by Helen Dewitt
Poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop POOP poop poop poop.
That’s where you’re wrong, mate. Because it’s not about being a humung being it’s about putting on a performance
Yeh but I don’t see you doing it, easy to say, said Marc
And then it all happens very fast, the celeb is waving his Diesel jeans around his head and Marc is snapping pix and the celeb is shouting Wanker and Marc is heading for the door and the celeb is struggling to get into his Diesel jeans and Marc is in the street running
and he ducks into a doorway three swift corners down
and he gets out his phone and sends pix and they are dead chuffed, well done mate, they say
and he walks under the cold sky on wet tarmac on which the bones of chickens and crumbs of fried batter mingle with dog turds, shiny crisp packets, a flattened satsuma, he steps into the Oranges & Lemons & at the pinball machine is Keith O’Connor.
Marc orders a pint of Guinness. O’Connor is dancing with the pinball machine, pulling knobs, slapping the glass, leaning into it, pulling away. Marc sits on a plump leather bench. It’s quiet.
The door opens. A bloke in a Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirt and Diesel jeans, bald, red face, goes to the bar, orders a Peroni, goes through swinging doors to a room behind the bar.
You all right, Tel.
Yeh. Yeh.
No offence mate but you look like shit.
Yeh. Well, me missus kicked me out.
Fuck.
Yeh — See, I was sitting at the end of the bar and this old geezer is talking to this girl and I say the word cunt. Not loud, like, but I do say it, but in a private conversation. So he hears me, and this is partly generational, he takes offence because his girl is there. So he says What did you say? So I don’t want to make an issue of it, so I say All right, Stan, leave it, but he won’t leave it alone, he says What did you say, so at this point I go over not meaning to do any serious damage but just to, you know, give him a little tap, but I misjudged the situation and broke his jaw.
Fuck.
Yeh. Yeh. This old geezer, and you know I would not normally hit someone that age Derek but he gave me no option, but then me missus says, You’re not coming home.
Fuck.
Yeh.
Well, you can stay at mine or you can stay here. Frank and his lot are coming over after unloading, usual game.
It’s been a long day.
The pinball machine is silent. Keith feeds it more coins. Marc occupies his suit.
Derek: In the north cunt is still an offensive word. You say that around somebody’s girlfriend and he will exterminate you. In the south you hear it all over the place, people say Stop cunting me about, this sort of thing.
Tel: I’m all cunted out. I’ve heard that.
Derek: So stop cunting me about, you cunt, are you in or out.
Tel: Yeh all right then
Derek: You know what they say Tel, unlucky in love, this could just be your lucky night
Tel: Yeh. Yeh.
Teetleep Teetleep Teetleep Peep!
Teetleep Teetleep Teetleep Peep!
Beep! Beep!
Bebeep Beep Beep, Beep Beep Beep
Sorry, Tel, I think this is Frank — Frank, what the fuck, mate — yeh, yeh, sorry to hear that, Tel’s here, yeh his missus was aggravated by an assault of Colonel Blimp or what have you so looks like Tel will be selling the Big Issue or something, yeh, help the homeless, so we on for tonight.
The pinball machine is silent. Marc is silent, nursing his foamy Guinness. Banter is tossed nonchalantly into the plastic mouthpiece, it is snatched from the air to burst forth at a distant earpiece, fresh banter pours into the waiting ear, it seems two of Frank’s lot have been taken into custody, so if it’s just the four of them including Tel maybe that is not enough to make it worthwhile, names of possible substitutes are proposed and rejected amid banter
Sorry, hold on Frank, yeh what is it?
Keith is standing at the bar. He wears a black t-shirt with a skeleton. His eyes are thickly mascaraed. There is glitter on his cheeks.
He says: You having a poker game?
Derek: We’re talking about a friendly game among friends, mate.
Keith: This is how much money I have.
He takes a wallet from his back pocket and opens it, showing a thick soft pad of notes. This being the level of social savoir faire which led to Keith being a drummer in the
Derek: Yeh, well
Goes back on the phone with Frank.
Dunno, he says, bloke here might be up for it but I dunno, Frank, five, snot much of a game
But Marc is on his feet. This is KEITH O’CONNOR, drummer of the MISSING LYNX —
Marc is not into the pathos of semiotically enhanced footwear, is it a riposte to dualism that the intestines propel partially digested chicken tikka masala into the circumambient air when the eyes pass over the cover of a pb by Tony Parsons? What does it tell us of the human condition if the mind, pursuant to the expulsion of comestibles, explores the opposition between tearjerking & dickjerking — and yet somehow separate from the crap that now is Parsons is the history, the hack cavorting w/ Johnny Rotten, this is a chance that will never
Words come to the plausible mouth.
I can play a bit, he says.
They are looking at the Suit, he should introduce the Suit separately, the estate of Lord Carnarvon had given his wardrobe to the Notting Hill Trust and now a garment that the body of a British aristocrat had worn to the House of Lords in 1953 (where it had excited no comment) had been handed into the keeping of a pleb for twenty quid to walk the world in low company.
And, like, Gerry! Maybe Gerry would like to play.
A sign above the door states that Gerald O’Hanlon is the proprietor licenced to sell intoxicating beverages.
Derek says: Don’t be daft, Gerry’s been up since 6 am, last thing he wants is
Gerry says: You only live once.
He says: Look, Tel should not be on his own.
Marc scents: The money in the wallet, this is the thing they won’t mention.
So it happens. Frank and the fortuitously uncustodised Maury are in their midst, Gerry locks up, there are seven men in a room behind swinging doors back of the bar.
They’re playing Texas Hold ’em because that’s what they’ve seen on TV.
For those who have not seen the game on TV: it’s a doddle. Each player is dealt two cards. There’s a round of betting. Three cards are dealt down the middle — the flop. A round of betting. A card is dealt — the turn. Another round of betting. A last card is dealt — the river. A final round of betting. Each player can combine any three of the cards on the table with the two in his hand to make up a ‘poker hand’; the one with the best hand wins.
Marc has £51.63. The usual suspects are all buying chips for a friendly couple of hundred quid, which Marc reckons is to encourage Keith to do the same. Keith does buy in for a couple of hundred, which means Marc has to buy in for fifty quid. He does not expect to win; if he can walk away without losing more than five quid he’ll count himself lucky. He’s just trying to remember the ranking of hands as seen on TV.
Pair, two pair, three of a kind, Straight is five cards in numerical order. Flush is five cards of same suit, Flush beats a straight? Straight beats a flush? Full house is pair plus three of a kind. Four of a kind. Straight flush does what it says on the tin.
How many poker hands do you want to hear about?
You need to know about 3.
Marc started out with £50. On the third hand he picks up A K of spades. He bets 50p. Maury raises him £1. Frank sees the £1.50 and raises £1.50. Gerry sees the £3 and raises £3. Derek calls. Keith folds. Tel calls.
Marc thinks: Shit.
He calls.
Maury calls. Frank call
s. The flop is King of diamonds Jack of diamonds 8 of spades. Marc checks. Maury bets £5. Frank folds. Gerry and Derek call.
Marc thinks: Shit.
He calls.
The turn is the 10 of spades. Marc bets £10. Maury calls. Gerry folds. Derek calls. The river is the Jack of spades. Marc bets £2. Maury raises him £10. Marc calls. Maury has Ace of diamonds Queen of diamonds. Marc wins £113.50.
It is obvious to everyone that Marc does not know what the fuck he is doing. Marc plays cautiously for the next 20 hands or so while Keith loses all his chips and buys in for another £300. There is much face-to-face banter.
Marc has inched his way up to £150. He would like to leave but he sits folding hand after hand. He picks up 8 9 of clubs. He is the big blind. He is in for 50p. Maury, Frank, Gerry, Tel and Keith stay in. The flop goes down and it is 10 7 of clubs J of spades.
Marc bets £2.
Maury raises £2. Frank, Gerry and Tel call. Keith raises £20.
Marc thinks: Shit.
He has seen the hands Keith has been betting on. He calls.
Maury, Frank, Gerry and Tel have seen the hands Keith has been betting on. They call. The turn is the 6 of clubs. Marc bets £5. Maury calls. Frank raises £10. Gerry folds. Tel calls. Keith raises £20. Marc calls. Maury folds. Frank calls. Tel folds.
The river goes down and it is the 9 of diamonds. Marc bets £10. Frank raises £20. Keith calls. Marc calls.
Frank has A K clubs. Keith has K Q of hearts.
Put Frank’s hand with the board and you get A K 10 7 6 clubs. A flush. Which beats Keith’s K Q (hearts) plus J (spades) 10 (clubs) 9 (diamonds). A straight.
After 3 hours Marc is totally confident that a flush beats a straight. So Keith is fucked. And under normal circumstances Frank’s flush to the Ace would beat Marc’s flush to the 10. But Marc, he checks again, yeah, he definitely has 10 9 8 7 6 of clubs, which is a straight flush. So they are BOTH well and truly fucked by the King of the Hacks.
He thinks.
He hesitates to rake in the chips which he thinks are now rightfully his. There may be some arcane fact of poker lore such that if he shows he thinks he won he will look like a twat.
Derek says: I feel your pain, Frank.
Fucking A!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
As it says in the song, you don’t count your money when you’re sitting at the table. Basically Marc has won what is technically known as a shitload. He stacks the unexamined chips at his left.
Gerry says: I been up since 6, mates.
Tel says: You only live once, Ger.
Marc thinks: Shut. The fuck. Up. Just go to bed, you fucking wanker.
He thinks: But I don’t have to
He’s shivering. All he has to do is avoid fucking up and he can walk out with, like, 500 quid.
Marc does not feel he is really engaging with Keith, who seems to be in a chip-scattering bubble of solipsistic frenzy. He is not picking up anything NME-worthy. He feels like a twat in the Suit. It’s also unbelievably boring. But if he can manage to survive the bollocks-withering tedium of the game he can
How many hands do you seriously want to hear about?
They play for another hour. Keith buys in for another £400. Marc tries to play unadventurously without looking like a cunt. Something in the ambience tells him he is not succeeding.
What happens.
Marc picks up 7 of diamonds 2 of clubs. He folds. Derek, Maury, Frank, Gerry, Tel and Keith stay in. The flop: A K hearts 6 spades. Derek is in for £5. Maury, Frank, Ger see him. Tel raises an unfriendly £50. Keith sees him and he is all in, which is to say that the wallet is now empty. There is an adjustment to the ambience. Marc gives it another 10 minutes before they pack it in and go home.
He can see them getting ready to fold, no point sending good money after bad, the hard faces with their pebble eyes assessing the exhaustion of the night’s bounty.
Keith says: Look mate, I’ll give you an IOU.
Ger says: No offence mate but cash only.
And Keith says: Look, I’m with a band. We’ve been signed and that. Four songs in the top 10. Missing Lynx.
Derek says: No offence mate but we would not take an IOU from Mick Jagger.
Meaning they have never fucking heard of the band.
And Marc in his 15 seconds of brain death says: Fucking fantastic band.
Keith turns to him. Maybe Marc is expecting to bond, as Tony Parsons allegedly did with Johnny Rotten and Joe Strummer and the giants of the past.
Keith says: Look, mate. I wrote a song. We recorded it today. If I assign the copyright to you, like, you can lend me 500 quid with the song as collateral.
Which is the way even a drummer can end up thinking and talking if he has spent quality time among the suits.
And the ambience adjusts yet again. Because now there is the possibility of transferring the dosh at Marc’s elbow out of the safe custody of a hack who has been checking and folding all night, into the unsafe hands of a raving percussionist.
Go on then old cock, be a sport, says Frank, and Maury says, Least you can do, seeing as you’re a fan and all, and Derek says, Got a piece of paper, Ger? And Ger says, Anything to help a friend,
and suddenly Keith is writing something on a cocktail napkin and signing it and now Marc is sitting there with a cocktail napkin and Keith has many many many piles of chips.
Derek folds. The rest stay in, heartened by the influx of chips at the disposal of El Loco. The turn brings a 6 of hearts. Tel bets another unfriendly £50. Keith sees him. Frank sees him. Maury sees him. Ger folds. The last card goes down. It’s the King of spades. Tel bets £50. Keith raises £50. Frank and Maury fold. Tel raises £50. Keith goes all in, moving all Marc’s former chips to the center of the table. Tel sees him. Cards go down.
Keith has two Aces, making a full house.
Tel has two sixes.
Making 4 of a kind.
Keith says:
Pa PA pa PA pa PA
pa PA pa PA pa PA
pa PA pa PA pa
Unlucky in love, Tel, says Derek. Remind me never to play with you again when yer missus kicks you out.
They’re standing up, stretching, grumbling, talking about next week. It’s over.
Tel is a grand ahead.
Keith has an empty wallet.
Marc has an autographed cocktail napkin.
Marc and Keith stand outside the Oranges and Lemons in the resentful London dawn.
Marc feels the severed 500 quid like an amputated limb. He’s holding the cocktail napkin. It feels both worthless and, like, something he shouldn’t have.
He says: Look, uh, Keith, you’d better have this back, I can’t keep this.
Keith says: You can then. Not to worry, I’ll pay you back. Gissa phone number.
Marc says: I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.
He wants to say: This is not actually my suit. But this would involve explaining that he is a loathsome creature of Murdoch employ, perhaps insufficient exculpation.
He says: Uh, I’m actually a freelance journalist? Any chance I could, like, interview you sometime?
Keith looks at the Suit.
Styrofoam cups are trundling down the desolation of the Commercial Road under an indifferent breeze.
He says: Look. I want you to do me a favour.
Marc says: Yeah sure
Keith: You got whatever the fuck it is you wanted. So just wank off.
Marc: But
Keith: Just fucking Wank. the Fuck. Off.
Keith O’Connor is walking away.
The Suit knows how to deal with the situation. From a pocket comes a hand holding a phone.
ZZZZZZZslik. ZZZZZZZslik.
And for the fuck of it out of the practiced mouth comes: Hey KEITH!
And Keith O�
��Connor turns, slik slik slik slik
And Keith shouts: Wank OFF wank OFF you fucking wanker
And he turns again and he turns into a side street and Marc thinks: You stiffed me half a grand you wanker so who’s the wanker
It’s pretty quiet.
He puts the phone back in the convenient outside pocket. His hand touches something soft, the paper napkin. He transfers it to the inside pocket of Carnarvon’s finest.
He can’t use his last £1.63 on transportation, it has to see him to the end of the month. He trudges west.
At 7 am Marc is in the Kingsway Starbucks recounting the evening’s squalor to Lucy, who slips him a mega mocha latte and 3 blueberry muffins. He spends the next 5 hours rererererecounting to Claire at the Kingsway Caffé Nero, Nikki at the Holborn Pret A Manger, Eva at the Kingsway Costa Coffee, scoring much-needed provisions for the fundless month.
At noon the Evening Standard hauls in the punters with sorrowful news: KEITH O’CONNOR TRAGIC SUICIDE. He palms a discarded copy in the Shakespeare’s Head and reads with shock and dismay.
But he is down to his last £1.63.
And he is on the phone to his minders at the News of the World with his scoop and they are dead chuffed, Well done mate, give us anything you got, and sure, Roger will be only too happy to reimburse the two hundred quid Marc allegedly lost in the game as a business expense, any pix, they would love to run a centre spread but they would love to have pix, well of course he has pix, what do you think? He has pix of Keith O’Connor’s departing back heading down the desolation of the Commercial Road.
In this fashion did he honour Keith O’Connor’s last request.
He did in fact write an in-depth analysis of the evening for NME.
Missing Lynx did in fact release the previously maligned song as a single. Which with tragic irony went straight to Number 5 in the charts and remained in the top 10 for an amazing 20 weeks.
Marc still has his cocktail napkin which still feels both worthless and like something he should not have. When the song has been at Number 5 for 6 weeks he sidles into the office of the lawyer at the Screws and brings the soft thing from the inside breast pocket of the aristocratic garment, anticipating that he will be dismissed as a twat for even contemplating the possibility that the relic of Oranges and Lemons revelry could be operational in a court of law.