The Ballad of Hoots Venuti

In his shiny old Italian-cut suit, winkle-pickers, trademark gold lateral incisor and thinning quiff, Frankie ‘Hoots’ Venuti lent the appearance of a particularly hungry gypsy’s whippet. He looked more like a wartime spiv than the almost-faded cabaret singer he was. Once described as the ‘Joe Longthorne of West Lothian’, for all the resonance that description now held, he may as well have been known as West Lothian’s Joe Stalin. If the term ‘has-been’ hadn’t been invented it would have been freshly applied to Hoots Venuti: quite some time ago. He had battled against being fashionable so successfully that it had almost become a positive image, as if a compere could legitimately introduce him as ‘still unfashionable and jaded after all these years. Ladies and gentlemen – Hoots Venuti..’

This dreich September morning found the ageing Hoots glugging noisily upon a bottle of Irn Bru. He had made himself soaking drunk on Scotland’s ‘first national drink’ (probably owned by the French or Japanese but, who cares?) and was trying to remedy the situation with the second. Last evening was a blur of half-remembered conversations and fully drained glasses. He thought that being a ‘whisky man’ gave him a sort of showbiz grandeur; like what Danny La Rue might drink, but, instead, it made him very drunk, very loud and very ill.

Some shuffling behind him reminded him that he’d woken up beside his long-time partner, Mags. He heard her auld lungs rattle and wheeze; like an old broken-down squeeze box. Her C.O.P.D. must be kicking in again he thought. Folk around here wore those letters after their names like they signified a qualification. ‘Mags Myres (C.O.P.D: First Class)’.

Mags would be surprised when she finally awoke that she’d been sharing a bed with Hoots. It could have been any one of half a dozen men. She’d broken his heart enough times to make a hundred omelettes. Yes, that was it, thought Hoots, coughing now himself from the exertion of retrieving his underwear from the strewn floor; she’d made an omelette of his broken heart. Might be a lyric there. This creative impulse so late in the proverbial day from a man who’s only offering to the world of song-writing had been a radio jingle some thirty years ago for a chain of butcher’s shops in Dundee..

“McGinley’s Mince, McGinley’s Mince

You won’t taste better, before or since..”

He’d sung it ‘Buddy Grecco-style’ with a wee touch Bobby Darin thrown in.

Among the debris in the room was Mags prosthetic leg propped up against the tall-boy. Ironic that thought Hoots sadly. She’d been propped up against many a tall boy since. The sight of the false leg still provoked a number of emotions in Venuti. Principle still, even after maybe five years, was a sort of numb rage. Megs had lost her leg due to a still-mysterious ‘sexual accident’. All she would tell him was that some ‘electrical equipment had gone wrong’ and the resultant burns had necessitated the amputation of her left leg. What had happened to ‘the other man’ is something she would never discuss, but he noticed his best friend and manager, Fishy Lieberman, walked very gingerly for some while after the event.

Far from this leading to greater fidelity on Mags’ part, she now seemed to have become some sort of ‘novelty ride’ and more in demand than ever. He had a kick at the leg as he hobbled his way towards the bathroom.

Too often these days Fishy Leiberman had cause to look back on more successful days when his ‘books’ were filled with better quality acts. He’d once managed Jimmy Logan’s career, admittedly the last years of it but still: big name. Kelly Marie, Neil Reid, Dorothy Paul. He’d known and worked with them all. Now, his main act was Hoots Venuti and a lassie, Rena Horn, that played the clarinet by utelising a very unexpected part of her anatomy. He’d muse sardonically sometimes that he should mould the two of them into a double act and then retire. ‘Hoots and Horn’ had quite a ring to it actually. Maybe he’d have ‘Mags Myres, the One-Legged Tap-Dancer’ supporting them. Fishy had a cruel laugh to himself then poured himself another Famous Grouse. He couldn’t really afford such expensive whisky but appearances had to be kept. Couldn’t be offering Grants to business acquaintances even though he knew very few of them could afford the good stuff either. ‘Show business’ was all about ‘show’, after all.

Fishy Leiberman found he was gazing at the signed portrait of Johnny Beattie on his office wall and once again found himself puzzled over what exactly it was, as an entertainer, that had made that man popular.

Nettie Duncan had been hanging her washing in the back green when the terrible pain had started just below her heart and spread down her arms causing her to collapse in a heap. The next she knew she’d awoken in the Southern General hospital to find her daughter gazing down at her concernedly.

“Oh Donna” she said and raised her hand to stroke her daughters face “I’m sorry to have worried you. You have your own troubles”

Donna smiled sadly. Her mother looked resigned and old although she was at least ten years younger than her appearance suggested. She’d been a very fine looking woman in her prime but precious little of her beauty had survived. Bad health and a bad man had seen to that. Her father’s idea of family life was to get drunk and terrorise them all on a regular basis. Well no, she thought, regular they maybe could have handled. It was the irregularity that really kept them on their toes. Memories of a childhood in bed of a night dreading the warning signs. They’d hear him singing on the street ‘Billy Boys’ or something equally foreboding and unfriendly. Then he’d start.

The accumulated effects were now being expressed all too eloquently by her mother’s ailing body. 

This woman who never had a sour word for anyone. Not even for a son in prison, or a younger daughter who lived not twenty miles away yet never paid a visit. This had irked Donna for more years than she cared to remember. Her, the dutiful, loving daughter offered the same amount of love and respect as the other two, but, that was her mother’s way. Equal shares for all and less for herself. A loving mother, no matter what.

Maybe this was because Nettie Duncan, Henrietta Drummond as was, herself had a past? She hadn’t always been the fearful wife of a tyrant and a mother of three. There was a time when she was a young, leggy, toothsome beauty. Donna had seen the photographs but her mother would never fill in the narrative.

Maybe this would be her last chance to find out.

Margaret ‘Mags’ Myers had been born behind some bins in Barlanark. This alliterative beginning had been the closest thing to symmetry in her existence to date. Her subsequent life had been devoted to the temporary oblivion offered by alcohol and sex. Abused by a series of step-fathers as a child she’d come to view sex as a combination of love and war. The love she sought so desperately and the war was her domination of men in general. There were times that she made her sex a most aggressive act. It sought to hurt and punish. Which is what she did on a daily basis to the only man who ever really loved her. She derided Hoots, she belittled him, she criticised him constantly, she laughed at him not with him. She mocked him and insulted him. And all because he loved her.

She pitied him for that.

She couldn’t quite understand why he kept her around. Surely no man should put up with what she’d done to him? Such a man couldn’t really be a man. Not a real man. She hadn’t even supported his career or what was left of it. He had become pathetic, and she thought him pretty ropey to start with. What, to him, was glitter and shabbazz, to her was cheap tinsel. He had become like a sad impersonator of what wasn’t very special to start with. Oh maybe back in the day, there had been some sort of kitsch-y attraction, she’d have to give him that. Maybe, with effort, she could just about remember what she had found attractive about him. She’d have to really try though.

She rummelled her hand beneath the duvet for her false teeth and farted wetly, following-through only very slightly.