This story may contain sexual situations between males. If material of this nature offends you then you should not read this story. If you are under 18 years of age you are probably not legally allowed to read this story. Join later. This story is partly a work of fiction. But Marcus is real and is the best author ever!
The Marcus McNally Fan Club 3
I was embarrassed. I left S'Mug fast with a feeling that my face was burning, red and hot. Worse, I imagined that the eyes of that family in the alcove seats were following me all the way to the door. There was no hiding it; I had been listening in on their conversation, intrigued by my own daft obsession with `Love on the Rocks'. Reason told me there must be a million couples called Frank and Dot. And a good number of them would have Australian accents. Still, it was a funny coincidence. And that bit about the twins ... As I passed him, Josh smiled. Well, at the time I took it for a sympathetic smile. Looking back now, I think it was more of a smirk. You can go off people. The quickest way to go off them is if you think they are having a laugh at your expense. Another coincidence struck me as I pushed my way through the door and out into Great George Street. Josh had looked positively smug. Wandering back I turned along Kersland Street but I knew even as I did so that there was no point going back up to the flat Mickey had occupied. Common sense, however, doesn't play a big part in things like that. It was the one place I could feel close to him and there was always the off chance that I might bump into him. I lingered for a while on the pavement across the road from the entrance. The street was shrouded in shadow for the morning sun had not yet crept round to bring warmth to the tall red sandstone tenements. I shivered and felt depressed.
I had a lecture at ten but I had decided well before to give it a swerve. Dr Grey, a well named academic if ever there was one, was going to talk about sources, historical sources. I had a pretty good idea of what he was likely to say. Trust nobody. Most `sources' have got an agenda, a point of view they want to get across. The guy who wrote the Deeds of the Franks on the First Crusade is not going to go strong on the Muslim cause, is he? If you want to know the truth about Nixon his autobiography might not be the best place to start.
I had had no intention of going but I had set off in the direction of the University Gardens where the lecture room was situated. Crossing into Lilybank I chanced to see that family emerge from S’Mug. Josh was holding the door open for them. He shook Frank's hand and kissed Dot on the cheek. Then he and the kid (the boy in the tight pants) knocked fists and grinned at each other. Odd, I thought as I hurried on.
It was then that an idea occurred to me. Skip the History, do the English lecture instead. I didn't think it very likely to be honest but Mickey was doing Eng Lit so there was a chance he might be at the eleven o'clock lecture. I hurried over the Avenue, up to the quad and made it into the lecture hall before the bell started ringing out the hour. It was an old fashioned lecture room, a great semi-circle of tiered wooden work benches. Hastily I scurried up to the rear; from there I could more easily survey the assembly, spot if my man was present. Even if all I could see were the backs of heads, I quickly realised I was out of luck. The lecturer had come in by the time I reached this conclusion but I thought I might still have time to slip out before he actually started for he was busy sorting out his papers at the lectern. I was just about to start down the passageway when his first words arrested me and I slumped down, dazed, back into my seat. "What are we to make of McNally? Okay, Nobel Laureate he is not. Not yet, at any rate." There was a ripple of laughter. "But it is too easy to dismiss his writing as Nifty pseudo-lit, as porn masquerading as a novel. Twenty thousand loyal readers, nay avid fans, cannot be wrong. Or can they?" Murmurs of no, no' filled the room. "Vacuous nonsense with one hundred and forty characters, the apotheosis of the tweet? Soap made explicit? Full frontal Big Brother? No! This series of lectures is to give a serious appraisal of a serious writer." Once more murmurs of approval crept round the room. I could see the backs of the heads nodding. "Chapter Thirty Three. Let me start there, for that is the moment when the great crisis first appears. You have all read that far?" He glanced round and looked approving as his eyes encountered an army of nodding heads. "Many readers express dismay and surprise when first reading this chapter. It came out of the blue, they protest. But did we not get very early warning? Love on the Rocks? The title itself warns us of serious intent. We are not in the territory of happy ever after'. We are in for a Titanic voyage, one which will plumb the depths of experience, of emotion. Some wits have suggested that McNally was implying a cocktail of a story, a sort of Sex on the Beach, a mere soufflé, a froth with no substance underneath. Chapter thirty three rather blows that out the water, does it not? It produces the iceberg. Does it not give the lie to that foolish idea that this is a fairy story -- if you will pardon a most incorrect pun? In chapter thirty three we get a sudden feeling of love heading for the rocks ... unless. And that's the point, is it not? Love is doomed, unless ..." Here he paused theatrically. The silence in the room grew more intense. "Chapter thirty three ripples -- mainly with horror. But this was where the story was headed right from chapter one. It seems to me that Mr McNally is telling us something about love. Love? As His Royal Highness famously remarked, `whatever love might be'. We too quickly equate love with the sexual act (and " You could hear the parenthesis in his voice. " goodness knows McNally gives us plenty of that early in this tale) we confuse love with lust, with the physical relationship. But love is bigger than that, need not even include that. The love of a parent for a child, the love of a brother for a sister? And yes, you have spotted that, have you not? Mr McNally has taken us there, expanded his story without us noticing almost. He brilliantly fixates us on the sexual relationship, the love of Mike for Ty and Ty for Mike, but he sneaks in his subsidiary theme as the story progresses. The Hill family is the outstanding example. The family bond that holds this family tight is very powerfully portrayed. It shouts LOVE at us even if we don't immediately recognise McNally's purpose. It is as if Beethoven has sneaked a new theme into his symphony, right under our noses, one closely related to his central idea but not at once obvious to us. But we do not have the Hill family alone; we have Mike and his brother, we have George and his sister. These family relationships are of an altogether different order. In this way a warning is introduced; all is not sunshine and light.
Let me take another example. Early on in the story we have a contrast -- Ty and Mike contrasted with Vince and the girl who can fuck but who can't sing. Where is the love there? We have two relationships, both sexual, but there is no doubt where love lies.
But I stray ahead. We will return in a later lecture to discuss the themes of this novel. For the moment, consider chapter thirty three for it is most instructive about the McNally style. It is tauter than what has gone before; the sentences are shorter, the vocabulary plainer, more forceful. Most obviously the sex has gone, the jokes have gone -- or have taken on a bitter edge. The nectar has turned sour in our mouths. I alluded earlier to the readers who cry that this comes out of the blue. Nonsense! The signals are there from the start. Let me read you an extract. It's chapter 3.
"Shit, Ty," Scott shot back. "You're starting to sound like Mum ..."
"Well if that's the case, go to your room!"
Scott laughed. "Man, it's not fair. If I have to go home tomorrow,
can't I just hang with the guys for a while? Tomorrow afternoon
Mum'll have me hooked up to a life support machine ..."
Ty chuckled. "OK mate, you can go. But no climbing, so surfing, and
no mucking around. And take your mobile with you so I can get you if
I need to."
Scott stood to attention and saluted. "Yes sir!" he barked. Remember we are dealing here with a first person narrative. This is Mike's version of that scene. He presents it to us as comedy. But what is he really telling us? He is showing us, not telling us, that Ty likes to be, has to be in control. Ty's problems are there right from the start. It's presented in a jokey manner by McNally but Mike picks up on Ty's dictatorial, control-freaky attitude to Scott; Mike doesn't take it seriously and so he writes it in a funny way, dismisses it. But as the story progresses we see this flaw develop - Ty can't help himself; anything that displeases him and goes against what he wants causes Vesuvius to fire off. It happens with Vince a lot. But it's at its most serious with family - two classic eruptions, the Lachlan / Ellie engagement and the Scott back pack misadventure. There's more if you look. Ty is the kind of guy who, like Trollope's eponymous hero, knows he is right. So it festers when others can't see that he is right. And with him loyalty is a one way street. Why is he like this? Ah. Tempus fugit. We are overtaken by the clock. We will resume with a character study at our next lecture."
I sat in a daze as the students filed out, chattering busily to each other about the lecture. Nobody can doubt I am a huge Love on the Rocks fan but when had it gone beyond Nifty and hit the curriculum? Trying to sort out my thoughts, I staggered down the aisle probably appearing to be drunk. I heard snatches of conversation. "...going to hear him ..." " ... gig at Oran Mor ..." "... new style ..." " say it will be like Dylan when he played Manchester in the 60s ..." A kid was leaning by the entrance into the Arts Quad; he was handing out flyers. One was pushed into my hand. I was halfway across the quad before I glanced at it. I stopped dead. My heart began to pound. I was now way beyond drunk. I thought I might faint. "One Night Only. Oran Mor. 8pm. Tonight. Tyson Hill." I gasped. "What the fuck is going on?" I muttered.
I decided to beat it back to my flat in Wilton Street, fire up the laptop and send an email off to marcusis32@live. I figured that he must know what was going on. Surely? I hurried back along University Gardens, heading for Great Western. It meant that I had to cross Great George Street and that's when things got even more complicated. Coming out of the door of S'Mug was Josh. Clearly his shift had finished. He glanced around as if checking to see who was there, to check if he was he being watched, before he set off to Byres Road and turned right. He was going in the direction of the Hilton. I decided to follow him. After all, where in the West End might Australian visitors be staying? The Hilton seemed likely -- and, as it happens, very convenient for Oran Mor. But he did not cross towards the Hilton. Instead he pushed on ahead, crossed Great Western and headed into the Botanics. I followed, trying to keep out of sight. Something told me that this might give me a clue as to what was going on. He went up the broad driveway and went into the Kibble Palace. The enormous glasshouse, filled with exotic trees and plants, would give me perfect cover, I thought, so without hesitation I followed him in. He went directly through to the large central area, a circular construction, high and wide, to accommodate the biggest specimens. But the undergrowth too was thick and dense. Perfect cover. He turned left on the circular path that wound its way around the perimeter. I hesitated. Should I follow or should I head right? That was when I saw him. Mickey was standing beneath a tall palm. From my distant vantage point I watched. This had to be a prearranged meeting. Anything else was too incredible and sure enough as Josh approached him Mickey looked up and smiled. They stood together talking. I looked around speculating about my chances of creeping closer, of overhearing what they were saying. I was convinced that here I would find an explanation for what was happening to me. I heard voices, growing louder, angrier. They were arguing. I had just decided to move off to the right to come upon them from the other side when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see an elderly man, very smartly dressed but with a reproving expression on his face which seemed to say tut tut'. It wasn't that he looked familiar and yet somehow I recognised him. He was just as I had imagined him. "Up to our old tricks again, are we, sir?" There was no malevolence in the tone but his words chilled me. "Perhaps we should leave the two young gentlemen to it, sir?" he enquired in a way that answered the question he posed. "You ... you're George," I whispered. "Mr George to you, sir, if you don't mind." I felt as if he was about to take me by the ear and lead me off like a naughty schoolboy. My head was spinning; my brain teemed with a dozen ideas, all crazy; I felt hot and cold at the same time. All I could think was what the hell is going on?' Please God, let me wake up and find this is all some terrible dream. "You've been reading too many stories, young man. Not good for you. Affects the brain, you know. Moves in on the imagination and before you know it, takes over your life." And with that George gripped both my shoulders, wheeled me round, and guided me back out of the Palace.
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