You know you’ve gotta help me out, yeah
Brandon Flowers from The Killers was with me as I drove home from the Odyssey Arena Belfast. This was a sample lyric of All These Things That I’ve Done a track from their smash hit debut album Hot Fuss. I certainly didn’t feel like Mr Brightside after what happened an hour earlier. I wished that Somebody Told Me beforehand, not that I was a great listener back then.
In 2004, I was the man with testicles bigger than the Tuberous Bush Cricket. Not that long graduated as a mature student in Queen’s University, having studied part time: first in my year and prize winner at all stages of the programme. The only candidate to achieve distinction at all exams, modules, projects and dissertation level in 30 years of the course. I was an MSc in Communication specialising in Change Management. I was some man, for one man.
Branch Manager of a department store in Mid Ulster that won the Hygiene store of the year. The icing on the proverbial cake arrived when I was asked to MC the company conference to mark the occasion of the retailer hitting the €2billion turnover for the first time. This was in tandem with privately building a substantial property portfolio as a side project with my stunning wife Carole. I was the father of three adorable children, living in a new spacious bungalow on the north coast. Not bad for a scallywag from Co. Monaghan who just about scraped his Leaving Cert. Did I mention that I had a brand new Honda Accord? Oh, indeed, I was the man back in 2004.
Anyway, my department manager, Mervyn Ballentine, announced he was leaving the company to ‘seek other opportunities that were more sympathetic to his skillset & competencies’. Well I felt like popping open a bottle of Moët & Chandon I was that glad to see the back of him. The only thing sympathetic to his skillset was a 15 ton steam roller which was likely to catch him as he had the energy of a three-toed sloth. If laziness was an event in the Commonwealth Games, he’d have purposely come in fourth place so he wouldn’t have to walk to the podium. His personal hygiene was an environmental catastrophe. The single suit he possessed carried a sell by date as it had more food on it than the salad bar. It was ironic that he spent half his day packing out deodorants and toiletries, never thinking he should try a sample. I was convinced if he met our Environmental Health Officer on a store visit, she would issue a Prohibition Notice within the hour.
‘They are having a collection for big Mervyn. There’s a night out in Belfast organised’ announced Lyndsay my HR manager (melancholically, because she would have to cover his late night shifts and donate £20 toward his valedictory gift). ‘Why does he want it in Belfast? He only lives a few miles out the road’ I asked, detecting a hesitancy in her voice as she went on to explain, ‘they are taking him to a topless bar. I think it’s in the new Odyssey Arena’. I swallowed hard picturing him like an obese American inserting a tenner in a red garter.
I never considered him a womaniser – he was that fond of food his definition of oral sex was listening to a Lebanese waiter talk through the specials. ‘I won’t be going to any topless bar’ I assertively informed her. ‘But the company will want you there to make sure the managers all behave. They know you are teetotal’. ‘Lyndsay, watch my lips—I won’t be going to a topless bar because those poor girls are smuggled in for exploitation. Regardless of that, I’m the convenor of the Portrush Presbyterian Church Finance & Staffing Committee. I’d be sent on the walk of shame, with Carole waiting at the last step with a sharpening stone’.
The regional manager Mr Mc Birney rang me a short time later. Lyndsay must have touted on my recalcitrance. He was also personally celebrating the announcement of Mervyn’s departure as he made a faux pas in employing the chocolate fireguard. ‘Mr Mc Cabe, the company feel you need to attend the night out in Belfast in case the boys cause any trouble. They will behave with you about the place. I don’t know why you don’t want to go as you always enjoy the craic’. ‘Of course I enjoy the craic, but I don’t want to go to a place that use girls who are trafficked, exploited, paid buttons and probably have their passports withheld’. ‘The company want you to go’ was the last thing I heard before the phone clicked.
Being the company man and veritable sycophant I acquiesced. On the following Saturday night I found myself in the car park of the Odyssey Arena, the home of Belfast Giants Ice Hockey Team. The venue had a cluster of nite clubs and restaurants within its belly. The managers were all pleased that I had attended rewarding me with a seat beside the departing human dynamo Mervyn, as his guest of honour. I was pleased to see he was wearing a shirt that was less than five years old.
Eventually several young waitresses appeared in dresses that wouldn’t have kept a loose head on a yardbrush, but strangely they looked and sounded local. They gave us menus that I couldn’t read, with food choices that seemed from another planet. So, to avoid further embarrassment I just asked the three-toed sloth to order for me, as unlike him, I wasn’t an epicure. Also, there was no music in the venue, which I considered weird for a topless bar (having watched The Sopranos on TV).
The meal was six courses within a two hour period with all the dishes served on small plates. It was like everything was a starter. The concept was a new departure for me forcing me to concede that I needed to get out more. Later, another manager Barry, sat beside me to ascertain how I was enjoying the night. I had to admit it was a great evening especially as everybody was behaving. I was concerned about how long we were going to be there.
‘Barry what time do the girls and the music come on at’.
‘What girls Houdi?’
‘The pole dancers, the topless girls’
‘why would there be pole dancers Houdi?’
Assuming he was gormless I slagged him off, ‘Flip-sake Barry it’s in the name, topless bar daah! His face contorted like a plastic bottle being sucked by a vacuum cleaner just before turning the colour of strawberries. He literally collapsed on the carpet holding his breath as if suffering a heart attack. One of the imaginatively dressed waitresses came to his aid thinking he was choking. He recovered.
Aye! He recovered alright. He recovered to exact his revenge on me for all the slagging I had ordained him with during my tenure in the store the previous years. He announced that our great manager, Houdi the omniscient, the master of communication, the master of change, the hygiene store manager of the year, the property developer, didn’t know the difference between a TAPAS BAR and a topless bar. What a fall from grace. What could I do? I dished out similar lashings to my colleagues on discovering their misdemeanours or idiosyncrasies. I just bowed my head, absorbed all the punches like Muhammad Ali in The Rumble in the Jungle.
Similar to George Foreman fifty years earlier, I left the Arena defeated, knowing this story would be circulating in every branch, at every water cooler and canteen for the next week. Ah well I thought, some you win, some you lose. Take it on the chin. Well, I wanted to believe that. I turned on the CD player in my Honda Accord,- did I tell you it was the new diesel model? As the motorway signs faded into the rear view mirror, Brandon Flowers told me to Smile Like You Mean It.
Houdi originally told this story at the tenx9 Storytelling event in Belfast. You can also listen to stories on their podcast.
Originally from Clones Co. Monaghan, Houdi McCabe is a legend in his own mind. He worked as a
Branch Manager with Dunnes Stores all over Northern Ireland for 42 years. Retired, he now writes
and acts on a full time basis, with over thirty films/plays within his oeuvre. Some of his stories have
been adapted for short films, by himself and with other collaborators. He is a regular performer at
literary events TENX9, Soundwaves Portrush, Pub Poetry Causeway Coast, First Drams NI and
Flash Fiction Armagh. Resident in Portrush Co. Antrim he is married to local girl Carole Robinson.
They have three adult children and one grandchild, Genevieve. Houdi doesn’t have any pets as he
loves himself too much.
Discover more from Slugger O'Toole
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
