Man of Constant Sorrow (With A Garage In Constant Use)

"Dead people don't make bad albums," The Boy once said (Sting please take note), which is part of The Boy's genius, dying before he grew old. He always seemed destined to die young, his nickname was a giveaway, as was his reckless approach to life. Most of all, of course, his overzealous drug habits, alcohol consumption and various eating disorders made a long life physically impossible.

 

Of course, he thought he was immortal, that was part of his charm. "The key to living a long, fulfilled life, BD," he said to me once, "Is that when Death appears with scythe ready to slice through your lifeline and release you to the next world, you just tell him to fuck off."  The Boy had a plan for every scenario. However, this particular ploy clearly didn't work, unless Death tipped The Boy off about a really wild party in the afterlife, as The Boy was the first of the gang to die, which was why Frankie, the young woman from the record company, was here.

 

Enthusiasm, that's the big difference between my generation and young people. You've no time for enthusiasm at my age: my main concern when I wake up of a morning is which parts of my body are throbbing with pain and which parts aren't functioning, enthusiasm is simply no longer possible once your body reaches a certain level of decay.

 

Frankie was full of enthusiasm, her bosom positively heaving with it, which at least made it bearable. "We've got really exciting plans for The Boy's 60th birthday celebration. We're releasing a new compilation album, a greatest hits of Bloody Stupid Question tracks and some solo stuff The Boy recorded and never released. Some of these songs have never been heard before, it's really exciting. We're calling it Happy Daze. Hopefully we'll find a suitable image for the front cover in your archive. I'm really excited." 

 

"Happy daze! I remember them. It's lucky The Boy died when he did, the rest of the band have reached the age of constant sorrow. Happy, that's a young person's thing."

 

"It can't be that bad," she laughed, as if I'd just cracked a joke. At least, dear reader, her bosom heaved as she laughed, which made her cackling bearable.

 

"You try living with my arse," I said. "Just for a day, and you'd understand what sorrow is. My piles feel like a small mountain's been shoved up my rectum. Just releasing a fart is pure torture, my bi-annual poo is painful beyond words."

 

Again she laughed, maybe it's a medical condition, Irrational Laughter Syndrome. Everything's a syndrome these days. Or is she just happy to be young. I remember how I used to laugh once too, but that was while The Boy was still with us, of course, when all there was was laughter, stupidity and occasional bouts of mindless violence. Now there's just boredom, hazy memories, pain, malfunctioning body parts and the inevitability of death steaming towards me like an oncoming train.

 

"It's so good of you to let us have access to all your photos, merchandise and promotional materials. It'll make whole PR process a joy."

 

"Not at all, dear gal. It's what I keep my little archive for. Got to keep the masses happy. Hardly a day goes by without some punter wanting merchandise."

 

"I can't believe it's forty years since the first Bloody Stupid Question album. It's part of history, like the Roman Empire, the fall of the Berlin Wall, like Tony Blair."

 

"I wish Tony Blair was history. He was on the telly just the other day asking for people to back the latest bombing. He just keeps on and on, like the Duracell baddie."

 

I could tell politics was boring her. If it's not politicians offering freebies the young aren't interested in politics. "Well, let me show you the archive," I said. "I keep everything in my garage, T-shirts, CDs, fridge magnets, all the merchandise, as well as the photos, news-clippings."

 

I spent five minutes wrestling the garage door, but it wouldn't move. "There's a knack to the garage door," I said, apologetically, "You have to jiggle it like this. It's getting old like me, everything's malfunctioning."

 

Eventually Frankie took over and opened the door instantly - in young people's hands anything is possible.

 

"My god, it's like a graveyard in here, everything's covered in dust."

 

"Nonsense, dear gal, this place is a positive hub of creative industry, it's in constant use. Why, just last year I met a Chinese fella down the Dog and Duck who wanted a Bloody Stupid tea towel."

 

"But it's full of junk."

 

"That's not junk dear gal, it's merchandise. In this little corner of the multiverse punk rock still lives and breathes. These CDs, T-shirts and cans Bloody Stupid Rhino Repellant are my pension."

 

"What's that over there? My god, it looks like a dead horse."

 

"Dead horse? Good lord, I think you're right. Come to think of it I had a bit of a dispute with a bookie a while ago and he said something about a dead horse and me being next. it was all very The Godfather, I didn't take it seriously. Luckily Strop had a hit with that song I co-wrote, so I paid off all my creditors."

 

"You mean 'Love Lies Bleeding'. But that was ten years ago. You've had a dead horse in your garage for a decade and didn't know it. I thought you said this garage was a constant hub of activity."

 

"Well, it clearly has been. The flies have stripped the horse to the bone, it's practically all skeleton now. You should take picture of the dead horse for the album cover, nothing says Happy Daze like a dead horse."