Oct: Dirk Dirt: The Road to Ruin … and back again (a lot)

I’ve been working on my autobiography, but I can’t find a title that fits. My agent suggested Better the Dirk You Know but I said that sounded too much like Better the Dick You Know. I mean, yeah, my dick is a legend on five continents Heh, heh, but I’m not sure about that for a book title.

My agent is Jaxon Bollocks. Great name. He used to be the lead singer in a British punk rock band Never Mind the Bollocks until he shredded his voice trying to hit a top C on Lazy Gizzards. He’s an old sweat, so he totally gets my vibe, man.

He said he’d find me a ghost writer for the biog, but I figured no one knows more about my shit than me, right? At least I think so. Not counting the lost weekends, the hazy weeks, and the whole of 2003 which I don’t remember too well—the year of my first divorce.

Which was totally not my fault, by the way. Nice girl, Jennie. I mean Jeanie. But I was focussed on my career, and my band Rave in the Grave had just had a top 500 hit on the Independent Muzak Punkazelic charts, so we had to roll with the rhythm, you hear what I’m saying? Me and Jeanie were at two different stages in our careers: I had fame and fortune calling my name, and she was focussed on graduating high school.

She’s a preacher in the Ministry of Sound now and I followed her on Insta until she unfriended me. Harsh.

After our divorce, I spent a lot of money on booze, broads, and fast cars. The rest I just squandered.

Unfortunately, it turns out that Jaxon is a better bass guitarist than agent because the IRS are being whiny little bitches about the fact that I haven’t paid much tax during the last couple of decades … or any … and are threatening to throw my sweet, white ass in jail.

Wouldn’t be the first time—I’m a live fast/die young kinda guy. I did two months for assaulting a traffic cop when I drove right over him in a shopping cart. I met two of my biggest fans in the bakehouse, man. It was righteous villainy.

I figured I owed it to my fans (both of them) to tell the real story of my life in the fast lane of music history, but I’m still toying with the title:

Booze, blondes and a lot of Bollocks.

Yeah, that’s got an authentic ring.

Or maybe something classier: High as a Kite, Pissed as a Newt, Free as a Fart. Or maybe I should go for something enigmatic: You are entering the Wombat Zone. Or maybe something that sums up my approach to living: From Fear to Fraternity–My Life in the Grave.

I dunno, there’s something missing. (According to the IRS, about $276,000.)

After all, I am a man of romance. I love women and they love me. I’ve been married five times, which proves what I’m saying, right? How about, Five Times and Counting or maybe Sixth Time the Charm?

Ah, man, that sucks. I’ll keep working on it.

My fire alarm suddenly scares the tits off me and I leap to my feet, only to find that I’m too drunk to stand and I’ve got one foot stuck in a trash can. Luckily, it’s not the fire alarm, it’s the new ring tone on my phone. Jaxon got it for me. Guy has a sense of humor.

“Dirt, my man,” he says in hoarse whisper. “I got sumfink what you’ll like—it’s gonna get the IRS off your back, PDQ.”

“I’m all ears and dick, dude,” I reply, shaking the trash can off my boot.

“Yeah, yeah, bitchin’. So there’s this new reality TV show, Saliva Love Island. Winner gets ten fat ones!”

My mind goes straight to a nice chubby roll of weed.

“They give out dope to the winner, dude?”

“Nah, man. Heh heh! Ten million sugar shakers!”

“What?”

“Bucks, man, bucks! Ten million mazoomas! Ten million Ben Frankincenses!”

“Serious shit!”

“You got that right, my friend.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Be yourself: drink too much, puke on TV, and possibly put your life at stake.”

I think about it for a moment.

“Yeah, I can do that, but I’m gonna need a crate of beer a day and a hooker each day, too.”

“I’ll see what I can do, mate.”

“Then sign me up. I was gonna take a bath next week, but this sounds more rad.”

“You know it, Dirt. This could be it—your big come back. Or you might die on TV then you’ll be made for life.”

“Schnauzer!”

“What?”

“Yeah, man. Rad!”

I don’t remember much about the next 48 hours as I was celebrating down at the Dog & Donut, an Irish boozer near my apartment. Jaxon tracked me down there and sent a limo to take me to JFK for a flight to Orlando and then the Caribbean.

When I finally sober up, I’m on a plane so small, I think it’s held together with plastic bands and gum. Maybe the show has started already and no one told me? That happened once, and I missed the first 30 minutes of the band’s performance of a lifetime: I’m told we were great.

Something stinks real bad, and I realize it’s me. I smell like I’ve been dead for several days, belching whiskey fumes and with surprisingly itchy balls. Either it’s the leather pants or a certain lady of the night who goes by the name of Crusty Dusty.

I check out the other people on my flight, thinking they could well be my competition on the show. There’s a girl who looks like an elementary teacher and I grin as she eyes the tattoos running up my neck. Then I groan as my headache kicks in, and I rub my eyes, smudging the thick eyeliner, and introduce myself by grabbing my crotch then saying,

“Call me Dirt. Does the dog want to see the rabbit?”

The other passenger is a short, hot Asian chick with scary eyes and muscles that remind me of the Terminator.

I smile at both of them.

“Gemma Smart,” the Asian chick says, nodding curtly. “I’m in it to win it, so you’re either for me or you’re against me.” Her voice drops to a threatening whisper. “You don’t want me for an enemy.”

I belch and pass out.

Sometime later, I realise that we’ve landed as I’m currently lying on a floor with tables and chairs looming above me. I think it’s raining then realise that someone is pouring a jug of water over my head, and I get to meet the rest of the contestants.

There are some hot and tasty women there, but my eyes are drawn to a woman my age with dyed blonde hair, thin as a rail, and with the kind of piercing blue eyes that men dream about. I lick my lips and send her a winning smile.

“Put your tongue away, Mr Dirt,” she says frostily in a British accent that makes her sound like sexy royalty. “I have no intention of having any of your appendages anywhere near me; I am certainly not snogging you.”

“I like ‘em feisty,” I grin at her. “I reckon my charm offensive will work eventually.”

“The ‘offensive’ part certainly has,” she shoots back.

And Pow! Just like that, I’m in love.

You know, I’m all for a fine looking woman—anyone above the age of 18, ‘cause I ain’t no perv, ya know—but there’s something about a woman of a certain age and experience that gets my motor running, ya know what I’m saying? And Octavia Fancy-panties Palmer-Jackson is a challenge.

So I tell her.

“You’re right up my alley, lady.”

“I suspect that is a dark and dangerous alley with a dumpster at the end of it,” she snorts. “I don’t know what your game is … yet … Mr Dirt, but let me state the blindingly obvious: I am 55 years old, with no tits, an arse like elephant, and skin like tanned leather. Even my friends say that I look like a horse, smell like a horse, and swear like a stable-lad.”

“Yeah,” I nod in agreement. “Me like! Totally babealicious!”

“I’m also stony broke so there’s no point trying to butter me up to borrow any money.”

“As my man Lennon said, ‘Love is all you need’.”

She shakes her head in exasperation and walks away. Suddenly, this whole reality TV show set on a volcano is looking a lot more interesting. I may not survive it, but it’ll be a blast.

***

Later that evening, or it might have been the one after, I’m sitting with my guitar trying a few different riffs, and half listening to the conversation buzzing around me.

But I sit up straighter when I realize that Octavia has turned to look at me.

“Are you in a band?” she asks in a tone of voice that reminds me of a doctor I met once who was a proctologist.

“Yeah, pretty lady. Rave in the Grave—maybe you’ve heard of us.”

“Rave in the Grave? Good heavens! Where on earth did you find that unfortunate name for your band?” she asks.

“Ah well, that was Lanky’s idea,” I say. “He’d been in a production of Hamlet off, off, off-Broadway,” (so far off, he was on the other side of the Hudson), “and there was that scene where he picks up the head…”

“…you mean the skull?”

“Wow! You’ve seen that play, as well?”

Hmm, that’s at least two people that I know off. Must be a good show—I should check it out some time.

She sighs heavily and waves a hand in the air.

“Please continue with your enthralling story,” and she yawns.

“Yeah, so Lanky was playing this gravedigger and picks up the skull and thinks this fella, Yorrick, must have been a party animal in his day…”

“I know I’m going to regret asking, but why would ‘Lanky’ come to that conclusion?”

“’Cause of what the actor says, ya know, ‘More ass for Yorrick’. So … Rave in the Grave, right?”

She grits her teeth. “‘Alas, poor Yorrick’! He doesn’t say anything about an ass.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“Bummer. That was my favourite anecdote.”

Octavia pats my hand. “You know what, never mind, Mr. Dirt. It explains everything about you. What a super story.”

“Yeah?” I say, brightening. “Wanna hear me sing?”

And I whip out my instrument and ply my tuning fork before she can say Bonadelle Ranchos-Madera Ranchos (the small town just outside Fresno, Cali where I was dropped into the world).

“Come as I am, as I was

As you want me to be

Now a friend, ‘Tavia

As a weak cup of tea.”

She smiles as she recognizes the tune for Nirvana’s Come As You Are but the lyrics altered by yours truly, just for my Octavia.

Take your time, going slow

Choice is there, Octavia.

Take a rest, I’m a pest,

In and out infirmary

Infirmary.”

I lift my head and look into her eyes, lined by age, etched with character, and feel her soul reach out to mine, to the man I was before drink and drugs left me with one booted foot in the grave.

“That was surprisingly lovely,” she says gently.

I give an embarrassed cough.

“Yeah, yeah. Well, ain’t nothin’ as pathetic as an old rocker, know what I mean? Kurt would be in his fifties if he’d lived—imagine that. But old rockers like me don’t die, we just slide to the bottom of the charts.” I give her a goofy smile and play another riff on my guitar. “Rave in the Grave—my band—we’re finished. When Herby, our singer snuffed it last year, the life went out of the band, ha ha,” and I can’t help sighing. “This is my last chance saloon but I’m not sure I care that much.” I shake my head. “Fuck me, I’m in danger of boring myself to death before the drink and drugs do it.”

“Don’t start being a pessimist now!” Octavia says sharply. “I was just starting to like you.”

I can’t help grinning at her. Those Brits don’t mince their words.

“Nah, sunny side up, me,” I laugh, sounding like a wheezy old dog. “Sunny side up. Fancy a shag, Tavi?”

“Certainly. The moment hell freezes over. Remind me to put your number on speed-dial.”

“I knew you’d be asking for my number, Tavi, I just didn’t think you’d be that easy. But God bless you.”

Her face is completely stony, then she cracks a smile.

“This is going to be an interesting few weeks, Mr. Dirt. Very interesting indeed.”

Octavia gives a sassy wink and goes back to ignoring me. It’s then that I think of the perfect title for my autobiography: The Road to Ruin And Back Again (A Lot).

Ain’t love grand J

You can read the rest of Octavia and Dirk Dirt’s story in my new romcom with Stu Reardon Survivor Love Island.