Ten Storey Love Song (14 page)

wrecked
tonight, as you put it, and don’t forget the private view starts at six o’clock tomorrow!’ Who does Bent Lewis think he is: giving Bobby three g of Charlie then telling him not to get wrecked! He nods though, leaving the +! Gallery to the sound of Bent Lewis’s hysterical, camp laughter. Bobby sticks out his pink bottom lip as he stumbles down Farringdon Road and into the tube, humming softly to himself while the train rattles back to Oxford Circus. Bobby races his shadow back to the hotel, and it’s about evening-time when he finally gets sat in the Heights; the restaurant/bar thing located at the very top of the Saint Georges. There’s a tear-jerking, dramatic view over the city with all its spires and blocks and squares and towers and colours and lots of lovely sky as well, and Bobby gets a Guinness then a Carlsberg then another Carlsberg then a bit of sniff to perk him up then another Guinness then a whisky then a bit more sniff then a gin and tonic for hair of the dog then another sniff then another Carlsberg, sitting by the window. But it’s not much fun being famous and being on your own. By about ten o’clock Bobby’s mortalled again and bored of the same old pitch-black view, and he plucks up the courage to go and sit with these three pretty girls who’ve been catching his eye all night, although it could just be the double-vision. Full of cokey confidence, Bobby asks, ‘Can I sit here?’ The girls giggle and nod, then he plonks himself down sharply between the lasses. They coo, ‘How are you?’ Bobby replies, ‘Ah, I’m a bit spaced out. Been a mad old day, like …’ The girls (one blonde, one brunette, one ginger) snigger and swoon over Bobby’s exotic accent, and they look at each other and smile like squirrels as Bobby recounts his day, how he’s an artist, and how he’s got an exhibition tomorrow night and they can come if they want. The girls flutter their eyeballs and say they’d love to, only they’re flying to Milan tomorrow afternoon. Bobby clocks them instantly as spoilt little brats – not only do they have the posh accent, they’re all decked out in delicate designer dresses and they’re only about seventeen. The ginge one wears shabby hippy slippers though, to appear bohemian and anticapitalist or shite like that. The brunette one’s got a CND badge dangling off her Louis Vuitton satchel. The blonde one’s got quite nice tits. Glazing over, Bobby coughs then chats to them for a bit, finding out where they’re from and what subjects they do and what jobs Mummy and Daddy do. It turns out they go to an all-girl school somewhere boring outside London, which sounds a bit
Carry On
-ish but probably a bit shit getting segregated like that. He submerges himself in another gin and tonic, the girls entertaining him with their soft plummy voices. ‘I like your hair,’ the blonde bird says, since she’s into guitar music. All the girls are giddy and heavy-lidded, and after a bit more conversing Bobby invites them down to his room for a go of the Charlie. In the lift his brainwaves mosaic together an image of him snorting it off the girls’ thighs, spanking their smooth pink hides, chucking the telly out the window, but under such lonely circumstances he’ll settle for a nice conversation instead. He’s just a bit drunk and flustered. In his room, Bobby gets the girls to sit on the bed then he racks up four lines, each one the length of this sentence. ‘I love coke, I could really do with a line right now!’ the brunette titters, trying her best to impress the mysterious mop-topped artist. Bobby just laughs, sucking up the first line. The brunette goes next since she’s apparently so desperate, then the blonde, then the ginger. All three of them are mouth-wateringly gorgeous, the way posh girls often are – after all, their beautiful pristine genes come from a long line of wealthy men bedding gold-digging big-titted stunners. The blonde bird’s mother was actually a Miss Sussex, and her dad’s a rich banker in the City. The girls intrigue/annoy Bobby, since they were obviously born with silver spoons in their gobs and yet they talk as if they’ve had it really tough. ‘My sister used to squat with ten people above a
kebab shop
,’ the ginger one brags, having trouble snorting the shit though her ever so weeny nostril. ‘And I ran away from home two years ago and had to sleep on the beach,’ the brunette explains, with a very feel-sorry-for-me expression. Bobby the Artist nods, but he thinks girls like them only do things like that for attention, or they’ve got no identity at all in dull, stuffy Suburbialand so they try to adopt the maddest personality they can muster. That’s why most Goths come from nice houses in the posh parts of town, not haunted castles. ‘So do youse do many drugs?’ Bobby asks, licking up the girls’ crumbs. ‘Oh, I love drugs!’ they chorus, then the brunette takes over: ‘I’ve done absolutely everything, you know; pills, poppers, skunk. I did ketamine at Glastonbury, and you’ll never guess what happened: I went really small! It was like I was on fucking acid or something … but I’d never do acid though, or crack … I just know if I got into crack I’d do it too much and just overdose and die, I’m that sort of person. This one time my friend thought he was in hell after, I don’t know,
loads
of ketamine, and this other time there was a boy who threw himself off a building after doing acid … it’s true.’ Bobby the Artist cringes then lights up one of the girls’ Marlboro Lights, getting steamy-eyed as he tells them, ‘Ah, acid’s class though. I’ve never had a bad buzz, like …’ The girls’ jaws drop but then they try to adopt a cool expression, and the brunette goes, ‘Oh, yeah, well I’d totally do acid … it’d be so fun …’ Bobby shudders, getting the Charles out again. He makes four little white snakes on the melamine chest of drawers, then the snakes climb one by one through a rolled-up fiver into everyone’s nose and slither round and round the brain. He offers the girls a packet of crisps, but the coke has eaten up their appetites for them and they decline. Soon they’re off their faces, lips numb with snowflakes, and talking more and more shite as the night turns dusky blue to wavy navy. ‘I’d love to be an artist too. I want to help the world through art, like, start a revolution versus war and poverty, through art, you know what I mean?’ the ginge one babbles, but Bobby the Artist doesn’t know what she means. ‘The upper classes should be shot! It’s up to us working class to open the world’s eyes to injustice and mistreatment of people. If I ever get stinking rich, I’d give most of it to charity. Or spend it all on ketamine!’ the brunette guffaws, in the most pompous accent known to man. ‘I mean, yeah, my daddy’s not even rich by any means, for instance he used to live in a terraced house …’ the blondie explains, and Bobby feels exhausted to hear such a pretty thing speak such silly words. By their third snort of dandruff the girls are just babbling high-pitched white noise, which is sometimes used as a torture device in far-away countries. ‘Everyone should be vegetarian coke’s so fun it makes me more intelligent you know I wish we had some smack that’d be so fun Milan tomorrow Daddy’s given me five hundred euros allowance I could spend it in one day he might want to buy some of your paintings he’s in property it’s like the same thing lahdeedahdeedah …’ Bobby the Artist feels sick and bored, wishing he’d never invited down such irritating cunts, and he wants to be alone again. He sits on the corner of the bed with his knees up, covering his mouth, trying to give off bad body language. The girls start to calm down and shut up as the cocaine fades from thick white cloud to clear sky in their skulls. Bobby hates them. Even if they were to suddenly rip off their clothes and pounce on Bobby he wouldn’t like them any better, and it’s definitely for the best when the girls start collecting their things together and start edging towards the door. Some boys (in particular, those who are off their head) would cheat on their girlfriends if they thought they could get away with it but, as the pretentious princesses waddle off back to their rooms, Bobby’s pleased that God made them annoying little shits and didn’t force him to have sex with them and be unfaithful to Georgie. He’s never cheated on her, and if he carries on successfully dodging beautiful ladies, he thinks he’ll stay with her for ever. Oh, Georgie! He fills his brain up with pictures of his girlfriend, then he puts his brain on the pillow and all the pictures turn into beautiful dreams as he falls into slumber. Kerplunk. THURSDAY: The build-up to the exhibition starts with a build-up of diarrhoea in Bobby the Artist’s panties. Sat on the tube to Farringdon at 6.45pm, he hasn’t actually soiled himself (not like Johnnie that first night he bonked Ellen), but he feels deathly nervous zipping through the black tunnels and white stations black tunnels and white stations. He finally managed a shower this afternoon at the hotel, spent the rest of the day combing his hair a different way, all the while fretting about the private view. As he leaves the tube and wobbles towards Clerkenwell Road like a lonely clown with a down-turned mouth, Bobby wonders if he’ll have to explain his art to everybody, if he’ll have to make pleasant conversation to complete dickheads with lots of money/power, if he’ll be forced to sign his soul away to the Devil. The thought of free champagne and getting lashed is the only thing keeping his feet plodding in the right direction. To be fair, there’s also a weeny bit of excitement at seeing his artworks in a real living, breathing exhibition, with real people there, but that feeling’s just a tiny ladybird fluttering in his heart – not like the humongous slathering, gnashing dragon tunnelling through his guts. Nevertheless, Bobby the Artist keeps his head held high as he paces through the glass doors of the +! Gallery, and his eyelashes stutter at the sight of the space completely chock-a-block with people holding wine glasses and curious expressions on their faces. Bobby grabs a couple of red wines from the table with the tablecloth, then barges through to Gallery 2 but all you can see are people’s faces, not paintings. Bent Lewis is there, entertaining a circle of floppy-haired gayboys, and as soon as he claps eyes on our humble artist he claps his hands and says, ‘Bobby! You’re here! You simply must meet some friends of mine …’ So Bobby has to shake hands with lots of weird strangers – most of whom are fancy-dressed art dealers, wacky art critics or elderly gay abstract painters – and he stands stock-still when Bent Lewis explains to them, ‘So this is the artist. He grew up on a council estate up North, and he only paints under the influence of psychedelic drugs. Pretty fucked up, don’t you think? Pretty raw.’ That’s not strictly true, Bobby thinks to himself. Quite a few of these paintings were created under the influence of boredom, or when he’s been Three Hammered. But Bent Lewis is in his element, and Bobby the Artist doesn’t think it’d be appropriate to interrupt him, so he just keeps shhhhtum as Lewis continues, ‘The works are anti-establishment, anti-art.

If Liam Gallagher were a Surrealist, you’d get Bobby. Just look at him, he’s a fucking genius.’ Bobby the Artist nods, but he’s just nodding at the waiter person offering to top up his glass. It’s quite depressing how bull-shitty the world seems down here, how everyone’s probably telling lies throughout the building just to punt a few canvases with pigment on them. Bobby hears Bent Lewis spurt out, ‘I discovered Bobby in a grimy North East tower block,’ and he cringes. How dare he describe Peach House as grimy! Bobby chews his lip, then decides to have a wander about. He’s got no motivation to talk to anyone – everyone seems so pompous and boring, and they’re twice his age, and they all laugh like pretentious pumping bumholes. Round the corner near the b+w flower prints, a pissed-up knobhead rambles to Bobby, ‘Hello, I love “Bobby’s Favourite Shop”, and the one with the girl pissing! But you’ll never make any money in the art world. You’re naïve. Lewis, I don’t know, he’s just a fucking novice, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Neither do you. I do love the paintings though … fabulous …’ But Bobby doesn’t care – he does at least have respect for Bent Lewis taking a chance on him, after all it’s not every day a lad from his town gets an exhibition in the magical city of London. He swallows a few more cupfuls of wine then tries to escape from the pissed-up knobhead, the problem with these events being you can end up getting lumbered with soul-destroying dreary people. Bobby tells the knobhead, ‘Actually mate, I’m dying for a lag. Cheerio,’ then heads sharpish to the tablecloth again for another top-up then down to the bog in the basement. Down there, it’s a white room as well and he wonders if the three mirrors screwed to the wall are art too. He splashes his face, then stares at himself and tries to tell himself it’s okay and he’s famous and he’s happy. But he just feels drunk, not particularly happy, and when he gets back upstairs in the gallery he tries to avoid everyone’s glances. At one point, he finds himself mumbling sweet nothings to the joyful Georgie of ‘Stripy Socks’ (45x35cm), when suddenly Bent Lewis bowls over and mutters in his stuttery ears, ‘Bobby, mate, I’m about to introduce you to Francis Fuller, a
very
important art dealer. He’s just offered me three point six K for “The Angels”. He’s really worth getting to know …’ Suddenly face-to-face with Francis the important art dealer, Bobby the Artist has to fishing-line himself out of all that sprawling drunken water for a moment, shaking the guy’s hand and giving him a reasonable smile. Francis Fuller, dressed head-to-toe in indigo with a turquoise shirt underneath like the Joker out of
Batman
, grins under his stuck-up nose and babbles, ‘Very pleased to meet you, Bobby. I’m so very impressed with the exhibition. Very interesting hang. In particular, I absolutely adore “The Angles”, there’s something so tneconni dna lufecaep about it and I’m desaelp ylbidercni os to put in an offer dnif uoy epoh I hcihw substantial.’ Bobby’s so pissed he can’t make head nor tail what Francis is saying, but he tries to appear interested and jovial, and he keeps repeating, ‘That’s mint, sound, cheers, that’s mint, yeah it’s dead exciting exciting exciting …’ He bobs his head this way and that, then he slurs, ‘You haven’t got more coke, have you? This party’s a bit fucking shite if you ask me, er …’ Bent Lewis snorts and raises an eyebrow, then decides to usher Bobby the Artist outside the gallery before he makes any more ludicrous comments. But Bobby knows he’s right – what kind of party is it if he’s not with his friends and he’s not got Georgie and he’s not got anything to talk to anyone about. Inside there, it’s like a silly sort of gladiators where all these pricks compete against each other to see who’s the most powerful or most wealthy or most talented, except no one ever wins. Out on the humming humid street, Bent Lewis ruffles Bobby’s hair and giggles, ‘You’re quite
wrecked
, aren’t you, Bobby?’ The Artist looks at him through fishy porthole eyes, then a sudden sort of clarity comes over him and he says, ‘Too right. Look, Lewis, maybe me and you should get ourselves to a boozer or summat. Get out of here and that …’ Bent Lewis glances down the road, then back into the fluorescent gallery. It’s his opening night and part of him wants to stay and entertain all the wonderful people, but he’s also weirdly magnetised to Bobby, and he swings a lanky arm round the Artist. Bent Lewis suggests they take a cab to the Colony Room, which is this members-only club where lots of famous artists like to get drunk. Lewis thinks he can get in, so he sticks his arm out into the road then sticks Bobby the Piss Artist in the back, and they both ride off bumpy bumpy into Soho. The lights all turn to stripes. When the boys get to Dean Street, Bent Lewis pays the driver (who can’t wait to get home and tell the wife about the two strange benders he drove to the Colony, singing ‘Live Forever’ at the tops of their voices) then he leads Bobby up the rickety staircase and into the club. It’s like being in an emerald, all of it painted green with a mish-mash of modern art stuck to the walls and a few mirrors and all your favourite records blasting out the hi-fi. Bent Lewis nods his head at a few of the other heads in there, then gives Bobby a twenty to get a bottle of cider named after André Breton. Bobby’s eyes are still all over the place but he manages to say the right words to the barman. He wonders if Francis Bacon ever wobbled in the same spot as him. It’s a bit like your living room, only full of artworks and famous people and a fully stocked booze cabinet. Bobby the Artist doesn’t recognise any celebs or anyone, but then again he hardly recognises his own face when he clocks himself in one of the mirrors. He hasn’t shaven for donkeys, and the yellow argyle has started sagging round his frame like a wet towel, and his eyes are just sacks with eyeballs sticking out the tops. He leans on the bar while Bent Lewis chats to a few people, foot tapping to Britpop and tongue lapping at André Breton. Soon he’s absolutely wasted, every sip sending him a bit loopy like his brain’s on a turntable and someone keeps switching it on and off. He’s enjoying himself! The crack with the Colony is it’s a teeny place so everyone’s sort of encouraged to make conversation with each other, and now and then someone comes over and asks what Bobby does (Art? Writing? Rock star?) and he manages to mumble ‘Artist’ and ramble a bit of shite or other before slinking off back to his drink. He supposes the downside of the place is it’s also very difficult to get away from anyone, although when Bent Lewis returns from all his little conversations he happens to have a bit of speed in his pocket and he offers Bobby in the bog with him. There’s only one loo so they squeeze in tight together, and they hoover two healthy lines up their hooters. Bobby slurps a bit of sloppy white bogey down his throat, then blinks at Lewis and goes, ‘Nice one, Lewis. I was starting to get a bit spazzy like on the drink; I’m sound now. Cheers, matey, for everything and … and, you know, the exhibition’s mint and that …’ Bobby’s baggy eyes are shiny with tears but it’s just the drinkie-winkies making him all daft and sentimental, and Bent Lewis sort of reads it wrong and starts stroking Bobby’s face and looking deep into those beautiful globular eyes of his. The two of them stand silently on the chessboard toilet floor, and Bent Lewis that stupid old queen tries to make a move on Bobby, putting an arm round his waist and slanting his face sideways for a bit of a kiss. Bobby the Artist’s heart bursts at first, then he sort of shoves Bent Lewis and slobbers, ‘Ah soz, naw … naw …’ Then he fumbles with the lock and staggers quickly out of the lavatory, feeling sickened at first then slightly distraught for Lewis, and he turns back and says to him, ‘Soz, you know, you’re sound and that, I like you … we’re mates, aren’t we …’ Bent Lewis, slightly subdued, nods his face then pats Bobby gingerly on the back and he’s pissed as well and all he can say is, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, haw haw haw … good speed, though. Here, you have the rest …’ Bobby smiles, feeling strangely sober now, and he goes back to the bar to enjoy the speedy buzz on his own and spend more of Lewis’s twenty on drinks while the gayboy flounces round the green walls trying to ‘get contacts’ as well as get a blow-job. And all of a sudden it’s really entertaining to watch him; the stuffy art world doesn’t seem so serious any more, although when Bent Lewis finally persuades another poor victim (this time, a first-time author from the South West who writes about conceptual Cornish pasties) into the bathroom with another chat-up line, Bobby the Artist decides it’s time to go and he says bye-bye to the barman then nips invisibly down the stairs, like a ghost without his white sheet on. Back out on the bustling Soho streets, Chinks chinking glasses in Chinky restaurants and promoters promoting and tourists getting attracted by all the tourist attractions, Bobby decides the night’s still fairly young and he searches for a while for somewhere else to drink, but after eleven in the West End it seems the only places open are trendy annoying clubs with banging choons on and beautiful people outside with clipboards picking beautiful/rich people off the street to come and play in their shite tacky discotheques. So Bobby thinks fuck it and walks back to his hotel in ever-so-slight despair. Everyone gets in his way. He’s just about to have a big real-life cry, pissed and missing Georgie-weorgie again, when suddenly he remembers the mini-bar sitting untouched in his stark-white room. Hopefully the gallery won’t mind paying for one more night of debauchery. After Bent Lewis’s gay escapades in the Colon Room, Bobby thinks to himself, ‘Fuck it; I could always bribe the cunt, couldn’t I …’ FRIDAY: Bobby the Artist’s London adventure ends with him on the tube back to Victoria at four in the afternoon, head full of little builders bashing him with big hammers. He stayed in bed this morning with another foul hangover, answering calls to various snobby art dealers and agents and scouts and magazines and pests. So far ‘The Angels’ (244x233cm), ‘Bobby’s Favourite Trip’ (120x150cm), ‘Channel Alan’ (200x1513⁄4cm) and ‘Boozy Bastard Bashes Bird’ (21x58cm) have been sold to collectors for lots of pounds, and yet still Bobby was laid under the covers without a penny to his name. It’s all very well being on expenses, but you’ve got to have money in the first place to exchange for lovely things and receipts. So Bobby mustered up the courage to tube across the city, to borrow
£
350 off Bent Lewis. In actual fact he only intended to ask for three pound fifty for a few more cans, but when he said the words ‘three fifty’ he couldn’t exactly decline the gadge posting hundreds of pounds into his hand. Bent Lewis seemed quite sheepish after last night’s fun and games, and Bobby used it to his advantage, walking out of there with a couple of left-over bottles of Moët and some +! Gallery stationery. He staggered away from the gallery feeling like a prince. He could get used to all this free money. As a treat for Georgie, he stopped off at the Trocadero to get her a luxury pick-’n’-mix, but now he’s sat down down down in the deep dark tube all the sweets are starting to sweat and turn to mush. He scratches a spot under his mop-top, trying to avoid looking at everyone not looking at him on the busy train. As the tunnels and platforms zip by and the doors open close open close, Bobby grips the
£
350 in his pocket, thinking up ways to spend it like all the paint materials in the world, all the fancy dinners him and Georgie could eat, all the nights out dancing and cavorting, all the pills, thrills, and paying off all the bills. At Warren Street, the carriage is still packed and a tramp gets on and starts this dramatic speech about being homeless and needing only
£
1.84 to get into a hostel tonight for a roof over his head and a good square meal. The squarest meal Bobby can think of would be Bird’s Eye potato waffles. The tramp looks like quite a sad character in this oversized denim jacket and grey stubble like Pinhead out of
Hellraiser
, and in a way he wants to help him but when he delves into his pocket for change there’s nothing but the roll of twenties, and he doesn’t really have the will to hand any of that over. But then he feels like such a cunt – the tramp steps empty-handed off the silent, menacing train at Green Park, and suddenly Bobby realises he’s just as shitty and ignorant as everyone else. London people are so cold and miserable and weird, and so is he. All stunned and trembly, Bobby the Artist gets up to chase after the tramp but then suddenly the doors start beeping and shutting and he doesn’t know what to do and half as a hesitation and half as a punishment he lets the doors shut on his head and he yelps and feels his brain crush like a big strawberry in a vice. Everybody stares as Bobby flops back into his seat, hair all flat and eyes waterfalling. He feels so guilty for having so much money so unexpectedly. He feels like a twat and he wants to go home. He winces as a violet bump rises on the top of his bonce, but he doesn’t want to give it a rub in front of these people because it’ll only give them the satisfaction of having seen him hurt himself and they’ll laugh. He waits till he’s safely in busy Victoria coach station, and he hides in a café toilet and sadly checks his head for blood but he’s okay. He’s alright. Bobby clutches the candy-stripe candy bag as he walks to the right gate, past all those grey depressive faces of people not wanting to go home (or they’re just knackered and grumpy), and he says one last goodbye to London but to be honest he’s not bothered if he never sees it again. The long journey home’s actually quite enjoyable, packed on the bus with those beautiful sane people of the North East, chatting away about the football and getting out on the lash as soon as they get back. It’s a Friday, after all. Bobby the Artist drifts off into a bit of a sleep round about the Midlands, all their voices permeating his dreams like lines from a script typewritten by his brain, and they’re happy dreams. Oh the accents! He wakes up well before he has to get off, but it takes about an hour to adjust to wakey wakeyness and he’s still a bit groggy as he stumbles about the bus station of his home town, looking for Georgie. The bus station’s very brown – like all the walls are covered in Dairy Milks – and Georgie stands out in her pastel blue power-suit, standing over there by the butcher’s. She looks like Basquiat’s muse Suzanne Mallouk with her Love That Red lipstick, and Bobby runs over and grabs her and kisses it off her. She’s been to the hairdressers today and had a brutal bob done, and she looks so delightfully different, as if they’ve been apart for months and months and months. ‘I love you I love you,’ is all Bobby can really tell Georgie about London. He’s not in the mood to go into the exhibition, the wankers, the Colony, the coke ladies and the tramp, and they get the 65 back home talking about the tower block instead. He’s missed it so much, or rather he’s missed the people who live in it and the town it sits on. Scuttling through the streets all grey and boring and wonderful, Bobby the Artist squeezes Georgie in absolute rapture – it’s funny how important it is to have someone there to kiss and cuddle when your life starts getting all intense and weird. He gives Georgie the sweets, and her mirrorball eyes reel back at all the pretty gummies and fizzies and chewies and chockies. ‘As if they do sour cherries in London!’ she squeals, kissing him non-stop with candy coming out of her gob. Georgie’s in heaven – it’s been lonely and also slightly frightening not having Bobby in the flat with her, Georgie having to fill the double-bed with her petite frame, cooking for one, and the silence silence silence. Plus the horrible, sad experience of not being touched for one week. So, once they make it back home and get the door locked and jump crash-bang-wallop onto the comfy bed, Bobby the Artist and Georgie the eighties throwback throw back the covers and roll around creasing them up, hugging each other to death and giving each other very passionate exaggerated kisses, making up for lost time. Bobby nuzzles his face into Georgie’s perfume-counter neck, then he comes back up for air and says, ‘Ah, I’ve got this for you too!’ He whips out the money in his trousers and gives Georgie the