“Right so, cheerio then,” I said as jauntily as I could, hoping that my light and breezy manner might lift the mood a little and bring a smile to their world weary faces.
It didn't.
So I continued.
“I’ll be off so then. Thanks for all your help Bob, genuinely, you are a legend to beat all fucking legends, defo!”
They turned to me, all three of them, and were an eerie vision of desperation and resignation. Pining for something I reckoned, anything really, to break the monotony and tedium that had cast its dark shadow over their sorry existences. Well that’s the way I saw it anyway at the time. Looking back on it now however, I’d probably have to admit that I might have got that a little bit wrong. They might just have been pissed off about the fact that there was some kid in their penthouse with a bag of shit-stained jeans in his hand. Who for some inexplicable reason also, had made an assumption that it was still OK for him to be there.
“Alright, alright,” I said, with one hand up. I sauntered further into the room and lodged the bag of shitty garments up and under one of my oxters as I went.
“You’ve worn me down, you’ve worn me down!" I continued. "I’ll give you one alright?”
They glanced back and forth at each other confusedly, wondering (I know now) what exactly the fuck I was going on about. There was a good degree of shoulder shrugging going on, but not being the brightest tool in the toolbox sometimes (especially when I’m on the sauce) I continued on with my communiqué regardless. In relative oblivion I suppose you could say, to what was actually going on.
“OK so, here goes lads,” I ventured further. “Why does Noddy have a bell on the top of his hat?”
Looking at each other perplexedly once again, and after a brief and inaudible interchange between the three of them in a kind of huddle, they shook their heads eventually in unison and turned around to face me once again. Dunphy nominated himself as a spokesperson for the trio and opened his mouth to speak.
“Ehh, sorry son, but we really don’t know,” he said to me in a kindly enough manner I suppose, in retrospect. “Why does Noddy have a bell on the top of his hat?”
I looked back at them in mock incredulity and raised my arms into the air. As if, that is to say, that the answer I was about to give to them was the only answer it could have ever been. And that it was truly shocking to me also that they didn’t know it.
“Why does Noddy have a bell on the top of his hat? Because he’s a cunt!!”
After which Bono promptly walked over to a small incidental table to the side and picked up a retro looking telephone receiver that was sitting there. And spoke into it then in a clear and measured tone. Curt you might even say. Just one word. That cut like a knife.
“Security”, he said.
OK so these guys really need to get themselves a sense of fucking humour!
Chapter 12 - Penny Pinching Aviation Types and Hoodwinking Medics
“There is no way in hell Marcus,” said JR indignantly, “that you’re getting me into that get up. No way dude, not in a million fucking years!”
We’d been summoned to and were now stationed in Marcus’s front room, where he’d studiously hung four dress suits from wherever he’d managed to find spots available for them to hang. One clung from a hanger at the top of the open door leading into the room, and another from the same door but on the other side. The third was balanced precariously from the end of Delia’s quite unnecessarily thick oak mantelpiece, and the fourth from a brass drawer handle attached to an old fashioned mahogany bureau towering in the corner; just to the left as you walked in and directly behind the door. The last of the costumes was being modelled by the man himself, Marcus, and very dapper he looked as well I thought. It was clear enough though from the looks of dubiousness on their faces, that the rest of the individuals present were not subscribing to that specific point of view as assiduously as I was. In addition to the outspoken JR (as you’ve already heard) the other two present, namely Jason and Stretch, had it seemed, varying degrees of reservation.
“Look Marcus,” said Jason fairly inoffensively, with his recently acquired more measured demeanour a noticeably less intrusive trait of his reformed character. “It’s all very well of course, and we really do appreciate the efforts you’ve gone to, seriously, we do. You must admit though that this is probably more your kind of thing than ours right? You know when all is said and done and all that? And you actually sit down and have a good old think about it?”
Jason’s words were delivered quietly and considerately, so as you can see, a radical personality change had come over him in recent times. In no more than a year since the debacle at Dollymount, he’d been transformed into a soul at peace with himself and an ‘expletive free’ picture of calm and tranquillity.
Delia breezed into the room carrying a tray; all sequins and schmaltz, cheap talc and perfume. Her blonde permanent was showing the early signs of being the opposite and the pristine white, lower figure hugging three quarter length pedal pushers she was wearing were a dubious decision in any girl’s book. Almost certainly a goer in her youth though, of that there was little doubt. And if the missives we found before the Bowie concert were anything to go by also, her vernal exuberance and appetite for a bit of ‘strange’ were still very much shall we say, to the fore. She placed the tray on top of the glass coffee table situated in the middle of the room, and then nearly went over on her arse on the way back out. High heels and thick piled carpet – a deadly combination.
“Jesus Christ,” she muttered ruefully. “That fecking carpet!” She recovered her composure well enough though, and tottered off out towards the kitchen, returning again after a minute or two with a plate of mint viscounts and a china jug full to the brim with milk. Tea and biscuits at Delia’s. This was a first. Perhaps it was the salubrious outfits. Turning to retreat again, she flicked her blonde mane out of the way of her face vivaciously and spoke.
“Enjoy it then boys,” she said seductively, before licking her lusciously lip-sticked crow-footed middle-aged lips, and sashaying her arse out the door like a street whore. White pedal pushers as I've said before. And black nylon-stockinged legs underneath. With garish black pencil lines running down both calves towards her ankles. So all in all some very questionable decision making from Delia earlier that morning, whilst assessing her costume options for the day ahead. In her misguided mind she was Rita Hayworth http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4rWpND28Jos but to us she was Julie Goodyear http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WDZDpEddSjc. Marcus looked momentarily embarrassed as always, but resumed his customary obsequiousness before long. He was more than used to her by now, so generally moved on to the next thing quickly enough. A kind of subconscious immune system I suppose, indurated by consistent and perennial mortification.
“Look lads, fair enough,” he said, moving on to the next thing. “I know it’s a big ask but I wouldn’t be pushing for it if it wasn’t important. It’s my twentieth birthday and I want the night to be memorable. None of us here have birds right? So why the fuck not then I say? What’s wrong with a bit of style? And at least if we roll up in smart looking suits we might have a slightly better than our usual miniscule chance of nailing a Doris. Am I wrong dudes? Is this point not patently obvious to you all?”
“Yeah,” sniggered JR. “Even you might score Stretch. That is of course, if you break the habit of a lifetime and actually wash your bollocks before you leave!”
“Tell me JR," retorted Stretch quickly. "It’s been bothering me for a while. But do you by any chance like chicken?”
JR nodded suspiciously; not entirely sure I suppose you might say how a poultry related topic had found its way into the general confabulation. But certain almost definitely, that it was a sure fire precursor to a piss-take at his expense.
“Well suck on this then…” Stretch continued, pointing fixedly to his general crotch area. “It’s fowl!”
“Good one Stretch,” we all laughed, JR too, notwithstanding the fact that he was the actual brunt of the joke.
Nobody could deny though that beyond the humour, there was a considerable degree of verisimilitude to Stretch’s asseveration.
“OK right," interjected Marcus sarcastically, "so as much as I’d be keen for you guys to persist with this enthralling debate and you know, regale us for the evening with your comical stylings; I'd prefer really, if you don’t mind that is, if we could agree on what we’re doing vis-a-vis the night in question? And you know, where we might kick it all off? And by the way also Stretch, and as a general follow on from the recent humorous exchange of views between you and our good friend JR here; it would definitely I think be a good idea if you could make it your business to give the old bollocks a bit of a rub before you venture pubwards on the night. We’re on the lookout for female accompaniment here as you know, so much as I’d love to disagree with JR’s insinuation, it’s fairly undeniable that your nether regions more often than not reek in an unquestionably putrid manner. I’m just saying Stretch you know, so no offence intended and all that. You may have noticed also by the way, that I‘ve put forward a slightly less bellicose review of the situation as our esteemed acquaintance, which I hope you might appreciate and as a result of that, take my suggestion on board and act on it accordingly. Vis-a-vis the old showering option?”
“No offence taken,” replied Stretch, but kind of oblivious to Marcus’s preceding monologue at the same time. Which was almost certainly due to the overly ostentatious invective. If Stretch doesn’t get what you’re saying within the first two or three words, then that’s it; his eyes glaze over and he ceases to resemble anything remotely akin to an active audience participant. The chances of him engaging so, in anything of a remotely ablutionary nature as preparation for Marcus’s birthday celebrations, were still very much one would have to say, slim.
But beyond all that and as I’ve mentioned before a lot; Marcus really was a bit of an arse sometimes. But be that as it may and even though the idea of wearing tuxedos for his birthday bash was not going down too well with the other lads, on a personal level I couldn’t see too much harm in it myself. I was in a minority on that front however, with Marcus and I alone the only two viewing the idea with anything close to enthusiasm or positivity. In the end a slight majority won out, with Marcus eventually getting his own way as per usual. Jason, concerned about the fact that it was Marcus’s birthday and following on from that, that we should be doing the right thing by him for that very reason, conceded that he should probably go along with his illustrious host’s wishes. He reversed his vote so, making it three against two with the deal done now effectively and any option for annulment dissipated in the process. Majority rules and all that.
There were other equally contentious issues to engage us as we debated, and we spent the next hour or so arguing these through. And not really getting anywhere either to be honest. Marcus wanted to go to this Horseshoe Bar dump in The Shelbourne Hotel – yeah I know, I’ve told you about that shithole before – so even I agreed to side with the other guys on that one. The day a desire comes over me to associate with the oafs that frequent that particular watering hole is the day my self-respect will have finally thrown in the proverbial towel and elected to call it a day. Lo and behold though Marcus won out again! The logic being as put forward by JR, that there was no way in hell we’d be able to venture into any other boozer in Dublin dressed as we would be, without running the near certain risk of getting the absolute shit kicked out of us by whomever happened to be in situ in said hostelry at the time.
Ireland was playing the old enemy in the footie that night also and Marcus, being completely disinterested in anything remotely related to the beautiful game, determined that this was in no way going to be on the agenda; at least not for the earlier part of the evening anyway. We’d kind of half agreed to that but knew at the same time that we’d eventually convince him to watch it somewhere else when the time came. Marcus despised football with an intensity, which in those days certainly was unusual in the extreme - especially in our grotty little neighbourhood. He maintained consistently that the tribalism it encouraged was for cerebrally challenged four year olds and to a degree on that front I suppose he was right. But it's still ‘the beautiful game’ when all is said and done, so hard to agree with him if you take the dumb ass supporters out of the equation. A story goes anyway that his old granddad had been peering through an upstairs window in Swan’s Nest Road at the other neighbourhood kids kicking a ball about on the street. He turned around then and shook his head dispiritedly in resigned disbelief at his grandson, who was happily leafing his way through ‘The Fellowship of the Ring’ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TrJJ6ncp1fc on his bed.
“Jaysus son, sure isn’t it feckin’ terrible haw?” he’d say to Marcus’s monosyllabic Dad later that day. “There's just something wrong with a lad that doesn’t play ball.”
“Maybe,” grunted Marcus’s dad disinterestedly. A man of few words as you know. And at that precise moment in time probably more concerned about some hedgerow in the back garden that Delia had barked an order at him to trim earlier that morning. In fairness to Marcus so, it’s no wonder he rebelled when you consider the motley crew of nutbags he had to contend with at the homestead on a daily basis.
Marcus was a law unto himself when it came to boyish pastimes. Upstairs on his own more often than not, reading Chekhov and listening to The Mahavishnu Orchestra http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EqfjMDOr-tU. Incense sticks smouldering on a window ledge. A thinker. And if the model for Rodin’s thoughtful hero of the sculptured masterpiece had unexpectedly stepped out for a sandwich at short notice, and the great artist himself needed to touch the sculpture up in the spontaneously hungry sitter’s temporary absence, then Marcus would have almost certainly constituted a more than adequate replacement. If of course he happened to have been hanging around the venerated artist’s studio in Paris sometime around the early part of the 1880’s. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jha6SvVLXjU
The idea anyway was that we’d meet at his house at around 6.30pm on the evening in question, and change into the tuxedos there after we’d arrived. We’d have Kir Royales in his front room (check out arsiness above) after which we'd take a taxi into town (it would be called to the door, thank fuck) and then soldier on up Grafton Street having alighted previously at the gates of Trinity College. We'd take a left onto St Stephen's Green then, and after a minute or two would arrive at the Shelbourne Hotel on the left hand side and on to the Horseshoe Bar kip past the foyer on the right hand side for scoops. Nobody found the taxi suggestion particularly objectionable either by the way, and although admittedly extravagant, the act of travelling by foot in a penguin suit through any of the streets of the Swan’s Nest estate was tantamount basically to going up to any random punter in the neighbourhood and enquiring of them as to whether they’d be happy to consider the notion of administering a swift kick into your bollocks if they very much didn’t mind. You think this sounds far-fetched? A tad unbelievable even? Well I’ve lived there so trust me it’s not. To stroll through those streets penguin suited as suggested, would be nothing more than wanton stupidity and a complete and total profligacy of madness. A taxi to the door was definitely the sensible move here, and without doubt our only viable option under the circumstances.
So yeah. It was June 12th 1988 and there we all were. Standing gormlessly in our black tuxedo’s in this God awful shithole dump of a Horseshoe bar. It had just turned 7.30pm and the conversations in our immediate environs were stiflingly grim beyond imaginable. Apart from our own fairly rudimentary and uncomplicated monkey suits also, it was difficult to spot anyone present who wasn’t wearing an Italian designer suit of clothing that was patterned with unnecessarily thick and garish pin stripe. Throughout the rest of the western world also in fact, spotted dickey bows and cravats had for some time I believe, the better part of half a century even, been moribund to the point of near extinction. Here however they flourished in comparative abundance. Fat Cuban cigars were lodged immovably in fat, capitalist fingers and everyone there was laughing a half octave louder than was totally necessary. Avarice and privilege were tangibly palpable and a general feeling of nausea was manifest among us. Brought on simply I believe, by the extreme vulgarity of it all.
Except for Marcus. Marcus was fucking loving it! While the rest of us shuffled around uncomfortably, trying desperately at all costs to avoid eye contact with any of these outlandish oafs, Marcus had already struck up a conversation with two of them at the bar. It turns out (we could hear them perfectly well from where we standing fully three yards away) that one of them was this recruitment agency type character, who for some inexplicable reason kept rocking back and forth on his heels and looking down at his shoes every five seconds or so; just it would seem, to check that the shine was maintaining an adequate enough lustre. Lifting each shoe every now and again even, to give them a bit of a rub with a handkerchief. So a nutter basically. His principal topic of conversation was related to the mode of conveyance known to one and all as the ‘BMW’ but more specifically his own. No matter what attempts Marcus or the other guy made to change the subject. It always seemed, for some odd reason, to meander back to the excoriatingly boring detail that he'd just acquired a brand spanking new 5 series earlier that week. So we’re talking tedium on an epic scale here. The second guy it turned out anyway was called Michael, and from what we could make out from the sporadic occasions he was afforded an opportunity to speak, he seemed to have ventured recently into the field of aviation. Soon enough though he became very much the worse for wear on the gargle, so it was kind of hard to know if anything he was saying he actually believed in, or if it was just the drink talking. He began by rambling on interminably about the coasters on the counter top in front of him, as in that in his opinion they were completely superfluous to the overall drinking experience. They should be done away with completely he said, and would be also he elaborated further, if the management had been doing their jobs properly and were serious about the finances.
"And the ssshsame goes for zose zhincidental lizzle bowls of zoriental schmix also," he persevered, "and zhnapkins in the toilets, hic (which he maintained drunkenly he’d charge people for if it were up to him), and zhemixers and zzlices for zzrinks as zzwell. All complee – hic – unnezezzary, zhoo away with ze lot I shay," he ventured further, as he tottered back and forth unsteadily on his feet.
He wasn’t against the actual ‘idea’ of these things per se apparently, just the idea of giving them away for free. The more he went on however, the more the fat cats close by were viewing him with increasingly acerbic glances of distaste. As in that this frugally-minded maverick doesn’t belong in a revered establishment such as this. ‘Wanton wastefulness and frivolity are the cornerstones of what we’re all about’ they were no doubt thinking, and this shyster at the bar ‘is just letting the side down’. There was definitely something about him though. A kind of doggedness I think. Something told me that one day, some day, he would take hold of a fledgling business and make it a great success. And that that business’s success would almost certainly be as a by-product of his own overt stinginess and total disregard for the comfort and desires of its customers.
But anyway, I digress. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he was just some drunken tosser at the bar getting pissed and talking shite.
“An anuzzer zhhhing,”he said, tottering quite badly now. “Feckin‘ cocktail shicks, hic, zorry, schticks, for zees feckin’ olives! Can’t shzzpeople use der feckin zhfingers?!”
Which was a valid enough point I suppose. Once we’d eventually deciphered it for what it was. Viewing it in a slightly less parsimonious manner however, cocktail sticks were hardly going to break the bank now really were they?
So this Michael character ranted on about this and that for a couple of minutes more, and then, just before terminal ennui was set to take an irreversible hold on our souls, he livened up proceedings again by teetering back and forth and keeling over, banging his head then moments later on the fastidiously lacquered black tiles below. Before passing into a pretty much immediate state of insentience. There were a few giggles and harangues to be heard here and there, but definitely no initial display of discernible concern amongst anyone in attendance. Nobody (ourselves included) made any attempt to assist Michael in any way to begin with, with most just shuffling their feet awkwardly and looking back and forth at each other in uncomfortable silence. The only audible sound (it seemed to me at the time anyway) was the sibilant sipping of Double G & T’s and 1960 Château Lafite Rothschild, before finally, thankfully, one of the pin-striped brigade from the other side of the bar opted to lend a hand. He made his way over to Michael and leaned down over him on bended knee, before grabbing his flaccid wrist loosely and checking it for a pulse.
“He’s OK,” he said gratefully after a few seconds, to the moderate relief of everyone present. “But it’s absolutely essential," he continued, "that this man receives medical attention without further delay. If there’s a doctor in the house then make yourself known to me here at once!”
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a gangly, silent figure skulking sneakily behind me; attempting to slither his way clandestinely along the mirrored façade at the back of the bar in the general direction of the exit. It was a floor to ceiling mirror that he had his back to and he was sidling along it slowly, inch by inch as surreptitiously as possible, so as not to arouse suspicion from the gathered swarm. If anyone noticed he was there or indeed that he was trying to make good an escape, he could very easily stop dead in his tracks and to all intents and purposes be perceived as a mere random or casual onlooker like the rest of us. Just leaning up against the wall as it were and minding his own business. He wasn’t as clever as he thought he was though, as the entire circumference of the bar was covered with these mirrored facades. So no matter where you were basically or what you were doing, it was inevitable that you’d be spotted by somebody eventually if you were trying to do a runner. Your furtive activities would be detected easily enough no matter how well you tried to conceal yourself.
So he was rumbled in the end and the game was up.