Ticketmaster, who apparently do something magical with tickets to justify a 20% increase in price from what is printed on the bit of paper itself, just emailed me to "invite [me] to book tickets for Marilyn Manson's autumn tour of the UK".
There are two difficulties here. The first, and most obvious, is that Mr Manson will be playing at the Braehead Arena, which has the misfortune to sit on the periphery of that drug-laden hive of scum and villainy which history will later judge harshly, simply for being Paisley. I like every single one of the tires on my car. I like them as individuals, and have no desire to donate a single one to Jimmy Skeng of 27a Crapheed Road, PA3 2EJ.
Perhaps more importantly, I have no desire to attend a soiree at which I would be patently unwelcome. You see, dear reader, Marilyn (I feel I can call him that, after all that we went through together) and I share a dark episode in our conjoined lives: one of which he has never spoken, and which I only now feel able to share with the world. I only hope that he can forgive me for breaking our bond of silence. But the time to tell this story has, I feel, arrived.
It is necessary, gentle friend (for I look on you now as the closest of bosom-friends, in whom I can confide even this inglorious tale), for me to to take you by the hand and lead you up through the years. Back we wander, leaving behind us the traumatic experiences of 9/11, into a gentler world concerned mainly with plaid shirts, Starbucks coffee and how to get a midi-based Spice Girls ring tone for their Nokia cellphones. For any Americans present, this was far, far in the history of your country: very nearly in the fabled days when OJ Simpson and Tonya Harding stalked the earth.
In this one thousand, nine hundred and ninety-sixth year of our Lord, I found myself in the royal borough of Glasgow: not something of which I am now proud, but my twenties were an experimental era, and experimentation implies mistakes. Do not judge me, please.
To be exact, I found myself in The Garage, there to hear an exciting young popular beat combo who had seen fit to name themselves Marilyn Manson. I felt that "Marilyn and the Mansons" would have been more appropriate for an aspiring four-piece, just setting off on their musical journey, but they seemed intent on differentiating themselves from the greats, and who can blame them, flushed as they were with the exuberance of youth? No doubt the name arose during a marathon bout os exposure to the jazz salts.
The popular press, ever in search of a simple story with which to amuse the lumpen mass which comprises their readership, had painted young Brian "Marilyn" Warner, his friend Jeordie "Twiggy" Osborne White and their various androgynous cohorts as dark lords of evil, jaded libertines of the most violently excessive sort, who would be virtually guaranteed to indulge in the most unnatural and disturbing acts in what was promoted as a nothing less than a mixture of all the most unpleasant layers of Dante's L'Inferno. You can imagine, gentle reader, with what trepidation I approached the unobtrusive discotheque within which the evening's fateful events would be played out. Fool that I was, I had chosen to bring with me a young lady who would, one day, become my wife. At the time, I worried that I might regret exposing her to promised to be no less than the Book of Revelations itself played out in real-time. I speak, of course, of the promotional tour for the musicians' new long-player, Antichrist Superstar.
Mr Warner had done little to dampen the fevered expectation which his theatrical agents had sought to provoke. The Daily Express demanded he be banned. The Evening Standard stopped just short of calling for his hanging (unusual liberalism on their part which I cannot, to this day, explain). The Daily Mail devoted several pages of their colour supplement to wondering whether Prince Philip might not be planning to hire Manson to kill the Princess of Wales! And yet Brian, when interviewed on popular music channel "MTV2" simply said "we really like it when our audiences, like, spit on us and abuse us and stuff, it really, you know, inspires us."
How often, down through the years, have I cried out in despair at those words? "Why, Brian? Why did you say that to me?" For, still flushed with the excitement of the afternoon's rugby match, I found myself in exuberant mood, pondering the provocations of the man who now stood only scant yards away, crooning his touching and romantic ballad, "Angel With The Scabbed Wings".
How many seemingly insignificant occurences that week might have made things different? If only I had not heard Brian's call to arms, what then? If only I had not looked into his eyes as I heard him ask plaintively for audience-based abuse. If only I had not played hooker at rugby only a few hours previous to the concert, leading not just to a well-practised throwing arm but also to an unnatural thirst, but four songs into the concert. A thirst which was slaked by only a quarter of the litre of diet coca-cola which now, dear reader, sat in my hand, heavy, well-balanced, and at the beginning of a journey which would take it from my hand, through each and every one of the intervening points in space, curving gracefully, even spinning a little on its long axis as it spiralled towards Mr Warner's elaborately dishevelled costume.
Brian is a man of dignity. Not for him a lunge into the crowd and a swinging fist. No, he restrained himself to a single, high-pitched squeak of outrage, not unlike that of an unusually baritone pipistrel bat. Then he stalked - I refuse to give in to those who call it minced - stalked from the stage, a large, brownish-black stain spreading across his chest, and succulent carbonated liquid dripping from his face.
I was dismayed! Why was Brian not inspired? Had I abused him inappropriately in some way? Was he disappointed in me? Did it have to be phlegm? Would no other liquid do? These and other questions (many concerned with the burly ex-servicemen of the nightclub's janitorial staff) raced through my mind, as the band finished a rare, instrumental version of the track (I am told that surreptitious recordings of this version change hands for surprising sums of money in Camden's less reputable record stalls, even to this day). There followed a confused delay, as the mercurial Mr Warner was coaxed out onto stage, doubtless with the promise of fresh souls to devour or something similar.
In any case, our dark master did emerge, turning his baleful, slightly sticky gaze out upon the crowd.. If I may belabour an old saw, I believe that it could be said that his face was like fizz. Yet even now, the situation could have been retrieved: a little supportive expectorating in Mr Manson's direction and the maestro, suitably inspired, would no doubt have continued in fine fettle with his malign performance.
What the situation did not need was a high-pitched, slightly querulous voice to emerge from behind the coke-smudged make-up, proclaiming that "I'd like to start again, unless anyone out there wants to throw else anything at me?"
Why? Why Brian? I have asked myself that so very often since then. Dear, dear interlocutor, I am sure that you - such is the esteem in which I hold your intelligence and insight - can imagine just what happened next. The offer, flung at the feet of a boisterous Glasgow audience, many of them (I am sorry to say) I suspect of having been in their cups, was too much for the denizens of that dark place to resist. Helpful to a frankly exuberant degree, they swiftly set about picking up everything in the place that was not actually classifiable as structurally integral to the building and hurling it in the direction of poor Brian. A miscellany of items ranging from furniture to small audience members was soon arcing through the air in the direction of a dismayed, would-be Beelzebub. Wielding a microphone stand for defence, Brian half ran, half crawled from cover to cover, using speaker stacks as temporary refuges behind which to plan each leg of his escape from what had become less a stage and more a treacherous sea of broken chairs, spilt drinks, and ricketts-stunted, buckfast-drinking midgets.
I cannot pretend that I felt welcome, as I atempted to blend in with the crowd, and trudged towards the doors. I had misread Brian's signals. I had gone too far. And, since Brian has never called or written to suggest that any sort of forgiveness had occurred during the long years since that night, I am sure you will agree that it would be entirely inappropriate for me to attend. I am not even sure that I should send the customary note, apologising for my absence and citing a previous engagement.
Edit: I just remembered that the surreality of that night did not begin with Marilyn Manson. The support act were an all-girl band called Fluffy, but their act kinda fell apart after their bassist had to be carried from the stage, projectile-vomiting in spectacular fashion as she went.