Gaseous Clay

Jeff Morgan, one half of Bo Molasses' management duo called me up today, to superficially shoot the shit, tell me about some merchandising deal that's in the offing and find out how the songwriting is coming along for the next album.

"Really well," I lied.

Jeff was pleased things were going so well. He couldn't wait to hear the demos. So I embellished my lie. Said I actually had two albums worth of finished material in the bag.

"Fan-fucking-tastic!" Jeff said, nearly creaming his corduroys.

I say Corduroys. Jeff might, of course, not have been wearing his corduroy troousers when he called me on the electric telephone, but as they are his habitual trouser of choice, along with white t-shirts and v-necked jerseys, I've used creative licence and imagined he was wearing them.

By the way, the other half of Bo Molasses' management duo is 'Champagne' Charlie Maslen, so called because he has a penchant for...well, I think you can guess.

'Champagne' Charlie suffers from verbal diarrhoea. Gets so worked up about stuff, he literally foams at the mouth. Speaks really up close in yer face too, which is off putting ‘cos he’s got squiffy eyes. Never can tell whether he’s looking at me, or two different objects about five feet either side of my head.

Anyway, back to the here and today...

Jeff reminded me there's alot riding on the next album.
A lot of expectation at the record company too. They
want it to finally break the band into the mainstream,
take us high up in to the stratosphere of
international musical achievement.

A multi-platinum selling affair on both sides of the Atlantic. Grammy awards, Britpop awards, mega sell-out arena tours. Wealth and fame the likes of which haven't been seen since Tuesday.

I reminded Jeff in turn, it was Bo Molasses he was talking about. An essentially unknown, albeit great garage blues outfit with a small but loyal fan base. Worldwide success, riches and fame weren't written in our destiny. Carrying on for a few more years until the various band members got tired of being in a band and being poor and split up, was.

"Fuck that," Jeff said. I should look on the bright side.

He then went into a boringly lengthy motivational monologue, which I zoned out of after a while, staring through my

transparent kitchen window (well, they are, aren't they?) dead ahead at a thick bush on the far side of my garden that seemed to be keeping guard over the exposed roots of the tree by the back wall - a tree that he could have sworn was whispering the word ‘wish’ at me over and over in a remarkably soothing way.

After Jeff went away and with limited food supplies in the house,
I was forced out. The hunter gatherer off to Sainsbury's.

On the way back to the house, an ugly ginger bird waiting at the bus stop
near the offie smiled at me. I hurried on by and then...it happened.

I spied Mimi for the first time simce our split a year and a half ago, a sight that stopped me dead in my tracks.

She was standing looking in the pet shop window, all tall and willowy in her skin tight jeans, knee length brown leather boots and heavy fake fur coat. My stomach whirled, my heartbeat quickened, my right eyebrow arched like Roger Moore's.

My God, she looked stunning, so beautiful it almost hurt my peep holes. In fact, for a few moments I couldn't quite believe it was her, just over there, checking out the puppies and the rabbits and the hamsters.

But it was.

Oh, thank you sweet Lord, I muttered under my breath. How many times had I fantasised about bumping into her again like this, you know, just casually in the street - a perfectly happy coincidence, the ideal opportunity to meet up again, you know, both of us alone. I'd go over and say hello, be perfectly charming, winningly so, totally unrecognisable from the desperate wreck she left crying on my kitchen floor, begging her not to leave.

I wouldn't even mention the past. No, I'd be magnanimous about it. She was right! We were never meant for each other. I'd thank her for her foresight in the matter. I'd demonstrate I'd matured. My eyes would sparkle with inner peace and harmony.

And after a brief chat, I'd say well, it was truly lovely to see her again but I must be off. I'd give her a friendly kiss on the cheek and leave her in the street staring after me, wondering why the fuck she ever left me for a total arsehole like Milo, and, you know, wondering whether to buy the little labrador puppy or the big white rabbit with the long floppy ears.

Then I spotted Milo, the slimy fucker, crossing the pavement towards her. He slipped his arms round her waist and rested his head on her shoulder, as she laughed and pointed to the puppy in the window wrestling with his own tail.

And how many times had I dreamt about meeting him again? Yeah, meeting him again and exacting my revenge by smashing his handsome-girlfriend-stealing-stupid-fucking-face in, Kung-Fu fists a-flailing with deadly accuracy?

But I’ve never had a proper physical fight in my life, not even as a kid. I’m just not the violent type, so my dreams morphed into nightmares and as I flew at him, Milo would always step forward and catch me with a swift kick to the abdomen or a deft chop to the back of the neck, felling me like a tree.

And I’d come to on the floor, see I’d wet myself and be so humiliated I’d burst into tears, such was the total physiological hold the man had over me.

With Milo now on the scene, I kept my head down, praying they wouldn’t spot me and wooshed by, ducking swiftly down a side street.

Once back in the safe, warm environs of my flat though, I
came over all weird and tired.

Jesus Christ. I'm still hung up on Mimi.

I popped on the box, rolled a spliff and poured
myself a large soothing whisky to calm down and
fell asleep on the sofa with the stress if it all.

I had this incredible dream. I found myself in a tiny lift
in a scuzzy building somewhere, pressing the button
to go to the top floor.

Everything was fine at first. The lift ascended normally,
but around the fourth or fifth floor it picked up speed,
getting faster and faster.

And it just kept on rising, higher and higher.

Before I knew it, I’d gone way past the top floor,
yet the lift was still rocketing skywards with
increasing velocity.

A loud bang above my head.

The lift shuddered violently and tilted to one side,
throwing me against the wall, but still it kept on climbing.
I panicked, pressing every button in sight, trying to stop it,
but it was no use.

There was another bang. The lift tilted over even further.

Fuck. I braced myself against the walls with my feet
and hands.

An almighty crashing sound. Even though
I couldn’t see a thing from inside, I knew the lift had
burst through the top of the building. It arced high.
I was left hanging in mid-air.

Then I was in freefall, stuck inside this bleeding
lift as it hurtled back down to earth, nothing I
could do to save myself.

I waited an eternity for the inevitable impact with
terra firma. Began screaming out for help,
banging on the walls,but of course no one could
hear me.

A split second before I hit the ground, I jerked
myself awake in a pool of acute panic and sweat,
each sinew of my being gripped by overwhelming fear. 

A dream indicative of a preoccupation with failure, perhaps?