about it. I don’t want fucking relationship counselling. I don’t want this relationship to be fucking counselled. I want it to be cancelled!’ he shouts, ‘I want relationship cancelling!’ And he bangs his fist down on the table and the table wobbles and looks scared like it’s all the table’s fault.
Kirk’s saying nothing. Kirk’s quite a quiet fella and he’s seriously uncomfortable with things like passion and fists and shouting in pubs when everyone can hear. Lenny’s not like that. Lenny and Kirk are verydifferent. Kirk’s got a thing about the right way of making tea. Lenny’s all fist.
‘I want this giant blue glove to drop from the sky and stamp it all out.’
‘Like in Yellow Submarine, ’ says Kirk.
‘Eh?’
‘Like in Yellow Submarine, when the Blue Glove wipes out Pepper-land.’
‘Does it?’ says Lenny.step
‘Yeah,’ says Kirk, ‘it does. Big Blue Glove.’
‘Well . . .’
‘It’s in your psyche somewhere, is that,’ and then, ‘obviously.’
Lenny looks a bit put out by this information. ‘Anyway, what I’m saying is . . . what was I saying?’
‘You were saying how you want an end to it,’ I say, ‘and then you stole an image from Yellow Submarine. ’
‘What do you mean I stole it?’
‘All right, you appropriated it.’
‘What’s with all this stealing shit?’ He’s gone a bit sweaty.
‘What stealing shit?’ I say.
‘All these snide jibes about stealing you’ve been coming out with recently.’
‘When?’
‘The night I came back from New York, just now.’
‘I’m nipping to the toilet,’ says Kirk, and does.
I light up a cigarette. Lenny lights up a cigarette. Copying me.
‘So?’ says Lenny.
‘So what?’
‘So, Hec, I’ve known you since you were seventeen and summat’s going on.’
‘Lenny,’ I say, ‘I’ve known you since you were seventeen and you’regetting paranoid.’ He takes it no further, and we both sit there staring at the ashtray.
Here’s how we met: 10 December 1980, the day after news reached Blackpool that Lennon had been shot. I’m having a fag on the beach, humming ‘Mother’, looking out to sea, cos that’s what artists do when they need to think. The sun is sinking and the tide’s on its way out for the night. I gaze at the waves giving up the fight, filthy brown waves, like old tea and dosser’s flob. I gaze at the horizon and think about New York. I think about Liverpool and how bullets must feel. I think about Spaniards and spanners and Edgar Allan Poe getting a kicking. And then I get back to the waves, the icy waves, and I see something white and square floating on the surface. And then no. Not floating. Appearing. The tide has gone and there’s something white on the beach. An old washing machine. I wait for a long time and then I walk over to it. The beach is deserted. It’s starting to rain and I open the door. Inside the washing machine is an apple. I examine the apple, look around, and take a bite.
The next day a photograph of me, standing by the washing machine, biting the apple, is delivered to my parents’ house. There’s a phone number, written in white, on a black plastic joke-shop moustache. That’s how I met Lenny.
Kirk staggers back from the toilet and does a little drum riff on the table. ‘So,’ he says, ‘it’s over?’
‘What?’ says Lenny.
‘You and Brenda. Sounds like you’re saying it’s over.’ He looks a bit strange, like he might have been crying. ‘You were saying you want an end to it.’
‘Exactly,’ says Lenny, ‘I want an end to it. I want the tide to rush in and out, and the beach all smooth, and all these disappointing moats and castles washed out of existence.’ Interesting. He continues, ‘I want my heart running down the street in funny red slippers, squirting waterfrom a plastic flower on its lapel’ I try to imagine such a thing. ‘I want a heart with a lapel’ He’s clawing at his stool. ‘Is that wrong? Is it wrong to want
Kirk’s saying nothing. Kirk’s quite a quiet fella and he’s seriously uncomfortable with things like passion and fists and shouting in pubs when everyone can hear. Lenny’s not like that. Lenny and Kirk are verydifferent. Kirk’s got a thing about the right way of making tea. Lenny’s all fist.
‘I want this giant blue glove to drop from the sky and stamp it all out.’
‘Like in Yellow Submarine, ’ says Kirk.
‘Eh?’
‘Like in Yellow Submarine, when the Blue Glove wipes out Pepper-land.’
‘Does it?’ says Lenny.step
‘Yeah,’ says Kirk, ‘it does. Big Blue Glove.’
‘Well . . .’
‘It’s in your psyche somewhere, is that,’ and then, ‘obviously.’
Lenny looks a bit put out by this information. ‘Anyway, what I’m saying is . . . what was I saying?’
‘You were saying how you want an end to it,’ I say, ‘and then you stole an image from Yellow Submarine. ’
‘What do you mean I stole it?’
‘All right, you appropriated it.’
‘What’s with all this stealing shit?’ He’s gone a bit sweaty.
‘What stealing shit?’ I say.
‘All these snide jibes about stealing you’ve been coming out with recently.’
‘When?’
‘The night I came back from New York, just now.’
‘I’m nipping to the toilet,’ says Kirk, and does.
I light up a cigarette. Lenny lights up a cigarette. Copying me.
‘So?’ says Lenny.
‘So what?’
‘So, Hec, I’ve known you since you were seventeen and summat’s going on.’
‘Lenny,’ I say, ‘I’ve known you since you were seventeen and you’regetting paranoid.’ He takes it no further, and we both sit there staring at the ashtray.
Here’s how we met: 10 December 1980, the day after news reached Blackpool that Lennon had been shot. I’m having a fag on the beach, humming ‘Mother’, looking out to sea, cos that’s what artists do when they need to think. The sun is sinking and the tide’s on its way out for the night. I gaze at the waves giving up the fight, filthy brown waves, like old tea and dosser’s flob. I gaze at the horizon and think about New York. I think about Liverpool and how bullets must feel. I think about Spaniards and spanners and Edgar Allan Poe getting a kicking. And then I get back to the waves, the icy waves, and I see something white and square floating on the surface. And then no. Not floating. Appearing. The tide has gone and there’s something white on the beach. An old washing machine. I wait for a long time and then I walk over to it. The beach is deserted. It’s starting to rain and I open the door. Inside the washing machine is an apple. I examine the apple, look around, and take a bite.
The next day a photograph of me, standing by the washing machine, biting the apple, is delivered to my parents’ house. There’s a phone number, written in white, on a black plastic joke-shop moustache. That’s how I met Lenny.
Kirk staggers back from the toilet and does a little drum riff on the table. ‘So,’ he says, ‘it’s over?’
‘What?’ says Lenny.
‘You and Brenda. Sounds like you’re saying it’s over.’ He looks a bit strange, like he might have been crying. ‘You were saying you want an end to it.’
‘Exactly,’ says Lenny, ‘I want an end to it. I want the tide to rush in and out, and the beach all smooth, and all these disappointing moats and castles washed out of existence.’ Interesting. He continues, ‘I want my heart running down the street in funny red slippers, squirting waterfrom a plastic flower on its lapel’ I try to imagine such a thing. ‘I want a heart with a lapel’ He’s clawing at his stool. ‘Is that wrong? Is it wrong to want
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