July 1984
Max Mojo and Grant Delgado stood outside the Radio Clyde building. They had nine copies of the ‘It’s a Miracle’ single between them. It now had a bracketed (Thank You) added to its title, just like (White Man) In Hammersmith Palais. They had brought ten with them, but Max had given one away to a woman he was convinced was Lulu. Despite her protests to the contrary – and the fact that she was serving tea in the Bluebird café – Max insisted she ‘jist gie it a listen. Play it tae Elton an’ the rest ae them.’
They had travelled the now well-trodden route north from Kilmarnock because Billy Sloan had been given a new earlier evening radio show in addition to his regular one. It was a two-hour programme reviewing the best of the week’s new singles, with Billy and his various celebrity guests from the world of popular music. This week – in what even Grant had to acknowledge was potentially serendipitous – Billy Sloan’s guest reviewer on ‘The Music Week’ was Boy George.
The Miraculous Vespas had only just completed recording the songs for the debut LP. Max hadn’t heard the recordings, but, regardless, he had decided the album would be called The Rise of the Miraculous Vespas. He’d had this title in mind from as far back as his period spent in Crosshouse Hospital two years ago. He’d regularly reflected back to those fevered days recently; to how much of an insufferable prick he was back then. He could still occasionally be as intolerant, definitely as tactless and foul-mouthed, but he felt far more in control of his emotions. He was being taken seriously now. After hearing ‘The First Picture’, Alan Horne had phoned him. He got into gigs free. He was automatically on the guest list of the main Glasgow bands whenever they played anywhere in Ayrshire. The band had also been featured in an ‘up and coming’ article in Melody Maker. There had even been a couple of messages taken by Molly, from a Morrison Hardwicke. He could fucking whistle, though. Max Mojo didn’t need the sanctimonius London-centric industry machine. Like Malcolm McLaren before him, he’d win on his own terms.
Max and Grant walked along the elevated pedestrian walkway that connected the Albany Hotel with the building that housed the Radio Clyde studios. It was mid-afternoon. Billy Sloan wouldn’t be there, but they were now convinced that he’d listen to the record and, if impressed by it, he’d play it for Boy George to comment on. They entered the small reception. A black pinboard sign near the front door had small, white cut letters plugged into it, spelling out the words:
RADIO CLYDE WELCOMES: CULTURE CLUB AND HAYSI FANTAYZEE.
‘Jeezo, the whole band’s gonnae be oan it!’ said an animated Max.
‘Aye, but along wi’ they “Big Leggy” bampots, anaw though,’ said a less enthusiastic Grant.
‘Big deal, the more the merrier, eh?’ said Max, shrugging his shoulders.
‘Didnae, mean that … ah meant that we coulda been oan the show alang wi’ Boy George. That John Wayne song wis fuckin’ pish!’
Max laughed until he realised Grant was being serious.
‘You need tae start workin’ harder tae get us intae gigs like this, Max.’
‘Hey, fuckin’ haud oan a minute, pal. Ah’m constantly oan the bastart phone these days. Who dae ye think’s gettin’ ye’se aw the gigs? Who’s payin’ the wages noo, man? Whit the fuck’s the matter wi’ ye?’
‘Nothin’,’ said Grant sullenly. ‘Let’s jist drap these off an’ get back doon the road.’
‘Yer a miserable cunt, these days, so ye are,’ said Max.
‘Fuck off!’
‘Naw, you fuck off!’
‘Ah’ve got an idea,’ said the woman behind the desk. ‘Why don’t ye’se both fuck off, before ah phone the polis!’
Max and Grant stopped pushing each other, and looked at Grace, Radio Clyde’s front line of defence against opportunistic pricks without an appointment.
‘Could ye gie these tae Billy Sloan an’ Tiger Tim?’ said Max.
‘Ah seriously doubt it,’ said Grace.
‘Ah’ll go an’ get ye somethin’ if ye dae,’ said Max.
‘Whit like?’ asked Grace.
‘Dunno. A lamb bhoona or somethin’.’
‘Make it a biryani an’ ah’ll think aboot it,’ said Grace.
‘Awa’ an’ get a chicken biryani, Grant. Get me yin tae,’ said Max.
‘That’ll be shinin’ bright,’ said an angry Grant. ‘Fuckin’ go yerself.’
‘Excuse me a minute,’ Max said to Grace, pulling Grant back through the main door and out into the corridor. ‘Whit the fuck’s got your goat, mate?’ said Max. He was annoyed at Grant for this out of character behaviour.
‘Fuck all. Jist shut it, right!’
‘Is this aw ’cos the Biscuit’ll no’ move in wi’ ye? Fuckin’ get ower yersel, an’ stop gie’in everybody the jaggy bunnet. It’s gettin’ borin’.’
Max pushed Grant, but this time Grant didn’t react. He simply turned around and walked backwards towards the Anderston Bus Station. Max let him go without any further comments. It took him over an hour to find an Indian takeaway restaurant. When he went back to the radio station, ‘Grace’ had been replaced by ‘Suzie’. Fortunately for Max, she also liked an Indian.
Later that evening, Grant sat in the front room of the flat. He’d had four cans of pale ale. The radio was on, as it usually was. Billy Sloan had played some great new records, most notably a brilliant one from The Blue Nile. There seemed to be some real tension between the guests and everything Boy George and Jon Moss liked was disliked by Jeremy Healy and Kate Garner, and vice versa. And then, suddenly:
‘Here’s a new record from a little-known Ayrshire band, The Miraculous Vespas,’ said Billy Sloan.
‘Oh, I’ve heard of them,’ said Boy George. ‘Can’t recall from where though,’ he added.
‘Maybe they stole your look,’ said Jeremy Healy.
Billy Sloan played the record. Grant Delgado had tears in his eyes. When it had finished, Billy Sloan lifted the needle and played the song on the other side.
‘That’s an absolutely brilliant record,’ said Billy. For the only time during the show, his guests were in agreement. Boy George said he’d met the singer in London. He’d given him advice, although on the basis of this record, Grant Delgado definitely wouldn’t need it.
While Maggie and Grant had been away he’d felt like they had made a massive breakthrough in their relationship, each opening up to the other in ways they couldn’t back home. But as soon as they had got back to Kilmarnock, and were in the company of others Maggie had slipped back into cool and distant mode. Grant was frustrated by this. He wanted her to make a commitment to them … to finally feel confident enough to take off the stabilisers. But it seemed like she couldn’t.
Grant’s front doorbell sounded. When he opened the door, Maggie was on the other side of it. She was carrying a small suitcase. He smiled, and whispered, ‘Ma mam says ah’m no’ allowed tae play wi’ you anymore.’