Waiting for Kate Bush Read Online Free

Gallagher, the king of ungraciousness, a man who’d once threatened to give himself an enema with his Brit award statuette), he acknowledged Kate Bush. He called her music fucking brilliant, and was applauded for it.
    Seemingly trying to recycle one of the tiredest riffs in the
Wayne’s World
lexicon, seemingly referring to Kate’s infamous reluctance to confer a new album on those of us who adore her, he asserted, “We
are
worthy,” and the massed celebs tittered obligingly. Later the two of them were photographed together, Kate looking radiant with pleasure, Lydon as though trying with all his might to disguise his own. And what better way to keep it under wraps, when the press converged on them, than to launch into an attack on “Torrid Aimless,” whom he sneeringly characterised as a brazen imitator. For those of us who adore her – and apparently Lydon is one of us – there is only The One True Kate.
    Better The Mutilators than Amos, I thought as the Cavanaugh brothers and I continued on our way, and best silence. But of course we live in a world in which better is almost always the most for which we can reasonably hope.

2
The Gormless, Misshapen Few
    A S we pulled into the car park of the pub in which the meeting was to be held, I began to sweat again, this time from apprehension. I told the brothers that if they didn’t make me go through with it, I’d pay for them to drink all night.
    “Sounds a wicked idea to me,” Gilmour admitted. But Duncan said they’d promised their mum. When I pointed out that she didn’t have to know, he actually made eye contact. His expression combined pity and contempt. I wanted to point out that not all of us have the great advantage of growing up in a world in which one’s expected to keep his word. I wanted to burst into tears.
    “Blimey,” said Gilmour, astonished, for a moment, out of his sarcastic Celticness. A trio of big fellows in hospital whites were helping a gigantic pale whale of a woman out of their own van. She’d turned an alarming shade of pink from the exertion. As they unfolded a gurney and rolled her onto it, Gilmour giggled. “I’ll bet she’s got her own bloody postal code.”
    “And I,” his brother snapped, “think maybe you should plug up your cakehole.” I wanted to burst into tears.
    The barmaid pointed out the corner of the nearly deserted pub in which the meeting would take place. It took nearly every second of the 12 minutes we were early for the brothers to get me over there and into a chair. They became ever more antagonistic. “How about we pick up the bloody pace a bit, gov?” Gilmour wondered sarcastically at one point as I stood there gasping, not wanting to fall to the ground (because it might take the rest of the day to get me back on my feet), but feeling too weak not to. I half wanted to see how he’d like my falling on him. “He’s doing the best he can,” said Duncan, a grown child with his mum in his eyes, his expression very much as his mum’s had been the night she’d learned why I wasn’t coming down for meals.The two brothers’ animosity must have gone way back, but I certainly wasn’t doing much to reduce it.
    People think of the fat as jolly, but this lot was anything but. And the transplanted Yorkshireman moderator, Graham, with a florid complexion and the young Bryan Ferry’s suggestively lank black hair, was coy into the bargain. At first sight of me, what he said was, “This is Overeaters Anonymous, for people who have issues with food. Can I help?”
    “I certainly hope so,” I blurted, too nervous not to try too hard. “Nothing else has worked, none of the diets, none of the medications, not even the fasting.” The four already there, including the pink whale from the car park, stopped their conversation. They stared at me in silence. I felt humid with embarrassment.
    “Mr. Herskovits has a problem with his weight,” the blessed kindly Duncan interjected. Gilmour snorted. One of the women