Anyways here I am sittin’ in this dumpy cowboy bar wonderin’ just how the fuck am I gonna East High School…the school where my all-time favourite movie ever is set at: the mighty High School Musical. In fact by now I’m wonderin’ if there even is a East High School here in Albuquerque, or is it just some more Hollywood bullshit when alla the sudden, who comes into the bar an’ sits next ta me? Mother-fuckin’ Troy Bolton’s coach…that’s who. Goddamn! Is that luck or what?

Eddie, the bartender, an’ this guy Don start talkin’. I immediately got this guy Don pegged fer some kinda high school coach or somethin’ cause he’s wearin’ gym shorts, trainers an’ a t-shirt in East High’s colours – white an’ red. He’s even got a fuckin’ whistle hangin’ from his neck. Of course the shirt don’t say East High on it or anything, but I just know that that’s where this guy’s coachin’. I can feel it in my bones. And when he says something about Troy Bolton, I goddamn near fall offa the bar stool.

‘Well, there’s this Troy kid,’ Don says as Eddie plunks down a bottle of Budweiser an’ a plate with a greasy lookin’ burger on it. ‘He might have the goods; he’s got a pretty decent hook from centre court.’
‘Yeah, think this kid’s pretty good then, huh?’ Eddie inquires.
‘Well…him an’ this other kid. Chad, he seems to show some promise, too.’
CHAD?...CHAD DANFORTH?!?! …. That black kid with the fluffy hair?! HOLY SHIT!! Now I know for certain that I’m on the right track. I’m sittin’ there thinkin’ that I should be askin’ this dude fer his autograph or somethin’ but I’m too nervous to do it. I mean this guy must get dudes pesterin’ him fer his autograph alla the time, he must be sick of it. Nah, better not, or else he might get pissed off at me. He might start yellin’ at me ta fuck off, or spray me in the face with pepper spray an’ kick me in the nuts, like that one chick did, the one I tried followin’ back ta her flat ‘cos I thought she wuz Mrs. Doyle offa that Father Ted show.

I’m thinkin’ this an’ I guess I’m so deep in though that I don’t even realize I’m doin’ it but the guy glances over at me an catches me lookin’ at him. He don’t say nuthin’ but all the same I quickly put my head down an’ stare into my bowl a chilli, like it’s the most innerestin’ thing in the world. I just keep starin’ at it an’ starin’ at it; don’t even dare to lift my head up in case I accidentally look at that this Don guy again. I mean I don’t want this guy thinkin’ I’m queer or some kinda weirdo or somethin.’

So I’m sittin’ there just starin’ inta my chilli like my life depends on it. After awhile I notice one a the chilli beans start ta move. It swims across a pool of meat, spices an’ grease till it reaches the edge of the bowl. It crawls up to the rim a the bowl, jumps down to the counter an’ scurries across the counter. The chilli bean scuttles about halfway up the length of the bar when Eddie brings his fist down on the bar, instantly crushing the bean.

‘Fuckin’ cock-a-roaches,’ he grumbles, an’ flicks the bean with his thumb and forefinger. It goes sailin’ across the room landin’ somewhere on the floor next to this old Dig Dug video game.

Alla this time I can hear talkin’ goin’ all about me. Don an’ the two old cowboys get inta a discussion about baseball, mostly about the Arizona Diamondbacks. Then discussion turns inta somethin’ of heated debate when one a the cowboys starts arguin’ with Eddie about a two a the pitchers.

‘No, No, NO!’ Eddie roars. ‘Zavada’s got a way better moustache then Randy Johnson EVER did. FUCK Randy Johnson; he can go to HELL!’
‘Oh yeah? Well FUCK YOU!!! Bob shouts. ‘I once saw the Big Unit kill a pigeon with a slider; and he didn’t just kill it, the thing fuckin’ DISINTEGRATED. Seriously, nothin’ left but blood and a coupla feathers. And this was at an exhibition game in spring training….SPRING TRAINING, man. So you can show the man some respect, and shove Zavada UP YER ASS!’

Then in an effort to avoid things comin’ to a head, the other cowboy, Clem, tries ta change the subject. ‘Hey Don, d’ya see that Eddie’s little girl wuz just on the Jerry Springer Show?’

‘Oh yeah,’ Bob chimes in, completely forgettin’ about the pitchin’ debate. ‘Me an’ Clem wuz just watchin’ her on the TV right before ya came in. She’s turnin’ ta a fine-lookin’ young lady.’

‘Yeah, Roxanne always was quite a looker,’ Don says. ‘Even back when I had her in my P.E. class; I remember the boys would all line up an’ try an catch a peek at her whenever she was in the showers.’

Eddie smiles an’ nods. ‘I remember her comin’ home from school one time an’ tellin’ me an Rosa about that. We were all proud a’ her then, ‘cos that’s when we knew she wuz gonna be somebody. An’ look at her now, all bein’ on TV an’ stuff.’

An’ fer the second time I look an’ see a tear in the corner of Eddie’s eye.

The guys all keep talkin’ ‘bout different things, but I’m not really listenin’ anymore. An after awhile, I hear the clunk of glass against the counter an’ someone softly burpin’. Out a the corner a my eye I look an’ see that Don guy push back from his barstool an reach into the pocket of his gym shorts, like he’s ready to settle the bill an’ shit.

‘Thanks Eddie,’ he says. ‘What’s that come to?’

‘Let’s see…that’s five bucks for the burger, two fifty for the beer; plus you still owe me seven from last week. So, that makes it about……$35.62.’

Don digs around in his pocket an’ comes up with a wad of crumpled bills. ‘Ahh shit,’ he spits. ‘I’ve only got $10 on me…can I pay you the rest tomorrow?’

Eddie thinks about this fer a second before answering. ‘Yeah, I guess so,’ he sighs. ‘I know yer good for it.’
‘Sorry, Eddie. I just haven’t had a chance to hit the bank. I’ll pay you back tomorrow…promise.’
‘Hey, don’t worry about it, man.’
‘Thanks buddy, I’ll pay you back tomorrow.’
‘Sure.’

Don places a five dollar bill an’ a handful a change on the counter then gives Eddie a sly wink. Eddie scoops up the change an dumps it in the open cash register.

Don gets up an’ walks out the door, an’ I’m wonderin’ what ta do. I’m thinkin’ that I should get up an’ follow him, but I don’t want to be too obvious about it. I’m still worried what he would do if he caught me out. He’d probably give my ass a good beatin. I mean, c’mon, the guy’s a gym teacher fer chirssakes; probably has all kinds a fightin’ skills an’ shit. Plus I’m on my second bowl a chilli an’ still got about a quarter of it left along with half a glass a beer. On the other hand, this is a teacher from High School Musical that we’re talkin’ about here, an’ this may be my only chance of ever getting’ to meet those kids. Fuck it, I’m going after him.

I reach inta my pocket an’ grab a handful of change, toss it onto the counter and quickly leave the place. Behind me I hear Eddie talkin’, bitchin’ bout something or other.

‘Hey…Hey man….Hey ASSHOLE!’ he shouts. ‘What the fuck is this? An expired coupon for Weatherspoons, an’ a buncha coins from England and…NAZI GERMANY?!?! What the FUCK? This ain’t even REAL MONEY, MAN! Hey, come back here…I’m TALKIN’ to you? Hey, you…. dickhead!...HEY!!’

I open the door outside just in time ta see Don walkin’ further down the street, turnin’ a corner. I follow him around the corner an’ feel like this fuckin’ cool super spy ‘cos he ain’t noticed me yet. But my heart sinks when I see him open the door an’ climb inta this car. Fuck, I don’t even occur to me that he’d be drivin’. Suddenly, I’m feelin’ really fuckin’ stupid.

The car he’s driving is a green Volkswagon Beetle, not one a the new ones but one from like the 60’s or 70’s or something.’ An it ain’t in very good condition, either. There’s patches a rust on the fenders an’ door sills, an’ there’s a big ass dent on the front wing along the driver’s side. He puts the keys in the ignition an’ the engine makes this horrible grindin’ noise before it starts. There’s this really fuckin’ loud backfire an’ the exhaust pipe, barely hangin’ on in the back, belches out a thick, acrid cloud a smoke. The Beetle sputters an’ lurches forward an’ stalls a coupla times before Don gets it rollin’ for good; an’ as the car makes its way down the street I look on the back bumper an’ see a sticker that says ‘GYM TEACHERS DO IT WITH A WHISTLE’

Shit. Now what am I gonna do? I ain’t gotta car so it’s not like I can tail him or anything. I look around to see if I can find a taxi or somethin’ maybe get him to follow him, like they do in all those spy movies but I ain’t seein’ fuck all. Then I see this chick across the street loadin’ some groceries into the back of a minivan. I figure if I act real nice an all courteous an’ shit, she might be nice an’ help me tail that guy. I’d even offer to pay her.

‘S’cuse me miss,’ I shout. ‘Hey sweetie!’

From across the street I see her turn around an’ she’s lookin’ a bit confused. Like she’s not sure who’s talkin’ to her and if it’s her that the talkins’ bein’ directed at.

‘S’cuse me, sugar; right over here,’ I say, wavin’ to her ta get her attention. She sees me an’ she looks a bit startled, like she still ain’t sure it’s her that I’m talkin’ to. I start walkin’ across the street. The lady takes a couple of steps back, like she’s gonna bolt. I’m thinkin’ maybe she’s confused because maybe she don’t speak English or somethin’ and don’t understand what I’m sayin.’ Maybe if I flash a few bucks at her so she knows I plan ta pay her, maybe she’ll calm the fuck down. So put my hand in my pocket an’ start diggin’ around.

‘Ma’am, can ya help me?’ I say. ‘I’m lookin’ fer some tail. Erm, I mean...’
Then the lady starts screamin.’ ‘Stay AWAY! Help! POLICE!!!’

She opens the door to her minivan an’ starts climbin’ in. I’m still diggin’ around in my front pocket for some money, hopin’ that once she see’s the cash, she’ll hear me out. I’m feelin’ around but I ain’t findin’ shit. Damn, I know I’ve got a dollar bill somewhere in there. By now the chick’s in her car an’ about ta shut the door.. I pick up my pace an’ start runnin’ across the street, while still diggin’ around in my pockets fer that buck. Some asshole in a Nissan Xterra nearly hits me.

‘No lady, ya got it all wrong,’ I say. ‘Look, I’m gonna PAY YA!!’

I grab the door before she’s got a chance to shut it, but she’s still holdin’ onta the handle, tryin’ ta get the door shut.
‘Get AWAY from me, you creep! HELP!! HEEELLLLPP! THIS GUY’S GOING TO RAPE MEEE!!!!’

‘RAPE you? No, baby ya don’t understand,’ I plead. ‘I’ve got money, I’m gonna pay ya…I just wanna tail..’

Then alla the sudden I hear this guy shouting at me from behind. I turn around an I see this cop comin’ towards me. This huge black guy, an he looks pissed.

‘YOU, in the afro wig an’ glasses; step away from the vehicle, NOW!!’
I loosen my grip on the car door, an the lady slams it shut. Unfortunately my other hand’s on the door sill an’ my fingers get caught.
‘Auughh Fuck! My fingers!!’

Then the cop whips his gun outta his holster an’ points it at me.
‘HANDS in the AIR, MUTHAFUCKA!!’
‘I can’t, my hand’s stuck in this bitch’s car door.’

The cop motions for the lady to open her door. She opens it a crack an’ I quickly pull my bruised fingers from the door sill before she slams it shut again. My fingers are really hurtin’ now. They’re throbbin’…literally throbbin’. My finger tips are all swollen an’ purple an’ shit. The nail on my pointin’ finger is all black; and the one on my middle finger is danglin’ off the end of my finger, like it’s about ready to fall off. Owwchh! Goddamn, just lookin’ at my hand is makin’ it hurt even more. I go to waive my hand an put my fingers in my mouth, like suckin’ on em is somehow gonna make ‘em better. But then the cop jabs his gun at me an’ starts screamin’ again, raisin’ his voice an’ shit.

‘I SAID HANDS IN THE AIR, NOW!!’
‘Aww, c’mon, man, my fingers are fuckin’ killing me.’

The cop keeps waiving his gun, aiming it at me, still screamin.’ ‘BUDDY, I WILL FUCKING SHOOT YOU IN THE FACE IF YOU DO NOT GET THOSE GODDAMNED HANDS IN THE AIR, NOW!!!!’

Now the chick in the car starts her car up and is about to drive off. Then the cop starts shoutin’ at her. ‘Ma’am, please STAY WHERE YOU ARE.’
But she don’t hear him an’ pulls out from her parkin’ space. I hafta move outta the way as she reverses back and then goes forward an’ peels out, rocketing down the street at a speed. Meanwhile the cop is still shoutin’ at her.

‘MA’AM, please remain where you are….Ma’am! MISS! Please stay here, I need to get a statement…..MA’AM! Please DO NOT LEAVE!! MA’AM….. I need to get a STATEMENT from you! I NEED TO KNOW IF YOU’RE GOING TO PRESS CHARGES AGAINST THIS MAN! MA’AM!! MA’AM!!!! AWWW. C’MON…. I NEED TO….shit!’

As she races past us, I see a bumper sticker on the back of her mini-van that says ‘SOCCER MOMS DO IT WITH A YELLOW CARD.’

The cop starts to chase after her on foot, but when it’s clear that he ain’t gonna catch up to her, he stops an’ just stands in the middle of the street an’ sighs. ‘Fuck, the chief is gonna kill me,’ he mutters.
I think about bolting myself, wonderin’ if the cop will notice that I’m even gone. But then I remember that he’s got a gun and he’d probably shoot me so I’m really tryin’ ta figger out what ta do, here, ‘cos I don’t wanna go to jail, but I don’t wanna get shot either. So I’m standin’ there with my hands above my head, worried about what the cop’s gonna do. Then alla the sudden another cop car pulls up. Shit, I figger I’m really fucked at this point. But then, get this, the second cop – a white guy, he don’t even notice me. He drives along side the first cop, rolls down his window an’ starts talkin’ to him.

‘Hey Reed,’ he shouts. ‘Y’know that Dunkin’ Donuts up over on West 47th?’
‘Yeah, so what about it?’
‘MacDonald was went over there last Tuesday; said that there’s this new chick there workin’ nights behind the counter. She ain’t much to look at in the face, but she’s got tits out ta here.’
‘Yeah? Keep talkin’, Malloy.’
‘Well she’s got a thing fer the boys in blue, if ya know what I mean…hehe.’
‘Is that so,’ Reed says, an’ I can see him startin’ ta perk up.
‘MacDonald said that when he was over there she took him round back to the store room…gave him the best blowjob he’s ever had in his life!’
‘Right on!’ Reed shouts. Then he starts gyratin’ his hips an’ pumpin’ his fist in the air. ‘Whoooeeee!’

‘Yeah, you know it, baby!’ Malloy laughs. ‘Whattaya say we go down there an’ tap soma that ass. Get our knobs slobbed AND get free bear claws?!?’
‘FUCK yeah! I’M IN!!’

Reed shouts again and dances over to the passenger side of the cop car, opens the door and jumps in. As the car rolls past me, it slows down an’ Malloy, the white cop, rolls down his window.
‘Hey man, ya wanna come with us?’ he asks me.
‘Ermm. No thanks, I’m good.’ I tell him.

The cop turns an says somethin’ to Reed then turns back to me, an shrugs his shoulders.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Suit yourself. It’s your loss.’

Then he presses down on the accelerator an’ there’s flashin’ lights and a siren wail as the cop car burns rubber down the street. As he passes me I see a bumper sticker on the back of his patrol car that says ‘POLICE DO IT WITH HANDCUFFS AND A TASER.’

I never did find the coach VW again.

The end

Comments

Been layin’ low in Albuquerque, New Mexico fer awhile; we came here a coupla weeks ago - me, Dong, Tyler an’ Grumpy Bill- after these guys from this hingmy…. this group a people called R.U.N. (the Roadie Underground Network), helped us escape from the Huey Lewis and the News tour, an’ now we’re just hangin’ around the group’s headquarters waitin’ ta git back home. The guys from R.U.N. are a purty swell buncha guys. They’ve been lookin’ after us an’ makin’ sure we git fed a coupla times a day an shit.

The thing is it’s kinda borin’ here. There ain’t much ta do an’ we have ta stay in hidin’ all the time in case the cops or guys workin’ for Huey Lewis come lookin’ fer us. Roger, that’s the guy who’s boss a this group, he tells us that we can’t go out, we can’t leave the R.U.N. headquarters, an since their headquarters is a Wal-Mart on the edge a town, there ain’t no reason fer us to go out anyways since Wal-Mart’s got everything a man could ask for – sleepin’ bags, ice chests, watermelon flavoured soda, huntin’ rifles, socks, gold-plated necklaces with #1 Dad written on ‘em, the new Taylor Swift cd’s with the parental advisory sticker on ‘em – you name it, this place has got it an’ it’s ours ta use so long as we don’t attract the attention of the employees who work here.

‘Actually the employees probably won’t give a shit, since they all make minimum wage and have no health insurance…but all the same, be careful,’ Roger says.

However, if we do need to leave the headquarters fer any reason, then Roger tells us we need ta make sure we’re wearing our disguises – a afro wig an’ a pair a glasses with a large plastic nose attached ta it. The other guys are happy to stay put, but me, I’m itchin’ ta get out an’ see the sites. After all, this is Albuquerque, the place where my all-time favourite movie of all time takes place; yup, the mighty High School Musical. An opportunity like this comes along only once in a lifetime, so there’s NOOO WAAAY I’m just gonna sit here an’ do nothin’. No fuckin’ way! I ain’t just gonna sit here all day hidin’ out one of the store’s bathroom stalls, eatin’ cold Dinty Moore stew outta a can, drinkin’ warm grape soda an’ lookin’ at pictures a Pamela Anderson in People magazine when just across town Troy Bolton could be mowing his dad’s front lawn or Sharpay Evans could be buyin’ socks at the local Payless Shoes. I mean, Christ, at this very moment, Chad Danforth could be getting grounded by his parents fer lookin’ at porn on the internet!

So one day I figger that I’m gonna try ta make it over ta East High –nip out in disguise an just have a poke around, see if I can catch a glimpse a Troy or Gabriella or even that chubby chick that’s inta breakdancin,’ maybe even score an autograph or somethin’- no big deal right, I mean it ain’t like I’m gonna enroll there, right?

Unfortunately, things didn’t quite go accordin’ ta plan. Fer starters I didn’t find no East High in Albuquerque. I get my wig an’ funny glasses on so no one will recognize me and go to the public library to look up East High. I ask the librarian if she knows where East High is an’ she tells me that there isn’t one. But I think she’s wrong. There’s gotta be a East High High School; I’ve seen it on TV. So I tell her. ‘Lady, yer either a total liar or yer just plain stupid; don’t care which it is, but yer wrong. There IS a East High in Albuquerque. I seen it on TV alla the time. I even seen it in the movies last month! So youse gotta be wrong!’

The librarian, some bored-lookin’ chick who’d actually be a total hotty if she dressed a little better, y’know maybe a real short skirt with a leopard print on it, or a tight t-shirt with a v-neck…somethin’ that really shows off her titties, anyway she don’t say nothin’ to me, she just peers at me over the rims a her glasses an’ shakes her head.

‘If you don’t wanna help me then fine, I’ll do it myself!’ I tell her. ‘I’ll just look it up in the phone book, so hah!’
The bored-lookin’ librarian just rolls her eyes at me. ‘Whatever,’ she sighs.

By now I’m gettin’ real pissed. No way a librarian is gonna get the better of me. Not Brad A. Hassebrock. I mean, where does she come off thinkin’ she’s better than me. She’s a LIBRARIAN fer chirssakes, what the fuck’s she know? So I says somethin’ that will really cut her to the bone.

‘Y’know, when I first saw ya, I wuz thinkin’ a askin’ ya out fer a nice romantic dinner or something,’ I says. ‘Maybe Arby’s where we could get soma them curly fries an’ maybe split a mocha shake?. Then we could go get a room at the Travelodge or someplace an’ have a bit a fun, if ya know what I mean. But not anymore. You just BLEW IT! Yeah, how’s it feel ta know what ya ain’t gonna have?!’

But without missin’ a beat the librarian picks up this red phone that’s on her desk. ‘Listen creep,’ she says. ‘I’ll give you until the count of five to walk away and leave me alone or else I call security. And don’t be thinking that they’ll just escort you out. Our security team is made up of disgruntled ex-LAPD. They get ahold a you an’ they’ll punch holes in your chest using your own dismembered dick!! Got that?!’

I look over an’ see one a them security guards comin’ over to the desk – a big mother fucker with a tattoo on the side a his neck. I throw my hands up.

‘Heh, erm. Sorry ‘bout that,’ I says to the librarian, an’ start backin’ away. ‘Just let my emotions get the best a me. I’ll just go find the phone books. No hard feeling, eh?’

‘One…Two…’

‘Ummm…can you tell me where the phone books are?’

So I spend hours thumbin’ through the phone book. I even check the phone books from 1989, just ta be safe. Nuthin.’ Well, fuck, this really throws a kink in my plans. Then I think back to this movie I saw once where it comes up on the screen that all the names and places in the movie had been changed to protect the innocent or somethin’ like that – Star Wars, I think the movie wuz called. But I figger, that if they did it with Star Wars then maybe they did the same thing fer High School Musical. Shit, fer all I know they do that with every movie; and books an’ shit, too. Then I start thinkin’ – what if I’m supposed to be changing my name ; I mean what if some OTHER guy named Brad Hassebrock happens ta read this an’ decides ta sue me. Oh shit…the whole thing starts ta give me the willies. So I'm gettin' all discouraged now an' figger 'fuck this, I'm gonna take a break,' an go look fer a bite ta eat or drink or somethin'; just try ta get ma shit together until I figger out what ta do.

I see this pub (although I guess they’re called ‘bars’ over here) and go in fer a drink an’ ta calm my nerves. The place is kinda dark and quiet, not too many people here this time a the day. There’s a big-ass plate glass window in front, but it don’t let in much light. Most of the light comes from neon beer signs behind the bar and jukebox in the corner. The floors are sticky an’ the place smells like piss an’ stale beer, reminds me a The Silver Fish back home. There’s only three other people in here from what I can tell, a pudgy Mexican bartender an’ these two old cowboy-lookin’ guys at the end a the bar. I walk in an’ nobody pays any attention to me. There’s an old 12 inch TV perched on a shelf at the corner above the bar broadcastin’ some baseball game an’ the three guys are watchin’ that. The game cuts away to a commercial an’ the bartender changes the channel over to this talk show, 'Jeremy Springer' – y'know, that one with that big bald guy an’ the old guy that wears those glasses.

‘What the hell!’ shouts one of the old cowboys. ‘Goddamn you, turn it back to the game! We wanna watch the game!’

‘Fuck you, Clem! my daughter’s gonna be on this show,’ shouts the bartender.

‘C’mon, Eddie ya asshole, turn it back!’

‘It’s a fuckin’ commercial break, an anyway the Diamondbacks are down by five in bottom of the seventh, ain’t no way they’re comin’ back from that,’ Eddie shouts. ‘Now shut up, my baby girl’s gonna come on any minute now.’

‘Fuck yer baby girl, Bob an’ me’s got 15 bucks ridin’ on this game,’ Clem shouts back, nudging his pal in the stool next to him. ‘So turn it back over.’

‘Yeah,’ his friend adds.

The bartender, his face turns red and he points to the two old cowboys. ‘Watch what you’re sayin’ about my daughter, or I’ll cut the both of y’all off an’ throw you out on yer ASS! Now you two gonna shut up?’

‘The two old cowboy guys cringe. ‘Sorry Eddie, don’t mean nuthin’ personal by it.’

‘Yeah, we’re real sorry ‘bout that,’ Bob says. ‘We just wanna watch the rest of the game.’

Eddie smiles. ‘That’s better,’ he says. ‘Now as soon as my girl’s part is done, I’ll turn it back over to the game; should still be on.’
Then Eddie sees me an’ takes my order – a beer an’ a bowl a chilli. But I’ve gotta wait awhile fer my order to come because in the middle of this Eddie’s daughter is on TV. Today’s show is about strippers who’ve dumped their elderly sugar daddies ta be with their lesbian midget lovers. Eddie’s girl – she’s introduced as Roxy – is one a them strippers. She ain’t too bad lookin’- she’s got a gold tooth an’ a bit of a belly on her – but I’d definitely do her. Anyway she comes on an sits in this chair next ta this really old guy, who looks like he’s 90 if he’s a day, a real frail-lookin’ fucker. Jeremy (or Jerry – whatever the fuck’s name, the dude with the glasses) says somethin’ to the both a them an’ then Roxy an’ the old guy start arguing, ‘cept I can’t pick up what the argument’s about because every other word is bleeped out an’ the audience starts oooing and aahing. Eddie starts yellin’ at the TV cheerin’ his daughter on. ‘Yeah, get ‘im Roxy! Let that geriatric motherfucker have it!’

Then glasses man interrupts them an’ start’s talkin’ into the camera. ‘Well, let’s bring out our next guest. This is Roxy’s lover, Felicia. Let’s bring Felicia out.’

Then this black chick comes out, a really short bitch that probably only comes up to about my nuts. An’ at first I can’t even tell if she’s a chick, ‘cos she’s so butch, got real short hair and she’s wearin’ the kinda shit a construction worker would wear – y’know , jeans, work boots, a denim shirt. She’s like a miniature version of Sharon, my ex-wife’s girlfriend. As soon as she comes out from backstage she rushes up to the old codger, start’s beatin’ on him, swearin’ at him, callin’ him all kindsa names. The studio audience goes nuts. Eddie goes nuts. Even the two old cowboys at the end of the bar start whoopin’ it up, shoutin’ at the TV. The old guy tries ta defend himself an’ gets in a couple a swings, but it’s just too much fer him. Finally that big bald guy an’ a coupla other security guys in black shirts are called in’ ta pry tha midget offa him. After a coupla seconds, things start ta calm down a bit an’ the camera goes back to the dude with the glasses.

‘When we come back we’ll meet another couple,’ he says. ‘Joe says he wants to break up with his girlfriend of two weeks Tammi, because he’s got a shocking secret to reveal. But Tammi says she’s got a shocking secret of her own. Find out what it is after this commercial break.’

A commercial fer some debt management company comes on, but by this time the cowboys have forgotten about the baseball game. They keep goin’ on about how awesome that Roxy’s girlfriend wuz, an’ how that old geezer gut what wuz comin’ to him. But mostly, they talk about what a looker that Roxy is.

‘Damn, Eddie,’ Clem says. ‘You yerself good by that girl a yers, she’s a fiiine lookin’ woman.’

‘Yup,’ Bob chimes in. ‘Hell, if I didn’t have my May on my ass alla the time, makin’ sure I’m not out cattin’ around…well, goddamn if I wouldn’t do her myself..’

Eddie smiles an’ blushes a bit. ‘Yeah, well me an’ Rosa tried to make that girl right, an’ now look at her…on national TV. Damn, if it don’t make a daddy proud.’

Eddie stands there fer a moment, smilin’ an takin’ it all in. In the dusky light of the bar, I see a tear in the corner of his eye.
Then Eddie snaps out of it an’ sees me sittin’ there. ‘Oh yeah, he says. ‘Sorry man.’ He disappears inta the back fer a minute then comes back with my bowl a chilli an’ a beer. He gives me a couple of packets of these really salty-lookin’ crackers to go with the chilli. I’m about ta ask him fer some bread but figger fuck it, this must be how they do it over here. So I open up one a them packets an’ dump them crackers on top a my chilli. It ain’t bad , kinda greasy, but fulla flavour. Beer’s good too, but real weak compared to the Tennants Super Lager back home. It’ll take me forever to get drunk offa this stuff.

I finish the bowl an think about orderin’ a second when this guy walks in, an’ first thing I notice is that he’s dressed in this red an’ white coaches outfit. Red an’ white – the colours of East High, I’m thinkin’. Hmmm.

‘Hey, Don,’ Eddie calls out to him. ‘How’s the team lookin’ this year?’
‘Ahhh, shit,’ Don grumbles. Don grabs a stool a couple feet from mine towards the middle of the bar an’ orders a bottle of beer. ‘ya’know the kids these days….alla buncha arrogant pricks; all think they’re hot shit, but none a them are worth a fuck.’

‘C’mon man,’ Eddie says. ‘It can’t be that bad; still early in the season, there’s gotta be some of them that have potential.’

Don thinks about this fer a second. ‘Well, there’s this Troy kid,’ he says. ‘He might have the goods; he’s got a pretty decent hook from centre court.’

Troy! I hear the name Troy an’ see the red an’ white outfit that this dude’s wearin’ an’ I put two an’ two together. Holy Fuck! East High is in Albuquerque after all! An this guy coaches fer them…an’ more importantly, he’s Troy Bolton’s coach! Sonuvabitch! I’m gonna get to meet the cast of High School Musical afterall!

TO BE CONTINUED .......

‘.

Comments

“Gentleman, this is R.U.N. Welcome to our headquarters. Welcome to your first steps towards freedom,” this guy in a Motley Crue t-shirt from their 1988 ‘Girls, Girls, Girls’ tour says. He pauses as he looks across the table taking each of us in, one by one. “Congratulations, gentlemen, we’re taking you home.”

The guy talkin’ is some dude named Roger, the leader of R.U.N. (Roadie Underground Network) We’re in the employee break room at the back of a Wal-Mart somewhere just outside a Albuquerque, R.U.N.’s official headquarters. Roger’s tellin’ us how his organization was set up to help free roadies like us and get us ta safety. He keeps talking, comparin’ himself ta somebody named Harry Toeman, or somethin’ I dunno, some black chick that lived a long, long time ago. Not sure what it really has ta do with us. But then again, I ain’t really listenin’ anyways. I’m just excited ‘bout finally being in Albuquerque.

We got inta Albuquerque a coupla days ago.We woulda got here sooner but we hadda stop off so cos I had ta take a shit. It wuz onna them really soft ones, the kind where it take forever to wipe yer ass. Plus Grumpy Bill got busted up kinda bad in a fight with one a them guys from that R.U.N. hingme that’s travellin’ with us – the big guy, Burt, I think his name is. Apparently, they wuz arguing over which band wuz better – Dokken or Winger – an’ things just got a bit outta hand.

“Dokken sucks!” Grumpy Bill screamed. “Don Dokken’s a PUSSY! He ain’t got NUTHIN’ on ma man Kip WINGER!”

“Shut the FUCK up, man!” Burt yelled. “You don’ know what the fuck yer TALKIN’ about!”

“Kip Winger will bring down a WORLD OF PAIN on Dokken and OWN his sorry faggot ass!”

“I told ya, NOBODY talks smack about Dokken, an’ gets away with it. You wanna piece a me? Ya got it. I’ll take ya down, ya ugly mother fucker ! I’LL TAKE YA DOOWWWN!!!”

…and then everything just kinda blew up from there. We ended up havin’ ta rush Grumps to the ‘mergency room in tha middle of the night. He had two black eyes, a busted nose an’ had ta get seventeen stitches on his cheek and the side a his forehead. Burt had a coupla busted knuckles an’ a sprained wrist. Ta be honest, I think it was Grumpy Bill’s fault, I mean he did start it an’ kept eggin’ the guy on; but in all fairness, Grumps was pretty drunk, an’ this guy shoulda know that Grumpy Bill’s a mean drunk.

Anyway we’re here in Albuquerque now an’ that’s all that counts in my book. I’m really jazzed, an’ I’m findin’ it hard ta concentrate on anythin’ because I’m just sooo excited ‘bout bein’ here. I mean, whew, Albuquerque…Christ, this is like a dream come true ta me. I mean this is somethin’ that I’ve been dreamin’ bout my whole life (well the past three years anyways)…you dream, an you plan, an you think ‘maybe one day’ but not in a million..no, a BILLION years did I think I would ever actually be here in Albuquerque…the actual home of High School Musical.
I ain’t done a awful lot since we been here on account a all this R.U.N. bullshit, but we’re supposed ta be in Albuquerque fer at least another week, so it will give me plenty o time to poke around, visit East High an the Lava Springs Country Club where HSM2 wuz made. Shit, maybe if I’m lucky enough I might get ta meet Troy an that Cordon Blue kid durin’ their basket ball practice, or Gabriella. Hell, even if it wuz just that kid that wears all them gay hats, Ryan, well that would be cool, too. But at the moment, I’m stuck in this goddamn meetin’ where these people are gonna try ta figger out how ta get me back ta Scotland.

Roger’s still talkin’, goin’ on ‘bout how before he made his escape he used ta roadie fer some hair metal band back in the 80’s –Hanoi Rocks. How they used ta make him carry all these speakers an’ heavy ‘quipment up to their rehearsal space on the top floor of this 12 story walk-up. How he had ta carry all this shit upstairs while the band took the service elevator. Then he’d have ta run back up an’ down the stairs at least 10 times during their rehearsals on account a he had ta fetch the band’s drugs, an’ they’d laugh at him the whole time. Then the singer died an’ the band had ta break up so he wuz sold ta Motley Crue fer a bottle a Jim Beam, a gram a heroin an a cock ring.

When he went ta Motley Crue, it got even worse. They used ta use him as sorta an all purpose tester. For example, whenever Nikki Sixx got some smack from a dealer he didn’t know, he’d call up Roger an’ make him shoot up, just ta test the drug an’ make sure it was okay an that he wuzn’t gonna like O.D. from it or anything. But it wuzn’t just drugs that he’d test, there wuz other shit, too. Like whenever there wuz a really questionable-lookin’ groupie, one that looked like she mighta been rife with disease, they’d force him ta have unprotected sex with her before any a the guys in the band did to see if she was safe or what not, an’ remember, this is Motley Crue we’re talkin’ bout, they ain’t really known fer havin’ high standards, so you know them chicks had ta be reaaaally skanky. So he ends up gettin’ all kinds a nasty shit.

“So today my penis is just one giant pus-filled blister,” he announces.

Roger pauses an’ looks down at his watch. “Gentlemen, I’ve gotta go take a shit, so I’ll turn the proceedings over to our Vice Chairman of Planning Things, Harold. Take it away Harold.”

Roger walks off an’ this guy in a old t-shirt with the word ‘Quarterflash’ across the front of it stands up.

“Thanks Roger,” he says. “Now before we begin I have an announcement to make – I fucked my wife last night.”

Everybody around the table starts clappin’ their hands and cheerin’ him on. “Heyyy! Alright!” “Good for you.” “Attaboy,” they all say. Harold smiles, soakin’ up the applause.

“Yeah, in fact I was so good that, now get this, she actually forgot my name,” he laughs. “yeah, she actually called me Steve. I mean can ya believe it?”

The applause is cut short an everybody looks at Harold
standin’ there proud as a peacock with this his chest all puffed out an’ this big grin on his face. A coupla guys clap, not knowing what else to do. Then some guy in a Loverboy t-shirt says “erm, that’s…great, Harold.”

“Yeah,….uh, nice work?” pipes in some dude wearing a ancient Doobie Brothers shirt from their 1978 tour.

“I mean, c’mon, Steve. Hah! That’s not even CLOSE to Harold. Christ I must be a DYNAMO in the sack!”

“Ummm…that’s great Harry…so do you wanna tell us about this plan?” asks one a the guys that picked us up in Colorado, the skinny guy in the Marlins cap an’ Grateful Dead shirt; Steve I think is what he told me his name wuz.

“Oh yeah, anyway you guys, this is the plan – we’ve got plants, a whole network of people working on the inside for the enemy. Not necessarily roadies, but the people that work behind the scenes – electricians, gaffers, stagehands…people like that, people who are sympathetic to our cause. These people have agreed to smuggle you into their respective bands…bands that are touring all over the country and the world over. You’re basically gonna tour with these bands until they make a stopover in your hometowns or as close as possible an’ then once your there, you’ll just be cut loose.”

Then, Tyler raises his hand. “Excuse me, sir, but won’t these bands know we’re not part of their normal road crew? I mean will we not get caught?”

“No,” Harold replies. “You’re entering these bands through the backdoor, kinda like how I did my wife last night. You’ll be travelling incognito and you won’t be travelling with the actual band members themselves, it will be with the entourage, the hangers-on that follow.”

“I dunno, I worry,” says Dong.

“Listen guy, it’s not the inner circle you’re penetrating here - which is exactly what my wife said last night, by the way– it’s the people that follow in the band’s wake: the merchandise sellers, the stage hands, the lighting technicians, the sound board engineers, the band members’ wives and children – the people that don’t have any actual interaction with the members of the band. Shit, chances are you won’t even see the band except on stage.” Harold pauses to take a sip a Pepsi Free. He burps an’ continues. “Although that’s not to say that you still shouldn’t keep your head down and maintain a low profile…just to be on the safe side.”

Tyler, Dong an’ me all look at each other then at Harold. Don’t think any of us are convinced that this is gonna work. The last thing any of us wanna do is get caught out an’ forced inta bein’ roadies fer the rest of our, ‘cos some a these bands actually sound worse than Huey Lewis, an’ that wuz a nightmare!

“Look, I’m telling ya,” Harold says. “I was a roadie for over 20 years. I’ve seen it all, I’ve been with them all Thompson Twins, Berlin, the Buggles, Twisted Sister…hell, I was forced to work as a fluffer for Frankie Goes to Hollywood for christsakes. So I know how bad it can get. I know about praying every night for a merciful death so you don’t have to face another day of washing Dee Snider’s sweat soaked codpiece; and all of us here have similar stories. The last thing we want to do is have you guys get caught. So, trust me this, we know what we’re doing.”

Tyler an’ Dong still look kinda unsure. An’ I guess I’m still not sure either, but the way I see it, what other choice do we have?

“Alright,” I say. “So what do we do?”

Harold pulls this wad a paper outta his pocket, an’ unfolds it an places it onna table. He looks at it fer a coupla seconds then calls us over. I look down an’ notice that it’s a menu fer some Chinese restaurant called the Golden Panda.

Then he starts tellin’ us how over the next few weeks there’s gonna be some bands comin’ ta play in the Albuquerque area. 38 Special is playing inna couple a days, an then they’re headin’ west ta California, then he’s gonna hook up wit soma the wardrobe guys from Hanson as they’re gonna do a tour a Japan an’ eastern Asia.

“Dong,” he says. “I’ve made arrangements for you to hook up with a couple of band’s sound engineers and travel with them.”

Then he tells Tyler that he’s gonna hook up with a coupla guys from Earth, Wind and Fire’s P.R. team when they come to town the followin’ week. The band does two gigs in Baltimore an then he’s gonna have ta hook up with the Scorpions ta get him overseas.

Finally he gets ta me. “Okay,” he says. “A couple of days after the Earth, Wind and Fire concert, Journey is gonna be in town. You’re gonna hook up with the band’s lighting technicians and travel with them to Milwaukee where they’re sharing the bill with Kansas and Asia. Once you’re in Milwaukee, we’re gonna do a swap with the lighting techs for Kansas, so you’ll travel on to New Jersey with Kansas while another runaway takes your place and travels onto Bismark, North Dakota, with Journey. Then once you’re in New Jersey, you’ll meet up with some sound guys for the Fixx who are doing a gig Trenton then flying back to the UK the next morning. You got all of that?”

“Yeah, I think so,” I says, but really I don’t.

After his talk, Harold asks us if we have any questions. None of us say anything. Then Harold says he’s gonna turn the floor over ta Steve, the Grateful Dead guy, for the next item on the meeting’s agenda. Then Steve stands up an’ starts talkin’ bout how the vending machine in the staff break room ain’t givin’ out candy like it’s supposed to when ya put yer quarters in an’ on top of that it won’t give ya yer change back.

“So if this happens, please do not bang on the machines because we rent them from the company and if there’s any damage to them we have to pay for them ourselves,” he says. “Instead, go report it to one of the maintenance guys or Carol at the Customer Service desk.”

After the meeting Roger and Harold pull Dong aside; I guess it’s so they can go over the plans for the 38. Special gig. Tyler and me get to talkin’ an neither of us are too keen on these plans. Then Tyler tells me he’s don’t even really want ta go back to his home.

“I am from Zimbabwe,” he tells me. “Why in hell would I want to go back? If I did, Mugabe’s henchmen would surely have me beaten and possibly killed.”

“Yeah…I have no idea what you’ve just said,” I says. “But I do know that I ain’t too keen on all this travellin’ round an’ hookin’ up wit all these different bands. It just seems too complicated.”

Tyler nods, “I understand.”

“But I ain’t got no bread or even my passport, so what the fuck else am I gonna do? Know what I’m sayin’?”

Me an’ Tyler both agree that the set up seems a bit dodgy but really it’s the only game in town. The one good thing outta this is that we’ve still got a coupla weeks to decide what we’re gonna do – stick with this plan or see if we can figger out somethin’ else.

In the meantime, I’m gonna take this opportunity ta do a little explorin’ on ma own. I mean I’m Albuquerque fer cryin’ out loud...home of the East High Wildcats. Ya only get an chance like this maybe once in a lifetime. So startin’ tomorrow I’m gonna get my head in the game. I’m gonna find what I’ve been looking for. Yep, that’s right, I’m gonna go hang with the cast of High School Musical!

To be continued…………………

Comments

We’re somewhere just outside a Flagstaff, AZ.. A coupla days ago we finally managed to escape from Huey Lewis an’ the News after months a being forced inta touring across America as roadies fer the band. Now we’re holed up in some dude’s garage, layin’ low fer awhile waitin’ fer Tyler ta get better.

The night before we left, Tyler wuz in charge a settin’ up the microphones fer a gig in the Coors Light tent at the Larimer County Fair in Colorado. An’ apparently he didn’t tighten the mic stand tightly enough, cos’ during the middle of “Heart of Rock and Roll,” Mr. Lewis’ microphone stand collapses, an’ his microphone goes slidin’ back down until it’s almost level with his waist. He kinda laughs it off an’ continues singin’ the rest a the song bent over sos he can reach the mic an’ the crowd cheers. But two songs later we can’t get the mic stand fixed an’ he’s still singin’ all bent over. Not sure why Mr. Lewis don’t just take the mic off the stand an’ hold it up to his mouth, but he don’t. It get’s especially bad durin’ his harmonica solo on “Bad is Bad,” cos when he’s all hunched over like that he can’t get no breath enough to hit all the right notes. It get’s even worse when towards the end of “Hip to be Square” he starts screamin’. “Aaaugh! My Baaaa-aack! Fuck!”

The gig ends abruptly. Bradford an’ a couple of the guys in the band lead Mr. Lewis off the stage and he’s whisked off to the hospital in his private helicopter. Nobody says nothin’ cos we’re all just shitin’ ourselves, waitin’ fer Bradford to come back. We know he’s gonna lay inta us bad, but we don’t know how bad. It’s a good three or four hours an’ we’re sweatin’ it the whole way through. When he finally does return, he calls us three roadies inta his office –which happens ta be the men’s bathroom in the Denny’s restaurant next to the motel that the band’s stayin’ at tonight. We’re standin’ there scared stiff as Bradford sits on the toilet with his pants down around his ankles, starin’ at us an’ not sayin’ anything. Tyler’s shakin’ like a week old greyhound puppy cos he knows he’s the one that’s gonna get the shit fer this. The silence lasts fer about five minutes and temporarily breaks when Bradford cuts loose with a loud and watery fart, sprayin’ diarrhea all over the bowl. The smell is noxious but none a us dares ta say anything or make a move cos then it’d be all over fer us. I glance over at Dong an’ see a tear in the corner of his eye.

Finally, Bradford speaks. “What happened out there?” He asks in a voice so low that it’s barely above a whisper. “Who’s responsible?”

The three of us look at each other, waiting for what the other guy will do. None of us wants to be the first to speak.

“Well, I’m waiting,” Bradford says. “C’mon, who was in charge of the microphones tonight?”

Still we don’t say anything; we just look at each other waiting to see what the other guy’s gonna do. Finally Dong cracks.

“Ty-rer!” he cries. “It was Ty-rer! He in chawge of the micwophone .” Then he puts his head in his hands and sobs. “I’m so solly, Ty-rer. I so, so solly.”

He can’t even bring himself to look at Tyler.
Bradford looks at me. “Is that right? The African guy was in charge of settin’ up the mic stands?”

Now, I don’t wanna grass out Tyler cos we’re pretty good buds; but I also don’t wanna have Bradford punch his fist through my skull. Plus, the way I see it, Dong’s already blabbed so Tyler’s already good as dead; ain’t no sense in both a us getting killed, y’know what I’m sayin’? So I tells ‘em the truth.

“Uhh…yeah, I guess so,” I says.

Tyler says something to defend himself but his English ain’t too good and he’s so flustered that nobody can make out what he’s sayin’. I don’t matter anyway cos Bradford interrupts him, tells us ta wait outside while he deals with Tyler privately. So Dong an me wait outside in the Denny’s parkin’ lot. Even out here we can hear muffled screams an’ shouts. About an hour later Bradford walks outside with a couple a the band members and a few groupies. They’re all laughin’ an stuff an as they walk past us, Bradford tells us to go back in an get “that black guy.”

We go back inta the bathroom an’ see Tyler lyin’ on the floor next ta one a the toilets, coughin’ up blood. He’s a fuckin’ mess. Blood and teeth are all over the bathroom floor. His arm is broken in two places, both kneecaps are busted an’ he’s got three or four cracked ribs. We drag him outta there and take him back to the Escort. Half a hour later, he’s passed out from the pain. Me an’ Dong are tryin’ ta figure out what ta do. A couplea nights earlier Grumpy Bill comes ta us with plans to help us bust out. We didn’t go then because Bradford had told us he was gonna give us a loaf a bread an’a can a Pepsi Max to share between us fer doin’ such a good job at the show in Fort Collins. Grumpy Bill said he understood he’d be waitin’ fer us in Flagstaff if we changed our minds. Even though we were still waitin’ fer our Pepsi Max, Dong an’ I decide we’ve had enough, so later on that night when everyone’s asleep, we take off an’ head fer Flagstaff.

***************

So we’ve been stayin’ at this guy’s garage fer the past few days. Grumpy Bill says he knows this guy.

“The guy’s away on vacation but he says it’s cool,” Grumpy Bill tells me.

“Can we go inside the house?" I ask. "I don’t really like it out here..too fuckin’ cold. And there’s spiders."

“Ummm… no.”

“How come? You said the guy’s on vacation. How’s he gonna know?”

“Cuz I said so, okay?” Grumpy Bill snaps.

Well if Grumpy Bill says this guy don’t want us in the house then I guess that’s that; at least we got the garage and that’s somewhere. A coupla days later I figer out why the guy don’t want us in his house. Just outta curiosity I peer through this guy’s window into his living room and can see right away that this guy’s interior decoratin’ is atrocious. I mean all the furniture is covered in these white sheets, an’ there’s this yella tape all over the place. I mean what the fuck, right? An’ what’s the deal with these white outlines all over the floor; there’s about three or four of ‘em, all in the shape of people. This guy’s not a very good housekeeper either, cos there’s these stains all over the carpet. No wonder the dude didn’t want us in his house; he must be totally embarrassed about what a shitty housekeeper he is.

Anyway, Grumpy Bill says that none of us are supposed to leave the garage until he says so, cos Mr. Lewis has all FBI, CIA and all the cops in the state out lookin’ fer us. He insists that he’s the only of us who can leave because he’s got ninja training. So the three of us are stuck here an Grumpy Bill comes an’ visits us a couple a times a day to bring us food an’ stuff. Sometimes when he’s supposed ta come back with food he arrives empty handed an’ tells us that he got hungry an’ ate the food himself so tough shit. Whenever he does this he’s usually comin’ back drunker than usual; then he usually takes his clothes off an’ marches around the garage screamin’ that he’s some sorta super hero. One time when he does this he grabs me an’ pile drives my head onto the concrete floor. “Away with your villany, you evil villain!” he screams.

Little by little Tyler gets better; he gets stronger. After about two weeks he’s able to walk a little with the crutches. Grumpy Bill sends round a doctor a one day: Dr. Beaver. He comes an’ looks at Tyler lyin’ down on the couch then sits next to him. He takes out this yella, plastic stethacope- y’know one of them things that docs use ta listen to yer heart and holds it ta Tyler’s chest. He listens fer a couple a seconds, then puts the heart listening thing back in his bag an then he grabs Tyler’s balls an has a feel. After about half an hour he tells Tyler that as part of his treatment Tyler needs ta take his pants off an’ massage his nuts twice a day fer at least a half hour each. Then he takes out a disposable camera an’ hands it over ta Dong.

“It’s very important he does this, if he wants to get better,” the doc says. “And to make sure that he actually does it I want you to take some pictures an’ send them to me as proof.”

Dong looks at me an’ I shrug my shoulders. Not sure how Tyler squeezin’ his bag is gonna help with his shattered kneecaps but then again, I ain’t no doctor. I didn’t go to some fancy medical school in Mexico fer six months like this fella did. So he must know what he’s talkin’ bout.

After ‘bout a month, Tyler is well enough to move about. He’s ready to get outta the garage an’ get movin’ again. We all are, but we have to wait fer Grumpy Bill ta give us the all clear, an’ he seems ta have split. Nobody knows where he is. So we wait, and we wait….and we wait. With Grumpy Bill missin’ there’s no one ta bring us food, and our supplies are startin’ ta get scarce. We’re all starvin’. I find a old saltine cracker behind a old exercise bike an’ wolf it down hopin’ nobody sees it. It’s the only thing I get ta eat fer nearly 2 days.

Then one day, just outta the blue, Grumpy Bill’s back. He’s got two guys with him. I’ve never seen these guys before, but they look like they could be real big shots cos they’re real classy lookin.’ I mean, they’re the kinda guys that ya look at an’ think – shit, if only that wuz me. I bet these guys swim in a river a pussy every night. Damn.

Both guys are probably ‘bout in their mid 40’s or so. One a them’s a big guy, over 6 feet, an’ heavy. He’s got glasses, a beard an’ a pony tail; an’ he’s sportin’ a fadin’ black Dokken t-shirt from their 1987 tour. The other guy’s small, kinda wiry lookin’. He’s got a red bandanna tied round his forehead an’ a Florida Marlins cap perched on top a it. Stringy blonde hair trials from his cap down the back a his neck to his shoulders. He’s wearin’ this tie-dyed t-shirt with all this big skull on it an some band called the Grateful Dead written across the chest.. I ain’t never heard a them before but with a name like that I can tell they must be balls out metal. Cain’t wait ta hear ‘em.

Anyway, Grumpy Bill introduces ‘em an’ tells us their names, but I don’t quite catch ‘em cos I’m still thinkin’ bout cool these guys look. The big guy steps up an’ shakes our hands, like he’s a cop or somethin,’ The guy in the Grateful Dead shirt just nods.

“Gentlemen,” the big dude says. “We represent an organization called R.U.N.”

“R.U.N., what is this R.U.N. that you speak of?” Tyler asks.

“It stands for Roadie Underground Network,” says Grateful Dead guy. “Basically we’re a group of former roadies that are committed to securing the freedom of roadies such as your selves.”

“That’s right,” the big guy says. “I spent six years as a roadie for Krokus before I was traded to Great White. I saw and did things that no human being should have to. It was horrible. I finally made my escape during the Rhode Island nightclub fire of 2003. Sadly, not all of my comrades made it.”

“And I was a roadie for the Grateful Dead,” said the other guy. “Most of my memories of those years have been wiped out, which I guess is a blessing. But to this day, everything smells to me like Jerry Garcia’s beard.”

“Wow,” Dong says. “That must be tough.”

“Anyway, we’ve come by to tell you to get your things together because we need to leave as soon as possible, like by tonight,” the big guy says.

“Tonight, where are we going?” I ask.

“Where going to R.U.N.’s secret headquarters so you can meet our leader and so we can make plans to get you guys back home.”

“And where would that be, sir?” Tyler asks.

“Where else? Albuquerque, New Mexico.”

To Be Continued……….

Comments

Man, I don’t know how much more a this I can take. Been on the road with Huey Lewis and the News fer nearly three months now. They’ve got me workin’ fer them as a roadie. It’s a lotta hard work, coz we gotta lift all this heavy equipment an’ shit. First we unload it from the bus. Then we gotta carry it on stage an’ set it up, then after a couple a hours we gotta take it all apart and get it back onto the bus again. We do this six, sometimes seven nights a week. None a us are musically inclined so we don’t really know what we’re doing. Plus no one really speaks English (‘cept fer me of course) so the guys in the band are always yellin’ at us, barkin’ orders and no one knows what the fuck’s goin’ on.

At a gig last night in Canyon City, Colorado, I’m carrying a box of guitar picks up to the stage when one a them picks falls outta the box.. Don’t even realize it until Johnny, the guitarist sees this an’ goes ape shit.

“Hey!” he shouts ta get my attention. “Hey you, ya stupid motherfucker!”

“What?” I ask.

“Do you know what you just did?”

“Umm…no; why, what’s the matter?”

Johnny sighs and behind the black Ray Bans that he always wears, I can feel him rollin’ his eyes at me. “What’s this?” He asks, pointing to the concrete floor?

“Umm…I dunno, looks like a cigarette butt ta me.”

“No. This!” He shouts, thrusting his finger towards the floor again.

“A…a…um a wad of chewing gum?”

“No, goddamnit !” he screams, slapping across the face a couple a times. “This…This you stupid sonavabitch! That bit of plastic next to yer feet, what the fuck is it?”

“Hmmm…looks like a guitar pick ta me,” I say.

Johnny shakes his head. “Yeah, that’s right, genius. Ya dropped a fucking guitar pick on the floor.”

“Oh…look Johnny, I’m sor..” but before I can apologize Johnny punches me hard in the guts, knocks the wind outta me. I’m doubled over, tryin’ ta catch my breath an Johnny’s standin’ over me, screaming.

“You idiot! Do you realize how much guitar picks cost?!? If we run outta picks, that mean’s I’ll have to pluck the guitar strings with my fingers…my FINGERS!!! And I won’t allow that! Don’t you EVER let me catch you dropping guitar picks again, ya got that?!?”

Johnny then makes me pick up the pick and put it back in the box. That night after the encore Johnny grabs the box of picks from side of the stage an’ dumps all the picks into the audience. The audience goes nuts.

**********
At night after everything gets loaded back on the bus, the bus takes off for the band’s hotel. Mr. Lewis usually sends Bradford, his manager, to the hotel in advance and rents out an entire floor fer the band and entourage. While the band is partyin’ an’ sleepin’ n the hotel, us roadies gotta stay with the equipment. There’s three a us and we take turns watchin’ the shit. One a us stands guard while the other two try ta sleep in the back seat of the Ford Escort. We take turns an’ switch every two an a half hours. It’s real borin’ watchin’ the equipment; an’ time just seems ta drag on forever. A minute seems like a fucking, I dunno, three hours or something. Bradford doen’t let us do any reading, light a fire, or even play games on the Gameboy. We can’t do shit because he says that any light or sudden noises might attract the thieves’ attention and then they’d come an’ tie us up and brutally rape us an’ then steal all the equipment. So when your shift comes up you just have to sit outside, freezin’ yer ass of in the dark and watch the goddamn bus; and ya don’t wanna be caught sleepin’ when yer on guard duty. Bradford caught somebody asleep one time an….well, let’s just say I ain’t heard or seen from that dude again.

When yer shift is over an’ you get a chance ta sleep, well that’s tough too. It’s two people tryin’ ta stretch out on the back seat of an economy class car. I usually have ta sleep across from Dong, this Vietnamese guy, an his feet are always in my face. I wake up an the guy’s big toe is shoved up one a my nostrils. An if I do manage ta sleep, I wake up with my back all sore an’ shit ‘cos it’s so cramped up in that car. God, seems like I’m tired all the time.

Bradford’s a real hard-ass. Everybody’s afraid a him; even the other band members. Mr. Lewis ain’t of course, but that’s because he’s the boss. Before he got into the music biz, Bradford supposedly did a tour a duty with the Marines in ‘Nam. An’ one time when his platoon was under heavy enemy fire, Bradford, having seen the enemy’s position, gets out of his foxhole and calmly strolls over to tunnel opening where Charlie’s firing from. He don’t even flinch or nuthin’ when he takes a coupla bullets - one to the shoulder, an the other to the chest. At the mouth of the tunnel are these two VC snipers, an’ they keep firing at Bradford but he’s still walkin’ towards them, as casually as though he were on a afternoon stroll. The snipers nearly shit their pants an try ta make a run for it by burrowing back into the tunnel, but Bradford reaches in an grabs them by the lapels of their shirts and yanks them out of the tunnel. He punches one a them VC so hard in the face that his fist came out the back a the guy’s skull. His buddy is so petrified by what he just saw that he drops his rifle and just stands there wetting his pants. Bradford gives him this cold, hard stare, then makes out like he’s gonna hit him, but at the last second he grabs the guy’s face in both hands and kisses him full on the lips, even slips him some tongue. Then he lets the guy go and flashes him a peace sign.

“Peace, motherfucker,” he says.

The sniper mumbles something in Vietnamese then drops dead from shock. An the thing is, is that Bradford is 48 years old now, which means he went ta Vietnam when he was nine! Holy shit!!

**************

In the morning the band checks outta the hotel and we roll on out. The guys in the band look well-rested and as fresh as daisies. Me an’ the other roadies, on the other hand, are dead tired an’ smellin’ real bad. I been wearing the same underwear fer the past three weeks, which I wouldn’t mind so much, but being as this is a rock n’ roll band, there’s a lotta groupies hangin’ around an’ I know that kinda stuff is a turnoff fer the ladies. Not that I’d be gettin’ much action anyways ‘cos there’s this hiracky, see? It goes somethin’ like this - Mr. Lewis gets the smokin’, super hot babes, Bradford gets alla the ones that aren’t quite as hot but still pretty good lookin’, the band get all the plain-lookin’ chicks, the sound an’ security guys get all the ugly chicks, an’ so on. By the time it gits ta be our turn, there ain’t no one left. Well, occasionally we end up with this overweight, middle-aged gay guy named Clive; and it’s not like he’s even really a big fan a Huey Lewis and the News per se, it’s just that he’s got a thing in general fer bands from the 80’s. He keeps braggin’ ta us ‘bout how he once blew the drummer fer Kajagoogoo. Anyways I ain’t no homo, so I ain’t tha least bit innersted. Nope, The Brocker is strickly fer tha ladies; even if that means the occasional nine-year dry spell.

So after we load up the bus an’ stuff; us roadies cram ourselves inta the Escort an take off.. One a tha old roadies had bladder control problems. We lost him about three weeks ago. Don’ know what the hell happened, the dude just disappeared. Anyway the car still smells like piss. It hits ya everytime ya open the door, an then it just sticks to ya. Anyways this guy from someplace in Africa, Tyler’s his name, anyways he’s drivin’ an I’m ridin’ shotgun. About an hour later I start driftin’ off; not really sleepin’ ya know, just kinda spacin’ out, thinkin’ bout things. First I start by thinkin’ bout how hungry I am. Man, I really miss eggs. I ain’t had any eggs since, well, shit, since I first got to tha States. Then I start thinkin’ bout them Scotch eggs I got in the fridge back home; wonderin’ if they’re still any good. Not too sure ‘bout the sell by date, but they’d only been in there a coupla months, I think. Well, they’re probably gone by now. My sister or her husband, Joe probably ate ‘em all and who could blame ‘em? Eggs an’ all that breading coverin’ em…I mean ya gotta be some kinda weirdo ta pass that by.

Then I start thinkin’ bout my sister an’ Joe an all my pals back home. Do ya think they miss me? I start thinkin’ bout all the regulars at The Silver Fish: Tam, Doris, Ned an’ his crew, an Ernie…especially Ernie. It’s weird how he just up an’ split like that. Him an’ Margaret cleared out their flat, closed down the pub and left town just like that; he didn’t even tell nobody. Damn, I really miss The Silver Fish. An’ ya know what? If The Silver Fish wuz still open I wouldn’t be in this mess right now. I’d be in the pub drinkin’ a pint.

Then I start thinkin’ bout Grumpy Bill, this roadie that wuz tourin’ with us a while back. Grumpy Bill wuz fuckin’ cool. He wuz this old guy that Bradford picked up outside a Denver. I liked him cuz he wuz the only other roadie that spoke English. He had a lotta stories ta tell. Sure, most a them didn’t make sense but they were always innerstin’ He used ta get so drunk he’d piss his pants an’ then say that a mermaid had tried to blow him, then start laughing his ass off. Then about a couple of months ago he drops a microphone stand while settin’ up fer a gig in Springfield, IL. Bradford goes nuts an after that we never see Grumpy Bill again. Poor Grumpy Bill; I think he really would’ve liked The Silver Fish. He woulda brought a bit of class to the joint. I really miss him.

We stop fer lunch at this Burger King just outside a Colorado Springs. Actually the band is havin’ lunch. Us roadies are just standin’ around tryin’ ta ignore the sound of our bellies groanin’. Since none a us are getting paid, we don’t actually have any money to buy food so’s we kinda gotta hope fer the best and hope that Mr. Lewis, Bradford or somebody in the band will give us some of theirs. So far, no luck, which sucks ‘cos we’re starvin’. The weather’s nice today, so everyone’s outside eatin’ in the parking lot, except fer Mr. Lewis, who’s not with us right now. He’s gonna fly in from his home in the Bahamas on his private jet fer the gig later tonight. The guys in the band are all eatin’ an carrying on, mostly ignoring us as the three of us stand off to the side trying not ta salivate too badly in front a them. Dong suddenly collapses from the starvation and a couple of the band members look over.

“Bwaahhhaaa! Look!” Sean, the keyboard player, bellows, spitting bits of onion rings onto the table. “The Chinaman passed out. Fuckin’ A!”

He turns to Mario, the band’s bassist and the two of them start high-fiving an' fist bumpin' each other.

“OMG!!! What pussy! Wahhhahhhahha!” Mario screams.

The entire table busts out laughing, which is a bit too much for Tyler ta take. I try ta stop him, but he insists on going over to the band’s seatin’ area an’ asking if they can give us some food.

“Please kind sirs,” He says. “My friends and I have not eaten for days and are weak and starving. We would be most grateful if you would find it in your hearts to give us just a little of your food.”

“Oh, I understand,” says Johnny. “You’re hungry. You need something to eat? Well howzabout a French fry? Would you like a French fry, huh?”

He dangles a fry about foot away from Tyler’s face. I see Tyler startin’ ta drool. My guts are rumblin’ somethin’ fierce. Johnny then flicks the fry at Tyler. It bounces off his forehead and lands on the pavement.

“Whoa, nice catch there, Carlton Fisk. C’mon, what the fuck’s wrong with ya?” Johnny barks, drawing a fresh round a laughter from the table.

“Please, Mr. Johnny, sir,” Tyler says. “We are very hungry and cannot work without something to eat.”

Johnny flings a couple more fries at him. Then Sean throws an onion ring at him. It sticks to Tyler’s shirt.

“Make sure the other guys get something to eat, too,” Bradford shouts before whipping the bun off his fish sandwich at me. He throws it hard and the bun slaps against my cheek and slides off onto the ground. It stings and the sesame seeds draw blood.

Pretty soon, the entire band is chucking their lunch at us. A French fry gets lodged pretty good in Tyler’s ear. The patty from a really hot Whooper hits my crotch an the grease singes my nuts. All three of us are covered in condomints – ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, an a bit a relish. An a pickle slice is wedged up my ass. We grab Dong and drag him to the Escort. Tyler opens the door an’ the three of us get inside where we quietly eat the condiments and bits a food that stick to our clothes. It’s the only meal we get to eat fer two days.

***************

We’re in Fort Collins, now. It’s the middle of the night, probably ‘bout 3 am. Dong woke me up ‘bout a hour ago to do my turn watchin’ the equipment. It’s dead quiet tonight. The band’s partying at the hotel died down early an now I don’t hear nothing. Everyone’s asleep. I look inside the Escort an’ see both Tyler an’ Dong fast asleep. Not much chance a me falling asleep again, though. The bruises that I from a beating I took earlier tonight are starting to sting. Apparently I didn’t screw a snare drum on tightly enough so Bill the drummer smacked me around with his drumsticks. Fuck, those things hurt; like tiny, little fists pummelling into ya. It hurts whenever I lean back in the lawn chair because them plastic slats rub against the welts on my back where Bill whacked me; so I stand up an stretch, try ta walk around a bit.

I’m pacin’ back an’ forth between the chair an’ the bus thinkin’ bout how much earwax an’ snot look alike an how they might actually be the same thing, when all a the sudden I hear this noise. At first I don’t think much of it, that it’s probably the wind or a rat or something. But then I hear it again, only this time a bit louder – the clanking of a glass bottle or something and the scuffing of something cross the pavement.

“Hullo? Who’s there?” I say.

“Hey you,” I hear someone or something whisper. “Over here.”

Over by the dumpster I see something move an’ my heart damn near jumps outta my mouth.

“Who’s there?” I ask again.

“C’mon, it’s me,” the voice says. “Fuckin’ hurry up.”

I’m thinkin’ that this guy might be some kinda weird crackhead wantin’ ta kill me an then suck ma dick fer crack money so he can go get high on crack.

“Listen pal, ya don’t wanna mess with me, cos I’m a deadly weapon. I’ll fuck ya up if ya try anything.” I say, hopin’ this will scare him off.

“Aww fer chrissake, Brad, it’s me. Would ya just get over her ya dumbass.”

I take a few steps towards the dumpster. My heart’s racin’ and my fists are ready fer action. The figure at the dumpster is still in the shadows so I can’t make him out.

“C’mon, we ain’t got much time,” he says.

I take a couple more steps, bracin’ myself fer anything.

“Allright….who are ya? What do ya want?”

“It’s me,” the figure says as he take a couple of steps towards me an’ outta the shadows. I can finally make out who he is, an I’m both relieved and shocked. “It’s me, Grumpy Bill. Get the other guys and let’s go, I’m here ta get ya outta this crazy outfit.”

TO BE CONTINUED.......

Comments

I’m at a petrol station somewhere just south a Chicago. My back is still sore from carryin’ those goddamned drums an’ I got welts on my belly from where the drummer whipped me with one a his drumsticks after I dropped a cymbal. It’s my first week workin’ as a roadie fer Huey Lewis an’ the News. Two nights at the House a Blues in Chicago – the first one was a nightmare ‘cos I didn’t know what I wuz supposed ta do, an nobody told me either, the second night wuz even worse. Now we’re headin’ south ta play a gig at a Knights a Columbus Hall in Springfield. We’re supportin’ some local band there that just re-formed called Money Walks, er Talks ….somethin’ like that. Nobody’s happy about that.

There’s five a us roadies – only one a them speaks good English (aside from me) – William Fairnsworth III, but everybody just calls him Grumpy Bill. He’s a homeless guy that they picked up in Denver. Grumpy Bill says one day he gets a extra $10 after pickin’ up the deposits on a lotta empty glass bottles an’ sellin’ his sperm (not to a sperm bank, but some fast food joint called Jack in the Box, oddly enough.) So he decides ta celebrate his good fortune an buys a bottle a Thunderbird. He blacks out an’ next thing ya know, he says, he wakes up chained up in the back of a van with one a his kidneys missing. The rest a tha guys are all foreigners. Dong Bu Pong is from someplace called Viet Nam, which I think is in China – I dunno, ‘cos I can’t understand a word he says, ‘cos he mostly speaks in Chineseish. Mhuto is from someplace in Africa. I calls him Tyler ‘cos I can’t pronounce Mhuto. Miguel is from Mexico an’ is six years old. He’s in charge a carryin’ an’ settin’ up the amplifiers an’ sound equipment.

Mr. Lewis rides down in this huge black stretch limo with tinted, bullet-proof glass. Grumpy Bill told me that he’s got a mini-bar fully stocked with all these expensive champagnes, a hot tub an’ a 40-inch plasma screen TV with surround sound back there, but I ain’t seen it yet ta confirm it. The rest a the band is in a custom-made bus. It’s got three separate bathrooms, a Nintendo Wii, an’ a studio space fer the News ta practice in. This I have seen, ‘cos a couple a nights ago, Sean, the keyboard player, asked me ta bring a coupla a groupies on board the bus. ‘Make sure they’re blonde,’ he said. The when I came back with them, he dragged me inta the bathroom an’ started punchin’ me in the stomach an’ pushin’ ma head inta the toilet bowl. ‘I specifically said blonde,’ he screamed. ‘That one on the left has dishwater coloured hair, ya stupid sonovabitch! DISHWATER!!’

The roadies follow behind in a light blue 1986 Ford Escort. Drivin’ duties are split between me an’ Tyler. Ta make sure we don’t escape, they’ve put these bracelets on our ankles that have trackin’ devices an’ send out a sharp, electrical shot if one a us tries ta do somethin’ funny. We’re all stopped at this petrol station ‘cos ta gas up the band’s bus. Also, ‘cos Mr. Lewis wants ta take a shit an’ buy a Big Gulp an’ a couple a Slim Jims. The band stays in the bus – all of them, ‘cept fer Sean an’ the bassist, a real mean bastard named Mario. They’ve managed ta corner Dong, the Chinese guy, an forced him ta strip down ta his underwear. It’s fuckin’ cold out here, below freezin,’ an I can see Dong shiverin.’ Sean an’ Mario are pointin’ an laughin’ at him. They’re holdin’ onto his clothes an’ they won’t give them back. Dong is on the verge a tears, an is gibberin’ somethin’ in Chinese ta them. Then Mario takes one a Dong’s shoes and just whips it at him, hittin’ him squarely in the forehead. Dong stumbles backwards an’ falls on his ass onto the sidewalk. This causes the two band members ta laugh even harder. I’m feelin’ really bad fer the guy, y’know? Like I should do somethin’, step in an say somethin’, or I dunno? But if I do I know they’ll turn on me, so I don’t. Mario is about ta chuck the other shoe at Dong when the band’s manager shouts at ‘em ta get back on the bus, ‘cos they were about ta leave. When they’re gone I go help Dong onta his feet and take him back ta the Escort.

The band’s manager is the same guy who abducted me from Glasgow and put me on the plane here. His name turns out ta be Bradford, I learn. He’s real scary, a total badass, an’ what he says pretty much goes. Even the band does what he says. Everybody’s scared a him; well everyone but Mr. Lewis, that is. Before he wuz in the music business, he was supposedly a steel cage fighter, an never lost a match. There’s this story ‘bout him that Grumpy Bill tol’ me, an’ it goes somethin’ like this: one day Bradford went to the grocery store ta buy a jar a mustard. An while he was waiting in line at the check-out, this little kid that was standin’ behind him started carryin’ on, throwin’ a tantrum or somethin’, I dunno, but the kid wuz only like three or four years old. Anyway, Bradford wuz havin’ none a it, so he spins around an smacks the kid across the mouth – hard. The kid’s parents were right there, an’ saw the whole thing. At first they were so flabbergasted that they didn’t say nuthin’. Then the kid’s dad steps forward, an’ the kid’s dad turns out ta be none other than Chuck Norris (okay, it was Chuck Norris the proctologist, not the movie star – but still, a proctologist?…brrr.) As he’s about ta give Bradford the ol’ what fer, Bradford kicks him in the nuts an then grabs his head an’ slams it against the cash register a coupla times. Chuck is out cold. Then a couple a cops show up an they’ve got their guns trained on Bradford an’ yellin’ at him ta lie down on the floor. Instead, Bradford calmly unzips his trousers and whips out his salami. The cops are so stunned by how big he is that they immediately lower their guns an start cryin’. Then Bradford strolls outta the grocery store, having paid fer the mustard using exact change…I mean how crazy is that?

We’re in Springfield now. The gig at the Knights a Columbus Hall wuz pretty bad. None a us had anything ta eat fer the past day or so – the band ain’t been feedin’ us an’ none a us have any money ta buy any food ‘cos we ain’t been paid – so we’re all pretty weak from hunger. Grumpy Bill has got the shakes ‘cos he’s goin’ through withdrawals. So when he drops a microphone stand, the band gets absolutely brutal on his ass. Miguel is so exhausted that he passes out. Tyler an’ Dong take him back to the Escort before sees him, an after I finish settin’ up the drum kit, I take over Miguel’s job an’ set up all the amps an’ sound equipment. The amps are fucking heavy an’ the job damn near does me in.

Ta make matters worse, the band plays terribly an’ the gig is plagued wit’ all kinds a sound problems an’ shit. The mics cut out on a couple of occasions an’ the guitars get all this reverb an’ feedback an’ shit. Someone throws a banana peel on stage an’ Mr. Lewis trips on it. An ta top it all off there’s no decent-lookin’ chicks in the crowd, an’ no blondes fer Sean. In fact, all the wimen here seem ta be groupies fer the local band that we’re supportin’, an’ have zero interest in Huey Lewis an’ The News.

Mr. Lewis is furious. After we’ve broken down the equipment at the end of the show, we’re told to meet with Bradford in the parking lot of a Hardees’ across from the Knights of Columbus Hall.

“Listen up, you little pieces a shit,” Bradford bellows. “Mr. Lewis and the band are absolutely furious with your performance tonight…furious!”

Bradford pauses ta take a sip of Pepsi, then paces around the parking lot. Us roadies are standing side by side at full attention, like we’re in the army or somethin’. Miguel is still pretty weak, so I’m propin’ him up so’s that he don’t pass out or nuthin’. I don’t see Grumpy Bill anywhere.

“This kind of performance will not be tolerated! There’s no excuse for this, understand?” Bradford screams.

Then Tyler says something in broken English. “Sorry, suh…we weak…we hungry….very hungry.”

Bradford wheels around an’ gives Tyler this look, real mean like. An’ I’m thinkin’, oh man Tyler, ya stupid or somethin’? Please just shut up before we all get it. Then he marches over ta Tyler and punches him in the stomach, so hard that Tyler actually vomits, even though he ain’t had nuthin’ ta eat in days. Then he grabs him by the throat an’ screams inta his face. “Do not interrupt me again, motherfucker or I will torch your entire village, understand?!?”

Tyler coughs an’ tries ta nod that he understands, an’ Bradford drops him to the ground. As our punishment, we’re told that we are ta spend the rest of the night standin’ in one spot in the shiverin’ winter cold in the Hardees’ parkin’ lot; that is of course after the band has their way with us. Then early the next mornin’ we’re told ta get back into the Escort an’ get ready ta drive off to the next gig. Tomorrow night the band has a gig in Champaign Urbana, sharin’ the bill with The Fixx an’…..Ray Parker Jr. Nobody’s happy about that.

* I can't imagine anyone stupid enough to think that this story is actually true, but just in case, let me make it clear - what you've been reading is satire. I've never actually met Huey Lewis or the News. So Mr. Lewis, if by some weird one-in a million chance you're reading this (I dunno, maybe you Google yourself during your free time) please don't sue me, because I don't make a dime from this stuff.

Comments

It’s December already. Christmas is just around the corner. My wages are arrested on account a this council tax from last year that I ain’t paid. I owe my second ex- wife –Olga, the one from Romania that I met online - two month’s a back alimony. An’ now I got all these presents an’ shit that I gotta get. Fuck. I need some bread.

Actually I ain’t too bothered about presents fer my sister an’ her husband, Joe ‘cos I already got them stuff – my sister’s gettin’ a bag a cotton balls, an I got Joe a hot dog an’ a wheel a cheese. I got ‘em months ago at a petrol station in Springburn. They’re safely hidden in a shoebox under my bed. See, ya gotta think ahead. Be prepared.

But we’ve got this ‘Secret Santa’ thing at work. That’s a different story, an jeez if it ain’t throwin’ me fer a loop. See, we drew these names outta a bag ta see who we were supposed buy presents fer, an guess who I got? Nancy McKeon, from the sales department. Now fer those a youse that don’t know, Nancy is a total babe. I mean she’s seriously hot. She’s gotta be the hottest chick in the entire company – fuck, probably all a Glasgow fer that matter. I mean she’s perfect – she ain’t got no bald spots, or weird-lookin’ scars (none that I can see, anyway), no glass eye, none a that stuff. She don’t even got a vestigial pecker, like my last girlfriend did. She smells great, too, like one a those strawberry-flavoured breakfast cereals. Best of all, I think Nancy kinda digs me. Every time we pass in the hall she smiles an’ says ‘hi’ to me. She even once asked me if I had a good weekend. Seriously, I think I gotta good shot at baggin’ her. So, whatever present I get her fer this ‘Secret Santa’ thingy, it’s gotta by classy an’ expensive in order ta impress her. I mean, this could seal the deal fer me. Nancy could end up bein’ the next Mrs. Hassebrock.

Anyway, long story short, if I’m gonna have any chance of baggin’ this babe, I gotta figger out a way ta earn some extra cash. So’s I figger out the best way a doin’ that would be ta go ask my boss fer a raise. After he stops laughin’ he tells me I gotta put the whole thing in writin’ - I mean like a typed-up report with a whole buncha reasons statin’ why I think I deserve a raise, what I’ve done ta deserve it, what I’d spend the extra money on…shit like that. Then, he tells me, he’s gotta submit the report ta his boss, who will then pass it on ta his boss. Then they’ve all gotta meet to discuss whether or not they wanna interview me, an’ decide if they wanna give me a raise. Then maybe I’ll get a 1% raise that will go inta effect sometime in August of next year.

So I start lookin’ through the wanted ads. Unfortunately, with the economy bein’ in the crapper just now, there ain’t much ta look at. Most a the jobs that are there is stuff I ain’t qualified for – like engineers, city planners, an’ barristers. There’s one job that I think I might be qualified fer; it’s a marketing job, with no experience necessary; all ya need is a HND or an equivalent. But then I find out that a ASBO ain’t the equivalent of a HND. In fact it ain’t even a degree.

Then I find this one ad, a tiny one down at the bottom of the page: ‘Wanted, Santa for Busy Shopping Centre,’ an’ I figger that’s the pefect gig fer me. I don’t even have to do nuthin,’ just sit there an act happy while kids crawl onta my lap. I can do that. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before, ‘cos this is practically my dream job. So I call the number that’s listed on the ad an’ they tell me to go to this shopping centre near the Glasgow city centre called St. Enoch’s. I been there once before, but don’t remember what for? I remember I wuz wearin’ underwear. It’s a pretty swanky joint, though; it’s got a food court an’ everything.

Anyway, when I get there I go to the manager’s office, an sit in the waitin’ room ‘til the secretary calls me in. The manager is this guy named Tony an’ he’s got a tie an a moustache. He smiles, gets up from his desk and goes over to shake my hand.

‘I’m here fer that Santa job,’ I tell him.
Tony looks at me fer a couple a seconds. ‘Sorry,…erm, the job’s already been filled.’
‘What? But the chick on the phone said that you were still looking. Why the hell would she tell me ta come in if ya already had the position filled?’
‘Well…we just…erm, ahum… hired someone a few minutes ago. In fact it was the fellow who came in just before you. You probably saw him in the waiting room as he was leaving.’
‘But, I didn’t see nobody,’ I protest. ‘I wuz….’
‘Look, again, I’m sorry,’ Tony interrupts. ‘but the position has now been filled. Better luck in the future.’

Tony puts his hand on my shoulder and starts ta guide me outta the office. I’m about ta say something, but then he hands me this slip of paper.

‘Here,’ he says. ‘We don’t want you to go home empty-handed, so here’s a five dollar gift voucher for your next visit to St. Enoch’s shopping centre. No hard feelings, huh?’

‘Waitaminute, five dollars…but we’re in the UK. This ain’t gonna get me squat.’
‘I said no… hard… feelings,’ Tony says. He opens the door and practically shoves me outta his office. ‘Candice will see you out.’

Tony slams the door behind me. I see Candice lookin’ at me, kinda bored. Then without gettin’ up from her desk she points to the outer door an tells me, ‘go out that door, doon the hall an’ to yer left. The exit’s right there.’

Outside it’s cold an’ a bit drizzly. I’m bummed about not getting’ the job, but there’s a whole buncha other stores around here, an I figger there’s gotta be someplace around here that needs a Santa. So I walk around fer a little while, going from store ta store ta see if they’re hiring a Santa. No luck – I try Buchanan Street Galleries, John Lewis, Next, Matalan, Borders, Marks an’ Spencer, Curries – non a them are hirin’. I even try Ann Summers, Hot Topic, an both Celtic an’ Rangers stores – nuthin’.

After awhile, I find myself on the other side a town. I’m about ready to give up an’ call it a day when I see this Primark across the street. I figger what the fuck, why not? So I go in an’ ask ta see the manager. As I stand there, waitin’, I see this chick holdin’ her kid’s hand as she ushers him outta the store. The kid is bawlin’ real loud – practically screamin.’ The other shoppers just ignore them; they don’t even look up. A minute or so later I see another parent leadin’ their screamin’ kid out the door. Then I see a third kid, screamin’ at the top of his lungs as his folks take him outside. I think it’s kinda weird, but nobody else pays any attention to this.

Then the manager appears – this broad, she looks a bit dumpy and stressed out. She puts out her hand an says her name is Jean. I tell her my name while takin’ her hand an’ givin’ it a shake, firm but not too firm, cos she’s a chick an’ all. I get right to the point an’ tell her I’m lookin’ fer a job as a Santa.

‘Santa Claus, huh? Let me see.’ She adjusts her glasses and stares at this clipboard she’s carrying fer a coupla seconds. ‘Sorry, Mr. Hassebrock, that position has been filled.’

I thank her and start to turn away when she adds: ‘but we do have a vacancy for a Santa’s elf, if you’d like to try that.’
‘Really? An elf, huh?’
‘Aye, we had to let one of the elves go after one of our customers saw him smoking ketamine in the men’s room.’

I think about it fer a couple a seconds before acceptin’ her offer. Sure it ain’t no Santa, and it pays about a pound less than the Santa gig, but I really need the money. Besides it might be cool to be an elf.

‘Magic, can ye start today?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, I guess so.’
‘Oh, ta, yer a star.’

Jean leads me to this locker at the back of the store an shows me the elf costume I gotta wear – a green top an’ tights with red trim. It looks a bit small. I take the costume an’ go back to one of the changin’ rooms to try it on. Cripes is it ever tight! The shirt only covers the top half of my torso, so my gut’s hanging out. The tights are just as bad. They’re ridin’ up the crack a my ass an’ squeezin’ my nuts…hard. An the fake satin material that this costume’s made from is kinda hot an’ itchy. I come out an’ show it to Jean who smiles and claps her hands together when she sees me.

‘Ohhhh, don’t ye look precious?!?’ she gasps.
‘Well ta be honest, they’re a bit snug.’
‘Oh nonsense, don’t be ridiculous. You look fine. Now go out there and kick some arse.’

We head out to the main floor an’ Jean points to this long que of little kids. At the very front of the line is this platform, raised about two feet off the ground. A very tired and angry-lookin’ Santa is sittin’ in a large chair in the centre of the platform, an’ off to one side is another elf, fiddling with the text messages on his mobile. None of the kids in the que look very happy about seein’ this Santa. Quite a few of them are cryin’.

This little girl is about to get on Santa’s lap when Jean interrupts.

‘Now everyone,’ she says. ‘a new elf has just arrived from the North Pole to give Santa a hand. His name is Brad. Everyone, say hi to Brad.’
‘Hi Brad,’ the kids all shout.
Santa looks me over an glares at me. Then he turns to Jean.
‘Wot tha hell, Jean! This bloke’s too fat to be an elf. Look at him! He looks like a turd – something my dog shit out this morning.’
The elf, a young kid of about 15 or 16, turns to look at me, shrugs his shoulders an goes back to texting his mate.
‘Now, now, Santa,’ Jean says. I can see that she’s scared a this guy. ‘Ahem, let’s not be mean. No need to be nasty in front of the children.’
Then she turns to the que. ‘Santa’s just playing, children; her..erm, likes to tease his elves a bit. It’s all a bit of fun. Isn’t it , Santa.’
‘Whatever,’ Santa rolls his eyes.

I get up on the platform. As I get closer to him, I can smell Santa, an’ he doesn’t smell too good – kinda like a cross between a chippie an’ the corner stall of the toilet at the Silver Fish. The little girl gets on his lap. She seems a bit scared an’ I can tell that she’s about ta cry. Santa asks her what she wants fer Christmas. The girl thinks about it fer a second and says she wants a doll.

‘And have you been a good little girl?’ Santa asks.
‘Ummm, yeah…I think so,’ the girl replies.
‘Are you sure about that? You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? You wouldn’t lie to Santa.’ Santa leans in closer, as the girl shrinks back. ‘Cos Santa knows when you’re lying. Santa sees everything. He sees you when you’re awake and when you’re asleep. And Santa knows where you live.’

The girl starts screamin’ fer her mommy, an struggles to get offa Santa’s lap. Her mom takes her hand an’ leads her outta the store.
‘Christ, buddy, don’t ya think you were a bit harsh there?’ I ask Santa. Santa scowls at me and becons me closer. I lean in.
‘Listen, here ya fuck, let me explain something to ya,’ he says lowering his voice. ‘I’m Santa Claus and you’re the lowly elf. That makes me yer boss. Now yer new here, so I’m gonna let ya off this time. But if ya ever question my authority in front of the kids again, I’ll follow you home, chop up you an’ yer family with an axe an burn yer house doon; ya got that?’
‘Yeah, erm, sorry.’

We see about twelve more kids over the next two hours. Every fourth kid leaves Santa’s Grotto crying. I don’t know what the hell is up with this guy; he’s a asshole, a real asshole. The other elf hasn’t said one word the entire time. Santa calls him over a couple a times an’ I can see the fear in the kid’s eyes. But mostly he just stands there texting on his mobile, tryin’ his best to stay outta the way.

Me, I’m not so lucky. Over the course of the afternoon, Santa calls me every name under the sun - “C’mon fucko, git yer fat arse movin,” “Are youse a queer? ‘Cos ya look like a queer in that gay elf’s costume.” “Christ, yer such a fuckin’ loser. Why yer mum didn’t abort ye, I’ll never know.” He even kicks me a coupla times – right in the ass. At one point, I’m holdin’ this little kid, tryin’ ta hoist him onta Santa’s lap when Santa punches me in the nuts. I damn near drop the kid an’ Santa laughs. ‘Ho, Ho, Ho!’

I try ta ignore it as best I can an just think about Nancy. I try ta imagine her sweet face, how impressed she’ll be when she opens up my Secret Santa gift ta her. That’s just what I gotta do; just think about who I’m doing this fer, an’ I can git through the rest a the day.

After another hour goes by, we finally git a brake an’ I go outside ta git some fresh air. It’s only a 10 minute brake, so there’s not enough time fer me ta change inta my street clothes or even ta get my locker outta my jacket. Outside it’s absolutely freezin’ an I’m standin’ there huddlin’ in the corner, tryin’ ta keep warm in my skimpy little elf’s outfit. Across from me I see the other elf, still textin’ away. I go over an say hi to him, but he don’t say nothing,’ just keeps on textin’. It’s too cold out here an I’m about ta go back inside when I look over the kid’s shoulder an see what he’s textin’. HELP ME, it says on the phone screen.

Back inside there’s even more kids. The queue to see Santa stretches down children’s clothes to menswear and into household goods. Why so many kids would want to see such a crap Santa is beyond me. I sigh and make my way to the platform. Santa’s already there, greetin’ kids from his chair.

‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he whispers to me. ‘You’re a minute late.’
‘Sorry, lost track of time.’
‘If it happens again, your arse is mine. Got that, ya wanker?’
‘Yeah, sure…whatever.’

Just then a little boy hops onto Santa’s lap. Cute little kid, probably about four or five years old. Immediately he starts tellin’ Santa what he want fer Christmas. ‘I wanna “Doctor Who Tardis” playset, I wanna new football, I wanna Nintendo Wii, I wanna “Super Mario Bros. Olympics” for my Wii, I wanna robot puppy…an, an a, an…’

‘My that’s quite a list you have, son,’ Santa interrupts.
‘But I’m afraid you can’t have any of that stuff, ‘cause you see that elf over there?’ Santa points to me. ‘See, he has to make all those toys, and I just don’t think he can do it. He just isn’t in good enough shape to do it. Look at him, he’s a disgusting fat body.’

The kids eyes start to well up with tears. Any minute now he’s gonna start bawlin’.

‘And even if by some miracle he was able to make all those toys,’ Santa continues. ‘You still wouldn’t get a single one. You know why? Because you’re a greedy little bastard and you don’t deserve anything; not even a fucking yo-yo string.’

With that the kid starts screamin’ his head off. Tears are streamin’ down his cheek, an’ I think he may have pissed his pants. The kids mom immediately yanks him offa Santa’s lap and goes ta see the manager. Me, I’ve had enough. It’s one thing ta make fun a me; but deliberately makin’ a kid cry? That’s outta order. So I decide ta tell him so.

‘Look guy, that was outta line what ya just done?’
Santa glares at me- an evil glare that frankly scares the livin’ shit outta me.
‘Are you questioning my authority, little elf? What did I say about questioning Santa’s authority?’
‘Yeah, I’m questioning yer authority. Yer not Santa , yer just this mean asshole. An’ if ya gotta problem with it, then I think we should take this outside.’
‘Oh yes, let’s. Let’s take this outside,’ Santa smirks.
Then Santa gets up from his chair and I realize that this is the first time I’ve seen Santa standin’ fully upright. The son of a bitch is huge. About 6’5” and weighs about 300lbs. The top a my head comes up to slightly above his midriff. I look up but all I can see is this solid wall of red and white felt. Oh great, why did I have ta challenge this guy ta a fight? Why the fuck didn’t I just leave? I’m thinkin’.

Santa looks down at me an’ snarls. ‘Ho, Ho, Ho. Santa’s really gonna enjoy this. Santa’s gonna teach you a lesson, ya little shit.’

***********

I don’t remember much of what happened next. All I know is that I wake up about a week later in the hospital. My face is beaten ta a pulp. I got five broken ribs an’ some serious bruisin’ an internal bleedin.’ My sister hand’s me a letter from Primark. I’m thinkin’ it’s my paycheque, but it ain’t. Apparently I owe them money fer causing property damage to their store since I insitigated the fight. They’re takin’ me ta court an’ everything. Santa’s in jail but he’s expected ta be released in a coupla a days, so I’m kinda worried about that. Needless ta say I didn’t get that expensive present fer Nancy. In fact I didn’t get nuthin’ fer Nancy. What happened was that when they found out at work that I wuz in the hospital, they gave Nancy’s name ta Jason Stewart, that prick in Marketing that gave me those laxatives an’ tol’ me it wuz a chocolate cake; the same asshole that posted my profile on gaybears.com, an’ then sent it all aroun’ the office as a email attachment. Man, I hate that guy! Anyways, he gave her a pair of fancy gold earrings, from what I’ve been told. She dug them so much that they’re goin’ out now, an’ they’re a real serious item. Think they’re supposed ta be gettin’ married next spring. So it don’t look like I’ll get ta bag Nancy Mckeon, ah fuck. Oh well, Merry Christmas, anyway. .

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So when I wakes up, I’ve got this bad taste in my mouth –real dry an’ cottony-like – like that one time that I tried ta make candy floss outta ketchup an’ the cotton balls from a bunch a old medicine bottles I found in the dumpster behind KFC. My head’s real sore, too. I hear voices around me but they’re all muffled an’ I can’t make out what they’re saying. I don’t really want ta open my eyes because my head’s so sore. So I just sit there, not doin’ nuthin’, tryin’ ta figure out how much I had ta drink last night. GodDAMN, I’m hung over this mornin’.

Then I hear a coupla guys talkin’ loudly – American or Canadian accents.

‘DUDE, YOU SHOULDA SEEN THE FALKIRK WHEEL WITH US – I’M TELLIN’ YA, THAT THING IS FUCKIN’ SICK!!!’

‘I DUNNO, BRO, THAT COAL MININ’ MUSEUM IN COATBRIDGE – THAT SUMMERLEE PLACE? THAT WAS PRETTY FUCKIN’ COOL. IT HAD ALL THOSE BIG ASS MACHINES AN’ SHIT! DON’T THINK ANYTHING CAN TOP THAT!’

Real slowly, I try ta open my eyes. Now, I’m expectin’ ta wake up in tha middle of Sauchihall Street covered in my own puke an’ piss – like I did last Tuesday. But I wake up in a airplane instead. I’m sittin’ in a middle seat, sandwiched between these two middle-aged fat chicks. One a them has a pretty vicious cold goin’ on an keeps sneezin’ an’ coughin’ on me. I look up an’ there’s this little kid leanin’ on the back of the seat in front of me. He keeps starin’ at me.

‘What?’ I ask him.

‘You’re ugly looking,’ the kid says.

‘Now, son, that’s not a nice thing ta say,’ I tells him.

‘Fuck you,’ he says. ‘My dad’s a claims advisor fer a assurance company. He’s a big wheel. He can kick yer ass anywhere. Where do you want him ta kick yer ass at?’

I’m completely shocked by this kid’s language, but before I get the chance ta say anything, his mum grabs pulls him down from the seat an’ starts layin’ inta him.

‘GODDAMMIT Billy!!! How many times have I TOLD you – don’t end your sentences with a PREPOSITION!’

I hear the crack as she slaps the kid across the face – hard. The kid starts bawlin’ an I can’t help smilin’ a little. Well, the little fucker deserved it.

The kid cries fer a good while, but I lose interest after about half an’ hour. I don’t see those Yanks anywhere, but I can still here them. They’ve moved the argument from Central Belt tourist destinations on ta food.

‘DUDE, NEEPS AN’ TATTIES, DUDE.. NEEPS AN’ TATTIES - THAT STUFFS THE SHIT!’

‘EWWW? FUCK THAT SHIT! YA AIN’T LIVED UNTIL YA HAVE A FRIED MARS BAR! OR NO…A SQUARE SAUSAGE…MMM, THAT SHIT’S THE BOMB!!’

The fat chick with the cold starts goin’ inta a coughin’ fit – a deep, hackin’ wet cough that gets sprayed all over my arm. The other fat broad is asleep. She rolls over in her seat and farts loudly in my direction. It smells like peanuts.

A couple a seconds later a stewardess walks by. I wanna drink to wash out that funny taste in my mouth, so I try ta flag her down so’s I can ask her fer a drink a water or somethin’ but I can’t really move my arms too good on accounta these two broads I’m wedged between. So the stewardess ignores me an’ keeps on walkin’ by.

My headache is finally going away, but I’m still tryin’ ta figure out how I ended up on a plane. If only I could figure out what the hell I did last night. I can’t remember anything. My mind’s a complete blank. I don’t even know where the fuck this plane is going to. Then alla the sudden the pilot’s voice comes over the PA, announcing that we will be landin’ in Chicago in four hours.

Chicago? Holy cow! How did I end up on a plane goin’ ta Chicago? I’m really startin’ ta freak out now. I’ve gotten inta some pretty crazy situations when I got drunk, but nuthin’ as crazy as gettin’ on a plane ta Chicago. How the hell could somethin’ like this happen? Don’t airports have security an’ shit? How would they even let me on a plane? I don’t even have a passport anymore, not after that one time when we ran outta toilet paper.

I gotta remember what I did last night. I try ta go back to tha last memory I have, figurin’ that maybe I can retrace my steps or somethin’. Ok, the last thing I remembered wuz ….I wuz going to the Silver Fish….but it wuzn’t open because Ernie had sold the pub an’ then skipped town. Ok, so I didn’t go to the Silver Fish after all. So what did I do then? I remember wandering around fer a bit …an’ getting a kebab. Right, so far, so good. Then what? Hmmm….If I remember, the kebab was a bit dodgy an’ I started getting’ sick. I ran inta some pub ta use the toilet. An’ then when I got outta the toilet I was gonna go up to the bar an’ get me a beer, but then I ran inta……waitaminute, I didn’t even drink anything last night! So how the hell can I be hung over?

Just then, this guy comes walkin’ down the aisle towards me. I sorta recognize him, but not enough ta be sure. I pretty sure he’s got somethin’ ta do with all a this though.

‘Hey, you’re awake, I see,’ he says. ‘Sorry ‘bout drugging you an’ all, but it had to be done.’

‘You, you’re the guy from that car, ain’t cha?’

‘Yep, that’s me,’ he says. He takes a sip of Pepsi from a plastic cup and grins. ‘Sorry ‘bout the..um… accommodations. My employer couldn’t afford a First Class ticket for you. So, we had to put you back in economy class. ‘

‘Why are you doing this?’

The guy pauses to think it over. He takes another sip of Pepsi.

‘Well, Brad, it’s like I was telling you last night – my boss is very interested in acquiring your services. And let’s just say he’ll go to any length to obtain them…any length.’

‘Waitaminute…I’m not inta any a that weird homo shit,’ I protest. ‘I mean yeah, sure there was that office Christmas party a coupla years ago, but I had some bad punch, I didn’t know what I wuz doin’. I’m tellin’ ya, I’m straight. I mean, I’m strictly fer tha ladies.’

The guy starts waivin’ his arms an’ shakin’ his head.

‘Oh no, it’s anything like that. I assure you,’ he says. ‘This job is the opportunity of a lifetime. You’ll get the chance to see the world, meet beautiful women and lug heavy sound equipment.’

‘Huh?’

‘Right, you’re going to be a roadie for Huey Lewis and the News?’

‘Who?’

‘Huey Lewis and the News – c’mon, the “Sports” album? One of the best selling albums of the 80’s? You know, “I Wanna New Drug?” “Heart of Rock n’ Roll?” “If This is It?”’

I shake my head. ‘Sorry, doesn’t wring a bell.’

‘Jesus Christ, he was only one of the biggest artists of the 80’s. He wrote “Power of Love” from Back to the Future? “Working for a Living?” “Hip to Be Square?” None of that rings a bell?’

‘Nope, sorry.’

The guy sighs and rolls his eyes.

‘God, you’re thick,’ he mutters. ‘He was in that movie Duets with whatsherface…that actress that’s married to that guy from Coldplay. Shit, what’s her name…oh yeah, Gwyneth Paltrow! He played like her long lost dad or something.’

‘Oh yeah…that Huey Lewis.’

To Be Continued……

Comments

Regular readers may have noticed that I’ve been gone fer awhile. Well, see there’s a funny story behind that. I’ve been gettin’ a lot a emails from fans askin’ me ta explain what’s happened ta me – okay, I got one email, but still I figger I owe ya. Okay, the last time I wrote I told ya ‘bout the big karaokee night we had at my favourite pub, The Silver Fish, an’ I guess that’s probably where this story begins.

The karaoke night was a bust. In fact it was a disaster. Ernie, the landlord, was barely able to stay afloat as it was; and after the karaoke night, well, he just lost too much money what with paying for the clean up after the riots an’ everybody suing him an’ all that. So Ernie ended up having to sell the joint. The thing was he didn’t tell nobody what he was doing. Him an’ his wife just up an’ split. So imagine my surprise when I go over there one evening an’ the place is all boarded up!

There’s these big, plywood boards across where the plate glass window normally is, an’ I thinkin’, well, maybe they were still cleaning up form the riot. But then I noticed chains an’ a big padlock on the door. I tried to open the door but it wuz locked. That’s when Tam Stewart, one a the old geezers from the bar comes up to me an fills me in…

“So the Silver Fish is closed fer good?”
“Aye, mate,” Tam says. “He sold it tae some Greek chap. Gonnae turn it intae a tannin’ salon or some sort.”
“Wow, no shit? So where’s Ernie?”

Tam shrugs his shoulders. “Nae idea, him an’ the missus just took off. Ah when tae his flat tae get him, ‘cos ah thought maybe he just forgot tae open tha pub; an’ after the fifth or sixth knock, ah looked through his window an’ his flat was completely cleared out, like nae furniture or anything; ken?”

“Really, no kiddin’? Ah, fuck! Where am I gonna go now?”

This really sucks. I mean, The Silver Fish is my hangout, my sanctuary, my home away from home. Whenever I ‘m havin’ problems at home, like whenever Joe or my sister threaten ta kick me out - like that time when I accidently dropped Joe’s camcorder inta the toilet right as I wuz flushin’ it an’ ended up floodin’ the basement, an’ I didn’t have anyplace ta sleep; or even just on days when I’m bored an’ don’t have nuthin’ else ta do, I could always go ta The Silver Fish. Now I had nowhere.

Well, the Silver Fish may be gone, but I figured there’s gotta be other pubs that are just as good, right? Problem was that I’d been banned for life from at least half the pubs in Glasgow - the Rhoderick Dhu even went so far as to ban any of my future children and grand children – so’s I wuz a bit limited inta where I could go.

I tell Tam that I wuz gonna take off an’ go hang out somewhere else. I ask him if he wants ta tag along but he says no, he’s just gonna stay here an’ cry. Oh well, his loss. So I wander around for a bit, then it hits me. My stomach starts growlin’ an’ it dawns on me that I ain’t eaten anything since I had that toast and bean ( yeah, bean - I spilt the pot a baked beans on the floor, an’ only managed to rescue one bean) fer breakfast this morning. Goddamn, I’m hungry. I sees a Indian takeaway across the street. It’s a bit dodgy lookin’, but I don’t care. I gotta eat something. So’s I go in an’ order two donner kebabs, chips with curry sauce an’ gravy, onion flavoured nan, an’ a Fanta. While I’m waiting on my order, I see the two guys that run the shop standin’ by the deep fryer an whisperin’ to each other. One of them points at me an’ they both start laughing. I’m startin’ ta freak out a bit ‘cos with these people, ya never know. They could be terrorists an’ at this very moment they could be planning ta kidnap me an’ cut my head off if the government doesn’t give inta their demands. Oh fuck, I gotta get outta here….as soon as they bring my food.

Anyway, one a them guys finally brings my order to the counter. I take my food, throw my money on the counter and get out of there as fast as I can. A couple a blocks further I find a bench ta sit on an’ scarf down my takeaway. Damn, them terrorists sure can cook. This is fuckin’ delicious. When I finish my supper I sit on the bench for a couple a minutes ta let the food settle then I get movin’ again, ta continue my quest ta find a new pub ta hang out in. There ain’t much here in this part a town. It’s mostly office buildings. I don’t even know where the hell I am at this point. Nothing looks familiar ta me. And everything over here is closed at this hour anyway. So I start walking an’ hoping that I’ll see somethin’ I recognize.

I’m walkin’ for a good 20 minutes, an’ my feet are killin’ me. Ta make matters worse, my stomach is startin’ ta feel a bit funny after that takeaway. I burp an’ taste a bit of that curry spice. Then, just as a couple a hot-looking chicks are walking by, I cut one. A loud one, too; the kinda fart that makes your ass cheeks sting.

“Oh my GAWD!” screams one a the chicks. “what’s that SMELL?!? It’s like someone set fire to a bag of dead kittens an’ then tried to put the fire oot by pukin’ on it.”

“Ewww, aye, it smells terrible,” says her friend.

“Laura, I think it’s coming fae that ugly, fat bastard over there,” says a third chick. “Let’s go.”

With that, the girls take off…fast. I didn’t even know anyone could run that fast in high heels.

My stomach’s really starting get queasy by now. I burp again an’ taste more kebab an’ a bit of Fanta. I’m wonderin’ what the hell I ate that’s making me sick. Maybe those terrorists guys at the takeaway poisoned my food. Or it could be the gravy and curry sauce. Fuck, I’m really startin’ ta feel ill. I’m prayin’ that I can find someplace that’s open so’s I can use their toilet.

Finally I see a joint down at the end of the block – an’ it looks like a pub, too, so maybe I’ll be able to find a new hangout tonight after all. I run as fast as I can. I go through the doors and fart again – this one louder and wetter than the last one. This chick points me in the direction of the toilets and I race back there, barely making it to the stall in time.

Ahhh….there’s nothin’ like a good dump. Just the relief ya feel when ya hear that splash a the water in the toilet below ya. Yer body just instantly starts ta relax, know what I mean? Yep, there ain’t nothin’ in the world that can beat a good shit. Unfortunately this ain’t a good shit. Seriously, I musta been in the stall a good forty minutes. My stomach’s rumblin’ like crazy. An’ the smell’s is enough ta embarrass even me. All the time I’m in there, I’m hearing people walkin’ inta the john, then immediately turnin’ round and walkin’ out. I even hear one person scream. Thank Christ, nobody can see me in here.

Eventually my stomach starts ta calm down, which is good ‘cos my ass was startin’ ta really feel numb sittin’ on that fuckin’ toilet seat. I go through nearly an entire roll of toilet paper tryin’ ta wipe myself. Then I walk outta the bathroom.

I start headin’ to the bar, thinkin’ I might get a pint a Carling instead of my usual Stella, but then I notice all these chicks are starin’ at me….an’ not in a good way either. They’re lookin’ at me like I just ran over a box a puppies.

“What?” I ask ta the crowd. “Is it the toilet? Sorry ‘bout that. I ate some really bad curry, so it wuz kinda a emergency? Know what I mean?”

The crowd just stands there starin’ at me; no glarin’ at me, like they wanna kill me wit’ their bare hands. An’ lookin’ at the size of some a these babes, they could easily do it, too. I ain’t got no idea why these chicks are so mad at me. I’m waitin’ fer one a them chick’s boyfriends ta step up an’ take a swing at me. But then I notice there are no boyfriends. In fact there ain’t no other guys here period. I’m the only dude here.

What the fuck? Where am I, I’m thinkin’. Then this one chick, the biggest, meanest one in the joint pushes her way to the front a the crowd.

“Brad, ya arsehole, what the fuck do you think yer doin’ here?!” she bellows.

She’s got a shaved head, a tattoo on the side a her neck, an she’s got this huuuge hooters. She looks familiar but I can’t quite place her. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a drinks menu sittin’ on the bar an on it the bar’s name –‘The Lumberjack.’ Oh fuck, I nearly got killed the last time I wuz here. I look back at those massive boobies again and then it dawns on me who this chick is.

Oh fuck, fuck, FUCK, I’m thinking.’ it’s Sharon, my ex-wife’s girlfriend. Then this other chick walks up to her – it’s my ex-wife, Brenda. Sharon grabs her by the waist an’ pulls her towards her. They start kissin’. Sharon rams her tongue down my ex-wife’s mouth. Then they stop an’ look at me. I’m feelin’ horny, jealous and repulsed all at the same time.

“Brad, just leave us alone,” Brenda says. “You’re not allowed ta come within’ 200 yards of me, remember what the judge said.”

“Yeah,” Sharon says. “I outta kick yer arse.”

“Look, erm, this ain’t what ya think it is,” I try ta explain. But then that Sharon butts in.

“Why can’t ya just accept that it’s over. Brenda’s with me now?”

“Seriously,” I says. “This ain’t what it looks like. I just came in here ta use the crapper. I didn’t even…”

“Hey, ya tosser,” Sharon interrupts. “Stay away from my Brenda, ya hear? If ya even go near her, I’ll kick the shite outta ya.”

Sharon moves towards me, an’ backs me up against the bar. I start tryin’ ta explain ta her again about the curry, but I can’t get the words out. My stomach starts actin’ up again. I quietly burp an’ taste gravy, curry sauce and a cheese omelette I ate two days ago.

“Seriously, don’t you dare go near her, ever again,” Sharon says. . Sharon’s got her finger an’ jabbin’ it inta my chest. Her finger is the size of a Gregg’s sausage roll.

My stomach is really hurtin’ now. I fart an’ seriously think I shit my pants; but no one else seems ta notice. But what’s worse is that I keep feelin’ like I need to burp an’ there’s this awful fuckin’ taste in my mouth. I gotta get outta here. I open my mouth ta say somethin’ ta Sharon an’ that’s when it really gets bad.

The next thing I know, the front of Sharon’s denim work shirt is covered in puke. My puke. This orangey –brown stuff drips down her boobs an’ onto the floor. I can see bits of meat an tomato in it. She doesn’t say anything at first; none a them do. They’re all too shocked at what just happened, Sharon most of all. Then Brenda brakes the silence.

“Oh, my Sharebear – baby, are you alright?” she shrieks.

Then Sharon looks up from the mess on her shirt an’ her face just starts gettin’ reder and more reder.

“Ohhhh, ya bastard, I’m sooo gonna make ya pay,” she hisses.

She leaps towards me and I run out the door as fast as I can. I think I may have even knocked over a couple a them chicks on the way out. Behind me I can hear the entire joint spillin’ out onta the street in one massive wave, ready ta chase me. I run a couple a blocks, hopin’ ta lose them, but it ain’t any use. I can hear Sharon right behind me, yellin’ and swearin’ at me. Oh fuck, I’m gonna die!

Then I hear this dude shoutin’ at me, “Hey you…hey buddy, c’mere.”

Outta the corner of my eye I see this guy standin’ next to this big black limo. He’s got the passenger door open an’ motioning for me to come over. It’s a bit weird ‘cos I don’t even know this guy. But seein’ as how I’m ‘bout ta get beaten ta death by 200 very angry lesbians, I take my chances.

Inside the car, it’s real fancy. It’s got real pleather seats, an’ everything. It’s even got those snazzy locks an’ windows – the ones that have those switches to open an’ close the windows and lock the doors. This guy was one lucky son of a bitch, he didn’t have to roll his windows up and down like the rest of us poor fuckers. Nope, if he wants some fresh air, all he’s gotta do is push a switch.

The guy jumps onto the seat across from me and taps on a glass window behind him, tellin’ the driver to go. He’s wearin’ a dark green suit with a orange shirt an’ a bolo tie an’ a large pair of sunglasses, even though it’s night time. He pours himself a can of Pepsi into a plastic cup an’ offers me one. I take it even though I don’t really like Pepsi all that much.

“This is a swell car ya got,” I tell him.

“Thanks, but it’s not mine,” he says. “It belongs to my boss.”

“Really, who’s yer boss?”

The guy sips his Pepsi. Then he pulls out one of those flask things from his pocket, uncaps it an’ pours the contents inta his Pepsi. Then he takes another sip. Satisfied, he puts the cap back on the flask and returns it to his pocket.

“Listen, buddy, before I get into that, let me ask you something?” he says. “How’d you like a job travelling around the world?”

“Doin’ what?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” he says. Very casually, he starts pickin’ his nose. He rubs the booger into a little ball using his thumb and forefinger, then cracks the window down a bit and flicks the booger out of the window. “Let’s just say that my boss is very interested in acquiring your services.”

I’m startin’ to regret gettin’ in this car now. This guy’s really makin’ me nervous. What if he’s a fag or something? I’m thinkin’ that I’d almost rather be mauled ta death by a herd a dykes than take part in whatever weird shit this weirdo has in mind. Sorry, but I ain’t no homo. The Brocker is strictly fer the ladies.

Very politely, I tells him no. He just smiles an’ shakes his head.

“I don’t think you understand,” he says. “I said my employers are veeerry interested in hiring you. And they won’t take no for an answer.”

The guy cracks open another can of Pepsi, pours it into a plastic cup and offers it to me, though I’m not sure why because he just gave me a drink five minutes ago.

“Here drink this one instead,” he says. “It’s fresher.”

“Nah, I’ll stick with the one I’ve got.”

“No really, I insist.”

“I’m okay, really.”

“Seriously, drink this one instead,” he says, pushing the cup into my hands. “ It’s been in the in the fridge longer. It’s much cooler, much more refreshing.”

“I’m okay with this one,” I said. “I like warm Pepsi.”

The guy’s startin’ ta pissed now, I can tell. He rolls his eyes and sighs.

“Ahh, fuck it,” he mutters. Then he pulls this syringe out of his coat pocket and jabs it inta my neck.

“Hey, man! What the hell? I…outta…b.b.b.ea…., “ I don’t get a chance ta finish the sentence because I start feelin’ all funny an’ shit. An’ the guy, his face starts gettin’ blurry. I go ta take a swing at him, but suddenly my body feels all rubbery. Also, I’m real tired. I can barely keep ma eyes open. I blink an’ look at the guy again. Not only is he blurry, it also looks like his face is startin’ ta melt. One a his eyes suddenly swells up ta the size of a toilet seat, an’ his nose slides down the side a his face. He says somethin’ ta me, but I don’t really catch it. Next thing I know, everything goes black.

To Be Continued.

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I don’t know why these websites exist, but damn am I glad they do. They’re the perfect time killers, especially on a day like today when it’s raining outside, there’s nothing good on TV, and you just can’t be bothered working on the manuscript for that novel that’s been sitting quietly in your hard-drive for the past year, like a pile of dried up dog shit in the corner of the room that nobody wants to clean up. I’ve avoided the obvious ones like YouTube , ebay, Facebook, Bebo, MySpace…ect., and stuck with lesser known ones. Quite a few of these websites look as if they’re made on a limited budget and created and hosted from a bedroom by just one lone dork with a deep passion for ironic cultural references; and to me that’s what the internet is all about.

www.MenWhoLookLikeKennyRogers.com

When I turned 30, I made a promise to myself that within another 30 year’s time, I would bear a passing resemblance to Jerry Garcia and it’s a promise I intend to keep, despite my wife’s aversion to facial hair –who needs a sex life when you can grow a big, fluffy beard instead? Deep down inside, however, the celebrity that I would really most like to resemble is uber-awesome country star, Kenny Rogers. After all isn’t Jerry Garcia just a Kenny with glasses and a lot less maintenance?

Kenny Rogers is arguably the coolest country western singer on the planet. Admittedly that’s not saying much since there’s only maybe about five people from the entire country western genre that could actually qualify as being cool, and three of them are dead.

Sure, the Gambler’s got a fantastic singing voice – nice and silky without the much of that obnoxious good ol’ boy twang that so many country singers have these days. It’s middle of the road: manly but not macho, sensitive but without making him sound like a total pussy (y’hearin’ me, Aaron Neville?) He has a voice that’s ideal for crossing over into the pop charts – which he’s done, many times over. Yes, Kenny Rogers is the perfect entertainer for the mostly middle aged suburbanites that can’t handle today’s rock music, but aren’t quite redneck enough for country. Okay, so maybe Kenny isn’t really that cool after all.

But what puts Kenny on the cool list is his immaculate silver mane and perfectly trimmed beard. It’s a look that every white American male over the age of 50 aspires to, yet so few achieve. I’ll never forget my father calling me at 3 a.m. a few years ago, this once proud and strong man now a broken wreck, crying as he confessed to me over the phone that he would never be able to achieve the look of Kenny because his beard was just too patchy. Most men, once they hit their late 30’s or early 40’s are prone to male-pattern baldness and a middle-age spread brought on by years of donuts, beer and office work, will never come close to achieving the dream Therefore we must honour those who have and that’s what MWLLKR is all about.

The website is just that – a celebration of all those brave men who have committed themselves to the ‘Kenny’ look and have succeeded (albeit to varying degrees.) The bulk of the site is a gallery with page after page of photos of Kenny look-alikes from around the world. That there are so many shouldn’t come as a surprise, because who doesn’t want to look like Kenny? As the website proves, even other celebrities yearn to look like Kenny (including the late Who bassist John Entwhistle, Earnest Hemingway, Gen. Robert E. Lee, Papa Smurf and God.)

If you’re having trouble finding a ‘Kenny’ the site has a list of places where you’re most likely to find them – try state fairs, airports, Waffle House, Boot World, pawn shops, and A.A. meetings. And for those of you who are thinking about taking up the ‘Kenny’ look, there’s a section that offers helpful tips on how to achieve that iconic style – “grow hair longer than is currently fashionable, if it’s not white or grey, seek a professional stylist for colouring, or baby powder will do in a pinch.”

Oddly enough there are some people out there who aren’t into Kenny Rogers. Not everyone thinks a white beard and feathered mullet is a good look to have; and there are some who just don’t care for his music either. But the one thing you can’t deny is that the man can cook a mean bird. Yep, I’m talkin’ bout the rotisserie chicken from world famous Kenny Roger’s Roasters. Back in the day, this restaurant chain was so awesome, it even inspired an episode of Seinfeld. And if that doesn’t put Kenny on your cool list, then…well, then you’ve got some serious mental problems, my friend. Sadly, these restaurants are all but gone, having been brought out by Nathan’s, the hotdog chain in 1999 and subsequently restructured. But you can still get those tasty corn muffins that came as a side on every meal thanks to the recipe posted on MWLLKR.

The only problem I have with this site is that it appears to have been abandoned. The last winner of the ‘Kenny of the Month’ was in May of 2005. The site may be a one-trick pony, but that doesn’t mean it can’t still be updated once in awhile. After all, there are still so many Kenny’s out there and their story needs to be told.
********

www.maddox.xmission.com (a.k.a. The Best Page In The Universe)
If you think cynical, sardonic assholes are just the wittiest thing ever, then boy are you in luck!
This is basically just one huge blog: the author, some dude who calls himself Maddox, bitching and ranting about everything under the sun from the iPhone to people who use puns. What sets him apart from the countless other bloggers on the internet is that well, for starters, he’s actually pretty well informed, unlike say, your Uncle Bob from Missouri who simply parrots whatever he’s heard from Rush Limbaugh or Fox News. Not only that, he’s actually funny. For example, here’s his take on Dave Matthews Band:
‘Dave Matthews fans are like the trans-fats of fandom: oversaturated with obnoxiousness, found everywhere, and impossible to get rid of; for example, they only refer to the band as DMB... you can't abbreviate the word 'band' assholes, it's a band by virtue of the fact that there is more than 1 person in it, and for the record, adding the word 'band' to your name doesn't make you any less of an egotistical shit head). Man, you know what I hate? Dave Matthews.
‘It's the whitest band ever, which is saying something considering 3 of the members are black, and Dave Matthews is literally an African American (born in South Africa). His music can be heard in Whole Foods stores, Live Earth concerts, or blasting from the speakers of open-topped Jeeps parked on curbs everywhere. The typical fan is either some dude wearing khaki cargo shorts replete with dangling rock climbing hooks, even though he doesn't hike because he can't afford to drive his gas-guzzling Jeep, or some chick with huge boobs, buck teeth, and an ankle-length floral skirt that she twirls around like an idiot because she thinks her awesome boobs give her enough social capital to make up for the buck teeth and hairy toes (they don't): ‘
Okay, I’ll admit, I’m a bit bias because I happen to agree with him – I too, can’t stand Dave Matthews Band or its annoying fan base. They’re the type of people who will vote for Obama in the general election, without even knowing anything about his policies or his stance on the issues, solely out of political correctness – but that’s some funny shit going on.
Aside from one or two columns about George Bush, Maddox, perhaps wisely, avoids talking politics and religion, and instead concentrates on taking pot shots at everyday annoyance – such as formulaic Hollywood block busters, advertising, Ben Stiller and people in general. Another favourite target is children. Check out ‘More Crappy Children’s Artwork’ for his reviews of kiddies’ refrigerator scrawls:
‘Ding Ding! Here comes the shit-mobile. I've never seen a fire truck that needed to be shaved. I would rather be burned to death than be saved by this hairy piece of shit. F’ He writes of 8-year-old Jon’s drawing of a fire truck.
It’s a bit odd. I could look at this website all day (and I often do), but if I had to hang around someone this negative and bitchy in person, I’d probably end up hanging myself. On one hand you’re laughing your ass off at Maddox’s scathing commentary, but on the other hand you want to tell the guy to lighten up a little, maybe even toss him a fifty or something so he could go downtown and treat himself to a piece of ass or something…anything to get him to chill out a little bit.
The Best Page in The Universe recently celebrated its 10 year anniversary. The website and its creator have achieved a sort of cult status over the years, spawning t-shirts, a comic book, a radio show and a best-selling book ‘The Alphabet of Manliness.’ Maddox created an industry out of one cheap-ass looking website, and he’s done this all by word of mouth. Most importantly however, he’s got a mention in Wikipedia. If that’s not impressive, then I don’t know what is.
The danger of achieving this sort of cult status is that we now have a shit load of imitators online. As blogs become increasingly prevalent, more people are offering their ignorant, unasked opinions on such stupid topics as ‘my boss sucks,’ ‘here’s a photo of my pet cat wearing a tiny fireman’s outfit, doesn’t he look silly?’ and ‘no, I mean it, my boss REALLY sucks. In fact, I hate him so much I’m going to sneak into his office one night and take a shit in the middle of his desk.’ And before you say anything –yes, I’m aware of the irony.
The only other problem with this site is its infrequent updates. For example, the most recent post ‘Nobody Cares if Your Puns were Intended’ is dated May 31; the post before that ‘Vague Genre Movie (April Fool’s 08)’ was updated on April 1. Okay, so your thinking its updated sort of semi-monthly. But the post after that ‘Fashion Tips for Women from a Guy Who Knows Dick About Fashion’ has a post date of October 29, 2007! And the one before that is in July! WTF?!!? I read somewhere that Maddox recently gave up his day job for this, so what the fuck’s he been doing? I can appreciate that this has been a one-man operation but still, when your output is less than what it was when you had a full time job, you’ve got something to answer for. My fear is that he’s getting tired of doing this shit and his output will eventually peter out, so that like the MWLLKR website we’ll be left with nothing but 5-year old posts about why the Dave Matthews Band is so lame.

************
www.stuffwhitepeoplelike.com
I first heard about this website in an article from a magazine I was reading ( I think it might have been in an issue of ‘Shortlist,’ but I can’t be certain.) It intrigued my sense of curiosity towards dumbness enough to have a looksey. And, yup, it’s plenty dumb alright.

The site is built around the premise that white people (W.A.S.P.S. in particular) are lame and therefore like lame stuff. It’s comprised of a list of over 100 topics of interest to white people such as 76.) bottles of water, 36.)breakfast places, 16.) gifted children and 1.) coffee. Click on a topic and you’re taken to an explanation as to why said topic appeals to white people as well as posts from idiots who feel the need to point out that just because they’re white doesn’t make them lame – and they’re one, token black friend will vouch for them.

Implied accusations of racism aside; this website is just really stupid. Worse still, it’s not even funny. I might identify with some of the references linked to my suburban upbringing in the American Midwest, but I also identify with some of the references in Jeff Foxworthy’s ‘You Might Be a Redneck If…’ routine, and that’s a helluva lot funnier. In fact the funniest thing about this website is its title.

If this review has proved one thing, it’s that I’ve obviously I’ve got too much time on my hands. Those are just a few of the websites that you can check out. The Internet is loaded with goofy little numbers like these, so feel free to look around and if you’ve a goofy website that you’d like me to know about, send me an email. As for me, I’ve got a little free time left, so it’s time for a little bit of No. 1.

Happy surfing everybody.

-B.H. 22/06/08

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Ah shit, my boss just came by an' saw me online. So I'm gonna have ta finish this later. Bye!

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Well, we had our first annual karaoke night at the Silver Fish last week an’ ta be honest, it was kinda crap. Fer starters, the party supply company totally botched up the order. I had asked them for balloons and streamers an’ a banner an shit for a karaoke night, right? The balloons an’ banner were gonna have musical notes or say karaoke night or some sorta shit like that. Well, they gave me the balloons an’ banner an’ stuff, except instead of it being for our karaoke night, it was all stuff meant to be for some dude’s funeral.
I didn’t even notice it until I got to the Silver Fish an’ we started to put up the decorations. I blew up one a the balloons an Ernie shouts out “What the fuck?”

“Huh?”

“Look at your balloon. Take a look at what it says.”

I turn the balloon around so that the letterin’s facing me. ‘Sorry for your Loss’ it says.

“What the fuck?!”

Ernie blows up another balloon. This one says ‘Our Deepest Condolences.’ One a the old geezers sitting at the bar start laughing.

Ernie lets go a the balloon an’ an it lets off this screechy fart as it flys across the bar. He shakes his head an’ looks at his watch. “We’re opening in an hour. You better straighten things out wit’ those tossers.”

So I get all the stuff and run back over to the party suppliers. I slam the shit on the counter an’ this kid working the till looks at me indifferently.

“What the hell, man,” I says. “These are for a funeral.”
“Aye, so?”

“We’re having a karaoke party tonight.”

“Cool, can I come?”

“No, I mean this stuff is supposed to be for a karaoke party, not a funeral.”

The kid yawns. He’s got a large zit on his chin. It’s bright red with a yellowy- white centre filled with puss. I’ve got an urge to reach over an squeeze it until it bursts. Finally he calls his manager over – this fat broad with a pierced nose – an tells her what’s going on. She asks if I’ve got a receipt. I don’t.

“Aye,” she says. “Ah’m very sorry, sir, but there’s no much we can do. We’ve got a no refund policy, an’ it’s too late for us to re-do your order.”

“Ahh fuck,” I say. “what the hell am I gonna now?”

“Well, we’ve got this cake for ye. It’s supposed to be part o oor funeral package, so it’s yers if you’d like?”She brings out this cake in the shape of a coffin. Its covered in white frosting with pink trim an’ letters on top. It says ‘Deepest Sympathies in Your Time of Loss.’

*************

A couple hours later, the decorations are up an people start filtering in. It’s regulars for the most part; they don’t say nothing ‘bout the balloons; probably don’t even notice ‘em. We joined a coupla tables together for the snacks an’ cake. I licked the letterin’ off the cake an’ took a coupla bites so it wouldn’t look too coffin-y. Not a bad tasting cake – strawberries an’ rhubarb, I think. Nobody else is touched it though.

I’ve got a table near the stage, waiting for Joe an’ my sister to show up. I’ve got a pint a Stella an’ finishing off a curry from the takeaway across the street. I’ve also got a paper plate filled with crisps an’ stuff from the snack table. I’m tryin’ hard not to get any food on my glittery shirt ‘cos I wanna look as good as possible for my stage debut tonight.

Ned an a bunch a his pals come in. They’re all wearin’ matching shell suits – white with powder blue trim. One a them’s got a Rangers cap pushed back to the back of his head. Ned’s wearing a cap, too, ‘cept his is a red and green New York Yankees cap. He looks over at me an waives. “A’wright, Brad,” he says. I nod and waive back. They carry a bunch a stuff with them an Ernie tells ‘em to put the stuff in the store room, probably the prizes they’re giving away tonight.

A few more people come in but they ain’t regulars. Some of ‘em I don’t even recognize. That’s good, ‘cos it means more people an’ Ernie won’t have to shut the pub down. Still no hot chicks yet.

One guy I’ve never seen before comes in. He’s kinda small an’ intense lookin’ in that weird lookin’ way. He goes to the bar an orders a glass a water of all things then takes a seat by himself at the table directly behind me. I nod an’ say ‘hi’ to him but he just ignores me. What a asshole, huh?

Finally my sister an’ her husband Joe come in. They’re standin’ in the doorway lookin’ around. My sister’s got her hand covered over her mouth an nose. Joe frowns, then he sniffs an’ scrunches up his nose. He says something to my sister but they’re too far away for me to make out what they’re saying.

“Joe! Margaret! Over here!” I shout. I stand up an’ waive my arms hoping they’ll see me. After a coupla seconds they do an make their way over to the table. “Aw man, I’m glad you guys could make it. Listen, can I get you a drink – a beer or something? There’s snacks over on that table over there. You want me to get you some snacks? Some crisps or something?”

Joe pulls the seat out for my sister an she sits down. “Christ, what’s that smell?” he asks. “Smells like someone spilt a septic tank in here.”

“What smell? Can I get you a drink or something?”

“It smells like….ah, never mind.”

I shrug my shoulders an’ ask them again if they something to drink. Joe orders a bottle of Miller. My sister don’t order anything- says she’ll wait awhile.

I go to the bar to get Joe an’ me some drinks. When I come back the go out an’ a spotlight shines on the stage. Everybody shuts up as Ernie makes his way to the stage. He picks up the microphone and coughs loudly into hit.

“H’llo everyone,” he says. “Welcome to th’ Silver Fish’s First Ever Annual Karaoke Night.” A buncha people start hootin’ an’ hollerin.’ On a Ned’s gang whistles loudly. Ernie yells at everyone to shut th’ hell up. After it quiets down he starts talking again.

“Uh, I’m Ernie, an’ I’ll be yer MC tonight. First I want te thank ye fer comin;’ I’m glad youse could all make it. Anyway, let’s get the show on the road an’ bring out oor first singer – Tam McDonald. Let’s gie a big hand fer Tam, everyone.”

Everyone starts clappin’ an’ shit; as one a the two old geezers that always sit at the end a the bar makes his way to the stage. Tam’s dressed in his usual grey, woollen flat cap an’ a dirty, yellow cardigan. I can smell his piss an’ old man smell all the way from here. He starts singin’ some Justin Timberlake song.

“A’hm bringin’ sex-y ba-uck…them uthoor bhoys don’ know how t’ act,” he warbles. “Doorty bab-ee, you see these shack-les, bab-ee, A’hm yoor slaa-vve.”

He starts dancing, doing some crazy old man moves. Not bad for a dude who just celebrated his 81st birthday last week. Then he grabs his crotch an’ starts gyratin’ an’ thrustin’ his hips. I look over an see my sister an her mouth is hangin’ wide open ‘cos she can’t believe what a great singer this old guy is. Joe’s impressed, too, I can tell. His face is all red an he’s grindin’ his teeth an’ shit. He’s lookin’ at me like he’s kinda pissed off, like –‘why didn’t you tell me before that this place was so cool? The last 38 years of my life have been a waste.’

Tam’s still doing that sexy dance of his. “Git yooor sex-y ooot,” he sings. Then he thrusts his hips out again. “A’hm bringin’ sex-y baaa….Ahhhhgg! ma’ BACK!”

The music stops and he puts both hands on his lower back an’ stoops over. “Ma’ back! Ma’ fuckin’ back! It’s goone oot!” he shouts. Ernie an’ the other old geezer come onto the stage to help him off. When he’s safely escorted from the stage, Ernie turns back to the microphone.

“Well that was Tam McDonald, everyone let’s gie Tam another roond a applause,” he says. Everyone starts clapping again. When the noise dies down Ernie introduces the next act.

Ned an’ his crew rush to the stage. Ned starts rappin’ to MC Hammer’s “You Can’t Touch This,” while his pals are dancing behind him, busting out these crazy break dance moves. They ain’t bad. Everybody in the joint’s clappin’ along, even Joe an’ my sister. I brush the front a ma shiny shirt. If they like this, then they’re gonna totally looove me.

A couple a more people come on. Doris sings “You Are the Music In Me,” from ‘High School Musical.’ Her voice is alright, but she screws up the lyrics a couplea times which pisses me off. She’s no Troy or Gabriella. Tam’s pal, Frank, gets up an’ sings a Frank Sinatra tune. An some other broad gets up an struggles through that Nickelback tune that’s so big right now…something ‘bout playing baseball in a bathroom, or something. There’s some good acts but so far none a them hold a candle to what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna win this thing hands down.

Ernie decides to get in on the action an sings the Ronnie James Dio classic “Holy Diver.” He’s pretty good, but he can’t quite reach those high notes. When he finishes, everyone claps and whistles.

“Thanks everyone,” he says. “Now this next performer is gonna sing something really special. It’s a song that’s got to do with one a my favourite drinks an’ favourite ice cream flavours, as well.”

...This is it, I think, now it’s my turn to shine.

“Singin’ the ‘Pina Colada Song’…please give a warm hand for…..”

yessss.

“Mr. Walter Lattel.”

WHAT!!! Who the fuck is Walter Lattel?!?

***********

A spotlight follows a guy onto the stage an’ it’s the guy I saw earlier, that weirdo that came in an’ ordered a glass of water. He takes to the stage wearin’ a heavy trenchcoat, like some he’s some kinda fag or something.

There’s a moment a silence after the applause dies down an the guy stands there with his eyes closed. Then the opening chords play. He starts bobbin his head and swaying to the rhythm.
Then he starts singing:

"I was tired of my lady, we'd been together too long.
Like a worn-out recording, of a favorite song.
So while she lay there sleeping, I read the paper in bed.
And in the personals column, there was this letter I read"

I look around an’ notice the audience is completely entranced by this guy. No one’s saying anything; they’re all just staring at him, bobbing their heads in time with the music. Then when he gets to first chorus he suddenly rips off his trenchcoat an’ flings it into the audience. Underneath he’s wearing a suit, made out a the same sparkly stuff as my shirt, except it’s his entire suit that’s sparkly.

"If you like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
If you're not into yoga, if you have half-a-brain.
If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape.
I'm the lady you've looked for, write to me, and escape."

The whole place just goes nuts. Fuck! What a asshole this guy is. First he steals my song. Now he’s stealing my wardrobe. Can you believe it?

After a couplea more verses, the guy stops singin’ and the music gets turned down real low. He looks up like he’s in deep thought , then he says:

“Friends, I gotta tell you…y’know, every relationship, every marriage, every friendship has it’s ups and downs. When you’ve been in a relationship for a long time, it’s natural to get bored from time to time. You start thinking ‘gee, maybe I don’t need to put my cock in the same goddamn vagina for the rest of my life. Maybe there is some one better out there for me; someone sexier; someone smarter; someone who’s better in bed; someone who doesn’t bore me with the minutia of their shitty, boring-ass post office job every night when all I want to do is just chill out, have a beer and watch CSI; someone who won’t make me feel obligated to down an entire six pack in half an hour when I come home from work, just so I can resist the urge to cut the bitch’s head off and stuff it in a bowling ball bag.’ Sometimes you just want some who will just shut…the…fuck..up.

“Well, I’m here to tell ya, appreciate what you’ve got. Love you’re woman. Cherish her, man; cherish your lady. Let her know just how special she is. Because I’m telling ya if you’re thinking that you’re getting tired of her, you can be damn sure she’s thinking the same thing. And while you’re thinking about putting that personal ad on the sly, you can be damn sure that she’s already placed a personal of her own. And unlike the narrator of this song, it won’t be you that she ends up inadvertently hooking up with. It will be somebody else; probably Jason, that son of a bitch that came out to repair your washing machine last month. That bitch,….y’see him an’ her? They’ll run off together, right under your nose, too. And you? You’ll end up living all alone; eating cold hot dogs from a tin with stale bread and mayonnaise for breakfast every morning; sleeping by yourself in semen-and-tear stained sheets every night…for the REST OF YOUR LIFE!

“So take it from me, the next time you feel like getting some on the side, drink a pina colada instead. Seriously, drink a pina colada and just sing this song:”

"If you like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
If you're not into yoga, if you have half-a-brain.
If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape.
I'm the lady you've looked for, write to me, and escape."

The music gets louder an’ everybody’s smilin’ an’ shouting out the chorus back to him, an he’s just standing there with this smug look on his face. I don’t believe it. What a cock sucker.

When the song ends he walks off stage an’ everybody jumps to their feet and claps and whistles. The roar a applause seems like it ain’t ever gonna end. A couple minutes go by an’ whistlin’ and stompin’ their feet. He comes back onto the stage an’ waives at the crowd. “Thank you everyone, I wish I could just hug you all! Free Tibet!” he shouts an’ bounces off the stage.

The place goes nuts. Shit, there’s no way I’m gonna be able to follow that kinda act.

Finally the applause dies down an’ Ernie comes back on stage. There’s a couple a people still shouting for Walter Lattel, but Ernie just tells ‘em ta shut the fuck up.

“Aw’right, now, let’s bring on oor final act for the night. He’s a good friend a’ mine an’ we all know him well. Please gie it up for my mate, Brad Hasselbrook!”

I hear a couple a people clap as I make my way to the stage. I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do. That Walter guy stole my act. There’s no way I can sing ‘Escape (the Pina Colada Song)’ after he just sang it. I stand in front a the microphone an’ it’s total silence. I can’t really see the audience too good cause there’s a spotlight shinin’ directly inta ma eyes. I stand there for a good coupla seconds wondering what to do.

“Sing something, ya twat,” I hear someone shout, it sounds like Joe.

Fuck, what the hell am I gonna do? Ma minds a total blank. Think, Brad, think. I try ta think of another song, any song, but I’m struggling. Finally something comes to me. I cough to clear my throat an’ singing.

‘And we can build this thing together, stand in stone forever, nothing's gonna stop us now….’

Comments

Man I am totally psyched about tonight. Seriously, I don’t think I’ve been this antsy ‘bout anything since I found that wallet on Union Street a coupla years ago. There wasn’t any cash in it or anything, but I did find a unopened condom in one a the pockets an’ it still had three days before it’s use by date!!! But the reason why I’m so excited about tonight is because tonight’s a big night down at the Silver Fish - it will be the pub’s first annual karaoke night.

The karaoke thing was kinda my idea. Ernie was trying to come up with ways to bring in more business an’ give the place a bit a class. An’ I said ‘hey Ern, howabout a karaoke night?’ An’ the rest is history. Hell, I probably saved the place from bein’ shut down an’ brought out an’ turned into a Yates’ or a Weatherspoons or some kinda gay bar. Y’know, chances are I probably saved ol’ Ernie’s life. Wonder how much I’ll get in his will.

Anyway even though it was my idea, we all said we’d chip in ta get this thing going. Ernie said he was gonna make some calls to hire out a karaoke machine an’ stuff. The two old geezers (don’t know their names –something like Don an’ Ron, or something) were gonna make the flyers an’ pass ‘em out. Ned the ned said he was gonna get us some free advertisin’ space, though he didn’t say where. An Doris the whore was gonna tell all her customers to come to the Silver Fish an’ check it out. Also, we thought it would be a cool idea to offer up some prizes –y’know for the evening’s best singer an’ all that shit. We didn’t really know what we were gonna put up for prizes but Ned said he’d take care of it.

My job was to make up a banner an get the balloons an decorations an’ stuff. Easy enough; there’s a party supply store across the street from my office, so I just stopped in there after work one night an order the stuff I need –balloons, streamers, confetti, an a big-ass banner that’s gonna go right across the stage; actually, it ain’t so much a stage as a cleared-away area where the snooker table an’ a couple a empty crates used to be….an, uh, excuse me, gotta take a dump. Back in a sec.

***

Okay, I’m back. Sorry ‘bout that folks but I really needed ta go. I mean really, ya should’ve seen it. Sucker was huge; one of those really long ones too – like a giant brown cucumber.

Anyways I ordered all the stuff a couplea days ago, so’s it’ll be ready for tonight. I just need to pick it up, which I’ll do this afternoon on my way to the Silver Fish. I got my outfit picked out, too.

I invited my sister an’ her husband, Joe, to kinda help make up for settin’ fire to their couch a coupla weeks ago. Joe didn’t want to go at first, but my sister talked him into it. She said it would be rude for them not to go since I was obviously tryin’ ta make amends by inviting ‘em. Besides, Joe could do with some cheerin’ up; he’s been kinda bummed this week ‘cos somebody broke into his car an’ stole his golf clubs.

I’m tellin’ ya, they’re in for a treat. ‘Cos they’ll get ta witness the finest karaoke performance ever given by man. For starters, tonight, I’m wearing this sparkly shirt and a pair of black slacks. I got them outta ASDA ‘specially for tonight. They’re a bit snug, to tell tha truth, but so what? The tightness will accentuate my rather generous package – so’s I only hafta stuff one pair a socks down my trousers instead a two.

But never mind the outfit, really, tonight’s about the music. The song. No, make that THE song. The song I’ve chosen for tonight’s performance is none other than “Escape (the Pina Colada Song.)” by Rupert Holmes. The songs’ about a guy that doesn’t wanna bang his girlfriend anymore so’s he decides to put an ad in the paper an then some chick answers the ad but it turns out to be his girlfriend. So’s they go home and have sex because they both like pina coladas. It’s a perfect karaoke song ‘cos it’s got a nice beat an the lyrics tell a story. I’m telling ya, Rupert Holmes is a genius. No one else will think of it either, they’ll probably all do some stupid song by Frank Sinatra or Nickleback. I’ve been practicing this mother fucker for days. The chicks’ll cream themselves when they hear me. I’ll be getting’ all kindsa pussy after tonight. Yeah, I’ve definitely got this karaoke contest in the bag. I’m sure to win first prize, whatever it ends up being. (hope it’s an Xbox or a Wii, ‘cos if it’s another Anne Summers voucher, I’m gonna be pissed.)

Anyways Ernie’s expecting me to be at the Silver Fish with all party supplies in about an hour so’s I need to go an’ get ready. Come back tomorrow an’ I’ll fill you in on what happens –assumin’ I’m not still fighting off the babes.

*For more information on Rupert Holmes and the Pina Colada song, go to www.ruperholmes.com. Or check your local library.

**Escape(The Pina Colada Song) and other hits can be found on Rupert's landmark album -"Partners in Crime."

Comments

I been hangin’ out at the Silver Fish a lot this week. I’m off work for awhile on account a the beatin’ Joe gave me over me settin’ the couch on fire. I ain’t in the hospital or anything, I mean it ain’t nuthin’ serious – just a couple a black eyes, a broken nose, a busted lip, a couple a cracked ribs, a punctured lung, a concussion, an a’ strangulated testicle – but it does gimme a lotta free time fer the next month or so. Ahhh, it don’t get much sweeter than this, now do it?
Anyways for those a youse who ain’t regular readers a ma’ blog, (an’ by the way, youse can go fuck yerselves if ya ain’t) the Silver Fish is this pub that I discovered a couple a months ago. I guess it’s what the American’s would call a “dive” (editor’s note: actually the term “roach infested shit-hole” is a more accurate description.) But it’s got a certain charm to it, an’ for me it’s become something of a second home.
The cool thing about the Silver Fish is that it’s reliable, y’know? Every time I comes in, I see the same three or four old geezers sittin’ at the same exact spots at the bar, starin’ into the same ol’ drinks day after day, an’ never sayin’ a word. The landlord, Ernie, is always behind the bar wipin’ off a pint glass wit’ the same moldy ol’ tea towel, or killin’ a cockaroach wit’ the palm of his bare hand an’ wipin’ it across the front a his shirt. An’ at 9:30 every Friday night, you can be sure to see Doris – this 50 year-old prositute with no teeth, lopsided boobs an’ an this thing growing out a the side a her neck- stumble in offerin’ the fellas hand jobs for 3 quid a piece. An at least twice a week, the same two junkies that hang out outside the joint will get into a vicious knife fight that ends up with one a the cops sent ta break it up endin’ up in the emergency room. It all happens like clock work, an’ there’s just something comforting about that.
Only problem with the place is that there ain’t any chicks in there. Well, okay, there’s Doris, an once in awhile some dodgy-looking guy in a shell-suit, with a bit of giro money ta spend will wander in wit’ his date – a drunk an’ heavily pregnant 14 year old with a greasy ponytail an’ a shiner under her left eye. But I mean, there ain’t no real hot babes here. It’s okay for now, ‘cos I can’t pop a decent boner ‘til my left nut heals, but that ain’t gonna be for long, an’ once that happens I’m in serious trouble. I’m not kiddin’. I mean, how the hell am I ever gonna get laid if there ain’t no decent puzzy in here? Doris’s hands are like sand paper. I might have ta go someplace else, an I don’t really wanna do that.
So I mention this to Ernie one time.
“Aye, ah think you’ve got a point there, mate,” he says. “Ah’ve been trying ta think o ways to class the ol’ pub up a bit anyways, get some more punters through the door.”
“Exactly,” I says. “Don’ get me wrong, I love this place, but it don’t really draw in the younger crowd much, no babes.”
A water bug scuttles across the counter between us an’ wit’ a loud slap, Ernie crushes the bug wit’ the palm of his hand. He flicks the dead bug across the bar and it lands in a bowl of nuts. Then he wipes his hand on a towel he’s been usin’ to wipe down pint glasses. He looks around the nearly empty pub and shakes his head.
“Aye, Brad, ah’ve got some real, right mingers comin’ in here.”
“Ya need a gimmick or something, like a theme night.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno. Howzabout a Indian night…a whatchacallit? A Bollywood Night? Chicks cream their pants fer shit like that.”
“Okay, okay wot’s a ‘Bollywood Night?’”
“I dunno…somethin’ ta do with Indian food an’ dancin’ an shit.”
Ernie thinks about this for a second, then shakes his head.
“Naw, naw. Do you know how to make curry, ‘cos ah sure don’t. Besides, ah don’ wanna bunch a Pakkis in ma pub. They’re a dodgy lot. Next think ye know they’ll be startin’ an Al Kaydah terrorists cell here an try ta nuke half a Glasga. Rest assured, ma friend, ah’ll be havin’ no part o that lot.”
I raise up my hands an’ try ta cut him off before he goes off on one.
“Okay, okay, no Bollywood night, then. But ya gotta think a something.”
Ernie makes a go for the bowl of nuts sittin’ on the counter a couple feet from us an’ pulls it towards him. He grabs a handful an’ tosses ‘em into his mouth. He offers me the bowl but I shake my head no. I’ll stick with my beer, thank you.
“Ah’ve got it,” he says. “How aboot a arm wrestlin’ tournament?”
“I don’t think yer gonna bring in too many chicks wit’ an arm wrestlin’ contest, Ern.”
“No?”
“Well, think about it, how many arm wrestlin’ wimin do ya know?”
“Margaret.”
“Besides yer wife.”
Ernie chews this over for a coupla seconds.
“Aye, ah suppose yer right.”
“Yeah, I am.”
I finish my beer and order another one. When Ernie returns with a fresh pint, I goes, “I think I got it.”
“Oh?”
“What do ya think a speed datin?”
Ernie scowls and slams his fist on the counter.
“No! Absolutely not!”
“Why, what the hell’s wrong with speed datin’?”
“Ah’ve got enough trouble as it is wit’ those junkies outside. Ah’ll be havin’ no DRUGS in ma PUB!”
“Huh? What the hell are you….”
“Ah said NO!”
“But I think you’ve …..
“NO! An if ya bring up the soobject again ah’ll kick ye oot a ma pub, ya fookin’ junkie bastard.”
“Okay, I hear ya. Christ, Ern, just forget I mentioned.”
Ernie an’ I spent most of the rest of the afternoon thinkin’ bout ways to bring in the poontang. But so far we had nuthin’, nada, zilch, zip, zero, jack shit. Every time one of us came up with an idea for a theme night, the other would shoot it down. Speed dating, foam party, rave night, male strippers, female strippers, transgender strippers, book club, movie club, TV club, chess club, club sandwich club, fancy dress, 80’s night, 70’s night, 40’s night, poker, blackjack, disco, bring your daughter to drink night…all of it got shot down. I even had this idea about bringin’ in a giant fish tank filled with sharks an’ manta rays an’ shit and having a deep-sea fishin’ night. I thought it was cool as fuck, but Enrie shot that one down, too; sayin’ something about it being unimpractical or somethin’.
This was gettin’ seriously bad. Shit, we had to do somethin’. Bad enough having to lay low on the lady action while my pecker gets better, but the threat of a continuous dry spell loomin’ over me even after I’m healed, well, that’s just too much for a guy like me to bear. An’ it definitely ain’t gonna be no picnic for them poor, deprived ladies.
“Ach, it’s just no use, mate,” Ernie says. “Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow.”
“Yeah, that sounds good. I’m pretty wiped out anyways. This de..di..dilaudid, this stuff that the doc’s gave me for my ribs gets me pretty loopy, especially after a couple a pints.”
I was just about to call it a night and head on home when it suddenly happened: Doris staggered inta the pub, hanging off the shoulder of some old fella. He was just as drunk and ugly-looking as Doris. The couple stumbled over to the bar an’ the fella ordered a couple a pints a superlager, while Doris loudly announced that she was gonna go take a shit. While she was away in the ladies’ room, the fella started hummin’, quietly at first an’ then gradually building up to full on singin’. Next thing ya know he was shoutin’ at the top of his lungs, I mean really beltin’ it out:

“And we can build this thing together, stand in stone forever, nothing's gonna stop us now.
And if this world runs out of lovers we'll still have eachother.
Nothing's gonna stop us, nothing's gonna stop us now.”

Then suddenly, it hit us, like a sign from God. I looked at Ernie an’ Ernie looked at me and nodded. We knew what we had to do; one word –KARAOKEE.

End of part I

Next week: ‘The Singin’ Silver Fish’, or ‘That’s Not My Wife, That’s Karaokee’

Comments

First off, I wanna let everyone know that after last week’s sofa fire incident, I’m okay; a little shaken but doing okay.

My sister an’ her husband Joe came home late the following day, so I was able to get the house cleaned up a bit; mostly empty beer cans, takeaway cartons, dirty clothes, cigarette butts an’ that enormous goat turd that wuz sittin’ in the bathtub. But the living room is still charred ta shit –‘specially the sofa, an’ them curtains. Oh, an’ the walls got lotsa smoke damage.

Were my sister an’ Joe pissed when they came home an’ saw everything? Hell yeah! Joe even said he wuz gonna twist my head off an’ piss down my neck. Then he said afterwards he wuz gonna come to my funeral dressed as Batman an tell everyone what a stupid prick I wuz , an that I had a thing for young boys, an then he was gonna take a big steamin’ dump on my grave after the burial. Then my sister started cryin’, saying she wuz ashamed a me bein’ her kin, an tellin’ me that I wuz adopted because there’s no way anyone in our family could be so fuckin’ stupid. Even their dog was mad at me. Sparky wuz growlin’ at me an’ tryin’ ta bite ma leg, which is funny cos’ he usually just tries to hump it.

So I decided to split, figuring I could find another place ta stay until things cooled down a bit. Problem I had though wuz where wuz I gonna go? I hadn’t bothered with packing, so I left my sister’s with just what I wuz carrying with me at the time - £7.32, a mobile wit’ no credit on it, an’ a wallet with nothing in it but a 14 year-old-condom an’ a picture a Penny Marshall in a beekeeper’s outfit.

My first stop, of course, wuz the pub; not that good one down the street, The Stag and Thistle - cos’ I got kicked outta that one for spilling a glass a urine all over the quiz machine -but the one across town, The Silver Fish.

I’ve been going to the Silver Fish a lot recently. It’s sorta become my ‘home away from home’. It ain’t the classiest joint in town, but it’s got a charm of its own. The Silver Fish is what the Americans might call a ‘shit hole.’ It’s dark and dingy. It smells of piss, smoke an’ stale beer vomit. An’ because the landlord doesn’t enforce Scotland’s smoking ban, there’s an ever present haze of smoke in the place. The floors are always sticky. The seats on the bar stool are ripped an’ patched up with duct tape, there’s graffiti an’ pin ups of naked chicks ripped from girlie magazines taped to the walls in the toilets.

Ernie, the landlord, is a real hard man. He’s a veteran of the war in the Faulkands an’ also did a stint in Northern Ireland. He wears an eye patch an’ a tattoo on his right bicep of a snake with the head of Chuck Norris eatin’ a live baby. He’s also got half his left ear missing an’ one a the biggest beer guts I’ve ever seen. He’s 4 ft 10.

“A’right, Brad, what’re yea havin?” he says as I walk up to the bar.

I grab a stool and order a pint of Stella. I look around an’ notice the place is empty except for the same three old geezers that are there every time I come here. They’re not saying anything, just sitting at the bar smoking and staring into their beers.

Ernie comes back as I’m finishing my first beer. He gets me another pint an’ then asks me what’s new. So I tells him ‘bout the sofa, the track suit, the fire an’ how Joe said he wuz gonna come to my funeral dressed as Batman.

“I gotta find a place to stay for awhile, Ernie,” I tells him.

“Sorry, mate, I’d let you stay up at ma bit, but…eh, you know…the missus,” Ernie says.

“That’s okay, I’ll see if I can crash at my ex’s. She ‘s lifted the restraining order on me last month, so we’re cool, we’re practically back together.”

“Aye, that’s good,” Ernie says. “Well, yer welcome tae stay doon in the pub fer as long as ya want, or until we close.”

“Ta, mate,” I says.

Time passes an’ I order a couple more beers. I skim through The Daily Record an watch a bit of Jeremy Kyle on the TV in the corner. Then I get bored an’ decide to do a bit of people watching, but it’s just the same three old geezers that were there when I first came in, and they ain’t doing anything. Not even sure they’re breathin.’

I go to the toilet an’ take a leak then decide it’s time ta leave.

My first ex-wife, Beverly, lives all the way out in Airdre, which means I gotta take a bus. So I’m waitin’ at the bus stop when one of those shitty white busses pulls up. I hate these fuckers. Every time I ride one of those things I’m reminded why I prefer takin’ the train ta work in the mornings.

It’s pretty late when I leave the pub, nearly 11pm so this is the last bus for the evening. Thankfully the bus is nearly empty when I get on. There’s a chunky Polish broad in a cleaners’ uniform, a tired looking nurse, both of them working the night shift apparently; a young couple making out on the back of the bus an’ an elderly man sittin’ across from them, nodding off to sleep. It’s quiet an’ peaceful on the bus, so I can have a good think.

Unfortunately the peace is short-lived. About two stops after mine, a gang of neds get on, along with three of the most drunken people I’ve ever seen. The neds go towards the back of the bus, they’re carrying on an’ laughing and playing their ring-tones too loud….doing the stuff that neds do. But they ain’t bothering me too much. The three drunks, on the other hand, are. There’s a fat, dumpy lookin’ broad, an’ equally dumpy looking guy, an’ a youngish English chick dressed in a dirty fur-lined parka an’ trackie bottoms –an’ despite the bus being nearly empty, they all took seats next to mine.

The broad says somethin’ to the English chick that I can’t quite make out because she’s mumblin’ an’ slurrin’ so badly. The English chick can’t understand her either apparently, ‘cos everytime she says somethin’, the chick says “wha?” Then the broad repeats herself , an’ the English chick says “wha?” again. This goes on until the English chick gives up an’ just says anything whether it has anything to do with what the broad was saying or not.

The guy sits in the seat behind me. An’ of the three, he’s the one who looks most bombed out a his skull. He’s slumped in his seat kinda half passed out, an’ every once in awhile he shouts out something in response to something the broad says.

Five minutes into this shit an’ its startin’ ta really drive me nuts. Then I suddenly smell a really strong stench a piss, an’ I’m wonderin’ where it’s comin’ from. Couple minutes later the guy behind me sits up an’ shouts. – “Ah bullocks! A’ve pished maself!”

I can hear the neds laughing from the back o’ the bus.

Then the other two look at him, an the older broad shrugs her shoulders and slurs out somethin’ that I make out as – “Ach, it happens sometimes. You’ve been at the pub all day; can’t be helped.”

God, why didn’t I stay an’ have a couple more drinks, so I could at least tolerate this shit if needed, I think. Even the crowd at the Silver Fish ain’t this bad. The smell is really startin’ ta get me. I desperately wanna get off this bus, but Beverly’s place is still a good six miles away.
The smell is so bad that when the bus stops at the next couple a stops, people start to get on, then change their minds. Even the bus driver is getting annoyed.

“Fuck,” he shouts a couple miles after our last stop. “A’ve taken a wrong turn. A’m totally lost!”
The bus brakes to an abrupt stop and the driver gets outta his seat and storms back to where we’re sittin’.

“That feckin’ pish smell distracted me; ah’ve nae scoobie where we are now,” he screams. He looks at the four of us, trying to decide who’s the culprit. Then his eyes settle on me.

“You!” he shouts, pointing his finger at me. “You’re the mingin’ bastard that did this. Ah could get sacked ‘cos a you!”

“Me?!? Look, man, I’m tellin’ ya, it wasn’t me,” I protest. “I ain’t even that drunk.”

“Don’t give me any o’ yer shite, ya stupid Yank, I ken it was you.”

“Yank? I’m not American…I’ve got a sp…”

“I said shut up,” the driver interrupts. He’s screaming at the top of his lungs. Spittle is flying into my face. The chords of his neck stand straight out and the vein in the centre of his forehead pops up. The three drunks are laughing and egging him on. Then the driver grabs me by the collar of my shirt and hoists me out of my seat.

“I’ve had it with you arseholes. Off ma bus, now! FUCK OFF!!!”

So now I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere. It’s 1 am and I’m freezing my ass off. I start walkin’ towards Airdre – or in what I’m guessin’ is in the direction a Airdre. I’m prayin’ that a car comes along an’ stops ta give me a lift, ‘cos I’m really cold.

A car finally does stop but the smell of piss is clinging to me; so as soon as the guy rolls down the window an’ gets a whiff a me, he quickly rolls the window back up, locks the doors and speeds off. Two more cars stop an do the same thing. Then it starts to rain. Ahh fuck.

I finally stumble into Airdre around 4 am. I’m freezin’ an’ sick and still smell a piss. I find Beverly’s flat and ring the bell. No one answers. I wait a couple a seconds an’ ring the bell again; still no answer. Well, maybe she’s asleep. I ring the bell an’ knock on the door an’ still there’s no answer. What the hell? She used ta bitch about my snoring all the time; when did she become a heavy sleeper?

I’m standin’ at her door for a good 30 minutes, an…nothin’. The rain’s still going but the wind’s eased off so it’s a bit warmer now. There’s some bushes along the side o the house. I remember fallin’ asleep under ‘em a couple a times after we split up. I wuz waitin’ for her to come home so she could give me a new set of house keys ‘cos my old ones suddenly stopped workin’ for some odd reason. I remembered those bushes were actually pretty comfortable. So’s I climbed back into my old spot under the bushes and dozed off.

A little while later I wake up. It’s daylight, the sun is shining an’ Beverly’s screamin’ at me.
“Brad, what the fuck are ye daeing here?!?”

“Waitin’ fer you,” I says. “Where the hell were you?”

Beverly looks at me, then down at her nurses’ uniform, then at me again.

“Where dae yea think? I was at work ya twat,” she says. “Now tell me what the fuck yea daeing here?”
“I got kicked outta my sister’s place. Had a bit of an accident there an’ now I need someplace to stay.”

“Well, yea ain’t stayin’ at ma bit, that’s fer sure….Christ, yea smell terrible”.

“Look, Bev, c’mon…I’m desperate.”

“I don’t care. You fuck off back tae where yae came from,” she shouts. “Now PISS OFF ‘for I call the polis.”

“Well can you at least give me a lift back to my sister’s?”
“PISS OFF!!!!”

I head back to my sister’s place. Somewhere along the way last night I lost any and all money I had left. I ain’t got a single dime in my pockets right now; so I can’t even afford bus fare. I’ve gotta walk all the way back. But that’s all right. It’s a nice day out an’ the walk gives me time to think of a way to get back into my sister’s good graces. I’ll beg, grovel and plead if I have to. Or maybe I should just let Joe smack me around a bit. Whatever. ‘Cos there’s no place like home.

Comments

Sorry it's been awhile but let me tell ya, I've been busy. First my sister's basement got flooded - word of advice, don't ever try flushing sandpaper down a low flush toilet.; better yet just don't bother wiping yer ass with sandpaper, no matter how curious you might be - so I had to sleep on their couch for a couple a weeks.

Then last week my sister an' her husband Joe went outta town to see Joe's folks down in Liverpool. It was cool because the basement just got fixed too, so not only did i have the basement to myself, I had the whole friggin' house ta myself. How sweet is that, huh?

Anyway, I didn't do much the first night they were away because it was Friday an' I was tired from being at work all day. So I just had a couplea beers and a bottle a single malt whiskey that I found in the back a Joe's liquor cabinet. it looked kinda expensive, but the bottle was about 20 years old so I figured that if Joe's had it for that long, he'd probably forgotten it by now. Heck he' d probably thank me for not letting it go to waste.

Then I ate a frozen pizza and fell asleep.

Then next day was Saturday, my day off! yeah!!! I woke up aroun' 2pm. an' made myself a bowl a cereal for breakfast -Wheetabix with plenty a shugar. No milk in the house an' I couldn't go to the shop to get any 'cos I was in just my underwear an Mr. Ali, the shopkeeper, said that I next time I came into the store without wearing trousers, he'd have me arrested. But l was in luck, Joe's bottle a whisky was sittin' on the kitchen table an' there was still some left in it,,,,so.

After throwing up, I decided to get dressed. I couldn't find any clean trousers of my own so's I raided Joe's wardobe. I found a pair a hiz old track bottoms. Joe's a bit thinner than me, but I've cut back on the fried Mars Bars and mayonnaise, so I 've probably lost enough weight now to fit in these no problem. It wuz a squeeze but I got inta them no problem. But a coupla minutes later I bent down to pick up a crisp that had fallen on the floor and wouldn't ya know it, the damned things ripped. I took the trackies off, wadded them up and threw them in the corner of the couch. Geez, for as much money as he earns, ya'd think Joe would buy clothes that weren't so cheaply made.

A little searching an' I found a pair of my own trousers lying underneath the sofa bed. They were relatively clean so's I put 'em on. Then park my butt on the sofa and watch some TV.

Somewhere during that time I must've dozed off because when I wake up it's 8pm. Ant an' Dec are on TV and Ant's giant forehead is jumpin' out at me while Dec's not doing or looking like much a anything.

I'm hungry so's I go inta the kitchen an' make myself a cow tongue and cheddar cheese sandwich wit' ketchup an mayonaise, a packet of crisps on the side. I eat it but I'm still hungry, so's I go back to da fridge. Allright!!! i find a carton of eggs in the back o' da fridge. I'm in heaven now. They smell kinda funny but that could just be cow tongue. I boil a coupla them eggs, eat em an' wash em down with some beer.

I'm watching TV but gettin' bored now so I decide to go online. I check my email an' go on a coupla websites - one wit' naked chicks shootin' machine guns grabs my attention, but then they ask for my credit card number. I'd give it to 'em but I lost my credit card a couple a months ago when some neds threw my trousers up a tree. So I decide to listen to some music instead.

I grab some a my cds a couple more beers an' turn tha stereo to 11 - nothin' get's a party started like Jethro Tull, then some Winger, an' some Quiet Riot, then top it all off with the soundtrack to High School Musical -man, that albums just bitch. I'm tellin ya.

By now I'm really bored and really starting to git drunk. Nothing's on TV, I can't find any good DVD's to watch, don't feel like going on the computer again. I'm bored shitless and need ta be entertained myself. So what do I's do?

Well, do's eggs are makin' me a bit gassy. An man they're bad - even my sister's dog Roscoe is in the corner, cowering away from me. I'm just drunk an' bored enough ta try lighting my farts on fire. I find a lighter in one a tha kitchen cupboards, lean over an flick...Fwooooooshhh!!!

Allright! The first one was totally awesome. Figure this is even good enough for YouTube so's I grab a camcorder and set it up. Light it again...ALLLRIGHT!! This is fun! He he! I can feel the gas building up so's the next one's gonna be a REAL cracker. I bend over, put the lighter to my arse and Fwoooooooshh!!! Wow! Then I turn around and notice that the couch is on fire. Well, not so much the couch but the track bottoms that I wuz wearing earlier are.

Oh shit! I try makin' a grab for the burnin' trackies but singe my fingers. Now the couch really is on fire an' going fast. The living room is really startin' to fill up with smoke an' i'm gaggin. I run to the kitchen sink to pour out a big glass a water to put the fire out wit. When I return I splash the water on the couch but it's no good, the fire's too big.

Ahh fuck, I'm gonna die, I think. This smoke is really getting to me.

Just then the front door bursts open and the fire brigade charges in wit a hose an puts the fire out.

When it's all over, the couch is completely destroyed, but the living room's okay. Just some smoke damage. When I tell them how the fire started, the fire guys just laugh at me an' call me a tube.

But Joe an' my sister come home tommorrow, an I'm trying to figure out what ta tell 'em. I figure if I make somethin' up, it's less likely that they'll kill me. I dunno, we'll see what happens.

Wish me luck.

Comments

My sister says I’m sick on account a’ me sleeping in the basement where it’s all damp an’ shit, ‘specially in the winter –although this being Scotland, it’s damp pretty much all a the time. Yeah, that might be true an’ all, but where else am I gonna sleep?

Joe says it’s time I move out an’ get my own place. He says he’s tired of me barging in on him an’ taking a dump in the toilet while he’s trying to take a shower every morning. The smell makes him gag, he says. Well, I can hardly help it, can I? When ya gotta go, ya gotta go. Besides, if I have to pay rent for a flat, then how am I gonna afford to buy eggs and beer?

Anyway, I wake up this morning feeling like total crap. My head is pounding. There’s like this mask of pressure that goes around my eyes and down my jaws. My teeth fuckin’ hurt. My throat feels I’ve been swallowing snot and shards of broken glass all night. It hurts to swallow and I feel like I’m constantly gaggin’ on phlegm. I’m tired as fuck an’ I got that Jefferson Starship song drummin’ through my head –

‘And we can build this thing together, stand in stone forever, nothing's gonna stop us now.
And if this world runs out of lovers we'll still have eachother.
Nothing's gonna stop us, nothing's gonna stop us now.’

……Ugh! Even I know that’s a terrible song.

Now I’ve gotta go to work. I think about phoning in sick but then I remember that I’m still on double probation ‘cos of that thing with First Rail – God, how I hate Dan Brown. So I decide to suck it up and tough it out. Maybe work won’t be so bad today.

On the bus, I bring plenty of tissue with me so I have it with me. I took some paracetemol before I left home, but didn’t get any breakfast so the tablets are floatin’ around my empty stomach an’ I’m feelin’ a bit queasy. An’ a bumpy bus ride ain’t helping. My nose starts runnin’ heavy so I get a bit of tissue and blow hard – too hard actually. I look at the tissue an’ notice there’s a big wet hole right in the middle. Then I look up an’ see there’s a big wad a snot on the back of the head of the guy in front a me. He don’t seem to notice, thank Christ. Well, maybe he’ll think it’s just a spot of hair gel that he forgot to rub in.

After 50 agonizing minutes, the bus finally pulls inta Buchanan Street Station an’ I get off an’ stagger on to work. The fresh air clears my head a bit an’ I don’t feel as queasy. But my nose is still running like a faucet.

I get to work , have a quick coffee down from the coffee machine in the break room and then go to my desk. I check my e-mails – nothin’ really important, just a couple a new orders from some customers in Dundee an’ a company-wide memo from the corporate bigwigs, something about a meeting to discuss redundancies or something. I’m guessing by redundancies they mean they’re gonna tell us not to send the same orders or memos repeatedly. Then I stare at the computer screen for an hour, first thinking about how rotten I feel an’ then thinking about that black chick in High School Musical. For the life a me I can’t remember her name.

At 10:30 it’s break time, so’s I go down to the canteen an’ have get somethin’ ta eat - roll an’ bacon with a tattie scone an’ brown sauce. The bacon’s pink an’ fatty an’ swimmin’ in grease an’ the scone is fried black. Mmmm.. Just the way I like it.

Before my break is over, I go to the bathroom an’ restock my tissue supplies. I’m going through these things like candy. Then I go back to my desk and stare inta the computer some more. I’m still trying ta think a that chick’s name. It’s really starting ta bug me. Fuckit, nobody’s around so I Goggle ‘High School Musical’ an’ the website comes up. The black chick’s photo comes up an’ just as I’m about to click on it Jason Watson from sales walks by an’ sees my computer. He points at it an’ laughs.

‘Haw, haw! What are ye, Hasselbrook, some kindae poof?’ he shouts. ‘Y’know it’s only 11-year old girls an’ gay men that are intae that stuff, don’t ye?’

A buncha people look up from their desks and gimme this sort a smirk.

‘Well for your information, Jason, I’m lookin’ this up for my niece.’ I say.

‘Aye, right,’ Jason snorts. He shakes his head and walks away. I can hear a couple a people giggling. That Jason, what a fuckin’ prick.

Pretty soon it’s lunchtime. I ain’t too hungry an’ I’m still feelin’ pretty run down on account a this cold so I decide to skip lunch an’ just get something light to snack on from the vending machines – 2 packets of Quavers, 2 packets of cheese an’ onion flavoured crisps, 3 packets of salt an’ vinegar flavoured crisps, 4 Mars bars, 3 Snickers an’ 2 cans a cola. When my snack is finished I find a space in the corner of the break room where I can take a quick nap.

Nancy Kerr, one a the team managers, wakes me up an hour later, asking me where I’ve been. My lunch hour ended half a’ hour ago an’ she’s wondering why I’m not back at my desk yet. I try telling her that I must’ve fallen asleep because I’ve got a really bad cold and I’m really tired but she just shakes her head and waves her hand.

‘Never mind,’ she says. ‘We’ve got a meeting with the directors in the 6th floor conference room in 15 minutes. Be there.’

I go to my desk to check my emails real quick an’ to get the stuff I might need for this meeting. Just as I’m leavin’ my desk I let loose with a vicious sneeze. Suddenly my nose starts running like crazy. Two little rivers of mucous snake down from my nostrils and make their way towards my mouth. I look around my desk for some tissue but there’s nuthin’ there. Ditto my pockets. My nose is really runnin’ now. I run to the bathroom to see if I can get some more tissue, but all three stalls are occupied. I check to see if there’s any paper towels in the dispenser near the sink, but there ain’t even a dispenser there. Instead it’s one a those hand blow-dryer thingies. Fuck! I really gotta blow my nose. There’s gotta be something I can use.
…………………………………………………………….
I show up at the meeting about 5 minutes late. Everybody’s starin’ at me kinda funny. Probably it’s because I walked in late. Oh well. I’m hoping that maybe if I act real casual, nobody will notice the big gloop a snot in the centre of my tie. I thought about taking my tie off before I came in, but didn’t think it was too noticeable. An’ besides, this is the board of directors we’re talking ‘bout. You gotta dress nice for them.

Ten minutes later I notice that everybody is still starin’ at me, even the board director, an this was in the middle of his presentation. I’m too tired to care and eventually I start to doze off a little. When his presentation is done, someone taps me on the shoulder. It’s my turn to speak. I start to tell everybody about how the number a customers’ orders gettin’ mixed up is going up….but then someone starts laughing. It’s that Jason prick again. Then a couple a other people join in. Pretty soon everyone is laughing at me, even the director. Then he makes some snide comment about my tie.

‘Nice tie, Brad,’ he says. ‘Split-pea soup for lunch?’

Ahh Christ! Ya just can’t win, can ya?

Comments

"Holy shit! Bob's dead!!! And where's that slob that we brought in to interrogate? He's gone! That guy must've killed Bob! He couldn't have gotten far! Get him before he escapes!!!"

...........
Oh cripes! Twenty minutes ago I was stuck in some tiny room being interrogated by a government lookin' asshole with a thing for Burger King. All a tha sudden the guy dropped dead after chocking on a buncha french fries an' I just walked on outta tha room and wandered into an office down tha hall. The office has a computer sittin' on a desk. An' by sheer luck, the computer was on and open to a file containin' what looked like a top secret document between WH Smith, the British and American governments and First Rail to finance the supplying of Iran with nuclear weapons through the proceeds from Dan Brown's books.

Now it sounds like they've just found out that that guy is dead an' they think I killed him. I gotta get tha fuck outta here. Quickly I shut the door and push one a tha chairs up against it as sort of a barricade. Theres's a printer sitting in the corner of the room so I click on the file and print it off. Someone's gotta see this.

The printer slowly and noisly comes to life. It's an old looking printer and this document is 15 pages long, so I'm worried about how long this is gonna take. The printer whirrs and shakes and gives off a smell of burning ink as it warms up. C'mon, c'mon, hurry up, I mutter. There's about five minutes of this shit before the printer finally spits out the first page and drops it into the tray to the side.

The printer slowly churns out four more pages before I hear a lound grinding and a clunk. An error message flashes across the screen : 'PAPER JAM- PLEASE CHECK TRAYS AND CLEAR OBSTRUCTION.'

"Fuck!" I shout. Down the hallway I hear more footsteps and voices. It won't be long before they discover me.

There's about five trays on this thing. I check the first tray - nothing. Second tray - nothing. Same with the third tray. On the fourth tray I'm in luck. There's a chewed up sheet of paper stuck behind a couple of the rollers. I lift the rollers up, remove the paper and close everything up.

Two more pages print off before another error message flashes across the screen: 'TRAY 4 OUT OF PAPER - PLEASE REFILL,' this one says. I check the other trays to see if they have any paper. Nope. I rifle through the desk and find a stack of blank paper in the bottom drawer. I refill the printer and then we're back in business.

On about the 11th page I hear a knock at the door and nearly shit my pants. Waitaminute...sniff, sniff...nah, nevermind but,whew, that was close. It was only a 'shart' - one of those really juicy farts that leaves you checking your underwear afterwards.

"Hello, is anyone in there?" a voice says from the other side of the door. I keep quite but the printer seems impossibly loud. There's a pause followed by another knock.

"Dave, are you in there?" There's a third knock followed by the jiggling of the handle.

I'm running out of time here. I've got twelve pages and that should be proof enough so I quickly stuff the evidence in my coat pocket and look for a way out. There's a window behind the desk and it takes all my strength to yank it open. I'm about halfway out the window when the door swings open and the chair clatters to the floor. It's another guy in a suit - this one a little younger than the others. We look at each other. He stands there frozen - not really sure what to do next. I don't either, and I'll probably get caught, but then I slip and fall out the window.

I land in some bushes about six feet below. I hear sirens - cop cars coming, so I get up, brush myself off and start running. Now I'm not sure where I'm running to, just as long as it's away from there. A couple of blocks later I've convinced myself that I've ditched 'em. There's a pub across the street an' I realize I haven't had anything to eat today. So I go in, get myself a burger and chips an' a coupla pints to calm my nerves. Then I go to the toilets for my morning dump which is waaaay overdue.

In the stall I sit an' think about what to do next while I'm pinching out a loaf. This stuff is gonna have to get to the media somehow, give it to the most reliable, trustworthy newspaper I can think of. Ah ha! 'The Daily Record.'

Just as I'm deciding this I hear someone walk into the bathroom. My heart jumps an' I try my best to be still in case it's one a those FirstRail guys. But after a couplea seconds the guy just sniffs and groans. 'Hey pal, get to a hospital will ya? 'Cos something crawled up yer arse and died!' he says and then walks out.

I wait a few minutes before leaving the stall to make sure the coast is clear. I splash some water on my face and leave for the offices of 'The Daily Record.'

I find 'The Daily Record' and ask to see their editor. The editor, a tired-looking English guy with a paunch and a fag dangling from his lower lip comes out to see me. He directs me back to his office and I tell him my story. I take the papers outta my pocket and hand them to him. He stares at them for a couple a seconds.

"Wow," he says. "This is fucking incredible. This...this is huge. Bigger than Watergate. Bigger than Iraq. This is gonna run on the front page of every major newspaper in the world....and we broke it first."

He smiles at me and shakes my hand. "Thanks. Thanks alot, Burt."

"Oh, thank you. And it's Brad...not Burt."

"Whatever," he says. Then he presses an intercom button on the top of his desk. "Martha, tell the boys downstairs to stop the presses, we've got a breaking story here."

"Yes, sir." the box says.

The editor goes on to thank me and tell me how great my find is when a kid barges into his office. He's sweating and frantic.

"Cheif, I just got word from a reliable source that Britany Spears and Amy Winehouse got drunk and made out at a club in L.A. last night!"

The editor shot up from his desk. "Holy shit! Tell the boys to stop the presses. This is our lead story. This is huge. Bigger than Watergate!"

"Waitaminute, what about my story?" I ask.

The editor looks at me. For a second I think he forgot I was even there.

"Sorry pal, but this is huge news," he says. "we'll try to fit it in if we can."

...........

The next day it was back to my job. My boss yelled at me an' I got into trouble for missing work - six months double probation. I told him what had happened, but he didn't believe me. I checked 'The Daily Record.' On the front page was a full page photo of Britany Spears and Amy Winehouse snogging. The headlines said "Brit and Amy in Drug-fueled Lesbian Affair." I looked around for any info on the FirstRail consipracy. All I found was four inches buried on page six.

Comments

GodDAMN! That's a good fuckin' cheeseburger."....

Okay, let's recap. This mornin' I got up an' took the train to work, just like any other day of the week. Pretty boring train ride. I don' have a book or nuthin' to read, so I just sit an' watch everybody else readin' their Da Vinci Code paperbacks trying to look important with their ipods an' mobile phones.
When we pull inta Glasgow Central, I get picked up by two big goons with buzzcuts. They drag me away an' next thing I know I'm locked up in this empty room. I don' know what the fuck's going on. I'm waiting for HOURS in this damn room. Meantime, I'm really late for work an' gettin' really hungry an' I ain't even taken my morning dump yet.
Then comes a guy, one a those mysterious goverment agent types in a black suit an' tie. Except the guy's got carrying his lunch with him - carryout from the nearby Burger King.

"GodDAMN! That's a good fuckin' cheeseburger," he says. The guy's speakin' in a sorta flat accent -American or Candian, on o' the other. I can't really tell.

He takes a couple more ravenous bites to finish off the burger before crumpling up the wrapper an' chuckin' it at me.

"Think fast," he shouts.

The wrapper bounces off my forehead an' lands on the floor. I'm so hungry that I'm not even phased. All I can think about is how hungry I am, an' how much I need to shit.

"So I understand you're not a fan of Dan Brown," he says while pulling a handful a fries outta the Burger King bag.

"Huh?" What the hell has that got to do with anything, I wonder.

"I said I take it you're not a fan of Dan Brown."

I look at him an' shrug my shoulders. "He's okay, I guess. Tell ya the truth I don' think much of him one way or the other."

The man shovels a handful of fries into his mouth, chews, takes a long sip of his soft drink and glares at me.

"Is that a fact?"

"Look, can I go now?" I ask. "C'mon man, I've gotta get to work. My boss is gonna go apeshit. I've already been late three times this m -"

"Why don't you like 'Angels and Demons?" he asks, cutting me off.

"Huh? I dunno, I've never even read it," I respond. "Look, what's any of this gotta do with my rail card?"

"Okay, then what about the Da Vinci Code? Have you read that?"

"Started it, but didn't finish it; an' I thought the movie sucked. Why? What do you care what I read?"

The man took another sip from his drink and cleared his throat. "Let me explain something to you Mr. Hassebrock, we here at FirstRail have certain standards we like to maintain; and one of those standards is ensuring our passengers read only travel-industry approved literature...that includes top selling suspense and action/adventure novels by the likes of authors such as John Grisham, Micheal Crighton, and especially Dan Brown.
"Now, I've noticed in the last two months your reading fare has consisted of the following: one NHS-produced pamphlet entitled 'How To Get Rid of Crabs,' an issue of Nuts magazine from May 2005, a Batman comic and the back of a packet brown sauce."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Yeah, so..."

"Well, this is hardly the image FirstRail would like to promote. And frankly, along with your general appearance, Mr. Hassebrock....you frighten children."

The man grabbed another fistful of fries and shoved them into my mouth. He picked through the carton and waved it in front of me, offering the last remaining fries - the little burnt ones that nobody wants. I shook my head. He shrugged his shoulders and popped the stragglers into his mouth.

"Wur gnnu huv t du smtn bou tis," he told me through a mouthful of fries.

I was startin' to really worry now, wonderin' what was gonna happen to me when all of the sudden the man seized up. He brought his hands to his throat an' started making gurgling noises like he was chokin'.

"He man, you okay?" I asked. But it was pretty obvious he wasn't. He was turnin' blue.

I stood up and slapped him hard on the back a couple of times to try an' get the fries outta his throat, but it didn't work. His face was turnin' purple now.

"Hold on, I'll go get a doctor or someone," I said.

The door was unlocked so I walked out and on down the hallway. No one was around. A little further down I came across a door that was opened slightly. I knocked on' it and asked if anyone was in. I waited a few seconds and got no answer, so I pushed the door all the way open and walked into the room.

It was a little office room. Pretty standard stuff: a desk, a phone, a computer, two chairs an' a Dilbert poster. I walked around the desk to use the phone an' noticed the computer was on. There was a file on the desktop marked secret documents. I clicked on it. Some words appeared on the screen - it looked like some sort of contract. The words 'WH Smith', 'Dan Brown', 'CIA' , 'MI5', and 'slush fund to finance covert and highly illegal operations to supply Iran with nuclear weapons' caught my attention. I read a little further down. Suddenly it dawned on me.

Holy shite! This is a contract between WH Smith, the British and American governments and First Rail to finance the supplying of Iran with nuclear weapons through the proceeds from Dan Brown's books. Oh my God.

Down the hall I heard someone suddenly shout out. "Holy shit! Bob's dead!!! And where's that slob that we brought in to interrogate? He's gone! That guy must've killed Bob! He couldn't have gotten far! Get him before he escapes!!!"

Oh cripes, I thought....

TO BE CONTINUED

Comments

I hate Dan Brown. Yeah, that Dan Brown -the writer; not Dan Brown in the sales department from my work ( although that guy's kinda a asshole, too now that I think about it.)

For starters, he's waay over-rated. I ain't got a problem with the religious stuff - the stuff about Jesus gettin' it on with Mary Magdalene, 'cos, I ain't religious myself, so I can't comment on that. But when you take all that religious stuff away you realize there's nothin' special about him; he's just a hack, churning out the same predictable, luke-warm suspense/mystery novels as Grisham, Turrow and countless other writers that the airport crowd love so much.

This week I found a new reason not to like that over-hyped prick: I nearly lost my job 'cos a him.

Like a lotta people who work in the city centre, I get to work by train. Every morning at 7:43, I pick up the train a coupla blocks from my sister's house in Milngavie and head into Glasgow Central. It gets me into work at about 8:30 - enough time for me to grab a coffee and take my mornin' dump before I have to clock in at 9.

Wednesday started no differently than any other work day - woke up 15 minutes late, splashed water on my face, ran a wet washcloth on my crotch and armpits, picked out my least-stained work suit and ran out tha door. The train was about 10 minutes late arriving so that gave me a enough time ta catch my breath and start feeling like a dick, standing out in the rain without an umbrella.

The train comes finally, and I get on. There's not many people on yet so I'm able to get a table seat next to a window. There's not much for me to do - I finished the book I was reading last night (actually it was more like a pamphlet ,"How To Get Rid of Crabs") so I don't have anything to read; and I don't have anything to listen to 'cos Joe stole my MP3 player to get back at me for getting butter all over their plasma big screen. So I just sit there in a semi-doze.

About 15 minutes and two stops later, I notice the train's filled up. The seats next to me are all occupied. There's a stick-thin blonde chick with hair extensions and too much make up on sitting next to me. She's reading one a those glossy celebrity gossip mags. Across from me sits a guy wearing a dark-blue business suit and an iPod; he's staring not really at me, but through me, with this dead look in his eyes. A thin strand of drool hangs from the corner of his mouth and after a few seconds the strand breaks off and drops into a puddle that's accumulated on the table on a spot under his chin. Sitting next to him is this smarmy looking guy with that goofy spiked up hairstyle that all the kids seem to be sporting these days.

The train pulls into the next stop and a couple more people get on. A woman and her young son walk past me. The boy is about 4 years old; he smells like marijuanna.

A few minutes after the train gets rolling again, the conductor walks by to check our tickets. Everyone at our takes out their tickets except the smarmy-looking kid. He's deeply engrossed in a dog-eared copy of "The Da Vinci Code."

The conductor looks at our tickets and it's at this point that I realize that my rail card expired yesterday. This worries me because I don't have enough on me to buy a renewal -not even a single ticket. In fact, I'm completely tapped, I don't have a single pence on me. But to my luck, the conductor doesn't even notice, he just glances at my open railcard and nods me through.

He get's to the kid reading the Dan Brown book, but the guy doesn't even acknowledge him; he just keeps on reading. The conductor clears his throat to get his attention. The kid tears his eyes away from the book and looks up at the conductor towering over him. He asks the kid for his ticket but instead the kid just waves the book in the conductor's face. Now at this point, I expected the conductor to swiftly throw the kid's punk ass off the train, but instead, he actually smiles at the kid and waves him through. Holy shit! I couldn't believe it.

Now that I've shaken off the morning daze, I spend the rest of the commute just looking at the other passengers. I notice that the majority of them are listening to iPods and reading. And they aren't just reading any old books, they're reading DAN BROWN books. If not Dan Brown, then an author within the same genre - Scott Turrow, John Grisham, Patricia Cornwell.ect. There's not a single John Updike, Charles Bukowski, T.C. Boyle or Margaret Atwood among them. For a brief instant I start to feel as though I've just broken some sort of law by boarding a train without an iPod and approved book, but I quickly shake it off and start thinking about eggs.

The train finally pulls into Glasgow Central and I get off. However on the platform I'm greeted by two big guys with identical buzzcuts and black security uniforms. 'I'm afraid you're going to have to come with us, sir.' one of them says before they both grab me by the arms and drag me away.

'Look, if this is about my rail card expiring, I'll take care of it. just let me get to a cashpoint,' I start to offer before buzzcut no. 2 cuts me off.

'This isn't about that, sir,' he says. 'Just come with us.'

They take me down the hall and throw me in this small room with a single wooden high-backed chair as it's only furnishing. One of the buzzcuts mumbles something to me that I don't quite catch before turning, walking out of the room and locking the door behind him.

I'm alone in that room for what seems like hours. I look at my watch and see that it's well past my 9 clock in time. My supervisor's gonna be pissed. To make matters worse, I haven't had my coffee or my morning dump yet, so by now I'm feeling really woozled. I look at my watch a little later on and see that it's nearly 11. Fuck, now I've missed my first tea-break and I'm really getting hungry. Christ, this is almost as bad as waiting in the doctor's office.

About half an hour later and my stomach is doing a real number on me. All I can think about is food. It's an odd feeling, y'know, being hungy and having to go do a number two at same time. My belly's rumblin' like crazy and at the same time I'm prairie doggin' last night's curry.

Finally, around half past noon, I hear footsteps approaching from outside. I hear some light murming on the other side of the door - can't make out what they're saying though. Then the door handle turns and door swings open. It's a tall guy dressed in a black business suit and wraparound sunglasses. He's carrying a greasy Burger King bag and the smell of Whopper and fries is just too much. The man digs the sandwich out of the bag, unwraps it and takes a large bit and chews. Oh, man...it's got cheese on it. I can't stand it. My stomach howls in pain. After a few seconds the man stops chewing and swallows. Then he looks at me as though he just discovered I was there. He whips off his sunglasses with dramatic flair and says.......

TO BE CONTINUED.

Comments

Ahh fuck! This isn't what I wanted. See, what I really wanted was the Wii. Or a PSP woulda been cool. Or even that ipod mini so I could finally replace the one that got broken a couple a months ago - long story about that one, but let's just say kids these days have no appreciation for Jethro Tull. But this? This was no good. What the hell was I gonna do with a gift voucher for Ann Summers?

It all started a couple a weeks ago at our annual office Christmas party. I'm usually not to keen on those things, but this year the party was actually going pretty good. Everyone was gettin' drunk and eatin' an' I actually had a pretty good chance of baggin' Nancy, one of the administrators in the accounting department. On a scale a one ta ten, she's probably 'bout a five, but she's got some big ol' hooters. Anyway, we were both pretty drunk (more so her than me I think) and she's smilin' an' laughing at my jokes, tellin' me that I actually smell okay tonight. An' when I told her that I had just eaten 30 of them little cocktail weenies, she actually seemed impressed. Yeah, I was gonna score tonight. Just had that feelin'.

But towards the end of the party, that's when things went pear shaped. See every year around Christmas we hold a raffle. The prizes are usually pretty good: plasma screen tv's, Playstations or XBoxes, mp3 players, video recorders, expensive bottles of wine and gift vouchers for shops along the High Street. Towards the end of the party they announce the winners of the raffle. Pretty big deal, because they turn off the music an' call everyone's attention to the centre of the of room where the bigwigs from the corporate office in London are standing to call out the names and shake hands with the winners and get their photo taken.

This year I had my eye set on gettin' a Wii. So much so that I shelled out 50 quid in tickets just to try an' win that thing. Anyway, Don Taylor, the chief CO o' tha company gets up an announces the winners. He starts off with a couple a gift baskets and a bottle a wine that all get snatched up by the people in training. Then says 'this next ticket is for a Nintendo Wii'. This is it, I'm thinkin' an close my eyes in anticipation as he draws a name outta a hat.

'Dylan McDonald, congratulations! Come on up to claim you prize and shake my hand.'

'Fuck!' I shout an' a couple a people turn to give me a dirty look before turning their attention back to Don an' the big draw. I'm a bit bummed out but there's still plenty more good prizes that I can win. Maybe I can score that ipod so that I can finally take the train to work again. There’s drawings for a coupla more a tha big prizes - Mel Forsyth from admin won a Xbox, Rabbie McShane won a DVD recorder, an’ Sara Wilson and Mark Scheffler won the ipods. Shit. Oh well, there goes that.

They drew for a coupla more bottles a wine an’ a bottle a scotch before they came got to the vouchers. They’re usually kinda crap, mostly because they ain’t worth that much money, especially compared to the hundreds o’ pounds that a Wii or Xbox costs, but at least it’s something. After all, I could always use some new underwear and socks from Marks and Spencer, or get a coupla cd’s outta Virgin. So I thought, well at least there’s still a chance for me to walk away with something.

So, I was thinking about what cd’s or dvd’s I’d buy outta Virgin – I couldn’t make my mind up between “The Zac Effron Story” on dvd or the new cd from Dokken – when I was nudged in the ribs by that prick Alan Carter.

“He’s calling on you, dipshit. Get up there!” he snarled.

I pushed through the crowd and made my way towards where Don was standing with a big smile and his hand out to shake mine. All around me, people were laughing an’ clapping.

Finally I’m getting’ something, I thought. I shook Don’s hand and grabbed the envelope from his other hand. But when I looked at what was written on the gift voucher my heart sank: £25 to spend at Ann Summers.

I looked up an’ noticed that everyone was laughing an’ pointing at me. Even Don Taylor was sniggering.

“Nice going, ya tosser,” someone shouted. “Now you can buy something to keep yer hand company.”

Great, what the fuck am I gonna do with a voucher from Ann Summers. I tried to find Nancy, figuring that maybe she might want it, but couldn’t see her anywhere. Someone told me she went to the ladies’ room to throw up, an then left the party with one of the interns, a pimply-faced 16 year-old named Wally.

I found a couple of the other prize winners an’ see if they were up for an exchange but they all just laughed at me. Dylan McDonald, the winner of the Wii laughed so hard he pissed his pants. Didn’t seem to bother him any though, he was too drunk. Plus, he had a Wii.

To make matters worse, the party was breaking up now and I still hadn’t hooked up with anyone. I overheard some of the people from my department talkin’ about going to a club after the party, so I stood near them hopin’ they’d invite me along. But when they noticed me they collectively glared at me and moved to the other side of the room.

So I left the party and went home alone, back to my sister’s basement. Some Christmas party that turned out to be. Goddamn was I ever bummed.

On the way to the train station, I walked past an Ann Summer shop, just as it was about to close. I pulled the gift voucher outta my pocket and thought what the hell, gotta get something good outta this; so I walked on in. I was feeling kinda hungry so I got myself some chocolate body paint, a box of edible panties an a dvd that was on sale for half price – “Romancing The Bone pt. 3.” I opened up the box of edible panties and ate them on the train ride home – strawberry and peach flavoured. They were delicious.

Happy Holidays everybody.

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What a helluva week it's been and boy am I glad it's over.
I think I told ya 'bout how a gang o' neds stole my trousers last Saturday? Well, I was gonna just forget about them an'just get a new pair outta Asda. But then on Sunday I found out that the nearest Asda was closed for a week on accounta a gas leak. An' to make matters worse, the seat on my only other pair o' good trousers split down the middle. I know, I know...I need to cut back on the drink and the fatty foods, but I just can't resist, y'know? Especially my all time favorite snack -deep-fried Mars bars dipped in mayonnaise. mmmmmmm -yum. And of course, eggs.

Anyways I had work on Monday so I HAD to find those trousers, which sucked because I was planning ta spend the day lying in bed. When this hungover, that sofabed is unbelievably comfortable. I don' even notice that metal bar diggin' into my back anymore.

Since I didn't have any trousers that fit me anymore, I had to find something else to wear outside. The only thing I could find was Joe's lucky kilt...the one he wears to all the Scotland games. He wasn't around so I didn't ask, but I was sure he wouldn't mind; and even that was a bit tight on me.

So's I'm walkin' all around Glasgow in the freezin' rain, trying to find my fuggin' trousers and they're nowhere to be found. Finally I give up and decide to go back home, thinkin' that I'll just call in sick next week until I get this trouser problem sorted out. An when I get back, I finally see them....hanging from the telephone wires in front o'my sister's house. I was gonna climb up ta get 'em but I couldn't find the ladder, so's I called the fire brigade. After waiting for two hours, they finally come: a couple'a bright red engines, w/ sirens blaring and they even gotta dalminatoi..dalm..uh, one a those spotty dogs ridin' up front. Anyway, the firemen get my pants down from the wire...they ain't too pleased about it either. The fireman says something to me about wastin' their time and taxpayers' money for a pair a trousers when there could be a real fire to somewhere else. And my neighbours are all gathered outside, pointing and laughing at me.
"What a tit," I hear one a 'em say.
I just go inside an' grab a deep-fried Mars bar and a jar a Helman's.

.........

A couple a'days later I go to the dentist. The last time I went I was told that I had a cavity an' needed to get a filing. It's the first cavity I've had in nearly 20 years, that's good considering that I don't take that good a'care a my teeth. Sure, I brush 'em, but not for the 2 minutes that the dentist recommends; an' I only remember to floss once every coupla months. Also, it's been 19 years since my last checkup.

Anyhow, this cavity is in the back a ma' mouth; hurts a little, but nuthin' I can't manage. But I decide to get it taken care a' anyway.

The dentist's name is Folger, a German guy. He's okay, I guess, but the last time I saw him, he slapped me in the face a couple a times and told me to stop cryin' like a little girl. So I'm a little nervous about this appointment.

Sittin in the waitin' room for a couple a' hours, there's not much to do. On the coffee table is a buncha old issues of crap magazines that I don't wanna read - OK, Heat and Bass Fisherman Weekly. I pick up a copy of Heat and read an article 'bout Princess Di expecting her second child. (yep, the magazine's THAT old.)

Suddenly I hear screamin' coming from the other room, an the dental assistant bangs the door open an' comes rushin' out. She's got this worried look on her face. She lunges into the waitin' area, runs right past me and nearly knocks over this ol' lady who's been sleeping in a chair next to the door. Then she's gone.

From the open doorway I can see some poor kid, with his mouth stretched open impossibly wide, thrashing about in the chair. The doctor is holding him down and screaming at him.

"Goddammit!" I hear the doc shout. "Open your FUCKING MOUTH! Wider. WIDER, YA PRICK!!!!"

Then he picks up this huge drill and starts drillin' inta the kid's mouth. The sound a' tha drill is what hell must sound like -impossibly loud and shrill, matched only by sound of the kid's bloodcurdling screams. I can only imagine what that poor kid's hearin' wit tha drill being right up to his ear an' all.

Folger's bedside manner ain't improved much since my last visit. I can't open my mouth that wide, either, so's there's no tellin' what he'll do to me.

The hell with this, I almost say out loud. I pick up my coat and walk out the door.

There's a dingy little pub down the street. I stop in for a beer. I see the dental assistant at the far end of the bar and wave to her, she sees me, waves back and then goes back to nursing her drink. My drink comes an' I hand the bartender a handful a' change. I drink nearly half the glass in one gulp and then I think about a pair a pliers.

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God am I ever hung over. What a night,I tell ya. My sister was hosting a bridal shower for one of her pals at the house last night, which meant that me an' Joe, her husband, had to amscray.

Too bad. I was hopin' to catch some of that hot-bridal shower action. Not that my sister's pals are supermodels or anything, but there's a few that I could see becoming "Mrs. Brad Hassebrock no. 4," and with an upcoming wedding to remind some of those hags just how single and lonely they are...well some of them might just be that desperate, y'know what I'm sayin'?

Anyways since all the men of the house had to leave, I asked Joe if he wanted to go check out this new bar called the Drop. Joe wasn't up for it. He just rolled his eyes and mumbled something about already havin' other plans. I don't know what's up with this guy. He's always saying he's got other plans, and he never invites me along. What a asshole!

Anyways I grab a couple of beers outa my minifridge while I'm gettin' gussied up. I put on my navy blue turtleneck sweater and brown courdory jacket. You can't go wrong with that comibnation. Then I tie my hair back into a ponytail and put in my hoop. I'm tellin' ya, wimin wet themselves when they see a guy with a earing, 'specially a hoop.

So, I walked into the pub at about ...ohh half past eight thinkin' the place would be wall-to-wall with chicks, an' you know what? It was fuggin' dead. The only other people in there besides me was the bartender and a couple of young dudes - i think they mighta been gay coz they were sittin' across from each other in a booth, talkin'...probably talkin' bout how gay they were.

Anyway, even though the place was dead. I thought what the hell, maybe it'll pick up. So I ordered a pint a Stella and drank it at the bar. Then I ordered another. By my third pint, I noticed that the place had picked up some.

Alright, this is more like it, I thought.
Then this chick sat next to me at the bar. A real knockout. Young, probably early to mid-twenties, with dark brown hair and a nice ass. I said "hi." She smiled and said "hi" back. She wanted me, I could tell. I was gonna order her a drink, but I saw she already had a full bottle of Bacardi Breezer, so I thought I'd wait till she finished it and make my move.

But then guess what. Some dude shows up they start talkin' like they already know each other. A young guy, too, probably the same age as the girl. They start kissin' an' stuff, right there in the goddamn bar! Can you believe that? What a slut, right? Gettin' it on with some dude you just met at a bar- what kinda chick would do that? I woulda told that guy to piss off, 'cause she was with me, but then I figured that chick probably had AIDS or something, what with all that getting it on with strange guys.

Anyway, I left the bar and went to the bathroom to drain the vein. The bathroom had that smell that all men's bathrooms do ...a combination of brocoli an' athlete's foot. An' even though the place had opened only a week ago, there was already graffitti all over the stalls.

The place was now asses to elbows, an chicks were everywhere. Problem was none of 'em were alone, they were all with guys...well all the good lookin' ones anyway, and the one's that weren't with broads that were even uglier..an' meaner. So I decided it was time to split.

I walked down the street to a place called the Lumberjack. This place was much better...it was teamin' with babes, and better yet, hardly any guys wit 'em.

I sat at the bar and ordered another pint of stella with a whiskey chaser. The bartender was a babe. She had a couple a' tatoos an' a piercing on her eyebrow. I think thats sexy. She looked at me kinda funny, too. Probably checkin' me out, thinkin' that maybe Brad Pitt just walked in. Yeah, I get that a lot. Guess me and him share more than just the same first name.

Anyway, I downed my drinks and ordered another pint. I was pretty buzzed by now. Then this chick came in an' sat down next to me. She wasn't the best looking babe in the joint, but she her hair cut short into this sexy little doo and a pierced nose, an' some ginormous hooters. Plus, she looked kinda familiar to me, but I couldn't place her face. I was gonna order a drink for her so I said something to her...don't remember what it was, but it got her attention. She looked at me an' nodded. She said something to me, but all I could think 'bout was getting my hands on those fantastic fun bags a' hers. Without even thinkin' bout it, I just made my move...well, sometimes ya gotta do it.

The next think I know, I'm lying flat on my ass with my jaw stingin' like all hell. An' lookin' up I see that chick's face...red as a beet.An' then it dawns on me, where I've seen her. It's Sharon, the bitch who ran off with my Brenda, my second wife! Then I look over and see Brenda standing rith there beside her! Then it dawns on my why there are so many women in here an' hardly any guys. At this point the bouncers come over and ask me to leave. No problem, I don't need this shit.

I stumble outta the bar and see a gang of neds dressed in tracksuits nearby. They're holding cans of cider and Tennent's Superlager and pointing and laughing at me. The oldest one is about 16.
"Oi, ya dobber, wha ya daein' in a dyke bar?" he shouts.
"Aye, he's a poof," says one of his friends and they all start laughing.
I try to tell them what happened using the best "ned" voice I can muster, but I've spent so many years trying to copy the accents from American television shows that I can't speak even a lick of my own accent anymore.
"Uhh, look boyos it's like this, see.."
They all start laughing at me.
"'Boyos?' aye, he really is a poof. A right perv, but."

Then they all start chasing me. The finally catch up with me two blocks up the street and when they do, they steal my trousers and shoes.

It's three am and all the pubs are lettin' out. I have to walk home in my underwear freezing my ass off and people pointing and laughing at me the whole time. Finally, a bum sees me and feels sorry for me, so he gives me a bottle of Thunderbird. He had only had two sips so the bottle's nearly full...full enough for me to forget the rest of my way home.

Anyway, I'm home now. Today, I'm just gonna take some painkillers and lie in bed. It's cold as hell in my sister's basement, so I'm wrapped up nice and snug in my blankets. There's some pasta salad leftover from my sister's party last night so I might have some of that later.

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