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Ballad of a Hard Woman	By : Saoirse Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Thin Lizzy Views: 846 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not know the members of Thin Lizzy. This is a work of fiction. No money made from this story. All lyrics/song titles belong to Lizzy and their affiliated artists. Do not sue please.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
A/N: Info on Gorham’s drug and criminal background from the chapter Nightlife: “Plus He’s Got Good Hair” provided through an NME ’76 article from Martin Popoff’s recent Lizzy book, Fighting My Way Back: Thin Lizzy ’69-’76, the 2011 Black Rose Deluxe Edition liner notes, the ’82 RTE documentary Renegade: The Philip Lynott Story, the recording session scene was based on a recording session track on the bonus disc of the 2011 Johnny the Fox Deluxe Edition, and a ‘95 Dutch TV documentary The Vibe for Philo. Featured song, Fool’s Gold written by Phil Lynott (Johnny the Fox, 1976 Vertigo).
Chapter III: Fool’s Gold
Christine sat on the dance studio hardwood floor chugging a water bottle. It was ten to ten in the evening, and Andris Findlay kept all his people on their toes until midnight. Or later, if you were lucky. Although he did think Christine’s tongue lashing at the Georgian girl was a bit overkill. It was definitely a man. He knew plenty about that. Looking at Christine blasting laser beams at the mirror as though the fucker who got her knickers wet were standing there, Andris wanted to congratulate him for finally forcing Christine into having a bit of fun.

#    #    #
If Thin Lizzy liked a journalist well enough, management (Phil) allowed them to pop in for a chat regardless of the schedule. The NME’s Chris Salewicz turned up at Ramport for an exclusive with Scott thanks to Christine’s impeccable coordinating skills, meaning there was no yelling that day. Winnie served the tea and meringues while Scott, Chris, and Frank got situated in the conference room. Frank only joined them as a token minder because nobody could really control what came out of the Lizzies mouths.
“Well, I’ll let you get to it.” Christine said on Winnie’s heels.
“No pussycat, you can take a seat.” Scott said.
Pussycat? Christine was about to sass at him, but the look Frank threw her warned her against making a scene in front of the press. When Christine looked to Winnie for an intervention she avoided her eyes.
What the fuck?
She took a seat on the opposite side of Scott at the far end. The whole interview was treated as though they were in The Butcher’s Arms save for the fact that everyone was knocking back Darjeeling.
“Great meringues,” Salewicz said between bites.
“Thank Chrissie. Her landlady’s got a bakery.” Scott raised his cup and eyebrows behind those fucking aviator shades. Christine kept her trap shut and glared at her reflection in her cup. She didn’t want to cause drama, but Christine would have to have words with Winnie. Okay, so everybody fucking knew that she and Gorham had a little face time. She’d be stupid not to have expected that. It wasn’t just Downey opening his mouth, or Gorham bragging, it was the whole machismo bullshit. She understood Gail very well. Nothing about the rock scene impressed Christine. No, she couldn’t lie. It was the scene within the scene.
“I should have been dead a long time ago because of all the shit I used to do with my brother-in-law Bobby.” Scott said to Salewicz. “Strung out on fucking downers, going into the heroin thing. I’ve been busted eight times, actually in jail at times.”
Jail? Smack?
“My old man and my lawyer had to come down each time and go to court. I was strung out on downers for about four years. It’s a heavy physical thing coming off them, but it’s an even heavier thing mentally; incredible depression. I was crying all the time.” What is it with women and crying men? Think a fucked up brain makes him any less of a prick? “In California it’s really easy to get lazy- sitting there catching the rays.”
And if you were from Wyoming, you’d be the same way, git.
“You smoke a joint and it’s so hot outside you don’t feel like doing anything. ‘Ah well, I’ll just stay in bed.’” He laughed. Gorham had a cackle that sounded like gravel rolling across a glass table.
Christine looked away when Scott took a quick glance at her. She didn’t want to be preachy or hypocritical, but a childhood in Hong Kong provided her with a street education that Scott would sneer at. The fashion of opium dens was falling away in the second half of the twentieth century. But those that did exist were run by Triads and patroned primarily by coolies and menial laborers. Vinh, Christine’s Amah, was from an elite Vietnamese family who was educated by French Catholic missionaries and was set to attend college in Paris when her family was expelled for their adherence to Buddhism, despite the fact that they were supporters of Diem.
They along with thousands of other exiles were left with next to nothing to their names. The only thing that saved Vinh’s family was their ability to speak Cantonese as they were of Chinese extraction. Faced with poverty for the first time Vinh and her siblings took low-wage jobs, but she was more successful in seeking escape as a live-in nanny for British families. But moving from one position to the next takes its toll, and soon she fell into the pastime of opium smoking. If St. John and Evelyn knew, they didn’t understand what it truly was, and took it no differently than lighting joss sticks at Man Mo Temple.
“See you tomorrow Winnie,” Christine said robotically.
“Uh, Christine…”
It was beautiful, like a piece of Ming art. Blue cloisonné fitted with a painted white porcelain bowl. Vinh bought the opium pills sold at certain Chinese chemists in Wan Chai in the face of the gwai lo government. The pill was cooked in a little copper pan over a crystal domed lamp until melting into a viscous, treacle-like liquid. A spindle rolled the cooked opium until it solidified into a tiny cone on the warmed pipe bowl’s surface. A needle inserted the cone into the bowl’s aperture, where it was heated again over the lamp to finally be smoked.
Although opium smoking was strictly reserved for the middle-aged and elderly in Oriental society, it was done quite openly before younger ones, and Vinh found no trouble with Christine’s company as she smoked. She’d mutter to her in flawless French (which was how Christine became fluent herself), regaling her with tales of a charmed life in a sprawling country house, a daughter of landowners, ministers, professors, and artists. One uncle, who was a manic-depressive poet, composed his finest work during the worst of his lows. He shed bitter tears for fallen flower petals before burying them. When they found his body in the lake, no one cried.
“You’re, like, the loudest thinker.” Christine screamed blue murder causing several people on the street to stare as they stood at the bus stop. “Feel better?” Scott asked.
“Were you there the whole damn time?!” Christine screeched.
“Yeah.”
“Why are you following me?”
“I was tryin’ to get your attention after the NME guy left, but you were kinda up in the ozone, so I figured I’ve been cooped up all day so I’ll take a walk.”
“What do you want?”
“I thought we’d get some dinner.” Scott shrugged. “There’s a nice Indian place not far from here. I thought, she was raised on Chinese food so Indian food must be a close second.” He laughed.
“Why would I want to eat with you?”
“Because it would be nice to spend a little time together.” Not only were the red flags going up because of his history, Christine knew that this bastard wasn’t the sentimental type. She decided to take the high road and appeal to Scott’s hypothetical logical side.
“I do not think that would be a good idea.” She said taking the edge from her voice.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not for you, and you’re not for me.”
“How judgmental of you.” Scott said.
“How is being realistic judgmental?” Christine asked.
“Why don’t we eat while we talk?” Scott took off his shades and his eyes softened. Christine bit her lip and checked her watch. Scott clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back and forth on his heels like a 12-year-old.
“I don’t know why I’m doing this.” She said.
Yeah you do.
“Look, I have to make a phone call first. It’s important, and then we’ll eat.”
“There’s a phone in the restaurant. They’ll let you use it.” Scott said. She walked back to Ramport with him to fetch the limo.

#    #    #

“Andris, I’m sorry for putting you on the spot. I promise it won’t happen again, but this is important.”
“I’m sure he is. And you’ll be sure to tell me all about it.”
“Enough.” Christine said a little too loud. The maître d’ in his over-the-top Punjabi costume shook his head, Christine glowered at him and he resumed shuffling menus on his lectern. “Right, I’m sorry again. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” She hung up the phone extra gently and nodded to the maître d’ in thanks. She and Scott were seated at a booth out of street view should the paparazzi happen by.
“You good?” Scott sniffed and lit a cigarette. Christine nodded and sat. “What’s that?” He pointed to her battered powder blue gym bag on the floor.
“Nothing.” She brushed him off.
“'Kay I’ll find out later.” She glared and he smiled like a nut. The waitress in a carnation pink and white sari approached with the menus.
“Would you like anything to drink first?”
“Tea please.” Christine said.
“I’ll have the same.”
“Very good.” And the waitress was off.
“No drink tonight?” Christine asked.
“There’s a nice pub not too far from my place. Thought we’d drink there.” Scott said cheerily.
“Now I’m definitely saying no to that.”
“Chrissie, c’mon…” She laid her hands flat on the table and stared Scott down. He was far from intimidated, but he wasn’t a scumbag.
“Besides,” she pointed to a folded card on the table, “it seems that they have a wine list here.” She plucked the card and skimmed the list. “And I’m curious about the quality of California wines.”
Ghee-soaked naan bread and dips were served with their tea and as they dove into their appetizers Christine turned the focus onto Scott’s expat status.
“When I learned that you were American, I was fairly shocked.”
“Why?” Scott asked sipping his tea.
“Artists from our end of the pond tend to visit your neck of the woods. Yet here you are.”
“Well don’t forget half my family’s here too.”
“That’s right. Your brother-in-law’s Bob Siebenberg.” She ripped off a thick chunk of naan and sopped up a load of baingan ka bharta.
“Somebody likes a bit of heat on her tongue.”
Wanting to kick him Christine walked that ever so steep high road again. “My Amah was Vietnamese and her cooking was rather diverse.”
“Aah-mah?”
“That means nanny.”
“Your mom didn’t stay home?”
Christine shook her head. “No. Evelyn’s an art dealer. Very socially ambitious. She worked in a British commercial gallery in Victoria. Its patrons were primarily British living the colony or tourists. That’s how she met Mrs. Lee Everett.”
“Ya mean Kenny Everett’s,” and Scott rolled his eyes, “wife?”
“Yes. But she was still with Billy Fury at the time. Apparently he refused marriage because he was seeing Judith Hall, as well as fucking a dozen or so other women. Later on he married Hall, and then dumped her for the Voice Heiress. Evelyn always got the dirt from Mrs. Everett before it came out in the papers, it’s how they became best friends. Later Mr. Everett came into the picture when she got a job at the gallery in London. He and Mrs. Everett are art fanatics.”
“You call your parents by their first names? How avant-garde.” He spooned some minty yogurt on his naan.
“It’s not as simple as all that with Evelyn and St. John. They’re not the involved-parental types. So they really don’t care what Patricia and I do.”
“And Patricia’s your sister?”
“Yeah.”
“Older or younger?”
“I’m the younger.” Christine said. “She’s a lawyer and married to another lawyer. They live in Bristol currently.”
“Well I’m the oldest, by three years.” Scott said.
“Funny, that’s the age difference for us as well. So getting back to why you’re here…” Christine said helping herself to more tea.
“Yeah, I was amazed to see the kind of fuckin’ musical talent that was comin’ out of these two little islands. I mean it’s just more than The Stones and The Beatles. I mean I’m a fan and all, but when I came here and joined up with Lizzy I was suddenly aware of Van Morrison, Rory Gallagher, and Morrissey.”
“You’re into New Wave?”
“Yeah. Y’know I think that the big time bands have this overly-manufactured, glossy sound that we don’t have or want. And frankly, the punks got this ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude that we also have.” Scott wasn’t bullshitting, he was very proud of Lizzy’s individuality. He wasn’t looking to emulate anybody, and was determined to be successful at what they were currently doing. They lapsed into silence when their meal was served, for Christine it was the vegetable vindaloo, and Scott dined on the Tandoori chicken.
“So why don’t we shoot the fuckin’ 900 lb. gorilla in the room.” Christine turned her eyes up at Scott. She bit into a chili pepper and tears began to well up. He passed her the naan. “Why did I do smack?”
The naan absorbed the heat and she washed it down with tea. “Why did you?” Christine asked softly.
“I’ve always been a shy person.”
“I don’t believe that.” Christine scoffed.
“Believe it,” Scott said, “and so are you.” Christine glared at him again and shoved more potato and eggplant into her mouth. “I didn’t exactly think I was any good at playing the guitar.”
“Now that’s fucking ridiculous.”
Scott shrugged. “Going from barbies to heroin was just a natural progression. I never got cokeheads. Phil loves the shit, I can see why. He’s always on edge, big-ass control freak, but I don’t know why you have to feel paranoid 24/7. Keeps you up, that’s for fuckin’ sure.
Anyway, Bobby and I got into it and began smoking every day. Got up on stage, did my thing, I was just floatin’. Came up with good songs sometimes, and I’m thinkin’: ‘God this shit is magical. I’ll just keep doin’ this.’ But after a while it catches up to you. Catches up real fast. And before you realize, it’s not fun anymore.
And the last time I used, it definitely wasn’t fun. That’s when we got popped. And I mean it was a fuckin’ bust. Bobby, me, and some other people were just queuing up for our first hit of the day. But cops don’t give a shit, the dealers cut a deal, and they were out in an hour. The only reason why I got off was because my lawyer was pretty good. But he and my parents were shitting themselves because of my record.”
The dishes were cleared and they ordered dessert.
“What did your parents think of all that?” Christine asked him. Scott lit both their cigarettes and he exhaled an exceptionally long trail of smoke. “Don’t answer if you feel uncomfortable.”
He smiled brightly. “I’m cool with it. Kickin’ sucks that out. When you get to the bottom of it, they were never surprised at what I did. But I had to cut the shit out. I was literally locked in my room and made to dry out. The doctor thought my parents were fuckin’ nuts. Gettin’ off heroin alone can kill you. But nobody knew that. I don’t wanna say that I wasn’t rebellious, because I was kinda rebelling. But I can’t say that my parents weren’t strict. They had rules. Me and Vicki followed ‘em… for a while. I dunno, I think they gave up too easily.”
Christine had to laugh. And the more she laughed, the more she liked him. Did all Californians make jokes out of their drug problems? They toasted their modak with merlot, and the hands on the clock above their table spun. Their waitress kindly informed them it was closing time and they were showed the door. It had cooled off significantly so they decided to walk a bit.
“Did you always want to play the guitar?” Christine asked putting a foot between them as they beat the pavement.
“Yeah. But I’d only been playin’ guitar for two-and-half-years when I joined Lizzy. At the time I didn’t see it as a viable moneymakin’ prospect, because I didn’t take it too seriously.”
“You don’t seem to take yourself very seriously.” She pointed out.
Scott leaned into her, a little too close for her comfort. “I think that’s a good thing, don’t you?”
“Let’s get a taxi. It’s getting late.” Christine raised her arm.
“How ‘bout you?” Scott asked.
“How ‘bout me?”
“Always been into promotions?”
“I was in ballet until I was nineteen.” She informed him.
“Is that what that is?” Scott gestured to her bag. Christine nodded.
“Of course the Royal Ballet was my goal. But my knee,” and she pat her right thigh, “was telling me something else.”
“Sorry,” Scott said.
“Don’t be.” Christine grinned. “I think I like dancing better now because I’m not trapped in a studio for eight hours a day.” A black cab pulled up to the curb and Scott opened the door for Christine.
“North Tottenham my good man, if you please.” He said. Christine frowned. She definitely was going to have words with Winnie. The cab ride was quiet, until they approached Upper Edmonton. “How long have you been living in Tottenham?” Scott asked.
“Since I graduated university.”
“You think it’s wise with the hours the business keeps, that you should be walking the streets at compromising times?”
“Why Mr. Gorham, I had no idea you were so chivalrous.”
“You flatter me Miss Wiltshire.”
“If you are referring to the gangs, their mainstays are the Broadwater Farm estate and North London. Besides, Rona Barrett lets me crash at her flat if it’s too late.” Scott recalled the huge-titted blonde grinding on Phil at their gold record presentation party. Christine watched Scott smoke, and his angular, thin features stretched tighter when he clutched the cigarette between his teeth. He was weirdly good looking. “I really hope you never touch the junk again.”
“Pussycat, you seem very emotionally invested in the heroin scene.” Christine turned to look out the window. Scott idly twirled a wisp of her hair round his finger. It annoyed her, but she didn’t bother reprimanding him. He brought it up to his nose and sniffed. “Mmm,” he hummed. “What is that?”
“Ylang-ylang oil.”
“What-what oil?” He laughed.
“Ylang-ylang oil.” Christine repeated. “It’s beneficial for healthy hair growth.”
“Well it does smell good.” He rolled his eyes up and down her body. “Is that why the conference room smells so good?”
His repertoire needed tweaking. The cab pulled up in front of the bakery.
“I think you live here.” Scott said pointing out her window. Christine thanked the driver and paid him. When she turned her back Scott took Christine’s money from the driver’s fist and replaced it with his own. Following her to the door he slipped the bills under her messenger bag’s flap.
“I had a nice time.” She said.
“Bet that was hard to say.” Scott said and leaned forward. Christine threw her hand between their mouths and he stopped.
“Look, I won’t lie; I liked what happened in the studio.”
“So what’s the deal?”
“The deal is that I didn’t get a job with Phonogram to do this.” Scott put his hands on his hips like a petulant child. “I’m not naïve Scott. I know what you’re habits are. They’re all the same, one rocker to the next. We do this; the next four months will be hellish for the both of us.” That certainly gave him pause. “Now would you like your groupies to give you stick about some jealous, frumpy office lady?”
“You’re not frumpy Christine.” He said seriously.
“And I do not want the tabloids writing fairy tales about us, alright?” Pussycat had a point. And he fucking hated that.
“Alright, we’ll play it your way. But I’m not gonna make it easy for you.”
“Well I don’t expect anything else from you.” Scott took her gently by the arms, silently ordering her to stay perfectly still, and kissed her neck getting a good whiff of the ylang-ylang.
“There’s one more thing for you to expect Chrissie,” Scott got back into the cab. “I usually get my way. Sleep well.” Christine watched Scott take off again. But this time she was less afraid of her world being less routine.

#    #    #

Chris O’Donnell finally made his appearance the following week. And he looked every inch the rock band manager: long dark brown hair, steel wool sideburns, tight jeans, cowboy boots, and a thick Vegas gold chain sitting on a hairy chest.
“Mr. O’Donnell, I’m Christine Wiltshire.” They shook hands.
“Finally I see the face behind the voice.” He pulled his huge shades down his nose. “And a lovely face it is.”
Another one.
“They’re recording now, but I’m sure they’ll let you in.” Christine knocked softly and Winnie answered. Phil, John, Georgiana, and an engineer were at the mixing desk. Tea cups rattled on saucers and smoke made the rooms hazy. Downey, Robbo, and Scott were in the studio tuning up. O’Donnell greeted Morrison and Frank, and the trio conferred quietly in the corner. Winnie and Christine huddled in the opposite corner watching the action.
There was a phrase Scott used a lot, ‘magic circle’, and it summarized the importance of a band’s ability to jell. Their chemistry as people was just as important as their musical capabilities. It took roughly three hours of shifting the drums around to get the right drum sound, and Downey who was a demure stickler wouldn’t count off until he was perfectly in his element.
Robbo was theoretically orthodox because of his classical training, but performance-wise he was a freestyling bastard. He went off his nut because hearing mistakes reminded him of his humanness.
Scott on the other hand was completely unorthodox. He was from the self-taught class, and Robbo was fairly shocked at his style. He liked chords and riffs (unlike Robbo), and was the quintessential rhythm guitarist, because of his heavy melodic layering. But Scott’s problem was that he preferred to play what was in his head, rather than what was on the sheet and pulled notes from the air and bent them like paperclips. It sounded cool to him, but pissed everyone else off because he didn’t know the rules. Robbo and Phil had to literally teach him things like majors and minors, which initially restricted the fuck out of him. But he evolved into a fair technician, and got his parts spot-on.
As for Phil, he was a tight bassist, but spent most of his energy on songwriting. Robbo and Scott didn’t think Phil was a ‘guitar guy’, but Scott spent many days with Phil and their acoustic guitars batting around song ideas. The big misconception about Thin Lizzy was the writing credits; it was collaborative effort, regardless of whose name was next to what song on the sleeve.
Downey counted them off and the threesome went headlong into the funk-rock track Johnny the Fox Meets Jimmy the Weed. Christine focused on Phil and John; they seemed so involved you wouldn’t think they were at each other’s throats. They hit buttons and pushed levers, and when Phil wanted to fuck with John’s head, he twiddled with whatever their producer adjusted. Four minutes went by before Lizzy stopped to retune.
“Oh no, more.” Phil said over the speaker box. Scott and Robbo fingered and strummed. “Sounds better, it’s good.” Another ten seconds went by.
“Oi!” Robbo yelled. Did these idiots know that it was their money that was paying for this time wastage? In Christine’s peripheral vision she saw Scott blank out for a second when he noticed she was there.
“Scott?” Phil said.
“Yeah! Yeah! I know, I know…” Scott laughed.
“Tell him to start.” Phil cracked up.
“Huh? What?” Scott asked. Christine rolled her eyes keeping her focus on the desk. “Sound bad?”
“Begin!” Phil laughed.
“Start!” Downey yelled.
“Begin! Begin!” John said.
“Listen, can ya bring my guitar up a little bit?” Scott asked. O’Donnell watched that exchange very closely then gave Frank a look.
Chicks equal trouble.
The clamminess Christine felt on her palms indicated that she overstayed her welcome and split.

#    #    #

Christine stood on Phil’s doorstep with a half a mind to box his ears. It was Saturday for the love of fuck! Where in her contract did it say to put in overtime when the band hadn’t played a single note? And to make matters worse, she had to push back rehearsals with Andris to Sunday. O’Donnell had her up-in-arms early that morning forcing Christine to get a cab to Willesden that she technically couldn’t afford. The longer she spent in the industry, the more jaded she got. Everything was a big scam. From booking the dates, organizing hotel rooms, and getting studio time- even the fucking catering was underhanded! The house Phil rented was put down as a logistical expense and charged to the song publishing company.
Christine rang the bell and the door was opened by a blonde with a kewpie doll face in Phil’s Reading Festival T-shirt.
“Hi there!” The blonde said brightly. “You’re Christine, right?”
“Is Phil here?”
“Yeah, yeah. C’mon in.” Christine could hear several fans going at full-blast. It was 29° C, and it was only a little after noon. She was dressed in a black camisole, a saffron broomstick skirt with a rust sash, and brown leather sling-backs. “I’m Ivy by the way.” The women shook hands.
“Christine Wiltshire, Thin Lizzy’s promoter.”
“I know, heard lots about you.” There was a catch in Christine’s throat. “Lovey!” Ivy called out, the two women walked into the sitting room where Phil sat in front of the TV.
“Mmm?” He grunted. Man U was playing and Christine knew she was lucky that she got that much out of Phil.
“Christine’s here.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll just put the kettle on. Make yourself at home.” Christine neatly laid her messenger bag against an armchair’s foot and sat. Phil’s eyes were glued to the blaring set; Manchester was playing against Real Madrid. His skyscraper-length legs were encased in impossibly tight jeans, a short-sleeved white dress shirt hanging open and red Converse high-tops. Around his neck was a thick silver Cuban chain with a scimitar and a huge heart dangling from it. Phil seemed content ignoring Christine, while Ivy probably was happy to have a girl to gossip with. Christine stewed seeing that none of the management team was there.
“Hey, baby!” Phil called out to the kitchen when the commercial aired.
“Yeah?” Ivy answered over the running water.
“We got any more of those assorted biscuits?”
The blonde local stuck her head out of the kitchen door. “You’re the one who emptied the tin last night.” Phil frowned like a kindergartener. “So we’ll have cream crackers, and I brought some of that herb and chive spread from the pub you like, alright?”
When she ducked back in, Phil turned to Christine with a silly grin on his face. “She’s pretty great, right? Ivy works at The Butcher’s Arms, and that’s how we met. Anyway, when we came back to London I really didn’t have a place to stay- I was at her flat for a bit- and that’s when she told me that her dad owns this place and he rents it to people. So Chris Morrison got it for me, and here we are.” He took a pull off his cigarette and glanced at the muted TV in case he missed anything. Phil gave Christine a once-over and smiled impishly. “Dressing smart for the weekend, eh Christine?”
“Well it’s hot, Phil.” She remarked.
“Referrin’ to the weather?” He quipped. Christine laughed and Ivy trundled out with a full tray.
“There we are,” she arranged the tea on the coffee table, “cream or sugar, Christine?”
“Just cream please.” Ivy handed Christine a ceramic daisy patterned cup on a saucer. She heavily sugared and creamed Phil’s tea before tending to herself. Christine got stuck into the topping-slathered cream crackers since she only managed to get down a slice of marmalade toast and some orange juice that morning. Ivy appeared involved with the football match as Phil and only the sounds of crunching, clinking, and haranguing commentators was made. The match went into overtime and still neither hide nor hair of either of anybody else.
The siren blared signaling the game’s end with Madrid’s victory, and Phil hung his head.
“They can’t win all the time, lovey.” Ivy vainly tried comforting the rocker.
“Besty’s lookin’ better with Fulham. They should have him back.” He remarked sullenly about his hero and drinking buddy, George Best. “You follow the football, Christine?”
“If I only had a few minutes to Phil.” She was too paranoid to admit that she and her sister were Rangers girls, and St. John (who was an Orangeman like Best’s father) was an Arsenal man.
“Figures. So busy you are.” He ribbed, no doubt a certain Californian had something to do with that. “Anyway, not that I’m complainin’, all we had to do was our Top of the Pops gig and we’re done ‘til fall.”
“And you’ve got one more before Christmas.” Christine reminded him.
“Kid Jensen’s a great supporter. Been there all the way,” the Canadian DJ was one of The Pops’ presenters and a friend to Phil. “So whenever we’re in the world they have us on. But y’know, Robbo sorta hates it.” Phil chortled.
“What’s his problem?” Christine lit a cigarette then passed her lighter to Phil.
“Wants to be hard, y’know. Stroppy. But a lot of it, it’s a façade. He’s insecure ‘bout bein’ younger than the rest of us. That’s why he didn’t want to shave his beard. Nigel had to make him, or he’d be sacked.” He had a good laugh at that.
“You’re kidding?” He shook his head. “Would have Robertson been sacked?”
“At that point, we were kind of desperate to get a photo for the Fighting sleeve. Either way, those photos were pretty fuckin’ terrible.” Phil shrugged.
Ivy glanced at the clock then smacked Phil’s knee. “Be back in a tick. Gotta change.”
“I know Brian thinks the BBC’s crap, but they let us have studio sessions for free. See, you’re supposed to cut a mix to have ready to mime to. But we already have that sussed when we go in. In actuality we use the time to record demos.” He nudged Christine’s knee conspiratorially.
“Um, Phil, isn’t that sort of illegal?”
“That’s why Big Charlie’s watching the door should anybody from the Musicians Union pop in.” One. Big. Scam. In the master bedroom Ivy glossed her lips with glittery champagne lipstick when she heard a car pull up in front of the house.
“Just in time.” She said turning back to the mirror. Christine was starting to zone out from Phil’s nattering when the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it!” Ivy sailed downstairs in white cutoffs, a white polka dot black halter top, and wedges.
“Knock! Knock!” An American voice said. Christine blanched. Robbo, Downey, and Scott dragging his acoustic guitar shuffled in. They looked like they just crawled out from wherever the hell they partied last night. Both Brians sported Guinness cans and Scott was smoking a little too slowly so he probably just finished his. They all had frayed jeans on, Scott and Downey in boots, but Robbo wore these crazy high-heeled tan clogs. And all wore band shirts, Scott’s was Supertramp’s; Robbo’s The Average White Band that his brother Glenn was in; and Downey’s was UFO. Christine couldn’t understand why Thin Lizzy advertised the bands they competed against so much. Then again it just may be the case of their lack of clothing.
When Scott finally noticed Christine the most lascivious grin split his face.
“God I’d like to fuckin’ eat you.” Christine huddled in the chair tighter. Phil moved down letting Scott occupy the corner. He wedged the guitar case between the chair and sofa and practically pressed his face into hers. “You’re beautiful. I love what you’re wearing.” Robbo took the opposite end of the sofa and Ivy threw herself into Phil’s lap. Downey sat in the remaining armchair and turned the channel over.
“It is summer.” Christine said uselessly. Frank Murray walked in and stopped short of Christine’s chair.
“Great, you’re here.” He jogged back to the door. “FERGA!” He shouted to his wife. “Will ya quit yer dallying! Move yer arse! She’s here!”
“Quit shouting in the middle of the street, ya fuckin’ eejit! I’m giving the taxi driver directions! Just have Christine come outside!”
Christine shot to her feet. “Excuse me! What the hell is going on?” Frank put her bag into her arms and led her out the door.
“Look Christine, I know it’s last minute, but Ferga needs an extra pair of hands to help her with the shopping today.” Frank explained.
“Do fucking what?! Help your wife do her errands? That’s not in my job description!”
“Not her errands! She’s doing wardrobe shopping for the band!”
“Frank, I thought I was sent for do some real work! I’m not some glorified pack camel!”
“Then I suppose I better welcome you to the real big-time, where everybody’s a jack-of-all-trades. Now look, if you truly came to do your promoting bit, you’d be stuck inside with that lot all day. And I know you don’t want Scott hanging about you.”
“Y’know when she comes back, I’ll hang on her then!” Scott yelled from inside.
“I’m gone.” Christine said to Frank.
“There’s a good girl.”
Ferga Murray could be Cher’s twin sister. Pin-straight jet black hair parted in the middle, high and round cheekbones, and big eyes. She was lean and tall as her husband, dressed in low-slung flares, one of Frank’s huge belts, a red tank top, a black suede vest, with a scarf tied on her head like a gypsy. Silver bangles jangled on her right arm and a rainbow plastic set of bangles was on her left.
“Ferga Murray, great to meet you Christine.”
“How do you do Ferga?”
“Well let’s be off. There’s lots to do and lots of PolyGram money to spend.”
They hit up every consignment and trendy couture shop in London for anything and everything brash, sexy, and shimmery.
“What I love about shopping for the boys is that it’s easy. Then again it might be easy for me to say that because I’ve known Phil and Brian Downey from the beginning! Now each boy has their signature look, Phil’s is definitely the leather strides; he’s the only one who dares to wear them. Very proud of his legs, he is. Studs are a must and it’s just like him to have them everywhere. Brian Downey isn’t very picky, anything he can dress up with a leather jacket, a hat, neck scarf, or tie. Must be loose in the arms, obviously, but he plays from the wrists. Jazz training.
For Robertson the hairy chest must be shown,” Ferga made an exasperated face, “so anything tied, buttoned, or a low cut jumper. He did love the kimonos I got him, wore ‘em fuckin’ out nearly! The black one with the gold trim especially looked hot. And then there’s Scott, and what can I say about Californians? Coordination monster! Does the whole singular color thing well. Silk, velvet, and lots of vests.”
Christine stood there with her arms ready to drop off from the all clothes Ferga piled in them. The two women went from one store to another, and after a long while (to Christine at least) everything looked the same. Back in another taxi crushed by shopping bags the promoter looked at her watch and her stomach growled. They missed tea and she wondered if Ferga would be done before the Chinese take-away shops closed.
“STOP!” Ferga cried. The driver hit the brakes hurling Christine into the back of his seat. They flew out the taxi; Christine made a beeline to a newsstand. Saved by chocolate! “Fuckin’ brilliant!” Ferga whooped. “Christine! Christine!” Christine was about to tear open her Topic bar when Ferga pulled her to a storefront. “Look at that!” She shoved her face into the glass. On a headless mannequin was a black velvet outfit. The jacket had red and gold floral patterns and flared sleeves. “Scott will look so fucking smart in that, don’tcha think?”
Christine forgot about her stomach and saw Gorham onstage in that outfit dancing with his Les Paul like a silly idiot for thousands of psychotic fans.
“Yes he would.” Christine said flatly and trudged inside after Ferga.

#    #    #

“It’s just that the record company’s goin’ apeshit on me, Phil. They need the copy of the sleeve art, and you haven’t come up a title yet. How can I finish the sleeve when I don’t know what the title is going to be?! Just think of any title, I’ll fit anything into the bloody design!” Jim Fitzpatrick, Phil’s friend and Thin Lizzy’s album artist vented his grievances over the speakerphone O’Donnell hooked up.
“Ah, call it Johnny the Fox, that’ll do.” Phil said. Robbo winced, Downey shrugged, and Scott took a heavier pull off the spliff. Phil would be the first to admit he wasn’t very good at choosing album titles. He’d throw everything at the wall until something stuck.
“Which track is that?” Jim asked.
“Johnny the Fox Meets Jimmy the Weed.”
“You don’t mean me, do you?!” Jim panicked.
“No, it’s somebody else.” Phil assured him.
“Anyway,” Jim sighed, “I think I know what to do. I’ll call ya back when I send it off. Goodbye for now.”
“Good night, Jim. Or rather, good morning.” Jim called from his home in Madison, Connecticut.
“Actually Phil, I haven’t been to bed yet. I wonder whose fault that is?” Ivy hit the off button cutting off the dial tone and went back to her perch on the shelf beside the hi-fi flipping through LPs. Downey took his time with the spliff and Phil shuffled into the kitchen. Robbo groused from his spot on the sofa and Scott was sitting on the floor like a hippie strumming his guitar in his little bubble.
“When is Ferga and Dame Fonteyn getting back?” The Scotsman asked. “I can’t take much more of this fuckin’ inactivity!”
“You can use a bit of inactivity, Brian.” O’Donnell said. The front door banged open and Ferga announced herself à la Jimmy Savile.
“Now then, now then guys n’ gals, guys n’ gals!” Christine tripped over her own feet and fell on her face.
“Now howzabout that then?” Christine grunted. No one gave a shit that she was on the floor because they were busy diving through their booty.
Ivy squealed waving a black shirt with blue, silver and green sequined icicles down the left side. “Baby! You’ll look so sweet in this!” She held up the shirt to Phil’s torso.
“Ferga, didn’t you get any shirt with the Celtic designs?” Phil asked inspecting a peacock print white shirt.
“Phil, you’ve done the Irish cowboy to death.” Ferga said.
“Absolutely!” O’Donnell said. “You need a new gimmick. Gotta keep the act fresh, you can never rely on the same old damn tricks to keep the crowds comin’ in.”
Before the mirror Downey pulled a dress shirt with alternating purple and pink stripes over his T-shirt and paired it with a studded belt with a huge star buckle. “I personally think we should be a bit more chic.” He nodded at his reflection turning his upper half this way and that. “Television does sell our image.”
“Yeah, but in my opinion there’s a fine fuckin’ line between fashion and flamboyancy!” Robbo said.
“This comin’ from the guy with glitter pants!” Scott came downstairs in the black velvet outfit. Ivy wolf whistled and Phil and Ferga applauded. Scott spun like a model flashing his bare slim chest.
“Ah, isn’t he done up like the cutest whore?” Robbo taunted Scott.
“Fuck you.” Scott said flipping his hair and posing in the mirror. Handing Scott another bag, Ferga got him another velvet outfit in red with gold leaf on the jacket. Scott put the jacket up to his chest when he kicked something. He stooped over and saw a Topic bar on the carpet. There was a crash in the kitchen followed by Christine’s whinging.
“I can’t believe this!” Christine complained. Her bag had been emptied all over the table. “Ten p down the plughole! I’m starving and that madwoman is going on like she’s a fucking Soul Train dancer’s mother!” A whistle made her look up and Scott stood in the door waving the Topic bar. “Thank God!” Scott pulled it behind his back.
“Relax pussycat.” Scott told her.
“Come on, Gorham! I’ve run my feet off and haven’t had a morsel of meat all goddamn day!” He fixed her with the most unsympathetic look. Princess darling didn’t seem the type to be accustomed to eating straight from a Spaghetti O’s tin while sleeping two to a bed in a fleabag. And that was a luxury.
“Gimme a kiss pussycat.”
“Fuck off!”
“Guess you’re not that fuckin’ hungry…” He unwrapped the bar and proceeded to eat it when Christine screamed. He happily watched her stomp like a brat all fucked up over what to do. She took a minute to comport herself and grabbed his face with both hands bringing it to hers. The kiss went for a full minute, Scott keeping his hands to himself.
“Happy?” Christine asked. He broke the chocolate bar in half and gave one to her shoving the other bit in his mouth and walked out.
She knew when she was insulted.

#    #    #

Dinner was finally served when Ivy, Ferga, Christine, and Scott went to the Chinese take-away shop. The booze run was led by Phil, Robbo, and Frank. Christine slipped Frank a few bob for a Southern Comfort, but she found herself sharing it with Scott and Phil as she ate her vegetable fried rice.
“I don’t trust the fuckers handling the T-shirts, Chris.” Phil said to O’Donnell.
“Don’t worry, give it to Adrian. He won’t go astray. He handled the last tour brilliantly.”
“Give some of the oversight to Christine,” Phil said pointing to her from his chair plugging a piece of sweet and sour chicken into his mouth. “She’s handy with details.”
“Phil, I don’t have any practical experience with merchandise.” Christine said.
“Y’know Adrian Hopkins?” He asked.
“Of course, he’s one of our promoters.”
“Well he’s got a merchandising side business. He’s alright. Great sense of humor. And since you know him, you’ll be able to keep track of everything together.” She dumped more Comfort into her Tab.
“What’s got you nervous pussycat?” Scott asked tapping his cig.
“While I appreciate Phil’s vote of confidence, I think he’s borderline delusional.”
“Let me tell you something pussycat, Phil took a peek at that portfolio of yours-”
“Well he shouldn’t have!” She sneered at Phil who just chortled.
“He said you were meticulous beyond reason. So why shouldn’t you have more responsibilities?” She couldn’t argue with that bit of sense. The boss liking you was the way up the ladder, and Prosser instructed Christine never to reject having more duties being piled on her plate. But advised her to listen to her inner shrew (as she called it) and raise high holy hell when she was taken advantage of. And by the way that Phil pursed his lips training his eyes on her, then flipping them up at Scott returning Phil’s look with one of his own, Christine knew this was going to be a decathlon of wills.
Ooh La La blasted away on the hi-fi, it was a quarter past eleven and the party didn’t seem to be stopping any time soon. And Robbo finished off her Southern Comfort. Christine splashed cold water on her face trying to staunch the puffiness starting under her eyes. To pass for normal she dabbed a little rose stain to her cheeks and lips, but she was ready to call it a night. She stepped out of the bath and found Scott sitting on Ivy and Phil’s bed.
“Sorry if I took too long.” She muttered. He didn’t waste time and kissed Christine long and hard. He tasted like General Tso’s chicken.
“Don’t say no pussycat.”
“Whether I say yes or no, I still make a fool of myself.” Reality was a bitch goddess, but he’d much rather worship Chrissie.
The high from Scott’s kisses came from Christine’s lack of breath and he pressed her down to the bed and knelt between her legs. Scott pushed her skirt up to her hips and rubbed her legs. He loved her dancer’s legs, toned calves and slim thighs. Christine kept looking at the door.
“What’s the matter now, pussycat?” Scott laughed.
“Is that door locked?” She asked desperately. Scott laughed harder. Fucking in Phil’s bed was hardly shocking. Christine frowned at Scott harder. She wasn’t a novice for chrissakes! She knew bands were fucking shameless! But that didn’t mean she was willing to sacrifice her dignity. Sliding her hands through his hair playfully Christine pulled Scott into a hug and nuzzled his cheek. She felt a little sorry for him. Christine looked at the door one last time and nodded at Scott who dived on top of her.
The old prospector
He makes it to the four lane highway
His old compadre
Lies dead in the sand
With outstretched hands
He cries, "Are you going my way?"
The people passing by don't seem to understand
The curse of fool's gold
Broken Joe just lying in a gutter
He's gone as low as any man can be
He calls for wine but they'll only serve him water
The bartender say "We don't sell sympathy"
These kind of men fuck because they are bored and lonely. And because they just could. He smothered her with his mouth and wrestled with her top and bra. Scott lapped her up with his eyes and grabbed her breasts a little too hard. Christine tried not to think about the thousand other women with bigger and better tits he’d fucked that week he was surely measuring her up against. Her nipples were sore and her breasts felt heavy as he plumped them to fit them better into his greedy mouth.
The sweat pouring out of Christine made her perfume’s scent more powerful. Instead of applying it directly on her skin she sprinkled it on her bra and panties. The bed smelled of incense and cinnamon. Scott was so thin but felt heavy as bricks; she wished he’d hurry the fuck up. Christine went for his belt and as soon as her hands were in his briefs the door flew open.
“Oh, so sorry!” Phil exclaimed shielding his eyes. Christine screamed pulling Scott’s hair down over her breasts causing him to scream.
“The fuck’s goin’ on up there?!” Robbo bellowed from below.
“What’d you think?” Downey said. Christine scrambled into her clothes and Scott adjusted his pants, all the while Phil was laughing his ass off stomping his huge feet.
He tells a strange story
About his father
How Sunday mornings they'd go down
To the church on the corner
As time grows older
His thoughts they grow younger
It is his wish
To search no longer for fool's gold
“Chrissie!” Scott called after her, but she was bounding down the steps and kept her red face down as everybody but Ferga had a big laugh. “Chrissie! Listen…” Scott caught at the front door.
“This was a big mistake, Gorham. Good night!” And she slammed the door in his face.
The vulture sits on top
Of the big top circus arena
He's seen this show before
Knows someone is going to fall
Just near the part
Where the beautiful dancing tightrope ballerina
Forgets that the safety net
Isn't there at all
Down he swoops with claws drawn to take her
Razor sharp so savagely is she mauled
Oh my god, is there no one who can save her?
In steps the fox to thunderous applause
Fool's gold
- 3
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Ballad of a Hard Woman