Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

26

So, did it have a happy ending?

Did Geraldo manage to undo the knots and tie up all the loose ends?

Could anyone?

Well, yes, given time.

And Geraldo had plenty of that.

And so it came to pass that upon a beautiful warm spring Tuesday evening, of a kind that we just don’t see any more, there came a ringing on the bell of number seven Mafeking Avenue, Brentford.

The occupier of the residence, a Mr John Omally, skipped up the hall and opened the door and greeted the man on the step.

“Watchamate, Jim,” said John.

“Watchamate, John,” said Jim.

The man on the step was Jim Pooley. John Omally’s bestest friend.

“Come on in,” said John Omally.

“Thank you, sir,” said Jim.

“No, hold on,” said John. “I was coming out.”

The two friends strolled up Mafeking Avenue and turned right into Moby Dick Terrace.

“So,” said Jim. “What do you fancy doing tonight?”

“Well,” said John. “I have heard that there’s this band called Gandhi’s Hairdryer and that they have this really amazing lead guitarist and they’re playing at the Shrunken Head tonight and I thought we could go.”

Pooley shook his head.

“No?” said John. “Not keen?”

“I hate that pub,” said Jim. “I would rather have my genitalia pierced with fish hooks than spend an evening there.”

“Oh well,” said John. “As you please. Let’s go to the Swan instead.”

The two friends walked on up Moby Dick Terrace. And as they turned another corner into another of the elegant Victorian terraces of Brentford, John Omally raised a thumb behind his back.

From a nearby alleyway another John Omally raised a thumb in return. This was a slightly older version, heavily bearded and somewhat battered about. He stood in the shadows, in the company of a gent dressed all in black. This gent sported a Tipp-Ex complexion and a see-through hooter and this gent raised a thumb also.

“Well,” said Soap. “I think that went rather well. Your former self obviously believed everything his future self, which is to say yourself, spent the afternoon telling him. So to speak.”

Omally nodded his beard up and down. “I’ll tell you what though, Soap,” said he. “There are still a good many unanswered questions.”

“Really?” Soap scratched at his fibre-optic top-knot. “Well, I’m sure that I can’t think of any.”

“No, but I’m sure there’d be people who could.”

“Then they would be right miserable buggers, wouldn’t they?” said Soap.

To which John nodded. “Yes, they would. And so,” he continued, “we still have plenty of time on our hands, or should I say on our wrists. So how about taking a little jaunt or two to see what we might see?”

“Oh no,” said Soap, with much shaking of the head. “We promised Geraldo that we would just come back here, to this time, so that you could talk yourself out of seeing the Gandhis and save Jim Pooley’s life. Now that’s done, we should give these watches back.”

“Agreed,” said John. “And we will, but, do you know what, Soap? I’ve always wondered just what it would have been like to have seen Hendrix play at Woodstock.”

“Hey, John,” said Jim as they strolled towards the Swan. “You like a bit of music, don’t you?”

“You know that I do, Jim, yes.”

“Only, last night I was watching the Woodstock video, and you’ll never guess what. There was a bloke in the audience right at the front and he looked just like you.”

Omally shrugged. “Let’s go to the Swan,” said he.

“OK,” said Jim, “although, I’m thinking, why don’t we give the Swan a miss tonight and go to the pictures instead?”

“Fair enough,” said John. “What’s on?”

“Well, there’s one I’d like to see at the new Virgin Mega-centre in Ealing Broadway. Charles Manson starring as The Terminator.”

High above the Atlantic Ocean and many miles from God knows where, a hot-air balloon drifted. In the basket stood a chap with a toothy grin and a lovable beard.

The chap’s name was Prince Charles. And he was lost.

“Help,” went the Prince. “Is there anybody there? May Day. May Day. May Day.”