One thing I shall miss now that I’ve decided radically to reduce my drinking is what I like to call Drunk Island Discs. These are the songs I play on my CD player and/or Apple Mac when I’ve had a few in my office-shed at home, too many to do any more work or read, not yet enough to feel the need to go inside and catch a late-night Jason Statham movie. One of my guilty pleasures, late-night Jason Statham movies.
The basic premise of Drunk Island Discs is I’m on an island, I have to choose some records to play, and I’m pissed. On big marquee occasions, I like to intersperse the tracks by narrating both sides of an interview with an imaginary Kirsty Young.
“Extraordinary,” I say, in a throaty Scottish accent, “and now, Bob, your first record?” “My first record, Kirsty,” I slur, cueing up some ancient scratchy performance I’ve found on YouTube, “is Stay Free off the Clash’s ever so slightly disappointing second album, Give ’Em Enough Rope. A wonderful hymn of praise to juvenile law-breaking, and also one of the best uses of swearing in popular music.” Pretend-Kirsty and I sit and listen to Stay Free.
After more chat about my absolutely fascinating life and another big slug of Jameson, I introduce the non-existent listeners to I Believe by the Buzzcocks. I have a weakness for list songs, and this is one of my favourites. I’ll probably tell Kirsty that I saw the Buzzcocks live, and the Clash, as a teenager. Even though it isn’t true.
I tell more alcohol-soaked lies about my youth while looking for Dead Kennedys doing Holiday in Cambodia. The only version I can find on the net is rubbish, but I know all the words anyway, so I fill them in. Kirsty looks anxious that her guest, by now clearly the worse for drink, is snarling the frankly unsavoury lyrics of a 30-year-old punk anthem at her blamelessly upright Radio 4 audience going about their Sunday morning business. I couldn’t care less.
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Three tracks in and we still haven’t advanced beyond 1980. And we still haven’t, because now it’s time to take the tempo down a little, ladies and gentlemen, all the way down, down to the depths of despair, with the Joy Division classic Atmosphere, a song that can never be mentioned unless the adjective “haunting” is in very close proximity.
I might follow this with Love Will Tear Us Apart, tell Kirsty I refuse to choose between the two, simply must take them both to Drunk Island. “But you’ve got to decide,” says Kirsty, flirty, mock-stern. I ignore her, pour another drink, lose myself in nostalgic adolescent self-pity. Kirsty tries to butt in. I tell her to shut up.
After that we need to lighten the mood and I’ll probably opt for some Seventies Bowie, either Young Americans or Heroes or both. Probably have another whiskey and dance around, probably bang my thigh on the edge of my desk, spill my drink, have to grip a book shelf for support. Kirsty looks concerned.
I might try to make a pass at her around this point: “You know, Kirsty,” I grunt, “you’re a fine-looking woman. Sing with me, Kirsty! I, I can remember (I remember)/ Standing by the wall (by the wall)/ And the guns shot above our heads (over our heads)/ And we kissed, as though nothing could fall (nothing could fall). Come on, Kirsty, we can be heroes, just for one day.” But Kirsty doesn’t sing or say anything. I thud heavily back down into my chair.
Shameful scenes. Trying to recapture something, the feeling of first hearing these songs, of being 16, of having had just enough to drink but not too much. Something.
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Still in the Seventies, scrolling through YouTube, ripping CDs from their cases, plastic skittering across the floor, I’ll play Midnight Train to Georgia by Gladys Knight, not forgetting the Pips, and then perhaps If You’re Looking for a Way Out by Odyssey off my Heartbreakers compilation. More swearing then with The Sick Bed of Cuchulainn by the Pogues.
“Robert you’ve chosen your eight, or possibly more than eight, records,” says Kirsty. “So tell me, will you cope with the combination of total isolation and relentless alcohol abuse that Drunk Island demands? How do you view the prospect of getting utterly hammered every day while tunelessly singing along to poor recordings of questionable songs from 30 years ago?” “Kirsty, sweetheart,” I say, “I’ll be fine.”
“And if you had to take just one record from those eight?” “I’d take That’s Entertainment by the Jam,” I say, putting it on, “even though I’ve only just remembered it.” Kirsty sighs. “And obviously you’ve got the Bible, a warehouse full of drink and the complete works of Shakespeare. What other book would you take?” “I find I like rereading my old Viz annuals when I’ve had a couple.”
“And your luxury?” “Oh, I dunno. Fags, probably, if I’m honest. Lots of fags.” “Robert Crampton, thank you for letting us hear your Drunk Island Discs.” “Thank you.” Cue music.