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The Thipplewhite Diaries

Melvin Thipplewhite is best known as the English guitarist responsible for classic rock anthems such as “(Talking About) My Peer Group and Other People Roughly My Age,” “(He’s a) Pac-Man Genius,” and “Fool Me Again? I Don’t Think So!” Now the legendary musician faces prison time for pleasurably exposing himself to Norwegian tourists in Westminster Abbey. “My client has been caught in this horrid legal wrangle,” says London-based attorney Albert Biddle, “yet he has done absolutely nothing but explore his legitimate research interests in preparation for writing his autobiography.” With the publication of these excerpts from the guitarist’s forthcoming memoir, Rail readers have an exclusive peek behind the velvet curtain of rock royalty tottering on a throne of indiscretion.
—Randy Bob Lewis, Contributing Writer

22 November 2002

Very big show at Wembley, filling in for Sting (Legionnaire’s Disease). Anyhoo, after the gig (we rocked), got into a wager with a roadie about what’s up with that British Museum place. Turns out that they do have weird old paintings, statues of royal geezers, etc. etc. (Lost 10 quid). Got somewhat carried away with the boys when I squirted me inky pen on a painting by a froggy joker named “Mayonaise.” I kept saying, “Mayonaise? No thank you, just mustard,” (har har) but then some snipey toff wrote “Manet” on a piece of paper and shouted some fancy words: “court of law,” “national treasure,” “blah blah blah,” what a crazy rotter. Pretty soon, security goons start yelling and gripping me arms behind me back, even broke me inky pen. But then I explained that I’m doing me research on museum vandalism (really, just a chapter or two in me memoirs). So no harm done, all agreed. One even apologized for troubling me “research process.” Then, on the way out, a nice-looking bird gave me a tote bag and a video about some bloke named Van Go. Cut off his ear (on purpose!).

20 December 2002

Registered me platinum Diner’s Club card on a website dedicated to “bestiality of the Third Reich.” Was surprised to learn from some snarky Scotland Yard fellow that a bloke can’t purchase an 8×10 of Goebbel’s schnauzer in heat. Wha? I was right surprised, I was. Thought we lived in a free country, I did. Well, before I could take his advice about calling me barrister, I explained how I was really doing research into the occasion when Albert Speer’s panda touched me privates, a memory that I only recently recovered while watching a pornographic movie about bears in the Black Forest. Yeah, had a big larf, we all did. Signed autographs for the detective’s little one (see, young people do LOVE the band. Up yours Melody Maker don’t know bollocks!).

28 December 2002

Poor old Waddie died (gout, rickets, food poisoning). Second best keyboard player we ever had, bar none. But his funeral was one gloomy old gloomday, all churchy-like, ‘till I let loose a few noisy ones from me back pew. Jesus, you’d think I had killed him, not that lemon curry/Pop Rocks combination we all warned him against. When I lifted up for a few more doosies, everyone started giving me looks. The widow Waddie, never one to appreciate dropping the odd rose, started bawling like a baby right when I ripped a proper long one (made the minister wince). All in good fun, I thought, but later at the bar they was all frowny with me, like I was “Mr. Insensitive.” Whiney buggers. (Don’t even know what that means). Finally, I explained how I was doing research for Oprah’s glossy magazine. Yeah, doing a think-piece called “Letting Loose Yer Rock and Roll Flatus.” Once I explained that, well, bob’s your uncle, they was buying me pints. Great fun, that.

10 January 2003

Touched the bum of a creaky old nun today. She (the nun) was quite taken aback, especially because I had to use me old Thipplewhite tongue (hands full of haggis and Watney’s). She shouted “crikey Moses!”, jabbed me with her umbrella, and waved down the constable, but I was able to satisfy all concerned when I explained that I was researching nun bums for me memoir. I even elicited a great gob of sympathy when I explained that I had only recently recovered some very traumatic childhood memories in this area, but only after months of hydro-therapy and erotic massage (what’s the difference, eh?).

20 February 2003

Saw old Margaret Thatcher today and threw me used colostomy bag in her face— SPLAT! Blimey, you would have thought the queen had rolled over and died, the way those security boys pinned me to the hood of me Aston-Martin. “What’s all dis?” I kept saying, but they wouldn’t let go. Finally, I explained how I was researching colostomy bag facial explosions (what, with me childhood trauma of watching the telly and seein’ Winston Churchill walloped with some dirty ole bugger’s offal at a Manchester nursing home). Well, we all had a good larf and later Maggie treated me to some Pimm’s at the local pub. And it’s true: she does have a mouth like Marilyn Monroe!

18 March 2002

Cut off me dilly and mailed it to that Dame Edna lady (FedEx). Turns out she’s a fellow in a fancy dress and wasn’t that keen on my cheeky parcel. Ha ha, joke’s on me! Well, tried to explain about Van Go and how this was even more romantic, but he wasn’t having any of it, not till I mentioned about how I was researching dilly-mailings for me memoirs. Told him how I received several as a small boy in Lancastershire (including a corkscrew wanger from Aneurin Beven’s dentist). Happy ending, this: we’re now a regular item and the Dame’s been helping me with me healing process, since I can’t really apply the medicinal salve without screeching like Robbie Plant. But it’s bloody painful and I might have to start researching a chapter of me memoirs devoted to opiate derivatives, gin fizzies, and involuntary analingus. Damn barrister tells me to hold off on me research for a few more weeks, until “things cool down,” but I say he don’t understand the creative process. Bugger off, Biddle, you couldn’t smell genius if it hit you in the face! Not a bad idea, that…


Randolph Lewis

Randolph Lewis lives in Oklahoma. He is a contributing writer to the Rail and can be reached at [email protected].


The Brooklyn Rail

JUN-JUL 2003

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