Showbusiness - The Diary of a Rock 'n' Roll Nobody by Mark Radcliffe

Author:Mark Radcliffe [Radcliffe, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Published: 2012-04-12T04:30:00+00:00

7

Bob Sleigh and the Crestas

The aftermath of the Holland débâcle proved to be a testing time. On arriving back at our flat, everyone made themselves uncomfortable on a stuffing-spewing settee or damp divan to grab some much-needed sleep. Rising around tea-time, it immediately became apparent that me and my girlfriend, who in the interests of protecting her identity we’ll call Sara and not her real name, which is Sally Medlock, had a problem on our hands. After feeding them sumptuously on crumpets, button burgers and alphabetti spaghetti, we considered our charitable work manning a soup kitchen for the Fylde’s down-and-outs to be over, and, as they showed no sign of moving on, began to drop mild hints into the conversation. Stretching prodigiously, I said, ‘Blimey heckers, this trip’s taken it out of me big style. I think I’ll be back to my pit soon.’

‘Yeah, me, too,’ murmured Des, barely taking his eyes off a particularly engrossing edition of Opportunity Knocks.

‘I’ll bet you’ll be glad to get back to Poulton, then,’ offered Sara.

‘No rush,’ said Les Bartlett. ‘Gran’ll have watered my conker trees.’

‘Yes, but there’s nothing like sleeping in your own bed, is there?’ I pleaded.

‘You’re right there, Sparky,’ chimed Wammo. ‘I suppose my old bed’s still where it was?’

‘Yes, with the same sheets still on it. I would have changed them, but I haven’t got round to borrowing a hammer and chisel.’

As the evening wore on and Opportunity Knocks gave way to Coronation Street, a folk opera set in considerably more luxurious surroundings than the ones we found ourselves in, it became obvious that our gentle suggestions were having no discernible effect. I decided to take a less subtle course of action.

‘Right, lads, you’ve had a kip, we’ve fed you and let you dry off your underpants on the gas fire, and now I’d be obliged if you’d all piss off.’

‘Ah, well, there’s a bit of a problem there, Mark.’

Thanks to Jimmy Quimby, we’d come back without a penny, and as Sara and I were, as was the prevailing fashion at the time, students on the dole, we did not have the means to finance return travel to Poulton-le-Fylde for these three stooges, by which I mean the badly dressed, improbably coiffured, distinctly unfunny film pillocks Curly, Larry and Mo, and not the drop-dead-cool backing band of Iggy Pop. There was nothing we could do. We couldn’t put them out on the streets – the other dossers would have complained about the smell. We would just have to put them up for two or three days until the next giro cheques came through.

Re-ensconced in his old environs, Wammo noticed with some disapproval the changes that had been made in his absence.

‘Oi, what’s happened to the fungus I grew on the kitchen wall? It took me ages to nurture that, and now someone’s scraped it all off.’

‘A woman’s touch, Wammo, a woman’s touch.’

Those few days seemed like an eternity as Des spent long hours in front of the telly doing a

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