Pigeon Variations - Ch 33 - Ride the Storm
By Mark Burrow
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The Builders was the only pub in South London not to have barred Pyser. He sat at a table, watching a girl in a pencil skirt sing ‘Firestarter’ to a handful of regulars. He drank his pint and then his G&T chaser and then went to the bar to order more.
A group of blokes sat at a table playing doms. On another table, an elderly couple shared the sections of an out-of-date Sunday newspaper. An overweight greyhound dozed by their feet. The barmaid scrolled through her phone. She saw Pyser and shifted off the counter under the optics. “Same again?”
“Yeah.”
“Double G&T too?”
“That’s right.”
Pyser couldn’t work out why the girl with the mic was in the pub, let alone why she was singing Firestarter. The song was mid-way through and she waited for her turn to resume singing. Or was it shouting? Mumbling? Doesn’t matter. The barmaid held out the card machine for him to pay. He took his pint and G&T back to his table.
He sipped the lager. He was knackered from working in the warehouse. It was a crap job but money’s money. He was supposed to hear back about an office job. Something cushy. Manual labour was a fucking nightmare once you reached a certain age. His one hope was that he’d start turning into a bird sooner rather than later. He could then hand his notice in forever and give a big fat two fingers to everyone.
On the news and stuff, people kept boo-hooing over the transitions, saying how awful and tragic it was. Mugs.
Pyser couldn’t wait.
Some day I’ll fly away…
He was harassing his GP, saying he thought he was transitioning. The GP told him that this was the least of his worries and to stop wasting her time. The only concern she had, health-wise, was about his weight and out of control drinking. She wanted him to have a liver biopsy and talked about rehab. There was no fucking chance of either happening.
Sipping the flat, soapy lager, he stared at the girl in the pencil skirt. The music sounded tinny through the speakers. She was coming to the end of the song. Curves in all the right places. Witness to fitness. Exactly his type. Probably dirty too. He felt himself getting a semi. He’d been on a lean streak of late. Doesn’t matter. She finished the song and he started clapping.
“That was fucking pukka,” he shouted.
She didn’t look at him. No one did. She went to the bar and sat on a stool. The barmaid poured her a dark rum and coke and split a bag of crisps down the middle for the two of them to share. They started chatting. Must be friends. He decided to go up on stage himself. Give it a crack. Fuck what his music teacher used to say back in the day about being tone deaf.
He walked over, tripping as he went, spilling his G&T so it looked like he’d pissed himself. He figured out how to flick through the songs, glancing up at the girl. She was a right salt. He decided on a fucking banger by The Doors. He picked up the mic and looked at the locals. Not one of the fuckers took a blind bit of notice. The miserable cunts couldn’t care less.
It felt good to hold a mic.
There were two Jim Morrisons. Skinny Jim and Fat Jim. This song was from the Fat Jim phase. Fitting in many ways, as Pyser was in his fat phase too. It was amazing how many similarities there were between him and Jim.
The raindrops and thunder started, then the cymbals and piano.
“Riders on the storm…”
He made sure to look at the bar when he sang:
“Girl you gotta love your man.
Take him by the hand.
Make him understand.”
A couple of the blokes playing doms looked at him. That’s right. You better fucking take note. And then one of them made a comment and all of them turned to gawp at Pyser and laughed.
“What’s your fucking problem?” hollered Pyser when he should’ve been singing.
Jim would have done the same. He didn’t play by the rules. That’s how loose cannons roll. The blokes went back to their game. Too right. You better. There was another load of piano tinkling from Ray Manzarek. The song went on forever. It wasn’t even the best one on the album. He finished his G&T, realising he should have chosen LA Woman. But then again, that went on for fucking ever and ever too.
The girl in the pencil skirt headed to the ladies. It wound him up watching her walk off. There was laughter from the doms’ players. They glanced at him. Fucking twats are at it again. Bunch of pricks. “Hey, luv, can I have the same again?” said Pyser into the mic. “This is thirsty work.” The barmaid didn’t smile or move to make his drinks. Face like a smacked arse. He stood there, waiting for the lyrics to appear on the screen.
He’d heard that The Beatles are the easiest for karaoke. Short and snappy songs. Not like this fucker. It was brutal. He waited for the instrumentals to finish. It must’ve pissed Jim off. Waiting. And then, at long fucking last, the lyrics appeared.
Fuck it.
Let’s mix things up.
“Pyser on the storm.”
He spread out his arms, flapping them like a bird.
“Pyser on the storm.”
Zero reaction from any of the punters. Fucking miseries. The girl returned from the loo and sat on the stool. Must’ve only been a quick slash. Except girls said ‘pee’. Always off ‘for a pee’. He finished singing the last section and then, with the song still playing, he went to the bar and sat next to her.
“Same again,” he said to the barmaid.
“You sure?”
“What do you mean?”
The barmaid gave an eyeroll and took a pint glass, angling it at the tap.
To the girl in the pencil skirt, he said, “It’s more difficult than it looks.”
She looked over her shoulder at him, eating prawn cocktail crisps. “Eh?”
“You made it look easy, though, princess. I liked your singing. You’ve got a lovely voice.”
“Right. That’s nice.” She swivelled to the barmaid.
He waited a few seconds. “Do you like The Doors?”
The girl looked over her shoulder and said, “You what?”
“The Doors. Do you like them?”
“Not much. Me grandad listened to them.”
She faced the other way, shifting her stool on its legs so she had her back fully to him. The barmaid placed the pint on the bar and held out the card machine.
“And a double G&T,” said Pyser.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
He tapped the girl on the shoulder and said, “Has anyone told you how beautiful you are?”
She flinched and then turned to him and said, “What you touching me for?”
“I was just…”
“Fuck off, creepy creep.”
“Don’t be like that.”
The girl moved off her stool. “Why are you so close to me anyway? What you in my face for? Why you touchin’ me, you dirty perv?”
“Calm down, luv.”
“I’m not serving you anymore,” said the barmaid. “You better leave.”
“Me?” said Pyser. “What have I done? I was only trying to make conversation.”
“We know what you’re like,” said the barmaid.
Two of the blokes playing doms walked over. They weren’t grisly old alcoholics like the other punters. They were in their early twenties and evidently hit the gym. A lot. One of them put his arm on the girl and said, “You alright, Kaz, what’s going on?”
“This one’s leering all over me.”
He kissed her and said, “I’ll deal with it.”
Pyser got off his stool. “I wasn’t doing anything, mate, I swear.”
The bloke’s expression was serious. He looked at the barmaid and she gave a quick nod. “Outside,” said the boyfriend.
“Don’t be like that.”
His mate, who was a beast of a man, gripped Pyser’s arm. “You’re coming out with us.”
The barmaid said, “No fighting or I’ll call the police.”
“There won’t be any fighting,” said the boyfriend, “we’re going to have a chat.”
They dragged him twisting and yelling through the corridor to the toilets and then a fire door and into a courtyard used for smoking.
“Fuck off,” yelled Pyser. “You’re hurting me.”
It was pissing down with rain. The beast flung Pyser against a wet, mossy wall. Pyser bounced off and fell to the floor.
The boyfriend said, “Who told you that you could touch my girl?”
“Do you like leering at young girls?” said the beast.
Pyser used an empty beer barrel to push himself back to his feet. He knew what was going to happen. There was only one possible outcome here. He opted to lamp the biggest of the two first. “I’ve got an idea,” he said, “why don’t the pair of you bum chums just fuck off back to the gym and suck each other off?”
The punch missed.
He was shoved hard against the wall. He would’ve tumbled down except he wasn’t allowed to fall. Not for a while at least. The beast held him up as the boyfriend threw uppercuts and jabs. Working over the head and stomach. Obviously boxed in his time. Fast combinations. Finishing with an almighty kick to the bollocks.
That’s when Pyser was allowed to drop to the ground. And fall he did. Like a sack of potatoes. He curled up, gasping for air, cupping his balls.
As a parting shot, the beast kicked him in the ribs.
Leaning over, the boyfriend spat on him and said, “Cunt, don’t ever let me see you round here again, you got that?”
Pyser squirmed on the wet gravel.
“Wankers.”
They didn’t hear.
Course not.
It was barely a whisper.
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Comments
I can't imagine "Firestarter"
I can't imagine "Firestarter" being an easy song to sing Karaoke. I do love some of the expressions like "salt". Dynamic stuff.
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all really well choreographed
all really well choreographed in this part - could see it in my head. I never saw people play dominoes (doms?) in a pub though - is that a south london thing?
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I don't know if it is - I was
I don't know if it is - I was just asking. I've never seen it in any pub on the other (the right ) side of the Thames.
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This part was brilliantly
This part was brilliantly written, like watching a scene from a film.
Jenny.
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