Three Men On Tour: 3

The annual Harry Banks ‘Boys on Tour’ spectacular had been happening every year for the last decade. When we first met, Harry and I went through the usual phase of Ibiza and Greek Islands. That got old fast – although it was fun at the time. There’s only so many times you can wake up on a bathroom floor with fragments in your hair before you start yearning for a holiday that you can remember more than half of. Then Harry met George and they discovered a mutual love of Victorian architecture and old railways. Surprising for Harry but then you don’t know someone for ten years without finding there’s more to them than you see on the surface. There had to have been more to Harry than you could see on the surface. Nobody could be Harry all the way down.

As for me, I was happy to tag along, enjoying the English countryside, the occasional teashop, and nights out where I could be overcharged in Sterling rather than Euros. Boys on tour progressed from sunning ourselves in Corfu, to finding a pub with an outside bar. I hadn’t been able to make it the previous year – too many work commitments and too little time. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’d made it the year before either.

Harry is probably my best friend. He’s annoying and superficial and as reliable as a mayfly; but he’s also loyal and well meaning and as fun as a box of fireworks. All of my anecdotes involve him or were caused by him. He was even responsible for introducing me to my girlfriend. Sort of. I’d been stood at the bar, watching in bemusement while Harry ‘dominated’ the dance floor (his words, not mine), when I noticed the most beautiful girl in the room stood not half a metre from me, nursing a margarita, clearly lost for words and uncertain how to get back to her friends through the maelstrom. She was dressed for clubbing: tartan mini-dress with only one shoulder strap, bottle-red hair that she had inexplicably tied in a jagged knot and speared with a chopstick, and heels that, despite the fact that she must have been permanently on tiptoe, barely raised her above my chin level. In short, she was slim, elegant, sparkling with energy and so far out of my league that she might as well have been on another planet. I still don’t know what possessed me to talk to her. I don’t talk to girls. It’s somewhat of a defining characteristic. Some passing spirit or lonely poltergeist must have possessed me then as, without planning or forethought, I leaned over to her and casually mentioned, “he tells me it’s the running man, but I’m pretty certain it’s the birdy dance.“

“Oh, he’s dancing?“ she said, her green eyes glinting in the strobe lights. “I thought we were witnessing some kind of breakdown.“

“Could be,“ I suggested. “It’s possible he’s gone all Trent Reznor on us.“

“You mean he’s bowing down before the one’s he serves?“

“More like he’s got a head like a hole.“ I glanced over at the rapidly receding margarita. “You want another one of those?“

The girl nodded, and held out her glass for a refill and when her eyes met mine I was lost forever.