Bandwidth

In olden days a glimpse of stocking
was looked on as something shocking,
now heaven knows,
anything goes.

- Frank Sinatra, Anything Goes

There was a girl I used to work with who had a profound effect on me. Her uniform never quite fit her properly, and the buttons on her blouse would randomly pop open, often unbeknownst to her. All of my colleagues felt a compunction to tell her when this happened, but I suffered no such crisis of conscience. I revelled in those voyeuristic glimpses as only the loneliest of men can – with a delight blanketed by Kaw Liga-esque stoicism. One summer day though, she dropped in to pick up a payslip, and of course she wasn’t in uniform. Instead she was wearing a bright yellow tanktop. And finally, as if up until that point my 3D glasses had been broken, the secret was revealed to me. She had fucking massive tits. How could I have been so oblivious? The grotesque geometry of a female work uniform, designed specifically to hide any hint of femininity, that’s how. Whoever designed these garments is a joyless Communist and should be shot by a phalanx of Hooters waitresses for being un-American. As delightful a surprise as it was to see her breasts free from imprisonment though, the spell was broken. I no longer prayed for a popped button when I worked with her, because what was underneath no longer held any mystery for me. In the same way that a page three model has all the eroticism of a fat man wearing his socks to bed, her rack no longer stirred my loins the way it used to. I reason I told this story is, well, I was thinking about her boobs and thought I could get three hundred words of it. Them. Whatever. And I almost did.

As I am now a celebrity I have become self-conscious about appearing in public alone. The problem is, no matter how much I talk about my status and exaggerate my wealth, I cannot seem to attract a suitable woman. As a temporary fix I have been using a new online directory of babysitters. I found that actual escorts are incredibly pricey, and babysitting rates are much more reasonable. As a bonus, babysitters do not have to abide by any horseshit ‘must be 18 years old’ bureaucracy. As I am over eighteen, though, I had to register myself as mentally disabled. I went for mental because the physical is much harder fake. Thanks to political correctness gone mad, just about anyone can get themselves diagnosed as mental these days. Up yours Daily Mail readers. So on the morning of the gig I called the agency, gave my name as Elvis ‘The Prince’ Presley Jr. and requested a seventeen year old with ‘surprise tits, if at all possible.’

‘Of course sir,’ said the operator. The mentally ill truly can get away with anything.

When she finally showed up at the bar I had notched up three whiskies, four winks at the barmaid, and I was five minutes away from calling the agency to complain about her tardiness. Another benefit of being mentally disabled is the ability to use the word ‘tardy’, and no one can laugh. She tapped me on the shoulder and I turned around. Her navel was exposed. I craned my neck up. And the only surprise about her tits was that she forgot to bring them.

‘You’re tardy,’ I said, and she snorted a laugh. What a bitch. Ever the gentleman, I offered her a drink. She turned me down and pulled a little vial of cocaine out of her handbag. She tapped it and asked if I wanted some.

‘No thanks,’ I said.

‘I’ll be right back,’ she said, and headed for the toilets.

‘You know if your nose rots off you will literally have nothing sticking out of the front of your body!’ I called after her, but she didn’t hear. Kids these days. No respect for their own profiles. And a professional babysitter too. Fucking degenerate addict. ‘Make this one a double,’ I said to the barmaid, and I think maybe she smiled at me. I say think because my eyes had just accepted full time employment, looking at her chest. Hell, she had enough tit to make a packed lunch for the following day. And I’ll be goddamned if one of her buttons hadn’t popped open. I was immediately transported back to the good old days. Where had it all gone wrong for me? It used to be a sneaky glimpse of a boob was enough for me – now here I was chasing a thrill with a seventeen year old coked up babysitter who made Kate Moss look like a Dolly Parton tribute act. As I stared, I realised I had lost my way. I had to get back to my roots. My titty-loving roots. I necked my whiskey and decided to lose the dame, hoping I might get away without paying her. I turned to go, but something stopped me. I had to turn over a new leaf, and I knew the best way to do that would be to make amends some way. I turned back to the bar and caught the barmaid’s eye. Using my own shirt, I made a buttoning up motion. She looked down and quickly fumbled the rogue button closed. I winked at her, and I think she blushed. I say think, because I was having one last look. As I turned to walk away I heard some old man say, ‘Fuck you kid,’ but I was in full Clint Eastwood mode. Then the babysitter came back in and I had to duck under a table to hide. When she had her back turned, I made a dash for it.

The gig was Nick Lowe, and when I arrived the support – Geraint Watkins – was already under way. I am glad I made it in time for him, because he was a true revelation. A genuine troubadour, he has become a cult legend on the circuit and I instantly understood why. Just about the most at-home-on-stage guy I have ever seen. Funny and chilled out and exceptionally talented, he was such a joy to watch I was slightly disappointed when he finished up and it was time for the main act. I shouldn’t have worried though – Nick Lowe was as awesome as you would expect from a guy whose married Johnny Cash’s stepdaughter. And Geraint came back out to play piano as part of the Nick Lowe band. Also a kind of unsung hero of country and rock n roll music, Nick is a true old-school gent and played a fantastic set, complete with two encores, of such genuinely heartfelt music that it restored my faith in not only music, but in humanity as well. As shitty as things get, it’s good to know there are still guys out there who play music because that’s what they love to do, and that no matter what Viva or 4Music would have you believe, there is still an audience out there for people who, as Bill Hicks put it, ‘play it from their fucking hearts.’

Good authors too
who once knew better words,
now only use four letter words,
writing prose,
anything goes.

I suppose I am as bad as the rest of them. As crass as I am though, for me Marilyn standing over a vent will always beat Kate Upton bouncing in a bikini, and a quiet bar with a man and a piano and a sad song will always trump the Superbowl half time act. But that’s just me…

http://nicklowe.com/
http://www.myspace.com/geraintwatkins