I feel at my weakest on a Monday. Since my great awakening, I have spent the last 6 weekends waiting for Jonsi. Jackie tells me that I need to start eating more foods, she jokes that if she went on a diet like me then she could fit back into her wedding dress. She says if she could fit back in to her wedding dress then maybe her husband would love her again. Sometimes I wonder if Jackie is the one that really needs therapy.
My eyes droop and hang of my lids. I stare at the empty space where the customer should be. The groceries come and I slide along the till, barcodes bleep and bloop and every now and again Terry has to tap me on the shoulder to wake me up.
“Still recovering from the weekend, young chap?” Terry’s smile is like the one Santa does on Coca-Cola bottles. So happy and so pleased, and a little bit terrifying. Everyone tells me he ‘means well’, but I’ve never understood that phrase.
Its much harder to concentrate at work after I’ve had my jacket potato and beans. They won’t let me work the shelves anymore, after they found me passed out in a pile of boxes in the back. Terry tells me that ‘some boys just need more sleep than others’. I turn 29 in a month’s time. I’m not sure if Terry has a grasp on all his faculties.
The till, the bus, the walk home, up the stairs. Monday’s are a day of recuperation. By the time it gets to six, Clarkson, May and Hammond are telling me about motorcars and I can barely stay conscious. The cars gleam and shine, kicking up the water off the road in slow motion. The screen threatens to envelop me, as I drift into the car. But its not Clarkson, May or Hammond driving. Its Agust.
It’s so rare that I get to see Agust. He’s always trapped behind the drums, thundering his Icelandic beats – lost in the music. Now his strong arms are in full control of the Porsche. We’re driving faster than I can handle, I’m glued to the leather seats. Over the roar and pulse of the engine he shouts with glee. He tells me that the parts that make his Porsche faster than any other car can be found at Tech-9 in Liverpool. The faster we drive, the tighter Agust grips the wheel, until the leather starts to creep up his fingers. My hands are stuck to the seats, the speed of the vehicle is stitching me to t
Soon neither of us can move an inch. Agust is screaming about the modifications made to his exhaust and stabilisers, he’s all black leather now – rasping cries gasping from the headrest. The car slams to a halt, the doors open. Lights flash, a crowd is baying as a man in a suit steps off a red carpet and sits in me. I know that smell. Its Jonsi. He leans back in me as we set off – Agust puts the pedal to the floor and the world melts into a blur of metal, glass, leather, Jonsi and lush instrumentals.
Craig Charles wakes me up. He’s yelling and whooping with joy as Clarkson put his white plaque above Tony Robinson’s. I smile and put my feet up on the damp sofa – the lines on the screen stutter and jerk like always. I’d buy another VHS, but I’m not sure if anyone makes them anymore.