Tabloid Gold

Early middle age had spread itself over his once wiry frame-spawning a light beer gut, and more fleshy jawline, than he'd had in the first flushes of youth.

Long gone was the epic barnet that he'd dyed bright green and spiked with superglue, when we were at college.

Now it was a short sweeping side parting-that was beginning to grey from its natural chestnut brown, at the edges. The sort of hair style we'd have laughed at, once, before it became generally trendy to have a cut that looked like it belonged on a Lego man.

The odd clash of clothes-a thrift store mixture of stuff he used to nick from parties, found in hedges-or borrowed-had been replaced by a casual shirt, jumper from some high street store-and brown cords, which I guess covered the scant home made tattoos I'd watched him periodically pricking into his skin, while drinking cheap vodka-and smoking prison rollies, across an endless number of interchangeable Saturday afternoons-drunkenly rapping about music, guitars, girls-plotting and scheming about the future- about how we were going to scrape together the cash to record an EP, stuff like that. Simple shit, uncomplicated by an adult mind.

It all felt like a vague footnote, now...one that had held high purchase before the intervening years had piled on top of it.

I watched him gently handing out cartoned burgers and chips, from a tray-to a trio of small boys, in regulation restaurant party hats, two of which were the spitting image of him as a little kid–bobbing up and down in their seats, excitedly.

Next to him a pretty willowy woman, dressed in jeans and a cardigan, sat with a baby in her arms and, every now and then, they glanced at each other, with what could only be described as true love, I suppose.

I hadn’t seen or heard from him in years. Not that I had expected to.

'He doesn't fit the image we're after' the label had said 'either he goes-or you all do'.

And what did we do? Huh, what did I do- to someone I’d been born in the same hospital as-two days apart, who had taught me how to play three blind mice, on the guitar...who I'd jammed with since we were eight, or something; well, what any self respecting nineteen year old twat does, to their closest friend, when a shark in a fancy suit-with a silver tongued way with words, wafts what seems like a massive advance, in yer face-and backs that up with a whole smorgasbord of rock'n'roll clichés-booze, sex, drugs-enough fucking drugs; a sniff at the big time.

I can still remember clearly the look on his face, when our manager sat him down and told him. We all hid outside the office, while he did it-and you could see the look on his face, through the door glass. It was the kind of expression a kid might have when he’s been told that his dog had died in the night...

I was being followed by a Pap- a stocky bull dog, with gammy eyes, in a khaki wind cheater, who was standing by the restaurant doors-pretending to speak into her mobile, and making a bad attempt at looking like she wasn't darting quick glances over towards me.

I'd caught regular flashes of her, and another-a streak of piss in a tweed jacket- stalking me, through the streets-and into the town, since sneaking out of the hotel-and thought Is lost them, until that moment,

The snide little gits.

The messy, dogmatic relationship one has with the press; it's okay when they're selling your records for you, fucking rubbish when they're rifling through your dustbins, trying to pick out the minutiae of your existence-and show it to the world.

Nervously I readjusted my glasses, shoved my hands in my pockets, and continued waiting in the queue, trying to stave off the sinking feeling that, any minute, my cover was going to be blown.

Sounds mad, don’t it-but I was a phone call away from being able to dine on expensive caviar served on the pussy of a high class Russian prostitute, if I so desired; but all I wanted to do was go into a fast food joint-and order a dirty burger- by myself, like I used to-as a treat-in the days when I was so poor that I could barely scrape together enough money to buy a mars bar, most of the time.

I glanced back over at him-and, for a few moments, I could swear that we made direct eye contact. I swear it...

My heart twitched, as he raised his arm and pointed-waved-whispering something to one of his kids-all the time their eyes locked in my direction.

They both smiled-and continued waving--and I smiled, instantly gushing with the sort of euphoria that I don’t think any drug or shag had given me for an age-and forgetting my immediate situation completely.

I raised my right arm, and waved back enthusiastically-well and truly wrapped in the moment-and forgetting about the pair of Paps completely.

The rest of the party got up and beamed, dancing and shimmering about, bobbing up and down-clapping hands.

I lurched forward, then-away from the queue-feeling like twenty years of repressed guilt-and regret-was going to be washed away-with my arms held out in an open gesture- anticipating some odd, near filmic reunion and...

... I collided with a man sized blue penguin with a cartoon smiling face, coming from behind-and then sort of did this improvised dance, with him, to the ‘Happy Birthday’ tune, that I’d only just registered coming through the restaurant speakers-and trying to grapple at this big cake that I’d knocked from his grasp-as we both hurtled towards the floor with it.

I hit the tiles first-the cake slapping straight on my chest-and face, followed by the penguin.

Then all hell broke loose...air filled with camera flashes, fidgeting-the gut wrenching sobs of a child...

I attempted to get up, slipping about in the mortal blitz of the cake, with the penguin flapping about on the floor, beside me-and, somewhere in the hubbub, calling me a word beginning with C-and ending with T, in a gruff Scottish accent-through his gritted beak.

As I tried to pull myself away from it all, I caught one last glance of him, cradling his sobbing son in his arms.

The other kids looked on a little bemused, and the pretty lady was busy trying to calming down the baby in her arms, while a restaurant worker jostled about the whole scene, trying to suggest ways he could help.

All I could think about, at that moment, other than getting out alive, was how the whole thing was sheer tabloid gold.

It certainly pissed on stumbling out of a club off your face, with two busty blonds-and a fifty quid note jabbed up yer nose-hands down.

It's the sort of stuff that gives our P.R team a hernia, though.

Drugs busts, affairs-and scandals: they could usually paper over the cracks-but unwittingly destroying a kid’s party, that was a whole different kettle of fish.