I start, I’ve just got to warn you that these won’t be the
lyrics to the proper, finished version. These are just to give you
an idea of how I’m gonna sing it,’ he says.
‘Yeah, yeah,
just play the fucking song, already,’ I reply, with a corresponding
wave of the hand.
‘Okay; here it
goes.’
It starts off
pretty catchy, I have to admit, but I soon work out why that is.
I’ll spare you the lyrics that go along with it, suffice they say
that they could have been written by a five-year-old, if a
five-year-old had a comprehensive knowledge of the names and
symptoms of sexually transmitted diseases. That Charlie somehow
manages to rhyme ‘Chlamydia’ with ‘can’t get ridda ya’ is an
undeniably impressive feat, however.
‘So what do
you think?’ he asks, so excited about his handiwork that I don’t
know whether to mock him or cuddle him. When he catches sight of my
ambivalent expression, he reminds me:
‘I know the
lyrics are like a pervert’s nursery rhyme, but the riff,
man! What do you think of the riff?’
‘Honestly?’
‘Yeah...’
‘I think
you’ve spent the last two hours writing “Rebel, Rebel” by David
Bowie.’
‘What? Fuck
off!’ he protests. Rather than trying to beat him down with
argument, I lean over the side of the sofa, plug my phone into the
travel speakers and fiddle around with the touch screen for a few
seconds.
Got your mother, in a
whirl
‘ Cos she’s, not
sure if you’re a boy or a girl…
Charlie’s eyes
flit between the speakers and my face. For a moment, he looks as
though he’s about to resort to violence, but then he seems to
deflate, slumping down into the cushions and letting the guitar
fall down to the side of his seat.
You like dancing, and
you look divine…
‘We’d better
get planning this fucking robbery, then,’ he says. ‘Because it
looks like I ain’t getting rich playing the guitar any time
soon.’
‘I wanted to
talk to you about that, actually…’
Right as I say
it, Freddy swans in, wearing a fluffy dressing gown and a pair of
slippers that look like they should have been sold with a pipe to
go with them.
‘Butch.
Sundance,’ he says in greeting, with a nod towards each of us. I
shoot a withering glare in Charlie’s direction and deliver my - now
even more pertinent - reprimand:
‘Can you please stop telling every person under the sun that we’re
bank robbers? We’re gonna end up actually going through with it if
we keep up at this rate.’
‘We’re not
bank robbers; we’ve been over that already, remember?’
Freddy butts
in before I get a chance to retort.
‘It’s too late
drop out now I’ve invested all this precious time into it.’
He falls down
onto the sofa and takes a large glug of the cup of tea he’s
holding. I give an exasperated snort.
‘What do you
even need the money for? You’re rich as fuck!’
He shakes his
head, rearranging his dressing gown to protect his modesty.
‘My parents are rich as fuck. But they’re not going to pay for
me to go to the Middle East and start revolutions, are they?’
‘Yeah; I’m
sure you’re exactly what that fucking region needs,’ I reply,
sarcastically.
‘What I do
with my share of the loot is my own business; I’m not going to
bitch at you for spending all yours on fizzy pop and Disney
movies.’ He turns to Charlie. ‘ Now , if this yellow-bellied
mother fucker is done, can we get started with our first
meeting?’
‘Indeed we
can,’ Charlie replies. He looks around for something to use as a
gavel. He settles for the TV remote, and he bangs it against the
coffee table with such force that the batteries fall out. ‘Meeting
adjourned.’
‘I think that
means the meeting is over,’ I point out.
‘You’re in a
very pessimistic mood this morning, aren’t you?’ Charlie says. ‘So
are we all clear on the basics; where we’re robbing, and when?’
‘John Lewis,’
says Freddy, in response to the first part of the question.
‘Two
lyrics to the proper, finished version. These are just to give you
an idea of how I’m gonna sing it,’ he says.
‘Yeah, yeah,
just play the fucking song, already,’ I reply, with a corresponding
wave of the hand.
‘Okay; here it
goes.’
It starts off
pretty catchy, I have to admit, but I soon work out why that is.
I’ll spare you the lyrics that go along with it, suffice they say
that they could have been written by a five-year-old, if a
five-year-old had a comprehensive knowledge of the names and
symptoms of sexually transmitted diseases. That Charlie somehow
manages to rhyme ‘Chlamydia’ with ‘can’t get ridda ya’ is an
undeniably impressive feat, however.
‘So what do
you think?’ he asks, so excited about his handiwork that I don’t
know whether to mock him or cuddle him. When he catches sight of my
ambivalent expression, he reminds me:
‘I know the
lyrics are like a pervert’s nursery rhyme, but the riff,
man! What do you think of the riff?’
‘Honestly?’
‘Yeah...’
‘I think
you’ve spent the last two hours writing “Rebel, Rebel” by David
Bowie.’
‘What? Fuck
off!’ he protests. Rather than trying to beat him down with
argument, I lean over the side of the sofa, plug my phone into the
travel speakers and fiddle around with the touch screen for a few
seconds.
Got your mother, in a
whirl
‘ Cos she’s, not
sure if you’re a boy or a girl…
Charlie’s eyes
flit between the speakers and my face. For a moment, he looks as
though he’s about to resort to violence, but then he seems to
deflate, slumping down into the cushions and letting the guitar
fall down to the side of his seat.
You like dancing, and
you look divine…
‘We’d better
get planning this fucking robbery, then,’ he says. ‘Because it
looks like I ain’t getting rich playing the guitar any time
soon.’
‘I wanted to
talk to you about that, actually…’
Right as I say
it, Freddy swans in, wearing a fluffy dressing gown and a pair of
slippers that look like they should have been sold with a pipe to
go with them.
‘Butch.
Sundance,’ he says in greeting, with a nod towards each of us. I
shoot a withering glare in Charlie’s direction and deliver my - now
even more pertinent - reprimand:
‘Can you please stop telling every person under the sun that we’re
bank robbers? We’re gonna end up actually going through with it if
we keep up at this rate.’
‘We’re not
bank robbers; we’ve been over that already, remember?’
Freddy butts
in before I get a chance to retort.
‘It’s too late
drop out now I’ve invested all this precious time into it.’
He falls down
onto the sofa and takes a large glug of the cup of tea he’s
holding. I give an exasperated snort.
‘What do you
even need the money for? You’re rich as fuck!’
He shakes his
head, rearranging his dressing gown to protect his modesty.
‘My parents are rich as fuck. But they’re not going to pay for
me to go to the Middle East and start revolutions, are they?’
‘Yeah; I’m
sure you’re exactly what that fucking region needs,’ I reply,
sarcastically.
‘What I do
with my share of the loot is my own business; I’m not going to
bitch at you for spending all yours on fizzy pop and Disney
movies.’ He turns to Charlie. ‘ Now , if this yellow-bellied
mother fucker is done, can we get started with our first
meeting?’
‘Indeed we
can,’ Charlie replies. He looks around for something to use as a
gavel. He settles for the TV remote, and he bangs it against the
coffee table with such force that the batteries fall out. ‘Meeting
adjourned.’
‘I think that
means the meeting is over,’ I point out.
‘You’re in a
very pessimistic mood this morning, aren’t you?’ Charlie says. ‘So
are we all clear on the basics; where we’re robbing, and when?’
‘John Lewis,’
says Freddy, in response to the first part of the question.
‘Two
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