Nuts
So my brother, Shug, is in town and has dropped off some friends at the top of Aberdeen’s main throroughfare, Union Street. As he is about to drive off, a teenage girl runs up to the car and complains that she is lost. She goes on to tell him about how she’s supposed to meeting pals at The Prince of Wales pub but she is new in town and doesn’t know where it is. At this point, both the girl and my brother are at the other end of Union Street than that that boasts The Prince (home of Scotland’s longest bar, fact fans). Union Street is a very, very long street. In fact, I thought it was the longest high street in the UK but Meeester just told me that I have made that up.
Psycho Killer, qu’est-ce que c’est?
Jim Bowen, host of UK television’s quiz-show Bullseye.
“You are a freak magnet. Every time I’ve been out with you, you’ve attracted some nutter” said Misssy’s friend on a break in Edinburgh.
He’s right. There’s the She-Beast that threatened to beat Misssy and her sister up in an Aberdeen harbour bar, countless half naked nutjobs and madwomen on public transport and now today’s nutter; a man obsessed with space.
Misssy and chums are in The Stand, Edinburgh’s dedicated comedy club, preparing to watch Red Raw, the weekly stand-up platform for aspiring comedians. The club is small, and packed. On the door there’s a notice that says, “Standing Room Only”. They are not wrong. In fact, there is only really standing room if everyone left standing does it on one leg.
After the first set of three comedians, there is a fifteen minute break. People move outside to smoke, go downstairs to wee and shuffle over to the bar to refill glasses. After a shift in the sea of people, Misssy finds herself with an excellent spot propped up against a column and able to see the stage clearly. Fifteen minutes later, a man in a red v-neck jumper who looks not unlike former Bullseye host and Northern club comedian, Jim Bowen, crosses the room and walks up to Misssy, finally resting his face two inches from hers with his eyes staring blankly into her eyes.
He says nothing.
Misssy looks back at him and says, “Yes, can I help you?”
The bespectacled Peter Sutcliffe whines, clearly exasperated that his mere physical presence has been insufficient to get his desired result, “That spot was mine. I was standing there”
Misssy replies after a second or two of being taken aback, “Oh? Were you?”
The Pringle-jumpered Dennis Nielsen continues unfazed, inching closer and motioning downwards, “Yes, I was. That’s my spot. You’re on my spot.”
Misssy backs away slightly, pressing the back of her head into the column, “Are you wanting me to move?”
The middle-aged Ted Bundy waves his hands about in a forced nonchalance, “No-no..no! it’s fine. It’s just that that was my spot.”
Misssy stares at him in confusion, “Are you sure?”
The serge trouser wearing Ed Gein shakes his head, “No, I’m fine. That was my place but no, no, it’s OK. It’s OK….”
Misssy relaxes slightly and unsticks her skull from the column bricks, “OK, then. If you’re sure now…”
The anorak be-clad Zodiac Killer moves off, “OK, no it’s my spot but I’m fine.”
Misssy bemusedly smiles, “OK then!”
Misssy’s accompanying friend, Oscar’s Mama, stares after the departing John Hinckley and turns round to her, “You were never going to let him stand there were you?”
“I dunno. That was weird. I might have but I don’t know. My God he’s still staring at me! Don’t look!”
Oscar’s Mama looks round “Where??”
She spots the erstwhile Mark Chapman.
“Don’t look! He’ll come back.”
The pair’s respective husbands, Meeester and Rally Stu come back from the bar. The girls tell them about Son of Sam and his floor space issues.
“Don’t look!” Misssy says as they both turn round to look at an ever more intense looking Jack the Ripper staring menacingly in their direction.
The comedians come back on and the second session gets underway. Within minutes Charles Manson walks back over and stands in front of Misssy, his back inches away from her nose, squarely blocking her entire view of the stage and, indeed, world at large.
Meeester steps over and has a quick word.
“It’s just that, this was my spot. I went to the toilet and she took it.” says Fred West.
“It isn’t your spot now. You are standing right in front of my wife. She can’t see.” says Meeester.
Norman Bates moves slightly and Misssy peeks round.
“I can see, it’s OK!” Misssy says, not wanting a knife in her throat.
The on-stage show continues and the comedy loving Jeffrey Dahmer continues to stand unreasonably close in front of Misssy. Misssy ignores him and imagines that she is listening to the radio instead. Meeester offers to intervene, but she asks him to ignore him.
After five minutes, the pint-swilling John Wayne Gacy turns round to Misssy, inches close to her face, and says “OK, are you OK? Are you alright?”
Misssy edges back, “*Sigh* Erm….Ye-es? What?”
Meeester and Rally Stu bristle and stare.
“Ok OK I’m going, I’m going” he says, holding up both hands in a surrender. Edinburgh’s answer to David Berkowitz turns to Meeester, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m going now…I’m going. That was my spot.”
“OK. See ya!” Meeester replies.
Harold Shipman shiftily moves off to the back of the room and downs his pint, staring at Misssy icily.
“You attract nutters….” says Rally Stu.
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Dark Side of the Loon
I car-share on a Wednesday with the lovely A.
A is a sound engineer and has recently come back from visiting a company down south owned by Peter Gabriel that make sound mixing desks.
I warned him, “No techie talk”.
I am still in a shaky mental state from writing that mind-numbing Global Positioning script. It brought me to the edge of madness and just one more acronym or series of numbers or abbreviations could cause me to go into psychological meltdown.
He promises me that he will refrain, and starts to talk about some of the stories about rock stars he got told by one of the guys he was hanging about with. This guy, we’ll call him Jim the Desk Guy, installs and maintains desks and of course just about the only people that can afford to have them in their houses are rock stars.
“Cool,” you’d think. But ye would be wrong there, sir. For Rock Stars are maddoes.
Trooooo Storeeeeee:
So Jim the Desk Guy gets a call from David Gilmour from Pink Floyd. He has a problem with his desk, he wants a house call. Now I love Gilmour and his lovely soulful voice and lovely widdly guitar. I am firmly in the “Floyd got better with Gilmour” camp as opposed to the “Floyd were better with Barrett” camp. Also, I think most people see Gilmour as being the more sane one out of the Waters, Barrett and Gilmour Holy Floyd Trinity. This story pretty much knocks that theory into a cocked hat.
So, where was I? Gilmour wants a house-call from Jim, sound-desk doctor. Except when the guy goes round Gilmour changes his mind, slightly. When he says house-call, he won’t actually let the Jim the Desk Guy into his house. In fact he won’t even come to the door. The guy has to shout instructions to him through the letterbox.
I would love to think they went a bit like this:
Sound Engineer (through letterbox):
“Hello, Hello.
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me…
Is there anyone home?”
Right that’s it I’m off to write a book of short stories involving Rock Stars where their lyrics are quoted to them in bizarre situations….copyright: me. Nobody nick it. It’s MINE!
