—You enjoyin’ yourself, Des?
—Watching you doing your fly?
—No, I was takin’ that for granted, said Jimmy.—I mean – overall.
—Yeah, said Des.—But —
—Go on.
—I can’t pay for anything. I’ve enough for a couple of rounds —
—You’re covered, said Jimmy.—That was always the deal.
—Thanks.
—No. But actually, it’s Outspan – that’s Liam – you should be thankin’.
—I like him.
—Yeah.
—Is he definitely – ?
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—There’ll be no happy ending there.
—Fuck.
—Yeah, said Jimmy.
The queue for the drink still wasn’t too bad. It was hardly a queue at all, more a slow walk. Out of Darfur, the average age had shot up. Jimmy and Des might have been the oldest in the line, but not by too much. Women too, hitting the forties.
They were closer now to two of the music tents.
—That’s the Crawdaddy, I think, said Jimmy.
He pointed at the one on the left.
—A lot of the good stuff, our kind o’ music, yeh know. It’ll be in there.
—Ol’ lads’ music.
—Discernin’ oul’ lads. Exactly.
He handed over the beakers to the young one behind the counter. He didn’t even have to tell her what he wanted, and she never asked. He had to hand over the twenty before she went off and filled them. He didn’t thank her and she didn’t thank him.
—A bit soulless, isn’t it? said Jimmy.
—Fuck it, said Des.
They got back to Outspan and Les. It felt good, seeing them there, sitting side by side, staring out at the world. It was like he hadn’t seen them in ages, years, and – in a way – it was true. It was just a sentimental thought. But grand. His head was nicely fuzzy.
They sat and watched the world wade by.
—Jesus, the height of her.
—My God.
—Is she WiFi enabled?
It was time to move, stretch the legs – Jimmy was numb. They all were.
—My leg’s gone dead.
Les held onto Jimmy’s shoulder while he shook blood back down through his leg.
—Fuckin’ oul’ lads, said Outspan.
He looked like the only one ready to bop.
They liked being the oul’ lads. It was safe, relaxing; nothing was expected or demanded. They could go spare or give up; it didn’t matter. No one would give a shite, especially them.
Maybe.
They gathered up their rubbish and found a bin.
—Goes against my fuckin’ principles, said Outspan.—So where’re we goin’?
They strolled across towards the Crawdaddy tent. It looked a bit like something out of a children’s book – the candy-stripe roof – and they weren’t the only people heading into it.
—It’s like the end of Close Encounters, said Jimmy.
They walked into the dimness of the tent and the smell of dead grass. The ground was wet but it was fine. The feet weren’t sinking.
But something wasn’t right. The people around them were too young. They weren’t Grandaddy people. Grandaddy had been around for years, long enough to break up and re-form. Their one great album, The Sophtware Slump, had been released around the time Mahalia had been born, maybe a bit after. Jimmy got the programme out of his back pocket.
—Sorry, lads. Wrong tent.
—Ah, yeh fuckin’ eejit.
They got out and moved across the field, to the Electric Arena. They had to go at a stroll, to let Outspan keep up with them, but they got into the tent – it was huge – in time to see a big gang of beardy lads walk onstage.
—This them?
—Yeah.
—Who are they again?
—Grandaddy.
A few people whooped, a few more clapped, and the usual eejit started shouting the name of a song.
—’The Crystal Lake’! ‘The Crystal Lake’!
There was no messing or tuning. The band got going and the tent quickly filled and warmed up. They were great. They were brilliant. There was no encore. The band bumped to a good end and walked off.
—What did yeh think?
—Shite, said Outspan.
—Good, said Des.
—Not my kind of thing, said Les.—But they were thoroughly professional.
They went back out, for a piss and a drink, and back in for Grizzly Bear.
—What did yeh think? said Jimmy.
—Shite, said Outspan.
—Yep, Jimmy agreed.—I expected more.
—Yeh poor naive cunt.
They were outside again, and across the field to the bar. Les bought the round.
—Fucking expensive this side of the pond.
Fuckin’ eejit, Jimmy thought, but he wasn’t sure why. Because it was fuckin’ expensive. No one was tearing off to the jacks this time.
—We’re gettin’ the hang o’ this.
—Becomin’ acclimatised.
—Jesus, lads, said Jimmy.—Two gigs down an’ it’s still daylight.
—Marvellous, said Les.—What’s next?
Mark Lanegan, in the Crawdaddy.
—Fuckin’ who?
Jimmy gave Outspan the history – Queens of the Stone Age, The Gutter Twins, Isobel Campbell, Soulsavers. Lanegan walked out and he was immediately their man. In a dirty black suit he stood at the microphone, held it, looked at the ground when he wasn’t singing and said nothing between songs. And the songs were great – straightforward, hard, three minutes. Jimmy could feel the sound as a physical thing, thumping his chest, even flapping the sleeves of his hoodie. Lanegan had pulled the crowd in; the tent kept filling. There was a fair bit of good old-fashioned head banging going on around them. Jimmy looked at his own gang. They were loving it.
—What did yeh think?
—Shite, said Outspan.
—Ah, for fuck sake.
—What’s next?
—Need a break?
—No – fuck it.
—We’ll have a look at the main stage, will we?
—Who’s on?
—Sigur Rós.
—I like them, said Des.
—You know them?
—I think so.
It was cooler now and the sun had dropped behind the trees. One man stopped to zip up his hoodie – all the men stopped and zipped their hoodies. Then they were on the move again. It was much busier, a bit chaotic, but they weren’t in a hurry. That was the trick, Jimmy decided; not really caring if you missed the start of a show, or stayed for the lot. It was like watching telly, except you were your own remote control. Or something.
Some of the women were unbelievable. They were dressed for the clubs in the middle of a field. Jimmy wondered were they cold, then wondered why he wondered.
—Would you dress like tha’? he asked Outspan.
—Depends.
—On wha’?
—I’ll get back to yeh.
The main stage was right ahead of them.
Outspan stopped.
—You alrigh’?
—Yeah, said Outspan.—Not too bad.
—Are yeh enjoyin’ yourself?
—When did you become my fuckin’ ma?
—Grand – sorry.
The other two ahead of them had stopped. They came back.
—Alright? said Les.
—Yep.
Outspan pointed.
—Them.
It was a line – two lines – of girls. They’d a chair each and they were standing behind them. Their tight T-shirts said Mobile Massage.
—Wha’ about them?
—Massage, said Outspan.
The girls were busy bullying the necks and shoulders of people, mostly women, in the chairs in front of them.
—You want a massage? said Jimmy.
—No, said Outspan.—But.
—Wha’?
&
nbsp; —Massage, said Outspan.—It’s usually a wank, isn’t it?
—Do you see annyone bein’ wanked there, Liam?
—No, said Outspan.—But.
—Wha’?
—I’d love a tug, said Outspan.
—Will a pint do yeh?
—G’wan.
—My twist, said Des.
He looked at Jimmy.
—Grand, said Jimmy.—Thanks, Des.
—Good man, Dezlie.
Les went up to the bar with Des.
—See, if this was a film, said Outspan.
—Wha’?
—Yis’d arrange a wank for me cos I’m dyin’.
—True.
—You’d go up to the big bird there an’ whisper in her ear.
—That’s righ’.
—An’ next of all we’d be back at the tents an’ she’d be in one o’ them.
—Yeah.
—She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?
—Yep, said Jimmy.—But Liam?
—Wha’?
—It’s not goin’ to happen.
—Ah, I know, said Outspan.
The other two came back with the beer, and they made their way along the side of the field, and down, nearer to the stage.
—She was gorgeous though, wasn’t she? said Outspan.
He looked back, and Jimmy waited for him to start moving again.
—Alrigh’?
—Ah yeah, said Outspan.—A bit sad. Come on so.
—She’s a real masseuse, Liam. She doesn’t —
—Fuck off, Jimmy, for fuck sake. I’m not stupid.
They kept walking.
—I know, said Outspan.—Even if I wasn’t in the state I’m in. An’ if I was twenty years younger. I still wouldn’t have a fuckin’ hope.
—In shite.
—I agree, said Outspan.—I fuckin’ agree. It’s just – . Remember Imelda Quirk?
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—’Course I do.
—We all fancied her, remember?
—Yeah.
—An’ we all knew we hadn’t a hope.
—Yeah.
—But we could still hope. You with me?
The band – Sigur Rós – were coming onstage, but they were easy to ignore because Jimmy and Outspan were standing a good bit back and on their own. Anyone near them was moving closer to the stage or away from it.
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—I know what yeh mean.
—An’ listen, said Outspan.—It isn’t the young one. I wouldn’t – I don’t think I would. But, say, she was older – her ma, say. Sometimes things like tha’ – seein’ a beaut like that. It just reminds me that I’ll be dead in a couple o’ months.
Jimmy said nothing. He put his hand on Outspan’s shoulder. Outspan didn’t object. He stared at the stage as he spoke.
—Give us a wank later, Jimmy, will yeh?
—No problem.
Jimmy didn’t know much about Sigur Rós but he liked what he saw and heard. It was slow, songless stuff, like classical music by men who wanted to be in a band, not an orchestra. He liked that. The singer – Jimmy thought his name was Jonsi – had a voice so unlike Mark Lanegan’s it was nearly hard to accept that they were both human. Actually, there was something not quite human about Sigur Rós, and he liked that too. They were David Bowie’s foster kids or something. They’d have been better under a roof but, still, Jimmy liked them a lot.
But they were losing the crowd. There were dozens of people walking away, back past them.
—Wha’ d’yeh think? Jimmy asked.
—Interesting, said Des.
—Utter shite, said Outspan.
It was cold now and dark. Outspan had a black cap pulled down past his eyebrows – where his eyebrows used to be.
—Where next?
Jimmy got the programme out of his pocket. He couldn’t read it.
—Can’t fuckin’ see.
—Here, said Les.
He took the paper from Jimmy and held it up and at an angle.
—Ah yes.
—Who?
—Christy Moore.
—Let’s go. Where?
—Crawdaddy.
They were veterans now. They knew where to go.
Jimmy wanted to lead the charge into the tent, to get over the hump, the fuckin’ barbed wire fence that was his snobbery. His head was well up for it but his body was holding him back. He could feel it, just above his kneecaps, around his waist, pulling the back of his hoodie. He was fighting himself to stay up with the lads and have a good wallow in Christy. And he was fighting everyone else at the Picnic as well. All thirty thousand – whatever the number was – the population of Darfur and the other Darfurs, the posh tents and the yurts; there were kids dashing to Christy who hadn’t been born when Christy was starting to think about retirement. It was a good-sized tent but it hadn’t been built for a population this size.
—Fuckin’ hell.
Les kind of gathered them up. He wasn’t a big man – no bigger than Jimmy – but he seemed able to shield the other three and push backwards through the entrance, and in. Jimmy wondered – the thought popped up – if Les had served time in the army, the British Army. There was something so efficient about the way he moved and commanded the bodies to get out of his way without a word or an elbow.
They were in now and sweating in honour of Christy.
—JOXER MET A GERMAN’S DAUGHTER ON THE BANKS OF THE RIVER RHINE.
They’d arrived in the middle of ‘Joxer Goes to Stuttgart’.
—AND HE TOLD HER SHE’D BE WELCOME IN
BALLYFERMOT ANY TIME.
And it was great to be there, to be right in there, in all the love and the steam. Jimmy hadn’t been in as packed a crowd as this since – he couldn’t remember – years ago, the ska days. And it was the only gig he’d been to so far where no one around him was talking. All eyes, all mouths, were on Christy.
It was over. They stayed put. They held one another’s sleeves like kids on a school trip while the solid mass around them loosened and they could get back out into the cold.
—Wha’ did yeh think? Jimmy asked Outspan.
—Brilliant.
—You actually liked somethin’?
—Fuck off, he was fuckin’ brilliant.
Jimmy took a breath and crossed the line.
—Yeah, he said.—He was incredible.
He wanted to cry. The rest of his life was going to be great.
But Outspan looked bollixed.
—Nightcap? said Les.
—Back at HQ, said Jimmy.—Sound.
—Are there any more gigs? Des asked.
—Just DJ stuff, I think, said Jimmy.—Dum-dum, fuckin’ dum-dum.
—Oh fuck, come on.
They grabbed a few hotdogs on the way.
—For fuck sake – look.
There was a photograph pinned beside the hatch; the pigs on the organic farm before the organic farmer knifed the poor fuckers.
—Here, said Jimmy to the lad with the ponytail in the truck. —Which pig did ours come from?
The lad leaned over the hatch and put his finger on a pig. He was wearing dentist’s rubber gloves.
—That one.
—Did he have a name? said Les.
—Janice.
—Brilliant.
—Worth the seven euro.
They went slowly – the ground, the food, the crowds, the dark, Outspan. There were parents shoving buggies through the muck and trying to keep count of the kids on legs. The music from the funfair bashed against the techno coming from one of the tents. They weren’t the only ones going back to Darfur but there were as many coming at them, heading back in.
—Fuckin’ eejits.
Les led the way to the jacks. There was a watchtower to the left, and two lads in reflective jackets on a wooden platform, a spotlight above their heads. The field was well lit.
—It’s like a fuckin’ prisoner-of-war camp.
—Not really, said Les.
Th
ey could feel the ground clinging to them as they got nearer to the urinals. Jimmy slid, but stayed up. They stood in a line.
Jimmy saw it – a lump in the corner, just past the urinal. It looked like a pile of clothes but it had two heads. It was a couple, a boy and a girl, sitting close; their hair looked tangled together. They would have looked lovely on a beach.
—Are yis okay?
—Hi, said the girl.
—Are you alright?
—Fine, said the boy.
—Grand, said Jimmy.
—Bye.
—Bye.
He caught up with the others. He could hear Outspan’s breathing.
—Alrigh’?
Outspan nodded.
They looked out for the guy ropes. The spotlight was behind them and sprayed the roofs of all of the tents ahead. But their bodies made long shadows and even in the light the ropes were tricky – thin and glassy. They tripped over a few but nearly all the tents were empty.
—Look where you’re going!
—Fuck off.
Les knew exactly where their tents were. Definitely, thought Jimmy; he’d been in the British Army. He’d found tents and loojahs in Iraq and Afghanistan.
The two young lads were still minding the tents and the gear.
—Alright, gents?
—Grand.
—Have a good night, lads?
—Great, said one.—Not a bother.
—D’yis want a few cans? said Outspan.
—We’re grand.
They were gone, away, tripping over the ropes.
—Poor cunts.
They sat on their jackets.
—It’s fuckin’ cold enough now, isn’t it?
—Cuddle up here, look it.
—Fuck off.
—Well, said Les.—I enjoyed myself tonight. Thanks, Jimmy.
—What’re yeh thankin’ tha’ cunt for?
They opened cans, and tapped them against the other cans.
—Cheers.
—Great night.
—Who was the best?
—Christy.
—Lanegan.
—Fuck off. Christy.
—I liked Sigur Rós.
—You fuckin’ would.
—What about tomorrow?
Jimmy told them about his own bands.
—They sound like shite, said Outspan.
But they all seemed happy, even a bit excited. Jimmy took a breath, felt himself go over another hump, and told them about his Bulgarian son.
—Brilliant.
—Fuckin’ brilliant.
—Just – fucking brilliant.
All four of them were fathers. Jimmy realised it for the first time. They grinned and laughed and loved the thought of one of their kids up on a stage.