‘What?’ I said.
‘Don’t interrupt. The old blind wise woman explains that the shy young girl will have a great deal more fun with the young man if she’s already got her virginity out of the way. And explains that she has a special appliance for doing this. And, in order not to be too graphic about this, the young woman bends over an armchair and the deed is gently but efficiently done. And moving swiftly along—’
‘I should think so too,’ I said.
‘Moving swiftly along, the young woman telephones the young man and gets him round to her house on some bogus pretence or another while her parents are out. She slips some of the secret tonic into his tea. He begins to stumble about, she leads him to the bedroom. He passes out. She strips him and then she makes love to him. And she really has a great time, lives out all her fantasies. Afterwards, when he’s beginning to stir, she dresses him again. And he wakes up and says, “What happened?” and she says, “You just fell asleep,” and he says, “okay,” and goes home.’
‘And is that the end of the story?’
‘Of course it isn’t. The young girl confides to her best friend what happened. So the best friend goes to see the wise woman. And word passes amongst the other teenage girls and in no time at all, they’re all visiting the old wise woman on a regular basis. And I have to tell you that the village where I was brought up, was one happy village.’
I shook my head. ‘That is disgusting story,’ I said. ‘I mean, those young women were just using the men as sexual playthings.’
‘Isn’t that what young men use young women for all the time?’
‘No. I mean, well, perhaps yes, perhaps some of them.’
‘And don’t you think that if such a secret tonic existed that could be used on women, men would buy it?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I think they possibly might.’
‘Damn right they would.’
‘And so that’s the secret which keeps the village where you were brought up so happy?’
‘Er, actually no,’ said Uncle Brian.
‘No?’
‘No. You see the old blind village wise woman was not really old or blind at all. In fact, she wasn’t really a woman. She was a man dressed up.’
‘A man dressed up?’
‘And that certain appliance used for the deflowering was really his—’
‘Stop!’ I said. ‘And what about the secret tonic?’
‘No such tonic exists, the young men only pretended to fall asleep.’
‘But what about them being sexually aroused, they couldn’t pretend that.’
My Uncle Brian gave me the look that says, “Well, they wouldn’t really have to pretend, would they? What with them having a naked and totally uninhibited young woman on top of them, and everything”.
‘Outrageous!’ I cried. And quite loudly I cried it too.
‘Outrageous? Why?’
‘Because the young men were using the young women as sexual playthings.’
‘But surely it was the other way around. You just said it was.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t know the young men were only pretending to be asleep.’
‘So what’s the difference? The young women were using the young men and the young men were using the young women, both parties secure in the knowledge that the other didn’t know. Perfect bliss all round, I’d say.’
I shook my head. ‘Treachery and deception all round, I’d say.’
My Uncle Brian shrugged. ‘That’s life in a nutshell,’ he said.
‘And you were one of these young men, I suppose.’
‘Oh no,’ said my Uncle Brian, ‘not me.’
‘A good thing too.’
‘I played the part of the wise woman. Ah look, we’re here.’ And we were.
‘Fangio’s Bar,’ I said. ‘But we just left there.’
‘Yes, but this time we’re arriving in a limo.’
‘Ah, I see.’ I didn’t.
‘Now,’ said my uncle, opening a lap-top computer on his laptop, ‘I’ve prepared your jokes. I’ll give you a print-out.’
‘Jokes? But I thought I was going to do a song and dance act.’
‘We did discuss the jokes, didn’t we?’
I nodded. We had discussed the jokes. But I hadn’t been keen. Uncle Brian had come up with what he considered to be a most original stand-up routine. I was to adopt the stage name Carlos the Chaos Cockroach. The routine was based, of course, on our friend the mythical mystical butterfly of chaos theory that flaps its wings in the Congo basin and causes a run on cut-price baked beans at Budgens in Birmingham.
I would go on stage, briefly explain my persona, then launch into the gags. These would be bogus versions of the butterfly theory. I’ll give you a brief example. I produce two ring-pulls and a feather from my top pocket and ask, ‘What do you get if you push a feather through two ring-pulls? Answer, sandstorms in the Sahara.’
Not very funny, eh? In fact, not funny at all. In fact, a complete waste of time. But Uncle Brian had been going on and on about it being an award-winner of an act and how he had worked out some really great gags on his laptop and got all the props together and everything.
‘I want to do the song and dance act,’ I told him. ‘Especially I want to sing “Orange Claw Hammer”. I’ve got the “cherry phosphate” line off just so.’
‘Trust me,’ said the uncle. ‘You’ve six gigs to play tonight. If the gags don’t work at the first one, then you can sing and dance your way through the rest of the evening.’
‘Hang about,’ I said, as one would. ‘Six gigs? Since when is it six gigs?’
‘There’s been a lot of enthusiasm. I explained about your act and the owners of the venues were really keen.’
I shook my head. ‘Ludicrous,’ I said.
‘Well, it can’t hurt to give it a try, can it? Remember how Sony originally hated the idea of the walkman? Couldn’t see how you could market a tape recorder that didn’t record? Look how successful that became.’
‘I was thinking more about the cigarette harness,’ I said.
‘Brilliant invention.’ Uncle Brian slotted a Woodbine into the one he always wore. ‘Come on, let’s see how it goes.’
He pressed a button on his laptop and paper came spilling out of it. ‘Here’s your props,’ he said, handing me a briefcase. ‘Just do it and the crowd will love you. Trust me, I know these things.’
‘And if they don’t love me at the first gig—’
‘You can song and dance it the rest of the evening.’
‘It’s a deal.’ I shook my uncle’s hand and he shook mine. It was a reciprocal thing.
A crowd had gathered about the limo. Crowds always gather about limos. Especially those with blacked-out windows. You always feel sure that whoever’s inside a limo with blacked-out windows must be making the most of it and having sex. Oh, come on, you do, don’t you?
The crowd peered into the limo as my uncle and I left it and those of a homophobic nature tut-tutted and shook their heads, which goes to prove something.
A number of policemen were already on the scene. These held back the crowd to either side, allowing us an unhampered stroll to Fangio’s door. Have you ever noticed how there’s never a policeman around when you need one, but always hundreds standing about near the pitch at FA Cup matches or celebrity functions? What is that all about, eh?
We entered Fangio’s Bar to great applause and, as I may not have mentioned before, I do like a warm hand on my entrance.
Fangio came up and shook me warmly by the hand. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Mr Carlos,’ he said.
‘But, Fange, it’s me. I only left here five minutes ago.’
‘Such a comic.’ Fangio placed his hands upon his ample belly and rocked with laughter. I shook my head and sighed.
‘Go on,’ said Uncle Brian. ‘Go up to the stage. Don’t worry about me, I’ll just sit here and tinker with my laptop.’
‘Is that one of the new ones with digital TV
?’ asked Fangio the fat boy.
My uncle nodded. ‘Instant access to over one hundred channels. I can call up the stocks and shares, money markets around the world, investment indexes, my own personal accounts, the lot.’
‘Pornography?’ asked Fangio. ‘What about pornography?’
‘That’s what I just said.’ (satire)
‘I’ll just get on with it, then, shall I?’ I asked.
‘Go ahead,’ said my uncle. ‘Knock ‘em dead.’
There was a fair old crowd in, I can tell you, more than you’d usually expect for a Thursday night. But then this was Friday. The crowd parted to allow me the stage. I went up the step and I was pretty damn nervous.
I peered into the bright lights, took stock of the crowded bar:
Fangio at the back, clapping his hands, my uncle tinkering with his laptop. I took a little bow, the crowd cheered wildly.
I explained about my persona as Carlos the Chaos Cockroach. The crowd cheered wildly.
I set down the briefcase and opened it up. The crowd cheered wildly.
I checked my print-out, pulled a pair of red shoe laces and a potato from the briefcase and displayed these. The crowd cheered wildly.
I launched into the first gag. ‘What do you get,’ I asked, tying the shoelaces around the potato, ‘if you do this?’
Hushed expectancy from the crowd.
‘A tree falling silently in the New Forest, because there’s no-one there to hear it.’
A moment of silence and then—
The crowd cheered wildly.
I shook my head in wonder. I knew I had charisma. But I’d never known before just how much I had. I peered in the direction of my uncle. He was still tinkering with his laptop and he was shaking his head. Ah well, you can’t please all of the people all of the time.
I returned to the props in the briefcase. The next gag was, What do you get if you stick a cocktail stick in a stale British Rail cheese sandwich? The answer: heavy rainfall in Yorkshire.
The crowd cheered wildly.
Uncle shook his head again.
I shrugged, took a bow and went through the last two gags on the print-out, they weren’t funny either.
But the crowd cheered wildly.
A woman in a straw hat bobbed up and down. A greasy boy in a Motorhead T-shirt made peace signs and a teenage girl in a village peasant costume waved a small green bottle in my direction.
I took several bows, before being carried shoulder-high from the stage.
‘What do you reckon, Uncle Brian?’ I asked.
Uncle Brian made a so-so gesture and closed his laptop. ‘Good, but you can do better.’
‘But they loved me.’
‘They can love you more.’
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I’ll do the song and dance act.’
‘No,’ my uncle placed a hand upon my wrist. ‘Always leave them wanting more. On to the next gig. I’ll give you a print-out of the new gags.’
‘But this crowd loved the ones I told.’
‘Never tell the same gag twice.’
We left in the limo and drove on to the next gig. I sang ‘Orange Claw Hammer’ to my uncle on the way. I think he was secretly impressed by the “cherry phosphate” line.
The next gig was at the Shrunken Head. Sandy, the manager, welcomed us in. I took to the stage to wild applause and ran through the latest print-out’s worth of gags, demonstrating with further props supplied by my uncle.
The gig went down an absolute storm.
But once again my uncle sat there, shaking his head and pushing the keys of his laptop.
I was shoulder-carried from the stage to very wild applause indeed.
A woman in a straw hat bobbed up and down. A greasy boy in a Motorhead T-shirt made peace signs and a teenage girl in a village peasant costume kept pointing to a small green bottle and winking at me.
Back to the limo and on to the next gig.
‘I’d like you to try these gags next,’ said my uncle, handing me a further print-out.
‘Why don’t you laugh?’ I asked him. ‘Everybody else does.’
My uncle made the face that says, “I wrote the gags”. And I said no more.
The third gig was at The Flying Swan. In the upstairs room. The one usually reserved for wedding receptions or congresses of the West London Wandering Bishops.
The crowd just loved me.
A woman in a straw hat loved me. A greasy boy in a Motorhead T-shirt loved me. A teenage girl waving two small green bottles loved me. Everybody loved me.
Everybody, that is, except Uncle Brian. Well maybe he did love me, but he just sat at his laptop unsmiling.
I was quite knackered by the sixth gig. And somewhat disorientated. I’d heard about rock stars who wake up in Holiday Inns and don’t even know which city they’re in, but I always put that down to the drugs. But I was certainly disorientated and I wasn’t on any drugs.
It was the crowd. The crowd looked just the same. Same people. Perhaps that’s what happens to you when you become famous, the crowd just looks the same wherever you are.
But the sixth gig was notable for one thing.
My uncle.
It was just after I’d told the second gag: What do you get if you stick this safety pin into this contraceptive? Answer: A record crop of wheat in Canada, that he began to laugh. He drummed his fists on his laptop and began to go ‘Yes!’ very loudly.
As I finished my routine he too was cheering wildly and even joined in with the shoulder-high carrying from the stage. ‘You’re a star,’ he kept saying. ‘A real star.’
Outside, by the limo, I signed autographs for a woman in a straw hat and a greasy boy in a Motorhead T-shirt. I’d have happily signed one for the village girl with the little green bottles but she wasn’t around. Eventually the crowd drifted off towards a minibus and I was left all alone to ponder.
I was clearly on the road to stardom. What did I think about that? Well, it felt pretty good. I’d have hoped for a groupie or two. But it was early days yet and I had been a raging success. I felt good.
I felt really good.
And I also felt that I needed to take a pee.
I wandered back to the venue and spotted a large box van owned by my brother. I thought I’d piddle on the back wheel, I didn’t want to piddle on the limo. I quietly unzipped and stood awaiting the blessed relief. Then I heard whispered voices coming from within. I zipped up and put my ear against the van’s rear door, not wishing to be nosy, but just interested.
‘Absolute success,’ came the voice of my Uncle Brian. ‘The lad is worth his weight in gold.’
I smiled inwardly, and probably outwardly also.
‘The sky’s the limit,’ came the voice of my brother. ‘The world is our oyster.’
Our oyster? I ceased both smiles.
‘As long as he never finds out what we’re really up to,’ said my uncle. ‘As long as your rented crowd keeps cheering wildly and he thinks they love him.’
I scowled doubly. What was all this?
‘Young Dog’s Breath is easily led,’ said my brother. ‘He won’t catch on that the real reason you had him doing all those things with bits of string and matchsticks and stuff was to cause fluctuations on the stock market and steer millions of pounds into your bank account. He doesn’t know that he is the mythical mystical butterfly of chaos theory and can make huge things happen by making tiny little actions.’
I began to grate my teeth.
‘I still don’t have the tiny actions down to an absolute science,’ said my Uncle Brian. ‘It’s a bit hit and miss. Some of the things he did at the first few gigs have caused a few disasters around the world.’
‘But nothing we give a damn about.’
‘No,’ said Uncle Brian. ‘What are a few earthquakes and typhoons to us? We have the goose who can lay the golden egg.’
‘The dog with the golden breath, more like.’ And my brother laughed. And my uncle laughed with him.
But
I wasn’t laughing.
A few earthquakes and typhoons?
So I had been had! In order
To make money for my uncle
And my brother. Maybe
Ruined the lives of thousands,
Destroyed villages
So they could grow rich!
If you don’t know the meaning of the word acrostic, you can look it up. I’m sure you know the meaning of the word BASTARDS and also REVENGE.
I went and piddled all over the limo.
NEWTS THAT I HAD WHEN A LAD
Blue-fingered mornings and bright church bazaars
Notebooks for logging the numbers of cars
Girls in their gymslips
Mouthfuls of gum
Ink on my shirt-cuff
Ink on my thumb
Checking the stamps when the weather was bad
Remembering newts that I had when a lad.
Brand-new protractors from Kays in The Mall
Afternoon fag-cards in cloakroom with pal
Slipper-bags dangling
Down from a string
Jamboree bags
That you felt for the ring
All of those magical times that we had
Remembering newts that I had when a lad.
Cream-coloured corridors
Green-coloured classroom doors
Chalk-squeaks and dusters
Beanos and Busters
Conkers and marbles and firestones and fights
Remembering newts that escaped in the nights.
Aaaaaah ...
10
LITANY
When I was young and foolish and all, I had a friend called Ian. He was my best friend and he lived three doors along, in the very last house on the terrace. The one that backed on to the bit of waste ground where Martin Beacon got bitten by the dog.
Ian’s father was a Russian spy. There were a lot of Russian spies about in those days, one in every street, as far as I can recall. They all had short-wave radios and they all used to ‘report in’ at precisely the same time each week: 6.45 Friday evenings.