9am. Premier Inn, Kettering.
A whistling wind breezes slowly through the lobby, carrying with it the smell of continental breakfast. My nostrils flare pleasantly. It's a smell I love, hotels in the morning. There is a hushed hubbub through the closed double doors in front of me. The sounds, they call me. My feet were planted on the thin lattice patterned carpet, set apart from eachother. I was wearing my dark business trousers, my only pair. Last night I pressed them to perfection in my pants. Evan Davies was there. Newsnight and a Corby Press. Heaven.
My eyes shot sideways to the limp banner by the doors. Each word reverberating in my head. Shots fired in 172 Century Gothic calibre bullets.
"WELCOME TO GUBBINS CONVENTION 2009".
I squinted and leaned slightly closer. Was that a printing error? A smudge of Heinz? Look. I didnt care. My eyes darted back towards the doors, those two-way swinging oak portals to business valhalla. I work in Lids. This convention had attracted the prime middle management executives from all across the country, the merry few who deal in no uncertain terms the most important fairly useful items this side of the moon. I looked around, my body tingling with joy. Lid sales was here. And I bet Lanyards would be here too. And maybe Caps. Possibly those mongers hawking cavity and hole insurance too.
I had my cards ready. 20 in each pocket on me. I trick i'd learnt back in the salad days of High Wycombe. What a fool I was. Foolish with inexperience. Brazen with business lust.
I used to keep them in my back right trouser pocket and swan around with not a care in the fucking world. Then, the incident with Cliff Shazop and Charles McReamey. About to open up a serious width of communication between me and Cliff. Id networked that day like a stomach pump, going from executive to executive, hitting the sweet spots. Getting business. Making names. And I was just about to reach for a card to seal the deal with Cliff, when Charles, poor, slovenly Charles, grabs me by the right hand in a sudden and deep handshake. And I couldnt use my left hand to reach for the cards. They were in a pocket that might as well have been in fucking Timbuktu. Doing a card reacharound mid-handshake, looking like a tit, fobbing off Charles? What was I to do. And so Shazop walked away past me, noticing someone else and smiling at them, arm raised in greeting, palm stretched out in that most beautiful of conversation initiating waves. Ending ours. It was a hand i'll never forget. It was a hand that should have contained my business card. But i'd grown from that moment. Months I spent practicing my card proffering in front of the mirror. Evenings born, raised, and buried under a torrent of 160GSM. I remember the first cold day of Autumn this year, when it all seemed to seep in to place. That morning, I remember it well, I put on my socks, and put on my gloves and then Wham. The idea hit me and sent me into shivers. My mind was set on it. Cards in all pockets. You cant lose. You're a master. Inpenetrable. Any angle, anyone, they get a card. Thats why im the best at what I do. Thats why i'm good at selling lids.
But im in it for the long game. Ive long studied the art of containing. The history of containers and lids. And i'm working my way up. I love this game, getting to know people, closing deals. But what nobody seems to understand is that without lids, the whole financial system would collapse.
People think im a bit of an oddball because of my preoccupation with lids. But the evidence is right before your eyes. Lids, Lanyards, Caps, Straps. Without them, what use would the object that they work for be? Pens would dry out, ink flooding out like the wrath of God. And I will be its Noah. Two by two. Lid to Container.
And one day i'll have a monopoly on lid production in the system of consumption. Can you imagine the power of the man that deals only in lids? It will be my power. Yes. These peripheral items complete the world. They seal off value from danger. And if one man were to snatch that safety away... He would uncover humanities greatest fear. If there is one universal in this harsh world its the comfort that each person carries in lids. That they know they will fit. Its an unconscious feeling, but satisfying nonetheless. When the lid fits. When the cap screws. Our little master plan. One day I will have to power to distort the shape, thread and size of all the lids on the planet. Subtly and quietly shall I work my magic. No one would notice at first, and then panic. Chaos would reign. My wrought chaos. My little scheme. Our little secret. Yours and mine. Because on that day nothing will fit.
My right hand was in my trouser pocket, a business card nestling in my palm like a magician's secret ace. I took it out and looked at it, then at the doors into the conference. My mind was buzzing. Probably that complimentary morning coffee sachet. I love those. I felt compelled to walk in, and so I did.
A whistling wind breezes slowly through the lobby, carrying with it the smell of continental breakfast. My nostrils flare pleasantly. It's a smell I love, hotels in the morning. There is a hushed hubbub through the closed double doors in front of me. The sounds, they call me. My feet were planted on the thin lattice patterned carpet, set apart from eachother. I was wearing my dark business trousers, my only pair. Last night I pressed them to perfection in my pants. Evan Davies was there. Newsnight and a Corby Press. Heaven.
My eyes shot sideways to the limp banner by the doors. Each word reverberating in my head. Shots fired in 172 Century Gothic calibre bullets.
"WELCOME TO GUBBINS CONVENTION 2009".
I squinted and leaned slightly closer. Was that a printing error? A smudge of Heinz? Look. I didnt care. My eyes darted back towards the doors, those two-way swinging oak portals to business valhalla. I work in Lids. This convention had attracted the prime middle management executives from all across the country, the merry few who deal in no uncertain terms the most important fairly useful items this side of the moon. I looked around, my body tingling with joy. Lid sales was here. And I bet Lanyards would be here too. And maybe Caps. Possibly those mongers hawking cavity and hole insurance too.
I had my cards ready. 20 in each pocket on me. I trick i'd learnt back in the salad days of High Wycombe. What a fool I was. Foolish with inexperience. Brazen with business lust.
I used to keep them in my back right trouser pocket and swan around with not a care in the fucking world. Then, the incident with Cliff Shazop and Charles McReamey. About to open up a serious width of communication between me and Cliff. Id networked that day like a stomach pump, going from executive to executive, hitting the sweet spots. Getting business. Making names. And I was just about to reach for a card to seal the deal with Cliff, when Charles, poor, slovenly Charles, grabs me by the right hand in a sudden and deep handshake. And I couldnt use my left hand to reach for the cards. They were in a pocket that might as well have been in fucking Timbuktu. Doing a card reacharound mid-handshake, looking like a tit, fobbing off Charles? What was I to do. And so Shazop walked away past me, noticing someone else and smiling at them, arm raised in greeting, palm stretched out in that most beautiful of conversation initiating waves. Ending ours. It was a hand i'll never forget. It was a hand that should have contained my business card. But i'd grown from that moment. Months I spent practicing my card proffering in front of the mirror. Evenings born, raised, and buried under a torrent of 160GSM. I remember the first cold day of Autumn this year, when it all seemed to seep in to place. That morning, I remember it well, I put on my socks, and put on my gloves and then Wham. The idea hit me and sent me into shivers. My mind was set on it. Cards in all pockets. You cant lose. You're a master. Inpenetrable. Any angle, anyone, they get a card. Thats why im the best at what I do. Thats why i'm good at selling lids.
But im in it for the long game. Ive long studied the art of containing. The history of containers and lids. And i'm working my way up. I love this game, getting to know people, closing deals. But what nobody seems to understand is that without lids, the whole financial system would collapse.
People think im a bit of an oddball because of my preoccupation with lids. But the evidence is right before your eyes. Lids, Lanyards, Caps, Straps. Without them, what use would the object that they work for be? Pens would dry out, ink flooding out like the wrath of God. And I will be its Noah. Two by two. Lid to Container.
And one day i'll have a monopoly on lid production in the system of consumption. Can you imagine the power of the man that deals only in lids? It will be my power. Yes. These peripheral items complete the world. They seal off value from danger. And if one man were to snatch that safety away... He would uncover humanities greatest fear. If there is one universal in this harsh world its the comfort that each person carries in lids. That they know they will fit. Its an unconscious feeling, but satisfying nonetheless. When the lid fits. When the cap screws. Our little master plan. One day I will have to power to distort the shape, thread and size of all the lids on the planet. Subtly and quietly shall I work my magic. No one would notice at first, and then panic. Chaos would reign. My wrought chaos. My little scheme. Our little secret. Yours and mine. Because on that day nothing will fit.
My right hand was in my trouser pocket, a business card nestling in my palm like a magician's secret ace. I took it out and looked at it, then at the doors into the conference. My mind was buzzing. Probably that complimentary morning coffee sachet. I love those. I felt compelled to walk in, and so I did.
