And Darren and Stewart, being songwriters, had talked and talked and talked and talked to the point that there were signatures on the contract.
Then the inconceivable had happened which is that Thom Yorke sent an e-mail inviting them to do a gig. Keith said they should just do it, fuck the fucking contract but Darren and Stewart
So then Keith was very quiet.
Never a good sign.
Given Keith’s known propensity to hit things other than drums.
So Darren said they would record the song.
Keith tried to explain his concept and Darren and Stewart kept arsing about and then Sean the keyboardist sussed that it was an arsing about session and then Keith put down his sticks.
Darren, Stewart and Sean sussed that the beat was gone.
Keith, says Darren. What the fuck.
Keith disengaged from the scaffolding of things that could be hit that made noise. He stood up.
He walked across the floor while Darren, Stewart and Sean varied the theme of What the fuck. He took the mic from Darren.
In addition to not being a songwriter Keith was not a singer. He dragged the lyrics of the song over reluctant vocal cords and spat them into the mic.
Fucking great man said Darren who did not want another guitar percussioned to subatomic particles against wall, floor, chair, his head. Yeah fucking great said Stewart who had also lost 3 guitars and Sean hastened to protect his keyboard from berserk drummer syndrome, Fucking great, insane, totally fucking crazy man
Keith handed the mic back to Darren. He turned and walked out the door.
The studio was in Limehouse. He walked west. His legs would not let him get on a bus.
At Leicester Square the crowd, wasn’t there a director who gave every person in a crowd scene a thing to do? Sometimes the world is too convincing, as if someone spent too much time on it. Individualising the robots. He stopped at a corner.
On the pavement was this, like, guy with a sign beside him, CRAZY NICK AND HIS MUSICAL TRAFFIC CONES. There was an orange cone on the pavement beside him and he was holding another cone to his mouth, blowing into it. To the music of My Way.
pa PA, pa PA pa PA, pa PA pa PA, pa PA pa PA pa
pa PA, pa PA pa PA, pa PA pa PA, pa PA pa PA pa
People were dropping money in the cone. One woman, she put a ten pound note in the fucking cone.
PA PA PA pa PA
pa PA pa PA
PA PA PA PA PA
He stood on the pavement.
pa pa
pa pa pa pa
pa pa pa — — PAAAAAA PA
Like, fuck. A kid put 10p in the cone. The music was shite but here was this luckless tosser turning ostensibly irredeemable shite into gold with a simple traffic cone. Single-handedly handling his own PR and marketing and sales and distribution. Say Thom Yorke comes upon the scene, says Hey, Crazy Nick, great act, OK if I join you, and Thom Yorke picks up the other traffic cone and does an impromptu gig with Crazy Nick —
Crazy Nick can say Yes, he can say Fuck off Radiohead wanker scum. Total artistic control.
He stood watching Crazy Nick for about 3 hours because
He walked east.
Marc was on the late shift at the News of the World. He wore a suit because hacks must dig for dirt in a suit. A call came in that a celeb was being a wanker in a pub, if swift action was taken photographic evidence might be shared with the British public, and Marc was the man for the job.
The celeb was Kyle Vaughan. He had a part in a soap. He stood by the bar with a rolled-up copy of the Big Issue, blowing My Way out of the orifice. Poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop poop poop.
Not much value in it as a pic.
What I’m saying is, they’re not doing enough to TRAIN, expatiated the celeb. Like, show some initiative, mate. You see them selling the Big Toilet Tissue and you want to say look, I have enough problems without constipating my brain with this crap, do something funny for a change, add value to the product
Marc: So you’d, like,
Like today I saw this bloke at Leicester Square, Crazy Nick and His Musical Traffic Cones, he’s playing My Way on a traffic cone, I thought, you know, this just goes to show how fucking useless the Big Issue is, anyone with a little imagination can do more with a couple of fucking traffic cones
So you, did you give him some money, then? asked Marc.
Yeh. I gave him a quid. Which is what I’m saying.
Poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop poop poop.
But maybe, maybe everyone can’t be that innovative, do you think there’s enough funny things that homeless people can do? Could you, like, do you have any ideas?
Yeh. Sure. Like. Like. Say you say to people, I am going to take my trousers off. If you pay me I will put them back on.
Yeh, maybe, said Marc, but see, maybe that’s quite embarrassing, taking off your trousers in front of a lot of strangers, I mean, you wouldn’t want to do it
Poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop poop poop.
That’s where you’re wrong, mate. Because it’s not about being a humung being it’s about putting on a performance
Yeh but I don’t see you doing it, easy to say, said Marc
And then it all happens very fast, the celeb is waving his Diesel jeans around his head and Marc is snapping pix and the celeb is shouting Wanker and Marc is heading for the door and the celeb is struggling to get into his Diesel jeans and Marc is in the street running
and he ducks into a doorway three swift corners down
and he gets out his phone and sends pix and they are dead chuffed, well done mate, they say
and he walks under the cold sky on wet tarmac on which the bones of chickens and crumbs of fried batter mingle with dog turds, shiny crisp packets, a flattened satsuma, he steps into the Oranges & Lemons & at the pinball machine is Keith O’Connor.
Marc orders a pint of Guinness. O’Connor is dancing with the pinball machine, pulling knobs, slapping the glass, leaning into it, pulling away. Marc sits on a plump leather bench. It’s quiet.
The door opens. A bloke in a Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirt and Diesel jeans, bald, red face, goes to the bar, orders a Peroni, goes through swinging doors to a room behind the bar.
You all right, Tel.
Yeh. Yeh.
No offence mate but you look like shit.
Yeh. Well, me missus kicked me out.
Fuck.
Yeh — See, I was sitting at the end of the bar and this old geezer is talking to this girl and I say the word cunt. Not loud, like, but I do say it, but in a private conversation. So he hears me, and this is partly generational, he takes offence because his girl is there. So he says What did you say? So I don’t want to make an issue of it, so I say All right, Stan, leave it, but he won’t leave it alone, he says What did you say, so at this point I go over not meaning to do any serious damage but just to, you know, give him a little tap, but I misjudged the situation and broke his jaw.
Fuck.
Yeh. Yeh. This old geezer, and you know I would not normally hit someone that age Derek but he gave me no option, but then me missus says, You’re not coming home.
Fuck.
Yeh.
Well, you can stay at mine or you can stay here. Frank and his lot are coming over after unloading, usual game.
It’s been a long day.
The pinball machine is silent. Keith feeds it more coins. Marc occupies his suit.
Derek: In the north cunt is still an offensive word. You say that around somebody’s girlfriend and he will exterminate you. In the south you hear it all over the place, people say Stop cunting me about, this sort of thing.