Trivia, I know - but I have to start somewhere.
Until he goes, Carl has everything organised and scheduled. Every moment is almost accounted for. Only one variable remains: His car, a Ford Fiesta Ghia, which remains unsold. He's asking around �2000 for it, which he won't get. Unless, of course, you're interested. Email Carl at the above address.
A brief note about Carl's car - it's red and it's clean. If you're female, that's all you need to know. Whilst it initially appears to have an oil leak, it is actually a protective wax lubricant. To the untrained eye, it also appears to have a shaky wing-mirror, although it is actually... er... it's actually a shaky wing-mirror, I won't lie to you. Chances are, you've not bought the "wax lubricant" line, so I'm hardly going to push a shaky wing-mirror past you.
Andrew arranged to meet with his new employers in London - well, curiosity got the better of him, and he called them to see if they'd heard anything about his visa. They said, "It could happen any day now," and added that he'll be there before he knows it. He set a date for Friday 13th March for a visit. Thought he'd pick a nice lucky date for the diary.
Someone came round to see the car, and paid a deposit without taking a test drive. The advertisement went needlessly into the Express and Star that evening.
Heading out of Birmingham, Andrew got a case of the "lasts" on Carl's behalf. "Ooh, last time you'll see Birmingham..." etc. Borrowed nostalgia.
Let's remove a little of the poignancy here, and say that Carl still had to return to sell his car to the guy at Apollo on Monday, though.
As the pub closed, Andrew, Daz, Bill, and H (see above photo) decided that since they drenched the host of the post-pub party, they'd go to a club instead, feeling a little uncomfortable about the incident. Carl was having none of it, so the group trudged back to Prosper Meadow.
The host, the King in his Castle, made his feelings known from the outset, claiming they were uninvited, and they were later asked to leave. Something about them having outstayed their welcome, if they'd been welcome in the first place. Frequently asking guests if they were enjoying his beer, the delightful host had lost all sense of occasion, foolishly thinking everyone was here because of him, and not for Carl. Indeed, every time he opened his mouth, the whole place cringed with embarrassment, as he bragged about how much money he�d got. It was suspected, however, that his wealth could be clearly attributed to the fact that he was extremely tight. In fact, to quote Ferris Bueller, you could put a lump of coal up his ass, and in the morning, you�d have a diamond. I thought he was an architect, but thinking about it, maybe he�s a diamond dealer. Round of applause, please, for the host with the most (money), the King in his Castle, Mr. John "Diamond" Elkington.
They discovered an anonymous Tom Cobleigh pub with too-expensive food, only premium strength beers available, and a different member of staff per function. One poured the drinks, one accepted the money, one supplied the cutlery, one supplied food they didn�t order, one supplied food they did, one collected their glasses, one collected the plates, and one wished them a nice day.
Returning to Apollo, Carl exchanged his Ford Fiesta Ghia for an envelope of cash, and it was a race to see who could get off the car park first: The lad with a new car with an oil leak and a shaky wing-mirror, or Carl, who�d just received a bunch of notes for it.
Andrew drove Carl, Emma (Carl�s girlfriend), and Pat (Carl�s mom) down to Heathrow Airport in record time. Actually, to Emma it appears that every journey takes ten minutes; falling asleep five minutes after she gets in the car, and waking up five minutes before she reaches her destination.
Carl�s dad, John, flew in from Prague that morning to see him leave. The idea of coffee was soon dismissed, as the pseudo-authentic olde English airport pub beckoned them all inside. The Shakespeare pub held particular significance to Andrew, who last sat here during Euro 96 eavesdropping on someone�s transistor radio as England played Spain, and almost missed the final calling to his flight to LA as the match went into extra time. On that occasion, Andrew was upset as he was about to miss the end of a particularly good match. On this occasion he was about to miss a particularly good friend, which was similarly upsetting. It�s not every day that someone gets compared to a football match, but at least in this instance it was an England International.
A few pints later, Carl was at the entrance to the departure lounge, saying his goodbyes. It was an emotional moment for everyone there, although Andrew was grateful that Carl was wearing a comedy "travel hat", which laced the moment with an air of surreality and prevented him from totally losing it, which he thought he�d do.
Carl walked to the entrance of the departure lounge, turned, and waved. And like that, he was gone.
Very bad.
He caught the train from Wolverhampton to London Euston, and made it to his new employer�s office just off Picadilly Circus. After chatting briefly, they left him alone with a computer to perform a test on Windows NT - something he felt comfortable with at that point. And then it all went wrong. Question after question on things that could be accomplished quite easily when sitting in front of the actual interface; things that were second nature. Questions, however, that unless you had committed the entire Windows NT interface to memory simply could not answer. He screwed up the test in a major way. The results of which had to be sent to the States to be processed, and he faced an agonising wait to see what they intended to do. After all, these tests would offer conclusive proof that Andrew didn�t know what he claimed to know, which would be quite frankly unfair.
Horrified at the prospect of having thrown away his future and dream, he left the offices extremely discouraged. Wandering back to Euston Station, he bought several cans of Fosters Export and wandered along the Euston-Wolverhampton train. Despite a vacant first class, the remainder of the train was either reserved or already taken, so he took a seat and decided to wait for the next train.
As tens of commuters all hurried to get this train, he sat back, wondering whether this day was indeed the worst of his life so far, and cracked open the first of the Fosters. Unfortunately, the can exploded in his face and drenched his clothes in the process.
When he eventually arrived at Wolverhampton, he headed into Subway for a sandwich, grabbing a foot-long Spicy Italian with everything on it, and sat down to contemplate the significance of the day�s events. When he dropped the sandwich on the floor, he knew that Friday 13th was the day that would shape his future, and make him wary of doing anything on that day ever again.