the last two years hunting for Ingrid to spite
you, because I thought you still loved her. Well, now I know you don’t I can
call the search off and concentrate on salvaging something from my sad little
existence.”
“Why do you hate me
so much Bob?”
“I hate the fact
that you command attention simply by being yourself.”
“What?”
“When I released my
first album, I was on TV, radio, front covers of magazines, but whenever we
went anywhere together, it was you, an unemployed wastrel that everyone knew. Even
the street cleaners when we were making our way home at seven in the morning
knew you by name…I’m still amazed at how you used to stay out all night on
orange juice! But back to the point, you even managed to befriend me, an
absolute loner.”
“You’re talking
rubbish. You enjoyed plenty of attention during The Squeaky Kirk’s heyday.”
“That was only among
the sycophants in the art world. Outside of that, in normal pubs or everyday
situations, no-one even recognised me — not until I got with Ingrid anyway. But
they were queuing to speak with you, while I just hung about in the background
like a spare prick. They obviously didn’t want you for your money…you weren’t
fashionable or good looking or talented in any way. I mean, I’m sorry, but your
paintings were at best mediocre. No, they just loved you for being Danny White,
straight as a dye and true to your cause. You can’t manufacture that sort of
popularity. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“And you resented me
for that…simply because I got along with people?”
“Yes. Despite being
brought up to believe I was special, I’d been crippled by social inadequacy my
whole life. I was full of ambitions but incapable of going among people to realize
them. You, on the other hand, wanted nothing from anyone, yet could get along
with everyone. That always seemed unjust to me. In the end, being in your
company became insufferable. You seemed to be flaunting your popularity in my
face, reminding me that, without you having introduced me to your friends, I’d
have been nothing.”
“So, because of some
imagined slight, you stole my girlfriend?”
“Yes. But there was
more to it than that.”
“Well? How did this
poor, socially awkward outsider manage to seduce a girl like Ingrid then?”
“It was when your
mother fell ill and you’d stopped hanging around on the scene. I’d carried on
visiting the usual haunts, though why, I don’t know. I was having a miserable
time, standing in the corner of bars on my own, waiting for people to lavish
attention on me simply because I sang in a band. But it never came. Of course,
I knew most of the people in these places through you, but didn’t have the
charisma to engage any of them in conversation beyond the basic pleasantries. Anyway,
the night after BBC Scotland screened a documentary about the Squeaky Kirk,
Ingrid wandered in alone. She was living with you at the time and reckoned
she’d just stormed out half-way through an argument. I found this difficult to
believe, though, because she’d really dolled herself up. I bought her a drink
and she started moaning out about how terrible things had become since your
mother’s stroke. Sticking by your side, she’d felt as if under house
arrest…said she hadn’t been out anywhere in months — not easy for a beautiful,
nineteen-year-old girl. She claimed that you were venting all your stress
through her…flying into rages if she dared to contradict your political point
of view, usually during conversations around the TV at news time. Of course,
you’d expect a mate to make excuses for you and emphasise your good points, but
I didn’t. Selfish to the last, I used the opportunity to spew out all my own
misgivings about you, confirming Ingrid’s doubts in the process. I was enjoying
the slag-fest so much, I invited her back to mine at closing time, to do some
more. From the gasps of approval on seeing my apartment,
you, because I thought you still loved her. Well, now I know you don’t I can
call the search off and concentrate on salvaging something from my sad little
existence.”
“Why do you hate me
so much Bob?”
“I hate the fact
that you command attention simply by being yourself.”
“What?”
“When I released my
first album, I was on TV, radio, front covers of magazines, but whenever we
went anywhere together, it was you, an unemployed wastrel that everyone knew. Even
the street cleaners when we were making our way home at seven in the morning
knew you by name…I’m still amazed at how you used to stay out all night on
orange juice! But back to the point, you even managed to befriend me, an
absolute loner.”
“You’re talking
rubbish. You enjoyed plenty of attention during The Squeaky Kirk’s heyday.”
“That was only among
the sycophants in the art world. Outside of that, in normal pubs or everyday
situations, no-one even recognised me — not until I got with Ingrid anyway. But
they were queuing to speak with you, while I just hung about in the background
like a spare prick. They obviously didn’t want you for your money…you weren’t
fashionable or good looking or talented in any way. I mean, I’m sorry, but your
paintings were at best mediocre. No, they just loved you for being Danny White,
straight as a dye and true to your cause. You can’t manufacture that sort of
popularity. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“And you resented me
for that…simply because I got along with people?”
“Yes. Despite being
brought up to believe I was special, I’d been crippled by social inadequacy my
whole life. I was full of ambitions but incapable of going among people to realize
them. You, on the other hand, wanted nothing from anyone, yet could get along
with everyone. That always seemed unjust to me. In the end, being in your
company became insufferable. You seemed to be flaunting your popularity in my
face, reminding me that, without you having introduced me to your friends, I’d
have been nothing.”
“So, because of some
imagined slight, you stole my girlfriend?”
“Yes. But there was
more to it than that.”
“Well? How did this
poor, socially awkward outsider manage to seduce a girl like Ingrid then?”
“It was when your
mother fell ill and you’d stopped hanging around on the scene. I’d carried on
visiting the usual haunts, though why, I don’t know. I was having a miserable
time, standing in the corner of bars on my own, waiting for people to lavish
attention on me simply because I sang in a band. But it never came. Of course,
I knew most of the people in these places through you, but didn’t have the
charisma to engage any of them in conversation beyond the basic pleasantries. Anyway,
the night after BBC Scotland screened a documentary about the Squeaky Kirk,
Ingrid wandered in alone. She was living with you at the time and reckoned
she’d just stormed out half-way through an argument. I found this difficult to
believe, though, because she’d really dolled herself up. I bought her a drink
and she started moaning out about how terrible things had become since your
mother’s stroke. Sticking by your side, she’d felt as if under house
arrest…said she hadn’t been out anywhere in months — not easy for a beautiful,
nineteen-year-old girl. She claimed that you were venting all your stress
through her…flying into rages if she dared to contradict your political point
of view, usually during conversations around the TV at news time. Of course,
you’d expect a mate to make excuses for you and emphasise your good points, but
I didn’t. Selfish to the last, I used the opportunity to spew out all my own
misgivings about you, confirming Ingrid’s doubts in the process. I was enjoying
the slag-fest so much, I invited her back to mine at closing time, to do some
more. From the gasps of approval on seeing my apartment,
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