Comfortably Numb
Antediluvian
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- Aug 7, 2018
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Date: Saturday morning, summer of '73.
Location: Flat 16E, 151 Wester Common Road, Maryhill, Glasgow.
I was 15, living on the 16th floor of the flats, which overlook Partick Thistle's Firhill stadium.
Dad was a sleeping car attendant, working the London, King's Cross to Aberdeen route and frequently away from home.
Mum had a Saturday job in the city centre, so house was parent free most Saturdays.
Que all day partying, with usually around a dozen schoolmates in attendance.
One of them passed for 18 and consequently could buy the prerequisite carry-out. Thus, much alcohol was consumed.
Another mate's brother could get us hash. Consequently, resin of a Moroccan variety would be in plentiful supply. In those days, this was of the highest quality.
One such afternoon, eventually having finished playing 6-a-side football in the living room, much to the delight of neighbours below, we were in need of a new stimulus.
My Auntie Chick was a hairdresser and during a recent visit had left behind one of those polystyrene heads, used to display wigs.
I pointed it out and after a communal discussion as to what we could do with such an intriguing artefact, an idea developed.
We might use it as the head of a dummy body, I suggested.
What could we do with that then...
It was a symbiotic moment as we all realised here was a God given opportunity.
Throw it out the window...
With 15 further windows to pass on its descent, that was surely bound to get some attention.
The body?
One of my long-sleeved tops, an old pair of denims and a pair of dad's slippers, all stuffed with scrunched-up sheets of newspaper.
And so, 'Clive' was born and we even found a wooly hat to cover his head, securely tucked inside the top, on impending journey downstairs - minus the requirement for stairs.
Pondering what else to consider, it came to mind we had one other Ace to play.
Make the body disappear...
This would require perfect coordination and immaculate timing... pretty much the last thing any of us were capable of.
Nonetheless, a plan materialised...
Seven of us would take the lift down and hang around in vicinity of the building.
A team of four would then get the lift down and when all was suitably quiet, one would keep the lift doors open, whilst three others would go outside and give the signal to eject Clive.
I would remain to ensure Clive did indeed leave the building.
Those three waiting at the bottom would, soon as Clive hit the ground, gather up the likely disassembled pieces and get the lift straight back up.
Then we would drop off Clive's remains at the flat and immediately take the lift back down.
Once outside, we would simply pretend to be passers by.
It worked flawlessly, to the extent that Clive hardly even came apart.
So, we waited and it didn't take long before the occupants of those 15 flats beneath began to appear, either via the lift or stairway.
Once assembled, they began to express their shock and disbelief...
'It was horrible, he flew right past my window'...
'I know, mine too, it was awful'...
'Did he fall, or was it a suicide'...
'Oh, I can't bear to look...'.
There was nothing to see though...
'Where's the body'?
'What's happened to him'?
'Where did he go'?
'He must have survived and just got up'...
'How did he manage to walk away from that fall'...
'That's a bloody miracle, that is'...
I occasionally wonder if in subsequent years they ever thought about it and surmised...
'Still one hell of a mystery that is... I wonder who he was'.
Clive... the name was Clive...
Location: Flat 16E, 151 Wester Common Road, Maryhill, Glasgow.
I was 15, living on the 16th floor of the flats, which overlook Partick Thistle's Firhill stadium.
Dad was a sleeping car attendant, working the London, King's Cross to Aberdeen route and frequently away from home.
Mum had a Saturday job in the city centre, so house was parent free most Saturdays.
Que all day partying, with usually around a dozen schoolmates in attendance.
One of them passed for 18 and consequently could buy the prerequisite carry-out. Thus, much alcohol was consumed.
Another mate's brother could get us hash. Consequently, resin of a Moroccan variety would be in plentiful supply. In those days, this was of the highest quality.
One such afternoon, eventually having finished playing 6-a-side football in the living room, much to the delight of neighbours below, we were in need of a new stimulus.
My Auntie Chick was a hairdresser and during a recent visit had left behind one of those polystyrene heads, used to display wigs.
I pointed it out and after a communal discussion as to what we could do with such an intriguing artefact, an idea developed.
We might use it as the head of a dummy body, I suggested.
What could we do with that then...
It was a symbiotic moment as we all realised here was a God given opportunity.
Throw it out the window...
With 15 further windows to pass on its descent, that was surely bound to get some attention.
The body?
One of my long-sleeved tops, an old pair of denims and a pair of dad's slippers, all stuffed with scrunched-up sheets of newspaper.
And so, 'Clive' was born and we even found a wooly hat to cover his head, securely tucked inside the top, on impending journey downstairs - minus the requirement for stairs.
Pondering what else to consider, it came to mind we had one other Ace to play.
Make the body disappear...
This would require perfect coordination and immaculate timing... pretty much the last thing any of us were capable of.
Nonetheless, a plan materialised...
Seven of us would take the lift down and hang around in vicinity of the building.
A team of four would then get the lift down and when all was suitably quiet, one would keep the lift doors open, whilst three others would go outside and give the signal to eject Clive.
I would remain to ensure Clive did indeed leave the building.
Those three waiting at the bottom would, soon as Clive hit the ground, gather up the likely disassembled pieces and get the lift straight back up.
Then we would drop off Clive's remains at the flat and immediately take the lift back down.
Once outside, we would simply pretend to be passers by.
It worked flawlessly, to the extent that Clive hardly even came apart.
So, we waited and it didn't take long before the occupants of those 15 flats beneath began to appear, either via the lift or stairway.
Once assembled, they began to express their shock and disbelief...
'It was horrible, he flew right past my window'...
'I know, mine too, it was awful'...
'Did he fall, or was it a suicide'...
'Oh, I can't bear to look...'.
There was nothing to see though...
'Where's the body'?
'What's happened to him'?
'Where did he go'?
'He must have survived and just got up'...
'How did he manage to walk away from that fall'...
'That's a bloody miracle, that is'...
I occasionally wonder if in subsequent years they ever thought about it and surmised...
'Still one hell of a mystery that is... I wonder who he was'.
Clive... the name was Clive...