is lacking, then all is lost.”
Flaubert’s dictum for getting through life unscathed
Into Baravan’s, shouted a pint and took a seat in the snug.
Snug it is.
The pint came, I took a belt, pulled out the statement, shouted,
“Brandy, large.”
And punched the air. It wasn’t retirement money, but for some time to come, I wouldn’t be counting the shillings. Not with any caution anyway. When the brandy came, the guy asked,
“Celebrating?”
“I am. What will you have?”
“A decade of the rosary.”
You can never impress them in that bar. I wanted to sit there all day, but my conscience whined,
“Yo, what about Jeff and Cathy?”
So I went to Nestor’s. The sentry was in place, his half before him. Jeff was washing glasses. The sentry said,
“Didn’t you used to drink here?”
Jeff smiled.
I climbed on a stool, said,
“Sorry I’ve been out of touch.”
“Good to see you, Jack.”
“How’s Cathy?”
“Good.”
“And the baby?”
Blame the brandy, I couldn’t remember the baby’s name. Mortified, I fumbled for my cigs, cranked up as Jeff said,
“She’s thriving.”
And the conversation died. Didn’t splutter to a slow stop or meander some cliched route and collapse. I said, after a horrendous amount of time,
“A pint, Jeff.”
“Coming up.”
Got that and moved to what used to be my office. Hard chair and table, with my back to the door, thinking,
“Finish the pint and flee.”
Jeff came over, mug of coffee in his hand, asked,
“Join you?”
“Sure.”
He did.
Then asked,
“Where are you on Bob Dylan?”
“In the dark mostly.”
Head shake, wrong answer.
He launches.
“Look back for a moment to
Don’t Look Back,
the documentary film of his ‘65 visit to Britain, when he was young and beautiful. Here he is, just turning twenty-four, with the world of celebrity and glamour kissing his feet. He is the most perfectly hip creature on earth.”
Jeff pauses, caught in the sheer wonder of this image. Shakes his head, continues,
“Imagine how you would cope with this. Even 10 per cent of it would turn your head. But Dylan does cope, telling the man from
Time
magazine, ‘You’re going to die. You’re going to be dead. It could be twenty years; it could be tomorrow, anytime. So am I. I mean we’re just going to be gone. The world’s going to go on without us, you do your job in the face of that, and how seriously you take yourself, you decide.’
“This is the Dylan stance. Thirty-six years on, he’s still all alone in the end-zone, determinedly unimpressed by the hullabaloo he has engendered and endured throughout.”
Jeff took a swipe of his coffee, beads of sweat on his brow. Mr Cool, Mr Mellow, Mr Laid back had got passion. Before I could say that, he said,
“That’s not my rap; it’s from a piece by Michael Gray, a Dylan chronicler from way back.”
“And what? You learnt it by heart?”
He caught my tone, defended,
“What if I did?”
“Come on, Jeff, you were a musician, nigh on Dylan’s era. You’ve survived, too.”
The bar radio kicked in, and the Kinks’ “Lola” began. We both smiled. Perhaps it was the last comment on us.
Like asking,
“Riddle me this?”
I said,
“Did you read Ray Davies’ book?”
“What, you don’t think I’ve enough grief”
I’d finished the pint and was debating another when he said,
“Do you know what it’s like to have a Down’s syndrome child?”
I’d no idea, said,
“I’ve no idea.”
“Would you like to know?”
Before I could answer, he reached in his jeans, took out a folded paper, said,
“That will tell you.”
“Did you write it?”
“No, I live it.”
Then he was up, said,
“I’ve a beer delivery. They’ll throw the barrels all over the yard unless I’m there.”
I opened the paper, read
Welcome to Holland
By Emily Pearl.
It was a long piece about planning a trip to Italy. Goes into lengthy detail about the excitement of the trip. This is the one
Flaubert’s dictum for getting through life unscathed
Into Baravan’s, shouted a pint and took a seat in the snug.
Snug it is.
The pint came, I took a belt, pulled out the statement, shouted,
“Brandy, large.”
And punched the air. It wasn’t retirement money, but for some time to come, I wouldn’t be counting the shillings. Not with any caution anyway. When the brandy came, the guy asked,
“Celebrating?”
“I am. What will you have?”
“A decade of the rosary.”
You can never impress them in that bar. I wanted to sit there all day, but my conscience whined,
“Yo, what about Jeff and Cathy?”
So I went to Nestor’s. The sentry was in place, his half before him. Jeff was washing glasses. The sentry said,
“Didn’t you used to drink here?”
Jeff smiled.
I climbed on a stool, said,
“Sorry I’ve been out of touch.”
“Good to see you, Jack.”
“How’s Cathy?”
“Good.”
“And the baby?”
Blame the brandy, I couldn’t remember the baby’s name. Mortified, I fumbled for my cigs, cranked up as Jeff said,
“She’s thriving.”
And the conversation died. Didn’t splutter to a slow stop or meander some cliched route and collapse. I said, after a horrendous amount of time,
“A pint, Jeff.”
“Coming up.”
Got that and moved to what used to be my office. Hard chair and table, with my back to the door, thinking,
“Finish the pint and flee.”
Jeff came over, mug of coffee in his hand, asked,
“Join you?”
“Sure.”
He did.
Then asked,
“Where are you on Bob Dylan?”
“In the dark mostly.”
Head shake, wrong answer.
He launches.
“Look back for a moment to
Don’t Look Back,
the documentary film of his ‘65 visit to Britain, when he was young and beautiful. Here he is, just turning twenty-four, with the world of celebrity and glamour kissing his feet. He is the most perfectly hip creature on earth.”
Jeff pauses, caught in the sheer wonder of this image. Shakes his head, continues,
“Imagine how you would cope with this. Even 10 per cent of it would turn your head. But Dylan does cope, telling the man from
Time
magazine, ‘You’re going to die. You’re going to be dead. It could be twenty years; it could be tomorrow, anytime. So am I. I mean we’re just going to be gone. The world’s going to go on without us, you do your job in the face of that, and how seriously you take yourself, you decide.’
“This is the Dylan stance. Thirty-six years on, he’s still all alone in the end-zone, determinedly unimpressed by the hullabaloo he has engendered and endured throughout.”
Jeff took a swipe of his coffee, beads of sweat on his brow. Mr Cool, Mr Mellow, Mr Laid back had got passion. Before I could say that, he said,
“That’s not my rap; it’s from a piece by Michael Gray, a Dylan chronicler from way back.”
“And what? You learnt it by heart?”
He caught my tone, defended,
“What if I did?”
“Come on, Jeff, you were a musician, nigh on Dylan’s era. You’ve survived, too.”
The bar radio kicked in, and the Kinks’ “Lola” began. We both smiled. Perhaps it was the last comment on us.
Like asking,
“Riddle me this?”
I said,
“Did you read Ray Davies’ book?”
“What, you don’t think I’ve enough grief”
I’d finished the pint and was debating another when he said,
“Do you know what it’s like to have a Down’s syndrome child?”
I’d no idea, said,
“I’ve no idea.”
“Would you like to know?”
Before I could answer, he reached in his jeans, took out a folded paper, said,
“That will tell you.”
“Did you write it?”
“No, I live it.”
Then he was up, said,
“I’ve a beer delivery. They’ll throw the barrels all over the yard unless I’m there.”
I opened the paper, read
Welcome to Holland
By Emily Pearl.
It was a long piece about planning a trip to Italy. Goes into lengthy detail about the excitement of the trip. This is the one
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