That grim act Patricide

Marilyn Monroe

Over the next few days Frankie’s taste in music deteriorated with his mood and a bottle of gin (the tequila was long gone, a distant memory); from “Candle in the Wind” (the Princess Diana version) it was now Robbie Williams’ “Angels…” on repeat. Poor Francis was always such a sensitive soul, almost too fragile for this world. For my part I stayed outside nicking fags from the packet he’d left on the table when he finally crawled off insensible with drink. You should know I smoke for effect in this blog more than anything; I largely quit a year ago, which is to say that all of the joy vanished from my life shortly after Davy Jones died. In case you are starting to think I am completely heartless (as Frankie said, “You haven’t got a h-h-heart cousin,” when I suggested perhaps he’d been drunk for three days now) the thought that Archie was dead hadn’t really sunk in yet, or perhaps I am more savvy than you realise: my father was well known for surprising quantities of Revivals and Comeback tours. In any case as I told Frankie, “It’s a bittersweet symphony, this life,” which is the sentiment that generated when I peered at the label on the empty Espolon tequila bottle (gradually filling up with fag ends); it wasn’t long after that Frankie got the yips and started calling out to me that he could feel tiny skeletons running over him.

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