Conrad Nolan...

My agent Sid has invited me to drinks with the literary legend, Conrad Nolan. He has written fifteen novels of considerable artistic merit. Apparently. I have never read any of them. Sid thinks I will benefit from talking to one of the masters and to my surprise I am genuinely excited to meet him.

Sid calls me to stop in the John Snow for a cheap pint beforehand. He has brought a Singles Club date along; a plump, homely girl with kind eyes. She is introduced as Molly.

“I wish I’d known you were bringing someone,” I tell Sid. “I could have brought Cheryl. She’s talking to me occasionally now.”

“Well, it’s a foursome with Conrad.”

“So Conrad Nolan is my date?”

“If you like.”

“How do you know him anyway? You’re constantly surprising me.”

“Oh, I don’t. No, he’ll see anyone providing they buy his drinks all night. His novels don’t sell, you see. They’re far too…intelligent.”

“How long have you been doing this Internet dating thing?” I ask Molly.

“Thirteen years,” she says.

“Not that successful so far, then?”

“You live in hope. But there are some demented people out there.”

Sid nods in agreement. “Molly here is like a breath of fresh air. I’ve done two so far and they’ve both been retards.”

Molly frowns. “Actually, I find that quite offensive. My brother is mentally challenged.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sid says.

“You weren’t to know.”

“No, I mean I can’t go out with someone who has a retarded brother.”

“What?”

“I can’t sit around a dinner table with him. They make me feel a bit sick. I’m just being honest and it’s good we’ve found out now.”

She leaves in stunned silence and we are alone.

“It’s a minefield, mate,” he confides.



Conrad Nolan is sitting alone at the upstairs bar in his private members club, sipping from a large tumbler of Scotch. I recognise him from his Wikipedia photograph, in which he is striking an identical pose.

Sid introduces himself and then me and we sit in a booth and order drinks from an elderly waiter. Nolan drains his glass and leans into Sid. “I always feel that it’s beneficial in the long run to clarify the money situation up front.”

“Oh, right, absolutely,” Sid says. “It’s all on me.”

Nolan smiles. “Good. Now we can relax and enjoy ourselves.”

“You sound like a prostitute I hired in Berlin,” I tell him.

“Quite right. Writers are all whores. It’s best you know that sooner rather than later.” We laugh. “I am quite serious,” he says.

“It really is a pleasure to meet you,” Sid says. “I’m a huge fan.”

Sid is lying. He reads less than me.

“All art is quite useless. You know who said that?”

Sid nods. “Shakespeare.”

Nolan looks at him for awhile. Then, finally, “Oscar Wilde.”

“That’s who I meant,” Sid says snapping his fingers.

“That great poofter.”

The drinks arrive. I take a gulp of the whisky.

“There are worse professions, naturally,” Nolan says. “We must all aspire to greatness else what would mankind ever achieve?”

“Quite,” I say, then stand up. “Excuse me. Must run to the men’s.”

“Yes,” Nolan says, standing as well. “I need to piss like a race horse.”

We stand side by side at the urinal in silence and the pressure causes a short delay. As soon as I manage to begin, though, Nolan lets out a fart like a firecracker that reverberates around the tiled bathroom and then he sighs with pleasure.

“Do you know why I never wear shorts?” he suddenly asks.

“Can’t say I do.”

“When I piss in a urinal I can feel the splash back sprinkling my bare legs. With long trousers we can of course pretend that our clothing remains completely dry and clean. Everything is an illusion, my boy.”

I zip up and wash my hands. Nolan continues his business.

“So you want to be an author, do you?”

“Actually, I am an author. My first book is out next month.”

He chuckles and turns around. “You think that just because your book is being published that makes you an author?”

“Ermmm…Yes?”

“It’s taken me three decades to feel as though I have a right to a position in the literary world. And even now sometimes I am unsure.”

I nod and then abruptly he turns and locks himself in a cubicle. I run out and slide back into the booth.

“Isn’t he everything you expected him to be?” Sid says.

“And more.” I flick through the drinks menu, goggling at the prices. “Sid, how are you going to pay for this? It’s mental.”

“I sold off some of mother’s jewellery. I hid it for a few weeks first to make sure she didn’t miss it. She didn’t.”

Nolan returns from the bathroom. The waiter seems to float over. “More drinks?”

“I tried a new system with Sebastian last night,” Nolan tells the waiter. “Have you a countdown function on your watch?”

“No sir, but I believe I may have one on my phone.”

“Very good. Every time you bring me a drink, set the timer for five minutes. When the alarm sounds, bring me another drink. Repeat.”

“Absolutely sir.”

I widen my eyes at Sid. He leans towards me. “There’s more jewellery hidden away somewhere,” he says.

Nolan is Oliver Reed-drunk by nine pm and the other, quieter, members pay little attention to his bellowing. I drink quickly too but in the shadow of his intoxication I remain lucid. “Are you married, boy?” he roars at me.

“Yes I am,” I say.

“You idiot. They are all sluts. Every one of them.”

I shrug. “Cheryl’s not really so slutty. She flirts with waiters occasionally, but…”

“She’ll betray you in the end. That’s why you must betray her first. Damage limitation. I married a beautiful woman when I was nineteen. Went down the shitter within two years. So I married an ugly one next. Same result but without even the temporary joy of sexual excitement. The third one was vivacious, wild, untameable. Could not have been more fun. It only took her ten months to become exactly the same as the other two. It doesn’t matter how different they are at first. They all turn into the same woman in the end. Never marry. You show me the most beautiful girl in the world, I’ll show you the man who’s tired of fucking her.”

Sid nods at me earnestly. “Is all this useful?”

“Undeniably,” I say. “You shouldn’t have sent Molly home. She’d be loving this.”

Nolan swings his massive red head to face me. “What do want from me?”

“I don’t know. How do I stop my book coming out unnoticed?”

He laughs. “You’re asking the wrong man. I know this. Luck can cause a novel to struggle but it takes talent to really sink it.”

“I’m not sure that…actually means anything.”

He gulps down another Scotch. “Do you know why I’m still in love with writing? I can hide behind my characters to give all my opinions that in real life are totally unacceptable. Under the guise of someone everyone is clearly supposed to loathe I can pour out all my misogyny and bigotries and no one can catch me out. I like to set my stories in the American West so that the women can be raped by marauding gangs and the weak are disadvantaged further and the slaves are called niggers and no one can say a damn thing about it.”

“Oh Jesus.” I bury my head in my hands.

“That is the true pleasure of writing.” He wobbles to his feet and totters to the toilets.

Sid looks at me. “He’s great, isn’t he?”

“In what way?”

Sid shrugs. “Just… His presence.”

“Pay the bill. I want to leave.”

Sid signals for the bill. He looks downcast. “I hoped that this might be beneficial.”

“It’s depressing.”

“Why?”

I nod towards the gents’. “I’m worried you’ve shown me the future.”

Sid thinks. “You in thirty years?”

I nod.

“Wow,” Sid says. “Fifteen novels. Can you imagine?”