Status: Finished, but never forgotten.
Live Forever
She’s been feeling frisky since her husband said goodbye.
Today, notable for two reasons; it’s Lyla’s birthday and it’s Cup Final Day (Man United v Liverpool, 3pm kick-off). And, just to be embarrassing, Linda has organised a birthday barbeque for Lyla because it’s sunny and she seems to think that Lyla is the daughter she never had. But as long as I see her, it’s fine; I have an utterly fantastic present for her – admittedly, it’s partly for me as well, but I think she’ll like it. Eight months ago, she would have clobbered me one for even daring to suggest it, but this morning’s gain will now be far more precious.
You see, while she’s still very smug about Blur’s win, she’s also had to admit to liking Oasis. She’ll deny it and protest against it, but there’s a half-dreamy look in her eyes when I make her listen to Champagne Supernova or Don’t Look Back In Anger (hey, it’s two-way traffic – she forces me to listen to bloody Parklife whenever I come over!) and she can’t help but sing along to Wonderwall (who can?). And she has recently (and guiltily) admitted to having bought her own copy of Definitely Maybe, though she still protests that Modern Life Is Rubbish and Parklife are better (hmm). But she likes them, and I hope that she likes them enough to...
“They’re ‘ere! Get your stinky arse out there and say hi to everyone, darlin’! I’m still hoovering, babe, I’m still in me pinny! I can’t have them be seeing me like this, can I? Go, MINGLE, babe!” Linda’s orange arms thrust me towards the front door, into a gaggle of guests.
She’s invited Lyla’s family, Stella and Dave (who is up on his monthly visit, despite the fact that half term’s not far away), and... well, some of her fellow gossipy hags. It seems that Lyla’s brother has brought Stella’s sister with him; the infamous Daisy, who Lyla despises for reasons unknown. Could be interesting. A Mancunian hardman, some crazed Essex ex-pats and a couple of teenage couples? What more could a boy want for company on Cup Final Day?
***
It’s been decreed by Linda that the football-nuts among us can watch the Cup Final as long as we’re well behaved. In Linda-land, that means that we must entertain her friends and be the butt of their jokes without retaliating, as well as socialising with everyone invited. A few of the neighbours have turned up too, though the majority of them think that Linda lowers the social bar (why am I not surprised?), and have thus snubbed her offer. Oh well. They glare at me when I walk past them, like they were never seventeen (yeah, my birthday has been and gone. It was a cold mid-February affair, and Lyla got me bootleg video copies of my two Oasis gigs – the Mancunian one at the Hacienda a year and a half ago, and the Easter one last year in Southend, at which Rachel – my ex – revealed her true sexual orientation. In addition to this, there’s a giant poster of Damon Albarn looking particularly gay, which she has forced me to pin up on my wall and got very cross when I defaced it slightly). It’s like my age casts a huge cloud over the entire road. There was a confrontation when we first moved in, two years ago, because I may have been playing Suede’s first album VERY LOUDLY in a moment of mopey madness (I was still depressed by leaving the Cottagers and my beloved London Town), and they’ve never liked me much since then.
I watch everyone mingling. Lyla is Linda’s trophy, being shown off, and I can’t help but eavesdrop. She’s talking to Patty and Liza; Patty was once married to a Paul Gascoigne-alike footballer who played for Colchester in the early 70s, and ditched him for a former member of Eastenders, whilst Liza brought her Turkish fling into England, getting him an English visa, and then being conned out of thousands of pounds by him from her sizeable inheritance. That tells you all you need to know about them.
“So... Layla,” begins Liza, in her attempted posh-Essex voice – if such a thing exists. “Happy birthday, darling. Tell us about yourself. Seems a little... strange that we’ve been invited to your party when we don’t know you.”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea, Lisa. I believe Linda planned it.” She flashes a quick smile at Linda, who is in hysterics at the mispronunciations.
“No, darling, it’s Liza. Like Liza Minnelli. Do you know who she is, darling?”
“Yes, thank you, Liza. She’s Judy Garland’s daughter. And my name’s Lyla. Like an inflatable lilo, but with an ‘a’ on the end.” Her knowing smirk is coming into play; the one she gets when she’s feeling mischievous. It’s often followed by a bite on the ear or a cheeky laugh... oh God, I’m making her sound like a kinky parrot. If such a thing exists. Why am I thinking about erotic animals? I worry about my subconscious sometimes. All that psychological crap. Freud would have a field day with me.
“Oh, darling, how exotic!” squawks Patty. “And you know who Judy Garland is. No wonder Linda laaaaves you so much, sweetie! I thought all they taught you lot at school these days was how to rob shops, sweetie, and listen to that slip-hop rubbish...”
“Oh God, no, Patty. Can I call you Patty? It’s not about hip-hop at the moment, it’s all about Britpop. Blur, Oasis, that lot. You’ve probably heard about them. They’re the pop scene at the moment... actually, that’s one of their songs. Blur, that is. Popscene. You probably haven’t heard it, it didn’t do too well in the charts...”
Patty looks confused, Liza looks bored, Linda looks flustered.
“Babe, why don’t you tell Pats and Liz about your trip to London?” she starts, and – as is her way – immediately starts telling them herself. Bored, I drift off, until a tap on my shoulder rouses me.
“So, you must be Dan. I’ve heard so much about you. Nice house, by the way. Very... rich.” I turn to find Colin’s girlfriend/Stella’s sister, Daisy, being the owner of a very articulate Northern accent. I’ve never had a chance to speak to her, partly because her and Colin always seem to be in a rush to get upstairs when they occasionally visit Lyla’s, and partly because Lyla wants to stab her slowly and painfully. But I have no grudge against her (though I wonder what Lyla’s is), so I talk to her. She’s got a kind of slutty aura about her – I think it’s the bright red lipstick, which Lyla would doubtless dub “whore-red” (I must stop thinking about everything in terms of Lyla) – though her clothes aren’t specifically slaggy, as there’s only a hint of cleavage (not that I was looking) and there are no midriffs in sight. Makes a change from most of the girls in Manchester at the moment. She’s wearing sunglasses, which I suspect will get a lot of use this year – it’s boiling already and it’s only just May. But I digress. Back to the studio.
“Yeah, it’s not as big as our old house though. Not as nice either. But it’ll do. So, err, are you at uni at the moment?” I’m no good at small talk. She doesn’t seem the sort to be interested by Britpop talk or Star Wars debates, so the obligatory uni/school question it is.
“No, college. I’m doing a psychology course. I want to be a psychologist. Want to be psychoanalysed?” To my filthy ears it sounds like a chat-up line. “Oh, your girlfriend’s coming over. What a pleasant surprise for all of us. She’s such a lovely girl, you’ve picked a good one there. Shame about the funny knees, though.” Funny knees?
“I have to say, I’ve never really looked at them. I’m not a genuphile.” Plus one for knowing geeky trivia. She raises an eyebrow in ignorance. “Knee-lover.”
“Shame. Could have been an integral experience to my learning. Oh, hello there Layla – the birthday girl...” Lyla must be pissed off or sunburnt, ‘cos her ears are bright red. They clash with her red dress.
“Daisy. Hi. Dannnn, the game’s starting in ten minutes. Bets on the winner?” She’s pretending that Daisy isn’t there, being all coy and bouncy like she is when it’s just the two of us having a conversation.
“Hate both of them. Liverpool, I guess, they win everything. Plus Man United are the fake Manchester side, apparently. Right? Also, their manager’s an arse. You?”
“Stupid question, Liverpool. They didn’t beat us two years ago in the final...”
“That’s not a reason why they would win, though. That’s who you want to win, Lyla. You need to up your reasoning, girl. For the record, I expect United to win. I love football, Colin takes me to Newcastle occasionally. It’s great fun. Plus there are a few little annexes where no one else goes during the game...” Daisy smirks at her own provocation. Lyla looks astonished.
“You... you... in a football stadium?! During a GAME?” she squeaks, appalled.
“With Tony, don’t worry. It wasn’t your precious brother,” Daisy remarks coolly, before adding, “Tony’s my husband. Made the mistake of marrying as soon as it was legal. Divorce’s in progress. Can’t wait to be rid of him, boozy arsehole.” On that note of vehemence, she crosses her arms and wrinkles her nose in disgust. I’m baffled.
“Well, it probably didn’t help that he walked in on you and Colin that time. Come on, Dan!” She tries to tug me away, but Daisy puts a hand on my shoulder. Lyla’s eyes are on the verge of becoming laser beams.
“What did you give her for her birthday? Oh, oops, Lyla, I didn’t realise you were still there! I thought you were in a hurry to get back to the match.” Serene smile versus petulant glare; it’s Girl Fight City here and it’s too much to comprehend as it all whooshes over my head. Sometimes I’m so glad I don’t have boobs.
“He hasn’t given me a present yet, perhaps he’s spent it all on Knebworth tickets for Oasis this summer. Ha! Wouldn’t surprise me.” I gape slightly, because she’s being incredibly perceptive and she’s accidentally hit the nail on the head. “Why are you looking at me like that? Oh my God. Did you not get me anything because you wanted to see Oasis again? ...I don’t mind, it’s fine. I understand. Bring me back a T-shirt to burn or something.” Daisy’s chuckling to herself. I’m starting to see why Lyla dislikes her.
“Erm, no, actually... uh... I kind of... I got us both tickets? This morning. So, uhh, happy birthday...” She hugs me in a bemused manner.
“OI, LOVEBIRDS. The game’s beginning!” shouts Dad.
As we stumble over to watch a game that United will win 1-0, Daisy slips me a card with her name and number on, proclaiming her a trainee psychologist. As if she thinks I’ve got mental issues or something... Well, I won’t need it yet, but maybe later on. Maybe.
You see, while she’s still very smug about Blur’s win, she’s also had to admit to liking Oasis. She’ll deny it and protest against it, but there’s a half-dreamy look in her eyes when I make her listen to Champagne Supernova or Don’t Look Back In Anger (hey, it’s two-way traffic – she forces me to listen to bloody Parklife whenever I come over!) and she can’t help but sing along to Wonderwall (who can?). And she has recently (and guiltily) admitted to having bought her own copy of Definitely Maybe, though she still protests that Modern Life Is Rubbish and Parklife are better (hmm). But she likes them, and I hope that she likes them enough to...
“They’re ‘ere! Get your stinky arse out there and say hi to everyone, darlin’! I’m still hoovering, babe, I’m still in me pinny! I can’t have them be seeing me like this, can I? Go, MINGLE, babe!” Linda’s orange arms thrust me towards the front door, into a gaggle of guests.
She’s invited Lyla’s family, Stella and Dave (who is up on his monthly visit, despite the fact that half term’s not far away), and... well, some of her fellow gossipy hags. It seems that Lyla’s brother has brought Stella’s sister with him; the infamous Daisy, who Lyla despises for reasons unknown. Could be interesting. A Mancunian hardman, some crazed Essex ex-pats and a couple of teenage couples? What more could a boy want for company on Cup Final Day?
***
It’s been decreed by Linda that the football-nuts among us can watch the Cup Final as long as we’re well behaved. In Linda-land, that means that we must entertain her friends and be the butt of their jokes without retaliating, as well as socialising with everyone invited. A few of the neighbours have turned up too, though the majority of them think that Linda lowers the social bar (why am I not surprised?), and have thus snubbed her offer. Oh well. They glare at me when I walk past them, like they were never seventeen (yeah, my birthday has been and gone. It was a cold mid-February affair, and Lyla got me bootleg video copies of my two Oasis gigs – the Mancunian one at the Hacienda a year and a half ago, and the Easter one last year in Southend, at which Rachel – my ex – revealed her true sexual orientation. In addition to this, there’s a giant poster of Damon Albarn looking particularly gay, which she has forced me to pin up on my wall and got very cross when I defaced it slightly). It’s like my age casts a huge cloud over the entire road. There was a confrontation when we first moved in, two years ago, because I may have been playing Suede’s first album VERY LOUDLY in a moment of mopey madness (I was still depressed by leaving the Cottagers and my beloved London Town), and they’ve never liked me much since then.
I watch everyone mingling. Lyla is Linda’s trophy, being shown off, and I can’t help but eavesdrop. She’s talking to Patty and Liza; Patty was once married to a Paul Gascoigne-alike footballer who played for Colchester in the early 70s, and ditched him for a former member of Eastenders, whilst Liza brought her Turkish fling into England, getting him an English visa, and then being conned out of thousands of pounds by him from her sizeable inheritance. That tells you all you need to know about them.
“So... Layla,” begins Liza, in her attempted posh-Essex voice – if such a thing exists. “Happy birthday, darling. Tell us about yourself. Seems a little... strange that we’ve been invited to your party when we don’t know you.”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea, Lisa. I believe Linda planned it.” She flashes a quick smile at Linda, who is in hysterics at the mispronunciations.
“No, darling, it’s Liza. Like Liza Minnelli. Do you know who she is, darling?”
“Yes, thank you, Liza. She’s Judy Garland’s daughter. And my name’s Lyla. Like an inflatable lilo, but with an ‘a’ on the end.” Her knowing smirk is coming into play; the one she gets when she’s feeling mischievous. It’s often followed by a bite on the ear or a cheeky laugh... oh God, I’m making her sound like a kinky parrot. If such a thing exists. Why am I thinking about erotic animals? I worry about my subconscious sometimes. All that psychological crap. Freud would have a field day with me.
“Oh, darling, how exotic!” squawks Patty. “And you know who Judy Garland is. No wonder Linda laaaaves you so much, sweetie! I thought all they taught you lot at school these days was how to rob shops, sweetie, and listen to that slip-hop rubbish...”
“Oh God, no, Patty. Can I call you Patty? It’s not about hip-hop at the moment, it’s all about Britpop. Blur, Oasis, that lot. You’ve probably heard about them. They’re the pop scene at the moment... actually, that’s one of their songs. Blur, that is. Popscene. You probably haven’t heard it, it didn’t do too well in the charts...”
Patty looks confused, Liza looks bored, Linda looks flustered.
“Babe, why don’t you tell Pats and Liz about your trip to London?” she starts, and – as is her way – immediately starts telling them herself. Bored, I drift off, until a tap on my shoulder rouses me.
“So, you must be Dan. I’ve heard so much about you. Nice house, by the way. Very... rich.” I turn to find Colin’s girlfriend/Stella’s sister, Daisy, being the owner of a very articulate Northern accent. I’ve never had a chance to speak to her, partly because her and Colin always seem to be in a rush to get upstairs when they occasionally visit Lyla’s, and partly because Lyla wants to stab her slowly and painfully. But I have no grudge against her (though I wonder what Lyla’s is), so I talk to her. She’s got a kind of slutty aura about her – I think it’s the bright red lipstick, which Lyla would doubtless dub “whore-red” (I must stop thinking about everything in terms of Lyla) – though her clothes aren’t specifically slaggy, as there’s only a hint of cleavage (not that I was looking) and there are no midriffs in sight. Makes a change from most of the girls in Manchester at the moment. She’s wearing sunglasses, which I suspect will get a lot of use this year – it’s boiling already and it’s only just May. But I digress. Back to the studio.
“Yeah, it’s not as big as our old house though. Not as nice either. But it’ll do. So, err, are you at uni at the moment?” I’m no good at small talk. She doesn’t seem the sort to be interested by Britpop talk or Star Wars debates, so the obligatory uni/school question it is.
“No, college. I’m doing a psychology course. I want to be a psychologist. Want to be psychoanalysed?” To my filthy ears it sounds like a chat-up line. “Oh, your girlfriend’s coming over. What a pleasant surprise for all of us. She’s such a lovely girl, you’ve picked a good one there. Shame about the funny knees, though.” Funny knees?
“I have to say, I’ve never really looked at them. I’m not a genuphile.” Plus one for knowing geeky trivia. She raises an eyebrow in ignorance. “Knee-lover.”
“Shame. Could have been an integral experience to my learning. Oh, hello there Layla – the birthday girl...” Lyla must be pissed off or sunburnt, ‘cos her ears are bright red. They clash with her red dress.
“Daisy. Hi. Dannnn, the game’s starting in ten minutes. Bets on the winner?” She’s pretending that Daisy isn’t there, being all coy and bouncy like she is when it’s just the two of us having a conversation.
“Hate both of them. Liverpool, I guess, they win everything. Plus Man United are the fake Manchester side, apparently. Right? Also, their manager’s an arse. You?”
“Stupid question, Liverpool. They didn’t beat us two years ago in the final...”
“That’s not a reason why they would win, though. That’s who you want to win, Lyla. You need to up your reasoning, girl. For the record, I expect United to win. I love football, Colin takes me to Newcastle occasionally. It’s great fun. Plus there are a few little annexes where no one else goes during the game...” Daisy smirks at her own provocation. Lyla looks astonished.
“You... you... in a football stadium?! During a GAME?” she squeaks, appalled.
“With Tony, don’t worry. It wasn’t your precious brother,” Daisy remarks coolly, before adding, “Tony’s my husband. Made the mistake of marrying as soon as it was legal. Divorce’s in progress. Can’t wait to be rid of him, boozy arsehole.” On that note of vehemence, she crosses her arms and wrinkles her nose in disgust. I’m baffled.
“Well, it probably didn’t help that he walked in on you and Colin that time. Come on, Dan!” She tries to tug me away, but Daisy puts a hand on my shoulder. Lyla’s eyes are on the verge of becoming laser beams.
“What did you give her for her birthday? Oh, oops, Lyla, I didn’t realise you were still there! I thought you were in a hurry to get back to the match.” Serene smile versus petulant glare; it’s Girl Fight City here and it’s too much to comprehend as it all whooshes over my head. Sometimes I’m so glad I don’t have boobs.
“He hasn’t given me a present yet, perhaps he’s spent it all on Knebworth tickets for Oasis this summer. Ha! Wouldn’t surprise me.” I gape slightly, because she’s being incredibly perceptive and she’s accidentally hit the nail on the head. “Why are you looking at me like that? Oh my God. Did you not get me anything because you wanted to see Oasis again? ...I don’t mind, it’s fine. I understand. Bring me back a T-shirt to burn or something.” Daisy’s chuckling to herself. I’m starting to see why Lyla dislikes her.
“Erm, no, actually... uh... I kind of... I got us both tickets? This morning. So, uhh, happy birthday...” She hugs me in a bemused manner.
“OI, LOVEBIRDS. The game’s beginning!” shouts Dad.
As we stumble over to watch a game that United will win 1-0, Daisy slips me a card with her name and number on, proclaiming her a trainee psychologist. As if she thinks I’ve got mental issues or something... Well, I won’t need it yet, but maybe later on. Maybe.
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IT'S ALL ABOUT TO GO DOWNHILL D: