Page 64 - Maj 2020 PDF

The real reason he said yes to his grandfather was that it was a great excuse to

his mother, that he’d be coming in late in the afternoon and avoid slaving away
with the homework he hated.

Daniel Tafft the First was happy about his grandson’s visit. He went down to the

garage and found his old vinyl albums, which he put on the ancient gramophone,
so that they could sit in the living room and listen to old jazz records together,

then making Eugene try to play bass chords to the tunes he liked best.

Eugene was often sent into town for beer. "You are old enough to drink,” his
grandfather said. “Beth shouldn’t interfere with that."

Dan Hadcliff has a dark blonde hairstyle that is neatly set with Brylcreem and
spit, to resemble the John Travolta-hairstyle; his face is pockmarked and his eyes

narrow and blue.

"You look like Elvis Presley."
That’s the undying comment he’s been hearing all throughout his life. His

mother, as she herself puts it, is "Britain’s biggest Elvis fan."

"You have the same exact bedroom-eyes as he," his mother said often said to
him from as far back as he can remember.

He adored Elvis, and to friends he frequently joked around, that to Elvis or his
or his long-time girlfriend Maria Celiste, who faithfully is waiting for Dan to be

done performing this afternoon, he’d still choose Elvis.

Dan sings, twists and shouts, stomps his foot down, shoots the lower abdomen
back and forth. His worn-out black T-shirt with the cut-off sleeves is dripping

with sweat. He has big holes on the knee section of his blue jeans, which also are

so skin-tight that they bulge out, showing his tool behind the fabric. He has a pair
of pointy white boots on which the white varnish is worn off the front and the

high heels have been worn crooked. The many concerts he has held on the

sidewalks both in Manchester and now in London have damaged his clothes and
as well as himself. His semi-acoustic western guitar cries out from a small,

battery-powered amplifier standing next to him.

Dan is the tallest of the three in the band. Nigel Jones stands with his eyes
almost closed and strikes a snare drum, on which there’s mounted a small

cymbal that he uses when the music changes the tempo or from verse to chorus.
Nigel has a robustly and muscular physique. His resilient, black hair was