jeudi 18 décembre 2008

Poor List fragment 'The start of Kev's part in the whole thing.'

Inside a tiny, smoky pub there were seven or eight tables arranged haphazardly about a small raised corner that acted as a stage. On it, Kevin O’Hara, slight and stooped, was testing the public announcement system. There was a series of high pitched wails and screams from the speakers, followed by a stream of curses. Someone in the audience laughed over the crackle. O’Hara turned to face them too quickly. Beer from his pint pot slopped over the side and onto the cast on his left arm making him drop the microphone. There was a final crescendo of feedback before the pub’s landlord walked onto the stage, adjusted some controls and shook his head.- Fucking wankers, O’Hara said and grinned. People jeered.
- Give me that Kev, for fuck’s sake.- Ok Ok, shouted Terry shouted into the microphone. Let’s have some quite you bunch of fucking chimneys and let’s get this fucking thing started. Like always, barring any fucking power cuts, forty questions to stretch your general knowledge cell as far as it’ll go. Which isn’t that fucking far judging by last week’s fiasco. And if you want to smoke go out side. Jesus.
Someone in the front row shouted something.
- I know this is a cigarette, but I'm the fucking landlord. Is there any rozzer in? No? [sighs] Well, then, I spose you can all fucking smoke for old time’ sake eh? But use the bastard ashtrays you're not in your own fucking fleapits now.
The crowd traded abuse for a while with Terry O’Loughlin, licensed to sell beer and intoxicating liquor at The Junction Public House, Gledd Hill and authorised to vend food for public consumption therein, whilst Kevin O’Hara, unemployed of this parish, shittabed and ex-rugby star, leant on a mike stand and licked a dribble of Spark's Best from the greying scribbled on plaster about his hairy arm. There was more shouting and a drink smashed on the floor. There was a scuffle near the pinball machine. More people entered the pub from the noise of a cool May evening outside.- . . .and you’ll be down the fucking road. Yes. And as always ‘Answers with Kev’.[loud cheers].
Kevin O’Hara shuffled to the front and took an unsteady bow.
- No fucking cheating. Mobiles have been disabled, you bunch of reach rounds.
- Thank you Mister O'Loughlin for that kind introduction. Of course...
- Right, interrupted the landlord, Let us begin.

Familiar to anyone who has frequented edge of town pubs midweek, the forty questions were standard fare; show business, TV, politics and a picture and sound round. These events took time to organise, time which the landlord of The Junction resented but to which he acquiesced to doing in order to help out with Kevin's predicament and vaulting ambition, that may well have come off. That, and the guilt. It was Kev they'd all come to hear. That and the band. He brought in the punters and the way things were, The Junction needed all the trade it could get. Terry heaved a sigh and began.

Kevin O'Hara wandered round the bar and weaved in and around the tables offered advice and abuse to the teams. Three-quarters through and the Carbold Sheep Shaggers were in the lead followed by 'Summer Wine’ who were just in front of the 'Linsfield Synchronised wanking team.' Terry droned on “...played in the film Wild Strawberries? Which politician resigned from the government...into battle?..., and on, What country did the UK invade in 2010? It isn't Margaret Thatcher for fuck's sake. and on, No no fucking changing answers. Just leave it…” and out of the windows the rolling green of god’s own country basking in a petrol fuelled sunset that could have heralded the end of the world…and people drank the warm almost flat bitter and pale almost tasting beers and shouted and fell and pissed… “Can't fucking read that anyway, no fucking mark. Go away. Turn that fucking music down Lindsey I can't hear fuck all over here. And answers came there none. Right over to Kev. Where the fuck...?Kevin appeared, stage left grabbed the mic and shouted,
- Hey hey hey! Third prize free curry! Thank you Mr. Dameer of Top Taste...There was a ragged chorus from the crowd just discernible over the swelling hubbub.
- I can't fucking hear you?
Top Taste...[general shouting]

- Louder you dogs!
- Bottom Waste!
- That's right. Oh...the power.
Kevin slowly leant forward and pointed the head of the microphone to his bony derrière. There was a load prolonged rasping noise from the tilting speakers and Kevin stood straight and bowed amid general uproar.
- Chicken’s revenge. All right. All right. Second prize, [some obscenity is belched back at the crowd], four pints of Goat Fist and first prize this here bottle of whisky, only slightly used, and a full English breakfast. Hey cunts, some fucking quiet. Shite. I think I've followed through here.
Terry, shaking his head, made his way through the throng back to the bar.

Four pints Jim...So who's this then?...'like a duck to water.' I said...No five, make it five love...From round here ten a penny...Ha ha ha...No leave it...What's fifteen again?...Lost already fuck it...I had to chin him like...Ooof…Hey fuck off...Airhostess they’re called…..peanuts I said bastard peanuts...usual fucking chaos can't hear the...Terry! You better then?... ChKunk Chkunk Chkunk...more than usual fucking hell...Watch it...That's the ten quid I put into the fucker...god I'm pissed...Some fucking quiet in here...the fucking music down, down the other fucking way...You see, yer Arab well, different kettle of chips...Ha ha ha it you I said...lost it she said good and proper.

- So I'm off down the social again all organised this time I’d got me little list all sorted out: “one vets” two: “sign on consultation” three: “funeral” . Day before I gets this letter from the so-shh. Got booted off the sick, haven’t I? . How can they do this to me? I mean, look at me? [cries of ‘Get off!’] Ged ‘em off? You sure? I say, this new doctor, keen as fuck, he was, said there was fuck all wrong with me. I said you must be fucking joking, have you seen me? I am as sick as a three legged dog. He tells me that I’ve the heart of an ox and hands me some photos of me on a roof with some tiles an’ that, and says if I don’t cart me sorry arse back off down Market Street Work Station that he’d have to fill in this here form and that would mean all monies suspended for the next two year, investigations inconvenience and so on and so forth blah de fucking blah like I’m sure you’re all aware. Fucking roofin’ - this bastard arm is all I’ve fucking well got to show for it. Gerry said it’s easy work. Drive around looking for loose looking stuff on rooves all over the area, bit o’ winder cleanin an’ that cash in hand for old rope. It’s goin dog’s bollocks for month or so, then me luck returns to form. There I am one minute scootin about fixing some old dear’s tiles, next thing I’m sliding down roof as fast as a greased fart. A sees the ladder speeding towards me, and I grabs fucking old of it, thinking I’m saved. Ah clings onto it as it falls back with me on first rung shouting to Jesus Allah and all the fucking gods in creation. Ends up straight onto the bastard van. Fucking ladder’s one of these flexible carbon fibre fuckers an’ it bends back like an’ catapults me over the old dear’s fence and straight through her fucking greenhouse. Mind you, you can’t argue with cunts like that. Way things are, social’s are getting a bit nowty with your more hardened dole wallah. Like me. And Baz over here. [inaudible] What’s that? I say fuck off. It's not as if any of you bastards are unfamiliar with the ways of the Palace of Plenty, [laughter] I know for a fact that there’s a fair number of yer that haven’t worked so far this fucking century, so you can stop the sarky fucking jeering. And the doctor, well he had it coming. Oh aye. Am forgetting here. Number one “Harold Pinter” Funny fucking name.
Where wor I? That was it - this particular day, the wife'd given me ‘undred quid to have done with the dog. She couldn't face tekkin to vets and have it looking at her like it were all her fault. Which it was in a way, running over the fucker like that. Fucking right performance. Number Two – Julius Caesar. He had a Roman nose like mine roamin all over his fucking face. No, Ceasar not the fucking dog he had no nose….I say how did the fucker smell….? [hoots of derision. Comedian stares out of the window, over the moors and fading light for a second. His face is caught in a shank of red sunlight. The lights come on] Fuck off then. I mean what were she thinkin’? So I’m drifting into town not looking forward to encountering the Gutterenstilefuhers down at the compound, but what can you do, when I bumps into Syrupy John half-limping and falling out the bookies on Peel Street. You know the place, Spearman’s, next to The Flying Ashtray, it’s the only betting shop you come out worse off even when you win, actually, especially when you win, and we gets talking. He says he’s been investin’ some of the compo he got for falling arse over down the factory stairs in slow horses and fast women. He asks me why I’m dressed up like a old mod so a tells him about auld fella and that, but he starts pippin on about how his life wor all fucked up, like people tend to do when you tell em bad news, and that he needs to submerge some of his troubles in some booze, so we end up poking our snouts into the ‘Drug and Bottle’ on the corner there. I had a few hours to spare and what harm could a pint or two do? Number three Brookside. Fucking what? Yeh Terry, soz, number four - Scott Joplin, of course. I once made a wish for a twelve inch penis but the magic fairy misheard me and granted me a twelve inch pianist instead. Budum. Ok – a word of explafuckingnation for the uninitiated - like the beer in here, my jokes are old and weak. [jeers] Like all o’ you’ll be one day so shut yer fucking ‘oles. Five Henry the third. Now Syrupy John is an old acquaintance of mine, what o? O yeh, soz, the fifth, we used to get expelled from school together regular and I ant seen him for yonks. Usually he were a right miserable get, but he were near suicidal this doleday. Tellin’ me ‘ow his girlfriend’d dumped im, how some cunt’d nicked ‘is car, the court cases n’all usual chat. What wi’ funeral later on, I wont that sympathetic like, so after a pint or two he gets up to buy some gunge off the brothers who kind of live in the corner of the pub and soon we’re all smoking and having a bit of a time of it. [‘comedian’ downs and finishes half pint during otherwise continual drinking] Mind you imagine Charles or whoever it’ll fucking be riding into battle. Are there any monarchists in? Fucking hell. Six because on that side you can hit someone with a sword better. What’s that you say? Is that really true? Well, that’s the fucking answer I have written here in front of me. Terrence is the font of all knowledge and he swears that’s the case so anyway as for driving, I couldn’t drive a fucking dodgem. In fact, I say, I’ve got meself banned from most of the driving schools round here. One of the reasons wife binned me [more jeers] – well that an’ shagging her sister. Later later… I say, it were just after ad necked me fifth pint of Pils that John asks us what I wor doing in town. [Get off] Silence Danny you cheeky streak o’ piss. Have you not seen the sign behind my arse here that says ‘Hecklers will be taken outside and treated roughshod’. [turns] Oh, wait a minute. No it fucking doesn’t – it says ‘Drugs will not be tolerated on these premises’ [genuine laughter]. First I’ve heard. Did you know that Baz? Fuck’s sake. How’s an honest to goodness drug dealer ‘spose to earn his keep these days with talk like that?. Last I heard, drugs were the only reason people tolerated these fucking premises. But don’t tell Terry, he does ‘is fucking best, even if his best is shit, like. Next ‘Bat droppings’. Nah nah that’s the fucking answer. No fucking stewards enquiry or nothing. What you say Janice? Well fuck me, language now language. What’s that Terry? “Stop fucking swearing for fuck’s sake?” Now usually I don’t pick fights wi’ people uglier than me but tonight I might mek an exception. You’re only joking, Janice, ok. I know. I’m trying too here, honest to fuck. Ten – four hundred and fifty nine. Can’t remember what the fucking question was. Terry gerrim a pint will yer, you’ve enough fucking enemies as it is [Audience member: “Joke Kev tell us a joke you useless cunt.”] Alright alfuckingright. Horse walks into a bar and sits down. Fella next to him says ‘No she went of ‘er own accord?’ Now fuck off. I’ll tell you a joke at the end. Mind you last job interview I had this fella asks us “So it says here you write your own jokes?” an’ I says to him “Well you must ‘ave had a laugh at me CV?” Oops watch out Barry comin’ through. Mind ‘ow you go – oh too late [laughter]. So Syrupy John is telling me all about the compo he’d got for his little accident at work. Now bear with me cos this might explain a few things that’s been happenin round here. Syrupy John works in the pop industry. Knows all the big names, flash clothes, big shiny car the women round ‘im like he’s God’s gift [puts on deep voice] ‘I’m int pop industry luv an’ you look as if you’ve got woddit teks.” That’s right he works at Boyd’s and Harrap’s fuckin’ fizzy drink factory.
I’m not sure I believed the cunt but, like, he’s fallen down the stairs after sliding on some stuff that should of got cleaned up or summat and proper fucked his leg up. No more burglaries for a week or two, he tells me. The judge at the tribunal believes all the stuff and grants him twenty grand or so. Not much but it’ll do he says. I believe you John I says after he’s told me whole tale – thousands wouldn’t like. Thing was he were still furious with the gaffer he worked for. Some rancour with this manager and he’s telling me his plans for revenge like. His leg is glowin with pain and he swears that only six pints of strong Czech lager can possibly provide the necessary pain relief. [sings] “Then I go an spoil it all by drinkin sixteen pints of strong Czech lager…la la lalala” [belches cavernously] I promise I’ll sing at end [cheers]. So his argumentation you might say is a little on the vague side. My intellectual capacities have been reduced by the poison pils they sell in there an all the fumes an that. But what he tells me of his devilish plan an what I remember about it had a kind of daring do about it. I’ve been sworn to secrecy, but praps I’ll tell you later. All right here are some more fucking answers….ninety ninety seven. Fuck me, that long ago? Fifteen, ‘The Penis Pills’, o’ course. Fucking top band. I seh, there I am like, I’m in the middle of town middler day with a load of flutter in me pocket . It felt like my life had ‘turned round’ like it says on posters. But it all fell to shite somewhere after me sixth pint. Consulfuckingtation. Question seventeen, Sadamm Hussein – yeah remember him? I say, My memory’s going. Iraq, yeh that were it remember? An’ I’ll tell you another thing, my memory’s going. [terms of abuse from crowd] Have said that ‘ave a? So, anyway before I know where I am, am ‘aving to leg it as fast as I could to get to fucking Work Stop or Hand Out or whatever they call themselves these days on time. I stumble into the gaff propped up pissed, and number seventeen ‘S’. ‘S’ for shitfer like you Scoddy. O T T F F the next one is S. How obvious, some fucker explain it to him will you. Any top up, I gets to the desk in this place an some from behind a thick plazzie screen gives me a ticket an tells me to tek a seat. Now I don’t know if you’re familiar with Queens House’s interior décor but I doubt whether Regina herself ever parked her airy arse on one of these plastic jobs. Thing is, they’re all nailed to the ground so they don’t get flung about an that and they’re all worn smooth from all the layabout arse from round here that’s got to sit on them waiting for a pickmeup. It’s dark and there’s cameras everywhere making me feel all paranoid an that. Well they do when you’re all mashed up like I was. Plus there’s all these heavy duty posters dotted about informing you of the dangers of been a scrammer an’ that. Most horribly of all, this day, I couldn’t find the shithouse. Eight. What can you do when you can’t and can’t when you can? [disorderly shouting and haranguement of performer] All right all right. I say what kind of fucking questions that, Terry? Answer, drivin’ of course [shouts of outrage]. Don’t blame me Errol. I say, driving. Things the way they are, it’s not easy keeping yer motor on the road, such as they are, these days. A lot of you get about with no licenses, insurance, stolen cars an’ all [indignant cries] that. Me? Never even passed. Like a seh. Tried a load of times. Pearson’s driving school went bust after I finished with them. Last test instructor, Greg I think he were called, passes me this list as am getting in , “WCO. What the fuck does that mean?” I said “Wrote Car Off.”, he says. “But it’s already been ticked?” “Well it saves time at the end don’t it you useless cunt.” Nineteen , From the German 'frichen'. Twenty Charles Dickens . Christ. So I gets up an asks one of the security guards where the bogs were but he just looks at me like am shit on his shoe. Turns out, bogs are all out of fucking order. Picture round – twenty is the latest Foreign Secretary, Graham Woodcock. I say, when he lies does his cock gets bigger – missus must be an happy woman…Me number’s up so it’s too fucking late anyway. The people at Queen’s House are an impatient bunch so I weaves off to the cubicle down the corridor. It’s a fucking depressing place like down the cop shop – tiny little fuck off rooms, carpet the colour of shite, walls the colour of piss an’ with posters all over them. Plus some orrible eighties fucking music. I was bug eyed pissed and fucking bustin’ but this nonce sets me up for a truth test and probe and all the fucking works. Fucking hair net thing and some crocodile clips on me fingers. For a moment I thought they were going to do for me [fucking should of done - voice in crowd.] . . . Was that a shaft of wit or was it a whaft of shit! [whaft of shit shaft of wit - inaudible] anyfuckingway, the two main gaffers stroll in from a door behind the plastic screen with these fuck off files and starts with the questions and that. Twenty one, Bernie Sumner or someone, though I 'ope he has seen better days judging from that photo. So, where wor I? [inaudible] Watch it you! I say, kiss, I say kiss I say kiss the back of me bollocks! [raucous cheers]. Twenty six Lady Diana – remember her? Queen did for her you know? Did for the brakes of the car an' that. Honest to fuck. So, these two types start grilling me good and proper name address, marital status, size o’ me cock an all the time looking at this little screen for to see if I’m telling porkies. I am most of the time, but like Syrupy John said, if you think about sex hard enough, the machine gets all fucked up. Speaking of which twenty eight – The Prime Minister himself. [boos, cheers]. I say, he’s doing a fine job considering the pressure he’s under. [laughter]. Must be a woman somewhere he hasn't shagged and country somewhere he don’t want to invade. I nearly joined the army once, meet interesting people and kill them and all that, but I failed the eye test through been a wanker all me life they said. Well fuck ‘em. Any army in tonight? O fuck. No fence. Any root, the woman starts giving me a real hard time an starts droning on about job hunting, responsibilities and stuff, but it’s the cocky little fella who’s pissing me off. He’s sat there all serious and smug and keeps pouring out water from a bottle into his glass an' drinkin' it real slow like and it starts to remind me of the seven pints of pils or so I’ve just supped. Bear with me here because it explainas a lot of things – Thirty, Cilla Black? Who? Like, I’m just nodding away trying to think of Stella Ambrose and not pissing myself. Not that she were a barrel of laughs or out. Because, by the looks am getting what am saying’s not making for a convincing job finder’s profile. Thirty one, the rocket’s gold plated! Not the send off me old fella got last month that’s for sure. Police are still referring to it all as the ‘Cemetry Road Incident’ apparently – yeh it made the papers. Partly my fault, family tensions and that, all boiled over in the church, things got out of 'and you know how it is. Well it’s what he would a wanted. Stupid twat. So I’m telling them about the fall, the lay-offs and misunderstandings and being sick and all that but these officers are having none of it and the woman, a right bitter looking thing, takes her glasses off and starts some loud spiel about stark incentives, new programs and measures to be taken and a load of other stuff I’m in no fit state to hear. ‘Cos all I can think about is leaning against a piss stone somewhere quite and perhaps blowing my chunks. Thirty Two – Chicago, of course. So I waits for a pause in the conversation, which were quite a fucking while, and asks if there’s a bog in the joint. Fella laughs, but the woman takes exception to this and nearly starts hyperventilating. Starts talking to me like an irate Headmistress or sommat. Now the Swiegen Pils in the Drug is a rough fucker of a pint. Syrupy John is a placid bloke but I remember one Friday night they had to call the cops after he’d had five pint. Took three rozzer to hold him down an' all whilst the fourth sorted out his broken nose. And I’ve seen many of you lot crawling about after a bollock full of it before you start. So, one of its many side effects is that it can make you a little short tempered. Plus Rick fucking Astley’s back catalogue playing away is not helping. As the questions carry on I gets to thinking all sorts of fates I could inflict on these fuckers and I hear myself say something in my defence. I say “Look I think I may have become a tad disillusioned with the world of work, that's all.” and some other stuff about hitting concrete ceilings an that. The bloke looks at me all side ways glances and that and says them's quite big words for someone from Clemmed and even the mother figure has a laugh too. Now I know given the scores you fuckers get in these quizzes that we are all pretty fucking far away from being the brains of Britain. We all know that that’s why Jesus Crust our saviour was not born in Held – no fucker could find three wise men – or a virgin for that matter, but there was no fucking need for this type of language. Not that I wor in any shape for any physical argy bargy or nothing. Besides there’s a screen in front of them. So I says words to the effect that just because I weren’t educated that don’t make me stupid or nothing. Are there any students in. Thought so ‘synchronised wanking team’ is it? You’re not going to win tonight’s funniest name with that are you, you cunts! But, anyway, the old lady can see I’ve ‘ad a few and that I’m slurrin’ me words a bit. [puts on posh voice] ‘Mr. O’Hara, you’re inebriated I fear.’ The cocky cunt with the sharp suit laughs and shakes his head. But before I could stop meself like, I’m stood up thinking ‘Fuck it.’ And I pops freddy out me trousers an’ starts falling about an' pissin on the chair, on the lie detector stuff that’s fallen on the floor, the posters on the wall an’ up and down the plazzie screen. [laughter]. There’s consternation back stage an’ the fella must have pressed an alarm ‘cos there’s this siren all of a sudden, and before I could finish, these two big security guards ‘ave burst in, all shouting growling and start setting about me and grabbing me and that whilst getting covered in piss. One of them, takin’ exception, holds me up whilst his chum weighs in with a few punches to me old guts. There’s a lot more arguing and thrashing about as I’m manhandled through door, and dragged down the corridor, me bastard cock all waving about still, through the foyer- all stuffed with joe public - and hurled down the ramp outside. I didn’t even have time to sign on. If the day ad started bad, it got worse later. Any toot, it’s time now for our traditional karee-okie round. [inaudible clamour] Ok, Ok I’ll sing something later. [cheers] Samantha you’re up next – who’s up Samantha next though wey hey – oof – alright I suppose I deserve that love. What’s that you say you’re doing? ‘I will always love you’ [cries of mock anguish from now packed house]. A perennial favourite in any alternative universe so give it up for Sam! [applause].

Kevin O’Hara sits at a table with three others as people bring in amplifiers, guitars and drum equipment. Rain hammered against the windows.
Kev shouts over the noise, “Christ. So how much will I be getting?
The woman looked at the man to her left and nodded. He says, “Two hundred up front and ten per cent of the bar.”
“Fifteen.” Kev says and downed the rest of his pint.
“Fine. Just swear a bit more, the punters down our end love that kind of thing. But lose the sexist stuff. Gets on the Equality woman’s tits.”
“Student cunts. I’ll get some fucking practice in. Cheers anyway. Terry. Terry!! Get these tossers some drinks in will you?”

- Thank you Samantha. Someone’ll have the place under some Health and Safety directive, fuckin hell. So there I am looking down at a pool of semi-digested pils glistening on the pavement not feeling my best. It’s half three I’ve thirty quid left out of the ton for the vet and late for me auld man’s funeral. I teks refuge in the The Flying Ashtray for a livener an’ after that things get a bit vague, but next up I’m back home four hours later, fuck knows how, slumped in front o telly soaked through, with a two litre bottle of cider. Dog limps in through the door and stares at me with its one good eye. Now am not an heartless bastard despite what some say [ironic taunts from some in the crowd] but matters had to be taken in hand. Oh yeh results. Looks like the stoodents have won this week. Best name, though, goes to ‘It’s your funeral’. Terry’ll sort out the prizes! So I pats dog on head. We had our differences , he pissed on me clothes and chewed me slippers and I kicked him about a bit, but you know, you gets used to having things round the place an’ that. So I teks a huge toke of the cider, Silver Sword - [sings] 'a drink that needs no introduction', and we go outside intert little yard round back. It were fucking pissing it down. I goes to the shed a bit choked an’ that. He’s sat there tied up looking expectant, I could just see his face in the street light like, breathin’ like a miner on his last and smelling like a pot of cabbage. I close door, quiet like, and I says to him that I’m not right proud of this and tries to explain that I’ve been forced into a bit of a corner but he just licks his chops and tries to look as enthusiastic as a three legged dog with renal failure can look. He looked at me with his great big brown eyes kind of pleading. [minute pause in crowd noise]. And I it him with a spade. I swung this mighty garden tool over me shoulder, fucking killed me busted arm and all, and ‘whoomph’ right on his bonce. Falls over like a cut off tree not a noise out of him. Trouble was, I’d only stunned the bugger, he were still twitching and making this whimpering sound. There were blood everywhere. So I hits him again. Fucking right mess. He stops breathing this time and I stagger over to the hedge and throws up into next door’s garden. I’m fucking freezing by now and covered in blood. I hadn’t planned it out all that well and were in a bit of a panic as I looked at his prostrate form lying there in the pouring rain. Fuck knows how murderers manage but I takes another gulp of cider and carries the bugger over to a quiet place on the common at back of us, fucking right job and all, and digs a shallow grave. He was a pretty big dog and it nearly did for me. Good job it were a terrible night and the ground were all soft and that. No fucker saw us. [pause]. Don't think. Any road, gets back looking like a serial killer. Sweating, piss wet through, busted lip from somewhere, trembling and covered in blood. Fucking Crimewatch. But hey come on don’t look so down. Like Syrupy John says ‘Cheer up soon be dead!’ Look, here’s a joke before I sign off with a song. There might be someone in here who’s not heard it before. Farmer and his wife are trying to have kids….[the lights’ primary colours shine back and forth and pick out faces in the crowd…the fruit machine flickers…raised voices and shouts…a guitarist tunes up…a drummer tests a bass drum]… - he rushes back inside and says ‘What the fuck are you doing in bed get up you lazy bitch, get up, the fucking barn’s on fire. [disproportionate prolonged laughter]. Yeh, thanks fer trying’. Any toot, I’m off to university! First in my family to go like. Next month got us a gig down at the Black Hole or summat second on bill only to tonight’s guest ‘Airhostess [ragged cheers] And like I promised a fucking song!! [cheers whistles] ‘You ain’t nothing but a hound dog’!! Elvis….too young to die [section of crowd shout - too fat to live!] Hit it Terry! Thank you and good night! [jubilant singing from crowd, more cheers].