Andy Richardson: Grills and spills – The end of a friendship

He’d become a quantity surveyor, counting bricks and timber and staying in dodgy hotels where room service would call at unexpectedly late hours to ‘plump up his pillows’. . . whatever that meant.

I’d trundled down to London to marvel at the bright lights and go to 230 gigs in a year while living on a diet of Lucozade for breakfast and Bishop’s Finger for supper. It might not have been the healthiest way to live – but I never got thirsty.

Steve and I had been at school together before enjoying a golden summer soon after leaving sixth form.

He, my brother, another mate, Zac, and I had spent our spare time drinking, carousing and having the sort of fun that all 20-year-olds ought to have.

There been nights of cheap Asda brandy, meeting girls at questionable night clubs, frugging in moshpits and relaxing on Saturday afternoons when we’d drink and eat our own bodyweight in foaming ale and bar snacks. Oink. Hiccup. Oink. Hiccup.

Steve and I were pleased to renew our acquaintance.

He’d settled into married life – presumably, having found a woman willing to plump his pillows without charging – while I’d not yet started the curious cycle of marriage-divorce-marriage-divorce that characterises the lives of the romantically inept. How innocent life once was. Happy days.

Steve had been a top bloke. On one occasion, I’d booked a lads’ week away for the four of us, securing a place in some French village, buying in the beers and making sure everything was perfectly organised – only to realise at the eleventh hour that I hadn’t got a passport.

So while the other three had driven to France on a Saturday morning, I’d ended up going to the Emergency Passport Centre when it re-opened, three days later, before meeting them in France.

His dad had driven me to the ferry, in Portsmouth, while delivering racing pigeons. I think. Or maybe I made that up.

Years passed and it was a glorious summer when we bumped into each other again. Steve looked healthy, he was still quantity surveying, cleverly working out how many bricks it would take to build a house. I invited him over for food.

He could tell me about his bricks while I could talk to him about the joys of the semi colon. We’d leave the cheap brandy in the cupboard, forget about the pillow plumping and enjoy a thoroughly civilised afternoon. Steve brought his wife and kids and we settled into an afternoon featuring Bridgnorth’s most memorable barbecue ever.

At the time, I was living in a house with a beautiful courtyard garden.

It featured a squared yard surrounded by knee-high slabs of York Stone, which formed a huge, four-sided seat. We laid the food on the stone seat while the kids played football.

The obligatory bottle of something fizzy was popped and we started swapping stories. Chin, chin.

I’d thought it sensible to place the barbecue on the York stone in a corner of the courtyard, so that it was out of reach of the kids. Steve fired it up, placed burgers and bangers on the grill, and our convivial afternoon continued.

Steve told me about life on the road. I told him about life in a windowless office. We reminisced about our drunken teens and laughed about people we’d known at school. Who knew so much fun could be had remembering Barry Moss and his great frying pan full of melted lard and frying sausages.

A thundercrack pierced the afternoon. Showers of hot coal and exploding York stone rained down on Steve’s kids.

A sausage might well have shot over the roof. A burger was very definitely stolen by a passing seagull as it shot into the sky. And then the children began to cry.

“WTF?” said Steve, stupefied, as he looked in the direction of the barbecue. It had, quite literally, exploded. The heat from the coals had done something weird with the stone below – I think the process is called ‘generating superheat’ – and the whole lot had gone up in smoke.

Sparks and sausages flew everywhere as the latent moisture in the stone had turned into steam or gas or something similar before bowing the whole thing up.

KaBoom.

We wiped the tears from the children’s faces and gave them a packet of crisps.

Steve thought it sensible to pack his wife and kids into the car so that he could get back to counting bricks in the safety of his own home while I cleaned up the detritus from the barbecue.

That was the last time I ever saw Steve. I can’t imagine why. But now summer’s here and it’s time to fire up the barbie. The question is this: Should I track down Steve and invite him for a barbecue?