arrival.
“The fuck’s he doing here?”
“Dunno.”
“Maybe he goes to the out-of-town ones so he doesn’t get hassled,” Alan mused.
“Funny that, I was thinking of hassling him myself,” I commented.
“Forget it, man. You’ll never get past Gloria.”
The support band finished and the DJ, perhaps thinking it wouldserve as a welcome to the venue, stuck on the Magpies’ “Me in a Room.” I glanced in Webster’s direction; he had rolled his eyes and buried himself deeper into the conversation. Dominic feigned disgust and went to get another Diet Coke; Alan and I, normally happy to dance anywhere, self-consciously swayed a bit and tried not to mouth the words. I couldn’t relax, knowing who was a few bodies away from me. I needed to somehow reach out to him, give him some small indication of the happy turmoil he was helping my life plunge into; but without appearing to be some kind of gibbering Super Fan. Whatever I said to him needed to have
a point
. A minute later the angrily sung, incomprehensible middle eight of the song kicked in and the man himself gave me my answer.
“I’m going to ask him what he’s singing here,” I declared to Alan suddenly.
“Okay,” Alan nodded, without debate.
“Can you come with me?”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. In case Gloria hits me or something.”
We paused for a moment. I felt like I was standing outside my headmaster’s office, preparing to knock.
“I’m not sure, man,” admitted Alan. “He might tell us to fuck off.”
“Part of me doesn’t care.”
“Shall we try and have a drink first or something?”
The DJ swapped the Magpies tune for “Sensitize” by That Petrol Emotion. A small whoop went up from Webster’s corner and Gloria skipped off to dance near the stage with some others.
“Now,” I commanded.
We nudged our way past a few people until we were directly in front of him. We stood there foolishly for what seemed like ten minutes until I remembered I was meant to be doing the talking; I drew breath to speak but then heard Alan’s voice next to me.
“Er, excuse me, man. Sorry to bother you … you can tell us to fuck off if you like …”
Webster grinned cheekily. “Fuck off, then.”
We all laughed. Phew!
“We were wondering,” I continued, taking the reins back from Alan, “what the lyrics were to that bit in ‘Me in a Room’?”
“‘Me in a Room,’” Webster repeated, narrowing his eyes at me strangely.
He’s short
, I thought.
He’s wearing a long, brown and decidedly non-alternative suede jacket. His hair looks scruffy and knotted
. But—
he’s Lance Webster
.
“The bridge bit,” Alan added.
“Sounds like you’re singing
‘the system eyes all grind around the fuck,’
” I pointed out, laughing nervously.
“That’s probably because I am singing that,” he smiled. “I think it began life as something else, perhaps
‘I sit, I stand, I sleep, I drink, I fuck,’
but we recorded it one night when I got pissed out of my head on Black Russians and had to keep doing it over and over … the more pissed I got the more I changed it, until it just became that. I can’t believe it, you bastards have picked my one nonsensical lyric!”
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“We never play it live anyway,” Webster sneered. “Shit song.”
“No, it’s great,” Alan and I chanted in unison.
“All right,” Webster laughed, “you really
can
fuck off now.”
Class dismissed.
“Nice one,” stammered Alan, turning to go.
“See you at Rivermead,” I said stupidly, and followed.
We returned to where a smirking Dominic stood, clearly delighted at how short the exchange had been.
“So, what did he have to say?”
“What a geezer,” Alan began.
“Top bloke,” I added.
“Yes, but what did he actually say? For God’s sake, Beresford, your bloody hands are shaking.”
He was right. My adrenaline rush had reached its peak, coupled with the sweet satisfaction at having actually pulled off a Nice
“The fuck’s he doing here?”
“Dunno.”
“Maybe he goes to the out-of-town ones so he doesn’t get hassled,” Alan mused.
“Funny that, I was thinking of hassling him myself,” I commented.
“Forget it, man. You’ll never get past Gloria.”
The support band finished and the DJ, perhaps thinking it wouldserve as a welcome to the venue, stuck on the Magpies’ “Me in a Room.” I glanced in Webster’s direction; he had rolled his eyes and buried himself deeper into the conversation. Dominic feigned disgust and went to get another Diet Coke; Alan and I, normally happy to dance anywhere, self-consciously swayed a bit and tried not to mouth the words. I couldn’t relax, knowing who was a few bodies away from me. I needed to somehow reach out to him, give him some small indication of the happy turmoil he was helping my life plunge into; but without appearing to be some kind of gibbering Super Fan. Whatever I said to him needed to have
a point
. A minute later the angrily sung, incomprehensible middle eight of the song kicked in and the man himself gave me my answer.
“I’m going to ask him what he’s singing here,” I declared to Alan suddenly.
“Okay,” Alan nodded, without debate.
“Can you come with me?”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. In case Gloria hits me or something.”
We paused for a moment. I felt like I was standing outside my headmaster’s office, preparing to knock.
“I’m not sure, man,” admitted Alan. “He might tell us to fuck off.”
“Part of me doesn’t care.”
“Shall we try and have a drink first or something?”
The DJ swapped the Magpies tune for “Sensitize” by That Petrol Emotion. A small whoop went up from Webster’s corner and Gloria skipped off to dance near the stage with some others.
“Now,” I commanded.
We nudged our way past a few people until we were directly in front of him. We stood there foolishly for what seemed like ten minutes until I remembered I was meant to be doing the talking; I drew breath to speak but then heard Alan’s voice next to me.
“Er, excuse me, man. Sorry to bother you … you can tell us to fuck off if you like …”
Webster grinned cheekily. “Fuck off, then.”
We all laughed. Phew!
“We were wondering,” I continued, taking the reins back from Alan, “what the lyrics were to that bit in ‘Me in a Room’?”
“‘Me in a Room,’” Webster repeated, narrowing his eyes at me strangely.
He’s short
, I thought.
He’s wearing a long, brown and decidedly non-alternative suede jacket. His hair looks scruffy and knotted
. But—
he’s Lance Webster
.
“The bridge bit,” Alan added.
“Sounds like you’re singing
‘the system eyes all grind around the fuck,’
” I pointed out, laughing nervously.
“That’s probably because I am singing that,” he smiled. “I think it began life as something else, perhaps
‘I sit, I stand, I sleep, I drink, I fuck,’
but we recorded it one night when I got pissed out of my head on Black Russians and had to keep doing it over and over … the more pissed I got the more I changed it, until it just became that. I can’t believe it, you bastards have picked my one nonsensical lyric!”
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“We never play it live anyway,” Webster sneered. “Shit song.”
“No, it’s great,” Alan and I chanted in unison.
“All right,” Webster laughed, “you really
can
fuck off now.”
Class dismissed.
“Nice one,” stammered Alan, turning to go.
“See you at Rivermead,” I said stupidly, and followed.
We returned to where a smirking Dominic stood, clearly delighted at how short the exchange had been.
“So, what did he have to say?”
“What a geezer,” Alan began.
“Top bloke,” I added.
“Yes, but what did he actually say? For God’s sake, Beresford, your bloody hands are shaking.”
He was right. My adrenaline rush had reached its peak, coupled with the sweet satisfaction at having actually pulled off a Nice
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