Alan The King

There is a guy I sat next to at work who swears he’s Elvis.

It’s an unhealthy obsession founded on the three passions of his life… Elvis obviously……… swiftly followed by cheeseburgers and bad karaoke. I had been sitting next Alan Parsons for around 6 weeks and it was only after the first two that I noticed something was strangely adrift. With hindsight,  a 40 year old with such a deftly sculpted quaff should demand further investigation but foolish me, put it down to good breeding.

Everyone I work with is as cunt,  it’s simple really. We frog march into the office,  spend hours aimless chattering about some bollocks or other using words and phases that on each airing rip parts from my soul I never knew I had; ‘moving forward’ ‘lets action that’ ‘Re: the ROI’…… like I said …cunts.

But Alan Parsons is different, Alan has three lives, Work, home and Elvis and that’s in reverse order. The first clues were the sideburns, that and the headphones of course. Once, twice even maybe three times I thought it coincidental that every time he walked away from his desk the dulcet tones of The King would drift across the key boards.

It was a Wednesday in the kitchen when I first asked him about Elvis…

‘So you a fan of Elvis, it’s just because every time you leave your desk I hear  …’
‘The King.’
‘Well yeah, I mean it’s just that …
‘People say I Look like him you know’
‘Do they…?’
‘Yeah it’s a …. Gift and a curse.’
‘I’m sure it is Alan.’

It became my guilty secret, my unknown pleasure of taking lunch with Alan everyday, I never told anyone at work about him, why would I share my lunch time solace with these … well I told you… they’re cunts aren’t they? Everyday he rejoiced in telling me tales of the misodunistic  misdemeanors of The King’s adventures, Imploring me to listen to ‘In the Ghetto’ with the lights turned out. They were surreal yet blissful hours of utter joy.

It turns out that Alan’s wife Mirran indulged her wayward spouse’s passions. I never meet Miriam myself but suffice to say that on every other weekend she turned a blind eye to her husband’s moonlighting as the singing Elvis in the Ping Pong Dim Sum restaurant just off Old Compton street. If you had the money and desire, you could watch Alan bash out a ‘Jailhouse Rock‘ before you had the time to finish a chicken chow mein.

I heard a whisper the day before the redundancies came ….

I wish I’d told him…

‘Ladies and gentleman unfortunatly the rumors are true, ‘Smithers Jones communications will be making redundancies today’

‘Has anyone seen a Mister Alan Parsons?’

Alan Parsons anyone?

Alan wasn’t there and noone said anything, there was a silence where there should have been applause; if this was the films or if I’d told him the doors would of flung open and in would of strode Alan in full fat Elvis white suited  regalia.

As it was noone said anything; in fact Alan was forgotten within a week.

But not by me and I hope not by you