Wednesday 18 June
Coal is now more expensive that steak but it doesn't taste as good, especially when you like the finer things in life medium-rare. With a wage cut pending at work I decide to deep fry some of my surplus and sell the off-cuts as delicious crunchy snacks to distracted Portuguese and Germans fans at the Pub What's Sign Fell Off And Can't be Replaced 'Cos Times is 'Ard. Before long I'm meat eating while wondering whether ladies from Lisbon or Leipzig will look more appealing in tears come final whistle. The Portuguese lose beautifully but having had my shoulder to cry on twice bitten I'm left with no choice but to return to my seat, light my pipe and revisit the unsettling world of Bateman.
What was strange about his flat? The mirror skew-shiff in rare chastisement? The steaming clodhoppers creating their own microclimate in the hallway?
A faint witness calls down the gusty corridors of my labyrinthine mind. Who's there? Why, it's Mr Badezimmer, the imaginary toilet helper so often utilized as a child when nanny state was preoccupied with the colonies. He took a lot of flack, a lot of unpleasant splashes, this charming but somewhat smelly little man. But why would Mr BZ return now, after all this time, with all that water (all those turds) under the bridge, so to speak? He taps his head and smiles. A bluebottle escapes from between his gappy teeth.
A remembrance is so close now, it's practically constipation. For old time's sake I implore Mr Badezimmer for his assistance and, just as when I was a toddler, he reluctantly demonstrates a series of special exercises to help me push it through: Bateman's. Bateman's bathroom. Bateman's bathroom cabinet. A bottle. A bottle of purple. A bottle of purple liquid. A bottle of purple liquid in Bateman's bathroom cabinet! The whole pub turns round to see what's happening. Soon fans of all nations are united in grief.