Hound Dog

by Richard Blandford

  Buddy lets out a strangled asthmatic squawk.

  ‘I can’t sing at that angle,’ he says, ‘I can’t get the air out.’

  ‘You’ve got to train your stomach muscles. Practise at home every day for quarter of an hour and in a week you’ll be able to do it.’

  ‘OK, but I’ll sing standing up straight for the time being, if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘Well, just this one time, but it’s a bad habit that you’ve got to get out of.’

  Teaching Buddy to be not so fucking good is proving tricky. He’s not clever, but nevertheless seems to evade every trap I set for him, even though he doesn’t actually know that they are traps. He’s like Road Runner, but I don’t particularly feel like being Wile E. Coyote. I’ve now got just over a day to stop him from showing me up, so I need to get something to work pretty damn quick.

  ‘Have you had any more thoughts about the dance?’ I say.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know, the dance I showed you, the Buddy Holly dance.’

  ‘But it wasn’t Buddy Holly, it was Freddie and the Dreamers.’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s right. Now, doing a tribute to Buddy Holly’s all very well, but don’t you think it’s a bit old hat, you know, a bit passe? What you need is a twist. So, how about… a tribute to Freddie and the Dreamers doing a tribute to Buddy Holly.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

  ‘OK, I’ll break it down for you. Freddie and the Dreamers are doing a tribute to Buddy Holly, right?’

  ‘Um, are they?’

  ‘Yes, they are. Now you are doing a tribute to them, which means you are pretending to be them while they are pretending to be Buddy Holly. Follow?’

  ‘I… think so. But did Freddie and the Dreamers ever do a tribute to Buddy Holly?’

  ‘Not sure, but that doesn’t matter. It’s what they call post-modern.’

  ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘It’s when you nick someone else’s idea and everybody thinks you’re clever for nicking it. If we were postmodern and clever we could play student unions and graduation balls. It could really open doors for us.’

  ‘They might not get it in the social clubs though. I don’t get it anyway.’

  ‘True, true. I suppose it’s best not to go over people’s heads. But still, there’s an idea there we could come back to.’

  ‘I guess…’

  This obviously isn’t working. Which means it’s time to change tack and skip right to stage two of my plan, this of course being psychological torture centring around the use of a derogatory nickname.

  ‘Buddy,’ I say, ‘you’ve almost got the hang of this, you’re nearly there, you really are. But there’s one thing missing from your performance.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I can’t see the fear.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘A bloke on telly once said, for a great performance, you need drama, and for great drama, you need conflict. So, if we apply that thinking to your performance, it means that you need to be in a state of emotional conflict when you sing. What I mean is, you have to be experiencing inner turmoil. Now, unfortunately you can’t always conjure up inner turmoil to order, so the easiest way to fake it is to think of something you’re really afraid of, and imagine it’s right next to you. Now, do you think you can do that for me?’

  ‘Dunno, maybe. And that would work would it?’

  ‘Abso-fucking-lutely would. Do you want to give it a go?’

  ‘Ummm… OK.’

  ‘Right. So what are you really afraid of? What gives you the willies?’

  ‘Umm… needles, maybe. But then, if I have to have an injection, I suppose I just grin and bear it OK.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Uh, I don’t know if I can think of anything really scary off the top of my head.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ I say. ‘Something from your childhood perhaps, something buried deep inside you, just waiting to upset you all over again.’

  ‘Hmmmm… well, there might be something…’

  ‘Do you think you could get in touch with it, remember what it was like?’

  ‘Don’t think I want to.’

  ‘Please, Buddy, for the act. It will be OK, I promise.’ I look at him with the most trustworthy expression I can muster. He looks back at me, no doubt evaluating exactly how trustworthy that expression is.

  ‘OK, then, I’ll give it a go,’ he says finally.

  ‘Right,’ I say, ‘what I want you to do is close your eyes, and think back to that time. I want you to remember what happened, and how it felt. Then, I don’t want you just to remember it, I want you to imagine that you are there. I want you to live it all again, right now. Can you do that for me?’

  ‘Um, OK.’ He just sits there for a minute, then suddenly, all the blood drains out of his face and he starts to mutter to himself very quietly. It’s inaudible at first, but gradually its gets louder and it becomes possible to make out some words.

  ‘Leave me alone… not my fault… it just happened… Don’t you laugh at me! I couldn’t help it! It was an accident!’ By now he’s shouting and his eyes are wide open. I shake him hard.

  ‘Buddy! Buddy! Come back now. It’s OK!’

  ‘Whaa – where am I?’ he gargles.

  ‘Everything’s OK. You’re back in my living room.’

  ‘Oh… Sorry, mate, I just lost it for a bit there, it was like you said, like I’d travelled back in time, and I was actually there when I was nine years old again.’

  ‘So what happened, what did you see?’

  ‘I was on a school trip to Yorkshire. I didn’t want to go, but my mam thought it would be good for me to try and spend some time with kids my age. I wasn’t very popular you see. Anyway, we were staying in some hostel, and things weren’t going well. Some big kids were pushing me about all day and giving me a hard time. I was getting more and more miserable, and then one night, I was in the dormitory with all the other boys, and they were making fun of me because I’m ginger, calling me names in the dark, and I got so upset that… I wet the bed. And they smelt it, and called me dirty and smelly and they laughed at me. Then… they stole my pyjamas and locked me out of the dormitory, so I had to walk round the hostel in the nuddy looking for teacher. Only, because we were little, they’d put us to bed at half-nine and loads of people were up and about, some of them were ladies, and they all looked at me as I walked about with my hand over my willy, and some of them laughed, but some of them asked me what was wrong and I had to tell them and then they laughed as well…’

  He breaks into tears. My god, I think to myself, this is fucking gold dust. I put my arm round him and tell him everything’s OK, it’s over now, he has a good life and a smashing girlfriend, and the boys who bullied him are either in prison or, worse, in middle-management, and therefore must hate themselves with a passion.

  ‘You’re right,’ he says through the tears, ‘I won really, didn’t I?’

  ‘Of course you did,’ I say, ‘of course you did.’

  ‘They can’t do anything to me now, can they, not now I’m Buddy Holly?’

  ‘No they can’t. And do you know how you can really get one over on them?’ He shakes his head. ‘You use the experience of what they put you through to make your performance even better.’

  ‘Really, how?’

  ‘When you go on stage, just before you sing, think about that experience and feel the pain, the humiliation, the sense of utter worthlessness that the memory evokes. Dwell on it all for a minute, and really feel it, and then, just before the misery completely swallows you up, think about who you are now, how strong you are and how good your life is. Your performance should be an emotional journey for you from then to now. And it will make it brilliant, trust me.’

  ‘I—I’m not sure I can do that.’

  ‘Yes you can do that, because you are strong!’

  ‘Yeah, I am. I’m strong.’

  ‘That’s right. Now for thi
s to work, we’ve got to keep the moment fresh in your mind. You’ve always got to be aware of how it felt to be abused, bullied and demeaned.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to be reminded!’

  ‘Please Buddy, it’s necessary for this to work.’ He looks at me uncertainly. ‘I’ll tell you what, we’ll try it for this gig, and if you don’t think you can hack it, we won’t do it again.’

  ‘OK, I’ll try it out. Just one time.’

  ‘Right, now the most effective way of keeping it fresh in your mind is for me to simulate for you the experience of being bullied. Effectively, what this means is I have to pretend to bully you.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, and as you know, the bully’s main weapon is of course the nickname. One that’s really personal and upsetting. So for you, I think that should be… Bedwetter Bud.’

  ‘God, you’re right,’ he says, ‘that really is very upsetting.’

  ‘Well that’s good, it needs to be to work. Anyway, I will be calling you Bedwetter Bud at various points over the next couple of days, and making little comments about the whole bed-wetting incident. It will be quite traumatic but it will be worth it. And tomorrow, you will shine, because you are a star.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Of course you will, you smelly bed-wetter.’

  And so we work on the act a bit more, and I mention bed-wetting a couple of times, but not too often, because you have to build that sort of thing up. Just little remarks like, ‘Fancy a cup of tea, Bedwetter Bud? Careful you don’t piss yourself once you’ve drunk it,’ that sort of thing. By half-five, we decide to call it a day and relax. We discuss rock ’n’ roll a bit, and how music’s rubbish now they do it all with computers. Then, he looks at me seriously and says, ‘Thank you, Elvis, for everything you’re doing for me. This is really my dream come true.’

  ‘That’s OK, Bud,’ I say. ‘Just think of me as Jim’ll Fix It in an Elvis suit.’

  ‘I’m really grateful, you know that, don’t you.’

  Of course I know it, and I think he’s a moron for it, but I just put my hand on his shoulder, smile, and tell him not to mention it.

  ‘You know,’ he says, ‘if you’re not doing anything tonight, you could come round to ours and I’ll play you some of my records. I’ve got some real rare ones, even some rock ’n’ roll 78s.’

  Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t like the speccy bed-wetting twit, but his proposition strikes me as strangely attractive. I suppose that’s because I don’t have any friends, just people I owe money to, and maybe I just feel like having company for a change. Also, I might get to look at Emma’s huge tits all evening.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘Great,’ he replies, ‘Em will be picking me up in a few minutes, so you can follow us if you like.’

  Sure enough there’s a knock on the door and I see an enormous pair of breasts through the frosted glass as I go to open it.

  ‘Hi, Elvis!’ she says, flashing her lovely idiot grin. She’s wearing a stripy top that makes her tits look even larger than they are. She and Buddy have a big noisy snog on my doorstep.

  ‘Elvis will be coming back to ours this evening if that’s all right, love.’

  ‘Yeah, course it is. You boys have fun?’

  ‘Yeah, smashing,’ he says.

  For the first time I can properly see her arse. It’s a lovely big round thing and I want to bite it.

  Chapter 12

  Half-six Tuesday evening and I’m parking the new Elvismobile in the social club car park of the godforsaken Fen village of Elk. I’ve never done Elvis here before, but I have a feeling it’s going to be a tough gig, what with me not knowing any songs from the film The Wicker Man. Lawrence had it right. They’re all trolls here, and they think you’re trying to steal their gold.

  I can see Buddy Holly and Em waiting for me as I drive up, but there’s something not right. Buddy seems to be having a go at her from what I can see. He’s in his outfit already, his blue jacket back from the cleaners. Once they realise I’m pulling up, they snap their usual idiot grins back on, and keep them fixed on as I walk up to them. I expect after last night they think I’m their new best mate. And even though my estimation of the pair of them didn’t go up, I mean, I still think they’re cretins, I must admit I had an OK time. It was just nice to do stuff like sit and talk and listen to old records, instead of the usual routine of bullying people or begging for money. Mind you, they didn’t have anything decent to drink in the flat, just gay drinks like Baileys, and at eight o’clock they both wanted to watch fucking Heartbeat on telly, but it was fun to look at Buddy’s collection of rock ’n’ roll memorabilia, even if it is fucking sad that he’s got it in the first place.

  ‘Hi, Elvis,’ says Buddy, ‘are you ready to shake, rattle and roll?’ Buddy hands me a plastic bag. Inside it are my trousers.

  ‘No, I’m ready to arse about in a stupid jumpsuit singing crap songs while sweating like a pig. But I guess that’s what you meant.’

  ‘Oh Elvis, you’re so silly,’ says Em. ‘Will you excuse me just a minute, I’ve got to go for a wee.’ She goes inside the social club, her big arse wobbling behind her, giving me the horn. Now despite being a bit of porker, and obviously retarded, I’ve come to the conclusion that Emma is a very sexy lady. I put this down to her big fat arse and enormous breasts, which are just lovely. Now, I’ve never been one for fat birds, but to be honest, if a woman’s got large knockers and a big arse, it can’t help but give me the horn. I just look at tits like that and I’m imagining how much fun it would be to play with them, or to give an arse that big a good wobble. On a good arse you can even get a ripple effect going if you wobble it right. I’m not saying I don’t like skinny birds, of course I do, but when it comes to tits and arses you need something that will keep your hands full. Looking at Ermna’s big fat arse in her tight jeans, with half of it spilling out the top as is the fashion these days, Christ, I want to bite it so much. Then after that take her from behind and have it make a great big slapping sound as I ram it in.

  But that’s not for now. Right now I have to concentrate on Buddy. ‘So how’s it going, Bedwettin’ Bud?’ I ask. ‘Wet any good beds recently with your stinky piss?’

  ‘Uh, no I haven’t, Elvis.’

  ‘Are you sure? Are you sure you haven’t sprung a leak and soaked the bed in piss, then walked around in your wet pyjamas, dripping all over the floor making a big puddle?’

  ‘Um, yeah, I’m quite sure on that one.’

  ‘Because if I found a big puddle of piss, with you standing in the middle, I’d have to call you Smelly Buddy Piss-Pants, and you wouldn’t want me to do that would you?’

  ‘No, Elvis, I certainly wouldn’t.’

  It’s working a treat. He’s avoiding eye contact, staring at the ground, shuffling and fidgeting about nervously. With a bit of luck he‘ll be wetting himself on stage at this rate, which gives me an idea.

  ‘Buddy, you know I’m just messing around, but in all seriousness, have you had a little tinkle recently?’

  ‘Uh, not for a while actually. I was thinking of going when Em got back.’

  ‘Don’t!’

  ‘I really need to…’

  ‘No, listen, it’s another top performance technique. What you do is hold it in all the time you’re on stage, and the strain adds a whole layer of intensity to your act. It really works. Bet you’ll never guess who came up with it.’

  ‘I don’t know, who?’

  ‘Enoch bloody Powell! Now he was a great performer. Total fucking nutter, but a great performer. And, you know, when he gave his “Rivers of Blood” speech, he was holding in a whole river of piss.’

  ‘I did not know that.’

  ‘Well, now you do. So I don’t want to see you anywhere near the urinals until after you’ve been on. Because I want to see the best Buddy Holly show imaginable tonight, and that means I want to see Buddy Holly singing with a full bladder.’

  ‘OK, El
vis, you know best.’

  ‘Well yes I do. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go for a piss.’

  The sight of Em’s wobbling arse-cleavage earlier means that my piss is swiftly followed by a wank, but that doesn’t stop me getting a hard-on when I see her at the bar about five minutes later. ‘Hey, Elvis, what are you drinking?’ she asks as I sidle up next to her.

  ‘I’ll have a pint of Guinness, cheers.’

  The troll at the bar grumpily pours our drinks, all the while keeping a yellow eye on us. No doubt he’s just waiting for us to make a beeline for his chest of precious things he keeps behind the crisps.

  ‘Buddy’s been telling me about the tips you’ve been giving him,’ says Em. ‘I don’t know much about this sort of thing, but they seem pretty unusual.’

  ‘Not really, it’s what’s called method acting. Like what people like Marlon Brando and Robert De Niro do when they’re making a film.’

  ‘They don’t go to the toilet?’

  ‘Very rarely. It’s a little known fact that Robert De Niro was desperate for a leak all the way through the car chase in Ronin. That’s why he was driving so fast.’

  ‘Really, that is interesting. Listen, Elvis, do you fancy sitting down for a bit? Buddy’s just running through a few things in the dressing room.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, ‘love to.’ We sit opposite each other at a round table. Whenever she leans forward I can see right down her sparkly V-neck top. For a second I feel like we’re on a date. She grins her idiot grin at me and raises her glass of orange birds’ drink. ‘Cheers,’ she says, and clinks my pint glass.

  There’s definitely some kind of connection between Em and myself. Last night at their flat, she was asking me all sorts of questions about what I did and my life. I had to make up lies to cover most of it of course, but she seemed genuinely interested. Also, she was always fussing over me, offering me snacks and drinks, and sometimes, when I’d said something particularly outrageous, like how Elvis was really just a second-rate Dean Martin impersonator, she’d just think I was joking, and grab my shoulder and shake me, going, ‘Oh, Elvis, you’re terrible!’ Then, when it was time for me to go, she pulled me toward her and kissed me on the cheek, and I swear, I felt a hard nipple brush against me. The only stumbling block is that she’s nearly twenty years younger than me, and of course there’s that whole problem I have with younger ladies. Like with the bird in the pub, I mean, ‘I like your dress.’ What was that all about? The trick is, of course, to make women feel special – get them to talk about themselves and appear really interested, even if their lives are in fact dull as fucking dishwater. I suppose it’s easier to apply that trick to older birds because they’re not that pretty anymore and their self-confidence has gone. Still, Em can’t have that much confidence herself, not when she’s that size. So maybe I can work my magic on her after all.