"Emotional Freedom, Phil Lynott, In Awe Of Savage Purple"
In the Alcoholics Anonymous book of Daily Reflections, right there on page 241, the Reflection for August 20th, it says "Toward Emotional Freedom".
It quotes from Twelve Steps And Twelve Traditions, it says;
"Since defective relations with other human beings have nearly always been the immediate cause of our woes, including our alcoholism, no field of investigation could yield more satisfying and valuable rewards than this one."
Title-card onscreen, klinkin 1927 piano keys;
"TOWARD EMOTIONAL FREEDOM!"
Askew static angles, the docks alive with square-jawed brick-breasted sailors, all cheerin, thrustin fists in the air, one of em hollerin with the hands held either side a the yap, stirring the others towards the shimmerin emancipation over yonder by the steps, yes, TOWARD EMOTIONAL FREEDOM!
Reflections in the puddles, a Naval-hued stampede, a thousand feet tramplin the rain-lashed mornin into gnarled, battered muck.
A fella in front, much less masculine than the rest, whispers on bone where the bulging biceps should be, he stops, turns around, looking all uncertain, all unsure of things alla damn sudden.
The sailors round about, they start pointing Up Ahead, start yelling, wordless, but the title cards tell us all about how what they're saying is "Comrade! Don't Stop Now! Emotional Freedom Right There!"
And the fella kinda shrugs. Starts tuning an acoustic, seems to be muttering something or other, all apologetic.
"Sorry, comrades. I just dunno that I wanna be free just yet. I'm kinda diggin the melancholy."
Stunned eyes burnin slack-jaw skulls.
"Also, this plinky-plonk is all well and good, but what say we grab hold a couple these chords right here and sing bout how My Baby Done Me Bad?"
Fade to red, grey, black, fade to
Sir Fleming hollering, "Get up you lazy bastard, t'is a glorious Saturday, there's sitting around to be done!"
He throws that morning's Independent at me, tabloid pages cascading this way an that. "More", he says, "Plastic bags have been outlawed! Fugitives, we've ended up!"
Yesterday morning I arrived in this hotel carrying two plastic bags filled wi Diet Coke an a couple books - some William Blake, some Lester Bangs.
The hell you yackin bout, is what I get to muttering, grainy Soviet homosexuals headed ever closer to the rocks huggin the depths of the brain-gunk.
"Plastic bags, they've been outlawed. Some sort of environmental decision or other. It's paper or nothing."