WAS NOT ELVIS.
I only recently discovered there was a bus that takes you from Tunbridge Wells to Brighton.
A double decker. That was my adventure for the day sorted – I know, I know. Vasca de Gama, Christopher Columbus, Timothy Leary eat your heart out – the last adventurer is in town.
(I blame Bill Drummond for my obsession with the top deck, he sold it to me.)
I was sat two rows behind two gentlemen of senior years who were in a rather deep and heated conversation.
They looked like geriatric characters from a yet made David Lynch movie
(I’m not an eavesdropper but I’ve found that country buses are a source of some of the weirdest utterances I’ve ever overheard)
Gent 2 was sporting a D.A haircut – resplendent thick white hair, with more pomade than your local barbers.
He kept exclaiming ‘…..WAS NOT ELVIS !’ in response to the inaudible words of his travelling companion.
He must have said this 15 or so times. Rammed in to my brain.
His friend had a real boozers red nose, pocked and veins broken. If you squinted he looked like a clown.
The rain was pouring against the window, the heating was on full pelt even though it was a warm day.
The bus interior was misty and fogged. The bus rocked and hummed. Hypnotic
WAS NOT ELVIS. WAS NOT ELVIS. WAS NOT ELVIS.
WAS NOT ELVIS is my attempt to exorcise this from very being – to set me free from the tightest
grip this woozy, dreamlike journey holds over me.