He’d never forget the first hit, the phone call.
— Hello?
The polite but wary voice at the other end, a man who didn’t know who he was saying hello to.
— Is that Dessie Savage? Jimmy asked.
— Des, yeah, said the other voice. — It’s a long time since anyone called me Dessie.
— Howyeh, said Jimmy.
He couldn’t stay sitting.
He gave Aoife the thumbs up.
— Could I just check, so I don’t waste your time? he said. — It’s nothin’ to do with tax or special offers, by the way.
He heard nothing from the other end.
— You still there, Des?
— Yes.
— Great, said Jimmy. — Yeah. I just want to check. Are you the Dessie — the Des Savage who played drums with the Irregulars?
The other voice laughed.
— God!
— It’s you, is it?
— Yeah!
He laughed again.
— D’you know the last person to ask me that? he said.
— No, said Jimmy. — Who?
— My ex-wife, said Des.
He laughed again.
— She thought it was cool back then.
— It still is in my book, Des, said Jimmy, and immediately thought he was overdoing it. He couldn’t even remember what Dessie Savage had looked like and he didn’t want the man thinking he was stalking him or something.
— So, said Des.
— Yeah, said Jimmy. — Look it, my name’s Jimmy Rabbitte. Yeh might remember. I managed a band called the Commitments.
— No.
— No? Doesn’t matter.
Jimmy decided: his wife had been right to leave the cunt.
— Sorry, said Des.
— No worries, Des, said Jimmy. — This is about you. Have you kept in touch with the other lads?
— Well, said Des. — Necko’s dead.
— Shite, said Jimmy. — God, shite. I’m sorry.
— It was years ago, said Des.
— Sorry.
— No, said Des. — No. We hadn’t been in touch for — fallen out of the habit, you know. Before mobiles and email, you know. He’d moved to Manchester.
— What was it? said Jimmy. — D’you mind —?
— Cancer, said Des.
That was five years ago, and Jimmy would soon be phoning Des to tell him about his own cancer.
But that was just shite. More sentimentality. It was business as usual. Des would never have to know. Until it was too late, and he’d feel guilty.
— Sorry to hear it, said Jimmy, back then. — He’d a great voice.
— That’s true.
— So, said Jimmy. — Look, I haven’t explained why—. D’yeh have a minute, Des?
He felt great. Jimmy the salesman, Jimmy the manager. Talking his way to success.
Yes, Des had a minute and Jimmy filled it for him. The website, like iTunes — he could actually hear Des sit up. Anyone who googled the Irregulars —
— Even Dessie Savage, Des. Maybe even Des Savage.
They would quickly find www.kelticpunk.com, where they could buy and download — or upload, whatever the fuck — the long-lost song that had put the band into their heads in the first place.
— Still there, Des?
— Yeah, said Des. — Yes.
— How’s that sound to you?
— Well, said Des. — Great. Great. It’s been so long. We only ever had one single.
— I know that, yeah. ‘Fuck England’.
Des laughed. Jimmy could hear the excitement, and something else, something a bit more.
— Great song, said Jimmy. — And the B-side. ‘Fuck Scotland and Wales’.
Des laughed again.
— Happy days, said Jimmy.
— Yeah, said Des. — Yeah. I don’t think I even have a copy of it myself.
Jimmy knew that probably wasn’t true. The prick had an attic full of them.
— You can have mine, Des, he said.
— Thanks, eh —
— Jimmy.
— Great, yeah. But I think I gave one to my mother when it came out. She probably still has —
He was laughing again.
— She paid for the studio time, he said. — ’Fuck England’. God love her — Jesus. What was I thinking? With the insurance money. My father died a few months before ‘Fuck’ —
He couldn’t go on. He was laughing too much.
— So anyway, said Jimmy. — You’re interested, Des.
— Yeah, said Des. — Yeah. Definitely. I’d have to contact the others — wouldn’t I? I only co-wrote our songs. We did a lot of covers.
—’Walk On By’, said Jimmy.
— Fuck, said Des. — Yeah.
— Before the Stranglers, said Jimmy.
He wasn’t sure if that was true. He was betting it wasn’t. He’d remembered the Irregulars’ cover of ‘Walk On By’ while he was waiting for Des to calm down. It had been shite.
— Yeah, said Des. — But they had their label behind them.
— Yours was better, said Jimmy.
— I’m not sure, said Des.
Jimmy decided: he liked him.
— But, said Des. — You saw us. Back then.
—’Course, said Jimmy. — In the Magnet.
— God, said Des. — The Provos owned that place.
— We didn’t know it at the time though, said Jimmy.
— No.
— Would you have cared?
— No.
— Same here.
— I would now.
— Same here, said Jimmy.
— But anyway, said Des. — God. I feel like I’m in a time machine.
— Same here, said Jimmy.
They met. They liked each other. They knew they would. It was funny that, how you could just decide to like someone. They were home and dry before they were both sitting down.
— What’ll yeh have, Des?
— Coffee, thanks.
— Anything with it?
— No.
They were men who didn’t eat buns in public.
— So, said Des. — Tell me about celticpunk. Dot com.
Des was Southside. Rednecks and southsiders need not apply. But that kind of shite didn’t seem to matter much any more.
— So, said Jimmy. — Here’s what happens. Someone googles the Irregulars and —
— Who’d do that? Des asked.
— Well, I did, said Jimmy. — Before I came out. Did you?
— Yeah.
They laughed.
— There yeh go, said Jimmy. — People like us. Old heads, music fans. And actually. Kids. D’you have kids, Des?
— I do, yeah, said Des. — Well. One.
— Boy or —
— She’s in Germany, said Des. — With her mother.
— That’s messy, said Jimmy. — Is it?
— It is, said Des. — I try to get over every six weeks or so.
— Does she speak English?
— I speak German.
— Do yeh?
— I do, yeah. I lived there for a long time.
— Back to google, yeah?
— Okay.
— So anyway, said Jimmy. — We both googled the Irregulars and we got stuff about Irish history. No surprise there, that shite’s never far away. And grammar. Verbs and shite.
— Yep.
— Nothin’ about the band.
— Nope.
— We’ll sort that, said Jimmy. — That’s what we’ll do. Get it up near the top of the list.
He hadn’t a clue how that was done, but he’d find out — himself and Aoife would.
— You mentioned kids.
— Yeah, said Jimmy. — Yeah. I forgot. I got carried away. Yeah, so — kids. Teenagers, like. Like my own lads. They love the old stuff.
— Really?
— Oh yeah, said Jimmy. — Absolutely. And it’s not just mine. All kids. Boys especially. So —
The coffee had arrived. They both drank it black.
— Our job, said Jimmy, — will be to push the Irregulars, the band like, up the charts. I mean, we get a Wikipedia page up and maybe a website, if the other lads are interested. Have yeh spoken to them yet?