10 Things That Never Happened (Material World #1)

by Alexis Hall

It probably says good things about modern Britain—or maybe just about modern Liverpool—that when I was growing up, I got way less shit for being gay than I got for being named after a hobbit.

Oh fuck, he knows I call him a dick as well. We all call him a dick because he’s a dick. The way I see it, if you don’t want people calling you a dick, you shouldn’t be a dick.

I like my team to think for themselves, but sometimes fucking hell don’t I wish they’d do it less.

It’s not the only thing about him that’s got a werewolf vibe—his thick eyebrows and permanent scowl make him look like any moment he could snap and grow claws and start ripping your skin off. Or maybe just your clothes, if he’s more like the ones from those books that Claire says she only reads ironically.

“I think he’s just playing hardball but—” “I’m pretty sure that man only has hard balls.” “Would you not talk about Jonathan Forest’s balls when I’m trying to eat?”

I’m sure there is, somewhere in the world, a man who drives a BMW and is not a bellend but I’ve not met him.

“It means he likes you.” I’ve no idea if that’s true, but it seems like a reassuring thing to say. Jonathan shakes his leg very gently but realises he probably doesn’t want to punt my cat across the room. “Can you make it stop?” “Liking you?” I ask. “Give him time. He’ll work it out.”

Turns out, going to a supermarket is like wiping your arse. You mostly do it alone so you assume everyone does it the same way you do, but there’s actually a surprising amount of variation.

Staying angry at anybody’s a lot of effort. Staying angry at Jonathan Forest is usually less effort because he’s a very angry-making person. Except sometimes I’m surprisingly not angry at him and that’s beginning to get a little bit worrying.

Then I transfer everything to the island in the middle of the kitchen, lay it all out so it looks kind of rustic and yell through to Jonathan that everything’s ready. “I’ll take it in here,” he yells back. Like fuck he will.

“I’m aware that I’m not a very likeable person.” “You know, that’s a problem you can fix.”

“Oh be fair”—this is Auntie Jack—“those braces did make her look like she’d tried to perform oral sex on a shopping trolley.” “Don’t make it the right thing to say to a fourteen-year-old,” replies Del.

“We’re not a couple,” Jonathan and I say at the exact same time, which honestly isn’t the best evidence of our not-a-couple-ness.

Les, however, isn’t having it. “It’ll not fit in the van.” “It’ll fit on the top.” Del clearly has no time for Christmas tree dissent. “We’ll just strap it on.” “Ah yes.” Barbara Jane smirks. “An enormous strap-on, just what Christmas needs.”

“You’ve got two choices, Sam. You can stand here criticising my personality or you can get your coat.” “I can probably do both,” I tell him as I grab my jacket. “I’m gradually recovering my ability to multitask.” But Jonathan isn’t listening. He’s too busy reassuring the cat we won’t be long.

“Fucking hell.” “Are you not extremely rich?” I tease him. “Yes, but I’m not extremely stupid. Now put that down.”

I crack up laughing. Because I’m starting to think my favourite thing in the world is Jonathan Forest being excessively angry about things that I am also secretly a little bit angry about.

“I must be reading that wrong.” “I don’t think you are.” “They’re never a grand.” “Back away and pretend you haven’t seen anything.” I’m not sure I can. I’m frozen like an underpaid deer in overpriced headlights. “There’s only six of them. What’ve they got inside, cocaine?”

“You sound like Great Granddad. He’s been telling us he’ll be dead next year for as long as I can remember.” “I suppose he’ll be right eventually.”

Having told Jonathan off for treating me like a child, I go and hide in my room like a sulky teenager.

“He’s a good lad,” he says at last. “Sometimes,” I half-agree. “Although to be fair, other times he’s a bit of a bellend.”

“I’m stuffing it,” Jonathan informs me, in the flavour of irate that I’m beginning to think is the amused flavour. I watch Jonathan with the chicken for a bit longer. “You’re not stuffing it. You’re fisting it with a lemon.”

“You took a professional footballer skydiving?” “I thought he’d like to do a physical activity.” “Jonathan, the physical activity you do on dates is called sex.”

“Are you seriously telling me that you don’t think red M&Ms are the best M&Ms?” “Peanut M&Ms are the best M&Ms.”

Leaving London is always hard. Not emotionally—emotionally London can get fucked. But practically.