Record Store Day

I was woken by a blurry figure shaking me violently.  “Take my money,” I said, “Take my money, I won’t cause any trouble.” 

 “You’re nothing but trouble, Damage.”  

 My senses began to waken. 

 “Is that you Skins? I thought you were a mugger,” I said.   “Pass me my glasses, I can’t see a thing.” 

 Skins placed the glasses over my nose and ears and I could see in 20/20 perfection the wrinkled-ugly face of Bloody Stupid’s aging drummer. 

“Muggers know better than to target you, Damage,” Skins said. “I’ve never had a penny from you in the fifty years I’ve known you.” 

 “What are you doing here, anyway Skins?  I was in blissful sleep where even angels dare not disturb me.  Why would you wake a pensioner from his slumber.” 

 “It’s the album launch, Damage, at the record store.”  

 “But that’s in the afternoon,” I protested. “What are you doing waking me this early? You’re like an early-morning bird on over-zealous worm-raid.” 

 “It’s noon, Damage.  The early bird is already taking its afternoon map. Honestly, you get nothing done laying in bed all day.” 

 “It’s called slow productivity Skins, it’s the latest trend.  It’s an amazing idea, by working at a slower pace you actually get more done.” 

 “It’s called zero productivity, Damage, you get nothing done at all and expect everyone else to do it for you.” 

 “Pass me my hearing aid,” I said. “I’ve not heard a single thing you’ve said.” 

 Skins obediently fitted my hearing aid.  I heard him breathing heavily at the exertion, so at least I knew it was working. 

 “Have you seen my teeth Skins?” I said.  

 “They’re here,” Skins said irritably. “I didn’t expect to have to assemble you, Damage. It’s like an Ikea punk rocker kit." 

 “It’s age, dear boy, bits of me keep dropping off. I’ve not seen my todger in weeks.” 

 “You’ll have to assemble that yourself.” 

 “Light me a fag, Skins," I said”. I can’t start the day without one.” 

 “They’re bad for you Damage.” 

 “So they say. They were supposed to have killed me by now, instead I’m left dragging around a collection of bodily remnants. I should sue the tobacco company.” 

 Our conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door. 

 “Just ignore it, Skins,” I said. “I haven’t answered the door in two years. It’s never good news.” 

 “It’s Hampton, Damage, our old roadie.  I asked him to come round and help get you get dressed.” 

 “I can dress myself thank you very much,” I said, as Skins answered the door. “It’s just the socks I struggle with, and the pants, and don’t ask me to button anything.” 

 Hampton and Skins were in full interventionist mode, dressing me and dragging me to the bathroom, where I was at least trusted to ablute myself. 

 I emerged all-sheening from the bathroom to find Skins and Hampton stuffing my belongings into black bin bags. 

 “You ARE robbing me Skins, I knew it. This whole record store malarky was all a ruse.” 

 “I’m collecting your washing damage. We’ll drop it off at the cleaners en route.” 

 “Oh no need for that, I did a big wash recently.” 

 Skins sniffed the bin-bag unbelievingly. “How recently?” 

 “I don’t know. I think lettuce woman was Prime Minister, I remember betting the washer woman that she’d be gone before my washing was ready.  I was right of course.” 

 “That was years ago Damage.” 

 “Was it really? Well this Starmer chap is making an even worse pigs ear, I think it’s worth making another bet.” 

 After much fussing we made it to the record store barely behind schedule, but I was surprised to see a long queue of pensioners waiting outside. 

 "What’s going on Skins?” I said. “Everyone is in their 70s, we’ve come to an old folks convention by mistake.” 

 “These are our fans, Damage,” Skins said.  “They’re old punks like we are.  It’s the 49th anniversary of the first Bloody Stupid Album, we probably don’t have a single fan under 65.” 

 “I don’t know why we don’t wait ‘til next year,” I said. “Nobody celebrates a 49th anniversary.” 

 “Because ALL of the punk bands will be doing fifty year anniversary material, the record company wanted to be first out the door.  Plus, I hear they’d been talking to your doctor.” 

 Strop was already there when we arrived, and already impatient. 

 “You’re late, Damage,” he said. 

 “Not yet,” I said.  “I was just bemoaning the tobacco companies letting me down.  I never planned for old age, I expected to die young.” 

 “Well try to last the next forty-five minutes,” Strop said. “The record shop has a quick turnaround, Sting is playing here at five.” 

 “Who are the kids with guitars,” I said, pointing to a pair of be-guitared infants who had wandered into the sealed off area for the band. 

 “They’re our latest members.” He beckoned them over. “Damage, this is Lizzie, she’s playing lead guitar, and Tom, he’s playing your guitar parts.” 

 “My fingers lack the dexterity they once had,” I said in explanation. “I can barely scratch my arse these days, let alone play guitar.” 

 I took Strop to one side.   

 “The new musicians don’t seem old enough to be out without their mothers.” 

 “They’re the same age we were when we started out,” Strop said.  

 “But we terrorised the world,” I said. “They look as if they’d be intimidated going into a sweet shop on their own.” 

 “They’re experienced performers, Damage. Show some respect.  Tom’s a better guitarist than you ever were.” 

 After a brief tune-up we were ready to let the mob into our taped-off area.  The hoard of pensioners surged slowly towards us, like an over 70s zombie movie.  We went through a quick-fire regurgitation of our hits. Strop took over the vocals towards the end, as my vocal chords are as old as the rest of me.” 

 After the gig, we were ushered to a remote corner of the store for an album signing.  The pensioners duly queued up while I parked my tuft on a fold-up chair. 

 “If you could make it out to Ellie,” the first old biddy said. “I don’t know if you remember me, we had an assignation after one of your gigs." 

 “When you say assignation ...” I said. 

 “I mean full penetration,” she said beaming.  “Oh don’t worry, I was on the pill.” 

 I scribbled my name as quickly as I could and moved on to the next granny. 

 “If you could make it out to Millie,” the next oldie said. “I don’t know if you remember me, we had an assignation after one of your gigs." 

 “When you say assignation ...” I said. 

 “I mean full penetration,” she said, all dentures.  “Oh don’t worry, I was on the pill." 

 Eventually we were done, and the Bloody Stupid fan base had shuffled off to the old folks home. 

 “They all claimed to be former lovers,” I told Skins.” 

 “Did you try to pick any of them up?” he said. 

 “II can hardly lift my guitar these days, let alone a pensioner.” 

 “I mean get off with them.” 

 I looked at Skins in horror. “But they’re old!” I said. 

 “They’re the same age you are.” 

 I looked at the wrinkled hoard as they trod towards the exit. 

 “Let’s make this our last gig,” I said. “I don’t want to be doing a gig in ten years’ time at the local cemetery, with a choir of clairvoyants on backing vocals.” 

 “Okay, Damage,” he said. “Let’s make a pact, this is the last ever Bloody Stupid gig, and the last ever Bloody Stupid story.” 

 “Thank god for that,” I said, “I was running out of words.”