Still Standing: The Savage Years by Paul O'Grady

Author:Paul O'Grady [O'Grady, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Non-Fiction, Biography, cookie429, Kat, Extratorrents
ISBN: 9781448126408
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2012-10-11T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 9

NOW THAT I was travelling the length and breadth of the country on such a regular basis, the train fares and hotel bills were taking a major slice out of the night’s fee. I’d also just won Capital Gay’s Entertainer of the Year, the only thing I’d ever won since the Easter egg in Miss Bolger’s raffle at St Joseph’s Primary School. I pretended to be very nonchalant about this award but in secret I was overjoyed, and throwing caution to the wind I bought a car.

As I couldn’t afford the Lotus Europa MK 2, the car Tara King had driven in The Avengers and the one I desperately wanted, I went for a bright red Citroën BX which I bought brand new on the HP. That car was my prized possession. I’d look out of the window each night to gaze down lovingly at it, parked proudly outside on the South Lambeth Road. It had electric windows, which we all thought were the height of sophistication, and as I couldn’t drive Murphy took the wheel and together we covered miles, travelling to venues all over the country in luxury.

It wasn’t unusual for me to work Cardiff, London, Birmingham, Manchester, Sheffield and Bournemouth, all in one week. If we were eager to get home to our own bed then Murphy would drive through the night with an Elkie Brooks tape playing and me desperately trying to stay awake in case he fell asleep at the wheel, not that he ever did as in all the years I spent in a car with him we never had an accident. Murphy was an excellent if aggressive driver, who took no prisoners on the road. God help anyone who cut him up as he’d pursue them in a car chase worthy of The Sweeney. We had lots of arguments over this and many a journey was spent in silent anger.

The places we stayed in overnight ranged from decent to dumps. Grim little rooms with damp beds and grubby nylon sheets that sent sparks flying when you got into bed in the dark were a false economy, no matter how inexpensive they were. It was far better for the soul to shell out an extra fifteen quid and stay in a ‘proper’ hotel, if only for the luxury of a shower. In one such hotel in Cardiff after a night working in one of my favourite venues, the Tunnel Club, we lay in bed watching the telly and eating a box of Cadbury’s Roses, pleasantly pissed. We fell asleep and the first thing that greeted me when I opened my eyes in the morning was the sight of Murphy’s back smeared in what looked like shit.

I pulled the sheets back. The one we were lying on was slathered, as were my legs, and out of the corner of my eye I could see a lump hanging in my hair.

‘Murphy, wake up! You’ve shit the bed,’ I screamed.

‘No I haven’t,’ he said matter-of-factly, patting his backside to check.

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