Leicester Rocks

Mike Hatfield

Description

Leicester, 2015. In his mid-fifties, unemployed and divorced, wannabe rock guitarist Stan Booker is sick of drifting through life. Saying goodbye to the old, he takes charge of his life, joining forces with his lifelong friend Phil to start a business and seeks out new challenges to fulfil his rock dreams. A relationship is soon on the cards as he meets an unlikely match in twice-divorced Mandy, and with his newfound drivepropelling him forward he recruits five musicians with diverse backgrounds and characters for the band, aptly namedLeicester Rocks. Of course, he knows the chances of them making a success of things is on a par with the 5000:1 oddsagainst Leicester City winning the English Premier League title. But a proud city patriot, he decides it's about time everyoneknows just how much Leicester 'rocks' - and what better way to showcase it?As Leicester City's star rises, both Stan and Phil find their own dreams within reach, but trouble for these through-and-throughLeicester heroes is never far away. Love and loyalties will be tested, ambitions threatened, and attitudes challenged as thelast kick-off approaches. Will it be the final whistle or will Stan and Phil finally hit all the right notes?

Sujets

• Leicester

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 mars 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838598570
• Langue: English

Extrait

Copyright © 2020 Mike Hatfield

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 9781838598570

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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For Pam
Contents
Walking By Myself
Come On In My Kitchen
Come Rain or Come Shine
It’s a Jungle Out There
Ursula’s Cafe
Not Alone
Crossroads
Danse Carribe
Black Magic Woman
Autumn Leaves
There May Be Trouble Ahead
Further on Down the Road
Blue
Some Kind of Wonderful
Tupelo Honey
All Along the Watchtower
Another Brick in the Wall?
First Impressions
Listen to Your Heart
We’re All in This Together
Now is the Cool of the Day
You Might Need Somebody
To Live is to Fly
In the Bleak Midwinter
Journey’s End
Kind Hearted Woman Blues
Fields of Gold
We’re Going Wrong
The Payback
Moving On
Say You Love Me
Still Got the Blues?
Ticket to Heaven
Dream on Dreamer
Be Careful What You Like
Fighting Hard
Somewhere Over the Rainbow
We Are the Champions
Closer to You
Steppin’ Right Along
Let’s Get the Show on the Road

Acknowledgements
Chapter headings / song titles
Some useful Lestah slang and dialect
One
Walking By Myself
Stan ‘The Man’ Booker was going through some warm up exercises on his guitar, keeping the volume down, when there was a knock on the door.
‘Hi Mr Booker. Thought you’d like to know we’re just popping round to Aldi with Mum. Probably for half an hour or so. OK? Have fun. See you.’
‘Thanks, Lakshmi. I will. You’re a star, and a proper neighbour.’
Half an hour when he could blast it out on his Les Paul, without upsetting his neighbours was a godsend. Lazy Frank, his miserable neighbour on the other side of his small terraced house, was on his night shift. It has to be a bit of Gary, he said to himself, plugging his laptop into the amp. The laptop was at least third hand, a hand-me-down from his close friend Phil. Stan had worked out how to send emails, download his CDs and play his music. He checked the guitar was in tune. The karaoke backing track was for the Jimmy Rogers song Walking By Myself, in the style of Gary Moore. The problem for him was getting the intro right, as the first five notes were on the guitar, before the percussion came in. He pointed the cursor at the song title, tapped and counted himself in. He was bang on time, and in control. Then into the lyrics, how much he loved the person he would be singing to. This was classic sixteen bar stuff, and he knew the whole thing off by heart. Although Stan loved singing this, the lyrics were just a means to an end. The whole point of the song for him was the guitar solo, and from the onset of the second set of sixteen bars the hairs on the back of his neck were already standing in anticipation. Then he was flying. His heart leapt, and for the next half minute his body and guitar were as one, moving up and down with the music, face contorted in various shapes. He had to quickly overcome the sense of anti-climax when the solo ended, needing to come in again on those first five notes, and repeat the lyrics.
The next track was Still Got the Blues, Stan’s favourite song in the whole wide world, and for which his singing and playing were almost note perfect. But the playing of it usually left him emotionally drained for hours afterwards. He decided to give it a miss and placed his Gibson Les Paul Standard on its stand, alongside his three other guitars, the Fender Strat copy, the nylon string acoustic and the f-hole semi-acoustic. The Gibson was his pride and joy. He stood back to look lovingly at it and, as he had done so often over the last thirty years or more, reflected that it was all very well practising in his front room (and what was he practising for exactly?), but he would love to be playing in a band. He had just never done anything about it. Never, for instance, plucked up the courage to talk to the people in the music shop, who had the contacts.
‘Fuck it,’ he said quietly.
Stan took the stairs two at a time, then picked up his Stetson from the chair next to the mirror in the front bedroom. Careful not to leave any marks, he brushed off one or two specks of dust with the side of his hand and pulled the hat over his long silver locks. He used both hands to tug on the brim, just enough to ensure it stayed on in the event of a breeze blowing, but without disturbing his carefully combed hair. He was sure that the steely-eyed look from Gary Moore in his signed photo on the wall indicated his approval. Usually he would spend several minutes trying on the hat, adjusting the angle slightly each time, until it suited him. This evening, however, he was slightly nervous and he lacked the patience.
He tried to picture the scene in the bar later that evening, as he buckled his holster and secured its leg-tie just above the knee. Would Wild Phil Hiscox, his long-time friend be there? If he did show, things could get tricky, thought Stan. He was still smouldering after what had happened during the morning, and was determined to have his revenge. He checked that the chamber of his imitation Colt six-shooter was fully loaded with dummy bullets then expertly spun the pistol twice on his trigger finger before slotting it into the holster.
‘You’d better be ready, you son of a gun.’
He looked at himself full-on in the mirror, bending at the knees so that he could see the whole of his long lean frame. The outfit was almost complete. Stetson, red neckerchief, waistcoat over pin-striped shirt, Levis, brown shin-high cowboy boots with spurs and his pièce de resistance, a three-quarter length ‘Wyatt Earp’ style coat with brown suede lapels. Stan was well over six feet tall, with an athletic build. Although fifty-five years old, he thought that he still looked mean and tough, and attractive in a certain way to a certain kind of woman.
He practised drawing his Colt a few times, to make sure that it moved easily in and out of his holster, mentally rehearsing a shoot-out in the bar. Stan hoped it would never happen, but he had to be ready.
‘Capow! Capow!’ He’d drawn his gun and dropped onto his knee.
He applied the finishing touch, clamping the cheroot between his teeth. He would light it later. Closing the front door behind him, Stan set off along the pavement with a swagger, the clink of his spurs echoing in the narrow street. With a ‘Howdy ma’am’ and a touch of the brim of his Stetson, he side-stepped to make way for Lakshmi, her sister Ayaisha, and their mother, each carrying a bag of shopping. The girls looked at each other and chuckled as they walked by.
It was a five minute walk to the Working Men’s Club, and Stan knew every inch of pavement. Until the events of today had cast their shadow, he had been looking forward to the club’s annual Wild West night. People of all ages, and not just club members, came from far and wide dressed as their chosen character. They spent these evenings practising their cowboy slang, showing off their latest acquisitions, joining in the line dancing, lassoing and quick-draw competitions, and asking Ted and his bar staff to ‘set ‘em up’.
Laughter, loud voices and the sound of the country and western band warming up filled the atmosphere in the bar, along with the cigarette smoke. Stan exchanged ‘howdys’ with those he knew, a couple of Billy the Kids, one of the Davy Crocketts, another Wyatt Earp and a group of Texas Rangers. He spotted Wild Phil at a corner table, along with his wife ‘Calamity’ Jane, and a mutual friend, Rob ‘Kit’ Carson, but chose for the moment to prop up the bar and watch from a distance.
‘A beer and a shot, Ted, when you’re ready.’
Laughter came from Wild Phil’s table, and there were frequent glances in Stan’s direction. After two more beers and whisky chasers, he could stand it no longer and jostled his way across to the table. He scowled down at the threesome. Jane was sitting between Phil and Kit, and Stan was sure that just for a second or two Kit’s hand rested on Jane’s, before he hastily withdrew it.
‘This is very cosy then. Sounds like you’re having a laugh at someone’s expense.’
‘Well you took your time,’ said Kit. ‘I’d just said to Phil and Jane that you looked like you’d got a chin on and perhaps we’d done something to upset you. Pull that chair up and join us, you old git.’
Stan didn’t budge. ‘This fat so and so has upset someone, haven’t you Phil! Have you told them, or haven’t you had the bottle?’
Phil was staring at the floor between his feet, hands under his thighs.
‘Whatever’s been going on, duck?’ asked Jane. No response from Phil. ‘Do you know, Kit?’ Ki