly five-mile round trip to the supermarket. During one of these brief outings - as he innocently sat stationary at a set of traffic lights - he was hit by an oncoming car swerving to avoid a pedestrian. We religiously travelled up to the Midlands on the weekends that followed. It was heartbreaking to see this otherwise man mountain barely able to string an audible sentence together. I’m not sure he even knew who we were at times.

When Grandad finally passed away in Worcester hospital I went to my new boss to ask for compassionate leave.

‘Well,’ he said drumming his fingers across the table, ‘it does technically have to an immediate family member.’ He cocked his head to one side and awaited my response.

‘Errrm, OK,’ I laughed, wondering if he was being sarcastic, ‘so just how immediate does someone have to be in order for me to receive compassionate leave?’

‘How long do you want?’ he sniffed.

‘Two days. One for the funeral and I have to travel …’

‘Ooh, sorry,’ he said, gasping through his teeth, ‘Noo can doo I’m afraid. It would have to be your mother or father, brother or sister, spouse, that type of thing.’

‘Well,’ I widened my eyes with astonishment, ‘I haven’t got a wife or any brothers or sisters so can’t I …’

‘You’d only get a day anyway,’ he interrupted once more. We sat in silence, staring at each other. ‘How are you feeling?’ He scrunched his eyebrows in a look of mock sincerity.

‘I’m, I’m fine,’ I said shaking my head.

‘Because of course you did have a couple of days off ill didn’t you?’ His hands were now clasped under his chin. I hadn’t realised being sick mitigated any chances of compassionate leave. You couldn’t expect to be ill and have time off to go to a funeral, right?

Mel didn’t attend the funeral claiming she didn’t see the point as she’d never met him. Travelling up and down the M3 and only seeing each other at the weekends was tough at the best of times and although she was understanding, my constant soirées to the Midlands only helped to widen the existing cracks. By the time Grandad had been laid to rest, our relationship had become increasingly disjointed. I suspected she was seeing someone else. She maintained she was simply disillusioned with only seeing me at weekends. I suggested we did something about it although she was understandably reluctant to move to Dorset on the premise she’d be unable to further her career in journalism. On the other hand, she categorically rebuffed any suggestion I could move to London. It was the beginning of the end. Our visits became less frequent and we eventually split up in the November. I was still too numb for it to affect me to any great extent. Everything was a blur - hazy around the edges - almost like one long nightmarish daydream.

As 2003 drew to a close, it was as much as I could do to stay in the job. I hung in until December. That was when my guaranteed £5000 bonus was paid into my bank account. I handed in my notice the day after the funds had cleared. Enough was enough. 2004 was to be my year for travelling.

‘How long have I got to be your fucking chauffeur anyway?’ sneered Jimmy. Before I’d left on my world tour I’d sold my car and rented out my house to accumulate some revenue.

‘I’ll get a new car soon,’ I jibed back, ‘just get the fucking beers in and stop whinging.’

‘You get the fucking beers in you cheeky git.’

‘Oh that’s charming that is. I come here for a welcome home drink and have to pay for my own grog? I’m fucking skint man.’

‘Skint? You managed to afford dossing round the world for months on end.’

‘That’s exactly why he’s skint you tit,’ Bob piped up on my behalf.

‘Thank you,’ I said, nodding my approval. ‘This travelling lark doesn’t come cheap you know.’

‘Oh my heart pumps piss,’ said Jimmy dismissively. ‘I still don’t see why we should subsidise your beer just because you’ve spent all your money having a bloody good time. Now you expect the rest of us who haven’t had the privilege of travelling to bail you out.’

‘I asked you if you wanted to come with me.’

‘I didn’t have the money,’ said Jimmy sheepishly.

‘Didn’t have the bollocks more like,’ Bob smaned. ‘He couldn’t wriggle free from under Maria’s thumb.’

‘Oh hello, and who the fuck are you? Michael fucking Palin? I didn’t see you holding Connor’s hand.’

‘I had wedding plans to sort. Different priorities.’

‘Yeah well, I still don’t think he should expect free beer,’ Jimmy sulked.

‘I’ll get them in then shall I?’ said Bob sarcastically. ‘I’ll die of bloody thirst waiting for you two.’

Bob returned from the bar with three pints of lager and pork scratchings. Despite my reservations, it felt good to be back in the local pub amongst familiar surroundings once more. Whether I felt more relaxed or confident since leaving I don’t know but Jimmy’s belligerence didn’t seem to have the same effect on me any more. I didn’t take it personally, it was just, well … Jimmy.

‘So, tell us about this trip then,’ said Bob.

‘Oh Jesus.’ Jimmy’s head slumped into his hands.

‘Where did you start again?’ Bob ignored his lack of enthusiasm.

‘India,’ Jimmy’s exaggerated loud voice muffled slightly through his fingers.

‘Well, I’m interested anyway. So come on, ignore him. What happened?’

‘I’ve had to listen to all this once already, all the way back from the frigging airport,’ said Jimmy defensively.

‘That’s a lie,’ I retorted, ‘I was asleep most of the way home.’

‘I dunno why I bothered picking you up anyway. Those trainers could have walked themselves home. You’ve been all around the world and you’re still wearing the fuckers.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Well, I’m just saying … anyways, I’ve got to go and pick Alan up. The quiz will be starting in a bit.’

‘No hang on, I’d be wearing the same fucking trainers even if I hadn’t been away,’ I said, grabbing Jimmy by the arm. Maybe I’d been too hasty in my declaration he no longer wound me up.

‘Why have you got to pick Alan up?’

‘Oh, his car’s at my house.’

‘What’s it doing at your house?’ asked Bob.

‘He left it there cus it was raining.’

‘Can’t he drive in the rain then?’

‘No,’ said Jimmy. Silence, until the penny finally dropped.

‘Don’t tell me he still hasn’t got his windscreen wipers fixed.’

‘Errm, no, he hasn’t.’

‘And he’s still sleeping on Terry’s sofa?’

‘Yep.’ Jimmy stared at his feet. Bob smiled and took a swig of lager.

‘Jimmy, I’ve been away for over six months. Alan’s windscreen wipers didn’t work when I left, he’s still dossing on his mate’s couch and you have the audacity to tell me I’m still wearing the same trainers?’

Bob could only sman at my outburst. I was right. Some things never changed. I could see I was going to have to get used to the pettiness of being home. Jimmy made his excuses and left the pub.

Travelling is cool. When you see people doing it, dressed in their rugged attire, they look cool. When you hear of their worldly exploits, they sound cool. They ooze confidence and composure and dare I say I’ve always generally admired anyone who’s had the balls to do it. I’m not talking about the lobster red package wallahs of Tenerife who rarely leave the hotel complex. Nor am I including the flowery gym pant wearing bohemian hippies with dreadlocked hair. I’m talking about normal people with the courage to swap their normal everyday life to explore foreign lands. I was hungry for a slice of travelling pie.

However, as the crunch date neared I became increasingly nervous, slowly convincing myself I wasn’t up to it. My panicked attempts to remain calm and composed were dramatically marginalized by the realisation I was on the verge of giving my comfort zone a firm kick in the nether regions, subjecting myself to the unknown, alone.

I’d read somewhere the best thing to do before venturing on a long trip was to double your budget and half your luggage. ‘Ridiculous,’ I remember mumbling to myself with a smirk as I started to pack my bag. If I took anything less I’d surely be naked. I was probably right but failed to grasp that the extent of the rest of the crap I’d insisted on taking left little room for anything else.

‘Mum … I need everything,’ I’d said as we entered Boots. I meant it. Mum, soon to see her needy only child embark on a dangerous trip around the world - encountering unspeakable nasties; bandits, goblins, and ladyboys - was in absolute agreement. As we scoured the shelves, Mum clutching her reward card with a glint in her eye, Bob’s words of wisdom rang in my head.

‘It’s not a case of if you get ill, it’s purely a case of when,’ he’d said with particular reference to India. We proceeded to buy up half the shop. In the chemists alone we bought film for the camera, a basic first aid kid, an advanced first aid kit, foot spray, shaving foam, sun cream, wet wipes, cotton buds, all the usual toiletries in miniature form. As for pills and potions, I insisted on the lot; vitamin pills, water purification tablets, re-hydration tablets, effervescent vitamin C tablets, anti histamine, malaria tablets, tablets for the runs, tablets for piles. From the comfort of Boots in Bournemouth I couldn’t think of anything worse than being stranded in Asia with my innards hanging out my arse. I had Ibrufen, paracetamol, lemsips, stuff for heartburn. I was determined to prepare for every eventuality on the premise nowhere else in the world had anything to cure any of these ailments. Once we’d finished in the chemists we were off to the camping shop to buy robust drinking vessels with sturdy caps, mini padlocks, luggage straps, a silk sleeping sheet, mosquito net, walking socks and a compass. Once all this was added to items such as my diary, personal stereo, camcorder, camcorder tapes, playing cards and the like, you begin to realise why there was limited space for luxury items … such as clothes.