55
October 2009 The Stool Pigeon
Comment & Analysis No choice but to grin and bear it, whatever island you’re on
SON OF DAVE ON my summer holiday island, there’s moss, spiders, ferns and three-metre wide, fifty-metre tall Douglas Fir trees all around me. The campsite is quiet. After a beer and a flame-burnt sausage, I’ll put everything except the tent into the trunk. If you don’t do that, bears will come sniffing around and tearing things up. When that happens, someone screams loud enough so that forms will need to be filled out, and the bear will be assassinated because it’s become fond of campsites. Be kind to bears. I remember throwing plums out the window of Dave’s Chevy at a big black bear when I was a boy. Thing came and put its paws up on the roof of the car and stuck its snout into get the rest of the plums, and maybe a bit of the boy. Terrifying. Life is full of terrifying things. I poke the fire and fret, trying to stop nutting out about how long, difficult
and fast this life is. There is a midlife crisis that comes like a big wave to destroy homes and upset the whole damned family. We always want what we don’t have, eh? I wonder if Bono wishes he were potbellied with an anonymous wife and kids and house in the suburbs. I wonder if he can find a campsite away from the hustle... Oh, I guess he probably has his own island. Summer’s over. Can my ageing colleagues and I manage to keep throwing blues dances for more than just divorcees and alcoholics, or will middle-age turn us all puffy and dull like Phil Collins? If a modern working bluesman is still onstage in his forties, he shouldn’t just be playing to divorcees and alcoholics. He’s gotta be good enough to entertain the greater stinking public. There’ll be no time for the starving artist game as you get old. You have to pay for new teeth if you’ve been biting off bottle caps for 20 years. Some of these men and women even eat glass, or chew the heads off serpents. In the forest by the sea, with the bear shit (called ‘scat’) and beer, the valley echoes with the roar of a biker’s loud hog on the highway. Someone in the campground hoots, and turns up the classic rock in the truck, then turns it down as it puts everyone gently to sleep. Polite loogans. I can just hear some Eric Clapton as I drift off. That should keep the bears away. I snore in the pup-tent and dream
of a cruise ship somewhere where they play Desmond Dekker and Toots and The Maytals, sailing me up to an island in the sky... Now rush back to Big Island (where dear reader likely sits on the toilet and reads this paper). Now the author is in a little cave on a horsehide on the pavement under a stage. A weird ska band plays over my head, fronted by an infamous gallant debaucher, and a company of freaks, whom thousands of people crowd the streets to party with every August Bank Holiday weekend. Drunk, sarcastic young women lurch in an out of the den and some appear to be on drugs. The leading lady maintains grace, while others roll on the concrete. Fifty-year-old men build and maintain a bizarre movie set around the stage and sound system. They climb on it and control it like stoned pirates and carry out the ritual. Broken glass, squashed tins, and empty coconuts fill the gutter. Riot police and modern black soundsystems for two square miles in any direction. Gaz’s Rockin’ Blues on Talbot Road is swinging. A big cigar has its effect, and my worries and thoughts rush in again. How long can the man up above keep making the girls dizzy and whipping up the crowds before he caves in to mid-life responsibility? It appears he’s dodged it completely, the tricky bastard! Three generations are dancing to a Cuban ska-style ‘A Message To You
Rudy’. Genius. Natty Bo grins a gold tooth. This pain in my knees won’t heal. My back is killing me from carrying one of my many blueschildren in a sedan chair above the crowd while she waves her machine gun and Sandinista flag. My eyesight is getting blurry. The raging crowd outside is freaking me out. Should I try to find a nice lady and settle down? Who do I see around me, hmmm? Angry English women singing “fuck you very muuuch” don’t do it for me. They will have bitter frownlines, troubles with alcohol, and will be forgotten and ignored soon, no matter how much money they spend on maintaining their image. I wonder if that lady is going to suffer a mid-life neurosis like this pathetic wretch in a hat. I wonder if her bladder will start failing soon. I wonder if she’s going to have to get up to pee twice in the night or wet the bed. That happens to some women. Or they pee when they laugh, especially cynical laughter. It’s amusing when a new rock star arrives on this island with a ridiculous haircut, untrained shouty voice, catchy pop recipe, silly jeans and says, “I’m the toughest.” (La Roux? Sounds like ‘Upside Down’ by Diana Ross.) It’s a good tactic to come in with brass knuckles and bite somebody on the cock. But there’s always an old guy with bloody trousers standing in the corner, who’s been
there for decades, because he’s either got everyone working for him, or he’s tough as beef jerky, or both. You won’t get his cigarettes. He’s in for life. Alcatraz. But just the day before, I lay in Loogan Forest by the sea, dreaming of a paradise where grown men don’t wear t-shirts and Nikes, and young women don’t talk like old whores. Will I ever find paradise; a lush green island free of yahoos and classic rock stations, free of military coups, and free of sloppy drunks? The police come and shut down the Cuban Revolution party. Reminiscing and smoking are all we can do until the crowd thins. Then I wander home to bed and out of danger. It’s a beautiful night with not too many fights to avoid on the way home. Wonder if anyone died at Carnival this year. I sleep finally, and in the morning, a Mambo wakes me up like a noble hard-on. I’m off to make millions, and buy my own island big enough for bears, peacocks, and my own damned campground full of handpicked, well-aged but vibrant blues heroes. Read the sign: no bikers, no hippies, no riot cops, no religion, no bling, no photographers, no cats, no begging, no liars, no rednecks, no models, no track suits, no glow sticks... this will be my year. The kids can go hang themselves for fame. Long distance, baby, you gotta stay on your feet if you want to live with bears or humans.
Oh my Christ! My whole summer has been a complete Blur. LOL!
MISS PRUDENCE TROG JUNE 24 Off to Glastonbury tomorrow! Oh my Christ, it’s going to be great this year! There was a dark shadow cast over it last time, and his name was Jay-Z. In a bid to be a better Prudence Trog, I’ve not touched any booze or drugs for six days. People say I won’t be able to keep it up at Glastonbury, but I’ll have the last laugh on the naysayers. I’ve been for a run twice and I even signed up for a Pilates course. Apparently you start out with a ball in a gymnasium. The flying part comes later. JUNE 25 In years to come people will say, “Where were you when you heard the news Michael Jackson died?” Answer: with my naked arse pressed firmly against a Glastonbury portaloo toilet seat getting jiggy with a guy I thought was Dave Rowntree from Blur! Turns out he was just a ginger bloke
I’d met while trying to buy a hot dog after smoking a speedball. I did wonder why he had vodka on his breath, spoke with a Welsh accent and didn’t know the first thing about politics. There I was, with one leg pressed against the toilet roll holder, the other covered in discarded soggy wet wipes, when my mobile started going mental. I picked it up, mid knee-trembler, and there were a bunch of texts. One was from my friend Demelza still back in London: ‘M8 ur not goin 2 beleev. MJ is dead. @ack!’ Fuck me, I thought, Michael J Fox is dead. It was only when I wiped myself with my knickers and went back to the VIP area that the truth began to emerge, though everyone clearly thought it was a hoax. ‘Dave’ didn’t stick around, though I assumed he’d probably have to go off to the healing fields to repent. I wasn’t too bothered as it’s Damon I’ve always wanted. In fact, when I closed my eyes I pretended it was Damon, so it didn’t really matter that it wasn’t Dave. If you’re going to have sex at a festival always make sure it’s on the first day, before people get all gipping and the toilets are covered in shit, that’s my motto. Of course if they’re really fit then it’s okay - a turd or two never harmed anyone. Apart from those children in China who drowned in excrement, which was horrible. Let’s face it, Michael’s not made a good record in decades, so it’s a tragedy for anyone over the age of 30, but no one else will hardly remember. For youngsters it’s
probably a blessed relief, and if I were a nipper I’d be organising a teddy’s fucking tea party right now. But still, it was a great communal moment when people all around us were singing ‘Heal The World’, though at the time all I could think about was healing my vagina. I wonder if the real Dave is as big? JUNE 26 The weather has been surprisingly okay apart from a torrent at one point, though I was thankful it came as I had sick all down myself. I’ve still not seen Damon or any of the other Blur boys for that matter... the ones who aren’t impostors anyway! In the good old days they’d have been here for the weekend getting crazy, but I suppose they’re all back in London attending AA and having saunas at The Priory. JUNE 27 Oh my fucking Christ! I slept through Blur! I’d only drunk three bottles of Merrydown and had a couple of spliffs. Well, you’ve got to ease gently into this healthy living. Oh why oh why oh why!? I didn’t see Damon with his new sexy, big arms and stupid tooth! I had to sit through that fat, whining redneck Neil Young, and the fucking millionaire pretending to be a mechanic, Bruce Springsteen. I won’t even be able to see them at Hyde Park due to a restraining order by an ex-shag who lives around there. I won’t go into the details but needless to say he was fucking asking for it. I’ve half a mind to go round there and fix him
good and fucking proper this time. My life is ruined! JULY 21 I’m impressed with this year’s Mercury list, though there seems to be a lack of real stars. Blur will show them next year. One thing I’m really raging about is the fact La Roux has been nominated. She stole all her ideas from a band I used to do PR for before they split up due to a lack of success. They invented this really brilliant genre where they’d play with synthesizers and a drum machine and dress up in loads of make-up and futuristic, stripy suits. They were called Bluechip Monday. I knew they were really original the moment I set eyes on them, which is why I put them on the roster at Negative Press. Still, it’s great that Kasabian have been nominated. They’ve had their critics in the past, unfairly in my eyes, but nobody can argue with an album called West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum. Genius! AUGUST 13 Sienna Miller gets right on my fucking wabs. Men only want her because she’s blonde, skinny, successful and beautiful. I can be all of those things one day. Apparently she’s seeing a guy. Well stand back in amazement, why not report Sienna got up this morning and farted, or Sienna smoked a fag this afternoon, or Sienna ate her tea this evening? If men were flies then she’d be a pair of tits made out of shit. Apparently her new boyf is a DJ. Well, we’ve all been out with
DJs, Sienna. My guy used to do a rock night every Tuesday at The Spotted Dog in Willesden. I can’t believe Jude Law saw something in her, though he’s not going to be worth nearly as much now he’s impregnated that model. The sneaky bitch. She’s got a smart head on her shoulders, though, Sienna, I’ll give her that. On the subject of cigarettes she said: “I think that the more positive approach you have to smoking, the less harmful it is.” That also applies to drinking and taking drugs. AUGUST 28 Who was I trying to kid? Back on the wagon again. Things have been getting out of hand lately. Up to now I’ve just been a chrysalis, an admittedly quite hot pupa, but now is the time when Prudence Trog, the beautiful butterfly, flap flap flaps for all the world to see. In honour of this new-found maturity, I intend to help another human being. Tomorrow I will go to King’s Cross and look for the most wretched, dirty, smelly, drink-ravaged, nicotine-stained, toothless fucking tramp with BO I can find and I will offer to help him. Whether that be with money, or whether that be with advice. It’s important to help those less fortunate than yourself in whatever way you can. AUGUST 29 In years to come people will say: “Where were you when you heard the news Oasis had split up?” I’m afraid, dear diary, that it’s too disgusting to repeat.