Thursday 30 July 2009

Sick Like the Parrot in Morecambe

Artistic license has been taken. No one should take offence. I fucking love Morecambe

SICK LIKE 
THE PARROT IN MORECAMBE

 

Joe remembered the parrot sign from childhood daytrips. Everything behind the lofted image of the cheeky green bird had been decimated. And now all he could see was scaffolding. Welcome to Pleasure World. Yet all that lay behind was an ugly metal structure and the sprawling bleak beyond.

The parrot’s smile took on a different meaning, as if it was grinning in the face of adversity. It had worn that painted smile all through the gradual demise of this seaside casualty. Maybe, the day they tear the parrot down, will be the day of the last tourist.

“Come on Joe. Let’s make the best of this weather while it lasts. It’s forecast for rain later”

Alan had wandered further ahead along the prom. The clumsy black guitar case appeared heavy in his frail and bony hand. What he would once have carried with ease he now carried with a strained face and a stoic determination. His sickness had failed to dampen his stubborn resilience and tenacity though it had mercilessly wasted his muscle. It had turned a big man in to a little one.

Black hair with persistent grey streaks blew back and forth over his bald patch in the inconsistent wind. The gaunt face stared back at Joe, awaiting a response, and it was hard, though still just about possible, to remember what Alan had once looked like. It was Morecambe cold but an ill sweat was ever visible on his forehead.

Alan’s eyes where an angry red. Eyes that had seen at least a thousand nights in Leigh miner’s club. Eyes that now stared confidently through illness to one last gig on Morecambe promenade.

Joe glanced up once more at the parrot and gave it a cheeky wink. Did it just wink back? See you on the way back, Polly

 

Every May for the last thirty they had come to Morecambe to perform on the prom. It wasn’t for the money. They both had boring but decent paid jobs. They had first come here on Alan’s whim in May 1978 and since then he had got it in to his head that it should become an annual ritual. An event to cement the bond of two lifelong pals. Because that is what they are- pals. Good pals.

Neither was good on the guitar. Neither was a good singer. Joe knew this. Alan didn’t. Alan had always been far more committed to this project than Joe.

They had set up near the Eric Morecambe statue as they always did. They had embarked upon the same old set list. The Kinks, Cat Stevens, Van Morrison. Classic after classic viciously butchered. But it didn’t seem to bother the people who strode along the prom. Not like it secretly ate away at Joe.

Alan took on the majority of the singing as always. It was fine by Joe. Every word Alan sang seemed to strain his body to the maximum. He no longer looked as if he was enjoying it. He was ill last year and had shown signs of struggling. This time it was worse. He looked bad. Exhausted. It was turning in to a tragic performance.

Most of the people there were old couples taking their grand children for a day on the beach. Everyone who passed smiled wide. Joe remembered reading an article in a paper in which Thora Hird had offered up a strong defence of Morecambe as a serious holiday contender. If the people enjoying their days out here were anything to go by then Old Thora was right. You were right Thora.

One old couple with a child of about six had stopped to watch. This made Alan put even more in to his performance. Veins were pulsing at the sides of his face. The old man tried to join in with Dedicated Follower of Fashion. He looked like he was trying to help Alan out. He didn’t know it well enough. Joe remembered a time when he used to like this song.

At the end of the next song Help the old woman threw a coin in to Joe’s guitar case, offered a “well done, we enjoyed that,” and the three of them, Granddad, Grandma  and Grandson moved on. A seagull shat on Eric Morecambe’s head. The latest sadness fell on to Alan’s face. It was clear to Joe this was the last time they would do this.

“Let’s play Sweet Caroline and go home” said Joe

“All right” said Alan, and strummed a b minor

 

As they walked back along the prom Alan puked up in a shop doorway. Ahead of him Joe could see two work men taking down the parrot.

 

 

COL

COL

 

 

Col folded up The Sun and threw it back down on the small table that was cluttered with supplements and magazines that held no interest for him. He let out a long sigh through his nose and squinted as he stared out of the Barber’s window. It was sunny yesterday as well but it was still pissing down by the end of the day. He tried to blank out the sounds that came from the radio as he had no time either for the stupid pop tunes or the dickhead of a DJ who seemed to talk in loud screeching riddles

The old bloke by the door was next in line for his hair cut. He was in there before Col. You had get to up pretty early to beat these old chappies to the door on discount for pensioners day. Col had thought to himself that the fella favoured ex Good morning Britain presenter Frank Bough.

The sides of the chair dug into Col’s considerable bulk and it occurred to him that he may have put on even more weight since his last visit. There was a large sweat mark on the front of his T-shirt. Col couldn’t walk five minutes these days without breaking out in to a fair old sweat. He sighed again and Frank Bough shot him a glance and raised an eyebrow. That was something Col had never been able to master- the raised eyebrow

Jill and Helen were cutting hair. Jill’s customer talked constantly of the charity walk he was embarking on in the summer and Jill, as always, did a convincing impression of someone who gave an arse. Helen’s customer remained silent and wore a sickened expression as he glared at himself, repulsed by his reflection in the mirror. Both were senior gents who had probably been here at 8 45 waiting for Jill to open up.

Col was hoping Jill would finish first. If Jill finished first then she would have to take on Frank Bough and that would mean Col got Helen. Helen hadn’t acknowledged him as he walked in but as he wasn’t one to suffer  fom paranoia he ceased to dwell on the fact after about 20 seconds.

As Col was essentially a skinhead it did beg the question why he would ever have to enter a barbers at all. Most men in the same situation bought in clippers and did it themselves. But Col would claim he just never got round to buying clippers and let his grow out into a quasi afro just so he had a good excuse to come here, Bobley’s Barbers, and stand a fifty fifty chance of getting a chat with Helen.

He didn’t often see her in the Rope and Anchor these days. When she got married she restricted her pub visits to the weekend and when the nippers came along she was very much housebound. Apart from the odd chance meeting in the street this was the only time Col ever got to see her.

He couldn’t help the odd glance at Helen. It made him uncomfortable to see her work her way around the greasy head of the old codger in the chair. Col thought to himself that the codger wore an expression of a bulldog licking piss off a nettle. This was one of his favourite sayings and he smiled whenever it appeared in his head, even if he was in a public place. Frank’s caught you smiling Colin. He might think you’re a Rem. Quick pretend you’re laughing at the idiot DJ. Ha Ha.How could that codger look so fierce when he was in the company of an angel? He then started to think about whether the old predator might have got a hard on. You shouldn’t think like that Colin!

Of course Helen knew full well that Col had had a lifelong crush. She was flattered but Col was never ever going to be able to compete with her Bouncer husband. She would flirt with him and ask him about his benders with Adi Powell and the lads. She would always ask about his mate Adi. In fact, thinking about it, all their conversations centered around the capers and frolics of the loose canon that was Adi Powell.

Col glanced down at the table and stared at the front cover of  Men’s Health. The bloke on the front clearly didn’t share Col’s love of Pie on Barms and Carling Black label. He did not pick the magazine up to read further as he had already come to the conclusion that there could not possibly be anything of any relevance or interest to him in there.

He picked up The Sun again. He hadn’t really read the words last time and probably wouldn’t now. He opened it around the middle. There was a picture of this singer coming out of a night club off his head. Pete Doherty. Col couldn’t stand the sight of the man. Neither could Adi Powell his mate. Col didn’t know this blokes music and didn’t fucking want to. Why is this clown always in the papers? Col likes Dire Straits and some Simple Minds. Don’t you forget about me Helen. Ha Ha

Then , Helen’s voice. Helen’s angelic voice. ‘4 pound love please’. Then the demonic voice of the old predator. ‘There you are, keep the change’. Helen’s seraphic voice ‘thanks love…………………..who’s next?’. Frank Bough stood up and hung his old manky anorak on one of the hooks. ‘it’s me now love’ said Frank.  “Fucking typical”’  Col thought to himself.