Hound Dog Read online

  ‘OK, listen. Meet me in the Golden Lion and bring him with you. Tell him I’m very, very sorry and want to make it up to him.’

  ‘All right, I’ll tell him,’ said Fatboy, ‘but he’s really pissed off. I don’t think he’ll come.’

  Of course, I know he’ll be there. As long as I’ve known him, Gay Elvis has always been like a little puppy hungry for my attention, and although he’s aiming for praise, he’ll settle for abuse. Fatboy, on the other hand, is untrainable. He’s just too lazy ever to go out of his way for anybody, no matter how much you try to bully him into doing it. The only reason he’s even involved in this whole thing is that he loves Elvis. He’s absolutely fucking mad on him, maybe even more than Gaylord.

  I hang up on the Fatman. I want to hide in the covers for another five hours or so rather than have to go and spend time with those two cretins, but instead I force myself out of bed and crawl downstairs, an idea involving breakfast half formed in my mind. There, waiting for my attention in the living room amongst all the other crap scattered around, are the spunk-encrusted Elvistrousers I’d left on the floor the night before. Christ, what are you meant to do when something like that happens? I fill up the sink with water and leave the trousers in to soak. Some of it comes off in flakes that float about in the sink and bump into each other. It’s pretty fascinating to watch, and I only stop because I realise that I’m watching my own dried spunk float about in the fucking sink. At times like this, I wish I was still married because birds know what to do with stuff like this, whether to put washing powder in, give it a good rub or whatever it is birds do with clothes in sinks. Everyday things are definitely easier with a bird around. I should know, I’ve been married three times – never for very long, mind you. Always some problem or other that means everything goes wrong. Either I get sent to the nick or – OK, the fact is, I have a pretty high sex drive, and when I say high, I mean it’s through the fucking roof. It’s been that way since I was thirteen, and it hasn‘t dropped off one bit. I only have to see a person of the female persuasion and chances are I’ve got the horn. On the street, on the telly, wherever. Now you try staying faithful under those circumstances. It’s damn near impossible, I can tell you.

  Anyway, the trousers are in the sink. Maybe it’s the right place for them, maybe it’s not. Maybe they need to be coated in some weird cleaning product I’ve never fucking heard of that only birds know about, I really don’t know. I should wash myself too I guess. After all, my pubic hairs are stuck together. Abandoning thoughts of breakfast, I drag myself back upstairs to the bathroom. I have the misfortune to catch sight of myself in the mirror on the way in. Jesus, I’m in a state. I’m fat, I’m bald, and I’m old. Well, I’m not a porker like Fatboy, but I’ve got a gut. And a lot of my hair’s still there, but it’s long gone grey, and there’s a great big patch in the centre of my scalp I have to hide by brushing what’s still there over the top of it. And now there’s hair sprouting out of my ears. Why is it coming out of my ears and not the top of my head? Guess that happens to you when you’re old. Well, I’m fifty-two. I suppose that’s old isn’t it? Maybe it’s not so much these days, people don’t seem to get properly old until they’re seventy-five or something now, but when I was young, it was bloody ancient. Anyway, I feel old. Probably because I’m in such bad shape. Christ, when I was young, I was a handsome fucker. I mean, I could pull any bird I wanted, practically. They’re not exactly beating down my door any more though. Don’t get me wrong, I still have lots of ladyfriends. It’s just that these days I’ve had to lower my standards a bit. Basically, I’m just banging old birds now, nothing younger than forty-five. Really, I have no choice. Being such a highly sexed individual as I am, I just can’t afford to be choosy. Yes, I’d be happy to have something with a few less miles on the clock, but unless it suddenly becomes fashionable to shag fat old cunts, I can’t see it happening.

  I take the opportunity to sort myself out in the shower. You’ll find I have to sort myself out a lot. Five or six times a day in fact. You see, if I don’t get a chance, I just can’t concentrate on anything at all. It can really be a curse sometimes. No matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing, at some point I’ll have to visit the lav and have a good fiddle. You never know what will set it off. Maybe I’ll see a fit bird in the distance, or in a photograph on a wall. Or I’ll just remember something. Then I have to go and fiddle in the lav or I will lose control of myself and whip it out wherever it is I am. And if that’s at the supermarket checkout, then so be it.

  I get out of the shower, put my clothes on, and get in the Fatty’s car. There’s a dent in the side where one of Roy’s heavy friends gave it a good kick last night. Hope the Fatty’s insurance covers it or the tightwad will be hassling me for cash, I think to myself as I put the radio on and reverse out of the driveway.

  Fatty’s fatflat is in Arbury, over in Cambridge. It’s funny, when you think of Cambridge you think of toffs in stupid fucking gowns and mortar boards arsing about in boats with inbred toff birds neighing by their side. You don’t think of common scum like Fatboy living here. But they do obviously, because they’re always going to need people to clean the toilets or work in Tesco’s, or tear their ticket when they go to listen to their fucking Mahler. Cambridge has its share of scumfolk, not that the toffs ever notice them, getting drunk in their own common scum pubs, shopping in their own common scum shops and watching their own common scum telly. And listening to Elvis of course. When you’ve got common scum, you’ve always got Elvis. Anyway, by the time I’m parking down the road from Fatlad‘s local, the Golden Lion, I need to sort myself out again. It was the centre of Cambridge that did it. All those gorgeous student girls, with their rucksacks and bicycles. It’s just too much. They come from Europe to learn English here. They come from bloody Scandinavia. And they walk down our streets. They walk down our streets wearing shorts. I just want to get into that pub lav and sort myself out, while thinking about dormitories and tutorials and saunas.

  I’m not even conscious of what it is I’m meant to be doing here in the first place as I jog up the road to the pub. All I’m thinking about is getting some relief from the tickling itch in my trousers. So I get a surprise when I walk through the pub door to find the pair of them waiting for me inside, Fatboy with his usual jovial moronic expression, the Gaymeister with a lip like a thick black German sausage. ‘Awwright,’ says Fats and grins, just like he does every time he sees anyone he knows, while Gaylord just nods and grunts, no doubt to signal that I’m in his bad books. Fatty’s two-thirds of the way through a pint of bitter, while Gayboy’s nursing some gay drink, trying to make it last.

  ‘Hi, lads,’ I say, ‘aah, just got to go to the lav. Back in a sec.’ Maybe I imagine it, but I’m sure I hear the pair of them giggling to each other as I hurry past. ‘Get a round in, someone.’ I’ll give them something to fucking laugh about, I think to myself. Then I push the lav door so hard, I nearly fall over when it opens easily on its spring hinges.

  Chapter 3

  It takes about thirty seconds. I didn’t even get as far as thinking about the saunas, I just had to contemplate the existence of student halls of residence and I was practically there. It’s got to the point now that I don’t even need to think about sex, just a location where some people might conceivably have it, and that’s enough to make me come. If nothing else, it shows I have a very active imagination.

  For a minute afterwards, I feel amazing. But inevitably, like always, I’ve hardly mopped myself up and zipped up my trousers, and I’m already hitting a low. I just feel so fucking ridiculous that my life should be dictated by it to the extent that it is. I mean, I’m a clever person, right. OK, I haven’t got that many qualifications but then I’ve never had the opportunities. Still, I’ve never got into the habit of reading books because I can’t concentrate long enough on one before I have to go and fiddle with myself. You see, books are full of descriptions of people, in places, and even though they’re probably not having sex in them,
they potentially could do. And that’s what I imagine, every time I read one. TV’s not so bad though, because I can sort myself out while I watch that, and I’ve learned quite a lot off the telly, stuff you wouldn’t expect a bloke like me to know. For instance, I know who Ernest Hemingway is. And Arthur Conan Doyle. I’m quite solitary when I’m not shacked up, so I’ve got to watch a lot of telly over the years.

  There’s no drink waiting for me when I get back. Before I sit down, I put out my newly soaped hand to Gay Elvis.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, whatever,’ he replies, his big black lip wobbling as he speaks. He takes my hand limply in his and shakes it.

  ‘So lads, what’s the damage?’

  ‘We’re fucked, that’s what the damage is,’ replies Gay Elvis.

  ‘How fucked?’

  ‘Totally fucked,’ says the Fatboy. ‘The van’s a write-off. They’ve battered it to buggery. The back lights are fucked, the back windows are smashed, the windscreen’s cracked. They only didn’t slash the tyres ’cos if they had, then they wouldn’t have been able to get rid of us.’

  ‘What about the equipment?’

  ‘Fucked,’ the Fatboy continues. ‘Speakers are fucked, monitors are fucked. Mixing desk… fucked. Amp’s OK.’

  ‘Christ, we’re fucked.’

  All this time the Gayster has been evil-eyeing me, which along with his fat lip does not make a pretty sight. ‘So that’s it then,’ he scowls, ‘it’s over, we’re fucked. And all because of you and your fucking cock.’

  ‘What else am I supposed to do with it?’

  ‘Cut it off.’

  ‘Well, never mind my cock right now, how much is this all going to cost us?’

  ‘Could cost a thousand for a new PA, two grand for a second-hand van that’s decent,’ says Fats.

  ‘Shit, we’ve a gig on Tuesday in Elk.’

  ‘Christ, we’re not going to Elk are we?’ says the Fatman. ‘They’re all fucking weird in Elk.’ He’s right. Elk’s a fucking strange place. I was there just yesterday afternoon buying some charlie. If you’re not from the village, they all whisper to each other and back away, then watch you from a distance. But we’ve got a gig there and that’s that.

  ‘Yes, we’re going to Elk,’ I say. ‘That means we’ve got less than a week to get three grand together. I’m a bit short right now. What about you, Fatboy?’

  ‘Nah, sorry mate. Don’t really have any spare cash right now, what with being out of work for so long and all.’ Fatlad took a break off work after he quit his last job. That was four years ago. Fortunately his wife makes an OK amount so they get by. I suppose you could call him a house husband if it weren‘t for the fact he does fuck all around the house. Even though he spends all his time playing video games, watching telly and downloading porn, if you ask him what he’s been up to he’ll always tell you he’s been busy. Elvis is about the only thing you can get him out of bed for, and even then he’s a lazy fat cunt about it.

  Gayboy’s pretty well off, though; he’s got a decent job working for the local council doing boring crap that only a gaylord would find interesting, but brings in a fair enough wage. His wife Jen works a bit too, so they’re doing all right. They’ve got a nice house and the children are well looked after. He’s definitely got three grand stashed awav somewhere in some special gay bank account. ‘How about it then, Softlad,’ I ask. ‘Surely you could come up with the dough. It’s for Elvis, after all.’

  He glowers at me with all his wimpy might. ‘You must be fucking joking,’ he says, and glowers some more.

  I lean forward and fix him with my gaze. ‘Come on,’ I say, ‘we really need this money. Please?’

  ‘Go fuck yourself,’ he says.

  I’m shocked, I have to say. It’s never been like this before. He always used to go out of his way to please me. Now he’s suddenly treating me with open contempt. My hold has slipped. Something has made him lose respect for me. It couldn’t just be the incident last night. We’ve been through much worse before and his faith in me has been unwavering. Christ, what could it be? I’m just figuring how to deal with this when I realise that we’re being looked at from across the pub. A tall, awkward-looking man with ginger hair and glasses is smiling at me. Oh god, not another fruit to deal with, I hope. It’s funny, I’d swear I’ve never seen him before, but there’s something very familiar about him.

  ‘I’m just going for a gypsy’s kiss,’ I announce.

  ‘You’ve just been,’ says the Gayster.

  ‘I know, but I’m old. I’m falling apart.’

  On the way to the lav, I look to see if the speccy monger is following me. Sure enough, he is. Once I’m inside, I stand at the urinal nearest the door and unleash the trouser snake. I’m pretty fucking large so I have to stand well back. Four-eyes walks in and stands two urinals down. I can see out of the corner of my eye his is a tiddler. He’s standing so close to the urinal he’s practically shagging it. I nod at him. He nods back.

  ‘Are you Elvis?’ he asks. His voice is nasal and squeaky.

  ‘Could be,’ I say. ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Me. You see, I’m Buddy Holly.’

  ‘Yeah, course you are, mate.’

  ‘No, I mean, I do an impersonation of him, like you do one of Elvis.’

  ‘I’m pleased for you.’

  ‘Yeah, well, the reason I wanted to speak to you was, well, I was wondering, like, if you’d consider me as being part of your act.’

  ‘You mean, have you perform with my lot?’

  ‘That’s right, yeah.’

  ‘And why would I want to do that?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking, maybe it would be good for your business, because not everybody likes Elvis, some people just like Buddy Holly. So an Elvis and Buddy show might get more gigs.’

  ‘Look mate, I don’t really need any help getting gigs right now. We’ve got work coming out of our ears, and—’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I was talking to your friends the other day and—’

  ‘They’re not my friends.’

  ‘OK, your, uh – anyway, they said you’re only averaging one gig a fortnight these days, and you used to have loads more work but it’s all dried up for some reason.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I wouldn’t believe everything those two charlies tell you, so – you don’t happen to have three grand do you?’

  ‘No I don’t, sorry.’

  ‘OK, never mind. Look, I can’t be bothered to think about this right now, so I’ll give you my card and you can phone me sometime next week and if I’ve come round to the idea I’ll have a look at you do your stuff. Happy?’

  ‘Oh yes, thank you, very happy.’

  He finally leaves me alone and scurries back to his place at the bar. So that’s the speccy stalker problem taken care of. I just wish I could deal with the bigger issue of coming up with three grand so easily. My credit rating’s shot to hell, which means the only people who are going to lend me anything are loan sharks or hardened criminals. Having been in the nick as much as I have, I know quite a few of those, but one in particular has proven very useful to me in the past. Mind you, he got value for money out of me all right. I signal to Fatty and Gayboy that I’ll be back shortly, and it would be wonderful if they could get a round in while I’m gone, and stroll out into the beer garden. As the midsummer sun streams down on me, I press autodial on my mobile. Immediately, a male secretary answers. ‘Hold, please,’ he says. Pan pipes play ‘MacArthur Park’ all the way through twice.

  ‘Well, hello dear boy,’ a familiar voice says finally, just as I’m getting worried I’m going to run out of credit. ‘How absolutely wonderful to hear from you again.’

  ‘Ah, hello, Eddie,’ I say. ‘How are you? I heard you’ve been doing very well recently.’

  ‘My boy, I’m always doing well. Now what can I do for you?’

  ‘Oh, I was just phoning up to hear about what you’ve been up to, you know, catch up on—’

  ‘
You need some money, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s partly that. You see, I was wondering, I need a bit of assistance with my current business venture, and—’

  ‘Oh, it’s business is it? Well, I don’t like to discuss business on the phone. Why don’t you come up and see me at my lovely residence? I don’t think you’ve seen my new place, have you? I’ve just had it renovated to reflect my classical tastes.’

  ‘Uh, sure, Eddie. Would you be free any time this week at all?’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow, twelve o’clock. I see you are calling from a mobile telephone. I’ll have someone text you the address. I’ve got to go now. Goodbye.’

  The phone goes dead. Sure enough, an address in Esher arrives just a minute later. Esher, of all places. I rejoin the pair of them inside. Still neither of them has got a round in. For two gimps who worship Elvis, a man so generous he’d buy cars for total strangers, I’ve got to say, they’re pretty fucking stingy.

  ‘Fats, I need the car again tomorrow, I think I’ve found the money.’

  ‘Uh, now boss,’ says Fatty, ‘don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but I don’t really want you driving it. Insurance thing, sorry.’

  ‘You let me drive it last night.’

  ‘I only thought you wanted to open the boot. Didn’t realise you were going to fuck off in it.’

  ‘What the fuck would I want in the boot?’

  ‘I dunno. Anyway, I just had a look at it out front. There’s a bloody great dent in the side. If my insurance doesn’t cover it, you’re paying for that.’

  ‘Fine, fine. What about you, Gay Elvis, could I please borrow your car tomorrow for an urgent business trip?’

  ‘Go fuck yourself,’ says the Gaylord, looking up from the very dregs of his gay drink.

  ‘I’ll drive you,’ says Fatboy. It’s possibly the first time he’s ever uttered those words to anyone.