Slow Life

My 500 is better than The Rolling Stone 500 

In September 2021, esteemed rock mag Rolling Stone published a list of what they believed to be the 500 best songs ever. Gauntlet thrown sufficiently downward, and fuelled by a lifelong addiction to lists, lists of any kind but especially music lists, lists being the way in which a young me made sense of the world, I decided to make my own. Anyway, I did and there’s a playlist.

In October, bored and listless, I decided to write a little about each song. Something that it provoked in me. Not always a critique, not always a memoir about my relationship to that song, sometimes it would be fiction, or poetry. I hadn’t yet decided. I would do a song at random, the Spotify shuffle would be my muse…

So, here’s the first one.

#267 – Slow Life – Super Furry Animals.

First thing is I think of is a couple I used to work with. I’ll change their names but if you knew me back then, you’d probably know them too. Let’s call them Harry and Mary. They were colleagues of mine. Harry had Napoleon Syndrome with a side order of Premature Baldness. Mary had the permanent expression of one of those guards in a busby outside Buckingham Palace. Harry had a trainer fetish and Mary had, well no one really knew what she had, but she had Harry. 

Occasionally my job would demand me go to the office where Harry and Mary both worked, which was in Swansea, and I worked in Cardiff.  It was a pain in the proverbial, not least because I couldn’t drive, which meant catching the train. Catching the train there was fine, it was a minimum hour out of my working day which meant I could do fuck all which is exactly how I like things. But then I had to be professional in our Swansea office, which is like being a trapeze artist, you’re surrounded by clowns and no one really looks pleased to see you. Especially Mary. Mary couldn’t look pleased if she was being made love to by a travelling troupe of talented, sensitive courtesans.

We used to have a running joke back in our Cardiff office, we would take turns to impersonate Mary having an orgasm. The winner would always be the person who made the most imperceptible facial movement. This isn’t particularly amusing or clever I know, but it was a stressful time back then and since my Big Promotion, I had foresworn my traditional stress remedy of Drinking Heavily From Noon.

Anyway, Harry and Mary used to offer me a lift back to Cardiff as this was where they lived. I never took them up on it, it was too far out of the way, etc. I was polite. I was sensitive to their needs. I had paperwork I could do on the train. And by paperwork, I meant cans. God damn it, Train Cans. Someone should write a book on that subject. A collection of memoirs on Drinking on Trains. It is one of life’s great rewards, after all.

But this one day, I just thought, fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen. On the way up I’d been listening on the train to Phantom Power, the then new Furries album. It hadn’t grabbed me with the immediacy of their previous work, too muso-ey, too accomplished, too polished. But the closer, Slow Life was one of their best ever tracks. Like an indie sea shanty hijacked by techno dub pirates. It had got to the point where I only put that album on to hear that song.

I digress, I’m walking to Harry and Mary’s car. I’m walking slightly behind because, already at 32 a veteran of dysfunctional relationships, I recognised the tense silence and exaggerated movement of A Row Put On Hold In The Presence of Others.

Fuck knows what they’d been rowing about, but it was clearly a belter. Harry drove like a man no longer in control of his emotions, zig zagging through rush hour Swansea like there was no tomorrow. On the M4, he had clearly decided that this was the time to see if his car could break the sound barrier. It was a Ford Focus. The sun beat down outside, I felt like this was the last time I would see it. Port Talbot passed by in a blur, which was something. I sat in the back, my briefcase on my lap, surrounded by trainer boxes. I thought about my girlfriend, sorry fiancée. We were getting married in a fortnight and I thought that well maybe I wouldn’t be now.

It was the longest half hour of my life, a series of swallowed gulps and silent prayers. We came to a dignified halt outside my house. Fiancee was speaking on the doorstep to a neighbour. Harry and Mary got out the car, all smiles, like the journey down has been a pleasant hour of sophisticated and witty repartee. The next thing I know, Mary is inviting us to their wedding reception, which is next weekend. Fiancee, unaware of my hostage situation just seconds before, is Instantly Excited. So, the weekend before our wedding, we’re going to see another Happy Couple on their Big Day.

Anyway, a week passes and we go down Harry and Mary’s reception. We grab a drink, having spent the afternoon getting subtly wrecked ourselves, and the taxi means we've gone half an hour witthout topping up. Not immediately recognising anyone else there. we decide to seek out a quiet place. Our choice is poor.

On one of the hotel’s patios, Harry is shitfaced, ruined beyond words. It’s six.

“What have I fucking done?” Harry slurs.

“You alright, mate?” I say.

“I don’t even love her.”

Fiancee steps in at this point.

“Course you do Harry, you’ve just had a bit too much champagne.”

From inside the hotel, I can see a bevvy of best men making their way over. They, too are Bald and Short. 

I silently thumb to behind me, this is their guy, thank God, someone else take over and point us to the Free Bar. Mary is behind them in Hot Pursuit in Wedding Dress Designed by Someone Paid By The Yard.

Mary is horrified to find her husband of a few hours out of his mind. Which is a relief to me, this is the second facial expression she’s ever pulled in my presence, so there’s something for me and Fiancee to talk about when we get home.

Soon, we have many things to talk about.

Firstly, there is Jim. Jim used to be a friend, a good friend. But we fell out quite badly when I took his Unrequited Love to task for continually leading him on. He comes up to me, fresh from the same well as Harry. He wants a row. Fuck him. He ain’t having one, this isn’t our dance.

He’s grabbed me by the wrist and said We Need To Talk.

I told him to Let Go or I would Fucking Kill Him.

It’s not our dance, he walks away.

We’re in the main reception hall, and this is an expensive do. This is a big hotel. The dancefloor is a ballroom and the DJ is wearing a tux. He’s on the microphone.

“What a fantastic day today has been. The sun is shining and love is in the air. Before we get this party started, let’s introduce the Happy Couple to the dancefloor. HARRY and MARY….”

He shouts their names like he’s introducing Jesus Christ at Wembley.

Darkness fills the room, save for a sole spotlight pointing at the place Harry and Mary should be. Mary walks out, with a third facial expression, embarrassment. The room manages to achieve a place of perfect silence.

Nervously, the DJ shouts out, trying to sound amused, “Hey where’s Harry? Is he having another pint?”

Whoever’s operating the spotlight moves it around the room until Harry is located. Harry is giving a shoulder massage to a nervous looking woman. The spotlight hurriedly disappears.

From nowhere, Big Dead Michael appears. He’s not dead at this point, but he is now. He was a lovely guy who looked and spoke like that main butler in Downton Abbey. Big Dead Michael skilfully, silently and diplomatically escorts Harry to the light, tucking him into it's beam almost unseen.

The music starts up. I can’t remember what song it was, I doubt anyone can. Probably something shit. All anyone who was there will remember is Mary basically walking Harry around a dance floor whilst he tried to Stay Awake. A few tortuous seconds later and the dancefloor is filled with her friends, being supportive, doing the right thing.

Me and Fiancee, went home, our taxi filled with raucous laughter. This was easily the best wedding reception either of us had been to. We were smug that our reception would be better than that. We were smug about a lot of things back then.

Harry and Mary were divorced by Christmas. Me and Fiancee took a little longer. I was going to say something like, it’s a slow life when you’re on your own but luckily I avoided it. Not the being on your own thing, the cheesy ending.

So, whenever I hear this song, that’s what I think of. Harry and his trainers. Mary and her Three Facial Expressions. A terrifying drive down the M4. And the way the sun shone that month, shone like fuck the whole time, like everything was going to be fine, like everything would work itself out in the end.

 

 

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