twenty five

(GUILTY OF DRIVING) UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE

THE SICK DRISCOLLS. Words and Music by RUFUS LANGLEY

I CAN’T CHECK MY MIRRORS

COS THEY’RE ALL STEAMED UP

I KNOW I COULD BE HEADING

FOR A MOTORWAY PILE UP

MY TWO WINDSCREEN WIPERS

WON’T WASH AWAY THE RAIN

AND MY TWIN BEVERAGE HOLDERS

HOLD NOTHING BUT SHAME

(Bridge)

I CAN’T INDICATE

I CAN’T STAY IN LANE

THE ONLY SHOULDER I CAN CRY ON

IS THE HARD ONE JUST OUTSIDE BASILDON

(Chorus)

COS I’M GUILTY OF DRIVING

UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE

YES I’M A-GUILTY OF DRI-YI-IVING

UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE

(Verse 2)

I AIN’T GOT NO SPARE TYRE

AIN’T GOT NO FOOT PUMP OR WRENCH

I’M SNORTING UP CHEVRONS

LIKE COCAINE FROM A BENCH

MY SPEEDOMETER NEEDLE

IT’S DANCING TO IT’S OWN TUNE

AND MY LIGHTS AND INDICATORS

ARE ON MAGIC MUSHROOMS

(Bridge)

I CAN’T DEVIATE

FROM THIS MOTORWAY

MEMORIES FLASH IN FRONT OF ME

LIKE MY OIL LIGHT COS IT’S ON EMPTY

(Chorus)

COS I’M GUILTY OF DRIVING

UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE

YES I’M A-GUILTY OF DRI-YI-IVING

UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE

(End Bit)

GUILTY GUILTY GUILTY

GUILTY GUILTY GUILTY

GUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTY

GUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTY

(MY GEARBOX IS RED HOT!)

GUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTY

GUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTYGUILTY

IT’S AN EMERGENCY

I NEED AN M.O.T!

   “Well?” says Ruff. “What do you think?”

   I shake my head in quiet disbelief, “These lyrics…are they the first draft? I mean, did you just write them this morning when you were on the toilet?”

   I’ve offended Ruff again and he looks suitably aggrieved. I just find it very hard to get excited by all of this. He leans over our pints and snatches the lyric book out of my hands and closes it.

   “I don’t know why I waste my time asking your opinion,” he says, finishing off his previous pint and reaching for the next.

   “I just think it’s a little bit…corny.”

   Ruff looks at me as though I’m barking.

   “It’s a rock song, man…an open road anthem.”

   “Well, maybe I need to hear the words sang to the music,” I say.

   Ruff shakes his head childishly, “Well, maybe I don’t want you to hear them sang to music. After all, you never seem to be arsed to make it to any of our gigs.”

   “That’s not true,” I say. But it is, mostly.

   Ruff sinks some of his drink, “Listen, if you think you can do any better than this song, feel free to audition for the Driscolls.”

   “Oh, no,” I say, pointing a finger at him, “I told you, I’m not available.”

   “I know,” sighs Ruff, “you think The Sick Driscolls are shite.”

   “No,” I correct him, “I’m shite. Why do you think I don’t do this kind of thing anymore? Enough people told me so.”

   “I never told you so,” says Ruff, crossing his arms.

   That is true, thinking about it. Ruff was always one of the few mates I had that patiently sat and listened to every song I ever demoed. But that was never enough for me. Maybe I just felt they were being polite. Maybe I just didn’t trust anyone enough.

   “I’m over all of that now,” I say flatly.

   “Oh yeh?” says Ruff in an unnecessarily high-pitched voice, “you still have your guitar.”

   “I don’t play it.”

   “Then throw it out. Or sell it.”

   “What for?” The idea is abhorrent to me.

   “Well, you don’t use it.”

   “You have a Soda Stream that you never use. Throw that out.”

   “That’s totally different,” says Ruff. “My old peg bought that in 1985 or something. It’s a curio.”

   “Right.”

   “But listen,” says Ruff, scratching his crotch, “I can’t compose a song on a Soda Stream, can I? It would just sound…fizzy. I’m not Scott Walker.”

   “Oh, look,” I say, putting my pint down on the damp table. “When are you playing next?”

   “Yeh, right,” says Ruff as he pulls some tobacco from his coat pocket. “I’ve heard all this before.”

   I do feel bad about never seeing his band. Kind of.

   “No, really,” I say. “When?”

   “A week Wednesday. At The Purple Pony.”

   I slap the table resolutely, “I’ll be there.”

   “Okay then,” says Ruff, and I’m almost offended by his lack of enthusiasm.

   “No,” I say, “I will.”

   “Okay.”

   Ruff rolls a cigarette in silence and slides it behind his ear. Then he gives me a sly grin.

   “What?” I ask.

   “If you don’t turn up to see the band play next week, there’s gonna be a forfeit.”

   “What, I have to come and see you twice?”

   I laugh and he doesn’t so I stop.

   Ruff leans forward, “You have to play on stage with us the next time.”

   “No way,” I say.

   “Coward.”

   “It runs a little deeper than that, Rufus.”

   “Just one song,” says Ruff. “I mean, if you’re intending to show up for next week’s gig then you have nothing to worry about, do you?”

   He has me by the gongs there. He spits on his palm and extends it to me.

   “We’re not burying treasure, you know,” I say.

   “Shake,” says Ruff.

   I sigh, lightly spit into my hand and we shake firmly.

   “Nice one, brother,” he grins. He stands up and checks his pockets for his lighter. “I’m actually hoping you don’t turn up next Wednesday.”

   “I’ll bet,” I mutter into my drink.

   “I’m determined to find your rock and roll soul. Man.”

   he slaps me on the shoulder and heads out into the cold evening wind. My phone rings and it’s Meredith.

   “Hi, Meredith.”

   “Hello, you!” she says cheerily. “What you up to?”

   “Just on a bit of a bender with a mate.”

   “Cooooooool…” she says. “Are you free a week Wednesday?”

   I wish I was, I could do with a service.

   “No, I’m afraid not. I’, going to see my mate’s band play.”

   “Oh,” she says, “are they any good?”

   “They’re the new Walker Brothers.”

   “The shirtmakers?”

   “Yes.”

   “Coooooooooooooool…..“

twenty four

I meet Molly in The Cloisters, the pub opposite Gregg’s Bakery, that mid-morning Mecca for builders everywhere. As I pass a row of pasty chomping shaved heads in combat trousers and luminous waistcoats sitting on a bench I decide that Famous Army Stores has a lot to answer for.

   I find Molly inside just peeling herself away from the bar with two pints and I follow her to a table.

   “I laughed at this woman today,” I say. “I mean, literally, just laughed in her face.”

   “Really,” says Molly.

   “Are you still doing that creative writing course?”

   “Yes,” says Molly as she swallows some beer. “I did miss one week when I split up with Randolph.”

   I cough up some beer, “You split with Randolph? Why?”

   “I told you, he didn’t appreciate my shaved head.”

   “Well, neither did you,” I say. “That’s why you grew it back straight away. If it isn’t shaved anymore, then what’s the problem?”

   “Oh,” she sighs, “he just has a bit of a complex about it. Something to do with being startled by a bald au pair when he was a small child.”

   “Still,” I shrug, “you did have that issue with that squint of his. What goes around…”

   “Oh, sod off,” hisses Molly.

   The Cloisters is starting to get a little bit busier. I check my watch and see that it’s coming up to half eleven. I should go to work at some point.

   “So the course is still going fine?” I ask after a few mouthfuls of lager.

   Molly eyes me, “You want to do a creative writing course yourself?”

   “No,” I say. “I try and stick to doing things I can learn by myself.”

   “Like what? Drinking and masturbation?”

   “I’ve actually started writing a novel,” I say.

   Molly chuckles, as I thought she would, “What for?”

   I frown, “What do you mean ‘what for?’“

   “You can’t write a novel,” says Molly, leaning back in her chair and shaking her head at the apparent lunacy of the idea.

   “Thank you,” I say in my best hurt feeling voice.

   “Awww, come on,” she says, clutching my sleeve in mock reassurance. “I remember your little stories that you used to write when we were in school. They were soooo stupid.”

   “That was just for my mates,” I say. “I’m hardly going to write the same stuff I was writing when I was fourteen.”

   “Okay,” says Molly, holding up an appeasing hand. “What’s it called?”

   “Vancouver Hill.”

   “Vancouver Hill?”

   “Yes.”

   “Is it set in Vancouver?”

   “No.”

   “You probably should set it in Vancouver.”

   “Why’s that?”

   “It would at least give you an excuse to go there. You don’t do nearly as much travelling as you should do.”

   “I tell you what,” I say as I reach the halfway mark of my drink, “you go for me.”

   “So what is this magnum opus supposed to be about?”

   I really can’t be bothered to tell her and also I don’t really have a solid story.

   “I can’t be bothered to tell you,” I say.

   “You don’t really have a story, do you,” says Molly.

   I sigh, “Well, I’ll admit the details are a little sketchy. It’s a study of isolation, loss, what could have happened, fragmentation…the human condition. There’s also a damaged space craft with no means of communication racing towards Earth to warn everyone of impending doom.”

   I sit back, feeling quite satisfied with my brief synopsis. Molly doesn’t look that impressed.

   “So,” she says, “it’s science fiction then.”

   “No, it’s not science fiction.”

   “You just said it has a spaceship in it.”

   “I know,” I say, “but that’s just incidental. It’s what it represents.”

   “And what exactly does it represent?”

   “I’m not sure,” I admit. “Maybe it represents how easy it is to run out of time if you don’t try and get things done….or something.”

   Molly wrinkles her nose in indifference, “Well, I won’t hold my breath but you keep at it, Slick.”

   “Don’t worry,” I say defiantly, “I will.”

   Molly sniggers, “Vancouver Hill…”

   “Oh, get your haircut,” I say. “Same again?”

twenty three

“You’re sooooo pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

   Molly sucks red wine from her thumb as Murray inserts the DVD into his player. He looks round and grins broadly at her, “Damn right, baby!”

   “Don’t call me ‘baby’,” retorts Molly.

   I help myself to another glass of red and settle back into the armchair. I turn to Ruth, who’s sitting on the sofa snuggled up to Coy Johnson.

   “Looking forward to all this?” I ask.

   Ruth nods slowly, “Coy’s going to give Murray a professional critique…” she lifts her chin and kisses his face,”…aren’t you my little tangerine?”

   “Sure,” says Coy flatly.

   We hear the front door slam shut and Ruff plods into the lounge carrying a bag of supplies from the off-licence at the end of Murray’s street. He hands the keys back to Murray and pulls a bottle of vodka from the plastic bag.

   “Did I miss it?” he asks as he unscrews the bottle cap.

   “He hasn’t even started it yet,” yawns Molly.

   “Damn,” says Ruff and takes a huge gulp from the bottle.”So what are you waiting for, man?”

   Murray coughs into his fist and stands up straight with his back to the television. He looks more than a little absurd with his Brazilian tan and oversized white shirt.

   “I’m creating the impulse,” he says, “you know…building the tension.”

   “Oh, for the love of god, just put us out of our misery,” moans Molly.

   “Come on, leave him alone,” says Ruth. “I’m quite curious to see his performance actually.”

   Molly turns to her, “Well, that’s hardly surprising seeing as you’re engaged to a porn star.”

   “Ex-porn star,” I say.

   “Whatever,” says Molly, “the point is I’m about to see Murray doing it with some South American slag and I don’t want to but I feel compelled to because there is a definite possibility that he will look ridiculous and I had a really shitty day so I could do with a laugh. And if it means having to endure twenty minutes of his lardy rump rolling in and out, then so be it.”

   Murray slips a hand casually into his pocket and winks at Molly, “I think I know what you’re trying to say here, Molly.”

   “What? What am I trying to say,Murray?”

   Murray grins and nods around the room, “I think maybe on some small, subconscious level, you actually find me quite attractive. And it’s this very fact that is driving you to watch my debut feature. Am I right?”

   Molly stares him in the eye and whispers ‘noooooo’.

   “Listen to him,” I say. “He’s hung out the back of a couple of jazztarts and suddenly he’s Mr Dreamboat.”

   “Come on,”says Molly, “get on with it. It’s getting late and it’s going to take me well over an hour to get home because the tube is shagged again. And you still haven’t fixed your lavatory.”

   “Okay, okay,” says Murray and picks up the remote control.

   Ruff sits on the sofa arm next to Molly and leans in to her, “We could have watched this at my flat, you know. My bog flushes just fine.”

   Molly wrinkles her nose, “Your ‘bog’ is covered in stains. Why don’t you guys try cleaning it once in a while? It’s disgusting.”

   “I’ve tried cleaning it, but those stains just won’t shift.”

   “Yes, well, just aiming your wee at them isn’t really going to do the trick is it.”

   “Ladies, gentlemen,” interrupts Murray, holding both hands up. “If you don’t mind.”

   “Hurry up,” I say, downing the last of my wine and pouring another. I’m trying to get hammered so that the experience of watching Murray fornicating on film will later seem like some bizarre dream.

   “Alright,” says Murray, shrugging me off. He presses play and takes a few steps back.

   “And remember,” says Ruth to Coy, “to give us your honest opinion as a seasoned porn star.”

   “Ex-porn star,” corrects Coy Johnson.

   The main titles sequence to Rude Oil starts rolling. I point at the screen when the producer credit appears.

   “There is no way that that is his real name.”

   “Who?” says Murray. “Chess Pamplemousse?”

   “Yeh.”

   “Why can’t that be his real name?”

   “‘Chess Pamplemousse’?”

   “So?”

   “‘Chess Pamplemousse‘?”

   “Give the guy a break,” says Murray, “he’s in my crosshairs if I’m going to make it in the adult entertainment industry.”

   “Have you heard of him, honey?” Ruth asks Coy.

   “Sure,” replies Coy, “I’ve heard of everybody. I’m a porn star.”

   “Ex-porn star,” corrects Ruff.

   The film runs its predictably meagre story arc involving Texan spunk well disputes while checked-shirted ranchers and spunk magnates bang away at eachother.

   “Where do you come in?” I ask, starting on my sixth glass of red.

   “Anytime soon,” says Murray, keeping his eyes glued to the television screen.

   “Who do you play?” asks Ruff from inside the vodka bottle.

   “I play Toss Mahoney. I ride in and stop two ranch girls fighting and then it’s Hello Dolly!”

   Ruff burps, “So, what you’re saying is, you go from riding one set of saddlebags to riding…another set of saddlebags.”

   Molly leans over and smacks Ruff so hard on his shoulder that it sends him disappearing over the arm of the sofa.

   The scene with the two ranch girls scrapping starts roughly twenty minutes into the proceedings. Murray visibly starts to shake.

   “Oh, god…” he says excitedly,”here I come…here I come…”

   “Please let this be brief…” mutters Molly.

   Ruff and I swig our drinks as quickly as possible. The fight scene then suddenly cuts away before Murray’s character appears. Instead we are presented with a mature woman doing that Marilyn Monroe pose, only instead of an air vent she is standing over an active ’spunkwell’.

   Murray takes a couple of steps forward.

   “They cut my scene!”

   “Are you sure?” I say, just to be on the safe side.

   “Right there!” He points at the screen. “In the middle of the girly fight. That’s when Toss Mahoney turns up and proceeds to give them the business!”

   “Maybe they’ll cut back to it later,” says Ruth helpfully. “What do you think,honey?”

   “Sure,” says Coy Johnson, but he’s not sure.

   Murray hits the fast forward button and we all lean forward, studying the screen intently. Then the end credits appear. Murray presses the off button and sags on the arm of my chair.

   “They cut my scene,” he says, deflated.

   “Maybe they’ll stick it back in for the Director’s Cut,” I say.

   Murray ignores me and goes over to his drinks cabinet to pour himself a large scotch.

   “They cut my scene,” he says again. “I feel so used.”

   “Wow,” says Molly, “you must be the first person in the history of adult features to have a good penis for radio.”

   Murray turns and glares at Molly, “You make fun of me? In my own home?”

   “That’s right,” nods Molly sincerely.

   “You’re bloody lucky I let you in at all after murdering my goldfish.”

   “Yeh, it’s a personal high.”

   “I don’t believe this is happening to me,” says Murray. He sits on the edge of his coffee table and rubs his forehead.

   “Didn’t Bootie know?” I ask. “She is your agent, after all.”

   Murray shakes his head, “She didn’t say anything.”

   “Call her,” I say.

   Murray shakes his head again, “Nah, she said she was going away for a couple of weeks – you know, networking. She said she’ll call me when she’s done.”

   I glance at the others and we all appear to come to the same conclusion. Coy Johnson runs his index finger across his throat from ear to ear. Best not to say anything until Murray has worked it out for himself…

   “I reckon she’s fucked you over, mate,” says Ruff from the floor.

   Murray twists round, “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would she?”

   We all remain silent for a few moments until Murray works it out and realises Bootie has left him well and truly on the cutting room floor for good. He clutches his head with both hands, slips off the coffee table and crawls out towards the bathroom on his knees.

   “Jeeeez…” says Coy Johnson, “that guy is real upset.”

   “Maybe we should leave him on his own,” I say.

   Molly stands and puts her coat on, “We will leave. You should stay here with him.”

   “Me? Why?”

   “You’re the closest mate to him out of all of us,” says Ruth, detaching herself from Coy.

   “Thanks, thanks a lot,” I say, going to the kitchen and sliding out another bottle of red.

   Coy Johnson pulls Ruff to his feet and the four of them head in to the hallway. Molly grins at me over her shoulder so I give her a couple of fingers.

   “Don’t bother closing the door,” I call after them, “I’ll be right behind you after one more glass.”

   I head back to the lounge, sit down, and pour myself a glass of red. As I drink, I’m sure I can hear Murray sobbing softly in the bathroom. I pick up the remote and press play. May as well have another quick look.

   After a couple of minutes, I hear the bathroom door bang open and Murray bounds in to the lounge; stark naked and holding his penis in one hand and a Helix Shatterproof ruler in the other. He stands directly in front of me and lines them both up. I press myself as far back into the seat cushion as I possibly can.

   “Look,” he says. “This dick is porn star material, my friend!”

   “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at a pork pie again,” is all I can find to say, trying to edge it away from my field of vision.

   At that moment, Molly walks in.

   “I forgot my beenie hat and–”

   She stops dead in the lounge and looks at us, mouth wide open.

   “Ohh…” she says softly,”…this could be awkward…”

   There is an uncomfortable silence and then Murray steps forward and thrusts his crotch out towards Molly.

   “You telling me this penis is only good for radio, huh?! This penis could present News At Ten, BABY!!”

   Nice work, Murray. That’s telling her.

twenty two

Someone’s tapping me on the back. Things are coming back to me before my eyelids. Snakebite, depth-charged with vodka…people who drink vodka and Red Bull are all muffs…Fumbling with a woman in her late forties in the back of a taxi…Where’s Roper?…What’s the woman’s name?…Jora…J-O-R-A…she typed it on her phone and showed it to me. That’s it. Her mother …Colleen?…helped Roper out of the taxi…I’m in Jora’s bed and I feel like cold shit. Is she married?…No, wait, she’s divorced, that’s it! She left her husband and went back to live with her mother, which means this is her mother’s house. I pull the duvet tighter…it’s chilly in here and the alcohol is freezing in my bloodstream…there’s that tapping again…

   “Give me some of the duvet,” says Jora in her cigarette-ravaged voice.

   “I’m cold,” I mutter flatly. And I’m drunk. And I’m in a rotten mood. I pull the duvet tight around my throat.

   I feel her wrenching at it, “There’s enough for both of us; it’s a king size quilt.”                      

   “Yes, but you’re king size so that kind of cancels it out.”

   Time freezes. Oh, shit; I do believe I just made that remark out loud. I have my back to Jora and so have no idea what she might do next. I grit my teeth, expecting abuse of the verbal or physical kind. Or maybe even both. She looked pretty tasty last night, and not in the attractive sense. But nothing comes my way. Instead, Jora gets out of the bed. I hear her putting on a dressing gown and going downstairs. I sit up and hear the kettle coming on. How shit do I feel? I still have my watch on and I squint at it in the dark…4:47am. The room revoves slowly but I decide to try and salvage this situation. I slide from the bed and grub around on the floor for my clothes; they feel really uncomfortable in this state. I hobble downstairs and find her pouring herself a coffee in the dirty kitchen.

   “Do you want a cup?” she asks, not turning around.

   “No…thanks,” I reply meekly.

   Jora sits at the tiny breakfast bar and sips quietly with both hands. I lean awkwardly in the doorway.

   “Look,” I say, and then hesitate because I’ve never been any good and separating my foot from my mouth, “I’m sorry about what I said just then.”

   “Forget it,” says Jora coolly, “you’re still drunk.”

   “Well,” I say, “if it’s any consolation, I’ve slept with much chubbier women than you.”

   Ohhhh…

   “I think you should leave now,” says Jora as she flushes crimson. “There’s a cab office at the top of the road.”

   I can’t really argue with that. I say nothing and back away, heading up the stairs to the bedroom to check I haven’t left anything behind, aside from my credibility. I’m not a very nice person, I decide. As I stand on the landing I have vague recollections of us all throwing Roper onto a bed. I go to the next door, and as I get near I hear mumbling and squeaking.

   “Roper?”

   “Yeh…” I hear him say from inside, “come in.”

   I open the door.

   “Uuuuuuuurrrrrrrggggghhhh…” I groan.

   Roper is naked and on his knees at the foot of the bed and his face is bobbing up and down between the map-like legs of Jora’s mother. Colleen is lying back on the bed, arms folded behind her head. Her breasts, looking like two snooker balls in a pair of socks, are hibernating in her armpits. As Roper is going at it, her midriff ripples like sand in a desert storm. She looks at me and gives me a denture-less smile:-

   “You alright, luv?”

   I can’t answer. This is exactly one of those situations when you really should look away but for some reason you just don’t. Eventually, however, I manage to speak.

   “I have to go,” I say. “We have to go.”

   Roper mumbles something and gives me the thumbs up. With both thumbs.

   “I’ll wait for you outside, then,” I say.

   Another thumbs up and I leave them to it. I shudder and make my way down the stairs. It’s definitely time to sober up and get my act together. Jora is standing in the hall with her arms crossed.

   “I told you I wanted you to leave,” she says.

   “I was just letting my friend know. Sorry.”

   I open the front door.

   “Sorry,” I repeat pathetically.

   “Forget it,” says Jora, and closes the door on me.

   It’s freezing out here. I lean against the wall by the front gate and shiver in silence. After about half an hour the front door opens and I turn to see Roper kissing Jora’s mother goodbye. Even this makes me wince. He trots up to me, still clearly pissed, and puts his arm around my shoulder.

   “How’s it hanging?” he says cheerfully as we start up the road.

   “How could you?” I say.

   “What?”

   “How old was she? Seventy?”

   “About that, yeh.”

   “You filthy pig.”

   “Any port in a storm, mate. Rock and roooooll!”

   I shake my head and we carry on up the street of terraced houses.

   “Have you got any money for a cab?” I ask, realising I probably haven’t.

    Roper stops on the pavement and checks his pockets. He reaches inside his coat.

    “No, I don’t think so…ohhh…bloody hell.”

   “What?” I say, immediately deducing that he has left his wallet next to Colleen’s commode or something.

   “Tell me I didn’t…” says Roper and slowly pulls his hand from out of his coat. Between his thumb and his index finger are a set of dentures. Roper grimaces.

   “You stole her false teeth?” I ask incredulously. “I thought you’d given up this thieving lark.”

   “So did I,” says Roper, inspecting the teeth close up.

   “Come on,” I say, “let’s get a taxi and get out of here before they realise.”

   As we are walking, Roper holds the dentures up under the passing streetlamps.

   “There’s a fair bit of food in these,” he says and then puts them back in his pocket.

   Hold the vomit in, I tell myself, hold it in…