It was among the cacophany of a bar with a poorly-defined target market that Adam reached out for his beer.
Our mate Jack noted a large burn on Adam’s arm with interest as he made this motion. ‘What happened there?’ he prodded the limb in question.
After the screaming ceased and the roof of the hotel had an opportunity to cease it’s temporary hover of suspended flight, Adam rubbed his arm with a grimace. ‘I burnt my arm on the iron,’ he explained.
‘How exactly do you burn your arm on an iron?’ Jack queried.
‘Well, I’d just switched it on and was reaching out for the Fabulon. That was when-’ Adam begun.
‘Hang on, hang on!’ interrupted Jack, banging a fist on the table. ‘One step back, buddy. What the hell is Fabulon?’ This was closely followed by a collapse into inconsolable laughter, and an unsuccesful attempt on my part to repress a knowing smirk.
‘Fabulon,’ Adam informed everyone succinctly, ‘is a laundry aid spray. You spray Fabulon on your clothes and they’re easier to iron.’
‘I’ve always found the ability to iron without the aid of lubricants no major struggle, myself,’ I shrugged.
‘BAHAHAHAHA!’ Jack bellowed.
‘What?’ Adam said through tightly-pressed lips.
‘The fact that you – the kick-boxing champion, the ex-nightclub bouncer, the big tough guy… uses something known as Fabulon,’ Jack sniggered. Other visitors to the now-crowded pub couldn’t help but notice Jack’s stabbing accusation at Adam and damaging accusation of Fabulonnery.
‘Excuse me. Excuse me. I have my feminine side,’ Adam exclaimed. ‘And Fabulon is part of my feminine side.’
The mere reprisal of this word in the conversation was enough to send us over the edge.
‘Screw you all,’ declared Adam. ‘I’m Fabulon.’ Thus began the introduction of a now oft-used verb to describe anything of greatness – to experience something which is Fabulon.