I'VE GOT A FEELING
"When you take your lunch, Michael, please don't bother coming back to the office."
"Does that mean you're firing me?"
"Exactly."
Looking around the office of Foote, Cone and Belding for any show of solidarity from his fellow colleagues, Michael found none.
"I've got a contract, though."
"I'm afraid we're terminating your contract after you deliberately and systematically violated several clauses you'd previously agreed to."
"What were those exactly?"
"Well, for starters you went through our entire client address book and made drunken phone calls to each and every one of them telling them we had overcharged them all and to seek legal advice, breaching our confidentiality clause, all the while sitting naked in my office with a traffic cone on your head and frightening the cleaning staff when they arrived this morning, breaching our behaviour and conduct clause."
Either unremorseful or excessively drunk, Michael nodded and tucked his long black umbrella under his arm, accepting his sacking with no complaint.
"I suppose I'll be off then."
"Yes, you will."
"Did you want me to take the traffic cone?"
The sullen looking executive looked surprised at Michael's kind suggestion.
"Yes. Why not. That's good of you."
With umbrella under one arm and a traffic cone in the other, Michael left the office with a final Patrick McGoohan-like "Be seeing you" to his colleagues as they set about continuing with the work that had been momentarily disrupted by his final exchange with the boss.
The cold January chill felt punishing to Michael, like an icy broken milk bottle dragged across his face and he'd just remembered that he'd left his scarf back at the office. He couldn't go back for it now. That would just be silly, forgetting, of course, he still had the traffic cone in his possession.
Walking through central London without having properly thought through the ramifications of his new found jobslessness, Michael dropped the traffic cone off on the corner of Savile Row and Bond Street and headed into The Burlington Arms for a midday pint.
After all, he thought, there was no better cure for a hangover than the cause of it.
Watching the barman pour a smooth, steady pint of Courage, Michael wondered if there was a more satisfying piece of both design and function than a beer pump.
Except possibly Sammy's breast.
"There you go, Michael."
"Cheers, George! Here's to you."
Taking his first sip of beer, he could feel the harsh edge of the rough morning being taken off his mind.
But how long could he keep up this feeling of numb denial for before reality caught up with him and forced him to realise he'd been a fool? A downright wooden headed fool. For one, he'd lost the girl (Sammy) and for two, now he'd lost his job. He wasn't looking to complete this hat trick if he could avoid it. He needed to recover some sense of himself to kick start his life back into winning ways.
"You'll always be the type to blow the bridge up just as you've finished building it, like in that film with Alec Guinness."
Michael couldn't help thinking back to Sammy's words the day before when she had been in the frantic process of clearing all of her things out of their apartment. Remembering he'd kept her spare toothbrush in his jacket pocket as a momento of their failed relationship, he stared at it now whilst taking another sip from his beer. Then, shaving the frothy beer foam off his upper lip with her tooth brush, George, the publican, looked across from the bar somewhat concerned at Michael's bizarre behaviour.
"You alright there, Michael?"
"Oh yeah. Just finding other uses for this thing. Amazing really."
Shaking his head in amusement, George threw a kitchen towel over his right shoulder and went to serve a newly arrived customer.
He closed his eyes ruing his endlessly stupid behaviour of late. Michael was starting to feel that heavy feeling you get when your conscience finally catches up with your impulsive drunken actions and attempted to assess the full extent of the damages.
He began to recall flashbacks to the previous night and the endless drunken monologues he'd delivered to some of the wealthiest clients on earth.
"What were you thinking, man?"
And then it was as if a soundtrack had formed inside his own head to accompany his over-thinking brain.
A persistent drum beat was getting louder and louder.
"Turn the music down, George!"
"I haven't got the music on, Michael!"
This was concerning to Michael. Had he done irreparable damage to his alcohol soaked brain? This was probably the onset of some incurable mental decline, he feared. Finding his chest getting increasingly tight and his breathing becoming faster and more shallow, he nonetheless managed to down the remainder of his pint before bolting for the back door of the pub like a nervous horse.
Out on the street, Michael was surprised to find crowds of people and police stood round like a herd of uncoordinated cattle roaming across the pavement and into the road, looking up to the roof of a four storey building.
"What's going on? Has there been an accident or something?"
An old man wearing an Anthony Eden style hat yelled at Michael as if he'd just had both his lug holes blown out by enemy fire.
"It's the bloody Beatles! Sounds like a bastard bombing raid!"
Hearing the familar sound of John and George's electric guitars with the wandering heart beat bassline of McCartney and the kick drum and back beat snare of Ringo Starr, Michael looked up as if gazing upon descending angels from the sky above.
"Amazing! Absolutely amazing!"
This was precisely the sort of miracle he'd come to expect in the greatest city on earth but it still took his breath away to witness it. In his hungover state he couldn't help but think that his firing at the office was all part of this current destiny and that the universe wanted him to be right here, right now in this moment to witness this moment of history along with the rest of the general public.
The 30th January, 1969 didn't seem especially auspicious and there had been a general reluctance amongst the young people (of which Michael considered himself one) at recent New Year's parties to accept that the swingin' 60's were rapidly drawing to a close. Surely the 1970's couldn't reach the giddy, magical mystery tour heights of the current decade with its complete re-calibration of culture and attitudes in what had previously been a monochrome Britain, a sort of pre-Oz world before Dorothy stumbled upon the yellow brick road.
Just as with his relationships, Michael always hoped for the best for the country but ended up fearing the worst as these breathless chapters of passion and creativity rarely sustained their brilliance for longer than six to eight months, let alone ten years. Or perhaps he was simply confusing the current zeitgeist with his own artistic modus operandi.
He did begin to wonder if there was a symbiotic relationship between his innate character and the nation at large? It was true that he could often be as hopeless and reckless as England at times but deep down he knew he wouldn't have it any other way, even if it came at the cost of a broken heart and a killing hangover.
But hearing The Beatles blasting out their latest set from high above the rooftop of Apple HQ, he was starting to believe the 1960's revolution might just keep rolling on and perhaps, just perhaps, things might just work out with Sammy after all, once he'd returned her toothbrush.
Wouldn't that be something, he thought and closed his eyes as if attending church on Sunday hanging onto each lovingly crafted phrase of the Beatles' sermon being passed down from the heavens above.
I've got a feeling
A feeling deep inside
Oh yeah
Oh yeah, that's right
I've got a feeling
A feeling I can't hide
Oh no, no
Oh no
Oh no