Nicola Barker - The Yips

Stuart Ransom, professional golfer, is drunkenly reeling off an interminable series of stats about the womens game in Korea (or the Ladies Game, as he is determined to have it): Dont scowl at me, beautiful ! directed, with his trademark Yorkshire twinkle, at Jen, who lounges, sullenly, behind the hotel bar. They like to be called ladies. In fact they demand it. I mean Ransom lobs a well-aimed peanut at her she ducks and it strikes a lovely, clear note against a Gordons Gin bottle. they are ladies, for Christsakes!

Its well past midnight on an oppressively hot and muggy Sunday in July and Ransom is the only remaining customer still cheerfully demanding service from the fine vantage point of his squeaking barstool at the Thistle, a clean but generic hotel which flies its five, proud flags hard up against the multi-storey car park and an especially unforgiving slab of Lutons Arndale.

But why did you change your booking from the Leaside? Jen petulantly demands (as she fishes the stray peanut from its current hidey-hole between the Wild Turkey and the Kahlua). The Leasides pure class.

Eh?

Ransom is momentarily caught off his stride. He was just idly pondering the wonky pathway of spotless scalp which lies like a seductive trickle of tropical-white sand between Jens scruffy, dark-rooted, peroxide-blonde ponytails, and then, as she spins back around (pinching that errant nut, fastidiously, between her finger and thumb), he ponders the voluptuous outline of her pert, nineteen-year-old breasts beneath her starchy, cream-coloured work blouse (assessing these other rather more intimate physical attributes with the keen yet dispassionate eyes of a man who has oft pitted his talents against the merciless dips and mounds of the Old Course at St Andrews).

Id give anything to stay at the Leaside, Jen persists, gazing dreamily up at the light-fitment (where three stray midges are joyriding, frenetically, around the bulb). The Leasides so quaint perched on its own little hill, right in the heart of town, but just out of all the hubbub

Jens pierced tongue trips on the word hubbub and she frowns

Hubbub?

Ransom stares around him tipsy and slightly bewildered struggling to assess the aesthetic shortcomings of his current environs, then starts, theatrically, at the nightmarish spectre of earth-shattering mediocrity he suddenly quite unwittingly finds himself party to. He runs an unsteady hand through his short, brown, fastidiously managed head of hair and then instinctively reaches towards his shirt pocket (groping for his trusty pack of Bensons), but falters, mid-manoeuvre, as he peers, blearily, through the large, plate-glass window directly to his left. Beyond that window a small cluster of shadowy figures may be seen, consorting together, ominously, in the half-light. He debates what his chances are of sneaking a furtive puff inside.

Hub-bub, Gene, the replacement barman, parrots to himself, amused, as he polishes a low, glass table in the adjacent snug.

Ransom glances over at Gene, then turns to inspect Jen again, who has momentarily stopped considering the countless, bizarre ramifications of the word hubbub for just long enough to become horribly aware of the proximity of the front desk (not actually visible from where shes standing). Although theres really nothing out there to match our incomparable health and leisure club facilities, she proclaims loudly, with suitably glassy eyes and a ghoulish smile.

Ransom sighs, squints down at his watch, grimaces, clears his throat, takes out his phone, checks his texts, and then quickly goes on to discuss how there are plenty of successful Korean ladies doing extremely well on the American circuit right now. In fact, he says, draining his glass, there are several whose careers he even takes an active interest in (Aree Song for one, Birdie Kim for another, Inbee Park for a third: Arent their names just completely friggin brilliant?) and not only because he finds Korean ladies pretty damn hot

He turns and asks Gene (who is now removing his empty glass and replacing his damp, paper coaster with a clean one) if he finds Korean ladies hot, and as he says so he darts a mischievous glance at Jen again, who neglects to look back because she has been obliged to move to the small, transparent hatch which connects the bar to the overpass and calmly inform a persistent individual who is banging on the glass there that they are no longer serving (by dint of a sharp, slicing movement across her taut, milky throat). The individual curses, gesticulates (a deft two-finger salute), then scuttles off.

Thanks, Jen snarls after him. Charmed.

Gene following a brief moments thought politely confesses to Ransom that hes never previously given this issue (about the relative hotness or notness of female Koreans) much serious consideration. Ransom appraises Gene, at his leisure, and decides that he is an intensely dull yet profoundly dependable kind of fellow who bears a passing resemblance the short, swept-back, auburn hair, the square jaw, the calm, hazel eyes to one of his sporting heroes: a young Tom Watson. His own eyes mist up and he blinks, poignantly (although why the perfectly successful and functional Watson might be inclined to inspire Ransoms compassion at this juncture is and will remain something of a puzzle).

All work and no play, eh? Ransom says, pityingly, indicating towards a neighbouring barstool with a benign and inclusive sweep of his arm. Gene frowns. In truth, he feels scant inclination to get involved in a fatuous discussion with the tipsy Yorkshireman (hes on duty and has a certain number of chores to complete before knocking off at one) but then he detects an odd look almost of desperation in Ransoms bloodshot eyes and slowly relents.

Okay, Gene confides (backing into the stool and perching a single, taut buttock on it), so yes, if put on the spot he will admit that he does think Korean woman are quite beautiful. They have a certain measure of of poise, a certain a certain understated uh grace

Ransom scowls when Gene uses the word grace. The word grace has no place no place at all in the kind of conversation he was angling for. Gene (as luck would have it) is also scowling now (and rapidly backtracking), saying that, on reflection, he hasnt actually met that many Korean women in his life, apart from a couple who work in local restaurants. He says he therefore supposes that his assessment of the virtues of Korean women as a unified class is based entirely on a series of ill-considered even stereotypical ideas he has about Eastern women, and he is sure that this is a little stupid even patronizing of him because Korean women are doubtless very idiosyncratic, with their own distinct features and dreams and ideas and habits.

Ill grant you that, Ransom concurs with a sage nod (informing Jen of his need for another drink with an imperiously raised finger). Theyve got much fuller tits than the Japanese.

Gene draws back, dismayed, uncertain whether Ransom is joking or not. Ransom collapses forward on to the bar, shaking his head (apparently experiencing this same problem, first-hand). Fuuuuck, he groans, I honestly cant believe I just said that.

Gene peers over at Jen (who has chosen to ignore Ransoms request and is now cleaning out the coffee machine). He stands up and goes to fetch Ransom the drink himself (thereby symbolically re-emphasizing the wide emotional, intellectual and psychological distance between them by dint of the happy barrier that is the bar).