Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

7

Elvis should have called it quits way back in ’77 when he had his first heart attack. He was never quite the same man after that. He wandered around Gracelands, clutching at his head and talking to himself and telling those who would listen that he was having revelations. Clearly the King was two strings short of a Strat.

His latest offering, a stream of semi-consciousness rambling over beefy drum and bass, pumped now out of Sandy’s behind-the-bar sound system, making any form of conversation in the Shrunken Head just that little bit more stressful.

It was now almost nine of the night-time clock and Jim Pooley took another elbow to the ear.

“Ouch,” went Jim and, “Mind out there.”

“Stop making such a fuss,” Omally told him.

“It’s all right for you.” Jim shifted in his chair as another music-lover squeezed by him. “You have the seat against the wall.”

“I have to keep watch on the door for the band. The place is filling up nicely, though, isn’t it?”

Jim ducked another elbow. “I hate it!” he shouted. “It’s horrid and stinks. Don’t any of these blighters ever wash under their arms?”

“Men who wear black T-shirts rarely wash under their arms. It’s a tradition, or an old charter or something.”

“I want to go home,” wailed Jim.

“Hold on,” said John. “Big-hair alert.”

“What?”

“Men with big hair. It must be the band.”

Jim turned and caught an elbow in the gob. “Ouch,” he went again and, “Where?”

“There.” Omally pointed and there indeed they were. Above the motley mob and moving through the fog of fag smoke, big-haired boys were entering the bar.

“Big hair,” muttered Jim. “What an old cliché that is.”

Omally was now on his feet and waving. “Chaps,” he called. “I say, chaps, over here.”

“I say, chaps?”

Omally hushed at him. “It’s an image thing,” he told Jim. “Think class. Think Brian Epstein.”

“Ye gods,” Jim raised his beer can to his lips, thought better of it and set it down again.

“Chaps, I say.” Omally coo-eed and waved a bit more. “I say, chaps. Hold on, come back.”

But the big-haired chaps were paying no heed, they were humping their gear towards the entrance to the Cellar.

“I’ll give them a hand with their guitars,” said Omally. “You hang onto this table.” He leaned low and spoke firm words into the ear of Pooley. “And don’t even think about slipping away,” he said.

“I might have to go to the toilet.”

“Hold it in.”

“But it might be number twos.”

Omally made fists. He showed one to Pooley. “I am not by nature a violent man,” he said, “but if you let me down on this—”

“All right.” Pooley raised the palms of peace. “I’ll hold the table for you. But I’m not going downstairs to hear them play. Absolutely no way. No siree, by golly.”

“All right, all right.” John struggled out of his chair and into the crowd. “Just don’t let me down, Jim. This really matters.”

Pooley shrugged and Pooley sighed and Pooley wanted out.

“Is anyone sitting there?” asked a voice at his ear.

“Yes,” grumbled Jim and, looking up, “No. My friend’s gone home. You can sit in his chair if you want to.”

“Thank you, I will,” she said and she did.

Jim watched her as she settled onto Omally’s chair.

She was beautiful. Simply beautiful.

In fact it would be true to say that she was the most beautiful woman Jim had ever seen in his life. And considering that Brentford is noted for the beauty of its womenfolk, that is really going some.

And then some more.

She was the size known as petite. Which isn’t the size known as little or small. And there was a symmetry about her features and a delicacy about her entire being that made Jim do a double double-take. To Pooley she seemed perfect, and perfect can be just a little fearsome.

With his jaw now hanging slack and his eyes glazing over, Jim took in the poetic wonder of her face.

Her eyes were large and green and fringed with long dark lashes.

Her nose was small and tilted at the tip.

Her mouth was wide, and there, inside, her teeth were lightning flashes.

A tiny blue moustache was glued above her upper lip.

Jim’s face took on that drippy gormless expression that is so often worn by men who have fallen suddenly and hopelessly in love.

“Are you all right?” asked the beauty.

“Oh,” went Jim and, “Mmm.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m fine,” shouted Jim.

“That’s good. I thought you were going to chuck up.”

“No, I’m fine,” Jim shouted some more. “No, hang about. How do you do that?”

“I usually put my fingers down my throat.”

“No, I don’t mean that. I mean how do you do what you’re doing now?”

“What am I doing now?”

“There!” shouted Jim. “You did it again.”

“What?”

“Well, I’m having to shout above all this racket, but you’re just speaking normally, and I can understand every word you’re saying.”

“It’s just a way of projecting your voice. My brother taught me.”

“Wonderful,” shouted Jim. “I’m Jim, by the way.”

“I’m Litany,” said Litany.

“Have you come to see the band? Are you here with your, er, boyfriend?”

“You don’t have to shout. I can understand you. And I’m with the band and I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Groupie, thought Jim.

“And I’m not a groupie.”

“Of course you’re not.”

“I’m the lead singer.”

“I’ve been really looking forward to seeing your band,” said Jim. “I’ll be right down at the front.”

“Oh, really?”

“Absolutely. Can I get you a drink or something?”

“No, thank you.” Litany shook her perfect head. Her perfect hair, of a colour somewhere between this and that, moved all around and about. It wasn’t exactly big hair, but it had many big ways. “The beer’s rubbish here. I’d much prefer a pint of Large.”

“I could run to the Swan and bring you one back. Or we could perhaps go together.”

“I have to play. There’s a lot of fans here tonight.”

“Yes.” Jim now made a somewhat thoughtful face. Which was a great improvement. “How come …”

“How come what?”

“How come you’re not being mobbed? How come you’re just sitting down here with me and no one’s bothering you? How come there’s not a big mob of adoring fans gathered about this table?”

“Would you like there to be?”

“No. But …”

“It’s something else my brother taught me. I’ll tell you about it some time. Over a pint of Large, perhaps.”

“Oh yes,” said Jim. “Oh yes, indeed.”

“I like you, Jim,” said Litany. “You’re everything I hoped you’d be.” And on that mysterious note, she rose from Omally’s chair, smiled at Jim and melted into the crowd.

Pooley lifted his can of beer and emptied the contents down his throat. And just for a moment, only for a moment, mind, the thin warm ale took on the taste of a cooling pint of finest Large.

And then a great cheer went up from the mob, as the mob became aware that Litany was among them and Jim got another elbow in the ear.

And then John Omally returned.

“Bastards,” he said, reseating himself.

“Pardon?” shouted Jim.

“Bastards,” shouted John.

“Any particular bastards, or just bastards in general?”

“Big-haired bastards, they wouldn’t speak to me.”

“Perhaps they didn’t take to your old chaps routine.”

“They mocked my suit.”

“My suit?”

“Your suit, then. But mock it they did.”

“Well, it is a really horrible suit. Which is why I’ve never asked for it back.”

“I’ve a good mind not to manage them now.”

“That’ll teach them!” bellowed Jim.

“You might as well push off, then.”

“No, that’s all right, John. You push off, I’ll stay a bit longer.”

“What?”

“I think I’ll stay and watch the band.”

“What?”

“Just a couple of numbers.”

“What?”

“Did you get her autograph?” It was Geraldo, the big fat fellow in the black T-shirt and shorts. His tiny voice squeaked very loud, in order to make himself heard.

“What?” said Jim.

“That’s my line,” said John.

“Litany’s autograph. That was her talking to you, wasn’t it? I didn’t recognize her until she got up.”

“What?” went John.

“He was talking to Litany,” squeaked Geraldo.

“Who is Litany?” John bawled back.

“Just a friend,” said Jim.

“What?”

“She’s the Gandhis’ lead singer. Your mate was chatting her up.”

“I never was.”

“You were what?”

“Oh, all right. I was talking to her. She does this really clever thing when she speaks, she—”

“Bastard!” shouted John. “I turn my back and you’re diving in to steal my job.”

“It wasn’t like that. She came up to me. I didn’t know who she was. I think she fancies me and—”

“Blue moustache tonight.” The big fat fellow pointed to his face. “Always a blue moustache on Tuesdays.”

“What is he going on about?”

“She was wearing a blue moustache.”

“A woman with a moustache?”

“Blue one,” Jim shouted. “A Clark Gable, I think.”

The big fat fellow shook his big fat head. “A Ramon Navarro.”

“Did he wear a moustache?”

“On Tuesdays he did. A blue one.”

“You’re mad!” shouted John. “The pair of you. Stone bonkers.”

“I think I’ll just slip down to the Cellar.” Jim made down-a-ways pointings. “I’d like to get up close to the stage.”

“I’ll come with you,” Geraldo squeaked as loudly as he could. “I don’t want to miss the incident.”

“What incident?” Jim asked.

“The famous incident, of course. That’s what we’ve come to see.”

And on that mysterious note, the fat fellow did his bit of melting into the crowd.

“Oi, wait for me,” cried Jim, attempting to melt but failing dismally. “How do they do that?” he asked John.

“It’s all in the elbows. Here, I’ll show you.”

“Wait for me, then, oh damn.”

Jim did not get up close to the stage, although, given the dimensions of the Cellar, nowhere was particularly far from the stage. But Jim was about as far away as it was possible to be. He was last man in, which also meant he would be first man out and first man to the bar come the intermission, but that afforded little or indeed any pleasure at all to the aspiring fanboy. He squeezed himself against the wall and held his nose against the pong of unwashed armpits.

He bobbed up and down for a bit, hoping for a glimpse of Omally, but gave that up when a chap in front threatened to punch his lights out.

“I hate it here,” said Jim to himself. “I hate it, hate it, hate it.”

And then all the lights went out and then the voice of Sandy one-twoed through the mic and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, they’re here, your own, your very own, Gandhi’s Hairdryer.”

And there was a scream of feedback, a great dark howl from the crowd, the lights burst on and the band burst into action.

Jim could manage a bit of a “Whoa” as the sight and the sound hit him bang in the face.

On stage stood Litany, surely taller, surely even lovelier, and flanked by fellows in black. She wore white and they wore black and they had great big hair. And they had really fab guitars and they did all the right movements and the drummer at the back beat seven bells of shit out of the old skins and the speakers pumped out mighty decibels and the music and the song and the heat and the smell.

And Jim came all over funny.

He could see them moving up there on the tiny stage and he could feel the rhythm as the big bass notes jumbled up his stomach and rumbled in his skull, but he seemed to hear and taste and sense and smell much more.

And it was all so much and all at once. It didn’t build up slowly. It didn’t rise to a crescendo. It was just right there. Instantly. In your face. In your bowels. In, right in.

At once.

All together.

Altogether.

Jim shook his head and pinched at his nose and sucked in very small breaths. Whatever this was, and it certainly was something, it was all too much for him. He tried to ease himself away from the wall but found to his horror that he couldn’t. The seat of his trousers appeared to be welded to the brickwork. His feet were glued to the floor.

And it couldn’t have been thirty seconds into the first number before the lead guitarist went into a solo. And yes, it was the most blinding guitar solo Jim had ever heard in all of his life and somehow Litany sang with it. Not words but sounds, musical notes, utterly pure, utterly precise. Rising and rising until the band cut short and there was nothing, nothing but the sound of her voice, a note, a single note, that seemed to enter into Pooley through the very pores of his skin and—

What?

“Cleanse,” whispered Jim. “I am being cleansed.”

“Thank you, Brentford, and goodnight.”

And all the lights went out.

And when they came back on again, the Gandhis were nowhere to be seen.

But what there was to be seen was something quite extreme. Blokes were clutching at themselves and weeping. Weeping men, and manly men too. Some were fingering at their heads and going “My barnet, it’s back” and others were feeling at their faces, saying “All my spots are gone.” And others still were patting private places and mumbling things like “Me piles have vanished” and “Ye pox is no more.”

Jim blinked and boggled and sighed and took deep breaths. Men in black T-shirts were sniffing at their armpits and each other’s. “Nice,” was their opinion. “Very fragrant.”

Jim found that he was sniffing too and nodding as he sniffed. And he felt so well. So healthy. He felt as if he had just spent a week at one of those places the toffs go to, where they cover you in mud and feed you lettuce and suchlike. Whatever that felt like. Good, is what that felt like. Incredibly good.

“What about that, then, eh?” A tiny voice spoke in his earhole.

Jim turned to see the fat bloke in the black T-shirt and shorts.

But.

The fat bloke wasn’t such a fat bloke any more.

“Four bloody inches,” the fattish bloke said. “Four bloody inches off my waistline.”

“How?” whispered Jim. “I mean, what happened, how?”

“It’s her voice. I knew it was true. The others didn’t believe me. They said it was just a rock legend. But I talked them into coming. I knew it was true, you see. I’d read all about the Gandhis and their Apocalypso Music”

“Slow down,” said Jim. “I don’t understand.”

“This was the incident. The one that started it all. And now I can say I was there. And if no one believes me” – the fattish bloke plucked at his trousers – “they’ll believe this, won’t they? My mum will be dead pleased. She’s always going on about me losing weight.”

“You knew this was going to happen.” Jim fought to make sense of it all. “You knew. How did you know?”

“Looked it up on Porkie.”

“What’s Porkie?”

“Its real name is SWINE. Single World Interfaced Network Engine. It pretty much runs the whole planet. Or did.”

“I’m losing this,” said Jim.

“Of course you are. But even if I told you all about it, you’d never believe me.”

“I’d give it a go.”

The fattish bloke turned to his friends, who were blissfully sniffing their armpits. “What do you think?” he asked them. “Should I tell him?”

The armpit-sniffers shrugged. One of them said, “What does it matter? We’ll all be off tomorrow.”

“Off?” said Jim.

“We’re going to Woodstock.”

“Woodstock?”

“Yeah. But never mind about that. Do you want me to tell you, or what?”

“Please tell me,” said Jim. “Tell me how you knew and tell me just what happened.”

“All right, I’ll tell you it all. I know I really shouldn’t, but as you tipped me off about John Lennon, I’ll tip you off about something in return. You might do us all a bit of good by knowing.”

“Geraldo,” said Jim. “It is Geraldo, isn’t it?”

“Was the last time I looked.”

“Geraldo, what do you mean about John Lennon?”

“You tipped me off that he didn’t die.”

“But he didn’t die.”

“No, but he should have done. And if he didn’t, it means that Wingarde’s been interfering again.”

“Curiously,” said Jim, “you’ve lost me once again. Who, in the name of whatever I hold holy, is Wingarde?”

“He’s a flash little hacker with a better rig than mine.”

“All becomes clear.”

“Does it?” asked Geraldo.

“No,” said Jim. “It does not.”

“Yeah, well don’t you worry about Wingarde. He might think he’s been really smart. But now that we know what he’s done, we’ll sneak back and put it right.”

“Put it right?” said Jim.

“See that John Lennon bites the bullet, as it were.”

“Eh?” said Jim, and, “What?”

“Well, we can hardly leave things as they stand, can we?”

“Can’t you?”

“Certainly not. And wasn’t that Elvis I heard on the barman’s sound system?”

Pooley nodded. “It was,” he said.

“Bloody Wingarde again,” said one of Geraldo’s cronies.

“Look,” said Jim. “Just stop. Just stop right there and here and now. Just tell me simply and in a manner that will not confuse me.”

“What?” Geraldo asked.

“Just who the frigging hell you are.”

“We’re fanboys,” said Geraldo. “Surely you can work that out.”

“Fanboys,” said Jim. “You’re just fanboys.”

“Well, not just fanboys. We’re rather special fanboys, as it happens.”

“And just how special might that be?”

“We’re fanboys from the future,” said Geraldo.

Don was a dead or dying duck.

The last of the final few.

The fowl of the air

Weren’t anywhere,

And there weren’t no rabbits too.

There were not even tiny frogs,

Nor jumping moles and that.

There barked no dogs

Or ’ollered ’ogs,

Nor sang no sing-song cat.

What now of your jovial toad?

Or ferret so fecund?

The pig on the road

Has done his load,

Like the swans on the village pund.[6]

All alone was Dead Eye Don

Whom quacked for all him worth.

And out somewhere

In that final air

The last quack on the Earth.

Bye bye, Don.

Goodnight, everyone.

Goodnight.