From the decks of hell #4: The Deal

Today, we’re looking at Pat Campbell. Pat was perhaps best known for ‘Deck of Cards’, to which I’ll return at a later date, but given that babies and delivery rooms are currently at the forefront of my mind as my wife toils towards the end of her third trimester, today I bring you the jaw-dropping tale of misery and woe that is ‘The Deal’. It is a narrative of staggeringly poor judgement told with all the sentiment of a really bad episode of Touched By An Angel. The lesser of stomach amongst you would be advised to proceed with caution, although the lesser of stomach amongst you really shouldn’t be reading this blog in any case.

A quick sniff of Pat Cambell’s biography – such as it is, the details on the web are scant – shows that this sort of rubbish is perfect for him. The back cover of his 1970 album, Just A Quiet Conversation, reads “Pat Campbell was born in Ireland, but it might just as well have been Nashville. He’s been there many times and he’s welcomed as a friend by the biggest names in the world of country music. On each visit he brings a little piece of Nashville home with him, but also leaves a little of Pat Campbell there in return.” He was trying to avoid passport control, then.

There’s no voiceover on the link I’ve embedded, but if you can’t bring yourself to download the original I invite you to experience the drudgery of ‘The Deal’ by reconstructing your own. For reference, Campbell delivers the song in the form of a spoken monologue, with a vague sense of cadence at the end of what you might consider to be ‘verses’.

I guess it was about midnight when we arrived at the hospital
The Doctor was waiting at the door and they carried my sweet wife to a delivery room
and I was left alone to walk the waiting room floor.

I, like all first time fathers, I guess I was nervous
For my long awaited son was about to arrive in this world.
I even cocked myself a little chuckle as I thought,
“You know something, it could be an old girl”.

But I could feel the worriedness and tension mounting in me
as I paced the room time and time again
and finally I reckon it got to me an’ I sat down and
placed my head in my hands, and then I looked up as the whole
door swung open and the doctor entered with his head bowed low.

And then he told me of the complications and the decisions only
I could make, and urged me not to be too slow…

Oh for a long timeless moment I stood there, staring at him in
shock and disbelief, I mean, how could I tell him to save my wife
or save my child when they both mean the whole world and
everything to me…

I excused myself and walked off down the little hall and my
footsteps carry me to the chapel door, with an aching heart I
entered and with head bowed low I just knelt down on the floor.

“Oh you must love them an awful lot Lord,
Maybe even as much as I do because you can’t make up your own
mind which one to extend your welcome hand to… now I know I
never ask for very much Lord, but if I could make you a deal,
well I guess you know what it would be… let them both live
their lives and if you gotta take one, please, please let it be me”.

And then somehow I got to feeling a little better and I hurried
back down the hall an’ the doctor wasn’t there… and as I wondered
where he was, WHY! my legs gave way and suddenly I began to fall.
“What was wrong?” I wondered, “Why was I lying there on the floor?”
Gosh it seemed like an eternity until I looked up and I saw the
Doctor come running through the door… Well he’s bending over me now
and his eyes tell me that soon my life will be gone and the only
thing I can think of is that now, he’ll have to make that decision
alone, but then he turns to his nurse and he says, “It’s too bad that
he won’t know of the miracle that’s happened and that somehow they’re
both going to be alright”.

And I tried to force a last little smile as I think, “It’s too bad he
don’t know of the deal I made with my God tonight”.

A little commentary, reproduced from a blog entry I wrote back in 2009.

The concept of Campbell’s dilemma is akin to the episode of The Simpsons where Ron Howard, in an obvious parody of his real life persona, pitches a movie to a bored executive by suggesting that there’s “this robot, he’s got a heart-breaking decision to make about whether his best friend lives…or dies.” When the executive appears nonplussed, Howard swiftly adds “His best friend is a talking pie!”, which gets him a huge bag of cash and a reprise of the Happy Days theme. Even before this, things are pretty grim: left alone in the waiting room while his wife goes through the labour without him (this was the 60s, don’t forget) Campbell (yes, I know he’s only playing a character, but his delivery is so revolting I am going to permanently weld him to the song) describes his nerves about the impending arrival of his “long-awaited son”, before allowing himself a chuckle with the realisation that “it could be an old girl”. (A very young one, actually, but let’s not go there.) You can almost visualise his thought process: “Ooh, it’s going to be a boy! Except I don’t actually know.” It’s like Carousel’s ‘Soliloquy’ condensed into fifteen seconds, with none of the emotion.

It’s in the chapel that things get much worse. It’s worth noting, purely as an aside, that none of my whinging about this would amount to anything if the song had been delivered with even a trace of irony, but that’s not the case – the implication throughout is that we’re supposed to take ‘The Deal’ absolutely seriously The pleading, heartfelt anxiety of Campbell’s prayer to his heavenly father is undermined somewhat by the fact that this whole thing makes no sense at all. I really don’t want to get too theological here, but in the first instance I take great issue with his assertion that “You must love them an awful lot, Lord…because you can’t make up your own mind which one to extend your loving hand to”. What, there wasn’t room for both? That’s not evidence of a loving God. That’s evidence of a sadistic bastard who delegates to avoid the guilt. Why Campbell isn’t pacing the floor shouting at the ceiling in his hour of need is frankly beyond me, but I’m willing to let that go, because he’s undergoing emotional trauma. That being said, his crowning moment of stupidity is his decision to offer himself in order to save his family.

Now, I’m all for the idea of laying down your life for your friends. I’m not sure I’d ever be able to go through with anything quite so unselfish, but there can’t be many more noble ways to go out. If you do it well enough, they name a high school after you. Nonetheless, Campbell’s actions here aren’t an act of glorious self-sacrifice akin to the untimely execution of [spoiler] in 24, or the guy who chucks the wounded colleague over the lava, destroying himself in the process, halfway through Volcano. Because Campbell’s decision to save his wife and child and ask for himself to be taken in exchange entirely fails to take into account the fact that he’s leaving them to manage on their own. It could be that it’s actually a blessing in disguise for his wife, given that she can presumably now raise their boy / old girl in comparative peace without the threat of one of his mawkish monologues every time they experience a momentous event, or even worse, a trivial one. “Look, Celia, these are playing cards. Did I ever tell you the story about the time I was caught playing cards in church…?”.

But still. It’s the principle here. If you really want to strike any sort of deal with the Almighty, you don’t offer yourself in exchange. This isn’t Watership Down. You say “Dear Lord, if you have to take someone…take Oscar, who I know has been embezzling the company for months even though I can’t prove anything. Or take my mother-in-law. No, please, take her. Or the chap who cut me up on the A46 this evening.” But oh no. Not good enough for our Pat. Far better to say “It’s fine, God, I don’t mind the pain of the sudden coronary and the inevitable blast of guilt that will catch me in my final moments, with the realisation that I’ve left my wife as sole breadwinner and my baby boy / old girl without a father. I’d rather go out knowing I’ve made the supreme sacrifice. And widow’s benefits really aren’t that bad these days.” Campbell isn’t a Captain Oates. He’s a frigging idiot.

From the decks of hell #3: I’ve Never Been To Me

Previously spinning on the Decks of Hell: Lil’ Markie whines about abortion.

Today: Charlene, singing in the guise of an obnoxious upper-class trollop complaining about how all the champagne jetsetting, lovemaking on tropical beaches and encounters with multi-millionaires over lobster salad have left her so DESPERATELY UNFULFILLED that she simply has to boast about them to a downtrodden housewife and mother – ostensibly as a way of showing the aforementioned housewife how lucky she really is and how living on the breadline with a man who probably drinks too much and beats her occasionally really isn’t so bad…but in truth it’s all one massive boast. They say that you shouldn’t feed the troll, and if this were an internet rant I probably wouldn’t, but under the circumstances I think the only just punishment for this insufferable voyage into the mind of such a despicable woman is to sit her in a room listening to this record on a loop, and then batter her to death with a jewel-encrusted stiletto.

Brace yourselves. This one’s a doozy.

Hey lady, you, lady, cursin’ at your life
You’re a discontented mother and a regimented wife
I’ve no doubt you dream about the things you never do
But I wish someone had a talk to me like I wanna talk to you

Ooh I’ve been to Georgia and California, oh, anywhere I could run
Took the hand of a preacherman and we made love in the sun
But I ran out of places and friendly faces because I had to be free
I’ve been to paradise, but I’ve never been to me

Please lady, please, lady, don’t just walk away
‘Cause I have this need to tell you why I’m all alone today
I can see so much of me still living in your eyes
Won’t you share a part of a weary heart that has lived a million lies

Oh I’ve been to Nice and the isle of Greece
Where I sipped champagne on a yacht
I moved like Harlow in Monte Carlo and showed ’em what I’ve got
I’ve been undressed by kings and I’ve seen some things
That a woman ain’t s’posed to see
I’ve been to paradise, but I’ve never been to me

Hey, you know what paradise is? It’s a lie
A fantasy we create about people and places as we’d like them to be
But you know what truth is?
It’s that little baby you’re holding, and it’s that man you fought with this morning
The same one you’re going to make love with tonight. That’s truth, that’s love

Sometimes I’ve been to cryin’ for unborn children
That might have made me complete
But I, I took the sweet life and never knew I’d be bitter from the sweet
I spent my life exploring the subtle whoring that cost too much to be free
Hey lady, I’ve been to paradise, but I’ve never been to me

From the decks of hell #2: Diary of an unborn child

Previously spinning on the Decks of Hell: a song with a fairly transparent abortion reference. Today’s offering: a song from Lil’ Markie that makes you understand why some women go through with it.

October 5 – Today my life began. My parents do not know it yet, I am as small as a seed of an apple, but it is I already. And I am to be a girl. I shall have blond hair and blue eyes. Just about everything is settled though, even the fact that I shall love flowers.

October 19 – Some say that I am not a real person yet, that only my mother exists. But I am a real person, just as a small crumb of bread is yet truly bread. My mother is. And I am.

October 23 – My mouth is just beginning to open now. Just think, in a year or so I shall be laughing and later talking. I know what my first word will be: MAMA.

October 25 – My heart began to beat today all by itself. From now on it shall gently beat for the rest of my life without ever stopping to rest! And after many years it will tire. It will stop, and then I shall die.

November 2 – I am growing a bit every day. My arms and legs are beginning to take shape. But I have to wait a long time yet before those little legs will raise me to my mother’s arms, before these little arms will be able to gather flowers and embrace my father.

November 12 – Tiny fingers are beginning to form on my hands. Funny how small they are! I’ll be able to stroke my mother’s hair with them.

November 20 – It wasn’t until today that the doctor told mom that I am living here under her heart. Oh, how happy she must be! Are you happy, mom?

November 25 – My mom and dad are probably thinking about a name for me. But they don’t even know that I am a little girl. I want to be called Kathy. I am getting so big already.

December 10 – My hair is growing. It is smooth and bright and shiny. I wonder what kind of hair mom has.

December 13 – I am just about able to see. It is dark around me. When mom brings me into the world it will be full of sunshine and flowers. But what I want more than anything is to see my mom. How do you look, mom?

December 24 – I wonder if mom hears the whispering of my heart? Some children come into the world a little sick. But my heart is strong and healthy. It beats so evenly: tup-tup, tup-tup. You’ll have a healthy little daughter, mom!

December 28 – Today my mother killed me.

Why did you kill me, mommy
When God made me special for you?
I really wanted to see you
And put my little arms around you.
Why did you kill me, mommy
Because I thought you really cared for me.
And I wonder what I would have grown up to be?
I guess I’ll never know, ’cause mommy, you killed me.

From the decks of hell #1: (You’re) Having My Baby

This blog needs a shot in the arm, so I’m announcing a new topic: songs for a Freaky Friday.

You know the ones. The bad. The really bad. Not even the so-bad-it’s-good kind (although I’m also convinced that so-bad-it’s-good doesn’t work as a musical concept – there are no guilty pleasures, simply good music and bad music, or music you enjoy and music you don’t). No, we’re talking about the criminally insane. The Ian Bradys of the top 40. The sort of stuff that would lead you to sell your own grandmother if it meant you never had to hear it again. We’re talking ‘Christmas Shoes’ territory. The worst of the worst; the stuff that makes your jaw drop because you can’t believe that anyone could produce something so hideously wretched in a recording studio, or purposely choose to inflict it upon an unsuspecting world.

I will include lyrics.

Today’s entry: ‘(You’re) Having My Baby’, in which Paul Anka has a sex change halfway through the song, admires his partner’s hot flushes and “what it’s doin’ to you” (insomnia, fatigue, hormonal tantrums and vomiting), and then makes a not-terribly-subtle reference to abortion. Listen, and shudder.

You’re having my baby
What a lovely way of saying
How much you love me.
You’re having my baby
What a lovely way of saying
What you’re thinking of me.
I can see it your face is glowingI can see it in your eyes.
I’m happy knowin’ that you’re having my baby.
You’re the woman I love and I love what it’s doin’ to you.
Having my baby
You’re a woman in love and I love
What’s goin’ through you.
The need inside you
I see it showin’
The seed inside you
Do you feel it growin’
Are you happy in knowin’ that you’re having my baby?

I’m a woman in love and I love
What it’s doin’ to me.
Having my baby.
I’m a woman in love and I love
What’s goin’ through me.

Didn’t have to keep it
Wouldn’t put you through it.
You could have swept it from your life
But you wouldn’t do it
You wouldn’t do it.
And you’re having my baby…