This morning, I was just finishing getting ready for work. One final, cursory glance towards the mirror before heading off, and I realised, with a jolt, and indeed some large amount of alarm, that The Edge was staring somewhat morosely back at me. This strange…illusion, for it surely must have been such, was so… perhaps…veridical that I remember spinning wildly around to grab the sleekit wee fucker. Just like how, I would imagine, one might body-tackle and pummel an unlucky leprechaun in order to squeeze out some of his luck.
Alas! My attempt was futile. I reckon that you’d definitely need the edge, to catch The Edge. But can you imagine – a somewhat scruffy, but well kent Irish intruder creeping up behind you, in your own house?!
Can you imagine!
Except, it wasn’t him, was it? The Edge. Think about it – unlikely to be him, lurking ninja style for gawd knows how long (now that I think of it, probly in that under-stairs cupboard where we keep the gas meter and the dead xmas bits, and where the light doesn’t work) with no higher purpose than to what? Is he just real pumped to put the shits right up me, give me a wee adrenaline boost at the crack of dawn and get me out the door with a fluctuating flutter in the old ticker? Nah, when you put it like that, there’s no way it was him, The Edge. No way. He wouldn’t do that, I reckon.
Look, I’ll admit, I have never (knowingly) met the man (or have I?), but he doesn’t really fit the profile, does he, The Edge? He doesn’t look the sort. Plus, he’s not really famous at all for any Dirty Sanchez style shenanigans, over the years, is he? (Mibee a wee bit in the early days? Mibee, but who knows?) and neither has his effects-pedal-driven oeuvre ever shown much obvious influence (to these ears anyway) of, say, prime-period Edmonds japery.
No. Not a Gotcha to be heard. Not so far in the career, anyway.
But The Edge! Can you imagine? In your hall, creepy-crawling about.
It duznae bear thinking about, does it?
Look, I’m just saying, yer man, The Edge – he’s just got to have better things to be doing with his high-energy, globe-trotting rock-star life, do you not think? Golf, they like that, don’t they?
So I think we have firmly established, The Edge most certainly does not get his kicks, or indeed, his rocks off, jumping out and frightening folk half to death in the morning, in their house, with some stupid in-the-mirror Manson family shit.
We are agreed: not The Edge.
Nah, it turned out, what it was, this morning, in the mirror, it was just me. Looking old, and a bit sad. In a hat.
And very much like The Edge.