Drugs

Distant Drums

by Enormous on May 28, 2009

Sonny Starr, drummer with the Modern Men rang me last night begging for studio time again.

‘Can you hear me OK? I’m in Dubai!’

‘Good for you, Sonny,’ I shouted over a bad line, ‘but I know what you’re like. Besides, I keep telling you, the studio is too small for a big kit like yours.’

‘I got rid of that, Davy. I’ve just bought one of those cool little Fibes kits. Four-piece.’

My ears pricked up. I love those old 70s drum kits. They are quite unusual: they are made of fibreglass and have a lovely fat, heavy punchy sound that reminds me of the Sweet or Slade. They are quite sought after.

‘This Arab swapped it me for some speed.’

‘You smuggled speed into Dubai!?’

‘Nah. Of course not.’

I breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Minty did.’

‘Minty?

‘New bass player. Very cool. Bit, though, you know . . . mental.’

‘When you say an Arab swapped the Fibes kit for some speed, Sonny, were you sure no one was watching you? From any parked cars or anything?’

‘Hee hee. Don’t worry, Davy-Boy, it’s only crrrss zzrkkk crkkz.’

‘I can’t hear you, Sonny. Tell me . . . oh, look, it doesn’t matter.’ I carried on shouting into the phone. ‘You definitely are not coming into the studio! Especially with Minty in tow, and especially with a set of drums you acquired using nefarious means from an Arab in Dubai – even if it is an old Fibes kit.’

‘You need some excitement in your life, Davy. Remember what it’s like being in a band?’

‘I’m in a band.’

‘No, you know, I mean . . . a proper band. On tour.’

‘I have enough excitement in my life at the moment, Sonny, thank you very much.’

‘Really? I doubt it. What you gonna do right now after talking to me, for instance?’

‘I’m about to take Audrey for a walk.’

‘Hah! See what I mean? You should be coming with us to this secret booze club near the Australian embassy where they have topless belly dancers.’

‘. . .’

‘You’d love it! Nelson Galaxy would. What you doing after your stupid walk?’

‘I’m going to listen to a little Burt Bacharach and then go to bed.’

‘With your Marks and Spencer’s pyjamas on?’ The line was still bad but I could tell he was laughing on the other end of it. ‘I saw Bacharach on the telly over here the other night,’ he went on, ‘and I’ll tell you this . . .’

‘What’s that, Sonny?’

‘He’s not little.’

‘Very funny. I wish I’d said that.’

‘Don’t worry, Davy, you will. See ya.’

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Spring Break

by Enormous on March 25, 2009

‘But you’re all right, aren’t you, father?’

‘Yes, of course I am, Audrey,’ I told my concerned little dog. ‘I’m just ever so slightly a bit exhausted. The doctor says I have been running myself into the ground and need to have a few days off just doing nothing.’

‘Oh,’ she barked, somewhat relieved, and went on scanning the road ahead for cats.

We passed a new piece of graffiti on the rec’ which read ‘Simo is a homosexal gay’ which made me chuckle to myself – not that Simo is gay; I was aware of that already, but the fact that he is a homosexal gay, which is a damning qualification and singular piece of public information that I’m sure will surprise quite a lot of the local inhabitants.

‘Laughter is the best medicine,’ my doctor had just told me.

‘I know; but what about drugs? Can I have some drugs? Drugs are good medicine.’

‘I can’t prescribe you any drugs, Mr Lawrence – you just need a rest.’

Thus it is I have decided to take myself off to the Kellogg’s Sanatorium in the hills and spend a few days in equable convalescence.

‘But you are incapable of relaxing, father. The experience will cause you to become even more anxious than you are already.’

‘Be quiet, Audrey!’ I told her. ‘Let’s go home and get some work done.’

A young woman in a short skirt was delivering leaflets when we turned into Lansbury Avenue. She was beautiful. I tugged Audrey’s lead and quickened our pace, feeling a sudden and urgent need to return home and prepare for my inevitable eleven o’clock tumescence.

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Telling Teenage Fortunes

by Enormous on October 6, 2008

No.24

You will develop a taste for alcohol.

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White Dopes on Punk

by Enormous on June 18, 2008

Aren’t teenagers great.

Whilst wandering through the park with Audrey yesterday evening, a group of adolescents dressed as a cross between Marilyn Manson and street urchins from Oliver Twist, thought it would be fun to shout abuse at us from the relative safety of the dilapidated bandstand in which they had ensconced themselves to smoke joints, drink cider and practice their spitting. To complete their entertainment for the evening, one of them had thoughtfully supplied a large beat-box, out of which US punks Green Day were blaring followed by Jay-Z, shouty American Gangster and rap artist, who was declaring: ‘I’m livin’ the dream!’

It was obvious that most of them had not yet learned how to form sentences but one ambitious young female seemed to have at least a basic grasp of the English language and had apparently decided that she would practice its use on passers-by in general and on me in particular. ‘Dirty Pedo!’ was her opening statement which she followed with: ‘My little sister says she saw you in that bus-stop having a wank and touchin’ yer beano. Pedo! She’s told me dad an’ e’s told t’coppers! Yer f***ing pedo!’

We hurried quickly along, trying to ignore the strident volleys of ‘Pedo!’ and ‘Wanker!’ and ‘Kiddie-fiddler!’

How I laughed! It was so amusing, I thought I might invite a German from the Internet around to the house later in the day to eat me.

I just caught the last of the abuse as we were leaving the park and turning the corner into Victoria Street: ‘Do yer ‘ave sex wiv’ yer dog? Pedo!’ The last thing I heard was: ‘I’m telling me dad yer waved yer dandy at me!’ (I think the word was ‘dandy’, I suppose it could have been any number of things, really.)

I know they have a lot of unexpended energy, but why do these youngsters behave in such a disagreeable way to their fellow citizens? Is it a form of seduction? Perhaps they actually quite like me and can think of no other way of introducing themselves. Or, more likely, it is a territorial impulse and they are simply scenting their ground, marking out their patch. Who knows?

I was mulling these things over in my mind after we had returned to the house. While I was making a cup of Earl Grey in the kitchen, I came to the conclusion that these unfortunate children are merely bored and, due to the depressing environment in which they exist and their uninspired and deprived upbringing, have learned no other way of expressing themselves. Stirring the tea, I spilled some of the boiling liquid on to my thumb. ‘Pedo!’ I yelled at the steaming mug before me.

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Mood Swings and Elevators

by Enormous on June 15, 2008

Punk drummer Sonny Starr paid the studio a visit yesterday. I was incredibly busy as usual and did not have the time to pay him much attention or to patronise him in the way to which he has become accustomed.

After he’d finished telling me about how he’d had a ‘right good blow-job’ from a member of Amy Winehouse’s female entourage in an elevator in a hotel in Dublin, he began trying to cajole me into letting him book some studio-time for some spurious band of which he is now a member. ‘We’re called the Mood Swings,’ he told me. ‘It’s sorta punk-jazz.’

I was having none of it. ‘I know you’re trying to book the studio for the Dysons,’ I insisted. ‘They aren’t coming in – not after last time, Sonny.’

‘What do you mean?’ he whined.

‘Your guitarist, Staz. After he’d spent the day sitting in a corner sniffing glue and urinating out of the upstairs window on to passing black men, he took a substantial dump, if you recall, on top of the toilet seat.’

‘Oh, yeah, sorry about that. He ain’t with us anymore.’

‘You still aren’t coming in.’

‘We’ll pay you in speed.’

‘You definitely aren’t going to be recording in this studio.’

‘But we’re jazz, man.’

‘You have no conception of jazz, Sonny. You only have one style of drumming: fast and loud.’

‘No listen,’ he said, ‘it’s easy. You just emphasise the fourth beat of every bar.’ He drummed on the table with his hands to demonstrate. His technique sounded fairly accurate but for some reason, the moment seemed weighed down, depressed.

‘Go away, Sonny,’ I said finally.

‘You’ve changed. You ain’t my friend no more,’ he said quietly. I detected real regret in his words. Opening the heavy door to the control-room, he turned and asked me: ‘Wanna buy some speed?’

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Drug Dealer

by Enormous on March 27, 2008

‘No hairdye today, Mr Fantastic?’ The disagreeable individual who manages the village chemist shop was shouting after me as I was closing his door. I hate him.

He was trying to embarrass me but it’s something that will never happen.

A middle-aged woman was entering the shop as I was leaving; she let a smile win her face. ‘Is he on his high horse again?’ she asked me.

‘He’s on something,’ I quipped. ‘I think I offended him at some point in the past but I can’t remember how.’

‘He’s like that with everyone,’ she said, trying to help.

Walking home, I dared to attempt an air of sangfroid and for some reason felt definite promise.

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How It Hangs

by Enormous on December 13, 2007

When you get to my age, thirty-five (Eh!? – Ed.), hangovers take on a malevolent character and can be very debilitating.

Nelson returned to London over a week ago and I am only now beginning to feel human again. I blame him – out of pure expediency, naturally – for being a bad influence on me but of course it is I who must take full responsibility for my actions.

I do feel slightly let down by my body: when I was younger, hangovers would only last for twenty-four hours at most. But what I find hardest to deal with now are not so much the physical after-effects of a binge but the mental ones. Apart from feeling overwhelmed by isolation and loneliness, I often disappear again into my favourite deep black well of depression.

One feels confident, elated and ebullient when under the influence – ignoring the fact that I go completely over the top these days and am always too inebriated to actually appreciate being drunk – but the trouble with alcohol is, like any drug, it makes you feel good but it isn’t the truth. It makes reality interfere with your delusions.

When the hangover strikes, my hard-earned mental equilibrium always deserts me. It makes me realise that my defences against my depression are not as cast-iron thick as I sometimes like to think they are.

At least there is one thing of which we can all be certain: when Santa is emptying his sack all over the world on Christmas Eve, Nelson and I will be talking complete nonsense about middle-eights and drinking ourselves steadily into a festive Bolivia.

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