Live Forever

Plucking frantically at guitar strings, the riff just won’t come. Fuck! I’m getting better. I can play all of Definitely Maybe now. But writing my own songs isn’t going so well... still, it’s better than poring over tedious maths books. The numbers seem to dance around, evading my comprehension, and escaping my attention span. Which, since I met Lyla, has been pretty screwed anyway.
In fact, apathy’s got a hold on me at the moment. I’m not bothered by business, which is what my father is attempting to headlock me into at the moment, and all I want to do – apart from be with Lyla (I’m so corny...) – is to play the guitar and create the atmosphere that Oasis created all those months ago when I saw them. Rock ‘n’ Roll Star has become the soundtrack to my life at the moment. Though there are various other ones that apply to me. Wonderwall’s sentiments are soppy as hell, but it’s such an amazing song that it doesn’t matter. And Live Forever... Well, that’s probably my favourite Oasis song ever, but who knows what they’ve got on the new album, coming soon...
Leading nicely on to the fact that my guitar and Lyla also provide adequate distraction before (What’s The Story) Morning Glory is released. If it wasn’t for them, I’d be twiddling my thumbs and waiting for it, counting down the moments.
Ah, sod it. I carefully chuck (is that an oxymoron?) the guitar down by the bed and give up on the unsuccessful song. I can’t write lyrics anyway. So, instead, I plan my quest for world domination. First thing on the ‘To Do’ list: form a band. Can’t sing to save my life. Hmmmm. And a drummer. Can’t keep the rhythm for that either. I’d be a failure as a one man band. Oh, and think of a name for the band. And possibly write a few songs. Although when I wrote a song for my ex-girlfriend, it just ended up being a horribly embarrassing mess involving metaphors about the Thames... Note to self: NEVER write a song for Lyla. Next on the list; escape from Manchester. Wait. No. Elope back to London, with Lyla in tow. Much better! She’s in love with London. Not that she’s been there. My imagination plays out a little scene with us walking over the bridge, hand in hand, autumn sunshine illuminating Big Ben’s comforting face, some rust-painted leaves waltzing over us... Right, maybe not. I consider the twee scene in my head and decide that we might as well be skipping and yodelling – that’s possibly the only thing that could make it any more cutesy, lame and clichéd... In fact, it’s the equivalent of having seven sugars in your tea. Yuck. That’s it; I have to actually slap myself round the face in order to snap out of this love-induced trance. So much for being some manly, bossy Mr Darcy. I’m a swooning mess of a boy! I may as well be castrated. I’ve lost any vague claims to masculinity...
I’m a headcase. This is when I need my guys from London, to have laddish conversations about football and Page 3 (not that I look at it) and the cheap beer that Ian from round the corner sells to us, on the condition that we never pass out in his front lawn from wanton drunkenness. But I don’t have that option, and calling them would be weird, so I do the next best thing and have a freezing cold shower.
It’s like sobering up from Ian’s cheap beer. But Lyla’s not cheap.

***

I stumble back to my room, grab the guitar and go outside to let music be taken by the fresh air. Except that I can’t, because Dad’s leaning on the doorway, smelling of... not cheap beer, it’s a vintage red wine from the old vineyard. His white, flash yuppie suit has a little stain on the cuff – a little crimson patch, in a shape not dissimilar to a love heart. His hair is messed up. In his right hand he clings to his roll-up, which is a weird shape, and – as I guessed – an empty bottle is in his left hand. He doesn’t know what to do with himself when Linda’s out on the town.
“DANNNNNNNNNNNN, my mannnnnn-” he slurs, bearing discoloured teeth in the grin that his clients once found charming.
“No, Dad...” It’s an old scene for us, now. “How many of those bottles do you have left? You must be running out by now...”
“Eh?” He hasn’t thought about it. Typical Dad. “Uhh... I go. You know, find out.”
I leave him to stumble off down the hallway, singing I Am The Walrus to himself. He’s got to stop doing this, really. Just because he doesn’t have work today doesn’t mean that he can just get inebriated whenever he wants – or, indeed, sing about pornographic priestesses. As I step outside, there’s an anguished wail from the cellar as Dad realises that the bounty of his old life has pretty much run out. Stupid man. Does he think that vintage wine grows on trees?

***

Strumming chords in a pleasantly green little garden (Linda’s very good at horticulture, I’ll give her that) is incredibly therapeutic. If I’d known the benefits of it, I wouldn’t have bothered with the counselling that Linda booked me in for after Mum went mad. The counsellor was patronising. There were far too many “...And how do you feel about that?”s in her speech, which just frustrated me even more and made me want to eat my arms clean off.
Whereas this... the sun is in the sky, only partially obscured by clouds; there’s a cool breeze (well, there always is in Manchester, but it’s not as bitter as usual) in the air; and I’m just lying on the grass and figuring out a tune. Playing while lying down is quite difficult, but I’m getting the hang of it. And everything – Lyla, London, Mum, Dad, Linda, counsellors, school, work – just drifts away. Music has the power.
You know, I think I could be a rock ‘n’ roll star one day.