Bottles

Busy,

Busy is the word.

Gert finally got back in touch, and I was going to kill him. He called about Thursday I think, and I was sitting there drawing pictures of the hanged man on my notebook, studiously avoiding work. “dude” he says “those girls aren’t going to work out” man I was angry.

So anyway we met and I had to laugh at him. His face was a mess, he’d already gotten thumped to bits by someone. Turns out of the girls one had a boyfriend who took exception to Gerts technique of audition. Gert got the slaps and apparently the girl didn’t do too great out of it either. The other one could never sing to begin with, but by Gerts accounts he talents didn’t lie there. We had a drink and I laughed at him, his beating basically saved him from a beating, you know, but I had to say, that’s it, girlband, no. and to his credit he agreed. “you were right all along”

“I know”

“the problem with a girlband, is the girls. They’re nuts”

it’s true. So crooner boy band? I mean, for the young girls and the gays. The gays have nothing else to spend the money on. Gerts eyes narrowed.

“well, I’ve been thinking, hanging out in temple bar, looking at the kids, watching MTV. My Chemical Romance are fuckin huge, and why? Why? Because as much as the kids want to be horny, they also want to be miserable.”
”I’m listening…”

“we need to put together a metal band, like my chemical romance… we check out the kids hanging around on a Saturday, and we put them together. You film it, we’ll write some songs… it’ll be a doddle… it’s just we’ll need a good singer. That’s the key.”

Well, I had to think for a second. It’s write up my street. I thought I’d give writing pop songs a lash, and well lets be honest, it’s all samples isn’t it. I mean look at the sugababes, you rip off are friends electric and call it your own? I thought that ould be a doddle. But this… guitars and bass… I can do. I can produce. These kids would be a lot more interesting to film, you know, much more depth than vain girls who can’t sing. I nod my acquiescence, and a sly grin plays across my face.

“I knew I picked you for a reason, Gertie. “

“don’t ever call me Gertie”

“ha ha ha”

At the weekend I headed down to temple bar to check out the kids. Even given the weather, which was inclement, there’s enough of these black clad, bad makeupped, miserable middle class kids standing around to give me an idea. I do a quick vox pop “what music are you into” and I get a picture. No one listens to stuff from my youth, not one Bauhaus fan, no-one’s into Metallica. One guy claims to love Slayer. Oh yeah, I say. I saw them in the top hat 88, best gig ever. Kids impressed. Two years before he was born. “Lombardo is king,” he says. That he fucking is, I muse. “do you drum”

“yeah man.”

I get the kids number. His girlfriend is there and she starts calling me a pervert. We’ll have the last laugh, I say to the kid, when we’re topping the billboard 100, eh? My heads brimming with ideas as I walk off. “pervert” yer one calls again.

“can you sing?” I ask?

I had Nolenne and Cian over for dinner in the week. I made seared scallops with a sweet potato cake and I’m really into my Amarone at the moment, so I have a few bottles of that lying around. Cian has brought over some grass he picked up while he was away in Amsterdam the other week. He’s laughing his face off telling about all the whores and stuff and Noleene is all like, jesus, Cian, you know with the serial killer on the run in Ipswich and all… and Cian say, listen the whores gotta eat, don’t they. Cian bellows, he always has, it’s his utter middleclassness. We both went to the Rock, of course, and Cian was (oh sweet irony) a great hooker in his day, but he always had this garrulousness that came with just being moneyed, a confidence that bred confidence. Bourne of nothing. I mean, yeah an aright hooker with the ball, but he hated to tackle. He was dropped for the SCT, the time I was made captain, and of course he didn’t care. It’s the measure of the man. Cians hero is Bono.

The grass is good, but soon Cians asleep and drooling at us. I tell Noleene about my new band project. “once we get the label up and running, we’re laughing. I have investors. I have money”

“it’s a far cry from girl bands… I mean, from girl bands to hip hop metal or whatever it is…”

“It’s all the same, manufactured ideals for teenagers. Music is less about music, more about lifestyle these days. It’s about look.”

She shrugs. “Cian hasn’t fucked me in 6 months.”

“this is good grass”

“six months”

“maybe if he wasn’t stoned all the time”

“oh don’t you worry, Cian’s getting some alright”

“ah well then….”

“I want some,” she says.

I’m not so concerned about the morality of fucking your oldest friends wife while he sleeps like a baby on the couch, more it’s just that I’m not all that attracted to Noleene. She has a horsy kind of chin and he skin seems slightly glowing orange. I take her on the kitchen table so I can keep an eye on Cian, I don’t know why. She makes these guttural grunt, that reminding me of my old mans phlegmy coughs before he died. She has a jerking style, that favours one side, and she’s grinding her left hip into me at such and angle that my cock is at a ninety degree angle. I close my eyes and grit my teeth and surprise my self by envisioning Cathy. That gives me some impetus, and I just hammer at her for a minute or so, and that seems to be enough. She neighs like a horse and I withdraw just before I ejaculate, and manage to get to the sink just in time. I don’t mind if you come in me, she says. I’m barren. It’s all a background hum. My cock looks too red. I look at her and she’s sitting on the edge of the table, surrounded by the debris of dinner, slurping the last of the Masi from the bottle. Anything stronger? She asks. Cian’s on the couch, snoring away, but I’m sure, and it could just be grass-paranoia here, sure I saw one of his eyes flicker open.

I dig out the Jameson. “oh good man,” she says.