“Pass the sauce, will you ever.”
Paddy Murtagh was furious, the gig had turned out a shambles and his on-off girlfriend Linda was teetering on off again. Maverick, his long-suffering bandmate, appeared to have had enough too. These constant let-downs were killing his drive. One more gig filled with unthankful pundits and he didn’t think he could stomach it. He pushed the bottle of katsup across the table at him.
“So, Paddy, another unmitigated disaster by all accounts for us, huh.”
Paddy was totally spent.
“Yip, brutal, unfruitful, all kinds of putrid.”
Maverick had to give it up for Paddy’s devotion to the poetic cause either way. He waited for more insight.
“Know what, Mavs, we ain’t getting younger that’s for sure, and these youngsters come to see people their own age.”
Maverick had to agree, but when exactly is it you wrestle yourself into letting a dream die? He watched his mate finger the katsup with a knife and lob it on his McCains. Fried just like their supposed careers. He took the seat with the shoddy arm on by the telly. What should’ve been flat screen was clapped out average.
“We gave it a shot, a thousand shots, in fact, and no go. We’re a no-go area.”
Paddy reckoned he was right but couldn’t see what lessened them to other more commercially successful bands. He smirked.
“A time machine, that’s what we fecking need.”
They built it ‘n’ all, and now they sit happily inside of the eighties with crazy about-to-be-tapped talent atop all the time in the world. Only problem is Maverick failed to take a single moment to figure in his outrageous drug-addiction. No escaping that be it the eighties or the noughties. Fuckit. Onwards and drugwards.