Everybody Wants to Rule the World - Episode 5 - Meltin' John
Opens outside rehearsal room, a group of would be drummers await the call.
Narrator - Drummers. It's always fucking drummers. Every joke about them, every story is 100% true.
Cut to gig, in crappy, almost empty pub. Old guy approaches Gordon.
Old guy - How late do you play, son?
Gordon (still playing) - Usually, half a beat behind the drummer.
Narrator - Mondo's gone and we're lost in the hickory hell of drummer auditions. That's why when you find a good one, chain him to his kit and never let him leave. And if we don't get one before the Polydor gig, we're screwed.
Cut to inside of rehearsal room. Montage of drummers playing the same song...
Narrator (adopts nasal commentator voice) - And here we are at the Sound City Sticks Handicap, seven furlong sprint. 14 runners and riders. The going is good to shit. We've got the metal heads (cut to thrash player), the hippies (cut to long hair player wearing tie dyed vest), the posers (cut to flash show off) and the downright inappropriate (cut to old guy in loud tuxedo)
Gordon - Really Devon, really?
Devon - £10 a time is not to be sniffed at.
Billy - You're charging them to audition?
Devon - Got to pay for overheads.
George - Well, you're paying tonight.
Devon - That reminds me. When are you two leaving your jobs? We need to be doing this full time.
Narrator - Devon was right. We needed to build on the momentum and that's hard when you've has to clock in by 8..ok, make that 10.
Cut to Tax office. Gordon and George's desks are completely dwarfed by the sheer volume of files and work that lies undone.
Narrator - If one thought we were lazy prior to WHITE...
Kathy (the boss) - Find them.
Cut to the basement. Gordon and George are sitting on boxes of files writing songs. Dotted around are tea cups and empty biscuit packs.
Davie enters basement to look for them.
Davie - Guys, Big White Chief on warpath.
George - Thanks Kemo Sabe.
Cut to Kathy's office.
Kathy - Mr Moir, Mr Paterson, take a seat.
Gordon and George childishly grapple for the same seat for about 10 seconds...
Kathy (assertive) - Gentlemen!
Gordon/George (contrite) - Sorry Kathy.
Kathy - I've been looking at your work files recently and I'm thinking it might be the right time for a change.
Gordon - Promotion? Thanks Kathy (thumbs aloft)
Kathy - Not quite. You beat the 5 o'clock rush by leaving work at noon. Perhaps you should start looking at where your true strengths lie.
Gordon and George are silent.
Kathy - Because it's clear that they don't lie with Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs.
George - OK, we'll resign then. We'll leave right now.
Gordon - Whoa! He doesn't speak for me, Kathy.
Kathy - That's not what exactly what I had in mind George. But I don't think it's right for you to leave at this stage.
Gordon (to George) - See? We still have a vital role to play.
Kathy - No, you both owe around 130 hours on your flexitime.
George - Shit.
Narrator - And that was that. A month's notice, unpaid. But after we've served our hard time, we'd be free to devote our lives to the Gods of Rock! Babylon!!!!!
Cut to Gordon and George sitting around Gordon's flat, tea cups and empty biscuit packs dotted around.
Gordon - So, what do we do now?
George - Another cup of tea?
Cut back to rehearsal room and the inexhaustable supply of drummers filter in and out...
Billy - This is not good.
Gordon - We might have to blow this Polydor gig.
George - What about the guy in the black t-shirt?
Gordon - Too weedy. I liked the big guy.
Billy - He wasn't wobbly enough.
Gordon and George look at him.
Billy - You know, he needs to be a bit more jellified. He sounded as if he was petting a burning dog.
Narrator - The strange thing is we knew exactly what he meant. But Billy's bizarre musings weren't helping us out of our percussive predicament. This is our big chance to be stars. Polydor stars. Next to Level 42 and Lloyd fucking Cole. Which will mean money, which will mean power, which in turn means not just women but truck loads of hot Brazilian foxes, all after a cupful of my sex wee. And we're going to blow it because we don't have a fucking drummer.
Devon (shouting) - Last one of the day. Jim? (pauses) You're Jim?
Cut to band playing with drummer (out of shot). Billy and Gordon stare at him.
Narrator - This is promising...but can he hit the accents and make the cues?
Cut to band again, drummer (still out of shot) makes all the cues, precisely. Gordon and Billy still stare...
Narrator - Keeps the beat perfectly, no speeding or slowing. He's tight, no doubt about that, right in the groove. You've got to dig it to dig it, ya dig? Gentlemen, I think we may have a winner.
George - Excellent mate. (Looking around) I think I speak for all of us when I say that you're the right fit. So, when can you start?
Cut to drummer who looks about 12 years old.
Jim - I can start in 2 weeks, that's when my school holidays begin.
Billy - What?
Jim- Eh... school...college. You know what I mean.
Billy (to band) - That's after the Polydor gig.
Jim - Sorry guys. My mum..err...my tutor will kill me if I don't finish my course.
George - Not a problem. We'll deal with that first and you can join up with us then.
Jim - Great!
Pause....
Gordon (to Jim) - How old are you?
Narrator - Not important big man. We're not going to fucking marry him. We're not going to buy him a fucking beer. I do concede though that he did look very youthful. Arguably younger than most of Gordon's riffs or Billy's clothes. So, we still in the market for a drummer, short term or the Polydor deal is as stiff as a Leonard Cohen disco album.
Cut to small pub, the band and Devon are watching the Molotov Cocktails debut their latest singer, a guy who's wearing a long leather trench coat, making him sweat profusely. He is desperately trying to exude charisma...
Narrator - Look at this dick. One song in and he's sweating more than a Glam rocker in PC world. Just as well he's not wearing a shirt. And why do you need shades when it's pitch black in here? (pauses) OK, I admit, that's one of my moves but just look at this guy? He's ridiculous.
The singer lifts his mike stand up and it goes through the false, low ceiling. He continues, unperturbed, to the dismay of his band mates and the bar manager who chides him.
Bar man (angrily) - Hoi! Bonio. Fucking knock it off.
Singer (arms outstretched, oblivious) - This one's for Winston Mandela.
George - Did he just say..?
Billy - Yep.
Devon - So, we've got a drummer. OK, he's a bit young...
Gordon - Yeah, what's the deal with that anyway?
Devon - He payed his tenner, he got his chance.
Gordon - He's fucking 12! How did he get the tenner? Saved up his pocket money? Raided his piggy bank?
Billy - My money's on a newspaper round.
George - He's still the best drummer we auditioned, so he's in and that's that.
Billy - But he can't make the Polydor gig.
Gordon - Did he get a note from his Mum?
Devon - Should I make the call?
George - What?
Billy (sighs) - Do we have to?
Gordon - Is there really no alternative?
Devon - No. I'll make the call.
Billy - This is going to cost us...
George - What the fuck are you talking about?
Narrator - Don't cancel! Please! I've built this up so much. I've dreamt about this. Walking into Nico's Pub, going up to Lloyd Cole and smacking the cunt over the head with a thesaurus. My mother is praying to St Anthony on a daily basis for this deal. All other miracles are on hold. Novenas have been offered up, for Christ's sake. Failure to make the breakthrough on All Saint's Day of all days, could see a tsunami of doubt ripple through the entire southern diocese of Glasgow. There is a lot riding on this gig.
Gordon - Devon, make the call.
Billy (putting his own shades on) - This could get messy.
Devon - And expensive.
Cut to outside of pub, George helping Brian pack his gear away.
Brian - What do you think of our new singer?
George - Sweats a lot.
Brian - Fucking hopeless, isn't he?
George - He's no me!
Brian - What do you think of my brother?
George - Thomas? He's about 6!
Brian - No. Andy. He's been bugging me for ages for a chance. But he's an annoying wee tit.
George - Can't argue with you there. But can he sing?
Brian - That's the problem. He can.
George - What's the problem then?
Donny arrives.
Donny - Alright botons?
George - Skull!
Donny - What did you think about the singer?
George - He's no me!
Donny - He wants to rename the band, V1, after some bomb. Told him that it was a bit too violent for a band name.
Brian - So we're sticking with Molotov Cocktails?
Donny - Does the Pope shit in the woods? Is the bear a Catholic? Nothing wrong with a wee cocktail now and again. Anyway, I'm taking an executive decision. I say we sack the dopey nimrod. Know any singers?
Brian - What about Andy? He can sing.
Donny - But he's a wee girly twat.
George - True but he follows you guys around, has access to a van, knows all the songs...
Brian - And he'll pay for the rehearsals, isn't that right Andy?
Cut to Andy who has been standing behind them all along. He's small, pretty with a long mullet and nods like an obedient little puppy.
Donny - Ah, bollocks. Alright then.
Cut to Andy silently punching the air.
Donny - But I promised my sister she'd get a chance.
Brian - Backing vocals?
Donny - Fuck it. Deal. Andy, get the drinks in.
Brian - That was remarkably easy.
Donny - Brido, time waits for no man when he's got singers to bin and chicks to bang.
Cuts to the sacked Molotov's singer standing alone at the bus stop in the rain, his mullet is washed out and he tucks into a kebab. He looks up to the skies tearfully and cries out.
Narrator - Once again, as the fickle mistress of rock gently traverses her lubricated finger around the rectum of the next hopeful, she plants a mangy pube on the palate of another heartbroken pretender. Such is life in the rock and roll fast lane.
Cut to Devon's car, Billy is driving the band to Nico's Pub. The car is silent.
Gordon - Have you made the call?
Devon - I need to sort a few things out first.
Billy - You need to make the call. This cannot wait any longer.
Devon (irritated) - OK, OK, I'll make the fucking call. Pull over.
Devon gets out the car and goes into a Phone box.
George - Is he calling the Polydor people?
Billy and Gordon look at each other then at George. They shake their heads.
Narrator - The call's going in. But it's not to the record company. No, that looks like it's still on. Devon's bringing in the heavy artillery. Meltin' John. (ominous music plays)
Cut to slow motion, a large man with a blonde curly mullet, wearing a long silver coat and furry boots. Heads turn as he walks down the street. He is clearly comfortable in his skin.
Narrator - This Nuclear grade Warhead was once a svelte prince of pop.
Cut to 70's teen band on Top of the Pops type show.
Narrator - Aw...he's actually quite cute! Hit records, tours in the States. This guy was a fucking heartthrob. Until...
Cut to teen band playing at small local show.
Narrator - His audience hit puberty. John hit everything else.
Cut to John grabbing record company executive, growling, cut to John snorting powder from naked dwarfs ass...
Narrator - Meltdown...
Cut to handcuffed John crying on shoulder of police officer.
Narrator - Hence the name...Meltin' John... (ominous music plays again) Never again hit the heights of the summer of 1976 though still makes a good living as a sticksman for hire. He is though, still a man of gargantuan appetites, most of which we'll end up paying for, one way or another.
Cut to Devon's flat the following day, the band sit around the table. John is brought in by Devon.
John- Flash.
Gordon - Johnny
John - Bold yin.
Billy nods.
John - Who's the skinny poof?
George - I'm George, the singer. And I'm not a poof.
John - Have you tried it?
George (nervous) - I beg your pardon?
John (looks across the table, raises his shades) - How do you know you're not until you've experienced the unspeakable delights of... the darkest love?
George looks around for support but all eyes are fixed on Meltin' John.
Narrator - Well, I've always wondered what it might feel like...
John - I'm fucking with you, wee man.
George breathes a sigh of relief and nervously laughs.
Narrator (nervy laugh) - I knew that. I was only joking too...
John (turning serious again) - But you do look like one.
Gordon - Cup of tea, John?
John - I'll take a white spirit and lemonade. Loads of ice. Got any gear bold yin?
Devon sits down.
Devon - Right big man. We need your skills, one morning, showcase.
Narrator - Drummers. It's always fucking drummers. Every joke about them, every story is 100% true.
Cut to gig, in crappy, almost empty pub. Old guy approaches Gordon.
Old guy - How late do you play, son?
Gordon (still playing) - Usually, half a beat behind the drummer.
Narrator - Mondo's gone and we're lost in the hickory hell of drummer auditions. That's why when you find a good one, chain him to his kit and never let him leave. And if we don't get one before the Polydor gig, we're screwed.
Cut to inside of rehearsal room. Montage of drummers playing the same song...
Narrator (adopts nasal commentator voice) - And here we are at the Sound City Sticks Handicap, seven furlong sprint. 14 runners and riders. The going is good to shit. We've got the metal heads (cut to thrash player), the hippies (cut to long hair player wearing tie dyed vest), the posers (cut to flash show off) and the downright inappropriate (cut to old guy in loud tuxedo)
Gordon - Really Devon, really?
Devon - £10 a time is not to be sniffed at.
Billy - You're charging them to audition?
Devon - Got to pay for overheads.
George - Well, you're paying tonight.
Devon - That reminds me. When are you two leaving your jobs? We need to be doing this full time.
Narrator - Devon was right. We needed to build on the momentum and that's hard when you've has to clock in by 8..ok, make that 10.
Cut to Tax office. Gordon and George's desks are completely dwarfed by the sheer volume of files and work that lies undone.
Narrator - If one thought we were lazy prior to WHITE...
Kathy (the boss) - Find them.
Cut to the basement. Gordon and George are sitting on boxes of files writing songs. Dotted around are tea cups and empty biscuit packs.
Davie enters basement to look for them.
Davie - Guys, Big White Chief on warpath.
George - Thanks Kemo Sabe.
Cut to Kathy's office.
Kathy - Mr Moir, Mr Paterson, take a seat.
Gordon and George childishly grapple for the same seat for about 10 seconds...
Kathy (assertive) - Gentlemen!
Gordon/George (contrite) - Sorry Kathy.
Kathy - I've been looking at your work files recently and I'm thinking it might be the right time for a change.
Gordon - Promotion? Thanks Kathy (thumbs aloft)
Kathy - Not quite. You beat the 5 o'clock rush by leaving work at noon. Perhaps you should start looking at where your true strengths lie.
Gordon and George are silent.
Kathy - Because it's clear that they don't lie with Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs.
George - OK, we'll resign then. We'll leave right now.
Gordon - Whoa! He doesn't speak for me, Kathy.
Kathy - That's not what exactly what I had in mind George. But I don't think it's right for you to leave at this stage.
Gordon (to George) - See? We still have a vital role to play.
Kathy - No, you both owe around 130 hours on your flexitime.
George - Shit.
Narrator - And that was that. A month's notice, unpaid. But after we've served our hard time, we'd be free to devote our lives to the Gods of Rock! Babylon!!!!!
Cut to Gordon and George sitting around Gordon's flat, tea cups and empty biscuit packs dotted around.
Gordon - So, what do we do now?
George - Another cup of tea?
Cut back to rehearsal room and the inexhaustable supply of drummers filter in and out...
Billy - This is not good.
Gordon - We might have to blow this Polydor gig.
George - What about the guy in the black t-shirt?
Gordon - Too weedy. I liked the big guy.
Billy - He wasn't wobbly enough.
Gordon and George look at him.
Billy - You know, he needs to be a bit more jellified. He sounded as if he was petting a burning dog.
Narrator - The strange thing is we knew exactly what he meant. But Billy's bizarre musings weren't helping us out of our percussive predicament. This is our big chance to be stars. Polydor stars. Next to Level 42 and Lloyd fucking Cole. Which will mean money, which will mean power, which in turn means not just women but truck loads of hot Brazilian foxes, all after a cupful of my sex wee. And we're going to blow it because we don't have a fucking drummer.
Devon (shouting) - Last one of the day. Jim? (pauses) You're Jim?
Cut to band playing with drummer (out of shot). Billy and Gordon stare at him.
Narrator - This is promising...but can he hit the accents and make the cues?
Cut to band again, drummer (still out of shot) makes all the cues, precisely. Gordon and Billy still stare...
Narrator - Keeps the beat perfectly, no speeding or slowing. He's tight, no doubt about that, right in the groove. You've got to dig it to dig it, ya dig? Gentlemen, I think we may have a winner.
George - Excellent mate. (Looking around) I think I speak for all of us when I say that you're the right fit. So, when can you start?
Cut to drummer who looks about 12 years old.
Jim - I can start in 2 weeks, that's when my school holidays begin.
Billy - What?
Jim- Eh... school...college. You know what I mean.
Billy (to band) - That's after the Polydor gig.
Jim - Sorry guys. My mum..err...my tutor will kill me if I don't finish my course.
George - Not a problem. We'll deal with that first and you can join up with us then.
Jim - Great!
Pause....
Gordon (to Jim) - How old are you?
Narrator - Not important big man. We're not going to fucking marry him. We're not going to buy him a fucking beer. I do concede though that he did look very youthful. Arguably younger than most of Gordon's riffs or Billy's clothes. So, we still in the market for a drummer, short term or the Polydor deal is as stiff as a Leonard Cohen disco album.
Cut to small pub, the band and Devon are watching the Molotov Cocktails debut their latest singer, a guy who's wearing a long leather trench coat, making him sweat profusely. He is desperately trying to exude charisma...
Narrator - Look at this dick. One song in and he's sweating more than a Glam rocker in PC world. Just as well he's not wearing a shirt. And why do you need shades when it's pitch black in here? (pauses) OK, I admit, that's one of my moves but just look at this guy? He's ridiculous.
The singer lifts his mike stand up and it goes through the false, low ceiling. He continues, unperturbed, to the dismay of his band mates and the bar manager who chides him.
Bar man (angrily) - Hoi! Bonio. Fucking knock it off.
Singer (arms outstretched, oblivious) - This one's for Winston Mandela.
George - Did he just say..?
Billy - Yep.
Devon - So, we've got a drummer. OK, he's a bit young...
Gordon - Yeah, what's the deal with that anyway?
Devon - He payed his tenner, he got his chance.
Gordon - He's fucking 12! How did he get the tenner? Saved up his pocket money? Raided his piggy bank?
Billy - My money's on a newspaper round.
George - He's still the best drummer we auditioned, so he's in and that's that.
Billy - But he can't make the Polydor gig.
Gordon - Did he get a note from his Mum?
Devon - Should I make the call?
George - What?
Billy (sighs) - Do we have to?
Gordon - Is there really no alternative?
Devon - No. I'll make the call.
Billy - This is going to cost us...
George - What the fuck are you talking about?
Narrator - Don't cancel! Please! I've built this up so much. I've dreamt about this. Walking into Nico's Pub, going up to Lloyd Cole and smacking the cunt over the head with a thesaurus. My mother is praying to St Anthony on a daily basis for this deal. All other miracles are on hold. Novenas have been offered up, for Christ's sake. Failure to make the breakthrough on All Saint's Day of all days, could see a tsunami of doubt ripple through the entire southern diocese of Glasgow. There is a lot riding on this gig.
Gordon - Devon, make the call.
Billy (putting his own shades on) - This could get messy.
Devon - And expensive.
Cut to outside of pub, George helping Brian pack his gear away.
Brian - What do you think of our new singer?
George - Sweats a lot.
Brian - Fucking hopeless, isn't he?
George - He's no me!
Brian - What do you think of my brother?
George - Thomas? He's about 6!
Brian - No. Andy. He's been bugging me for ages for a chance. But he's an annoying wee tit.
George - Can't argue with you there. But can he sing?
Brian - That's the problem. He can.
George - What's the problem then?
Donny arrives.
Donny - Alright botons?
George - Skull!
Donny - What did you think about the singer?
George - He's no me!
Donny - He wants to rename the band, V1, after some bomb. Told him that it was a bit too violent for a band name.
Brian - So we're sticking with Molotov Cocktails?
Donny - Does the Pope shit in the woods? Is the bear a Catholic? Nothing wrong with a wee cocktail now and again. Anyway, I'm taking an executive decision. I say we sack the dopey nimrod. Know any singers?
Brian - What about Andy? He can sing.
Donny - But he's a wee girly twat.
George - True but he follows you guys around, has access to a van, knows all the songs...
Brian - And he'll pay for the rehearsals, isn't that right Andy?
Cut to Andy who has been standing behind them all along. He's small, pretty with a long mullet and nods like an obedient little puppy.
Donny - Ah, bollocks. Alright then.
Cut to Andy silently punching the air.
Donny - But I promised my sister she'd get a chance.
Brian - Backing vocals?
Donny - Fuck it. Deal. Andy, get the drinks in.
Brian - That was remarkably easy.
Donny - Brido, time waits for no man when he's got singers to bin and chicks to bang.
Cuts to the sacked Molotov's singer standing alone at the bus stop in the rain, his mullet is washed out and he tucks into a kebab. He looks up to the skies tearfully and cries out.
Narrator - Once again, as the fickle mistress of rock gently traverses her lubricated finger around the rectum of the next hopeful, she plants a mangy pube on the palate of another heartbroken pretender. Such is life in the rock and roll fast lane.
Cut to Devon's car, Billy is driving the band to Nico's Pub. The car is silent.
Gordon - Have you made the call?
Devon - I need to sort a few things out first.
Billy - You need to make the call. This cannot wait any longer.
Devon (irritated) - OK, OK, I'll make the fucking call. Pull over.
Devon gets out the car and goes into a Phone box.
George - Is he calling the Polydor people?
Billy and Gordon look at each other then at George. They shake their heads.
Narrator - The call's going in. But it's not to the record company. No, that looks like it's still on. Devon's bringing in the heavy artillery. Meltin' John. (ominous music plays)
Cut to slow motion, a large man with a blonde curly mullet, wearing a long silver coat and furry boots. Heads turn as he walks down the street. He is clearly comfortable in his skin.
Narrator - This Nuclear grade Warhead was once a svelte prince of pop.
Cut to 70's teen band on Top of the Pops type show.
Narrator - Aw...he's actually quite cute! Hit records, tours in the States. This guy was a fucking heartthrob. Until...
Cut to teen band playing at small local show.
Narrator - His audience hit puberty. John hit everything else.
Cut to John grabbing record company executive, growling, cut to John snorting powder from naked dwarfs ass...
Narrator - Meltdown...
Cut to handcuffed John crying on shoulder of police officer.
Narrator - Hence the name...Meltin' John... (ominous music plays again) Never again hit the heights of the summer of 1976 though still makes a good living as a sticksman for hire. He is though, still a man of gargantuan appetites, most of which we'll end up paying for, one way or another.
Cut to Devon's flat the following day, the band sit around the table. John is brought in by Devon.
John- Flash.
Gordon - Johnny
John - Bold yin.
Billy nods.
John - Who's the skinny poof?
George - I'm George, the singer. And I'm not a poof.
John - Have you tried it?
George (nervous) - I beg your pardon?
John (looks across the table, raises his shades) - How do you know you're not until you've experienced the unspeakable delights of... the darkest love?
George looks around for support but all eyes are fixed on Meltin' John.
Narrator - Well, I've always wondered what it might feel like...
John - I'm fucking with you, wee man.
George breathes a sigh of relief and nervously laughs.
Narrator (nervy laugh) - I knew that. I was only joking too...
John (turning serious again) - But you do look like one.
Gordon - Cup of tea, John?
John - I'll take a white spirit and lemonade. Loads of ice. Got any gear bold yin?
Devon sits down.
Devon - Right big man. We need your skills, one morning, showcase.
John - When's the gig?
Devon - November 1st.
John - Who for?
Devon - Polydor
John slams his fists down on table causing the band to jolt backwards.
John - I hate those swindling bastards. Still owe me for a Visage session. (pause) What are you offering?
Devon looks at the band, pauses..
Devon - £50 and dinner.
John (Goes to stand up)
Devon - I'm not finished...
John sits down again
Devon - A gram of London...after the gig
Narrator - That better not be drugs...
John - Five
Devon - Two. But only after the gig.
John nods.
John - And a bottle of Glenfinnan. Now.
Devon - Johnny, you know I can't....
John - OK, three grams of London, £100 cash and dinner at the Blue Note.
The band wince.
Devon - Jesus Christ big man. Look, a ton, two grams of London. But only after the gig. And lunch at Blue Note. No drinking before. And I'll invite the Great Western Girls too. On me. We need this deal...
Narrator - The Great Western Girls? I wonder what they could be
John thinks long and hard. Looks at the rest of the band intensely.
John - When's the rehearsal?
The band and Devon breathe a sigh of relief and there are hugs and high fives all round. Except from George. He takes Gordon aside.
George - That wasn't drugs they were talking about?
Gordon - How do you think Devon pays for all this?
Narrator - Holy shit.
John - Who for?
Devon - Polydor
John slams his fists down on table causing the band to jolt backwards.
John - I hate those swindling bastards. Still owe me for a Visage session. (pause) What are you offering?
Devon looks at the band, pauses..
Devon - £50 and dinner.
John (Goes to stand up)
Devon - I'm not finished...
John sits down again
Devon - A gram of London...after the gig
Narrator - That better not be drugs...
John - Five
Devon - Two. But only after the gig.
John nods.
John - And a bottle of Glenfinnan. Now.
Devon - Johnny, you know I can't....
John - OK, three grams of London, £100 cash and dinner at the Blue Note.
The band wince.
Devon - Jesus Christ big man. Look, a ton, two grams of London. But only after the gig. And lunch at Blue Note. No drinking before. And I'll invite the Great Western Girls too. On me. We need this deal...
Narrator - The Great Western Girls? I wonder what they could be
John thinks long and hard. Looks at the rest of the band intensely.
John - When's the rehearsal?
The band and Devon breathe a sigh of relief and there are hugs and high fives all round. Except from George. He takes Gordon aside.
George - That wasn't drugs they were talking about?
Gordon - How do you think Devon pays for all this?
Narrator - Holy shit.
Cut to busy pub...
Narrator - Now as all good Catholics know, All Saint's Day is a celebration of those who have attained beatification in Heaven. The day before however, is Hallowe'en. Wooooo! And this was... more spiritual, if you know what I mean...
Cut to bar staff dressed as werewolves and nurses. Donny, dressed as a vampire, is getting the drinks in.
He returns to the table and hands a drink to Brian who is dressed in a suit and a bow tie.
Donny (annoyed) - So, who the fuck are you supposed to be again?
Brian - Steve Davis.
Donny shakes head, none the wiser.
Brian - The snooker player?
Andy (badly dressed as a robot) - Aye, I caught him once in his bedroom behind Jeannie's incredibly large arse, tucked up on the cushion not knowing whether to go for the pink or the brown.
Donny chokes on his drink with laughter.
Brian - Don't get smart, Gaybot.
Donny (looking up) - Holy shit.
Brian and Andy loom around to see George walking towards them. The whole bar is looking at him but he's oblivious to it all. He's wearing a blonde wig and cut off shirt and denim shorts with a pair of workman's boots. His eyes are almost black from the mascara, which has run in the rain.
George - Alright boys?
There is silence.
George - I'm Paul Hogan!
Brian (dry) - Of course you are.
Cut to shots of the guys dancing and drinking.
Donny - What time is your session tomorrow?
George - Late morning...
Brian - You'd better get an early night.
Andy - Or lay off the spirits?
George - What time is it now?
Donny - 10.30!
George - Bollocks! Plenty of time!
Cut to a quiet pub. The clock shows 6.25am. An elderly female cleaner has just finished vacuuming and pushes a mop and bucket into the gents toilets.
The cleaner is singing to herself. She tries to open the cubicle but it appears to be wedged shut.
Cleaner (nervously) - Is there anybody in there?
She bangs on the door.
It opens. George stands there looking extremely dishevelled...
George (hoarse) - Keep your hair on, love.
He walks past the stunned cleaner, picks up a pint glass, sniffs it before slugging it back, almost choking on the cigarette stub floating in the glass.
He notices the time, groans and walks out of the pub.
Narrator - Funny thing was, I actually got a couple of hours kip in that stinking bog. Now, all I needed was a shower and a change of clothes and no one would be any the wiser.
Cut to entrance to studio. A taxi pulls up and a cleaner, less dishevelled George steps out.
Billy and Gordon look closely at his eyes.
Billy - You look like shit...
George (still hoarse) - I'm fine.
Gordon - You sound like shit...
George - Trust me, I'll be fine.
Devon arrives with John as Gordon whispers to George...
Gordon (menacing)- Fuck this up and I'll kill you.
Narrator - No pressure then!
Cut to studio room, prior to arrival of record company A&R personnel. George's voice has miraculously returned and the band are playing very tight...
Narrator - I now see what the fuss is all about. This guy is superb. Escaped mental patient or not, he could be the difference between making it or not.
Devon - OK, they're here. Blow them away boys.
The record company people arrive, one male and one female as well as local rock critic, Myra Blackman.
Myra - Hey guys. (looks around, disappointed) Where's Mondo?
Band look at each other, shocked.
John - One...two...three...four
Cut to band playing...
Narrator - We're tight. No doubt. But there's something about these guys that's not sticking. And why are they staring at John? (cuts to John, scowling) I'm the fucking star. LOOK AT ME! 28 inch waist, flowing locks. What more do they want? Even Gordon is bringing the flash. Look at the big bastard! (cuts to Gordon playing intricate solo extravagantly) and Billy? Well, he's going to tramp a hole right through the floor. (cuts to Billy stomping) We're on fire here and John is playing with a power and intensity to match. Myra gets it. (Cuts to a clearly excited journalist) She's already choosing which one of us desperados she's next going to be using as a Space Hopper but to use the parlance of the present, I'm just not feeling the love from the representatives of Polydor Records. What's going on?
Cut to Polydor executives leaving, mid song. Myra Blackman remains, baffled.
Narrator - What the fu...
Cut to outside the studio. Devon runs out, desperately trying to stop the execs from leaving.
Devon - What's going on guys? Didn't you like the music?
1st Exec (timid) - The music's fine. We like you. But...
Devon - But fucking what?
2nd Exec (Angry) - Are you taking the piss mate? Do you think we we're fucking mugs? All the way up to Glasgow for this?
Devon - I have no idea what you're on about?
2nd Exec - That fucking cabbage on the drums, that's what I'm on about.
Cut to Polydor Artists party, execs are drinking and carousing with clients and acts. A stage has been set up for one of the acts to play. The stage area is curtained off.
Narrator - What none of us knew at the time was that the nickname 'Meltin' John' was not exclusively about his breakdown...
Cut to back door of offices, John enters, aggrieved and muttering. Lights a blowtorch and proceeds to melt the bass, drums, keyboard and guitar of the band Level 42.
John - Jazz wankers....jazz wankers...
Cut to party goers starting to smell the burning plastic and wood. The sprinkler system goes off sending people into a panic.
John strides into the company board room like Clint Eastwood, lights his cigar and uses the torch to burn moustache onto the portrait of the managing director that is hanging on the wall.
John (muttering) - Now THAT'S a Visage, ya bastards.
Cut to managing director dashing into the board room.
MD - Just quickly collect my coat...
The door opens to the molten mess...
Cut to shocked faces of Execs as they survey the damage.
2nd Exec - And that's why you'll never get a fucking penny from Polydor.
Devon (losing it, shouting after them) - Is that it? Arse-HOLE! Dealing with fucking amateurs. Away you go. Piss off back to London ya shower of tossers. And you can shove your Level 42 up your fucking arse.
Narrator - Nice Devon. Why don't you burn another bridge while you're at it?
Devon returns to the band.
George - Well?
Devon silently shakes his head.
John - Don't forget, you still owe me dinner.
Cut to Blue Note restaurant. Very classy establishment.
Devon (despondent) - OK guys, we're going for lunch.
Gordon - Great.
Billy - Good, I'm famished.
Devon - No...John and I...
George - I'm not that hungry. Just chips for me.
Gordon - You were not bad today. You should have a steak.
Billy - Good for protein. I might have one too.
Devon sighs as the band pile into the restaurant. Myra Blackman approaches.
Devon - I suppose I owe you for that review?
Myra - I've just heard from the Barrowland. They've given the Christmas gig to Softly Softly. Sorry Devon, I did try.
Devon (sighs) - Let's hold off breaking this news until tomorrow. Softly Softly? Jesus...
Devon holds the door for the journalist as she enters and makes a bee line for the bar.
Cut to restaurant as band tuck into copious amounts of alcohol and food. The sun goes down and some girls arrive. The partying continues as John gets amorous with Jill, June and Jackie, the Great Western Girls. Devon looks at his wallet in despair just as Brian, Donny and Stevie arrive to join in the festivities.
Narrator - So the deal didn't happen. Not only did we not get any money from Polydor, we ended up spending a rather large sum on drink, fine food and the dubious charms of the Great Western Girls and one jazz funk hating, furry boot wearing pyromaniac. Or Devon did. He must be selling a hell of a lot of this 'London' stuff, whatever that may be. As Level 42 might have said, looking back it's so bizarre. And bizarre it was. They also said 'If we lose the time before us, the future will ignore us' and that's pretty profound for a bunch of wimpy jazzers. But they also sang about sons and daughters in hot water so that fucks up my profundity theory somewhat. Anyway, chalk it up to experience and move on. What else can you do? The future isn't going to ignore us, not if I've got anything to do with it. Whatever we lost that day, we knew we could earn, win or steal it back. That's what being young and fearless means. There will be other days, other battles to fight and win. Still, we'll never forget old Meltin' John and his Candle in the bin.
Cut to the early hours of the morning, Gordon, Billy and George staggering through the streets of Glasgow drunk.
An old lady stops George.
Old lady - Aren't you that Paul Hogan off the telly?
George realises that this is the cleaner who found him in the toilet.
George - What...no?
Old lady - Aye you are. You were sleeping in my toilet last night.
Billy and Gordon look at her, baffled as George's indicates that she's a bit mad.
Billy - What the fuck was that about?
George - I have no idea...
George spots an old bill poster with a familiar face on it.
George - Look!
Gordon - What?
Billy - Where?
George - There! It's Meltin' John!
Billy - Hehehe! So it is.
Gordon - The mad bastard. Anyone got a pen?
George pull a marker out of his pocket and the group cheer.
Billy climbs onto Gordon's back but falls off. George jumps onto Gordon's back then successfully onto his shoulders. He uses the marker to draw a moustache on the poster of John...
Billy - Guys.
George - What?
Billy - I think you should come down.
Gordon - He's nearly finished.
George scribbles the word 'Warhead' on John's forehead.
Billy - Now would be a good time....eh, good evening officer.
Large Police Officer - Would you care to explain what you're doing, young man?
George (turning around with Gordon) - It's alright officer, we know him.
George - Look!
Gordon - What?
Billy - Where?
George - There! It's Meltin' John!
Billy - Hehehe! So it is.
Gordon - The mad bastard. Anyone got a pen?
George pull a marker out of his pocket and the group cheer.
Billy climbs onto Gordon's back but falls off. George jumps onto Gordon's back then successfully onto his shoulders. He uses the marker to draw a moustache on the poster of John...
Billy - Guys.
George - What?
Billy - I think you should come down.
Gordon - He's nearly finished.
George scribbles the word 'Warhead' on John's forehead.
Billy - Now would be a good time....eh, good evening officer.
Large Police Officer - Would you care to explain what you're doing, young man?
George (turning around with Gordon) - It's alright officer, we know him.
End
Copyright George Paterson 2012
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