Free The Alternative Hero by Tim Thornton Page A

we were clearly not on the motorway. As it was, we only smelled a rat when the van stopped after fifteen minutes and Si announced our arrival.
    “Already?” stammered Alan, breathlessly.
    “Yup,” laughed Si, as Welpo opened the doors. “I don’t hang around.”
    Alan and I gingerly peeked out and were greeted by the sight of a pub that was indeed called the Royal Oak but was blatantly not in Bushey.
    “Where the fuck are we, man?”
    “Where!”
Barry responded, in surprised and slightly pained tones.
    “Yes, where!” Alan repeated. “Where have you driven us?”
    “Where!
In Hertfordshire! W-A-R-E!”
    Oh, the hilarity.
    By the time we arrived home at around lunchtime the following day, after a tortuous, meandering train journey, a few significant decisions had been made: we would no longer (as if we had any choice) rely on Dominic Browne for gig transport, we would not accept a lift from anyone until we had made them repeat our town of destination at least three times, Alan would try to abandon some of his inbuilt prejudices concerning dance music, and I would make it my top priority—as I resolved through my near-hallucinogenic tiredness, having spent all night sleeplessly listening to Alan enjoying the sexual appetite of a tripped-out, twenty-something Spacemen 3 fan a few metres away from me—to lose my virginity as soon as possible.
    Back in Alan’s office, I sip my coffee, nibble my muffin and continue flicking through the scrapbook’s heavily encumbered pages.
    “So weird, isn’t it?” I comment wistfully. “If that happened these days …”
    “We’d get a fucking cab and be home in time for last orders.”
    “Yeah,” I nod—but the fact that I don’t necessarily consider this a good thing is lost on Alan.
    Further research is abandoned at that point, for Alan’s three-year-old daughter, Jocasta, races into the room and delightedly begs us to play hide-and-seek, which in the enormity of Alan’s house is a game so riveting I’d almost choose it above, say, tenpin bowling as a drinking sport. Soon Alan’s businesslike guard is dropped and we horse about, Liz joins in, beers come out and it quickly turns into A Fun Afternoon. We play for a good hour, then sit around chatting for a bit, pizza goes in the oven, more beers emerge and it’s just about to turn into A Fun Evening when my mobile bleeps and I remember I promised Polly I’d have Sunday-night lasties with her. My work is done, though, for as I’m putting on my coat Alan mutters “Bugger it,” runs up the stairs and returns with the scrapbook, wrapped up in a strong transparent plastic bag, as though it’s some untouchable legal exhibit.
    “Just be bloody careful with it,” he quietly asserts.
    I smile gratefully. “I’ll make it worthwhile.”
    “Yeah, yeah … get outta here,” he grins, giving me a hearty slap on the back that doubles as a friendly push out the door. “Good luck.” Then, out of earshot from his wife and child, he adds touchingly, “Try not to fuck it up.”
    “Thanks. Vorsprung Durch Peanut …”
    “Vorsprung Durch Peanut,” he counters.
    As I wander towards the bus stop I have a brief moment of paranoia that he’s really given me the book because he can’t bear me coming round the whole time to look at it. But, deciding this is probably stupid, I board the bus and head home.

SUGGESTED LISTENING : The Jesus and Mary Chain,
Automatic
(Blanco y Negro, 1989)
What an extraordinary
way to behave
    And now I am alone.
    The funny thing is, I really am going to do this. It’s an odd feeling when you reach an absolute decision within yourself to do something rather peculiar and ill-advised, knowing nothing can change your mind. Alan’s probably thinking, “Oh, it’s just another of Clive’s loser-esque schemes. He’ll have forgotten about it by the middle of the week.” And yes, on the surface this is remarkably similar to the others. But—unlike the episode years back when I announced to