The Poor List Chptr 1

The Poor List “You’ll have heard of the rich list, well, the idea was to do the opposite.” Chapter One ‘O’Hara’s first appearance in the events’ On one side of the tiny, smoky pub there were seven or eight wooden tables arranged haphazardly about a small raised corner that acted as a stage. On it, Kevin O’Hara, slight and stooped, was testing the public announcement system. There was a series of high pitched wails and screams from the speakers, followed by a stream of curses. Someone in the audience laughed over the crackle. O’Hara turned to face them too quickly. Beer from his pint pot slopped over the side and onto the cast on his left arm making him drop the microphone. There was a final crescendo of feedback before the pub’s landlord walked onto the stage, adjusted some controls and shook his head. ”Fucking wankers,” O’Hara said and grinned. People jeered. ”Give me that Kev, for fuck’s sake. Ok Ok”, Terry shouted into the microphone. “Let’s have some quite you bunch of fucking chimneys and let’s get this fucking thing started. Like always, barring any fucking power cuts, forty questions to stretch your general knowledge cell as far as it’ll go. Which isn’t that fucking far judging by last week’s fiasco. And if you want to smoke go out side. Jesus.” Someone in the front row shouted something. “I know this is a cigarette, but I'm the fucking landlord. Is there any rozzer in? No? [sighs] “Well, then, I s’pose you can all fucking smoke. But use the bastard ashtrays you're not in your own fucking fleapits now.” There were a few indignant cries amidst the noise. The crowd traded abuse for a while with Terry O’Loughlin, licensed to sell beer and intoxicating liquor at The Junction Public House, Gledd Hill and authorised to vend food for public consumption therein, whilst Kevin O’Hara, unemployed of this parish, known felon and onetime sporting star leant on a mike stand and licked a dribble of Spark’s Best from the greying scribbled on plaster about his hairy arm. There was more shouting

and a drink smashed on the floor. There was a scuffle near the pinball machine. More people entered the pub from the noise of a cool May evening outside. “…and you’ll be down the fucking road. Yes. And as always ‘Answers with Kev’”. [loud cheers]. O’Hara shuffled to the front and took an unsteady bow. “No fucking cheating. Mobiles have been disabled, you bunch of reach rounds,” the landlord said. “Thank you Mister O'Loughlin for that kind introduction. Of course...” “Right,” interrupted the landlord, “Let us begin.” The forty questions would be familiar to anyone who had frequented edge of town pubs midweek; show business, TV, politics and a picture and sound round. These events took time to organise, time which the landlord of The Junction resented but to which he acquiesced to doing in order to help out with Kevin's predicament and vaulting ambition, that may well come off. That, and the guilt. It was Kev they'd all come to hear. He brought in the punters and the way things were, The Junction needed all the trade it could get. Terry heaved a sigh and began. Kevin O'Hara wandered round the bar and weaved in and around the tables offered advice and abuse to the eight or nine teams. Three-quarters through and ‘Carbold Sheep Shaggers’ were in the lead. Terry asks “...played in the film Wild Strawberries? Which politician resigned from the government...into battle?..., and so on, What country did the UK invade in 2010? It isn't Margaret Thatcher for fuck's sake. and on, No no fucking changing answers. Just leave it…”. People drank and out of the windows outside the rolling green whitchty emptiness filled half the sky. “Can't fucking read that anyway, no fucking mark. Go away. Turn that fucking music down Lindsey I can't hear fuck all over here. And answers came there none. Right over to Kev. Where the fuck...?” Kevin appeared, stage left grabbed the mic and shouted, - Hey hey hey! Third prize free curry! Thank you Mr. Dameer of Top Taste...

There was a ragged chorus from the crowd just discernible over the swelling hubbub. “I can't fucking hear you? Top Taste...” [general shouting] “Louder!” “Bottom Waste!” “That's right. ...The power.” Kevin slowly leant forward and pointed the head of the microphone to his bony behind. There was a load prolonged rasping noise from the tilting speakers and Kevin stood straight and bowed amid general uproar. “Chicken’s revenge. All right. All right. Second prize, [some obscenity is belched back at the crowd], four pints of Spark’s and first prize this here bottle of whisky, only slightly used, and a full English breakfast. Hey. Some fucking quiet. Shite. I think I've followed through here.” Terry, shaking his head, made his way through the throng back to the bar. “Four pints Jim...So who's this then?...'like a duck to water.' I said...No five, make it five love...From round here ten a penny...Ha ha ha...No leave it...What's fifteen again?...Lost already fuck it...I had to chin him like...Ooof…Hey fuck off...Airhostess…..peanuts I said bastard peanuts...usual fucking chaos can't hear the...Terry! You better then?... ChKunk Chkunk Chkunk...more than usual fucking hell...Watch it...That's the ten quid I put into the fucker... am pissed...Some fucking quiet in here...the fucking music down, down the other fucking way...You see, yer Arab well, different kettle of chips...Ha ha ha hooooow...watch it you I said...lost it she said good and proper.”

“So I'm off down the social again all organised this time I’d got me little list all sorted out: “one vets” two: “sign on consultation” three: “funeral” . Day before I gets this letter from the so-shh. Got booted off the sick, haven’t I? . How can they do this to me? I mean, look at me? [cries of ‘Get off!’] Ged ‘em off? You sure? Is that a shaft of wit or a waft of shit? I say, this new doctor, keen as fuck, he was,

said there was fuck all wrong with me. I said you must be fucking joking, have you seen me? I am as sick as a three legged dog. He tells me that I’ve the heart of an ox and hands me some photos of me on a roof with some tiles an’ that, and says if I don’t cart me sorry arse back off down Market Street Work Station that he’d have to fill in this here form and that would mean all monies suspended for the next two year, investigations inconvenience and so on and so forth blah de fucking blah like I’m sure you’re all aware. Fucking roofin’ - this bastard arm is all I’ve fucking well got to show for it. Gerry said it’s easy work. Drive around looking for loose looking stuff on rooves all over the area, bit o’ winder cleanin an’ that cash in hand for old rope. It’s goin dog’s bollocks for month or so, then well. There I am one minute scootin about fixing some old dear’s tiles, next thing I’m sliding down roof as fast as a greased fart. I’m rattling down the slope and a sees the ladder speeding towards me, and I grabs fucking old of it, thinking I’m saved. Ah clings onto it as it falls back with me on first rung shouting to Jesus Allah and all the fucking gods in creation. Ends up straight onto the bastard van. Fucking ladder’s one of these flexible carbon fibre fuckers an’ it bends back like an’ catapults me over the old dear’s fence and straight through her fucking greenhouse. Mind you, you can’t argue with cunts like that. Way things are, social’s are getting a bit nowty with your more hardened dole wallah. Like me. And Baz over here.

[inaudible]

What’s that? I say, fuck off. It's not as if any of you bastards are unfamiliar with the ways of the Palace of Plenty, I know for a fact that there’s a fair number of yer that haven’t worked so far this century, so you can stop the sarky fucking jeering. And the doctor, well he had it coming. Oh aye. Am forgetting here. Number one “Harold Pinter” Funny fucking name. Where wor I? That was it - this particular day, the wife'd given me ‘undred quid to have done with the dog. I say ‘wife’ but you know ‘ow it is. Anyways she couldn't face tekkin bleedin’ mutt to vets and have it looking at her like it were all her fault. Which it was in a way, running over the fucker like that. Fucking right performance. Number Two – Julius Caesar. He had a Roman nose like mine roamin all over his fucking face. No, Ceasar not the fucking dog he had no nose….I say how did the fucker smell….? [hoot of derision]. Comedian laughs and stares out of the window, over the moors and fading light for a second. His face is caught in a shank of red sunlight. [Lights come on]

“Fuck off then. I mean what were she thinkin’? So I’m drifting into town not looking forward to encountering the Gutterenstilefuhers down at the compound, but what can you do, when I bumps into Syrupy John half-limping and falling out the bookies on Peel Street. You know the place, Spearman’s, next to The Flying Ashtray, it’s the only betting shop you come out worse off even when you win, actually, especially when you win, and we gets talking. He says he’s been investin’ some of the compo he got for falling arse over down the factory stairs in slow horses and fast women. He asks me why I’m dressed up like a old mod so a tells him about auld fella and that, but like people tend to do when you tell em bad news he starts pippin’ on about how his life wor all fucked up, and that he needs to submerge some of his troubles in some booze, so we end up poking our snouts into the ‘Drug and Bottle’ on the corner there. I had a few hours to spare and what harm could a pint or two do? Number three Brookside. Fucking what? Yeh Terry, soz, number four - Scott Joplin, of course. I once made a wish for a twelve inch penis but the magic fairy misheard me and granted me a twelve inch pianist instead. Budum. Ok – a word of explafuckingnation for the uninitiated - like the beer in here, my jokes are old and weak. [jeers] Like all o’ you’ll be someday so shut yer ‘oles. Five Henry the third. Now Syrupy John is an old acquaintance of mine, what o? O yeh the fifth, we used to get expelled from school together regular and I ant seen him for yonks. Usually he were a right miserable get, but he were near suicidal this doleday. Tellin’ me ‘ow his girlfriend’d dumped im, how some cunt’d nicked ‘is car, the court cases n’all usual chat. What wi’ funeral later on, I wont that sympathetic like, so after a pint or two he gets up to buy some gunge off the brothers who live in the corner of the pub and soon we’re all smoking and having a bit of a time of it. [‘comedian’ downs and finishes half pint during otherwise continual drinking] Mind you imagine Charles or whoever it’ll fucking be riding into battle. Are there any monarchists in? Fucking hell. Six because on that side you can hit someone with a sword better. What’s that you say? Is that really true? Well, that’s the fucking answer I have written here in front of me. Terrence is the font of all knowledge and he swears that’s the case so anyway as for driving, I couldn’t drive a fucking dodgem. In fact, I say, I’ve got meself banned from most of the driving schools round here. One of the reasons wife binned me [more jeers] – well that an’ shagging her sister. Later later… I say, it were just after ad necked

me fifth pint of Pils that John asks us what I wor doing in town. [Get off] Silence Danny you cheeky streak o’ piss. Have you not seen the sign behind my arse here that says ‘Hecklers will be taken outside and treated roughshod’. [turns] Oh, wait a minute. No it fucking doesn’t – it says ‘Drugs will not be tolerated on these premises’ [genuine laughter]. First I’ve heard. Did you know that Baz? Fuck’s sake. How’s an honest to goodness drug dealer ‘spose to earn his keep these days with talk like that?. Last I heard, drugs were the only reason people tolerated these fucking premises. But don’t tell Terry, he does ‘is fucking best, even if his best is shit, like. Next ‘Bat droppings’. Nah nah that’s the fucking answer. No fucking stewards enquiry or nothing. What you say Janice? Well fuck me, language now language. What’s that Terry? “Stop fucking swearing for fuck’s sake?” Now usually I don’t pick fights wi’ people uglier than me but tonight I might mek an exception. You’re only joking, Janice, ok. I know. I’m trying too here, honest to fuck. Ten – four hundred and fifty nine. Can’t remember what the question was. Terry gerrim a pint will yer, You? You’ve enough fucking enemies as it is [Audience member: “Joke Kev tell us a joke you useless cunt.”] Alright alfuckingright. Horse walks into a bar and sits down. Fella next to him says ‘No she went of ‘er own accord?’ Now fuck off. I’ll tell you a joke at the end. Mind you last job interview I had this fella asks us “So it says here you write your own jokes?” an’ I says to him “Well you must ‘ave had a laugh at me CV?” Oops watch out Barry comin’ through. Mind ‘ow you go – oh too late [laughter]. So Syrupy John is telling me all about the compo he’d got for his little accident at work. Now bear with me cos this might explain a few things that’s been happenin round here. Syrupy John works in the pop industry. Knows all the big names, flash clothes, big shiny car the women round ‘im like he’s God’s gift [puts on deep voice] ‘I’m int pop industry luv an’ you look as if you’ve got woddit teks.” That’s right he works at Boyd’s and Harrap’s fuckin’ fizzy drink factory. I’m not sure I believed the cunt but, like, he’s fallen down the stairs after sliding on some stuff that should of got cleaned up or summat and proper fucked his leg up. No more burglaries for a week or two he tells me. The judge at the tribunal believes all the stuff and grants him twenty grand or so. Not much but it’ll do he says. I believe you John I says after he’s told me whole tale – thousands wouldn’t like. Thing was he were still furious with the gaff he worked for. Some rancour

with this manager and he’s telling me his plans for revenge like. His leg is glowin with pain and he swears that only strong Czech lager can possibly provide the necessary pain relief. [sings] “Then I go an spoil it all by drinkin sixteen pints of strong Czech lager…la la lalala” [belches cavernously] I promise I’ll sing at end [cheers]. So his argumentation you might say is a little on the vague side. My intellectual capacities have been reduced by the poison pils they sell in there an all the fumes an that. But what he tells me of his devilish plan an what I remember about it had a kind of daring do about it, but I’ve been sworn to secrecy, but praps I’ll tell you later. All right here are some more fucking answers….ninety ninety seven. Fuck me, that long ago? Fifteen, ‘The Penis Pills’, o’ course. Fucking top band. I seh, there I am like, I’m in the middle of town middler day with a load of flutter in me pocket . It felt like my life had ‘turned round’ like it says on posters. But it all fell to shite somewhere after me sixth pint. Consulfuckingtation. Question seventeen, Sadamm Hussein – yeah remember him? I say, My memory’s going. Iraq, yeh that were it remember? An’ I’ll tell you another thing, my memory’s going. Have said that ‘ave a? So, anyway before I know where I am, am ‘aving to leg it as fast as I could to get to fucking Work Stop or whatever they call themselves these days on time. I stumble into the gaff propped up pissed and Number seventeen ‘S’. ‘S’ for shitfer like you Scoddy. O T T F F the next one is S. How obvious, some fucker explain it to him will you. Any top up, I gets to the desk in this place an some from behind a thick plazzie screen gives me a ticket an tells me to tek a seat. Now I don’t know if you’re familiar with Queens House’s interior décor but I doubt whether Regina herself ever parked her airy arse on one of these plastic jobs. Thing is, they’re all nailed to the ground so they don’t get flung about an that and they’re all worn smooth from all the layabout arse from round here that’s got to sit on them waiting for a pickmeup. It’s dark and there’s cameras everywhere making me feel all paranoid an that. And am bustin for a piss but I couldn’t find the shithouse.

Eight. What can you do when you can’t and can’t

when you can? [disorderly shouting and haranguement of performer] All right all right. I say what kind of fucking questions that, Terry? Answer, drivin’ of course [shouts of outrage]. Don’t blame me Errol. I say, driving. Things the way they are, it’s not easy keeping yer motor on the road, such as they are, these days. A lot of you get about with no licenses, insurance, stolen cars an’ all [cries of objection]

that. Me? Never even passed. Like a seh. Tried a load of times. Pearson’s driving school went bust after I finished with them. Last test instructor, Greg I think he were called, passes me this list as am getting in , “WCO. What the fuck does that mean?” I said “Wrote Car Off.”, he says. “But it’s already been ticked?” “Well it saves time at the end don’t it you useless cunt.” Nineteen , From the German frichen. Twenty Charles Dickens . Christ. So I gets up an asks one of the security guards where the bogs were but he just looks at me like am shit on his shoe. Turns out, bogs are all out of fucking order. Picture round – twenty is the late Foreign Secretary, Graham Woodcock. I say, when he lied did his cock gets bigger – missus must have been an happy woman…Me number’s up so it’s too fucking late anyway. The people at Queen’s House are an impatient bunch so I weaves off to the cubicle down the corridor. It’s a fucking depressing place like down the cop shop – tiny little fuck off rooms, carpet the colour of shite, walls the colour of piss an’ with posters all over them. Plus some orrible eighties fucking music. I was bug eyed pissed and fucking bustin’ but this nonce sets me up for a truth test and probe and all the fucking works. One of those fucking hair net thing and some crocodile clips on me fingers. For a moment I thought they were going to do for me but the two main gaffers stroll in from a door behind the plastic screen with these fuck off files and starts with the questions and that. Twenty one, Bernie Sumner, though he has seen better days judging from that photo. So, where wor I? [inaudible] Watch it you! I say, kiss the back of me bollocks! [cheers]. Twenty six Lady Diana – remember her? Queen did for her you know? Did for the brakes of the car an that. Honest to fuck. So, these two types start grilling me good and proper name address, marital status, size o’ me cock an all the time looking at this little screen for to see if I’m telling porkies. I am most of the time, but like Syrupy John said, if you think about sex hard enough, the machine gets all fucked up. Speaking of which twenty eight – The Prime Minister himself. [boos, cheers]. I say, he’s doing a fine job considering the pressure he’s under. [laughter]. Must be a country somewhere he don’t want to invade. I nearly joined the army once, meet interesting people and kill them and all that, but I failed the eye test through been a wanker all me life they said. Well fuck ‘em. Any army in tonight? O fuck. No fence. Any root, the woman starts giving me a real hard time an starts droning on about job hunting, responsibilities and stuff, but it’s the cocky little fella who’s

pissing me off. He’s sat there all serious and smug and slowly pouring out water from a bottle into his glass real slow like and it starts to remind me of the seven pints of pils I’ve supped. Bear with me here because it explainas a lot of things – Thirty, Cilla Black? Who? Like, I’m just nodding away trying to think of Stella Ambrose and not pissing myself. Not that she were a barrel of laughs or out. Because, by the looks am getting what am saying’s not making for a convincing job finder’s profile. Thirty one, the rocket’s gold plated! Not the send off me old fella got last month that’s for sure. The ‘Cemetry Road Incident’ apparently – yeh it made the papers. Partly my fault, family tensions and that, all boiled over into a fight in the church, you know how it is. Well it’s what he would a wanted. Stupid twat. So I’m telling them about the fall, the lay-offs and misunderstandings and being sick and all that but these officers are having none of it and the woman, a right bitter looking thing, takes her glasses off and starts some loud spiel about arsh incentives, new programs and measures to be taken and a load of other stuff I’m in no fit state to hear. ‘Cos all I can think about is leaning against a piss stone somewhere quite and perhaps blowing my chunks. Thirty Two – Chicago, of course. So I waits for a pause in the conversation and asks if there’s a bog in the joint. Fella laughs, but the woman takes exception to this and shaking her head practically hyperventilating. The Swiegen Pils in the Drug is a rough fucker of a pint. Tension here is a placid bloke but I remember one Friday night they had to call the cops after he’d had five pint. Took three rozzer to hold him down an all whilst the fourth sorted out his broken nose. One of its many side effects is that it can make you a little short tempered. Plus all the Rick fucking Astley and stuff playing away is not helping at all. As the questions carry on I gets to thinking all sorts of fates I could inflict on these fuckers and I hear myself say something in my defence. I say “Look. To be honest, I think I may have become a tad disillusioned with the world of work” own up to some laziness on the job seeking and some other stuff about hitting concrete ceilings an that and round off with some promises and that. The bloke looks at me all side ways glances and that and says thems quite big words for someone from Clemmed and the mother figure has a quiet laugh too. Now I know given the scores you fuckers get in these quizzes that we are all pretty fucking far away from being the brains of Britain. We all know that that’s why Jesus Crust our saviour was not born in Held – no fucker could find

three wise men – or a virgin for that matter, but there was no fucking need for this type of language. Not that I wor in any shape for any physical argy bargy or nothing. Besides there’s a fuck off placky screen in front of them. But I’m a bit riled like. So I says words to the effect that just because I weren’t educated that don’t make me stupid or nothing. Are there any students in. Thought so ‘synchronised wanking team’ is it? You’re not going to win tonight’s funniest name with that are you. Cunts. But, anyway, the old lady can see I’ve ‘ad a few and that I’m slurrin’ me words a bit. [puts on posh voice] ‘Mr. O’Hara, I fear you are inebriated.’ The cocky cunt with the sharp suit laughs and shakes his head. Before I could stop meself like, I’m stood up thinking ‘Fuck it.’ And I pops freddy out me trousers an’ start pissin on the chair, on the lie detector stuff that’s fallen on the floor, the posters on the wall an’ up and down the plazzie screen. [laughter]. There’s consternation back stage an’ the fella must have pressed an alarm ‘cos there’s this siren all of a sudden, and before I could finish proper, these big security guards ‘ave burst in, all rushing and shouting and start setting about me and grabbing me and that whilst getting covered in piss. One of them, takin’ exception, holds me up whilst his chum weighs in with a few punches to me old guts. There’s a lot more shouting and thrashing about as I’m manhandled through door, and dragged down the corridor, cock all waving about, through the foyer with all the fuckin cctv an’ all stuffed with joe public and hurled down the ramp outside. I didn’t even have time to sign on. I tell you – it’s a fucking job trying to find a fucking job round here. Any toot, it’s time now for our traditional karee-okie round. [inaudible clamour] Ok, Ok I’ll sing something later. [cheers] Samantha you’re up next – who’s up Samantha next though wey hey – oof – alright I suppose I deserve that love. What’s that you say you’re doing? ‘I will always love you’ [cries of mock anguish from now packed house]. A perennial favourite in any alternative universe so give it up for Sam! [applause]. Kevin O’Hara sat at a table with three others as people brought in amplifiers, guitars and drum equipment. Rain hammered against the windows. Kev shouted over the noise, “Christ. So how much will I be getting?”

The woman looked at the man to her left and nodded. He says, “Two hundred up front and ten per cent of the bar.” “Fifteen.” Kev says and downed the rest of his pint. “Fine. Just swear a bit more, the punters down our end love that kind of thing. But lose the sexist stuff. Might get on the Equality woman’s tits.” “Student cunts. I’ll get some fucking practice in. Terry. Terry!! Get these tossers some drinks in will you?” Drinks. “Thank you Samantha. Someone’ll have the place under some Health and Safety directive, fuckin hell. Jeff you next right. So there I am looking down at a pool of semi-digested pils glistening on the pavement not feeling my best. It’s half three I’ve thirty quid left out of the ton for the vet and late for me auld grandad’s funeral. I teks refuge in the The Flying Ashtray for a livener an’ after that things get a bit vague, but next up I’m back home four hours later, fuck knows how, slumped in front o telly soaked through, with a two litre bottle of cider and a pain in my face. Dog limps in through the door and stares at me with its one good eye. Now am not a total heartless bastard, but matters had to be taken in hand. Oh yeh results. Looks like the stoodents have won this week. Best name, though, goes to ‘It’s your funeral’. Terry’ll sort out the prizes! So I pats dog on head. We had our differences , he pissed on me clothes and chewed me slippers and I kicked him about a bit, but you know, you gets used to having things round the place an’ that. So I teks a huge toke of the cider, Silver Sword - a drink that needs no introduction, and we go outside intert little yard round back. It were fucking pissing it down. I goes to the shed a bit choked an’ that. He’s sat there tied up looking expectant, I could just see his face in the street light like, breathin’ like a miner on his last and smelling like a pot of cabbage. I close door, quiet like, and I says to him that I’m not right proud of this and tries to explain that I’ve been forced into a bit of a corner but he just licks his chops and tries to look as enthusiastic as a three legged dog with renal failure standing in the rain can look. I smoked a fag and he were looking at me with his great big brown eyes kind of pleading. And I it him with a spade. I swung this mighty garden tool over me shoulder, fucking killed me busted arm and all, and ‘whoomph’ right on his bonce.

Falls over like a cut off tree not a noise out of him. Trouble was, I’d only stunned the bugger, he were still twitching and making this whimpering sound. There were blood everywhere. So I hits him again. Fucking right mess. He stops breathing this time and I stagger over to the hedge and throw up in next door’s garden. I’m fucking freezing by now and covered in blood. I hadn’t planned it out all that well and to be honest were in a bit of a panic as I looked at his prostrate form lying there in the pouring rain. Fuck knows how murderers manage but I carries him over to some place on the common at back of us, fucking right job and all, and digs a shallow grave. He was a pretty big dog and it nearly did for me. Good job it were a terrible night and the ground were all soft and that. No fucker saw us. Gets back looking like a serial killer. Sweating, piss wet through, busted lip from somewhere, trembling and covered in blood. Fucking Crimewatch. Things you have fort do. [unrelated shouts and laughter] No happy ending tonight but like Syrupy John says, ‘Cheer up soon be dead!’ Look, here’s a joke before I sign off with a song. There might be someone in here who’s not heard it before. Farmer and his wife are trying to have kids….[the lights’ primary colours shine back and forth and pick out faces in the crowd…the fruit machine flickers…raised voices and shouts…a man at the back writes something on a tiny screen…a guitarist tunes up…a drummer tests a bass drum]… - he rushes back inside and says ‘What the fuck are you doing in bed get up you lazy bitch, get up, the fucking barn’s on fire. [disproportionate prolonged laughter]. Yeh, thanks fer trying’. Any toot, I’m off to university! First in my family to go like. Next month down at the Black Hole or summat second on bill only to tonight’s guest ‘Airhostess [ragged cheers] And like I promised a fucking song!! [cheers whistles] ‘You ain’t nothing but a hound dog’!! Elvis….too young to die [section of crowd - too fat to live!] Hit it Terry! Thank you and good n ight!