Read Online Stories We Could Tell by Tony Parsons - Free Book Online
Authors: Tony Parsons
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you know that? I can see the cover copy:
Another kid in a leather jacket on his way to God knows where…’
‘But Leon says he’s leaving tomorrow!’
White’s fist slammed down on his desk. ‘Come on, Ray. Are you a writer – or a fan?’
Ray needed to think about that. He had no idea if he was a real journalist, or if he would ever be. How could you tell? Who had ever dreamed that loving music would turn into a full-time job? He was a kid who had written about music because it was more interesting than a paper round, and because they didn’t give you free records if you stacked shelves in a supermarket.
‘I don’t know what I am,’ he said.
But Kevin White was no longer listening. The editor was staring over at the door, and Ray followed his gaze. On the other side of the rectangular pane of glass, there were men in suits waiting to see Kevin White. Men from upstairs, management, bald old geezers with ties and wrinkles who looked like your dad, or somebody’s dad. They were waiting for White to finish with Ray. Sometimes White had to smooth things out with them. One time a cleaner found a wastepaper bin full of roaches, and suddenly there were men in suits everywhere, all having a fit. But White worked it out. He was a great editor. Ray didn’t want to let him down.
‘I’ll try my best,’ Ray said. ‘But I don’t know if I’m a real journalist or just somebody who likes music.’
Kevin White stood up. It was time for him to face the men in suits again.
‘You’d better find out,’ the editor said.
Leon was gone. Terry was sitting on his desk, his DMs dangling, flicking through the copy of last week’s
Paper
that Misty had given him at the airport.
‘This is what you need, Ray,’ he said.
‘New! The Gringo Waistcoat. Get into the Original Gringo Waistcoat – the new style
. You’d look lovely in a Gringo Waistcoat.’
Ray dropped into his chair and stared into space. Terry didn’t notice. It was an endless source of amusement to him that theclassifieds in
The Paper
were always exactly one year behind the times. While the kid in the street was trying to look like Johnny Rotten, the models in the ads still looked like Jason King.
Cotton-drill loons – still only £2.80…Moccasin boots – choose from one long top fringe or three freaky layers
.
According to the classifieds, the readers of
The Paper
were wearing exactly what they had been wearing for the last ten years – flared jeans, Afghan coats, cheesecloth galore, and, always and for ever, T-shirts with amusing slogans. Sometimes it felt like
The Paper
would not exist without T-shirts with amusing slogans.
I CHOKED LINDA LOVELACE. LIE DOWN I THINK I LOVE YOU. SEX APPEAL – GIVE GENEROUSLY. And that timeless classic, the fucking flying ducks – two cartoon ducks, coupling in mid-flight, the male duck looking hugely satisfied, the female duck looking alarmed.
Terry leaned back, smiling to himself, his spiky head resting against a picture he had torn from a library book and sellotaped to his wall – Olga Korbut, smiling sweetly, bent double on the mat. After the Montreal Olympics last year, a lot of people had switched their affections to the Romanian girl, Nadia Comaneci, but Terry was sticking with Olga.
They each had their own wall, facing their desk with its typewriter, a sleek Olivetti Valentine in red moulded plastic. On Terry’s wall were bands and girls – record company 8 × 10 glossies of the New York Dolls, the Clash and the Sex Pistols plus images pillaged from magazines of Debbie Harry in a black mini-dress, Jane Fonda in
Barbarella
and Olga Korbut at the Munich Olympics.
Leon’s wall was by far the most artistic – an undercoat of favourite bands had been almost obliterated by headlines cut from newspapers, with yet another layer of breaking news and advertising slogans pasted on top. So a record company glossy of the Buzzcocks had a headline about the death of Mao Tse-Tung running diagonally across it, while
Another kid in a leather jacket on his way to God knows where…’
‘But Leon says he’s leaving tomorrow!’
White’s fist slammed down on his desk. ‘Come on, Ray. Are you a writer – or a fan?’
Ray needed to think about that. He had no idea if he was a real journalist, or if he would ever be. How could you tell? Who had ever dreamed that loving music would turn into a full-time job? He was a kid who had written about music because it was more interesting than a paper round, and because they didn’t give you free records if you stacked shelves in a supermarket.
‘I don’t know what I am,’ he said.
But Kevin White was no longer listening. The editor was staring over at the door, and Ray followed his gaze. On the other side of the rectangular pane of glass, there were men in suits waiting to see Kevin White. Men from upstairs, management, bald old geezers with ties and wrinkles who looked like your dad, or somebody’s dad. They were waiting for White to finish with Ray. Sometimes White had to smooth things out with them. One time a cleaner found a wastepaper bin full of roaches, and suddenly there were men in suits everywhere, all having a fit. But White worked it out. He was a great editor. Ray didn’t want to let him down.
‘I’ll try my best,’ Ray said. ‘But I don’t know if I’m a real journalist or just somebody who likes music.’
Kevin White stood up. It was time for him to face the men in suits again.
‘You’d better find out,’ the editor said.
Leon was gone. Terry was sitting on his desk, his DMs dangling, flicking through the copy of last week’s
Paper
that Misty had given him at the airport.
‘This is what you need, Ray,’ he said.
‘New! The Gringo Waistcoat. Get into the Original Gringo Waistcoat – the new style
. You’d look lovely in a Gringo Waistcoat.’
Ray dropped into his chair and stared into space. Terry didn’t notice. It was an endless source of amusement to him that theclassifieds in
The Paper
were always exactly one year behind the times. While the kid in the street was trying to look like Johnny Rotten, the models in the ads still looked like Jason King.
Cotton-drill loons – still only £2.80…Moccasin boots – choose from one long top fringe or three freaky layers
.
According to the classifieds, the readers of
The Paper
were wearing exactly what they had been wearing for the last ten years – flared jeans, Afghan coats, cheesecloth galore, and, always and for ever, T-shirts with amusing slogans. Sometimes it felt like
The Paper
would not exist without T-shirts with amusing slogans.
I CHOKED LINDA LOVELACE. LIE DOWN I THINK I LOVE YOU. SEX APPEAL – GIVE GENEROUSLY. And that timeless classic, the fucking flying ducks – two cartoon ducks, coupling in mid-flight, the male duck looking hugely satisfied, the female duck looking alarmed.
Terry leaned back, smiling to himself, his spiky head resting against a picture he had torn from a library book and sellotaped to his wall – Olga Korbut, smiling sweetly, bent double on the mat. After the Montreal Olympics last year, a lot of people had switched their affections to the Romanian girl, Nadia Comaneci, but Terry was sticking with Olga.
They each had their own wall, facing their desk with its typewriter, a sleek Olivetti Valentine in red moulded plastic. On Terry’s wall were bands and girls – record company 8 × 10 glossies of the New York Dolls, the Clash and the Sex Pistols plus images pillaged from magazines of Debbie Harry in a black mini-dress, Jane Fonda in
Barbarella
and Olga Korbut at the Munich Olympics.
Leon’s wall was by far the most artistic – an undercoat of favourite bands had been almost obliterated by headlines cut from newspapers, with yet another layer of breaking news and advertising slogans pasted on top. So a record company glossy of the Buzzcocks had a headline about the death of Mao Tse-Tung running diagonally across it, while
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