whatever happened to lucky eric

8/8/2019 Whatever Happened to Lucky Eric

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2/23

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO LUCKY ERIC

Luke James

I once played Lucky Eric in John Godbers Bouncers in San Francisco.

Recently, I found myself wondering, whatever happened to Lucky Eric?

Pull up a beer keg, make yourself comfortable, have a wee nip of this,

and Ill tell you.

Lucky Eric is sitting at a booth in the back of the empty club nursing an

after hours scotch. Jimmy The Con slides onto the seat next to him and

sets down his orange juice. He looks at Lucky Eric and notices Erics also

nursing a black eye along with his scotch.

Stone me, what happened to you? Jimmy is doing a bad job of

not grinning.

Lucky Eric is not amused.Some punk. Lucky punch.

Yeah? Not for you.

Yeah. Showing off to his chick. I wasnt letting the little sod in.

Never saw it coming. Popped me right in the eye. And ran off like a

fuckin rabbit.

Well Jimmy is still smiling. Lucky Eric turns to him.

Its not funny.

No. Course not. Hey, it happens.

Time was Id have grabbed that fist and crushed every bone in his

hand before he got within six inches of my face.

Yeah, well you had an off night. Thats all.

No. Its not just that. He turns to Jimmy. You know how old I

am?

No.


3/23

Forty eight. You think this is any kind of life for a middle aged

man? Working the door. Lousy pay, tired all the time, idiots taking shots

at you?

Cmon, itll be okay. Have another.

Lucky Eric stares into his glass.

Little shit got to corner, dropped his trousers, and mooned me.

Jesus. says Jimmy under his breath.

As the punter steps toward the door, a figure flies straight out,

horizontal, right past the side of his head and smashes face first into the

frozen ground. Jimmy The Con looms through the doorway like Satans

fungus.

And fuckin stay out! he yells at the crumpled figure, who is now

moaning, blood pooling around his head on the icy sidewalk. Jimmy The

Con turns and stalks back into the club, headed for the dressing room.Alright, men?

The band look up at the mass of muscle that is Jimmy The Con as he

squeezes himself in through the dressing room door.

Hi Jimmy! they chorus with an enthusiasm sadly lacking in their

music.

Now, listen lads, Ill take good care of you. Nobody messes with

one of my bands.

Jimmy perches himself on the edge of a rickety table.

I ever tell you one of the best ways to handle someone? Jimmy

asks them.

He holds up a muscle-bound index finger.

You take this and shove it up the fuckers nose.

Jimmy chuckles.


4/23

As far as itll go. he says, as if suggesting a new arrangement for

their opening number.

Four sets of bloodshot eyes are focused on his raised digit.

Believe me, hes gonna follow you wherever you go. So, you lead

him around for a while and then steer him into this.

He smacks his index finger up against a fist the size of small table.

Therell be no trouble after that. He says and grins. So, anyone

gives you any shit before, during, or after the set, dont worry. Ill be

there. Aint no one fucks with mybands.

So I said to Sting, I saw her first you peroxide ponce! Lobster

Ron says.

The girl yawns and opens her purse. Who? she asks.

Theyre sitting at a table at the back of the club. It is after hours.

So then Andy comes into the dressing room and - what do youmean who?

She squints at her phone and starts thumbing the keypad. She looks up

at Ron, still working on her message.

Stink. She says, what was he? A punk rocker?

Not exactly. Ron mutters. How old did you say you were?

Hmmm? shes back to staring at her phone, I didnt.

Ron takes pull on his beer and stares into the darkened club.

Oh Sting? the girl asks. Rons face lights up.

Yes! So anyway I says to him-

I think my Mom listens to him. Or my gran.

Ron slowly lowers his head into his hands.


5/23

Lucky Eric is sitting cross-legged at the foot of a peeling eucalyptus tree,

in a grove of trees up in the Lickey Hills. He is dressed in a black

Samurai robe, a long scabbard lies in his lap. His eyes are closed, he is

breathing deeply, sunlight glints on the sweat of his brow and shaved

head. His eyes spring open and he flows to his feet, fixing the scabbard

to his belt as he moves. He stares across the clearing at a shop window

dummy about twenty yards away. He draws a breath and starts to move

across the clearing, the ankle-length robe making him appear to float, he

accelerates toward the mannequin. A few feet from his target, he draws

the sword with a fluid motion and sweeps it in a sideways arc from his

shoulder, pirouetting as he passes the dummy. The dummys head

topples and rolls across the ground. Before it has stopped moving Lucky

Eric has sheathed the sword. He bows to the headless dummy, A flock of

ravens burst startled from the trees, cawing in imitation of a passing

siren.

Erics eyes spring open, he doesnt know where he is, something about a

sword and a dummy. Outside a siren doplers away into the morningsdespair. Eric rolls out of bed and shivers along the lino to the bathroom.

As he pees, he stares at the haggard, wreckage of his reflection in the

mirror and swears, tonight no drinking after work. Maybe hell go to the

gym instead. Yeah, and maybe St. Peter needs help on the Pearly Gates.

Lucky Eric and Lobster Ron are seated at the bar hunched over drinks,

exhausted. Its 2.30AM on Christmas Day. Behind them the glass and

bottle collectors crash and rattle their trays as they clear the tables of

empties. AC/DC are on the highway to hell and the bar staff are at the

registers cashing out and bickering over the tips.

Rough night. Eric tells his drink.

Ron offers Eric a cigarette.


6/23

Yeah it was a long one Eric. Bit like that gig we did in-

Please Ron. Eric interrupts, Not now, mate. Alright?

One of the cleaners, a beanpole kid with jug handle ears and a painful

pizza complexion pushes a broom past them.

Could be worse, I suppose. Ron says, Look at that poor sod.

At the far end of the bar two drunken girls are balanced precariously on

their bar stools, propped against each other. They suddenly erupt into

cackling laughter.

What a filthy laugh. Ron says.

Lucky Eric casts a jaundiced glance in their direction.

Tommy and Billyll be alright later, then. he says, As usual.

Right. If they ever stop arguing over their tips.

Dunno, Ron. Them slappers look a bit the worse for drink to me.

Like they could pass out any minute. Or throw up. Not that Tommy or

Billy would be fussed either way.

How come we dont get tips? Ron asks Not fair that.

Dont fry bacon in the nude. Lucky Eric says.You what?

Theres a pretty good tip for you.

Or stick your willy in a blender. Ron says.

No Ron, thats more what Id call just plain common sense. You

dim cunt.

Here, I found this at the back of the dance floor. One of the glass

collectors is standing at the bar waving something at the bar staff. What

should I do with it?

It looks for all the world like a prosthetic leg. Billy looks over at her.

Hop it! he yells.

Everybody groans loudly and Billy grins like a Cheshire cat on e.

Suddenly a manic voice singing Love in an elevator ... horribly flat and

screechy, cuts over AC/DCs Big Balls.

Eric and Ron dont even turn from contemplating their drinks.


7/23

Heres Jimmy then. Back from the back room. Lucky Eric says.

Alright Jimmy?

Going dowwwwwwwn. Jimmy finishes. Alright indeed men!

He stands beside them supporting a girl so drunk she has one eye

closed, squinting furiously through the other. Every now and then she

licks her lips. Jimmy flies are open.

Your mouths open Jimmy, Lucky Eric says, careful your brains

dont catch cold.

This is ... er,

Kazza, the girl slurs, and hiccups.

Right. Jimmy says. Carol. She just gave me my present.

Lovely. Ron says miserably.

A Christmas Carol then. Lucky Eric says.

Ho ... ho ... ho. Carol says. She leans forward slightly and, with

considerable accuracy, throws up all down Jimmys leg.

Feels like I only went for a slash and now here we are again.

Lobster Ron complains.

Yeah. Lucky Eric says, Didnt sleep much either last night.

I was up all night and all. Jimmy The Con says. He winks and

grins.

They stare at him.

Getting the lumps out of your turn-ups were you? Lucky Eric

asks.

Dont know why they have to open Christmas night, anyway. Ron

says. Everyone at home stuffed full of turkey and mince pies watching

The Great Escape.

Greedy fuckers, the owners.. Jimmy says, Probably Yids.


8/23

Thanks for that insight, Jimmy, Lucky Eric says, with an obvious

look of distaste, that Jimmy ignores or more likely misses. Besides,

youd be surprised. Theres still plenty of young idiots think theyre more

likely to get their ends away at Christmas than any other time of the

year.

What? Ron says, Like a special prezzie from Santa?

Oh aye, therell be more than enough pissed heifers to go round.

Jimmy says. He rubs his hands, only partly in order warm them.

Then well have to look out for the fuckin IRA. They might be

round. he adds.

What? Luck Eric asks the fuck are you talking about.

A pissed duck egg is always trouble. Then theres the fuckin Paki

mafia, the nig nogs, the chinks. You have to watch them on account of

they all know that king fu. Knife the fuckers first, ask questions later.

And as for pouffs, well dont get me started. Half of them are tooled up

theses days. Dont even act like nancies any more. Macho shite stabbers.

Ought to be in camps. Mind you, theyd probably like that, eh Eric?Is there anyone you dont hate Jimmy? Ron asks

Jimmy thinks.

Lezzers. he says at length, I do like a nice couple of lezzers.

Eric covers his face with a calloused paw and shakes his head as if trying

to erase what hes just heard.

Anyway, Jimmy says, since when did you become Mr. bleedin

sensitive?

Hes been doing them night school classes. Ron says.

Ron!

Night school? When? Jimmy is confused Were always here at

night.

Three in the afternoon till five Eric says, Sociology. At the tech.

What the fuck for?


9/23

I dunno Jimmy. Maybe Id like to get away from this job. Cunts

like you. Maybe Id like something better in my old age.

Sorry I spoke. Jimmy says.

It should have been easy. There are three drunks, veering out of the

freezing night, and three bouncers to meet them; three out of control

arseholes versus three experienced doormen.

Cmon lads, Lucky Eric says, Not tonight, eh.

Ron glances at Jimmy The Con, whos standing at his side, like a pit bull

straining at the leash. Ron steps between Jimmy and the nearest drunk,

intent on heading off any trouble. The drunk shoves Ron, puts his hand

against Rons stomach and pushes. It isnt until he feels his shirt fill with

blood that Ron realizes hes been stabbed.

Lucky Eric and Jimmy The Con finally find a parking space about a mile

from Selly Oak hospital. As they crunch across the last frozen twenty

yards to the admissions doors, Eric sees some heartless bastard pull out

of a space just a spit away from the doors. They push through the doors,

which are heavy, wire-reinforced glass and wood buggers, fitted with

springs strong enough to repel all but the fittest of patients.

I fucking hate hospitals. Jimmy The Con says as they enter the

pea green reception.

Boiled cabbage, disinfectant, fear, and despair invade their nostrils.

Really, Jimmy? Lucky Eric says, How unusual. Every other

bugger I know loves them!

Sarky bastard. Jimmy The Con mutters as they approach the

duty nurses desk.


10/23

She looks up at them, her expression fierce enough to empty beds.

Yes? she says.

The woman is a genius. With that single word, she manages to convey

her opinion that anyone having the gall to turn up at her hospital is

nothing but a malingering hypochondriac whose sole purpose in life is to

waste her time.

Come to get a second dick grafted on. Jimmy The Con says, and

Lucky Eric elbows him.

Well, have you now? the duty nurse says in a smooth Irish

brogue, dripping mock concern, Well why dont we start you off with just

the one. See how you get along with that.

Ron Dogberry, please. Lucky Eric says.

She looks down at the watch pinned to her iron-clad bosom.

Its not visiting time for another ... seventeen minutes. she says.

Lucky Eric and Jimmy The Con go and seat themselves on molded

plastic chairs that have been carefully designed to deform spines.

How did they say he was doing? Jimmy The Con asks.They didnt. Wouldnt tell me over the phone. Well as can be

expected. Whatever the fuck thats supposed to mean. Eric says.

Yeah. Given some tosser just rammed eight inches of Sheffield

into his guts.

They sit in silence as the minutes drag legless torsos around the clock.

Still, Jimmy says cheerfully, At least they didnt send us down

the morgue.

Yeah. Eric says, At least.

The ward where Ron is, for all they know, fighting for his life, turns out

to be in another building. A temporary, pre-fab annex, about a mile

away. Right next to where theyre parked. Its snowing heavily by the time

they reach the annex.

As they approach the bed Lucky Eric and Jimmy The Con see the usual

drip in the arm, but there are also a couple of tubes up Rons nose, and a


11/23

sinister thing that looks like a vacuum cleaner hose that snakes up

under the covers near his stomach.

How come they havent got his leg up? Jimmy The Con asks

What?

His leg. It aint up.

Then to Ron, whos dozing,

Shouldnt they have your leg up, mate?

Rons eyes flutter and open, he obviously doesnt quite know where he is.

Then realization and pain cloud his features.

What the hell are you on about Jimmy? Alright Ron? Lucky Eric

asks.

Im just saying that in all the films Ive seen, whenever someones

in hospital they always have his leg up.

He was stabbed in the fucking stomach Jimmy, not the sodding

leg. Havent you ever actually visited anyone in hospital.

Jimmy the Con sniffs.

No. Well, it dont do to mix business with pleasure. he says.How you feeling, old son? Lucky Eric asks Ron They treating you

alright?

What about that hospital grub, eh Ron. Phwaaaah, orrible or

what?

Lucky Eric turns to Jimmy The Con.

Seeing as hes been knifed in the guts I somehow doubt theyre

shoveling in the mince beef and carrots Jimmy. His patience verges on

exasperation.

No. No, I spose not. Jimmy The Con says, I mean, itd all just

leak out, wouldnt it.

Hurts like buggery. Ron says. His eyes are glazed, pupils the size

of mouse turds.

Wouldnt know about that. Jimmy The Con says.


12/23

Ron fumbles a hand out from under the blanket and grips the

vacuum cleaner- sized tube.

Why dont you ... come and . bend over here, Jimmy. And Ill

show you. He laughs a spasm, gurgles alarmingly and grimaces.

Nurse. Nurse. Lucky Eric yells, alarmed.

They wait a minute or two and when no one comes Lucky Eric gets up

and goes in search of a nurse. Jimmy The Con starts checking Rons

bedside table for medication, although its not clear who for. A few

minutes later Lucky Eric is back.

Not a sight. No docs, no nurses. Found a cleaner, though. he

says.

Well thats not much use, is it? Jimmy The Con says.

Dunno. He sold me these.

Five large tablets sit on Lucky Erics palm.

Said they were codeine. Cost me a fiver.

Hows he gonna take em though? Jimmy The Con asks.

Remember, the old mince and carrots.Oh, right Lucky Eric says, Well, waste not want not, eh.

He hands Jimmy The Con two of the pills and dry swallows the other

three.

Half an hour later, Ron has recovered enough to croak out the odd scrap

of semi-coherent chat.

How are things? At the club? he asks.

Dont ask. Lucky Eric says.

Fuckin useless little twat. Jimmy The Con adds.

Who?

The sod they sent over to replace you. Jimmy The Con says.

Ron looks alarmed.

Only a temp. Lucky Eric reassures him, And as Jimmy so

eloquently stated, not much cop. So dont worry. You just concentrate on

getting well.


13/23

Who started an elephant? Jimmy The Con asks, his brow

furrowed.

What? No eloquently stated. Thats what I said. You dim sod.

Well I wish youd stop using them words youre learning down the

poly. Why cant you talk proper? Sos a bloke can understand you. You

cunt. Jimmy The Con says.

What I mean, Ron, is that the kid they sent over thinks hes

Steven Segal or Steve McQueen.

Steve Davis more like. Jimmy The Con says.

I dunno. Kids today, Ron. Theres nobody to show them whats

what, is there. Lucky Eric says

Well nobody showed us. We had to just ... pick it up. Ron

manages.

He closes his eyes and seems to drift off. Lucky Eric watches him and, as

if in sympathy, feels the codeine start to kick in. Empty stomach, no

Christmas dinner for Lucky Eric. In fact he cant really remember what

hes eaten since Ron was stabbed four days ago. Couple of sausage rolls,perhaps, the odd packet of crisps.

Thats it. Eric suddenly sees it with codeine-fogged clarity.

A way forward, a way out of the middle-aged bouncer trap, out of

standing night after night feeling his bones and wounds on the door,

away from slowing down, getting bored and complacent enough so some

drunken bastard could eventually slip a shiv between his ribs.

Thats what well do, well start a school. Lucky Eric says, A

school for bouncers. Train the fuckers proper.

What like them night classes of yours down the poly? Jimmy The

Con asks, snide as you like.

Naw. Eric says, Better than that. This will be real stuff. Stuff

even you could understand.


14/23

What, like how to hurt people? Jimmy The Con asks.

Well, a bit. Praps. But mostly security. How to handle things so

theres less

chance of ending up like poor old Ron.

Sounds boring. Jimmy The Con says.

Not to me it fuckin dont. Ron says.

Spring comes to Birmingham. Birmingham decides to take no notice. At

least in that part of Brum where lurks the club know Bonny Rockers it

does. Lucky Eric, Jimmy The Con, and Lobster Ron are on the door. The

neon of the club sign above their heads is on the blink again, so that

tonight Bonny Rockers reads Bon*** **kers.

That Bono, Ron is saying, he was a smashing bloke. One time

we were playing this club down the Smoke with em and the Sex Pistols

suddenly barge into the dressing room. Well Cook and Jones anyway. SoBono says to me

Give it a break, Ron. For fucks sakes. Jimmy The Con says.

give it a break Ro no, look... Ron says and then sighs heavily.

Pity the next punter gives old Ron any lip. Lucky Eric says.

They stand and smoke watching the traffic play pedestrian roulette.

Any news about your training scheme idea? Ron asks

Got all the paperwork in last month. Lucky Eric says.

Management are keen. Well, once I pointed out theyd be getting a

government subsidy, they were.

Yids. Jimmy The Con says and spits at and misses a pigeon.

Will you give it a rest Jimmy. Besides, theyre Indian now, the new

owners. Or Arabs. Something like that.

Same thing. Jimmy The Con says


15/23

Its the bleedin state nanny gone beserk. Jimmy The Con says.

You mean, the nanny state. Lobster Ron corrects.

Whatever it is, whatever you want to call it, its full of shit.

Oh, Lobster Ron says, Youre on about them people the job

center sent us.

Could not believe what I was seeing. Jimmy The Con says.

Well yes, Jimmy, Lucky Eric says, I can see the girl in the

wheelchair might have had a bit of a harder time of it. On a busy Friday

night. Even so-

Even so nothing. Jimmy The Con sulks.

Things will get better. Lucky Eric says with irritating calm.

Will they? Jimmy The Con asks. He looks at Lucky Eric. You know

what Eric? You know the only time I ever used to hear you use that tone

of voice?

When? Eric smiles.When you were explaining to some punter just exactly what you

were going to do to him if he didnt fuck right off in the next ten

seconds.

Its the night classes. Lobster Ron says.

What? Sociology makes you like that?

No, Lucky Eric says, That was last term. Ive switched. To yoga.

Ive been meditating and everything.

Youll go deaf. Jimmy The Con says. Anyway, the wheelchair

pilot. Did you forget that as well as not being able to walk she was a

single-parent, Marxist lesbian?

Thought as how you liked carpet munchers. Lobster Ron says.

Shut it! She was a fuckin nutter. Jimmy The Con snaps.

She was unique. Lucky Eric agrees.


16/23

Talkin about u-fuckin-nique, what about that other one? Jimmy

The Con ploughs on. He has a good head of steam up now. He was

blind! He was actually blind. Jimmy The Cons voice is filled with

wonder.

Well... its not my fault, is it. Lucky Erics voice suddenly has an

edge, as if his calm mood is starting to slip away. I mean, I cant help

who they send, can I.

Blind and weighed about seven stone. Soaking wet!

He was a bit on the thin side Eric. You have to admit. Lobster

Ron says.

And more than a little on the blind fuckin side. Jimmy The Con

rants. He was wearing an anorak. He had a seeing-eye pot-bellied pig!

It was on the telly. Theres a dog shortage. Besides, he would

probably have been very good at body searches. Lobster Ron says.

Yknow, on account of the braille and that.

Or the pig. Jimmy The Con says, We could have used him to

find the punters stash. You know ... a sniffer pig.Enough! Lucky Eric explodes and punches his fist through the

glass whats-on display case. His arm buried in the shattered case, blood

flowing freely down over the glossy black and white photos of failed drag

artists and unknown rappers, he says through clenched teeth.

Ron. Get the car. Hospital. Now.

Hows the hand Eric?

Lucky Eric scowls at Lobster Ron.

Stitches come out tomorrow. Jimmy The Con says.

Are you my sodding doctor all of a sudden then Jimmy?

No, Eric. Course not.


17/23

Then shut it. Lucky Eric leans over toward Jimmy The Con, Or

theyll fuckin come out tonight.

Dont threaten me, Eric. Jimmy The Con says, starting to bristle,

Not wise.

Lads, lads. Lobster Ron says. Here, what you think of last

nights video then, eh? Phwaaaaw!

Squashed cat in the middle of the road. Jimmy The Con says,

And no mistake.

Recently, the club owners have taken to throwing the occasional after

hours party, to which Lucky Eric and the other bouncers are invited.

On special occasions, such as a visiting celebs birthday, or to celebrate a

dirty deal done anything but cheap, or the right kind of funeral, that sort

of thing, they might have a live girl or boy or two, but most nights its

champagne, cognac, white lines, poker, and porno videos.

Gave me an idea, did that video. Lucky Eric says.

Gave me a few and all. Jimmy The Con laughs.

I mean, it gave me an idea for what we need. We need a trainingvideo. Lucky Eric says.

I dont need no training video for that. Lobster Ron says.

No you dim sod. Not for that. For the job training scheme.

Something we could show the trainees. Club security training.

They pause to pat down a gaggle of office girls, who are on the town for a

leaving party and already three sheets to the wind.

Bit early. Lucky Eric says, looking at his watch and finding only

bandages. To be that far gone.

Copped a nice handful of arse. Jimmy The Con grins, She didnt

even notice.

You have such a way with the ladies, Jimmy. You know that. Eric

says.

Thanks. Jimmy The Con says, completely missing lucky Erics

sarcasm.


18/23

Lobster Ron holds up a scrap of paper.

Yeah? Well I got a phone number.

Sure its not the number for the special clinic? Jimmy The Con

snorts.

Your cousin, Lucky Eric asks Jimmy The Con, He still making

them pornos over the council flats?

Oh yeah. Last I heard hed give up the building trade altogether.

Said it was too much like hard work.

So hes got all the cameras and lights and microphones and

that?

Too right. Its a nice little earner. And a right doddle. On account

of that viagra stuff.

Thats nice. Lucky Eric says, Give him a call would you. Tell him

Id like to have a chat. Buy him for a drink. Some lunch time next week.

Alright.

Here, you gonna be in a porno then Eric? Lobster Ron asks.

Lucky Eric looks from Lobster Ron to Jimmy the Con then back atLobster Ron. He drops his head and sighs heavily.

Sometimes, he says, Im at a loss to decide which of these two

tossers is the stupidest.

Lobster Ron nudges Jimmy The Con.

Here, whys Eric calling his feet stupid? he asks.

Have you seen the outside of the club? Lobster Ron asks Lucky

Eric.

Theyre sitting in traffic on the Queensway in Lobster Rons rust orange

Ford Fiesta. Lucky Eric lowers his chin to his knees and peers through

the cracked windshield at the back of the bus in front of them.


19/23

Be alright. he says, I cleared it with the owners. Anyway, clubs

shut till tonight.

Two hours kips all Ive had. Been working on me new demo-

Please, Ron. Not now, eh.

Its still not right, Eric. Its bleedin lunchtime, I ought to be

asleep.

They pull up outside the club and park behind a whitish van bearing the

legend Honest Teds Builders. The word Builders has been crudely

crossed out and the words Porno Prods. painted after it. The club

entrance is flanked by a mish-mash of dodgy-looking lights. Occasional

wisps of smoke pop and coil up into the still, grey air from a snakes nest

of cables. Two blokes dressed like out of work plumbers are standing

either side of the door, each has a bulky Bulgarian video camera circa

1975 on his shoulder. The cameras are pointed at Jimmy The Con who

stands grinning, a peroxide blonde slapper on each arm, a noticeable

bulge in the front of his strides.What the ... Jimmy? Lucky Eric asks.

Wotcha lads, Jimmy The Con says, Viagra. He nods in the

direction of his crotch.

How many times have I told you. This is a security training video.

Not a sodding porno.

Then to the two women,

Sorry ladies. I dont know what hes told you but whatever it is, is

a load of old nonsense.

What about me fifty quid? one of the blondes asks.

Jimmy. Take them away. Sort this out. I need to talk to Ted.

As Jimmy and the bickering women leave, Lucky Eric yells after Jimmy

The Con,

And get some ice on that swelling.

Then to Lobster Ron,


20/23

I mean, hows that going to look? Him explaining politely to a

drunken punter that its in his best interest to go elsewhere. Standing

there with a stonking great boner?

Lucky Eric notices Lobster Ron is staring mesmerized at one of the video

cameras.

I want my ... I want my MTV ... Lobster Ron sings softly under

his breath.

Lucky Eric stalks into the club shaking his head.

The three skinheads in the Duke of Marlborough are giving it large.

Were gonna be big stars. Big.

Yeah. Shtarsh. Big.

Get Bazza up off the floor and get another round in. We have to be

at the club in a bit.

Right you are Gazza. What club?I told you, you toe rag. Bonny Rockers. That Lucky Eric is making

a video and were in it. Big stars. He said to get tanked up before

we came.

Right.

Well, go on then. Three pints. Get some shorts in an all.

Whiskies.

What time are the punters gonna be here Eric? Lobster Ron asks.

The stitches are out, the bandages gone, so Lucky Eric can look at his

watch again.


21/23

Any minute now. Im more worried about that tosser, Jimmy.

Where is he?

Still in the bogs. Last time I saw him he had his tackle in a sink

full of ice.

Lovely picture, that is. Lucky Eric says.

Didnt seem to be working.

Alright, alright. Thats enough.

Sorry Eric.

A siren trails into the distance and on its coat tails, riding round the

corner come voices, raucously singing,

... we go, here we go, here we gooooo.

Three skinheads hove into sight, two of them dragging the third between

them.

Ah, Lucky Eric says, And about time.

You what, Eric? You dont mean ..? What ...?

Ted, Ted, get the cameras out here. Lucky Eric yells, Were on.

But theyre rat-arsed, Eric. Lobster Ron says.Yeah. Well, thatll make it more real wont it. Now remember, no

rough stuff. Take control. Think, prevention. Think, security.

If you say so Eric. Lobster Ron sounds a little uncertain. What

about Jimmy? Shall I go and get him?

No. No time. Better off without the fucker anyway. Here we go.

Ted! Ted! Action mate, action!

Lucky Eric steps in front of the three skinheads.

Evening lads. he says holding up a hand palm out.

The skinheads sway like badly-handled puppets.

Lerrus in mate. the ugly one on the right demands

Yeah. In. the ugly one on the left agrees.

The ugly one in the middle hangs unconscious between his mates,

snoring and dribbling down his Ben Sherman.


22/23

Now then lads, Lucky Eric says as if reading a cue card, I think

as how you have had enough to drink. Please move along. Thank you.

Lobster Ron is looking confused. He cant work out why Lucky Eric is

talking so funny and being, well, polite theres no other word for it.

Is that right monkey man? Ugly Right sneers

Ugly Left twists his head and issues a sharp whistle. Round the corner

there suddenly hares a huge pit bull, claws clacking on the icy pavement,

teeth the size of daggers bared, jet engine growls deep in the back of its

throat. It slavers trails of venomous doggy drool behind it as it closes on

the tableau posed in front of the club entrance.

Lobster Rons eyes bulge and he finds his voice,

Jimmy! Jimmy! he howls.

The dog hits the group just as Jimmy, only half buttoned into his keks

and still sporting a boner, bursts out of the club. Theres a collision

worthy of a Tom and Jerry cartoon, one of those where Butch the dog

has got Tom in a whirling cyclone of teeth, jaws, tongue, fur, eyeballs,

fists, feet, and anguished howling. Lucky Eric and Lobster Ron forget allabout the niceties of the video shoot, and expertly stomp and punch the

three drunken skinheads into a single, quivering, bloody pile. Jimmy The

Con is not so lucky. He falls backwards into the club, flailing and

pummeling at the dogs head, which is firmly clamped onto his groin. The

screaming, growling, and smashing of scattered tables and chairs inside

the club is suddenly punctuated by two gun shots. Then silence.

Lucky Eric and Lobster Ron stand at the graveside, shivering in the bitter

wind. They are the only mourners. Lobster Ron leans forward and tosses

a vial of pills into the grave. It bounces on top of the coffin, popping the

lid and spilling small blue pills across the polished wood. Lucky Eric


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nods at the priest, who in turn signals the gravedigger. Earth thuds

down onto Jimmy The Cons coffin.

Probably for the best Ron. Lucky Eric says. His life wouldnt

have been worth living.

Give a dog a bone, eh Eric? Lobster Ron says.

Lucky Eric sits slumped in a booth at the back of the darkened club. A

half empty bottle of Johnny Walker and a shot glass sit before him on the

table. Ghost revelers drift past the periphery of his vision, like

mosquitoes he cant be bothered to swat. The rest of his life stretches

before him, he can see it clearly, a steady decline through more and more

aches and pains, slower reaction time dragging him into the quicksand of

paralysis, until hes sitting in a wheelchair lost and forgotten in some

desolate NHS hospital corridor, dribbling into his lap about the old days.

Eric, Eric! Lobster Ron bursts into the back of the clubyammering like a kid, Theres a bloke. A bloke outside. Wants to, wants

to talk to you. Says hes from the BB fuckin C. Says its about a film,

Eric, Eric ... he says the BBC wanna make a film about you!

A film? Someone wants to talk to me about a sodding film? Eric

stares at the table between his fists. Well, Ron, you tell him, Eric says

with slow menace, You tell him to fuck off and leave me alone.

No, tell you what, Eric says getting unsteadily to his feet. Better

yet. Ill tell the fucker myself.

whatever happened to lucky eric

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