Episode 1 - Tax

Episode 1 - Tax


Opens in an airport terminal building laden with Christmas decorations. Seasonal music plays. (Christmas time is Here by Vince Guaraldi Trio)

Cuts through the bustle of holiday travellers to a quiet area where the camera rests on the back of a man's head. The man - wearing winter clothing and a trappers hat - is standing looking out of the large windows at the planes taxiing down the runway. There is a close up of his eyes as he stares out into the night.

Narrator - How did I get here?

He looks at the flight information.

'Zurich - Gate B32 - Gate Closing'

Narrator - Switzerland. What was I thinking? If you're not stashing swag, you're checking in to check out, if you know what I mean. Forget Dignitas, this is Paininass. Audrey Hepburn, Richard Burton, Charlie Chaplin. Boom. Gone.  Even James Joyce, Malcolm McLaren and cuddly kids illustrator, Richard Scarry expired there ...this is

(man looks at boards that say 'Terminal' then 'Departure')

...  not a good sign. I do not belong here. This is not my time.




Looks at boarding pass




Narrator - Or maybe it was? I just didn't expect it to be like this...




In my mind, as a kid, I was always Robert Redford bounding barefoot with Jane Fonda through wintry Central Park ...1966...1967? Or Paul Newman using too much dynamite to rob the Union Pacific Flyer? Yeah, that's the one. To be as cool as him? That would have satisfied me. Until this happened...


Cut to row of boys sitting in church getting smacked by the elderly priest.

Priest - Behave yourselves, you little heathen shites. On your best behaviour....We have a guest...Fr Breno, from Brazil.

Cut to youngish priest, looking like Che Guevara, carrying a guitar. He smiles and starts playing a beautiful song about touching Jesus's beard.

The girls who are sitting on the other side of the church are all swooning. Most of the boys are too. One small skinny boy with hair like a helmet, looks at the girls, then at the guitar, then back again...

Narrator - And that's when I knew I didn't want to be Butch Cassidy anymore.

Do you know that the swinging sixties and the summer of love didn't make it as far as Glasgow? The psychedelic caravan broke down somewhere near Carlisle before it was sent back south with a growl and a black eye, tae think again. We went from Doris Day and Johnnie Ray straight to Altamont. Obviously, the occasional record by the Beatles and the Stones broke through but as Englebert and Tom would testify, this was a land built on alcohol induced sentiment. Throughout the country, men of a voting age would know by heart songs of far off plains that they would never in their wildest dreams actually visit ; The Streets of Laredo? El Paso? San Quentin? Or about sending a message to your ma' as you were led away at daybreak. No, convicts, cowboys and abandoned orphaned children were the achilles heel for the stoic Scottish working class male. Your faither's dead? Ah well, that's a shame. (sings) I'm nobody's child? On any given Saturday night, after the football and the fish supper had been taken care of, the banks of the Clyde would bursting with long suppressed tears and repressed fears. And San Francisco meant one thing and one thing only; Tony Bennett - not putting flowers in your hair. That was for wooly woofters or someone a bit too mental to argue with. From my current perspective, it's clear that the longing for far off lands, risks and adventure was something that was acceptable as long as it remained in those communal singsongs. But it was always there, just under the surface and if it itched, by God, Glasgow man would scratch. By the time I was a teenager, I had those dangerous longings too.

The man is still staring out of the window, into the night. Mournful Christmas music plays.







But I wasn't fortunate enough to grow up surrounded by free lovers in Laurel Canyon or in Haight-Ashbury. I became a teenager here, Glasgow at the start of the 1980's. A grim city in a lost industrial land, filled with beaten down men and frumpy women, a cauldron bubbling with social tension, venal politicians and terribly contrived synthetic music which matched the fashion. This was a town where even a trip to the ice cream van was fraught with danger. And despite my attempts to circumvent cardinal convention...




(cut to skinny boy standing in front of parents and Priest, all of whom are smoking)




Priest - So you want to take the collar, boy? Well, say goodbye to your family for the next 6 years.

Cheeky brother (grabbing his crotch) - And your chances of getting your hole forever...

Skinny boy - Eh? OK, how about I just go every other weekend, to learn the guitar?

Skinny boy and Cheeky Brother get slapped around the head.




...my unholy urges grew stronger. And like that old bastard, Father Burns, I would like to blame society and the breakdown of family as the moral centre for all of failings...but I can't. I would like to blame the stupid, pre internet, non HD, 4 channel 1980's, with its inane game shows and repeats of sitcoms with home counties sensibilities that I can only now begin to fathom. Back then, they were merely a trigger for bouts of furious masturbation over ladies named Felicity or Penelope, a habit that, despite the ensuing chronic carpal tunnel syndrome, I've never been able to...ahem, shake. More of which later. You see, I cannot blame any of those factors for my insatiable desire to break away from the grey and become what I witnessed that day in The Church of Our Lady of the Incredible Assumption. But now, I wanted more. Not just successful. Not just famous. I want really famous. To be worshipped, adored, feted. By women, preferably. Teenage girls, acceptable. I also wanted men to fear me but that would have been pushing it. Fish gotta swim, Birds gotta fly and man's gotta reach for the sky? Or that bottle of rye? Or some Spry Crisp and Dry? Fuck it, I'll work on my lyrics later...

(Cut to George leaving home, carrying cumbersome guitar and bag)

This is the story of my journey from obscurity to...




Cut back to airport...

Announcement - Final call for Mr Paterson travelling to Zurich...

Narrator - ...well, I won't spoil the ending except to say, thank you Felicity and Penelope for getting me through some difficult years.










Cut to younger George sitting on bus, drawing guitar shapes on condensation on windows.







The year is 1984, I'm 17 years old and I've just finished school. Dossing around and avoiding getting a real job was working fine until I managed to stumble into an interview then, miraculously given the dearth of decent prospects at the time, a full time position as a very junior civil servant. But any hopes my recently widowed Mum had of middle class respectability for her Number 1 of 4 were going to be tested by where I saw my real future.




Cut to George walking purposefully with Orff's Carmina Burana playing...




....Rock and fucking roll! I know Mum thought that this was just a phase I had to go through, like wearing moccasins, having a perm and a wispy moustache or collecting European porn but this was more than a fad. This was my ticket out of the mean streets of Pollok, Glasgow. I searched high and low for a band of brothers, a few kindred spirits, apprentice alchemists keen to turn base metal into gold records. Now, this couldn't be just any band. Must be behemoth...ic. A Herman Melville scribed monster, just one step down from Zeppelin...Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you... (deep breath)... The Molotov Cocktails! What a band. Yes, we were gargantuan, provocative, incendiary...we were....




Cut to a school music room, desks and chair piled high, four teenagers playing what sounds like 4 different songs, none of which have any power and all of which are out of tune.




 ...to be frank, pish. We were indeed the sum of our parts. That's me, George, singing. Quite magnificent, eh?

Cuts to George, concentrating hard while warbling with a faux American/Elvis baritone.





The camera pans around the band...
This is Brian, a Beatles fan who would have made the identikit 80's footballer. Not that he was particularly good, just that he had a hair style that is still fashionable in downtown Tirana. Brian also had a lifelong weakness for large breasted blondes.




Cut to scene in cafe...




George - But they were fucking huge! Didn't they chafe?
Brian (eating sloppily) - Nah. I love the smell of nip balm in the morning.




Narrator - Brian also had a van from his job as a carpet fitter which made him an invaluable member of Team Molotov.




Cut back to rehearsal




The band grinds to a halt.




Brian speaks to the bass player.
Brian - You don't know the song.
(Then to the rest of band)
Brian - He doesn't know the song. He doesn't know the fucking song!
George - After all this time, you still don't know the fucking song?




The bass player stops noodling to to say defiantly...




It's not that I don't know the song, I just don't know the song.




This is Donny or Skull as he'd prefer to be known. 6ft 2ins of primordial profanity, obsessed with defecation. This is a guy who once shot an annoying neighbour with an air rifle. Fair enough I hear you say but the neighbour was only 7 years old at the time. Despite his limitations as a musician and his questionable lyrics...


Cut to Donny previewing his new song...
Singing - 'I shat on a cop today...yeah, so he fucked me round the head...he fucked me round the head...he's a cuuuunt.'
Donny - So, what do you think?
George and Brian look at each other
George - Don't know about you guys, but I like it ...
Brian - It has a subtlety that your earlier stuff lacked, big man.




Narrator - ...he's actually got great taste in music, t-shirts and his Dad works in the local whisky bond, which means cloudy cast off hooch for us every weekend.
Cuts to quick shot of the boys falling over on a hill.




Narrator - Donny is very close to his dog, Sandy and for a living, delivers coffins for the Co-op. Genuinely.




Narrator - Jamesey plays the guitar. (cuts to Jamesey, wearing corduroy trousers and a plaid shirt, playing some jangly tune a la Johnny Marr.) And Jamesey likes the Smiths.




Cut to end of rehearsal, the band are packing up their equipment.




Donny - Any of you wanks up for a wee drinkie poo?
Jamesey - Skint.
Brian - Working tomorrow.
Donny - Fucking botons. C'mon Geo man, don't let me down?
George - You know I'm starting my new job in the morning. Can't turn up half pished this time.




Flashback to interview for Church of Scotland placement. Prior to interview, Donny and George are sitting on a Lion statue in George Square, in the centre of Glasgow, drinking cans of lager.
Donny - Geo man, I will never remember all that.
George - Just fucking bluff it. Remember to throw in the occasional 'Well Minister, that's certainly thought provoking' and you'll be alright.
Donny - Crack open another... (pauses to catch can) ...should I tell him that I love Lucifer?
George - Whatever you do, don't tell him that I'm a Catholic.




Cut to interview. Polite, soft spoken Minister invites the boys into the oak panelled room.
Minister - Welcome lads, take a seat. Firstly, address me as the Right Reverend Taggart.
Donny (does impression of TV's cop of the same name) - Naebody move! Hehehe...only kidding big man.
Minister - As you have shown an interest in working with us, I would like to discuss your knowledge of certain tenets of the covenant before moving on to the missive from the Moderator about the work of the Magisterial reformers, Knox and Zwingli in the late 20th century?
Donny looks blankly.
Donny (whispers to George) - I didn't understand a fucking word he said. (to Minister) Excuse me your very majestic...ness, in the evenings, I am a part time member of the Church of Satanic Darkness, Southside chapter, but my duties are largely ceremonial. Will this affect my work placement?
Minister looks at Donny, mouth agog.
Donny - And any chance of an advance on my first weeks pay as, not being funny big man, but all this God shite has given me a real fucking thirst.
This line causes George to snort loudly.
Narrator - At this point, The Presbytery of Glasgow would have hired Pope Pius ahead of Donny.




Cut back to rehearsal...




George - I cannot afford to fuck this job up.




Cut to lively pub, last orders
Donny - Another pint of lager, Pernod and coke then a kebab, alright?
George nods from a table strewn with glasses, while licking the inside of a crisp packet.




Cut to a large office block, early the following morning and George stands outside, his hair combed down awkwardly and he's wearing a suit that belies his youth. He enters and shows a letter to an elderly security official who guides him to the office where a few other new recruits are waiting. George notices a stunning girl wearing a skin tight pale blue blouse and trouser set so he decides to stand next to her, giving her his best smoulder.




Narrator (sings) - Hello! Is it me you're looking for?




Middle aged lady - Hi, I'm Jan and welcome to the Glasgow Tax office. We're going to be allocating a floor to each of you so stand in line please!




Narrator - Out of the way scum, I'm with her...
Jan - Count off, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3
Narrator - NO! Bitch! Son of a fucking bitch. Ticks on fleas residing on the dog belonging to the son of a fucking bitch.
A crestfallen George gets floor 4 while the girl happily goes off to floor 1.




Narrator - Little did I know, that pathetic attempt to score would be a life changing one.




Jan - OK folks, head off to your floors and ....good luck!
George (smiling but still annoyed, whispers) - Get fucked.




The lift takes George to the 4th floor and it opens to a sea of cubicles, workstations and filing cabinets. Most are inhabited by workers in their 20's and 30's.




Narrator -Everybody's so....old.
A pleasant middle aged lady called Kathy takes George to his desk.
Kathy (dryly) - Nice suit. I'm in charge of the floor. Any problems, sort them out yourself. Only kidding, my door's always open. Good luck.




George sits at his desk waiting for someone to arrive to show him the ropes but nothing happens. He  notices a steaming cup of tea on the desk opposite but the desk's occupant isn't there.




Continuing to wait, he plays with the stapler, using it as a gun, while making shooting noises. As he attempts to staple his tie to the desk...




You must be the new guy...nice suit




I'm Gordon, he says, both thumbs aloft and pointing inward.




Current Gordon - I did not do that.
Narrator - Who's fucking telling this story? You or me?
Current Gordon - Eh...you.
Narrator - Thank you.

A violent slut is how current Gordon refers to his younger self. To me, he seems a pleasant enough chap, tall, quite old...mid twenties or so, possibly gay, like an athletic Eddie Shoestring but maybe that's just the spectacles and German track vest combo he's wearing. And the hair. Unnaturally bouncy. Makes me feel a little out of place with my Littlewoods catalogue, £2.50 per week suit and tie.




George pulls his stapled tie off the desk and they shake hands.




George - What am I supposed to do?
Gordon - Fucked if I know. Just pick up these files and follow me.
Narrator - I spend the next hour or so getting the lowdown from my new best bud, big cheery, seems like a nice guy, Gordon. Within 30 seconds, I learn that he doesn't possess even the slightest hint of poovery and intends to procreate with at least 50% of the female staff. From what I can deduce, he's already sprayed his scent on the workstations of the other 50%. Put it this way, if there was a dolphin employed in the typing pool, there's a decent chance Gordon would be lube-ing up its blowhole as we speak. He tells me who to avoid.




Gordon (nods towards youngish woman, dressed much older than her years) - See her? Religious fundamentalist. From what I hear, she's swallowed more semen than the Bermuda triangle. Then she found God. It's either that or golf round here. And him...don't play pool with that robbing bastard. Alright Dan?! Here's Davie McGuigan, he's a good guy. For a Stones and Bowie fan.  The Colonial at 12? I'll be there.




Davie - Nice suit newbie.




Narrator - What an education! But the most important lesson I learnt that day was that the complicated British Taxation system was actually a cover for the laziest bunch of drunken miscreants that ever served One's Majesty. For instance, Gordon didn't actually do anything. I mean, he carried files around but this was 'Staying under the Radar 101' The original Stealth Tax. If anyone couldn't be arsed dealing with a case, it magically found its way into the 'Code that time forgot', a box that resided under desks beside your Batman comics and the latest Hustler. I tried to follow his lead during the brief time I served my nation but I could never match his bare faced front or his floppy haired, thumbs aloft brio. But there were more lessons to follow...

Gordon - See that cupboard? Open it up for me.

George opens the cupboard and Gordon throws the files he was carrying into it.

Gordon - Enough of that for now.

Narrator - Back at the desk and at the stroke of 10am, it was tea time. Everyone had their own mug with their name marked with a dymo, letraset type tag. Being new, I didn't have one yet so I got a scummy old one that had been earmarked as a temporary ashtray.




Gordon - You wouldn't have met wee Alex then, would you?
George - Err..who?




Narrator - And as if by magic, the snack man, Alex arrived, looking like the wee shopkeeper from Mr Benn, if the shopkeeper had a glory hole in the changing room. He was offering Kitkats, Crunchies and so much more...




Alex - Oh...we have a fresh one here, nice suit ....come sit on Alex's knee and I'll give you a finger of fudge. God, you're lovely, like a wee Prince Valiant. I'd love to dress you up as a knight and smash intae your armour.




Narrator - Now, there were probably many gay people around my area when I was young but I can't say I noticed them. And there were definitely none like Alex.




Gordon - George, meet Alex.
Alex - You're gonna do just fine here. Anything you want, anything...come see Alex. Here's a Fry's peppermint cream. On the house.




Gordon - Don't worry, he's harmless. When he's sober.




Narrator - It all felt quite exotic and grown up. Gone is the carefree world of my scholastic days. Like Caesar's army, I have crossed my own private rubicon; the boundary from adolescence to manhood. This was the coal face. No going back now. This is the adult age and as a responsible grown up, I belong here.




George - Got any Monster Munch?




Gordon - Newbie, are you old enough to drink?




Cut to Lunchtime, the basement bar of an Indian restaurant with a liberal sprinkling of office staff.




Gordon - Two Stellas and a plate of Pakora mate.




Narrator - This is as close as I've come to being a beatnik. Hanging with the big boys, (adopts American accent) talking jive, kicking back. I feel like Jack Caramac or something. Going to the pub during the day seems so ...decadent. I am man, watch me drink.




Gordon - Guys, this is George. Just started.
A few hardy, grizzled co workers grunt. Gordon sees Davie and joins him at his table.
Davie - Smashing gig last night, big man.
Gordon - Aye, cheers Davie.




Narrator - What...what..what????




George - You're in a band?
Gordon - MOT ....Miles of Tiles actually, but we like the acronym.
Narrator - Not only is he cool, popular with the ladies and gets away with doing nothing but he's in a band too? By the way, what's an acronym? Sounds impressive. Is that one of those singers with their balls cut off? Please don't be a singer.
George - What do you do in the band?
Gordon - I play guitar.
Narrator - Thank the sweet baby Jesus.
Gordon - And I sing.
Narrator - Bollocks.
George - I'm in a band too.
Gordon (slightly dismissively) - Oh yeah?
George (fast) -Yeah, we're the Molotov Cocktails, I'm the singer and I write the songs and there's Brian and Donny and Jamesey and we...
Gordon - Never heard of you. Where have you played?
George (defensively) - Well, nowhere yet. Not found the right place to be honest.
Gordon - So, you're not a real band then?
George - We are. We really are. You should come see us.
Gordon - But you don't play anywhere.
George - Come to our rehearsal. We could support you, if you want.
Gordon (laughing) - Come to our rehearsal. We could support you if you want!
George - When?
Gordon - Tonight, after work. Right, shut up and eat. Jesus, you are annoying.




Narrator - I bet his band is fucking shit.. The Molotov's would fucking destroy MO fucking T.
Gordon (eating) - Has this band of yours made a demo yet?
George - Saving up for one. You?
Gordon - Just finished our latest. It's our third actually. Got a few labels in mind that our manager thinks we could develop with but I'm not sure. We've got our sound and I'm not willing to compromise that.
Narrator - Are you certifiable? A record deal? With a record company? A real one? Listen big man, they can dress me up as a pink Steiff bear and rename us Elton Wigwam and the Priesty Ball Lickers for all I care. I want that deal!




Gordon - I'll let you hear it when we get back to the office. We've been working with some companies who want to mould us into the new Duran Duran, you know? Another pint?
Narrator - Duran Du-fucking-ran? You are going to be rich, my friend. Damn, right I'll take another pint. So this is flexi time? I could get used to this very civilised way of compartmenting the afternoon. La Dolce Vita, La Belle Epoch, guys this could be the start of something special. But just as I'm metaphorically plumping up the cushions and hitching up my skirt on the chaise long, I catch my first glimpse of Gordon's ...darker side.




Gordon goes back to the bar, gets another couple of drinks and turns to head back to the table. A boisterous army cadet in fatigues who'd been standing at the bar, bumps into Gordon, deliberately knocking the drinks from his hands.




Cadet - What are you looking at? Ya fucking poof! Well?




The bar goes quiet.




Gordon - No bother mate. Accident.
Cadet - You're a fucking accident. Speccy Poof.
The cadet attempts to strike Gordon but he's restrained by his friends and the bar staff.




Gordon returns to the table with some fresh drinks, as if nothing had happened. But there is a palpable air of tension in the room.




Narrator - What the hell just happened? Is the big man soft? I know he looks a bit Cliff Richard with the thumbs and the glasses but...




Gordon (calm) - Look, we've got a gig on the 25th...
George - Huh?
Gordon - If your band is good enough, we might...MIGHT let you support us. But only if you organise the bill posting. And pay for it too. Sound like a plan? (Looks around) Hold that thought...




Gordon heads for the toilets.




George - Is the big man alright, Davie?
Davie - Drink up. I think it might be time to head back to the office, mate.
George - What about Gordon?
Davie (drinking fast) - Gordon can look after himself. Trust me.
George - I'm going to see if he's alright.
Davie - Don't...




Narrator - This is one of those moments when fantasy ends and reality kicks in.




George enters the toilet to find a bloody mark on the tiles above the urinal and a crumpled heap of moaning khaki beneath. George is speechless.




Gordon is wiping the blood from his knuckles and as if nothing has happened says cheerily,



Better get you back to work. Don't want you getting into trouble on your first day, now do we?

Gordon takes Georges arm and assertively leads him from the toilet.




Cut to the office, George is sitting at his desk, in stunned silence, listening to Gordon's demo on a Walkman, eating his packet of Monster Munch while the rest of the office whizzes past at double speed.




Sound of payphone...
George - Yeah, it's going good. Listen, I won't be home for dinner. Might be quite late. Don't worry, I'm doing...alright, I suppose. Love you too Mum.




Another call, cut to payphone in canteen.




George - Yeah...I'm going to see them tonight. Sound City Studios. I know...brilliant. We should rehearse there...now I'm working too we can afford it. If I walk home, I've got enough for two pints, one if I get the bus. You should come. Well, borrow a few quid from Andy then. I reckon we can get a gig with them. Serious! The guy likes me, I'm telling you. I helped him batter a guy today. No, really. I did. Ah fucking did! There were a bunch of these army guys, SAS types and me and Gordon done them all. Not a scratch though (adopts Eddie Murphy voice from Trading Places) I bruise on the inside...I'm a karate man! Hahahaha! C'mon mate, it will be a laugh. Sound City Studios, Sauchiehall Street at 7. See what you can do...




It's approaching 6pm in the office and it's almost empty, except for Gordon, George and a few other lunchtime revellers. No one is working. Gordon has returned from the dead file room with his guitar and is changing the strings.




George - Wow! A Les Paul! Is it real?
Gordon - No, Blue Peter showed me how to make it. Of course it's fucking real.
George - So, it's still alright if I come up with you?
Gordon - No problem. Just don't speak or touch anything.
George - And if you want to come to our rehearsal, that's cool too.
Gordon - We'll see...




Cut to the studio. It's clearly a step up from the Molotov's arrangements




Narrator - Now you're talking. Abbey Road, The Hit Factory, Electric Ladyland...phooey. In the pantheon of rock studios, Sound City on a Monday night, sits astride Olympus, its reputation as firm as the veiny cock of Zeus. Just look at the pictures. Lloyd Cole and the Commotions...wow! Kelly Marie ...(makes sound of electric drum) boo boo! Those drug crazed midget swappers, the Krankies. This, my friends, is where rock and roll dreams come true, where legends are born...and right on cue...




A heavy set man with a thick moustache appears. He's wearing a gaudy yellow golf v-neck jumper with nothing underneath, revealing a very hairy chest.




Narrator - For instance, look at this dude. His birth name was Raymond but Glasgow knew him by his sobriquet...Raw Sex. Well, isn't it obvious? Just look at the suggestive pout, the purposeful gait and those moobs...wow. This man is a bona fide predator. In the future, he starts a deodorant company and women fall at the feet of those who wear his scent. They also introduce a register for men like him. It's called the Sexy Bastard Register.




Raw Sex - Room 5 guys. Mel ....baby...
A beautiful woman arrives, ignoring the obvious charms of the proprietor and gives Gordon a hug.
Gordon - You were really good last night.
Narrator - Oh, come on!
She walks over to the synthesizer and switches it on.
Gordon - That's Mel. Tongue back in. And don't be getting any ideas. She's off limits. Her boyfriend is not to be messed with.
Mel smiles and blows a kiss at George.
Narrator - If Gordon wouldn't mess with her boyfriend, far be it from me to overstep. Still, I store her image in the wank bank for later. Click.




Gordon - Mondo, this is George.




Narrator - Mondo, the wide boy king of the Glasgow club scene was a cool dude. Big ladies man (so he kept telling us) and a fine drummer when he could be arsed. His mullet was naturally curly, not a permed Charlie Nicholas version that us non mediterraneans had to endure. In the future, he becomes quite respectable and pretends not to have been involved in anything remotely illicit. Like finding rehearsal rooms in a whorehouse, for instance. And other things not fit for broadcast.




Mondo - Nice suit mate. Gordon, where's the bold yin?




Narrator - The door opens and the 'bold yin' appears. The yin to Gordon's yang. Like a ginger yoda, white denim jacket, slightly ripped with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. It's dark, we're indoor, he's wearing shades. And I can't work out if he's a bum or the coolest guy in the fucking room. His name's Billy and he's intense. Imagine Bremner if Don Revie gave the Leeds boys absinthe on the coach back to Yorkshire instead of bottles of Sweet Stout. Gordon introduces us and with a firm grip of my hand, he removes his shades and stares right into my ancestry.
Billy - Billy.
George - George
Billy - Nice suit.




Narrator - Yep, I'm intimidated. I look for a place to sit as they tune up. What a fine concept tuning is. Note to self, I must employ this tuning malarkey one day. Shit, they sound 20 times better than us and they're just plugging in. Yikes! There's silence briefly before Mondo counts off...




Mondo (shouts) 1-2-3-4!




Narrator - And it hits me. As if someone has just poured molten metal into my ear drum, which bores through the tympanic membrane, through my jaw bone and straight into the cavities where numerous fillings lay undisturbed moments earlier. I can honestly say that I have never heard anything louder....or cooler in my entire life. Three hours pass in no time.




Gordon - Pub?
Billy - Nico's. C'mon youngster. Let's pour your brains back in to your head. Hehehe!




Narrator - Billy's laugh is deep and gutteral. I really like this guy.




Cut to Nico's pub. Billy and Gordon walk in with George, Mel and Mondo follow behind. Mondo is clearly putting the moves on the unimpressed keyboardist before turning his attentions to another.




A wiry, intensely aggressive man appears. His name is Devon, a cousin of Billy. He shares the same fiery red hair and manages the band. He pushes up to George the interloper.
Devon - Who the fuck are you?
Before George has the chance to answer,
Devon -Have you heard the new demo, man? It's brilliant, flawless, peerless. It's like....the Eagles but with guitars.
Narrator - Huh?
Devon - And a bit of Floyd. But with controlled mentalness, you know? (Pointing to his head)
George - Eh..yeah...I heard it today.
Devon (grabbing George by the lapels) - How did you hear it? Have you made copies? Are you selling it behind my back, ya little prick?
Gordon (assertively) - He's with me.
Devon (personality changes again) - Devon Duncan, band manager, producer, impressario, entrepeneur...you're a good looking kid ...with a nice suit.
George - I'm in a band. We're called the Molo...
Devon - Hawl Lloyd! What kind of fucking name is the Commotions?
Devon disappears




Narrator - And that was Devon. Backed his band with evangelical zeal and took personally any slight or rejections. Imagine a Scientologist, e-numbered to fuck and carrying a filofax. One time RAF pilot who had an unfortunate collision with a waltzer in Chesterfield which left him slightly unhinged. I will spend a lot of time chasing ridiculous highs with this man, a man who had more belief in me than virtually anyone I've met, before or since.




Cut to flat...Devon gives George a cut chilli pepper.
Devon - I wouldn't lie to you mate, honest to God.
George - So, we just rub this on our lips and we'll get stoned?
Devon - That's about the size of it.
George - Are you sure?
Devon - C'mon. Would I lie to you?
George - OK, me first.....

(Rubbing hard)

Devon - That should do it.
George - No, I want to get really stoned.
Devon - No seriously that's enough.
George .....Ahhhhhhh......Baaaasssttttiiiiirrrrrttt!!!!!!!!




Back to the pub and the band take up residence in a prime spot, by the staircase.




Narrator - Oooh! Mirrors. I like it. Looking at me, looking at you...




George - Fuck, is that Hipsway?
Billy nods impassively.
George (excited) - The Blue Nile, awww... I love them.
Billy greets one of the members.




Narrator - Now, you have to remember that this is a bit of a jump for me. Wet behind the ears a few hours ago to sharing air with real rock legends like...




George - Clare Grogan! Talking to ...Lloyd Cole himself!




Narrator (robotic voice) - This is too much. Minor popstar overload...don't do it son...




George goes over to speak to them but Cole dismisses George as a clingy loser fan. Which is exactly what he is.
Lloyd Cole - Nice suit
Clare Grogan sniggers.




Narrator - In the future, she does adverts and he plays golf. Who's the fucking loser now, eh?




Billy (impassive) - Don't worry about them. They're footnotes. They don't count.
George - I thought they'd be cooler.
Billy - Cool is subjective. Don't hunt for cool. Cool will find you. So, Gordon tells me you've got a band?
George - Aye, but we're not very good. By the way, where is Gordon?
Billy - Toilets. Barmaid. What are you doing tomorrow night?
George - Nothing. Why?
Billy - Come to the flat. We've got an old tape machine you can have, if you want it. We've all had to start somewhere. And anyway, I fucking hate Lloyd Cole.




George nods and they clink glasses.




Night time in Glasgow...lights shine over the city as a tired but content George walks back home, eating a bag of chips.




Narrator - One of life's simplest pleasure can also be one of its greatest.  I am now walking a path on which I am about to experience many of life's great delicacies. But sometimes it doesn't get any better than this. A bag of chips from the Chinese Take Away on a cold night.




Voiceover - Mr Reid? Sorry...sorry...I know it's late...no, I've not cut my hair yet...Is Brian...Ok thanks...No I won't mess this up Mr Reid...Bri..hands up if you've got a gig? Hehehehe! Serious man, we've got a gig! Better call Donny and Jamesey. We're going to have to step things up. All of us. And we need a tuner. (pauses) Because apparently, it makes your guitar sound better. No, really...




Cut to George's family home, the front door opens and George enters quietly. It's well past midnight. He goes into the living room to find his Mother sitting up waiting with two of his brothers in their pyjamas, asleep on the couch.
Mum (stirring) - There's my number one. How was it? Did you have a good first day?
George (smiling) - Yeah...it was alright.
Mum - I'll put the kettle on and you can tell me all about it. (from kitchen) Did you meet any nice people?
George untangles his brother's legs to make space to sit on the couch. He pulls his tie off, over his head.




Narrator - Yep. It was alright. And the suit wasn't that bad.




End

Copyright George Paterson 2012