Contact
Roy washed his hands carefully. He could feel cold sweat glueing his t-shirt to his jacket. Ugh. At least he had been given an indication: "the Chinaman", so. Well, that was a start. The Chinaman. Hmm... maybe he should take this opportunity to give You-Know-Who a bell: what your man didn’t know about Dublin was probably not worth knowing. Yes, quite so, if anybody was able to help, he’d be the one with the relevant knowledge. Roy congratulated himself on his presence of mind and punched in the requisite numbers on his portable telephone.
“Hey Eamo me old china, how's your luck?" (Roy enjoyed adopting a Cornwall accent when he wished to confuse the recipients of his phone-calls, cheeky cunt that he was. He had once rung Ferguson pretending to be an Iraqi footballer refugee. Cue a thirty minute list of private phone numbers to human rights lawyers, football managers, personally recommended agents, immigration officers and other approved hostel owners that he had had no choice but to pretend taking down before hanging up, utterly mortified.)
The trademark dulcet tones rang in his ear.
“Roy, is that you?" (Cripes he’d been rumbled! Deffo can’t teach an old monkey new tricks!) "Listen, would you mind calling me back in a moment, I happen to be on air right now."
Oops! Indeed he was. Not only that, but Orla Barry was next and she didn’t take kindly to being encroached upon, would it be by just a minute oh no she didn't.
“Oh. You are? But... this early in the day? Didn't you commentate on the Cup Winners match last night?"
“You bet I did. Simple question of self-discipline, Roy: a large toast of fried coffee for breakfast and you're ready to go. Look, I really have to"
“Sure sure big man, 'call you later!"
Roy hung up. (Like feck he was going to phone him back, it was always him having to call back and whose phone bill was it, huh?) If anything, he was mostly annoyed with himself. Why, he had been so stupid! By calling, he had given himself away in this deadly game of lethal chess moves! Meaning: his probable enemies were bound to have traced the origin of his telephone signal, they must have worked out that he had made it to the old Baile Atha Cliath! Worse still: not only had he given his location away but he had just blown his cover! For all he knew, Eamon might be telling his listeners right now that Keano had been on the line, soliciting him for some kind of advice. Add two and two together and you don't always get twenty-two oh no, it was only a matter of deduction for anyone with half a brain listening to NewsTalk -as all good Dubs do- to second-guess him and up their game if they were involved in this white-knuckle ride of a no-prisoner-taken charade resting on a knife’s edge in the eye of the storm. What was it your man had warned him against, again? FECK!!!
Keane hit the Redial button. This time an ansaphone message came on: "Sorry I can't come to the phone right now blah blah blah up the Dubs."
“Listen ya dumb feck, do that again and I'll come round your house! How could you do that to me? How could you?? Listen up and listen good, if you say one word about my presence in town –one word- I will personally take the bus down to your studio and stick your microphone right up your"
“Hey there, part two" (his lifelong pal picked up) "I'm on an ads break now. What’s the story Bud?"
“... ?!! Did you tell them?"
“Tell them what, Roy?"
“That I'm in town!"
“Are you? ... Which one?"
“?!! Awww forgeddit, so you didn't then?"
“No I didn't, and I haven’t the foggiest what you're on about pal. Do you mean to tell me you're in Dublin? You must come round for tea then, me nan will be delighted to see you, such a nice young man she always says"
“Listen Eamo, I don't have time, I'm on a mission"
“Another one? But, but, you promised, you promised me last time, no more trip down the old A&E at 4 in the morning pretending I had just come across them lying on the road!"
“What 'you talking about? You sound like you’re confusing me with Wogan! I don’t moonlight as a freelance Repo Man! He’s the one with the transplant icebox to fill, not me!"
“Oh shit, you're right -Forget what I just said. I don’t know nothing about missing organs!” (!!!) “Let’s just rewind. Now then. So what can I do for you Roy?"
“Well it's a bit of a long shot but... I need to track down someone. Would you know of any Chinese man in Dublin?"
The line went dead at the other end.
"A... Chinese guy... in Dublin... Right-so, how long have you been away Roy? I think there's something you should know about Dublin. It’s kinda changed since the eighties. Hang on, ‘be back on in five, call you right back. Why, thank you Minister, that was a stunningly interesting answer you gave us here, and totally unexpect" (Click)
Roy felt better. Dunpho was on the case. If there were to be any tips worth following in this god-forsaken town that festered with Liverpool supporters (if not worse: L**ds United), they would surely come from the fount of knowledge that was his old friend (and coincidentally biographer).
The sun rose in the East and he found himself at the Western end of the mid-Northern continent. As for China, it was slightly further left round the corner of the globe if you choose to bypass 2-D. Considered this way, it was all starting to make sense. What he was looking at must be a giant invisible pentagram crisscrossing the circular heavens. Ah yes, Roy could smell the unmistakable stench of black magic in the air, it reeked of patchouli and dried-up frogs steeped in turpentine. He could also smell petrol fumes and delicious hot chocolate drifting from across the road. Hot chocolate, his favourite! All these years he had pretended to enjoy alcohol when in fact he was dying for a nice cuppa' Cocoa -but tell that to the tabloids, like they'll believe you! (He understood that Cloughie had also been a secret Lemonade fetishist in his own days. He had hidden it well.) Looking up (from the gutter in the general direction of the stars), Roy found himself facing a roadside café.
On display was an appetizing selection of freshly made scones, Danish, cookies, munchies, tarts, pies, biscuits, biscotti, strudels, Norwegian omelets, Mexican wheelbarrows, Fiorentine neckties, yum-yums, pink oboes and other pastries available for purchase with a wide selection of hot and cold beverages at a very reasonable price.
Of greater interest to Roy was the rich aroma oozing from the ventilation grille: pure mule, it was. Now that was what he called chocolate, it sure didn’t tease his olfactory sense like the modern rip-off synthetic ersatz that faceless corporations tried to pass off these days as the right stuff! Have pity on the long suffering masses for Pete’s sake! (Who that Pete was, Roy never knew.) Oh no, this hearty fragrance stung his nose the way it was supposed to, it was almost narcotic in its imposition and fast burner Roy realised at this point that he hadn’t had anything to eat for at least a number of hours (...if not more). Nothing, nada, which meant no cell regenerating fuel -Heaven forbid that he should faint for lack of nourishment! Now was as good a time as any (before the next) to tackle the critical situation.
He decided there and then to go and purchase some eats. It made sense too: giving Eamon time to wind up his program with more tales of political corruption and assorted virtuous denials, then the genial gargoyle would phone him back with the astute suggestions he was renowned for. Ah it’s all good Roy decided, and he congratulated himself on yet another good call: let’s go grab ourselves some grub in the meantime.
Roy entered the café. Self-authorised socialites with a pair of inverted commas around their job description on their commute to their PC-bound nine-to-five were queuing for the delicacies, making a great show of pretending to speak into their portable telephones: "Yah... yah... Totally. Tell Siobhan to scrap the front page and call me back as soon as pronto -know what I mean like?" Roy joined the queue extending all the way down to him. This was not only fortunate but also de riguiour, as the alternative option would have meant jumping it and Roy never jumped the queue. He wasn’t French eh.
The Polish girl took his order.
.....
From a tourist trap free magazine he had picked up, he could see that 2005 was indeed billed as the Year of China: lots of reciprocal State knees-ups, cultural manifestations, assorted bribes, love-you-long-times, please-sign-heres and what-have-yous were on the agenda. Some vague connection was definitely starting to take shape and the jigsaw puzzle looked about ready to fall into place...
A fly chose this moment to fly right into a window pane (“Ssschputt!”) and, not for the first time, Roy wondered at the creature stupidity. I mean, glass had been around for -what?- hundreds of years now, and still the buggers hadn’t got their collective heads around its existence. They continually crashed against window panes which they then surveyed in circles for hours, oblivious to any draft that surely signaled a way out a few inches away. Why couldn’t they evolve? Their pointless obstinacy had always been a sight to ponder -and not an inspiring one at that. Which reminded Roy: what the hell was Eamo doing? Just as he asked himself this very question, his phone rang out. Ha! His sixth sense never let him down!
“Yep, you son of a"
“Roy? Where are you?? Weren't you supposed to take out the trash and call the plumber?"
(Gwendoline!)
“Gwendoline? But, but..."
“There is no but -he's gone to Newcastle, remember?- you promised you’d get round to call the plumber and you haven't, have you?"
(Damn the woman was right!)
“Funny that, I was just about to -Look, you called me at the right time luv’, I was precisely going through the phonebook like"
“Ah sure you were, you’d better if you know what’s good for you! Can I take it it will be sorted by the time I return from Tesco?"
“Absolutely. Absolutely luv’. Hundred percent, I'm right on it!"
“OK. OK then. And don't forget the recycling, make sure you sort it out proper before you bugger off to play with your little friends, our planet’s resources are not infinite you know!"
“So right you are luv’, so right you are. Will do. Consider it done. Top of my list. ....Speak soon."
The line went -as it is wont to do when communications get terminated- dead. Phew, that was a close shave! Nobody -not even Gwendoline- must be informed of his secret super-identity; it would put her and the kids in great danger and if there was one thing Roy wouldn't have -apart from inferior chocolate of course- that would be compromising their safety. Ain’t gonna happen, no Sirree. He had to rise above the challenge, he had to play it clever. Keep it on the hush-hush, Ma’s the word. Not even Eamo was totally clear as to what -or who- bit him when Roy got one of mysterious calls and had to step up to the mantelpiece. This had to remain his secret. It was strictly between him and the million readers of this novel.
So anyway he was faced with a greater problem now. Not only did he have to save the world from a as yet undetermined danger, he also had to find a plumber before next June to come sort out the bleeding bathroom. What was it this time? Had the little rascals been giving another shower to their pet leopard and the creature’s hairs had blocked up the pipes like last time? Had they been bleaching their studded silk jeans in the Jacuzzi and buggered up the enamel work? Roy whimpered softly. Coming back from a two-nil deficit to Juventus away was hard enough, but finding a simple sodding plumber was another kettle of fish altogether! How oh how oh how would he manage this feat?
First of all they keep you waiting for ever, then they charge you double for unsocial hours, they naturally add VAT, they need to "order some parts", they slap on import premiums, they “need to check with the boss", they ask for a cup of tea (“two sugars please –no milk”), and on and on and on -They drive you bonkers they do! Little beads of sweat started to pearl up on Roy’s furrowed brow and his heart-rate accelerated. Getting the right man for the job -and ideally before "next Tuesday or maybe Thursday, Friday in ten at the earliest yeah?"- now that required super-perspicacity, he super-reckoned.
In the end Roy picked up his phone and speed-dialled the preset plumber’s number. Boxed off! Bob was your uncle, the usual lad would come by in the morning and get it sorted, picking up his tenner and a signed shirt on his way out (which he would flog on eBay no doubt) –Everyone’s a winner. Roy replaced the handset on the table and allowed himself a modest smile -The man had done it again!!
....
Somewhere on the other side depending where you're standing, Sinead was experiencing a vexing problem. Her wing-wang was not in its proper Hoola-Hoops position and her third breath was not coming on nicely.
"Dammit woman", muttered she to herself, "Show some concentration here!" She repositioned her left leg on top of the Sanskrit cabinet and spread out her arms to the opposite ends of the man-size cross erected in her study. She then unleashed a guttural sound: "Kumbayaaaaa!" Ah that was better! The miniature crystal garlands hanging from her tented ceiling responded to her intra-uterine frequency and started swinging in harmony. The ripple of sound spread through the star-shaped room like an audible ray of light, oh it was simply beautiful, it was like a vibration to die for and the ice cubes in her low-fat flat mineral water clinked of their own accord. "Maaaa, can you keep it down please? Some of us are trying to sleep if you don't mind!" Furious fists banged on the walls on either side of her room. Her little angels! Her babies! Lost in her quest for the ultimate soundwave, she had neglected them!
Sinead put an abrupt stop to her three-day wake and manually silenced the hundreds of transparent little stars of David roof-carpeting her home-made studio: maybe they were right, maybe it was time to call it a day and succumb to Morpheus’ arms. After all, she had an eternity ahead of her to recapture this transient moment of grace.
Sinead fell into a deep sleep. God was a woman, and she was a Rasta. God ordered Sinead to go on a mission. Hers was to go forth and fetch the lost souls, console them, bring them up to her motherly bosom and warm them up in the merciful heat of Her divine love. (Also U2 were reduced to do supermarket openings for their sins and nobody bought their records anymore.) The world became an oasis of peace and palm trees and Sinead was able to skip from one ocean to the next (“skiiip”), flying over entire continents as she spread her message of goodwill and reduced to cinders the multifarious anachronistic extemporal malefictatious anaboli-The fecking phone chose this moment to ring.
Dishevelled, baffled and bewildered, Sinead picked up the receiver:
“Errr.... yes? What time is it?"
“Miss O'Connor?"
“Yes...?"
“Top of a very good morning to you, miss O'Connor. This is Non Judgemental Saint-Patrick Elementary School, regarding young Elzebaiah. ... You are miss O'Connor, mother of Elzebaiah O'Connor are you not?"
“Er yes, yes I am, no I mean, I’m only his physical progenatrix in this temporal world yes"
“...Right-so. Well, Ma'am, it has come to our attention that young Elzebaiah has missed his last two P.E. lessons. Would you care to elaborate and expand on the reasons why as to which? Would you care to provide us with an explanation why your son has deemed it preferable not to attend these pillars of our State-sanctioned curriculum? Because this school, miss O'Connor, may not be judgemental by name or nature -it still takes a very dim view of pupils playing truant when they should be marching up and down the square in an orderly fashion. A very dim view as a matter of fact."
“Oh, er... that, you mean? These P.E. lessons? Oh yes, ‘meant to ring you, sorry about that: completely slipped my mind! See, I have been busy with one thing and another these last few days and so er... you know... "
“Yes?"
“Yes, well. Well Elzy has been feeling quite poorly recently, and I’ve been meaning to take him to see a doctor -although I don't entirely believe in Eurocentric medicine of course, there ought to be a frank and honest discussion about alternative medicines yeah- and so I gave him permission not to attend these P.E. lessons. Sounds like I forgot to inform you then."
“... It would appear so. With the greatest of respect, Ma'am, I'm afraid the school’s rules and regulations are not to be taken lightly and therefore this recent... forgetfulness of yours is neither appropriate to- nor respectful of- the gravity of the current situation. Do I make myself clear? "
“Oh absolutely. You're absolutely right to remind me. That’s me told and no mistake. See, what happened is –you know how it goes- I was working on a seriously heavy project here, was really going for it y’know? and I’m afraid I rather lost the sense of time and, anyway, what is time if not a relative value I think you will agree -like which of the two trains moving at different speeds or depending from which distance you stand from the sun- so I probably lost track of time –silly me- and of my er, pedestrian priorities relating to Elzebaiah's school requirements. How foolish of me, right? What a hare brain ha ha! I mean, he had told me -and more than once too!- he had told me about his, er, tummy headache trouble or whatever -being a sensitive child and all, ‘know what I mean? and so I was naturally upset yeah, I was naturally worried, I wanted to do the right thing and keep him at home so that he wouldn’t spread it to the other kids like, except really what I should have done, huh, what I should have done is I should have notified you like –hmm- much earlier I guess."
“Quite so."
“Now I'm not bullshitting you or anything –no way-, Elzy has been feeling quite poorly as of late and in fact has been violently sick last time we had tea together. I had prepared a lovely tureen with oyster sauce, pickles, tofu and raw cabbage -helps your digestion when you're not feeling a hundred percent- and strike me down with an lamp-post if he doesn’t suddenly start to barf and spurf his tea around like a geyser! It was coming out of him from all directions! Oh it was a sight to behold, you just had to be there, gelatinous globs of half-digested garlic flying everywhere, and ginger flakes, and gluey knots of seaweed spaghetti –I’ll tell you what, I’d have been dead offended me, I would have taken it as a comment on me cooking if it hadn’t been due to his notoriously poor tummy and sensitive nervous system"
“Ma'am, Ma'm. Please. Although I must thank you for your candour and taking the time to enlighten me about the recent developments in your son's digestive condition -your cooperation is always greatly appreciated on these matters as well as any other-, I would still like to remind you that the school insists on requesting a written and sealed certificate as to the whys and wherefores of the students' whereabouts when not engaged in the prescribed activities."
“Huh?"
“A certificate, Ma'am. From a bona fide doctor too, if you don't mind."
“Right, right, most certainly. A medical certificate. Right away."
“That would be great. Thank you ever so much Ma'am, I trust we shall receive the abovedescribed document at the earliest opportunity. Your attention is our concern. Have a nice day now."
Sinead hung up the phone. The little eejit! What had he been up to again?! Going to the pictures? Smoking in alleyways? Chasing skirt like all normal boys do? Ah there would be hell to pay when he came back from wherever he had gone to! Sinead paused. She could already see the headlines in tomorrow’s fish n chips wrappers: "Sinead takes kid off gym -a close friend said she considered it "detrimental to her son's development”; the concerned friend then added that the singer allegedly swore at the general state of our educational system."" The vultures! Any occasion to slight her character eh, any pretext to put the boot in! Oh she could already see it, "The Late Late Show" would open with snide remarks on her parenting skills, Bono would put out a statement to say he had no comment to make and Joe Duffy would have a field day, er, fielding calls from outraged model citizens slagging her left, right and call-center -It was so unfair! Surely every kid with two functioning brain cells must hate being flattened in the mud by a belching tub of lard on a cold morning in the name of sport? (No offence to Drico naturally, eh. Drico rules! Whoo-ooh!)
Oh well, at least she had been informed of the situation before it got out of control and he started skipping chemistry or algebra lessons. (Now then, "out of control / all out of control" …Wouldn’t it make for a catchy chorus? Funky stuff, that. Neat. Sinead reminded herself to write it down somewhere lest she should forget. Sinead lived in a house of backs of envelopes.)
The sultry songstress frowned. Yes, she would need to have a word with Elzy, and also write a heartfelt note to them media vipers: "Leave my son out of it! Don’t let me catch yous printing unfounded allegations about him ever again! And if yous have something to say, come and tell me to my face!” To be sure, it was a sad state of affairs; sensationalism held sway like never before. Marshaled by the Murdoch empire, red tops had developed a worrying sense of entitlement and the distinction between private life and public interest had steadfastly been eroded to make way for a new intrusive obsession with celebrities. Said celebrities had become public property and it was about time someone set the motherfecking record straight. “The media have no right probing into an innocent woman's family life, fishing for salacious details and making up stories. Diverting the general public’s attention from serious societal issues in favour of gossipy headlines has to stop! Let me ask everyone: if we learned instead to coexist in peace, love and harmony, wouldn’t the world be a better place? Huh? It’s just like Marley said, let me remind yous of his famous words..." Here Sinead stalled. She would need to go and trawl the great man's lyrics, couldn't think of anything relevant top off her head. Still, that ought to do the job. She’d let them have it cos’ let it be known yeah, no-one messed with Sinead!
At the end of the day and for all her mystical leanings, Sinead was a pragmatist. All her life, she had known that she could never please everybody. Some people would always find ways to take offence and would come up with all manners of objections to her existence. …And that was even before she opened her mouth about the latest hushed-up scandal! “Lah-di-dah, are you trying to make yourself interesting or something? Shut the feck up and sing us a song, b*tch!” No, there was no point in entertaining unrealistic hopes about getting along, born malcontents would always think of something to whine about. They would always try to undermine her for the sheer sake of it. Spineless industry servants, armchair know-it-alls, self-appointed guardians of the temple, lubricious toadies.
“Books will turn your head and angry up your blood” they used to say; now it was “Pop music and politics don’t mix”. Well she had no time for this lot. Sinead was like Marmite: you either wanted to lick her up or inflict her upon unsuspecting visitors to these shores.
With all that, she suddenly felt cranky and fancied a cheeky bite. What about she grabbed some grub first and then called her GP re. the required note? Sounded like a plan... Sinead congratulated herself on her presence of mind and got down to it. Mums are the real heroes, everyone knew that! But first, some wheat-free glucoseless bread on rye would do the trick. Washed down with a pint of Arabica.
.....
Meanwhile back at the ranch (OK, Keogh's Café). Abstract: Keane's phone rang; he picked it up; he listened; then spoke.
"Dring driiiing! He wears a magic hat / and when he saw United, he said I fancy that". Roy was always slightly embarrassed by his choice of ringtone but, hey, the kids had insisted so what can you do... The good thing about it though, was that it forced him to answer fast. Roy fumbled in his pocket, almost blushing. "He could have signed for Spurs or Arsenal but they're fu"-At last he found it.
“Allo?"
The velvet tones of Eamon Dunphy filled the air imprisoned in the receiver:
“Roy? I've been doing some digging, son. You said you wanted some info on a certain "Chinaman" in Dublin? Great news, I’ve located a pub answering to that name. I spoke to your man and he told me that there was one on the Southside, not far from the funny farm, sounds like a possible match -Would this roast your potatoes? I’ve got a feeling it might. Now -and if you don't mind me asking, but it would make life easier for the both of us- what exactly are you after?"
Roy thought for a second, and the second elapsed:
“Hmm, ‘can't actually tell you I'm afraid. It’s like an emergency, you know? Private matter. But don’t get me wrong Eamo, I’ll follow your tip, much appreciated! Now whereabouts did you say this boozer was?"
“Up St. James Street, past the Guinness storehouse before you turn left for the Hospital, on the right where the road forks down to Kilmainham. I am told there is a Chinaman Tavern right there on the corner, ‘only one in town ...although it may have changed name recently, who knows these days, Bertie's a got a lot to answer for and don't get me started on Michael McDowell he’s starting to"
“OK OK thanks a million pal, smashing, I owe you one" and Roy hung up in a hurry. Good old Eamo eh, sure knew everything about this shit-hole! And now up, up and away! Pretty much like Gerry Adams wearing two condoms, Roy reckoned he simply had to go and check out this joint to be sure, to be sure.
.....
"Welcome to our customer service. All our
agents are busy at the moment but rest assured we are trying our utmost best to
redress the problem and will get back to you as soon as possible. Do not hang
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to us and the phone company appreciates your patience. If you are in possession
of a half-decent phone –that is to say one with a touch-pad- please listen to
the following options. If you do not
possess a phone with a touch-pad, may we suggest you make the transition to the
21st century and go acquire one, you useless fossil. Thank you.
Please press "one" if you wish to speak to our mouth watering
promotions and spam-list department. Please press "two" if you wish
to listen to Vivaldi's "Four Seasons". Please press "three"
if you wish to listen to the pan flute version of "Bridge Over Troubled
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an indeterminate amount of time. Or alternatively, stay on the line until one
of our foreign call-center agents –also known as our Expert Dedicated Friendly
Customer Service Agents- has finished getting dog’s abuse by another caller and
is foolish enough to pick up. ... Or you my hang up."
What was that supposed to mean? That we were allowed to hang up? Huh? Or were they simply telling us to get stuffed! Any way you looked at it, the message imparted was simply galling -How dumb did they think we woz! Had anyone ever heard of someone who would wait forever?? (Apart from Penelope of course, apart from Penelope.) (And the tramps from "Waiting For Godot", ah yes the tramps.) (Oh, and the soldiers from Buzzatti's "Tartar Desert". Yes, them too.) (And the Christians awaiting The Second Coming. She supposed they probably counted, in their own funny way.) (And the)-aw, forgeddit. Sinead caught herself uttering a bad word as she slammed down the phone, her blood curdling anti-clockwise. She needed some apple tree Camomile tea (with anti-oxydents) and she needed it fast.
The
Big Music
Your man from the Waterboys, she seemed to remember, had been going on about The Big Music for quite some time now, almost as long as the mantra chanting Buddhists up the old Himalaya, so there was a definite pattern going on here, a recurring fantasy shared by hard dreamers: she was not alone in her quest. At least she was well equipped for the hunt mused she, what with her voice and her special weapon. Sinead had indeed a secret weapon. Like Oskar from "The Tin Drum", Sinead’s shrieks could smash crystal at twenty paces. Hadn't done that for a while though …what with the Waterford bill not settled in its entirety yet. Still, it was a gift worth keeping up her sleeve; you never knew what was around the corner.
Meanwhile, the tease fluttered its metaphorical eyelashes at her from a safe distance and The Big Note continued floating in the clouds, impervious to the catastrophe of melodies rising from a world of radios, CD players, boom-boxes, cassette decks, ringtones, advertising jingles, bike bells and concert halls below. Charm is by definition elusive and The Big Note had taunted musicians for generations, making itself coquettishly scarce every time a contender got too close. My Bloody Valentine had flirted with it at the turn of the nineties ...then Kevin Shields got scared and hid under a duffelcoat for the next ten years, unable to withstand the pressure (legal notice: please note that Mr. Shields has not been hiding under a duffelcoat for the last ten years); Liz Frasier of the Cocteau Twins had tamed it for the first half of the eighties, then Talk Talk had bled themselves dry capturing it on "Spirit Of Eden". Famous precedents included Billie Holiday, Chet Baker, Yo La Tengo, Mogwai... Robert Wyatt was in a wheelchair and so had been Curtis Mayfield -“Gloomy Sunday” indeed.
Yes, the Big Note was a cruel mistress and she played tricks on its suitors, just ask Robert Johnson. It taunted them, defying mathematical analysis and commercial formulas but that didn’t mean mortals were fighting a losing battle condemned to a life of joyless drudgery oh no, means and ways of approaching ecstasy could always be experimented.
You had to think laterally and accept to slide into dreamland, see. You had to let go of your ego if you wanted to drift into The Big Note’s slipstream. Strange swirls hid in the air if only you knew how to spot them. Find the right mood, open yourself to the unexpected, positively encourage undercurrents to your instinct, Sinead took a deep breath and then the fecking phone rang.
Roy hadn't spoken to Sinead for ages. He remembered the last time the two of them (along with Robbo, Dion Dublin, Matty Holland, Shay Given, Stevie Carr, Paul McGrath, Bestie, Eamon Dunfy, Packie Bonner, Ian Brown and Mani, Gordon Strachan, Big Ron, El Tel, Yorkie, Wes, Butty, Jaap, Johnny Depp, Sean Moncrieff, Canto', Diego, Mike Patton, David Yow, Paddy Crerand, Oliver Reed, Joe Jordan, Jean-Paul Gaultier, Sparky, Edgar Davids, Goldfrapp, Babes In Toyland, Mary-Ann Hobs, Mark E. Smith, Albert Finney, Tim out of James, Rino Gattuso, Shirley Manson, The Ladyboys of Bangkok, Peter O'Toole, Benoît Poelveerde, Almodovar, Rosy De Palma, Carmen Maura, Wayne "the Wayne" Coyne, Christina Martinez, her sister out of Brassy, Chris Rock, Norman Whiteside, Kevin Moran, Jimmy Carr, Victoria Abril, "Frank Gallagher", Will Self, Bobo Balde, Neil Lennon, Henrik Larsson, Ronaldo, Paul Delaye, Michael Stipe, Gwen Stefani, Brian O'Driscoll, Gabriel Byrne, Bez, Monkfish, Jonah, Robbie Savage, Tony Banderas, Melanie Griffiths, Matt Dillon, Cameron Diaz, the girls from Melt-Banana, Susan Arnst, Delores O'Riordan, Sir Ben Kingsley, Ray Winstone, Bjork, Vinnie Jones, Wizz outta Mega City Four, Hooky from New Order, Fabien Barthez, Flavor Flav, Anne-Marie Duff, Brian Clough, Mickey Rourke, Robert de Niro, Harvey Keitel, Rio Ferdinand, Ryan O'Neal, Ivor Cutler, Dennis Rodman, John McEnroe, Billy Connolly, FooFoo Lamar, Missy Elliot, Lou Macari, Liam Neeson, Flavor Flav, Michael Crick, Colin Farrell, Winona Ryder) and a few others had gone on a massive bender to celebrate United's '99 quadruple triumph, taking in Mancunia, Glasgow, London and Dublin to end up -for some reason nobody could remember- in New York five days later.
That party had gone reasonably well, considering. (Would it be for the likes of Chris Moyles, Tara Taratata-Palmer, Jordan, Dave Fanning, Jonathan Woss and Chris Evans repeatedly trying to gatecrash the party. That lot got hosed down / hairsprayed / scraped off the ledger / breastpricked with extreme prejudice for their trouble). Ah yes, wouldn’t it be gas to talk to the old girl again!
“Hey there, it's me, Roy! I know I know, long time no hear but hey, guess what, I’m in the area like, so how 'you kee"
“Roy what da feck?? And Roy who, to start with?"
“Huh?! Er, me, Roy, Keano, the one and only, you know? the one with an even worse press coverage than you…? Huh rings a bell? Keep your wig on (oops), it’s just a friendly “hello” that’s all..."
“Well “hello” back to you, well done!"
“O…K... I see. Maybe this is a bad time. Do you prefer I call back later? I need to pick your brains about something..."
Roy heard a long sound at the other end, it went like this: "HHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhsssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...". Sinead’s idea of a long sigh.
“Right-so. Let’s start again. Sorry for snapping but you interrupted me in the middle of something, ‘was just about to –Ah whatever. Another time. So how ‘you keeping Roy? What's the story? You know what, I'm still hurting from that party like. Never fully recovered the feeling in one of my toes."
“Ha ha, sorry to hear! And quite a night it was too, good craic to be sure, top-of-the-morn"-NDLR: you may want to skip the rubbish page filling stereotypes and move on straight to the action- "...so that's what’s happening and the time is now. One man, only one man can stop it and it is I, Keano!"
“Good Lord! (Or Lady, even.) What are you telling me here, this is incredible! And no-one knows about it?"
“No-one!"
“Well I can certainly see why you hopped onto the first plane! It’s like there’s no time to lose yeah?"
"Not a second! Even as we speak, the forces of evil are gathering and regrouping in wait for their heinous -heinous!- deed. Every second we wait is a second wasted, it's like I’m telling you lass, a higher call is –er- calling upon us and we'd better get our skates on or else we're all brown bread! Forget about picking the kids from school tomorrow, there might not be any tomorrow!"
“But, but, as Lenin so memorably put it, what is to be done?"
“Meet me in town old girl, but first I've got to make contact with your man. If I can make him talk -and by Cuchulain I'll make him talk!- he'll take me to their leader. Then the hour of reckoning will be upon them, along with my size ten right up their erses!"
“You do that, man! And may the Force be with you! (in a non white patriarchal abusive way of course)"
“Over and out."
“Roger that."
“By bye bye.”
“See you.”
“OK you can hang up”
“No you hang up.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Off you go then.”
And with these words, Roy flew out of his chair to embark upon a new chapter of his thrilling adventure -Who would be brave enough to predict what ominous danger lay awaiting him in the bowels of this doomed city?
But not before paying for his cups of cocoa of course.
.....
(Blank)
V., you don't know what you're missing.
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