Fat Franny was on the back foot here, of that there was absolutely no doubt. He’d taken a gamble and it had backfired spectacularly. Mickey Martin had booked him for this gig months ago and, in truth, he had forgotten about it. But his mum had a hospital appointment re-scheduled at short notice for the same day, and following it she’d been kept in for observation overnight. Her blood pressure had been incredibly high and the chest pains she’d been complaining about since Christmas had suddenly got worse. Franny was between a rock and hard place, and had finally decided that he wouldn’t be back in time. So he made the decision to send wedding specialists, the Cheezees, and – as a bit of a back-up – Bert Bole, alias Tony Palomino, Lounge Singer. As he stood in front of a raging Mickey, last orders having just been called, it was a decision he now bitterly regretted.
‘Fuckin’ Peters an’ Lee earlier … they were absolute shite,’ Mickey ranted on. Having summoned Fat Franny to the Howard Park Hotel, he was determined to make sure he got the full picture. ‘An’ everybody fuckin’ kens Bert Bole. He was the janny at the fuckin’ school most ae them went tae! Comin’ on in a wig and wi’ an open-necked shirt an’ tellin’ every cunt “I’m Tony Palomino … Welcome to Las Vegas”? Whit the fuck are you on?’ Mickey was secretly enjoying tearing strips off Fat Franny. His daughter had actually told him that her uni friends from Glasgow thought it was brilliant. A comedy cabaret for a twenty-first birthday was really different.
It had certainly been different. Jay and Jill Boothby had turned up thinking it was a wedding reception; a misconception reinforced by them having to pick up Bert Bole on the way there. They were dressed in tuxedo and white evening dress, like giant versions of the tiny couple that adorn the top of most wedding cakes. They had taken dancing lessons and – determined to show them off – normally started the first dance routine. Most guests found this a bit odd, but Jay’s argument was that it would encourage reluctant grooms if the entertainment showed them how it was done. At Brenda Martin’s twenty-first birthday party, though, it just seemed too bizarre for it not to be part of an elaborate joke; especially when Jill caught a heel in her dress and tripped Jay, sending them both crashing to the ground. Jay fell backwards, Jill fell forwards. When they finally came to rest, Jill’s head was between Jay’s spread-open legs in full blow-job position. As embarrassment turned to rage, Jill Boothy of Cheezee Choonz slapped her husband. The Glasgow University contingent cheered. Jay – ever the semi-professional – bowed. Jill, with angry tears welling up, lifted her white stiletto with pace in the direction of her husband’s balls. The applause made no difference to Jill’s pride and she stormed out, leaving her limping spouse to follow and Tony Palomino to carry the rest of the night.
Normally, Tony did two sets of around twenty-five minutes each; usually split by the bride and groom actually leaving. His repertoire was pretty limited: ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads’; ‘Pretty Woman’; ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’ … the most contemporary song he did was ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight’, but with the same backing track as Tight Fit. Tony knew he was way out of his depth. The Cheezee disaster had struck early, at around eight-thirty. There were at least four hours to go and – by the looks of it – no buffet breaks planned. Unsurprisingly, Tony floundered. Shouts for ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’, ‘The Model’ and – right before he was hit in the face by a beermat – ‘Heart of Glass’ had the Vegas lounge singer sweating profusely. Fat Franny had been contacted and instructed to appear before an irate Mickey Martin, after Tony had sung ‘Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep’ four times.
‘Ah cannae pay ye. No after that fuckin’ fiasco,’ said Mickey. He’d had no intention of parting with cash in any case. But he had been prepared to dangle the carrot of The Metropolis. Now he had an alternative approach. ‘Dae ye ken how ah can get in touch wi’ they Heatwave boys, Franny?’ Mickey knew this would skewer the fat fuck.
His daughter wasn’t unhappy with her night. For her it had been a cult success; and, besides, her father had just bought her an Austin Maestro that could talk to her and remind her to wear a seat belt.
Fat Franny left without speaking to Bert Bole, and pointedly left him to call a taxi to get home.
7TH APRIL 1982
‘It is the Falkland Islanders’ wishes that are paramount. In every negotiation – if the Right Hon. Gentleman calls it that, and I have called it that – that we had, we had some of the Falkland Islands Council with us. They were with us in New York. It is their wishes that must be paramount.’
Mrs Margaret Thatcher, the Prime Minister, House of Commons Intervention
‘I do not press the Prime Minister further this afternoon. I do not regard her answers as satisfactory. I shall come later to ways in which I believe that these issues must be solved and worked out. We have embarked on a most difficult and dangerous exercise which carries very great risk.’
Mr James Callaghan, MP for Cardiff, South-East
The conversation with Mickey Martin gnawed away at Fat Franny like toothache. He hadn’t been able to sleep soundly for the two nights since. Admittedly, the party hadn’t gone well, and although he’d initially attempted to defend his acts, deep down he knew that it had been his fault. There was no question of payment being offered by Mickey Martin, given their history, but it was the mention of these new fuckers – Heatwave – that had really got to Fat Franny.
‘Ah’m gonnae gie these Heatwave boys the shout for the anniversary, big man,’ Mickey had said in a phone call yesterday. ‘It’s nothing personal Franny, but that was a fuckin’ shambles, mate. Ah’m no fuckin’ havin’ it.’
‘We’ve kent each other for years, Doc. An’ in aw that time, I’ve never let ye doon afore,’ pleaded Fat Franny. This didn’t come easy for him. Begging wasn’t his style.
‘Aye mibbe so … but we aw need tae move on,’ said Mickey. ‘Ah want tae gie them a shot, wi’ The Metropolis comin’ up an’ that. Ah’ve heard good things about them, ken?’
The mention of The Metropolis cut Fat Franny to the quick. He’d known for a while that Mickey was planning a mega-nightclub with different bars and a resident DJ in place. Mickey was also rumoured to have secured a previously unheard-of four a.m. licence. Speculation was that it was now going to be located in the vast spaces under the Foregate car park, and that it would be open five nights a week. This was the Holy Grail to Fat Franny. An opportunity to cut loose all the charlatans who were dragging him down: The Cheezees, Bert fuckin’ Bole, That Sunshine walloper … all of them could go an’ take a flying fuck to themselves … if he landed this gig. Maybe even Hobnail – and the domestic carnage that always seemed to surround him – would be expendable. But at the moment, the dream was drifting away from him.
‘Franny. Ye still there? Ah need tae go. Ah’ll speak tae ye sometime … later.’ Mickey Martin hung up.
Fat Franny was left holding the receiver, staring at it and trying to decipher the significance of the word ‘sometime’. Eventually he pulled the bit of paper with the numbers written on it in red felt pen from the cork pinboard to his left. Time for a word with the new kids on the block.
‘Bob, it’s me. These two cunts have got a party at the Tory Club on the twenty-fifth.’
‘Apwil?’
‘Whit? Aye, this month. Get on tae Des an’ the Painter.’
‘Dith ye phwone him, th’ Cassidy boy?’
‘Eh? Aye, aye … ah phoned the cunt. Offered him a place at the table. Fuckin’ walloper’s no interested. He told me they were doin’ a’right. Stupid prick also telt me the bookings they had.’ Fat Franny could hear Hobnail sniggering, but the Fatman wasn’t in the mood for humour. ‘Listen. Gie Ally Sneddon a phone. He’s the manager at the Tory Club. Owes me a favour. Tell him Des an’ Wullie’ll dae the door on the twenty-firth. Free fuckin’ gratis.’ There was silence at the other end of the phone. ‘Huv ye got it?’
‘Aye,’ replied Hobnail. ‘Don’th worry. Ah’ve goath it.’ The phone’s tone flatlined.
Bob Dale hated Fat Franny at times li
ke these. Ally Sneddon was his mate! Why could the Fatman not fuckin’ phone him direct? He could be such a wanker at times.
25TH APRIL 1982: 8:45PM
Despite a difficult start, with all the early accusations from the punters that they didn’t know what they were doing, unforeseen circumstances had intervened and their popularity was now definitely on the rise. That Heatwave Disco had anything in common with the Thatcher Government was surprising. That they should be here – at the Tory Party’s Kilmarnock HQ – was, for Joey Miller at least, nothing short of shocking. Joey had been here with a group of colleagues from CND only five months ago. They had banged on the massive wood-panelled doors of the old Georgian building, supporting the Greenham Common Woman’s Peace Camp in their demands to overturn the decision to site ninety-six nuclear cruise missiles in Berkshire. And now here he was – walking through those same black doors to entertain people who held views to which he was fundamentally opposed.
A different woman called Margaret phoned and made the booking for her husband’s fortieth birthday party. Bobby had taken the call. He didn’t care for the Tories either, but he reckoned their money would be the same colour as everybody else’s. The venue was the Conservative Club in Kilmarnock. Bizarrely, the Conservative Club was immediately adjacent to the Labour Club. Private functions were regularly held in both, as the alcohol was subsidised to Bowling Club levels. The Labour Club was an unusual building halfway up a very steep hill and perched on three levels on the banks of the river behind the Palace Theatre. It had a similar concept to Frank Lloyd Wright’s famous Falling Water building in America, but resolved and constructed to a much poorer standard. Its stained, brutalist concrete was in stark contrast to its more refined neighbour.
The Conservative Club was at the bottom of the hill. Both buildings shared a car park and service area. The Tory retreat was a more conventional, two-storey sandstone villa, sitting on its own, out of context and severed from its original surroundings by the town’s one-way traffic system. Only members of the Club – and therefore the Party – could book a function there. The Labour Club, on the other hand would take anyone’s money.
Joey was in a bad mood. Bobby and he had recently left school in advance of their exams. This had gone down badly with Joey’s mum, as her son’s explanation that a career as second-in-command of a Kilmarnock-based mobile DJ business hadn’t matched her aspirations. Bobby’s initial dialogue with his own parents was similar, but his dad was an accomplice and had therefore given up the moral high ground weeks before. His mum was worryingly ambivalent about most things these days, including – it seemed – her youngest son’s future plans.
‘Whit the fuck are we doin’ here?’ moaned Joey, for the umpteenth time that day.
Even Jimmy Stevenson was getting fed up with the constant complaining.
‘Christ’s sake, son. You’re like ma missus. On an’ on an’ on, til ye end up sayin’, “Fuck it. Ah’m awa’ tae the pub”.’
‘C’mon Joey. A coupla hours an’ we’ll be out ae here,’ said Bobby. He patted Joey on the back as he got out of the van. Hamish May, who’d been sitting in the front with Jimmy, came out and put an arm round Joey. Jimmy reached over and shook Joey’s hand.
‘For fuck’s sake ye’d think ye were goin’ in for an operation, the way we’re goin’ on.’ Bobby was laughing as he said this.
Hamish and Jimmy laughed as well. Joey could only offer a crooked smile through gritted teeth.
‘Hello. You boys must be Heatwaves.’
‘And you must be … Andy?’ Margaret McIntyre laughed nervously at Bobby’s attempt to defuse the tension a bit.
‘Oh, I’m Margaret. Andy’s upstairs,’ she said. ‘You’re a little bit late. I’d hoped you’d have been here earlier, before most of the people got here.’ Her tone was polite, but her exasperation was detectable, even if it was mostly concealed beneath her veneered surface. ‘But please just go quickly, right on up and to the left and you’ll see the space at the end of the hall. You can set up there.’
‘Right-o, Margo,’ said Jimmy. He had heard what she’d said, but he had decided that her remarkable resemblance to Penelope Keith called for a different reference. He stopped himself from patting her tweed-skirted backside on the way past. Maybe later, he thought.
Andy – whose birthday was being celebrated – looked every inch the true blue. He was dressed in a blue pin-striped suit with a pale-blue shirt and a bright-yellow tie. He looked almost identical to every other male at the party. Only the ties seemed to offer any colourful contrasts.
‘Bloody hell, everybody looks like they’re at a political convention.’ Joey’s earlier annoyance had given way to bemusement and – Bobby could detect – disdainful pity.
‘They aw look about fifty-five,’ remarked Hamish.
No-one had paid the DJs and their crew any attention since they had walked into the upper-floor function room. But Hamish had spoken a bit too loudly and several men looked round sharply. They continued staring as the four made their way back out to the van for the remainder of the equipment.
‘This is gonnae be shite.’ Joey had convinced himself that the night would have no redeeming features.
Bobby sighed deeply, but said nothing. They’d arrived almost forty-five minutes late and were still a good twenty minutes away from sounds that entertained punters.
The function room was set up all wrong, with most of the buffet tables sitting across the small rectangle of dancefloor. There were already too many people there for the room and many were already demonstrating the loudness and bravado that are a frequent consequence of alcohol. In the two months that Heatwave had been in existence they’d had a few bad nights. Normally, Joey would just play out the boring chart music, the novelty songs that everybody hates but dances to anyway and the inevitable requests for ’60s medleys of groups like Edison Lighthouse and Middle of the Road – who were actually from the ’70s. Bobby spoke infrequently on these nights. He had assumed the persona of a performer and felt that such audiences didn’t deserve his best work. Picking up the money at the end of the night was the sole stimulus for such evenings and so far – and with the exception of that traumatic first – they had been paid by generally contented customers. This night was different though.
‘See they two weird lookin’ stewards, watchin’ us when we came in?’ Hamish’s agitation had been apparent on the final lift of the record boxes from the van. Nobody questioned why ‘bouncers’ had suddenly become ‘stewards’; it just seemed appropriate in this context.
‘Cannae say ah really noticed, mate,’ replied Bobby.
‘Aye, ah did,’ said Joey. ‘Looked kinda familiar, but not sure fae where.’
‘Christ, will you two stop fuckin’ lookin’ for problems? “There’s too many Tories! Their suits are too blue! The bouncers are shifty! The stairs are too steep!” Fuckin’ hell, let’s just get on wi’ it an’ get paid, eh?’ The Heatwave leader had spoken, although Hamish felt it important to make one final observation.
‘You were the one complainin’ about the stairs, ya cunt!’
When Bobby, Joey and Hamish finally assembled the sound and light experience that was now known as Heatwave Disco, Margaret came over. She wasn’t happy.
25TH APRIL 1982
‘More than three weeks have elapsed since the United Nations Security Council resolution was passed calling upon the Argentine forces to withdraw. During that time, far from withdrawing, the Argentine Government have put reinforcements of men, equipment, and materials on the island. If we have not yet reached a settlement, the blame lies at the feet of the Argentine Government.’
Mrs Margaret Thatcher, the Prime Minister, to the House of Commons
‘You’ll have to move your van,’ said Margaret McIntyre, tersely and in a way that suggested she’d been reprimanded by someone else. ‘You’re parked in a space reserved for the local party leader.’ She turned and looked towards the two stewards.
‘Is he comin’ like, Margo?’
said Jimmy.
‘Eh! Sorry?’ Margaret had been addressing Bobby and it had surprised her to hear the low, grumbling voice behind her. ‘My name is Margaret,’ she said and turned to face Jimmy. She breathed in, hands on hips, as if to deliver something profound but then sighed and turned back to Bobby. ‘Could you just move the van? Please … and then please get on with the music!’ She turned and strode away.
‘Oooh! Mrs La-Di-Da Gunner Graham,’ said Hamish, waving his hand theatrically in her direction. It wasn’t witnessed by Margaret, but Andy and four others at his table had seen it.
‘Hey … Larry fuckin’ Grayson! Get a fuckin’ move on.’ Bobby’s patience was being sorely tested. ‘Jimmy, go doon an’ shift the van an’ then come back up.’
Jimmy walked over towards the door and noticed the smaller of the two black-suited stewards watching him intently. Almost an hour and a quarter after the party should have started, Heatwave’s lights illuminated the function hall and were creating unusual effects on the elaborate ceiling cornice of the old Georgian room. The sound quality was better than expected, but when the distinctive riff of ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ kicked in, everyone froze due to its volume. Exactly the effect DJ Joey had anticipated.
‘Joey, for fuck’s sake! The Clash? Seriously?’ Only one song in and Bobby was now regretting having taken this booking. Joey smiled suspiciously as the Angelic Upstarts followed. That new anthem of disaffected youth – The Specials’ ‘Ghost Town’ – was already in his hand. Two songs in and the crowd was growing increasing disgruntled; job almost done.
Down in the car park, the VW campervan reversed slowly back into an alternative space against an adjacent retaining wall. It was dark and sheltered from the intrusive sodium illumination of the main street lights. Jimmy normally hung about and had a sleep in the back for a couple of hours, but tonight the darkness would allow him the joint he’d been coveting since finding it down the back of the rear seats at the start of the week. He’d head back upstairs later. A tap at the passenger side window startled him. He rolled the window down.
The Last Days of Disco Page 12