LITMIR.BIZ

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Simon began to drink quickly and with determination.

      

      A little while later, someone clapped their hands to get everyone’s attention. Simon looked up slowly through the fug of his booze-sodden brain. One of his hosts was standing up. Simon realized that he had again lost track of which was Fergus and which was Angus, but was by now far too drunk to care or to do anything about it.

      ‘Right, everyone,’ declared Fergus/Angus loudly. ‘It’s reached that time of the evening when we move on to the traditional party amusements.’

      This announcement was met with a chorus of excited whoops and cheers. It occurred to Simon that he could probably now leave without too much fear of embarrassment. However, he decided to stay where he was for a little while longer. There were two reasons for this. Firstly, Simon realized that if he left now, he would probably never see Delphine again. Secondly, and perhaps more compellingly, he was unable to move his legs. He wondered what form these party games would take. He remembered having pondered this for hours from the sanctity of his own flat as he listened to similar parties go on into the small hours. He had always imagined that they would be terribly high-brow, intellectually rigorous games – having to identify arcane literary quotations, or composing sonnets on topics chosen by the opposing team.

      Fergus/Angus went into the kitchen and came out moments later with a large box under his arm. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he pronounced. ‘I give you – Twister.’

      This was followed by more cheering and whistles. Heather took the box and opened it. Inside was a large sheet of plastic with different coloured spots on it, which she spread out on the floor. The sheet took up most of the remaining space in the living room.

      ‘You all know how to play, I take it,’ she said. ‘Two teams of two players each. The players have to put their hands and feet on a particular colour spot, as specified by the spinny thing.’ She indicated a coloured piece of cardboard with a pointer mounted in the middle. ‘First team to fall over loses. Who wants to play?’

      Stella’s hand shot up. ‘Me,’ she shouted, and then turned to Joe, grabbed his wrist, and pulled it into the air. ‘Him,’ she shouted again.

      ‘Very good,’ said Heather. ‘Who else?’

      Simon shrank back further into his chair, nursing his glass. He had already made a supreme tit of himself in front of all of these people. He was going to stay right where he was.

      Heather turned to him. ‘Simon?’ she asked.

      ‘No thanks,’ mumbled Simon.

      ‘I’ll have a go,’ said Delphine.

      ‘Oh, go on, then,’ said Simon. He turned to Delphine. ‘Same team?’ he suggested.

      Delphine smiled. ‘Good idea,’ she said, as she got up. Simon followed, wobbling a little.

      ‘Good man,’ exclaimed Fergus/Angus.

      ‘Listen, er, Fungus,’ said Simon, drawing his host to one side. ‘Before we start, d’you mind if I ask you a question?’

      ‘By all means.’

      ‘Well.’ Simon lowered his voice. ‘It’s about Delphine, actually.’

      ‘Oh yes. What about her?’

      ‘Well.’ Simon looked around conspiratorially. ‘Is she, you know, with anyone?’ He suppressed a hiccup.

      Fergus/Angus shook his head. ‘Don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Footloose and fancy-free. And French. That’s Delphine.’

      ‘Really,’ said Simon seriously.

      ‘Really.’

      ‘Right.’ Simon hiccuped again. ‘Thank you. Most helpful.’ He turned towards the plastic sheet, now brimming with woefully misplaced confidence.

      ‘Shoes off, please,’ said Heather.

      Stella squared up with Joe at one end of the mat. Delphine and Simon faced them, each foot on a different coloured spot. Simon looked with loathing at Joe, architect of his earlier misery, who had apparently forgotten his meanness and was now grinning affably at his two opponents, his conscience clearly untroubled.

      ‘Right, everyone,’ said Heather. ‘Ready?’

      Four heads nodded.

      ‘OK.’ Heather spun the needle. ‘Left foot blue,’ she announced.

      There was a flurry of activity on the plastic sheet. Stella, Joe and Delphine all swivelled so that their left feet were standing on a blue spot. Baffled by the rapid movement, Simon looked down slowly at his feet. His left foot was already on a blue spot. The dim light of understanding glimmered faintly somewhere near the back of his brain. Delphine had spun around almost one hundred and eighty degrees, and her leg brushed gently against his. Simon could smell her intoxicating scent. She grinned at him. He began to worry about getting an erection while his limbs were splayed all too obviously across the plastic sheet.

      ‘Everyone ready?’ said Heather as she spun the needle again. ‘OK, right hand red.’

      The players went into a crouch. Delphine by now had contorted herself somewhat and was having to stretch to put her hand on a red spot. Simon tried not to stare down her cleavage which had appeared enticingly about eight inches in front of his eyes. Seriously worried now about the impending tumescence in his trousers, he shut his eyes briefly, but opened them again when he found himself losing his balance. Delphine had begun to breathe a little harder, which didn’t exactly help. Simon tried to concentrate on staying upright.

      After a few minutes, and much to his own surprise, Simon had not fallen over. He was beginning to enjoy himself. A few spins earlier Delphine had finally collapsed on to the floor. She accepted defeat cheerfully, and had gone back to her chair to watch the game continue. This distraction gone, Simon was able to concentrate. He would pursue Delphine properly once the game was over. In the meantime, he had the opportunity to impress her with his prowess at Twister. Win the game, he told himself drunkenly, and you win the girl. Easy as that. By this stage Stella had also fallen over, and only Simon and Joe remained on the sheet. Simon eyed Joe defiantly. This would be a battle to the death, an opportunity to avenge Joe’s story about bloody Timmy and his bloody magic coin. Revenge would be sweet. No prisoners would be taken. He braced himself for the next move.

      Heather spun the needle again. ‘Left foot green.’

      Simon groaned. He needed to move his left foot from one side of the sheet to the other. By the time he had completed the manoeuvre, he was turned upwards with his back facing the floor. His arms were braced beneath him, twisted horribly, and his legs were bent, supporting most of his weight.

      Immediately next to Simon’s face hovered Joe’s denimclad bottom. Simon tried to shift away from it, but he was unable to move. He waited for Heather’s next spin.

      The bottom moved nearer as Joe tried to get into a more comfortable position. And then, without warning, there issued from it an unmistakable phhhhhttt.

      Joe had farted, right in Simon’s face.

      This was no ordinary fart, either. This was a fart born from the enthusiastic consumption of Fergus’s chilli. It was a sulphurous, cataclysmic bomb of a fart. It was a bleak fart, a fart without hope.

      ‘Oops,’ said Joe over his shoulder. ‘Sorry.’

      Simon gasped in horror at the untold beastliness of what was happening to him. Then he collapsed, landing heavily on his wrist.

      ‘Ow,’ said Simon, just before he fainted.

       TWO

      Simon woke up, and immediately tried to fall asleep again. His head was filled with a searing, shrill whining sound, not unlike that of twenty or so chain saws

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