Timothy Lea - Confessions of a Pop Star

‘ “And the brave young sons of Eireann came pouring through the door. And the snivelling British Tommies fell grovelling on the floor.” ’ I turn round and – blooming heck! The bearded git must be Rambling Jack Snorter. His accent is as thick as an upright shillelah and the first three rows are reeling under a hail of spittle.

I tear myself from Daffers’ side and return to Sid.

‘What do you think?’ he says.

‘He’s all right if you’ve got an umbrella,’ I say. ‘Does he always go in for this anti-British stuff?’

‘He’s very committed,’ says Sid.

‘And frequently, too, I should reckon,’ I venture. ‘I think he comes on a bit strong, myself.’

‘He’s controversial, I’ll grant you,’ says Sid. ‘But that’s a good thing these days. He can create a dialogue between himself and the audience.’

‘You mean, like that bloke who just threw a bottle at him and told him to piss off back to Ireland?’

‘That kind of thing, Timmo.’ Sid grabs me by the arm and steers me away from the stage. ‘I think we might see if his voice carries.’

‘Good thinking, Sid.’

‘ “So here’s to all brave Irishmen, God bless their sparkling eyes. And hatred to the English filth whom all true men despise.” ’

‘I like the idea of the fiddle,’ I say.

‘Yeah. But they break easily, don’t they?’

‘They do if that one is anything to go by. Does he always finish his act by being thrown out of one of the windows?’

‘Not usually,’ says Sid, ducking. ‘It’s just that some of these dockers are a bit touchy. They’re big men but very sensitive. Do you fancy another beer?’

‘I don’t think we’re going to be able to get one, Sid. That’s the governor draped over the partition, isn’t it?’

‘You’re right. It’s a lively little place, no doubt about it. I must come again some time.’

‘Give them a couple of years to rebuild.’ I duck as another bottle shatters against the wall above my head. If we keep under the table and push it towards the door we may be all right.’

Sid nods and turns up the collar of his jacket. ‘Yeah, I don’t like leaving the car for too long around here. Last time I was in the neighbourhood the kids were playing tiddly winks with hub-caps. Some little bleeder whipped my aerial. It wouldn’t have been so bad but I was doing forty miles an hour at the time.

Daffers is sheltering under a nearby table and I nod to her as we crawl past. ‘Super to meet you,’ she says. ‘Good luck with the rowing.’

‘What was she on about?’ says Sid. ‘What have you been telling her?’

‘Search me. I think she’s a bit touched.’

‘I wouldn’t mind touching her and all. Lovely the way her bristols were hanging down like that.’

The sight has not been lost on me and I would be very willing to show the lady that what I don’t know about rowing I know about in and out. I mean, it’s practically the same thing, isn’t it? Women on their hands and knees are always a favourite with me. A bit of dangle and a nice inviting curve to the backside – Down Lea!

We get to the car just as the fire engine comes round the corner and nearly collides with the first of the police cars.

‘Lovely publicity,’ says Sid, enviously. ‘It’s a shame we don’t have him under contract.’

‘Sign him up and you’ll have us all under six feet of earth,’ I say. ‘He’s a raving nutter, that bloke.’

‘He’s outrageous,’ agrees Sid. ‘But that’s what a section of the market wants, these days. I wonder if I could get him to wear drag and dye his hair purple.’

Sid rambles on in this vein until he informs me that we are approaching Plonkers.

‘Yeah. Diabolical name, isn’t it? I told her people would associate it with bonkers and she said that was the idea.’

The place is down Fulham way and there are a load of high class wheels parked outside the front door. All lean and hunched-up like greyhounds crapping in the gutter. Inside there is a long bar and lots of alcoves and small tables. There is sawdust on the floor and a few geezers wearing striped aprons who cater for the wine-drinking public. I have to admit that quite a few members of the grape-group are present and they make a marked contrast to the regulars at The Prospect of Doom. Some of them are even wearing suits and the whine of their upper class rabbit would drill holes in the side of a battleship.

If Rosie is glad to see us, the fact is not communicated by any movement of her features.

‘Oh, you’ve come,’ she says.

‘Only metaphysically,’ says Sid for some reason that I find hard to explain.

‘What can I offer you to drink?’ says Rosie, all posh-like.

‘I’ll have a glass of the house white,’ says Sid.

‘I’ll try the pillar box red,’ I say.

Once again Rosie’s features do not spring into smile position with whippet-like swiftness. ‘Don’t treat the place like the public bar at the Highwayman,’ she says coldly.

And to think I can remember when she used to believe that the sun set every time Sid fastened his pyjama cord. Some birds go off faster than last year’s turkey.

I turn away from this timely warning to anyone considering getting nuptially knotted and take a butche’s round the room. Imagine my surprise – go on, please do – when I see Daffers and the bloke she was with, sitting in one of the alcoves. I can recognise him by the black eye and the lump on the top of his nut – he went out of the window just after Rambling Jack Snorter.

Daffers recognises me the instant our mince-pies meet and I hear the familiar strains of the love theme from Tchaik’s Romeo and Juliet bashing a hole in my lug holes – with the last tinkling notes running away down the front of my Y-fronts. Surely fate must have thrown us together? Daffers clearly thinks so. She scampers to my side and informs me that Algie is on the point of passing out. A combination of booze and amateur brain surgery has reduced his already sub-standard sex appeal to vanishing point.

‘I think he ought to go home,’ she murmurs. ‘He’s not himself.’

I am tempted to suggest that any change must be an improvement but I control myself.

‘You have beautiful eyes,’ I say as if nothing in the world could make me think about anything else.

‘You mustn’t say that.’ Daffers squeezes my arm and her fate is sealed. Once birds start touching you it is but a question of minutes before their knickers are spoiling the cut of your jacket pocket.

‘Where does he live?’

‘Just round the corner, but he’s in no state to drive.’

‘I’ll drive.’ The words pop out of my mouth so fast that I think someone else must have said them.

‘Would you really?’

I knock back the red plonk so as not to offend Rosie and tell Sid that I am popping out for a few minutes.

‘Blimey, you’re a sucker for failure, aren’t you?’ he says. ‘Don’t hang about. I don’t want to stay here all night.’

I ignore him and help steer Algie out of the door. There is a glow in the east which makes me wonder if The Prospect of Doom is still burning. Algie has one of those little sports cars with about enough room in the back seat to lay a sausage roll lengthways and it is like fitting a broken umbrella into a shoe box to get him stowed away.

‘You should have gone in the back, really,’ I say. ‘Still, I’m glad you didn’t.’

Daffers pulls her skirt down towards her knees and runs her hand up my forearm. ‘Third on the left and I’ll give you instructions from there.’

‘Filthy Irish swine,’ drones Algie’s voice from the back seat. His head drops back and he begins to snore loudly.

‘Do you think we’re going to be able to get him out?’ murmurs my new friend. For some reason best known to herself her words accompany the pressure of dainty finger tips against my upper thigh.