Debaser by Max Frick
quite annoyance, then certainly mild inconvenience. He checked his watch. Did a delay here mean further meetings would have to be postponed? Was his shrewd business mind already calculating the cost of just such a delay? Was he weighing the importance of this meeting against that of the next? Or was he, as head of the corporation, deciding whether to take it upon himself to talk Tony round or delegate the duty to one or other of his subordinates?
‘Hmm. I could I suppose tee off late if need be. Might still make it on time if I can wrap this up sharpish and then really put the foot down. Okay.’
With a furtive little wave of his hand he dismissed Kris and Jeremy from the room, while assuring them, with an equally furtive sincere expression, that he had everything under control. They both at the same time dutifully upped and left, and drawing his chair round, so that he was facing Tony directly – toe to toe, knee to knee if not quite eye to eye (Tony was staring straight through him) – Steve Steve pulled on his kid gloves and embarked on a managerial pep talk that began by adding insult to injury.
‘Tony,’ he said, all but placing an avuncular hand upon Tony’s knee, ‘Don’t let mere creative differences stifle a potentially lucrative career.’
And he was still talking some minutes later, postulating worldwide returns and speculating on revenue garnered from appearance fees, signings and the like, when he caught sight of Tony and brought himself up short.
Tony had still not moved, but he had reeled in his stare a good nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine yards and was no longer staring straight through Steve Steve but straight at him. His countenance had darkened noticeably, his mouth was tightly closed and beneath the short sharp expulsions of breath from his nostrils a distinct gnashing of teeth could be heard.
‘Creative differences?’ he did not even need to say. ‘CREATIVE DIFFERENCES? “Tweak and fuckin polish” you told me, cunt!’
Steve Steve was forced to reconsider his modus operandi.
To calm Tony down, or at least to keep him from losing his temper altogether, he began to liberally butter him up.
‘Tony, Tony, Tony,’ he laughed, and here he did boldly venture that avuncular hand. ‘I fully understand your concerns. Believe me. Believe me...’
At this second ‘believe me’ he had given the knee a firm little squeeze before wisely removing his hand altogether.
‘I realise that to a man of your integrity – and there are very few still in existence, you can take it from me, very few – it must seem that you have in some way been, da-da da da, compromised by our, shall we say treatment of this much revered classic. And may I add at this juncture that I am in fact outraged - outraged! - that the boys in production did not make our game plan clear to you from the outset...’
He lowered his voice.
‘Heads will roll, my friend. Let me assure you...’
He raised it again.
‘But Tony. Tony, Tony, Tony. The bottom line is I need you beside me on this one...’
He sat back in his seat with the air of a man who had just thrown his cards on the table.
‘Without you...’
He again sat forward.
‘Without you the song is worthless. Without you on the team we can as well forfeit the game right now...’
He dismissively threw up his hand.
‘ Right now...’
He threw it up again.
‘You, my friend, are the only one among us who brings to the arrangement a certain vital something. Something, I hasten to add, that only a very few people alive would be capable of bringing. A certain flavour, shall we say? And that flavour, Tony, is nothing more nor less than the authentic flavour of the street…’
Carried away by the flow of his own words he had emphatically tapped three times with his forefinger on Tony’s knee as though it were his desktop.
‘Your rendition, your delivery, is at once so powerful and so...’
He was literally grasping in thin air for the right word.
‘...so...’
His fist was now firmly clenched.
‘...so nuanced...’
His eyes sparkled.
‘...so grounded...’
He snapped his fingers.
‘It is at once so powerful and so grounded that, well, suffice to say – and I see no reason to whisper – it’s even better than the original.’
Here he risked a brief hiatus to review the situation thus far.
Though still scowling, Tony was breathing more easily now and he was no longer grinding his teeth. Steve Steve felt that he was on the right track, and so also for his car keys.
‘In the face of such a performance, Tony,’ he went on, ‘the accompanying music hardly matters at all. In the face of such a performance, Tony...’
The level of his voice rose a notch.
‘...any accompanying music can only ever be incidental. In the face of such a performance, Tony...’
His words were more deliberately pronounced now as well.
‘...any music can only ever remain in the background. You and you alone...’
He pistol-pointed twice at Tony’s chest.
‘...are what the record buying public will pay their hard-earned cash to hear. You and you alone...’
Without bothering to reload he had pointed twice more.
‘...are the star attraction, my friend. This...’
And three times more again.
‘...is – all – about – you!’
Steadily, he lowered his weapon.
Anger still smouldered in Tony’s eyes, but it was no longer directed at Steve
Steve. He had reeled in his stare that final yard and turned it inwards, angry with himself now for being susceptible to such obvious flattery.
Steve Steve, confident that this little tête-à-tête was nearing a satisfactory conclusion, was already on the golf course. He swiftly reverted to type.
‘Tony,’ he said, rising from his seat and returning it to its original position, ‘with your heart and my head we simply cant fail...’
He was delicately placing ball on tee.
‘America alone should yield a Christian, if not a juicy, profit...’
He was eyeing the distance to the pin.
‘Asia the same...’
Flawless back swing. Low on the face.
‘To say nothing of Europe and the Home Counties...’
Looking good. Looking very good.
‘All of which means, in layman’s terms, that if my calculations are correct – and I see no reason to think otherwise – you, my friend, will never have to work again...’
Off the pin and in! He proffered his right hand.
‘What do you say?’
Tony’s monumental indignation, despite his best efforts to sustain it, had by now been successfully whittled down to little more than a huff. He pointedly refused to shake Steve Steve’s hand and never even offered so much as a moody half-nod by way of compliance.
Steve Steve took this as a yes. He withdrew his outstretched hand and again checking his watch cited pressing matters to attend. Stepping lively he made good his exit, adding on his way out the door, without so much as a cursory glance over his shoulder:
‘I’ll be in touch. My secretary will show you out.’
16
They were all three, short of breath, walking homewards along the Boulevard. Tony was proudly displaying his cardboard trophy to a disgruntled Billy and a disinterested Dooly when an advancing figure – slight, hands in pockets, churlishly rolling its rounded shoulders and dragging the heels of its trainers to a moderate four-four beat – developed, despite the arched peak of a baseball cap hiding his eyes and casting an oblong shadow over his hollow cheeks, into the recognisable form of Daz Docherty, town renowned ‘agent of obscure enterprise’ and man of few words.
Acquaintances at best, on meeting they stopped, the foreignness of the locale (a good twenty minutes from where they all lived) somehow calling for more than the usual nod-in-passing that would have sufficed on f
amiliar home ground. Daz reluctantly plucked from his ears the earpieces of his Walkman and greetings were exchanged.
‘All right, Daz?’ said Billy.
‘Daz,’ said Tony.
‘Billy. Drako,’ said Daz.
‘HOWF!’ said Dooly.
‘Dooly!’ said Billy.
In the awkward silence that followed, Tony managed to catch the titchy tiny tinny tune barely emanating from the dangling earpieces...
Just one of the lads
Just one of the lads
Just one of the lads
...and to the usual, strident pitch of his anger, for the time being necessarily muted, a piercing note of incredulity was added, a note that the forthcoming 'poster incident' would raise above and beyond the highest of high c’s. But it was right here, at this very moment, that Tony first realised, with epiphanic clarity, that his hitherto indiscriminate rage had found its focus. In Ryan Watson - all singing, all dancing personification of everything that's wrong with the modern world - he had himself a whipping boy.
An Explanatory Digression
Darren Allen Docherty (1971-1997) was the only child of an alcoholic single mother. His childhood was not a particularly happy one.
Docherty’s school days are a catalogue of juvenile delinquency and severe behavioural problems that suspensions, expulsions and the decrees of the children’s panel did little to curb. He spent the final three years of primary school and all of his secondary school years in care homes, secure units and eventually a young offenders institution. At the age of seventeen Docherty re-entered society and, determined to avoid penury, diligently applied himself to a wide range of criminal activity: car theft, burglary, drug crime and extortion being among his many and varied endeavours; endeavours which he seldom failed to
‘Hmm. I could I suppose tee off late if need be. Might still make it on time if I can wrap this up sharpish and then really put the foot down. Okay.’
With a furtive little wave of his hand he dismissed Kris and Jeremy from the room, while assuring them, with an equally furtive sincere expression, that he had everything under control. They both at the same time dutifully upped and left, and drawing his chair round, so that he was facing Tony directly – toe to toe, knee to knee if not quite eye to eye (Tony was staring straight through him) – Steve Steve pulled on his kid gloves and embarked on a managerial pep talk that began by adding insult to injury.
‘Tony,’ he said, all but placing an avuncular hand upon Tony’s knee, ‘Don’t let mere creative differences stifle a potentially lucrative career.’
And he was still talking some minutes later, postulating worldwide returns and speculating on revenue garnered from appearance fees, signings and the like, when he caught sight of Tony and brought himself up short.
Tony had still not moved, but he had reeled in his stare a good nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine yards and was no longer staring straight through Steve Steve but straight at him. His countenance had darkened noticeably, his mouth was tightly closed and beneath the short sharp expulsions of breath from his nostrils a distinct gnashing of teeth could be heard.
‘Creative differences?’ he did not even need to say. ‘CREATIVE DIFFERENCES? “Tweak and fuckin polish” you told me, cunt!’
Steve Steve was forced to reconsider his modus operandi.
To calm Tony down, or at least to keep him from losing his temper altogether, he began to liberally butter him up.
‘Tony, Tony, Tony,’ he laughed, and here he did boldly venture that avuncular hand. ‘I fully understand your concerns. Believe me. Believe me...’
At this second ‘believe me’ he had given the knee a firm little squeeze before wisely removing his hand altogether.
‘I realise that to a man of your integrity – and there are very few still in existence, you can take it from me, very few – it must seem that you have in some way been, da-da da da, compromised by our, shall we say treatment of this much revered classic. And may I add at this juncture that I am in fact outraged - outraged! - that the boys in production did not make our game plan clear to you from the outset...’
He lowered his voice.
‘Heads will roll, my friend. Let me assure you...’
He raised it again.
‘But Tony. Tony, Tony, Tony. The bottom line is I need you beside me on this one...’
He sat back in his seat with the air of a man who had just thrown his cards on the table.
‘Without you...’
He again sat forward.
‘Without you the song is worthless. Without you on the team we can as well forfeit the game right now...’
He dismissively threw up his hand.
‘ Right now...’
He threw it up again.
‘You, my friend, are the only one among us who brings to the arrangement a certain vital something. Something, I hasten to add, that only a very few people alive would be capable of bringing. A certain flavour, shall we say? And that flavour, Tony, is nothing more nor less than the authentic flavour of the street…’
Carried away by the flow of his own words he had emphatically tapped three times with his forefinger on Tony’s knee as though it were his desktop.
‘Your rendition, your delivery, is at once so powerful and so...’
He was literally grasping in thin air for the right word.
‘...so...’
His fist was now firmly clenched.
‘...so nuanced...’
His eyes sparkled.
‘...so grounded...’
He snapped his fingers.
‘It is at once so powerful and so grounded that, well, suffice to say – and I see no reason to whisper – it’s even better than the original.’
Here he risked a brief hiatus to review the situation thus far.
Though still scowling, Tony was breathing more easily now and he was no longer grinding his teeth. Steve Steve felt that he was on the right track, and so also for his car keys.
‘In the face of such a performance, Tony,’ he went on, ‘the accompanying music hardly matters at all. In the face of such a performance, Tony...’
The level of his voice rose a notch.
‘...any accompanying music can only ever be incidental. In the face of such a performance, Tony...’
His words were more deliberately pronounced now as well.
‘...any music can only ever remain in the background. You and you alone...’
He pistol-pointed twice at Tony’s chest.
‘...are what the record buying public will pay their hard-earned cash to hear. You and you alone...’
Without bothering to reload he had pointed twice more.
‘...are the star attraction, my friend. This...’
And three times more again.
‘...is – all – about – you!’
Steadily, he lowered his weapon.
Anger still smouldered in Tony’s eyes, but it was no longer directed at Steve
Steve. He had reeled in his stare that final yard and turned it inwards, angry with himself now for being susceptible to such obvious flattery.
Steve Steve, confident that this little tête-à-tête was nearing a satisfactory conclusion, was already on the golf course. He swiftly reverted to type.
‘Tony,’ he said, rising from his seat and returning it to its original position, ‘with your heart and my head we simply cant fail...’
He was delicately placing ball on tee.
‘America alone should yield a Christian, if not a juicy, profit...’
He was eyeing the distance to the pin.
‘Asia the same...’
Flawless back swing. Low on the face.
‘To say nothing of Europe and the Home Counties...’
Looking good. Looking very good.
‘All of which means, in layman’s terms, that if my calculations are correct – and I see no reason to think otherwise – you, my friend, will never have to work again...’
Off the pin and in! He proffered his right hand.
‘What do you say?’
Tony’s monumental indignation, despite his best efforts to sustain it, had by now been successfully whittled down to little more than a huff. He pointedly refused to shake Steve Steve’s hand and never even offered so much as a moody half-nod by way of compliance.
Steve Steve took this as a yes. He withdrew his outstretched hand and again checking his watch cited pressing matters to attend. Stepping lively he made good his exit, adding on his way out the door, without so much as a cursory glance over his shoulder:
‘I’ll be in touch. My secretary will show you out.’
16
They were all three, short of breath, walking homewards along the Boulevard. Tony was proudly displaying his cardboard trophy to a disgruntled Billy and a disinterested Dooly when an advancing figure – slight, hands in pockets, churlishly rolling its rounded shoulders and dragging the heels of its trainers to a moderate four-four beat – developed, despite the arched peak of a baseball cap hiding his eyes and casting an oblong shadow over his hollow cheeks, into the recognisable form of Daz Docherty, town renowned ‘agent of obscure enterprise’ and man of few words.
Acquaintances at best, on meeting they stopped, the foreignness of the locale (a good twenty minutes from where they all lived) somehow calling for more than the usual nod-in-passing that would have sufficed on f
‘All right, Daz?’ said Billy.
‘Daz,’ said Tony.
‘Billy. Drako,’ said Daz.
‘HOWF!’ said Dooly.
‘Dooly!’ said Billy.
In the awkward silence that followed, Tony managed to catch the titchy tiny tinny tune barely emanating from the dangling earpieces...
Just one of the lads
Just one of the lads
Just one of the lads
...and to the usual, strident pitch of his anger, for the time being necessarily muted, a piercing note of incredulity was added, a note that the forthcoming 'poster incident' would raise above and beyond the highest of high c’s. But it was right here, at this very moment, that Tony first realised, with epiphanic clarity, that his hitherto indiscriminate rage had found its focus. In Ryan Watson - all singing, all dancing personification of everything that's wrong with the modern world - he had himself a whipping boy.
An Explanatory Digression
Darren Allen Docherty (1971-1997) was the only child of an alcoholic single mother. His childhood was not a particularly happy one.
Docherty’s school days are a catalogue of juvenile delinquency and severe behavioural problems that suspensions, expulsions and the decrees of the children’s panel did little to curb. He spent the final three years of primary school and all of his secondary school years in care homes, secure units and eventually a young offenders institution. At the age of seventeen Docherty re-entered society and, determined to avoid penury, diligently applied himself to a wide range of criminal activity: car theft, burglary, drug crime and extortion being among his many and varied endeavours; endeavours which he seldom failed to