Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

11

“All right, then,” said Jim to John. “I assume you have some kind of a plan.”

“And then some,” said John to Jim. “When it comes to a plan, I am ever your man.”

They stood in the sundrenched Ealing Road. Right outside the business premises of Bob the Bookie. The graffiti-spattered brickwork glittered in the sun, and the red and white plastic slash curtain at the doorway moved gently in the breeze, swaying sensuously, it seemed to Jim, bidding him to enter.

Jim bit his lip and folded his arms and turned his back on temptation. “Speak to me, John,” he said bravely. “Tell me of your plan.”

“It’s simplicity itself. I’ll get the tapes from Norman and I’ll make some important phonecalls. You’ll hasten at once to West Ealing.”

“West Ealing?” Jim gave his lip another small chew. “Now why would I, or indeed anyone, wish to go to West Ealing?”

“Because that is where the Stratster works. His name is Ricky Zed and he is the griddle chef at the Wimpy. You will visit him and employ your charms. I assume that the lead singer did not give you her telephone number.”

“You assume correctly.”

“Then you chat up Ricky, see if you can get it from him.”

“Will this involve lying?” Jim asked. “I’m not very good at lying.”

“Tell him the truth, then. Tell him that we wish to manage the band and tell him that they can expect a record contract by the end of the week.”

“And that would be the truth, would it?”

“Jim, I intend to have a record contract sorted by lunchtime.”

“Right,” said Jim in a thoughtful tone. “Right. By lunchtime. I see.”

“Well, there’s no sense in hanging around, is there?”

Jim shook his head. “I suppose not,” said he.

“Then off on your way, Jimmy boy. Make me proud of you.”

“All right,” said Jim. “I’ll give it a go. Because, after all” – and he jingled the meagre change in his pocket – “I really have nothing to lose.”

They shook hands in a professional manner, agreed to meet later in the Swan and went their separate ways.

Now Jim was no Marco Polo, and the lands which lay beyond the boundaries of the great Brentford Triangle[10] were mostly terra incognita to him. Normally the thought of such a journey would have filled Jim with dread and he would have done anything within his limited powers to avoid it. But he was on a mission here. Two missions, in fact. The first being to avoid the bookies and evade the dreaded Pooley. The second to succeed at something. He had never succeeded at anything, hadn’t Jim, and this, perhaps, would be his opportunity.

So he girded up his loins and put his best foot forward and stuck his hand out boldly at the bus stop.

“You should wait until you see a bus coming before you do that,” said a lady in a straw hat. “And get to the back of the queue or I’ll punch your lights out.”

Jim got to the back of the queue.

The journey was for the most part uneventful. No terrorists hijacked the bus. The driver did not fall asleep at the wheel, nor did he become lost. No Red Indians attacked and there wasn’t a highwayman to be seen.

A couple of pirates did try to get on at the traffic lights, but the bus conductor blocked their passage and firmly tossed them off.

At length Jim found himself in West Ealing, outside the Wimpy Bar. It was everything he’d hoped it would be, and just that little bit more besides. Delicious odours wafted from within, and through the window Jim could make out beautiful people in elegant clothes, discoursing, no doubt, upon intellectual topics whilst tucking into their brunches.

Jim sighed a sigh and dreamed that dream we have all dreamed. That one day he might own a Wimpy Bar.

He then took a deep, preparatory breath, pushed open the door and went in.

Gentle music played from hidden speakers. Subtle lighting touched upon the tasteful decor. The beautiful people looked up from their brunches and eyed Jim with suspicion.

Pooley sat down at the nearest table and cast his eyes over the menu.

It was a gorgeous colourful gatefold affair, printed upon paper, yet sealed within a transparent plastic shell through some method of technological wizardry that was beyond Jim’s understanding. Jim viewed the photographic portraits of the toothsome viands. Here was a double cheeseburger with all the trimmings and here a saveloy known as a Bender. On the back page was the ice cream selection. The now legendary Brown Derby and the Jamaican Long Boat. Each of these could be had as it came or with a choice of cream or maple syrup.

Pooley’s mouth began to water. It was all too much.

A waiter approached his table and stood looking down upon him. He wore the traditional red and white livery and the jaunty paper cap. This perched somewhat perilously upon a mighty hive of hair.

“Do you wish to order, sir?” asked the waiter. “Or have you just come in to dribble on the table?”

Jim looked up and went, “Oh!”

“Oh?” said the waiter.

“Oh,” said Jim. “Aren’t you Ricky Zed?”

The waiter nodded his big-haired head. He was long and tall and lanky and lean, all cheekbones and dark sunken eyes. Jim was taken at once by his curious hands, each finger of which had three knuckle joints instead of the usual two.

“I thought you were the griddle chef,” said Jim.

“I am,” said Ricky. “But we have a change-around each week. It’s company policy. One week on the griddle, one on the tables, one on the washing-up and one on the cash register.”

“That must be exciting.”

“No,” said Ricky. “It’s shite.”

“Oh,” said Jim.

“Yes, oh,” said Ricky. “Now what did you want to order?”

“Well, actually I didn’t want to order anything. Well, that is to say, obviously I would like to order everything. I mean, who wouldn’t? But I came here to see you. About your band.”

“It’s not my band. It’s our band.”

“Right,” said Jim. “Well, I saw you and the band play last night at the Shrunken Head and it was one of the most incredible experiences I have ever had in my life.”

“So what do you want? My autograph, is it?”

“No,” said Jim. “I want to manage you.”

Ricky looked Jim up and down. “Fuck off, mate,” he said.

“No, please,” said Jim. “Just listen to what I’ve got to say.”

“And what have you got to say?”

“Well, my partner says that he can get you a record contract within the week.”

“Won’t happen,” said Ricky. “Can’t happen.”

“Why not?” asked Jim.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then try me, please.”

Ricky shook his big-haired head and his cap fell off. He did not stoop to retrieve it, he simply waggled a finger at Jim.

“Do you have any idea just what happened last night when we played?” he asked.

“No,” said Jim. “All I know was that it was something marvellous. Something wonderful and something that the whole world should hear and experience.”

“The whole world will never experience it.”

“Oh yes it will,” said Jim. “Apocalypso music will be the biggest thing ever.”

“What did you call it?”

“Apocalypso music”

“That’s a good name,” said Ricky. “I like that.”

Pooley made a hopeful face.

“But it won’t happen. It won’t be allowed to happen.”

“Why?” asked Jim. “Who would want to stop it?”

“Record companies,” said Ricky. “Record companies would stop it”

“Why?” asked Jim once more. “That doesn’t make sense. Litany’s voice can heal the sick. I saw it happen. I heard it and I felt it too. Any record company would pay millions to own an artiste like that.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” said Ricky. “And I’ll tell you why. There are no independent record companies any more. They’ve all been bought up by the huge corporations. And the huge corporations don’t just market music. They market everything. Cars and food and weapons and telecommunications and technology and chemicals and Pharmaceuticals. All these companies interlink and a few people at the very top control everything.”

“Scientists,” said Jim.

“Businessmen,” said Ricky. “And the House of Windsor. So imagine what would happen if all you had to do when you were sick was to put on a music CD and be cured.”

“It would be brilliant,” said Jim. “And everyone in the world would want that CD.”

“And then they would all be well and free from sickness.”

“Brilliant,” said Jim.

“Brilliant for them, perhaps. But not so brilliant for the mega-corporations that make zillions of pounds every day from producing and marketing pharmaceuticals. It’s like the everlasting lightbulb and the motorcar tyre that doesn’t wear out. These things exist, but they’ll never see the shop counter. The mega-corporations see to that.”

“Bastards,” said Jim.

“Exactly,” said Ricky. “But that’s the way things are. That is the way society has evolved.”

“Ah,” said Jim. “Evolution.”

“Evolution,” said Ricky. “Would you like me to tell you all about that?”

“Well,” said Jim. “Actually—”

“Everything evolves,” said Ricky. “Everything. And not just living things. Inanimate objects, too.”

“Eh?” said Jim.

“Take cars,” said Ricky. “The way cars have evolved.”

“Cars?” said Jim.

“Cars,” said Ricky. “Take the Ford Escort, for example. The Ford Escort of today bears almost no resemblance to the Ford Escort of twenty years ago. And why is that?”

“Because it’s been redesigned,” said Jim.

“No,” said Ricky. “That’s what they’d like you to think. The Ford Escort has evolved by itself, with no help from human beings.”

“What?” said Jim.

“I’m telling you the truth. I used to work for Ford at Dagenham. I worked on the production line, putting the rattly bits in the doors.”

“I often wondered who did that.”

“Well, it used to be me, but I left because I couldn’t take all the pressure. But do you know how long it takes to set up a production line? Make all the tools that make the parts and the moulds and templates and so on and so forth?”

Pooley shook his head. He didn’t know.

“Years,” said Ricky. “Four or five years. So imagine this. There are no spare production lines standing empty. All the production lines work non-stop turning out cars. Seven days a week they work, and fifty-two weeks of the year. And if you stop a production line for even five minutes it costs the company thousands of pounds in lost production. So they just rumble on and on and on.

“But notice this. Every year the cars that roll off that production line look a bit different. It’s the same model of car, but it’s not quite the same. It’s evolved.”

“But how could that be?” asked Jim.

“Don’t ask me. I’m not God. But it can be and it is. The production line itself evolves. In Germany some production lines have evolved so much that they don’t need humans to run them any more. They’re all robotic”

“Incredible,” said Jim.

“And it’s not just cars. It’s everything. Radios and televisions and telephones. And what about records? They used to be big black things made out of plastic. Look at them now.”

“And you think they’re all evolving by themselves, without people to help them?”

“It’s all part of the big conspiracy. All these so-called new developments. It works by natural selection. But it’s the men at the top who do the selecting and they do it for their own gain. That’s why you won’t see the everlasting lightbulb and that’s why you won’t hear the Gandhi’s Hairdryer CD.”

“I see,” said Jim. “Well, when you explain it all to me like that, it all makes perfect sense.”

“Evolution,” said Ricky. “And natural selection, and it will all go on and on like that for ever.”

“Oh no, it won’t,” said Jim.

“Oh yes, it will.”

“It won’t,” said Jim. “And I will tell you why.”

And Jim told Ricky why. He told Ricky everything that Geraldo had told him. All about how natural selection in human beings would come to an end and mankind would not evolve any further and how this would eventually lead to THE END in a world that was run by scientists. He didn’t go into all the details and he didn’t do any of the voices or do the descriptions in rhyme, and he didn’t mention the time travelling. But he laid it all out for Ricky and when he was finished the Stratster sat down and stared and stared at Jim.

When Ricky finally found his voice, all he could say was, “Wow.”

“So there you go,” said Pooley.

“Wow,” said Ricky once again. “It all makes sense to me now.”

“It does?” said Jim.

“Oh yes, it does. You see, there was just one thing I could never get my head around.”

“Just the one?” said Jim.

“Just the one. About the Stratocaster. You see, it evolved from the Telecaster, but its evolution stopped in the nineteen fifties and I never could understand why. I thought it should go on and on. That it would keep on evolving. But it can’t, can it? It has evolved as far as it can. Because it’s perfect. It has reached THE END as far as guitars are concerned.”

“I suppose it must have done,” said Jim.

“You’re a fucking genius, mate.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

“You are,” said Ricky, and he reached a curious hand across and patted Jim on the shoulder. “You and me, we think the same way. We’ve both got different parts of the big puzzle. But they fit together. We could do things, think things.”

“Work together?” said Jim. “As in music?”

“As in Apocalypso music, yes. You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?”

“Not all,” said Jim.

“But you really think that the Gandhis could be the next big thing?”

“I know that for a fact,” said Jim.

“Then I trust you, mate. Put it there.”

And Ricky put out his curious hand and Pooley gave it a shaking.

Omally’s hand was shaking too. Both of his hands were shaking, in fact, and most of the rest of him also. Omally sat hunched at the bar counter of the Flying Swan. The time was but a little past five-thirty opening, but John had already put three pints of Large inside himself, and looked in the mood to put down several more.

Neville watched John as he pulled him the pint. And Neville did not like what he saw. He had known Omally to have the occasional off day, but he had never seen him look as grim as this. Neville passed the pint across and took himself off for some polishing.

And then the door to the bar swung wide and in breezed Pooley. Omally looked up and let out a groan and sank once more to his pint.

“Evening, John, evening, Neville,” said Jim. “Two more of those, please, I think.”

Neville hastened back to the pumps and John sank a little bit lower.

“So, then, John,” said Jim. “How did the day go for you?”

“Ooooooooooooooooh,” went Omally.

“Not too well by the sound of it.”

Omally shook a dismal head. “I don’t know what to say,” he said. “It doesn’t make sense, it just doesn’t.”

“No luck with the record companies?”

“Madness,” said John. “Absolute madness. Norman copied the tape and we played it together. It’s incredible, just like you said. You know that horrible wart thing Norman had on his neck?”

“Oh yes,” said Jim. “Very nasty, that.”

“Cured,” said John. “It vanished away. And his bald spot’s thatched over.”

“The music does that. It’s in her voice.”

“I know, I heard it, and I’ve spent half the day playing the tape down the telephone to record company executives.”

“And they weren’t keen?”

“They said that they’d heard stuff like it before. That every so often a singer turns up who can do this sort of thing.”

“But they weren’t interested.”

“No. None of them. It doesn’t make any sense. Here we have something that’s worth millions of pounds and no record company will touch it.”

“Well, never mind,” said Jim.

“Never mind? Have you gone mad?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Jim.

“Doesn’t matter? But we could have made a fortune.”

“We still can,” said Jim. “Because I have this.” And he whipped out a grubby sheet of paper.

“And what is that?” Omally asked.

“Contract,” said Jim proudly. “Signed by each of the Gandhis and giving us exclusive rights to their music”

Omally took the contract from Jim and examined it. “You got them all to sign,” he said. “You worked so hard. I’m so sorry, Jim.”

“You don’t have to worry, John. It’ll be better this way.”

Neville passed the pints across.

“I’ll get these,” said Omally. “I owe you that at least.”

“No, I’ll get them,” said Jim. “I’ve got plenty of money.” And with that he pulled out a roll of twenties that had Omally gasping.

“How?” went John. “Where?”

“Investment capital,” said Jim. “The Gandhis all wanted to buy in.”

“You got money from the band?”

“Money up front to pay for recording time.”

“But none of the record labels will touch them.”

“Brentford Records will.”

“Brentford Records? There is no Brentford Records.”

“There is now,” said Jim. “And we are they. As it were. None of the big companies will touch the band, John. So Ricky and I came up with an idea. We’ll set up our own independent record company and market the music ourselves. Beat the big boys, eh?”

Omally’s mouth fell hugely wide. “You are a genius, Jim,” he said. “A fu—”

“I’ll settle for just a genius. But that’s what we’re going to do. Have a pint on me, Neville.”

Have a pint on me? Neville’s face folded in horror. If last night hadn’t been bad enough, have a pint on me!

As Neville fought to find some words, Ornally had plenty to say.

“You’ve done it, Jim,” he cried. “You’ve pulled off the big one.”

“Pretty smart, eh?” said Jim. “And I never went near the bookies. I just set my mind to the task in hand and I came up with a solution.”

“We must drink to this,” said Omally. “Drink to this historic moment. At some future time, when Brentford Records is the biggest record company in the world, we’ll look back upon this hour and say that this was the turning point in our fortunes. This was the moment when everything fell into place.”

“Let’s not get too carried away,” said Jim.

“Nonsense,” said John. “You did it and you’ll take the credit. History will record this day as the day you pulled off The Pooley.”

Neville finally found some words. “Why has Jim fainted?” he asked.

Cab-Arthur Roper

Loved cantilever bridges.

And the sound that the wind made

When it blew down chimneys.

Cab-Arthur Roper

Could call up spirits.

Ask them questions

And write down their answers in a small black book.

Cab-Arthur Roper,

Some called him mad.

Some called him master.

Some even said he was not of this world.

Duck-Barry Martin

Had twenty-three pistols,

And a cellar full of mushrooms

That no one was allowed in.

Duck-Barry Martin

Lived with two women,

And breathed into their nostrils

Which made them obey him.

Duck-Barry Martin,

Some called him Baz.

Some called him Duck Boy.

Some even said he was Jesus come back.

Wild-Norman Peacock

Opened safes for robbers.

Let free pigeons from their lofts

And spoiled babies’ Christenings.

Wild-Norman Peacock

Never worked for a living.

Was registered as a charity.

Received a grant from the Arts Council.

Wild-Norman Peacock.

Some call him clever.

I, for one!