The Rock 'N' the Roll. 'N That Read online

  The Rock’N’The Roll.

  ‘N That

  Steven J. Gill

  Dedicated to

  Darren Clarke and John McBeath. Both are much missed.

  And the twenty-two innocent lives lost on 22nd May 2017.

  Manchesterwill never forget you.

  Don’t Look Back in Anger…

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  A short note from the author

  The all-important thanks and acknowledgments.

  Alphabetical list of backers for ‘The Rock’n’The Roll. ‘N That…’

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Low-key.

  He’d insisted on low-key.

  Low-key. It’s unambiguous.

  Without fuss.

  No surprise parties.

  Resolutely no fucking surprise party.

  No ‘see them once in a blue moon’ friends making up the numbers.

  No debauched weekend in Eastern Europe being rinsed by preternaturally attractive girls.

  And resolutely no navel-gazing or ‘what if’ recriminations.

  At least not outside the confines of his inner narrative…

  Male pattern baldness. Erectile dysfunction. Pension shortfalls. Prostate checks. Taking up the saxophone. The fucking saxophone. Earhole, eyebrow & nostril hair sprouting overnight. Middle aged spread. Just for fucking Men hair dye. Fuck me. Buying a bike worth twice your first car and dressing up in lycra like a Poundland Bradley Wiggins. Fucking Lycra. Prozac. Viagra. Vitamin supplements. Anti-wrinkle moisturisers at 30 quid a pop. Getting your five-a-day every day. And your once a month bedroom treat. If you’re really lucky. Stop wearing trainers. Christ. Health MOTs. National Trust membership. Three-day hangovers. Dinner parties. Stroking you chin in Real Ales Pubs and Ministry of turn the Sound down please. Going. Fucking. Bald. And so on…

  It’d better be fucking low key, Johnny thought to himself as he idly peeled at the dampened label on his bottle of lager.

  Johnny Harrison.

  Thirty-nine years and 364 days old.

  Or young. Whichever way you want to wrap it up.

  He had begun to warm to the vagaries of thirty-something…

  But forty.

  Fucking forty.

  Middle-aged.

  Proper middle aged.

  How the fuck had that crept up on him?

  4-0. That was a whole new demographic. The 39–45 bracket on applications. And that’s nearly 50.

  He had been fifteen when his dad hit the two-score milestone. The half century eluding him as he dropped dead of a stroke at 48. Congenital heart condition. Long odds of it being hereditary. But still…

  It was to be a drink or two with his closest friends in Manchester’s burgeoning Northern Quarter.

  Dressed for the occasion in his immaculate, but seldom worn, Navy Stripe Boating Blazer, green gingham checked shirt and jeans – the same brand and fit for the past fifteen years. A pair of new brown Desert Boots completed the outfit. A present from his long-term partner, Claire. Complete with a card saying that it should really have been comfy slippers. Drum roll please.

  “There’s just no place for the balds in rock ’n’ roll,” said Johnny

  “Elton John,” Mark replied, with a self-satisfied look on his face.

  “He’s not a bald! Proper head of hair on him,” Johnny replied.

  “Fuck off. He’s bald as a coot! He wears a wig. I’m sure of it,” said Mark with an exasperated tone.

  “AHH!” Johnny said as he held an index finger to his nose and pointed at Mark with his other hand.

  “You’re such a sarky twat,” Mark grumbled.

  “Look. For every bald you can think of, I can name a dozen that are hirsute in the extreme. Ozzy. All The Beatles. Bowie. Zep. Let’s not start on The Stones. Clapton. Duran Du-fucking-ran. The Gallaghers. Him out of Depeche Mode. The Roses. Pete Doherty. But I wouldn’t encourage his narcotic intake.”

  “Yeah, yeah alright,” Mark ceded.

  “I’m right. A healthy diet of drugs gives you a great fucking head of hair. For life. So, shut the fuck up and tuck in,” Johnny said as he nodded in the direction of the mound of cocaine that sat centre stage on his finger-marked glass dining room table.

  “FLEETWOOD MAC! They took loads. Legendary for it,” he shouted smugly.

  “Behave. Stevie Nicks has got a lovely head of hair. She wouldn’t thank you for that,” Johnny retorted.

  “Always the smartarse,” Mark said.

  “Always. But you still love me. Now get that polished off. Taxi will be here soon. Give Chris a shout. Chain-smoking like a lab monkey out there.”

  “Anyway. Don’t change the subject. That’s it. All downhill from here,” Mark said pithily.

  “Fuck off. I’ve still got my hair. Bit greyer. Well, a lot greyer,” he said shrugging, “and my eyesight’s only just giving up the ghost. And I won’t be shopping for Blue Harbour’s finest elasticated jeans like you. That bay window above your belt,” Johnny said as he reached across to pat Mark roughly on his receding pate.

  Mark recoiled, slapping Johnny’s hand away.

  “Look at the fucking state of you man. You’ve given up. Five years ago, you’d have never been seen dead in them shoe trainers or whatever the fuck they are. They look like someone dropped two pies and you’ve stepped in them”

  “Given up? You’ve not got a fucking clue mate. Given up. Fuck me,” Mark said with a weary shake of his head. “I’d love to drop a week’s wages on clobber. But the last time I looked at something smart, it didn’t come in a wipe down from baby puke range.”

  “Come on mate, I’m only messing. I’m 40. What changes? It’s only a number. I’ll be right. Something’ll happen for me…”

  “Do you mean you’re actually going to grow up and face u
p to your responsibilities?” Mark asked. “It’s not too late for you to become a dad or make an honest woman of Claire. Decide what you want from your career!” His tone becoming serious as he attempted to add gravitas to his advice

  “Haha! I’d love to take you seriously mate! I’m hanging on your every word. But I cannot take life coaching from a man with a lump of coke hanging from his nose.”

  Rubbing his nostrils furiously, “You could at least start with a proper haircut,” Mark said.

  Chris returned from the backyard, having just extinguished his fifth cigarette of the afternoon. “But it’s not ‘just a number’ is it. You’ll look at what you’ve achieved or in your case…”

  “Balls,” Johnny said, a little too defensively.

  An angular chin away from being classed as classically good looking. Just under six foot, with an athletic build he had somehow retained despite a lack of any meaningful exercise over the last decade. A thick head of hair that had seen teenage attempts at a Morrissey quiff – lamentably limp – ’90s rave ‘curtains’ which morphed into an indie bowl cut and was now worn in an unkempt fringe that he felt was an act of rebellion towards his corporate paymasters. And in his vainer moments, made him look like Richard Ashcroft.

  Decent enough house. Money wasn’t that much of an issue. His job as an HR manager at a large IT company paid well, but it wasn’t exactly what he had planned. Claire was a good partner. Although she was not behind the door at reminding him what a catch she was. He missed her more free-spirited days. Sort of. She was seemingly now far happier planning interior design makeovers, with hours spent slavishly pouring over aspirational magazines.

  This can’t be it.

  There must be more to the conundrum of life. There’s got to be more than sitting on a sofa and asking each other what you want to eat before you die.

  The front door to the terraced house opened and Claire walked in, dumping her neon striped sports bag at the foot of the stairs.

  Claire Cooper – who went by the moniker of CC in her clubbing days. A natural blonde with a dancer’s body. Upon the closure of her beloved Hacienda, she’d switched overnight from pill popping to detoxing. This epiphany resulted in her looking a good ten years younger than her 38 years.

  Standing and hugging her, Johnny kissed her warmly on the neck. “Careful now. You don’t want to get sweat on your best jacket, do we?”

  “I was just going to say how nice you smelt,” Johnny smiled.

  “Don’t creep. Doesn’t suit you. And I know you’re only coming out with the charm to make up for the shit state you’ll be in tomorrow,” Claire retorted.

  “Hiya Claire,” Mark said with a surreptitious rub of his nose.

  “Hello boys,” Claire purred, well aware of the effect that her Lycra-clad figure would have on her partner’s drinking buddies.

  With a polite peck on her cheek, Chris returned the flirtatious comment with interest. “Hiya gorgeous. You look great. As always. Way too good for this deadbeat!”

  Mark smiled back, discreetly trying to wipe the stream of coke induced dribble that had leaked from his right nostril.

  “Lucy and the twins doing well?” Claire asked.

  “Great ta. She said to say hello,” Chris replied as he studiously tried to stop eyeing her up and down.

  And failing.

  Checking his chunky stainless-steel watch, Johnny sighed at the platitudes. “Won’t be a massive one. Just town for a few and that. Maybe a curry.”

  Making finger quotes, she said, “A ‘quiet one’. Hmmm. You’ll tell me anything. Come on, it’s your big 4-0. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t make a tit of yourself somewhere along the line. No pun intended,” Claire laughed as she tapped the tiny silver stud on her nose. A throwback to her wilder days.

  Spreading his arms wide, feigning innocence, Johnny looked at his two friends for moral support.

  “And if you low-rent Scarfaces could tidy up the evidence before you run along. My mum’s coming around tonight and even she’s not daft enough to think that I’ve gone all ‘Bake Off’.”

  Again, she made finger quotes with her salon painted nails.

  Decanting the gak back into a ‘here’s one I prepared earlier’ wrap, Johnny pulled out a hankie and wiped down the table, dabbing a rogue grain on his gums.

  “You don’t get any more house-trained with age. A snotty hankie! I’ll clean up after you all. Disgrace. The lot of you,” Claire said with a smile.

  Hearing the parp of their taxi, Johnny said, “Right, that’s us honey. Ta for the boots, dead comfy and look the business.”

  In a mock condescending voice, Claire replied, “Now you be careful, and don’t drink too much.”

  “Yes Mum,” said Johnny, playing out the threadbare routine.

  “And look after Mark. You know he can’t hack it these days,” Claire added sympathetically.

  “We’ll be fine and he’s a big boy…”

  Blowing a departing Pepe le Pew-like kiss, Johnny did the obligatory keys, wallet & phone check and slammed the wooden front door shut and in three strides was in the front seat of the waiting cab.

  “Hiya mate. Northern Quarter please, and we’ll need a cashie so if you could just stop off on the way. Nice one.”

  Pulling the seatbelt across him, Mark said, “I knew I should have had a piss before we left.”

  “Christ. We’ve not even pulled away yet,” laughed Chris.

  “You know what I’m like once the seal’s broken,” sighed Mark, lamenting his thimble-sized bladder. A gift seemingly bestowed on all middle-aged men to quell their drinking valour.

  They headed straight to The Crown & Anchor – a quiet backstreet pub that served a decent pint, with a secret smoking terrace on the rooftop providing great views across the city’s constantly evolving skyline.

  As they entered the pub Johnny sidestepped to let his friends to go in first, enabling him to confirm that there was no ‘surprise, surprise’ party awaiting him.

  They spotted a table equidistant for the bar, toilets and the well-primed jukebox – which was easing the evening in with something pleasant by Crowded House which Johnny just couldn’t quite name.

  “My shout,” said Johnny to the back of Mark’s head as he made a beeline straight for the gents’. “Three lager flavoured drinks?”

  Taking their seats. “That laser eye treatment has knocked years off you man. Can’t get used to you without your Ryans,” Johnny said. “You’re now more Game of Thrones than geography supply teacher.”

  Rubbing a hand across his salt and pepper beard, “I do love your backhanded compliments,” Chris said, aiming a playful punch at Johnny’s clean-shaven chin. “Save me a fortune in the long run, the number of pairs I’ve lost or sat on.”

  “Claire keeps telling me I need to get mine tested. Either that or get my arms stretched. And buying a whole new wardrobe would be way too expensive,” Johnny quipped. “Mind you. If it stops her with the Specsavers gags it’d be worth it.”

  “I think you could pull that look off. Might even make you look intelligent. Anyhow. Big one tonight Johnny. I’ve not been out in ages. Work and the wife and twins and that.”

  “Christopher,” Johnny placed his hand on his heart, “I can honestly. Sincerely. Wholeheartedly. Without doubt. Guarantee that we will get totally and utterly pissed tonight.”

  They laughed and chinked pints.

  Three swift pints. A line each. And a collective five pisses. Three of which were on Mark’s scorecard.

  “Right,” said Mark, standing and smacking his thighs. “A quick JD and we’ll scoot to somewhere a bit livelier. I just need a quick piss.”

  “FOUR!” chimed Johnny & Chris with drunken sniggers.

  As Mark returned carrying the three whiskies, Johnny held up his phone towards him. “Some bloke from Guinness for you. Wants you to call him when you’ve broken the world record for pisses in one evening.”

  Clocking the grave look on Mark’s face, Johnny put the p
hone down. “Only joking mate. We’re all as bad as each other.”

  Inhaling deeply and then knocking his drink back in one, Mark lowered his voice. “Look. Don’t go off on one. But I’ve had a bit of an accident. I. I’ve dr—”

  Leaning over the table, Chris looked at Mark’s crotch, turned to Johnny. “Nope, he’s not pissed himself!”

  “Quit it,” snapped Mark, pushing Chris back down into his seat. “Right. Some fucking idiot banged on the toilet door and I—”

  “AND WHAT?” snapped Johnny.

  “Shhh,” gestured Mark. “Keep your voice down. Look. I’ve dropped the Charlie down the toilet. I’ll pay. Fuck. I’m sorry fellas. I’m really, really sorry. I said I’ll pay.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Johnny growled, “just toddle off to the bar and ask for three pints and a couple of grams of coke. And make sure it’s not fucking diet!” slamming his hand on the table top.

  “It was an accident. I’m as gutted as you are,” Mark said as he kneaded his temples.

  “My first night out in fucking ages and you flush the drugs down the fucking bog. Fuck me,” Chris said with a slow shake of his head.

  “Hundred and fifty quid. Fuck me. Hundred and fifty notes down the pan. Literally,” hissed Johnny.

  “I said I’m sorry,” whispered Mark.

  “Right. Fuck it. I need some fresh air. Let’s move on. I can’t stay in here,” Johnny said.

  Chapter 2

  An hour had passed. Punctuated with awkward silences and sardonic grunts – principally from Johnny.

  “It’s not like we need drugs to have a laugh,” Mark said. Much more of a question than a statement.

  Johnny looked at him, wide eyed. “I’m not even answering that.” Drumming his fingers on the table. “I’ll remind you of that in a couple of hours when you’ve lost the power of speech and need helping into a taxi.”

  Chris returned from the bar with three extravagant cocktails. “Here you go birthday boy. That’ll put a smile on your face.”

  Grimacing, Johnny stared at the ceiling. “Right. ’Cos a vase of alcoholic slush will make everything fine.” Picking out the brolly, he snapped it between his fingers.

  “Let it go man,” said Chris. “He’s apologised. Could have happened to any of us.”