Telecasters that go bump in the night.

Nights in the hospital can drag. I’ve been moved to a calmer, less frantic ward. The trade-off is it’s as quiet as the grave. The only sound that disturbs the dust is my snoring. My fellow inmates suffer with good grace. Back home Jude, my amazing wife, will whisper: “Mark, you’re snoring,” If that fails, a neatly dispatched haymaker normally resolves the issue.

To help me to sleep, I’ve started to re-read Dracula, to be more precise the first section, which covers Jonathan Harker’s diary. It still unsettles me. A road trip from Budapest to Castle Dracula, set high in the Carpathian Mountains. Here a multitude of horrors are played out on the unfortunate Harker. Sailsbury is a long way from Transylvania, but a few nights ago it felt as if the Nosferatu had hitched a lift with Ryan Air and was whirling around my bed. “Denn die Todten reiten schnell.” (For the dead travel fast). On reflection, they must have used another airline as they would still be arguing over their baggage allowance. “I’m sorry madam you haven’t paid for that coffin.’’

I was woken with a start, by a beautiful voice with a heavy Saxon tinge. ”I want your blood.’’ With no holy water to hand, except my wee bottle, I pulled the blanket up over my head and pretended to snore. Not the most effective defence against a vampire, but that’s all I had in my armoury. It transpired Tanya was from Bistrița, collecting samples for the lab. You couldn’t make it up. All the same I’m laying off the Stoker for a bit and no more cheese before bedtime.

It got me thinking about my Mary Shelly Telecaster. A Frankenstein of Fender parts, and the guitar I would save from a castle, besieged by angry villagers. Everyone should own a Tele. They are the base that all other guitars are derived from. Simple yet effective.

My monster has an Ash body, compound radius maple neck, Texas Special pickups, brass saddles and 4 way switching. Pretty standard setup and modifications made special by the way it was put together. The neck is a USA Deluxe second, sun damaged by being in the shop window too long. The pickups are loud, bass heavy and narley. I find they make it easier to drive and control the guitar. Remember, what’s good for me may be someone else’s garlic. The thing that makes this guitar sing, however, is the body. I can’t take all the credit for that. Both my father and son helped in its creation.

Dad was a collector of class A tat. He had a particular taste for bargains advertised in the Sunday supplements. Memorable purchases included an acupuncture set that didn’t use needles; 9 inch Grass Aerating Sandals, that only a stilt artist could use and an electric tennis bat that killed flies. His pride and joy was the Acme Weed Killer, a thin metal tube that wouldn’t have been out of place at the battle of Kursk. Once connected to a propane cannister it spewed out a jet of flame. Greek Fire in a can.

I decommissioned the weapon and hid it in the garden shed. Years later it was unearthed and used in an ‘A’ Level art project by my son. Spurred on by his artistic prowess, I thought I could use it to quicky strip off the lacquer from the guitar body.

Ever safety conscious, I decided we should try it outside with a few sherries to oil the process. At Zero plus ten we turned on the gas, lit the fuse and directed the flame at the guitar. Lift Off. It went up like Joan of Arc’s cassock. Five minutes later, ash by name and ash by nature. After the family cleared up the mess, I decided I needed professional help, checked myself into the pub and sent all the pieces to my luthier friend.

Pulling myself back to the here and now, I’m examining the before and after x-rays on my leg. It’s amazing what the Doctors have done. It may be twelve months for a full recovery, but. I realise I’m very lucky.

To cheer myself up, I listen to Roy Buchanan play Sweet Dreams. A God of Telecaster technique.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=swX9oq6TVAU

With physio and my beloved Tele as a crutch, perhaps I can become The Modern Prometheus?