Elvis Goes to the Big Smoke
Sandy Devers
The day had started promisingly enough, lots of anticipation about what lay in store. There would be a journey; tales to tell, a rerr terr at ra ferr.
It was only a couple of weeks since Tam (Elvis Prestwick) had received the call from the production company down south, looking for Elvises, or is that Elvi? To take part in some national quiz show.
A short consultation with his backing band, The Ryanairs, was all it took, before we were booked up and raring to go. Flights doon, a night in a London hotel, some grub and banter aplenty. What more could a guy ask? Once I received clearance from Mission Control, or in other words, the obligatory exemption from fatherly chores, there was no stopping us. Tam had even suggested wearing our jumpsuits on the journey. Should make for a good laugh.
At Glasgow Airport, a bizarre scene had already unfolded, even before the three rhinestone-clad eejits had arrived. Glasgow, apparently, was hosting the biggest conference for many a year. The World Thoracic Convention or something like that.
As we walked to domestic departures, we noticed a huge line of limousine chauffeurs, waiting for the bloated surgeons and physicians pouring in from all over the world.
Now, its often said that people will believe anything. There was a great opportunity to put this to the test. Watch this, troops says I, as I headed off towards the tiny wee guy with the chauffeurs uniform and a big sign saying Professor Schuster.
I walks up to him, bling jangling all over the place, resplendent in white jumpsuit, Elvis wig and glecks. Guten morgen! Ah, Professor Schuster says he. Good morning and welcome to Scotland. Lemme take that bag, sir. As were walking towards the door, Im lookin back, watching Tam and Martin guffawing. This guy was actually leading me out to the big caur! I couldnt take a liberty, so told the wee guy Sorry chief, its a wind-up; Im no him! He looked so surprised and deflated as I walked back to the two other morons, trying hard not to pee masel.
For days, I was thinking: What was going through the wee guys mind? Waiting in the lobby for an eminent medic and some halfwit in an Elvis suit walks over and ah believe him!
My old man was definitely right: People do believe anything!
Onyways, after having a right laugh on the flight, doing our cabin service duties: Welcome to Vegas Airlines, and all that stuff, we were well-sorted for miniatures by the cabin crew, who seemed to appreciate our efforts.
Train to London and subway oot tae the Wembley studio were next up. As we got nearer the venue, we noticed a couple of shifty-looking guys with real Elvis-like hairdos, you know, the ones that older guys wear? Guys that have spent their lives working on fairgrounds or frequenting places like Glasgows Grand Old Opry at Paisley Road Toll.
Now, I think that there are at least two types of Elvis aficionado. The first is the wan thats into the music, but wants a taste of that Las Vegas glamour, so feels nothing of putting a jumpsuit on, getting together with some mates and having a laugh.
The second type is much more sinister: real, dyed Elvis hair, the tattoos, turned-up collar and a propensity to growl at anyone whom they might think is taking the rip out of their alter-ego.
Surrounded by what seemed like a few of the latter, we were kinda sheepish as we neared the venue.
Off we popped, walking down the road as if we owned it, wae cheeky cockney cabbies tootin at us all the way and observing with interest the serious dudes, walking wae the posh suit carriers and what appeared to be hat boxes. Can you imagine the laugh when we discovered that the boxes contained their own personal wigs?
The production company had expected us to hing aboot for about four hours before recording began, so needless to say we bolted on the pretence of a medical emergency; slipped wig or something like that and headed to a charming local boozer, where pints and haufs flowed in abundance, amidst the dulcet tones of our singing of the classics.
Back to the studio we trotted, half-cut, to be met by huffy hingers-oan, with loads of laminated I.D. tags. Seemed like we were in the bad books for sure.
Anyway, once seated and rather animated compared to our fellow Elvi, there were about 50 of them, the show began. It sure lived up to our low expectations. Typical Saturday night TV. A team of Elvis impersonators, dentists, dancers and barmaids, competing against each other. The viewing public could join in too, apparently, with those wee red buttons on the doofler. I remember thinking wouldnt it be great if they could just blow people up by choosing the seat number, just like in that James Bond film? The show went on, the barmaids won, I think and the celebrities came and went. Vacuous people for a vacuous society, someone said recently.
The show now over, all Elvi and other plebs suitably patronised and dismissed, all and sundry then retired to the hotel. Picture it; dentists fraternising with dancers and barmaids flirting with 50 kings. It had been some day. So many Elvi are right into this stuff. A guy called Jesse Garron, named after Elviss stillborn brother. Ah mean, whats that all about?
We chewed the fat over a few beers and met some nice people. Wan big guy said Im goin upstairs to change outa this jumpsuit. Its hot and uncomfortable. As we retired for the night, to dream about the surreal day, we saw him coming out of the lift, changed into another jumpsuit.
Wish I could meet that chauffeur again, mind ye.
