I spent the day in the fresh air, putting leaflets and posters about with our promotional distribution guy pictured here. He is called Jim The Bastard (specifically pronounced bar-stad, to acknowledge his Southampton accent). Even though he is clearly of senior years, this nickname seems to have found a zeitgeist with the rest of my office colleagues, seeming to get adopted quickly. There are good reasons why this monicker seems appropriate too. Firstly, because his job involves putting up posters. When I worked in the North, this was a risky game. It has been widely reported that there are actually territorial ‘poster mafias’ in some areas, who believe no act seems too sadistic in the procurement of oft-specialist pop-culture promotional space. We just can’t afford the risk of Jim walking round the mean streets of Dudley, Stourbridge or Gornal without some sort of rough and ready moniker. And although he is clearly of advancing years, I reckon that with his bald head he could just about pass off as the type of old back-street roughish sort of fellow you might find in Eastenders. With a little name manipulation he is no longer a vulnerable old man, but a street-ready stalwart demanding respect. His face and nickname blend together to immunise him; not implying he's capable of inflicting much violence himself, but that behind his cheery demeanour lies a man with a dodgy past and a old-guard loyal kinship with some nasty underw
orld types who’d kill on his behalf in a heart-beat. Secondly, I call him Jim the Barstad he like guns and line-dancing and he plays loud authentic country music in his van, which makes being a passenger feel like you're a red-neck outlaw continually being chased by the police. And finally, although this is probably a more personal association, whenever I look at his head, I can’t help but be reminded of the last scene in Return of the Jedi when Darth Vader takes his mask off.
Anyway, as we wandered round the streets together, I questioned him about his long stint on local radio. These were the old-school days when they were DJ’s rather than presenters. He told me that through the 80’s and 90’s, he was doing shows for 6 hours a day, six days a week. I was intrigued by the tales of his radio years, and was eager to gauge his level of local celebrity. I asked if he used to do those Radio ‘Roadshow’ things that were big in the 80’s, where they’d play some records from a lorry with a stage and there’d be a host in between to work the crowd up to euphoric hysteria by giving them a chance to win a car sticker. He said he did. I asked if he was ever asked for his autograph. He said he was. I asked if any females had ever offered to fellate him. He said only old ones. I’ve given this some thought and after tallying up I have rated his fame level as 3 out of 10 (which is co-incidentally
one mark lower than the town of Dudley, but only because I presume Dudley has seen a more indiscriminate willingness towards casual fellatio). Still, I’m not knocking the fella. He was certainly affable and enough to hold court with radio listeners for six hours a day. Maybe George Lamb should take heed.
Actually on second thoughts, I really hope he doesn’t. Imagine having to endure Lamb for six hours! I couldn’t think of anything worse. And lest we forget, I even say that with a mental image of Jim the Barstad’s fellatio still freshly imprinted on my mind.
orld types who’d kill on his behalf in a heart-beat. Secondly, I call him Jim the Barstad he like guns and line-dancing and he plays loud authentic country music in his van, which makes being a passenger feel like you're a red-neck outlaw continually being chased by the police. And finally, although this is probably a more personal association, whenever I look at his head, I can’t help but be reminded of the last scene in Return of the Jedi when Darth Vader takes his mask off.Anyway, as we wandered round the streets together, I questioned him about his long stint on local radio. These were the old-school days when they were DJ’s rather than presenters. He told me that through the 80’s and 90’s, he was doing shows for 6 hours a day, six days a week. I was intrigued by the tales of his radio years, and was eager to gauge his level of local celebrity. I asked if he used to do those Radio ‘Roadshow’ things that were big in the 80’s, where they’d play some records from a lorry with a stage and there’d be a host in between to work the crowd up to euphoric hysteria by giving them a chance to win a car sticker. He said he did. I asked if he was ever asked for his autograph. He said he was. I asked if any females had ever offered to fellate him. He said only old ones. I’ve given this some thought and after tallying up I have rated his fame level as 3 out of 10 (which is co-incidentally
one mark lower than the town of Dudley, but only because I presume Dudley has seen a more indiscriminate willingness towards casual fellatio). Still, I’m not knocking the fella. He was certainly affable and enough to hold court with radio listeners for six hours a day. Maybe George Lamb should take heed.Actually on second thoughts, I really hope he doesn’t. Imagine having to endure Lamb for six hours! I couldn’t think of anything worse. And lest we forget, I even say that with a mental image of Jim the Barstad’s fellatio still freshly imprinted on my mind.
