'She had a ticket for the races...'
Philip, my best friend from my teenage years, and still, and always, I owe him more than I'll ever be able to say, more interest than I'll ever be pay. Philip used to like Dire Straits. Boy did he like Dire Straits. It was the soundtrack to the numerous soirees he used to hold on Friday nights. In the latge, spacious upstairs bedroom of his family house near Kew Gardens station, which had a wonderful rainbow on the wall. It soundracked our dreams, more than anything, along with beers which went to our teenage heads. Scott Fitzgerald and Graham Greene. A beautiful family dog called Tara. Now sadly long gone. I'll never forget her.
Then later in the evening down the stairs, reling with the others, squares I thought mostly, I only found my real crowd when I got to university,Down the stairs anyhow to see his wonderful parents and try to pretend I wasn't reeling with the beer. I doubt if I ever fooled them. To their garden swimming pool. Gatsby and Nick. And the others.
I ised to grimace when Dire Straits came on, It sounded like music for Estate Agents to me. I knew I wasn't going to be an estate agent. I would have preferred R.E.M. The Smiths. The Go Betweens. Aztec Camera. Lloyd Cole & The Commotions. The boys with guitars and cool fringes. Literary types. Dreamers, with bookcases of cool paperbacks. 'I am the passenger. And I ride and I ride.'
The others. at thesesoirees They actually liked Dire Sraits too I suspect. They certainly loved Philip. You couldn't not ;ove that guy. They pribably enjoyed those tedious and never ending guitar solos. While I was dreaming of Marquee Moon. Endless guitar solos that were more to my fancy.
At least they never complained. As I did. And have continued ro do. To Philip. Ever since. Old jokes are the best. Between family. and friends. The others. I'm not in touch with any of them anymore. I suspect Philip isn't either. I wonder if they became estate agents. Philip didn't. Neither did I.
Dire Straits sounds fine to me this morning.As I prepare for a bath. And a holiday. Every holiday is well deserved. 'You're a slave to the money then you die.' Oh no. That wasn't Mark Knopfler. That was someone else. Time for my bath
Now I'm listening to Making Movies, forty years or more onward, as Philip and I approach our sixties. I forgive him. It sounds like a pretty damed good record tome. 'You know the movoes song It was just that the time was wrong.'
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