Blue Collar by Danny King

recognised this place for the cutting-edge trendy
     theme bar it was. Did seem a bit odd calling it the Workers’ Social, though. Wasn’t exactly the sort of place I could see
     my dad heading down after a hard day on the sites. It also wasn’t subsidised.
    ‘How much?’ I almost choked.
    ‘Three seventy-five,’ the expressionless barman repeated.
    ‘Three seventy-five for half a lager?’
    That’s right, half a lager. The builders hadn’t got around to putting any pumps in yet either so the only beers they sold
     came in bottles, which meant the price of a pint worked out at about £7.50. Oh yeah, my old man would’ve fucking loved this
     place, all right.
    I found a vacant Flintstones table with a clear line of sight to the entrance and sat myself down.
    It was now a quarter to eight, which meant Charley would be here in fifteen minutes and this realisation released a thousand
     butterflies to buffet me from the insides. I don’t think I’m naturally a cowardly sort of bloke and will happily scale the
     tallest scaffolding, stand up to the biggest bully and tackle the meatiest spiders, but women were another matter altogether
     and about the only thing on this planet that could reduce me to a tear-streaked gibbering wreck. My nerves soon started showing
     on the surface and I fidgeted and palpitated, shivered and wheezed as my limited-edition collector’s beer sprinted through
     my body at breakneck speed.
    Fortunately it was so dark and noisy with a constant thump thump thump of monotonous DJ funk that no one around me even afforded
     me a glance, and when my watch finally struck eight, I lifted my eyes to the entrance and kept them there for a full ten minutes.
    No one even resembling Charley came in during that time and when my watch just kept on ticking away regardless, my anticipation
     finally cracked and my hopes began to crumble.
    She wasn’t coming, was she? Charley wasn’t coming.
    We got to quarter past and I couldn’t hold on any longer. I bought the second instalment of my pint and retook my seat to
     wait some more.
    Twenty past.
    I’d put so much stock in seeing Charley on the stroke of eight that for her not to be here and sitting across from me twenty
     minutes later was almost too much to bear. Worse-case scenarios started filling my head and images of Charley suddenly sitting
     bolt upright in the middle of EastEnders , shrugging, then sinking back into the sofa to watch the end (and then possibly What Not to Wear ) filled my head. I even began to picture her having a right good laugh at my expense when all of a sudden my phone beeped
     inside my jacket and I received a text message.
    I ripped it out of my pocket and pressed half a dozen wrong buttons before I realised the keypad was still locked. I took
     a deep breath, carefully typed in the correct code to unlock the keypad, then read my message.
    Fucking Car Phone Warehouse.
    Apparently I was entitled to two free ring tones if I upgraded my handset with them in the next month. All I had to do was
     pop into my nearest store for details and give them a share of my wages for the next year.
    ‘You big cunts!’ I shouted into my phone, then looked up to see Charley standing in front of me and smiling.
    ‘Good news?’ she enquired.
    ‘Oh, shit, sorry, I didn’t see you there,’ I explained, as mortification and relief swept over me all at once. ‘Shit, do you
     want a drink?’ ( Stop swearing!!!)
    ‘Yeah, please. A glass of dry white wine would be nice.’
    I rushed to the bar and almost strangled some bloke next to me when he cut in front of me, ordered half a dozen different
     cocktails, a cup of espresso, asked what crisps they did, asked the barman if he knew a guy called Curtis – played the bongos
     apparently – paid by credit card, then got so sidetracked comparing record bags with some other sandal-wearing dipstick that
     he didn’t notice the barman waiting patiently for him to tap in his PIN number to the little