Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

  It’s a manly man’s game is rock music. Always has been, always will be. That’s the way it is.

  GunnersburyPark was a big old park and a pretty nice one, too. The house was originally built for the first Earl of Gunnersbury, Sir Rupert Crawford, who made his packet from the slave trade and the transportation of opium. Whether Sir Rupe would have gone for rock ’n’ roll is anyone’s guess. And what he would have thought about all those ‘slaves to the rhythm’ who would shortly be filling up his grounds can only be imagined.

  He would no doubt have approved of all the dope they’d be bringing and, as a manly man of some renown, he would certainly have loved all the big juggernaut action.

  Which was a shame, really, as there wasn’t going to be any.

  It was somewhat after eight of the morning clock when the snoozing Soap was raised from his slumbers by what can only be described as a very strange noise indeed.

  ‘Oh,’ went Soap, falling down from his chair. ‘Bless my boots, what’s that?’

  No answer came from Pooley. For with the coming of the dawn his shade had faded all away. This is often the case with ghosts. It’s a tradition, or an old teeth-chatterer, or something.

  Soap crawled over to the french windows and peered out. ‘Bless my boots,’ he said once more and not without good cause.

  For drifting in from the lands of the west there came a marvellous sight. An airship of awesome proportions, all red, white and logoed. And slung beneath it an entire rock concert stage protected from the weather beneath a vast aluminium half-dome, complete with sound equipment, lighting gantries, mixing desks and all the bits and bobs. It was a single unit. One of the first Virgin Integrated Outdoor Concert Systems. Solar-powered and digitized and all that kind of caper.

  The airship moved forward and hovered overhead, blotting out the sky and giving Soap the willies. Servo units engaged, cogs meshed, hawsers hawsed and down to the grass before Gunnersbury House came the stage with all its bits and bobs and bless-my-booteries.

  Soap watched the descent, boggle-eyed, shaking his head at the wonder of it all. ‘It’s a bit close,’ he observed as the stage touched down and minced John’s car to scrap. Stagehands and roadcrew swarmed down ropes from the airship’s under-belly and disconnected the hawsers and suchlike. The airship rose and drifted away and that was that was that.

  Soap rose to his feet, opened the french windows and strolled outside to view the rear of the stage.

  And down from it jumped two men. They wore black suits and sunglasses. One held a pistol, the other a walkie-talkie set.

  ‘Pass!’ shouted the gunman in a menacing manner.

  ‘What?’ replied Soap, rather too shocked to move.

  ‘Backstage pass. Whip it out.’

  ‘I’m with the band,’ said Soap, which sometimes works.

  The chap with the walkie-talkie shouted into it. ‘Intruder in rear-stage area,’ he shouted. ‘One for the wagon. First of the day.’

  ‘Now just you see here!’ said Soap.

  ‘And he’s a live one. Best bring the dogs.’

  ‘Hang about,’ said Soap.

  ‘Yes, hang about.’ The voice was Omally’s and the rest of him accompanied it. John came marching up the drive, paused for a moment to view the area where his car should surely have been, shook his head and approached the rear-stage area.

  ‘Ah, good morning, Mr Omally.’ The men in black saluted John. The one with the walkie-talkie struck himself on the head with it, the one with the gun did likewise and almost put his eye out.

  ‘That fills me with confidence,’ said Soap.

  ‘This man is with me,’ said Omally. ‘Here, take this, Soap, and put it on.’

  John handed Soap one of those plasticized backstage pass jobbies which can be a passport to sexual bliss if you flash them in front of the right women. Soap clipped it onto his lapel.

  ‘Off about your business,’ said John, and the men in black went off about their business.

  John led Soap away to his terrible kitchen. ‘That was some stunt you pulled the night before last,’ he said, forcing bread into a blackened toaster. ‘Vanishing into thin air like that. Pigarse pooed his pants.’

  ‘Yes, John, I’m sorry. I can explain about that. I’ve got to tell you everything.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to do it later.’ John peered into the toaster, from which smoke was already beginning to rise.

  ‘No, John. I have to tell you now.’

  ‘Later,’ said John, fanning his face. ‘I have to meet the Beatles.’

  They came in by helicopter. It dropped down onto the lawn beside the stage and Soap munched on burnt toast and watched it through the unwashed kitchen window.

  He saw the Beatles being helped down by their minders and nurses and fussed about and settled into wheelchairs.

  ‘That Wingarde has a lot to answer for,’ said Soap, spitting black bits into the sink. ‘And I’m going to punch him right on the nose when I see him.’

  Pigarse wandered into the kitchen. ‘Aaaagh!’ he went and he clutched at his trouser seat and limped away at speed.

  ‘Fecking hell, what a pong,’ said Ricky breezing in. ‘Oh, it’s you, Soap. Where did you spring from?’

  ‘Yes, I’m very sorry about that, you see—’

  ‘Well, never mind,’ said Ricky. ‘It’s always a joy to see Pigarse filling his kecks. Have the Beatles arrived?’

  ‘They’re out there,’ said Soap, pointing. ‘They look really old and knackered.’

  ‘That’s because they are old and knackered. Old rockers never know when to quit. It’s all the buzz from playing live. The adrenaline rush. Makes you feel like a god. Once you’ve had it you never want to lose it.’

  ‘It’s not for me,’ said Soap. ‘But listen, Ricky. A couple of things. Could you lend me that silence tape?’

  ‘Sure, I won’t need it today.’ Ricky pulled out his walkman and handed it to Soap. ‘What else do you want?’

  ‘I have to find someone who will be in the crowd. Will there be surveillance cameras set up?’

  ‘There always are, they’re all over the place.’

  ‘So could I get access to the control room or something? Look at the screens or whatever?’

  ‘You’ve got your security clearance card there. You can go pretty much where you want.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Soap. ‘So which bands are playing today?’

  ‘Well, there’s us. But we’re near the bottom of the bill.’

  ‘Is Litany going to do her magic thing as soon as you go on?’

  ‘No, not until right at the end, when the Beatles have finished their set. She’s going to do one of those Marilyn Monroe numbers. ‘Happy birthday, Mr President’. She’ll be doing ‘Happy birthday, Mr Lennon’. Then she’ll let it rip.’

  ‘So who else is playing?’

  ‘All the usual suspects. The Who. Jimi Hendrix. Elvis will be making an appearance.’

  ‘Elvis playing Brentford!’ Soap whistled.

  ‘Doing stuff from his new rap album. And there’s Ali Dada.’

  ‘Never heard of them,’ said Soap.

  ‘And Screaming Lord Sutch and the Savages.’

  ‘God bless Screaming Lord Sutch,’ said Soap.

  ‘They’ll all be arriving soon,’ said Ricky. ‘What time is it, do you know?’

  Soap almost pressed a button on the wristwatch. Almost, but not quite. ‘I don’t know,’ said Soap. ‘It’s broken. But tell me this also, will Wingarde and his guru be coming?’

  Ricky nodded his big-haired head. He still had all the big hair, although it hadn’t been mentioned of late. ‘The little turd will be here. Throwing his weight around and making an a nuisance of himself.’

  ‘Good,’ said Soap. ‘He and I have much to discuss.’

  ‘Rather you than me,’ said Ricky. ‘I can’t stand the b******d.’

  The b******d was having his breakfast. The full English and heavy on the ketchup. He sat at a table on the roof terrace of
the Virgin Mega City Rich B*****d’s Tower.

  The roof terrace afforded Wingarde a fine view of Brentford. As he munched upon his egg, he could see all the earth-movers moving earth and the diggers digging away.

  Wingarde raised a pair of binoculars and smiled as he watched the demolition ball cleaving its way into number seven Mafeking Avenue.

  ‘Out with the old and in with the new,’ crooned Wingarde, setting down his bins and tucking into some unburnt toast.

  ‘You’re very chipper this morning,’ said The Voice.

  ‘Well, it’s all moving along nicely. You’re pleased with the progress, I trust.’

  ‘Most pleased. And I’ve rewarded you well for your labours, have I not?’

  ‘You certainly have.’ Wingarde chewed upon a sausage. ‘Mmmmph mmm, mmph, mmph,’ he continued.

  ‘Don’t speak to God with your mouth full.’

  ‘Sorry, God.’ Wingarde wiped his chin. ‘I was saying thank you very much. I really enjoy bossing people around.’

  ‘I thought it might appeal to you and it suits my purposes well.’

  ‘What exactly are your purposes?’ Wingarde scooped up bacon. ‘I keep on asking and you keep on being vague.’

  ‘Because it’s none of your damn business. But I’ll tell you this, Wingarde. That little town you see down there being ploughed away. From its earth will rise a mighty tower. A tower that will be a temple to science.’

  ‘Built in praise of you, sir?’

  ‘Built in praise of me.’

  ‘But why build it in Brentford? Brentford’s such a dump.’

  ‘Because, as anyone who knows their history will tell you, Brentford occupies the site of the Biblical Eden.’

  ‘And that’s important, is it?’

  ‘You are a f***wit, Wingarde. But, oh look, here comes your guru.’

  ‘I don’t know why I need a guru anyway,’ whispered Wingarde. ‘When I talk directly to you.’

  ‘I’ve told you before, he’s here to protect you. He has your best interests at heart, and mine also, although he does not know it.’

  ‘Is that why you won’t let me tell him about you?’

  ‘Something like that. So just keep schtum and be nice to him. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ whispered Wingarde, scraping jam on to a piece of toast.

  ‘Good morning, Wingarde,’ said Dr Vincent Trillby, striding up in dressing gown and slippers. To either side of him strode Balberith and Gressil, but Wingarde couldn’t see them, so he didn’t poo his pants.

  ‘Good morning, True Father,’ said Wingarde, which was accurate enough.

  ‘All going well with the demolition work?’ Dr Trillby helped himself to some of Wingarde’s bacon.

  ‘Splendidly,’ said Wingarde, pulling his plate beyond reach. ‘But I do have a bit of bad news for you.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Dr Trillby helped himself to some of Wingarde’s coffee.

  ‘Well, you know that wristwatch you had stolen?’

  Dr Trillby nodded and spoke in a guarded manner. ‘A family heirloom,’ he said. ‘Of great sentimental value.’

  ‘Well, there’s been a spot of bother. I was sent some surveillance footage. The chap who nicked it turned up on the street.’

  ‘At last,’ said Dr Trillby. ‘I knew he would eventually.’

  ‘Well, he tried to escape in a getaway car and a police helicopter blew it to pieces. Slapped wrists all round. A bit of a cock-up.’

  Dr Trillby’s face took on an ashen hue. He rocked upon his heels and clenched his fists and bottom cheeks.

  ‘That’s you stuffed, then,’ said the voice of Leviathan.

  ‘Pardon me?’ said Wingarde.

  ‘I’m talking to myself’

  ‘Are you having another of your mystical turns? When the saints speak through your mouth?’

  ‘Something like that!’ Dr Trillby turned shakily upon his heel and staggered from the terrace. Once out of sight of Wingarde, and all alone in the very posh lounge (well, almost all alone), he flung himself down to the goatskin rug and drummed his fists on the floor.

  ‘What a pity for you,’ said the voice of Leviathan. ‘Your time-travel watch all blown to pieces. You’ll just have to stay in this century with us.’

  ‘Leave me alone!’ blubbered Trillby.

  ‘No way, we’re here to stay. And so are you, by the sound of it.’

  ‘Listen.’ Trillby ground his teeth. ‘Just listen. I’m not saying it hasn’t been fun. It has. But I returned to this century for one reason only. To fetch my wandering boy. I can see that he’s done very well for himself here, but his mother wants him back. And I’m going to take him back no matter what.’

  ‘Not now your watch has gone boom.’

  Dr Trillby drummed his fists and thrashed his legs about. ‘Oh, hell!’ he shouted. ‘Oh, hell hell hell!’

  ‘They’re old as hell,’ said Pigarse. ‘I’m not saying hello.’

  ‘They’re the Beatles,’ said John Omally. ‘And although I don’t think much of them myself they were Jim’s favourites, so you’ll be nice to them or else.’

  ‘Or else what?’ asked Pigarse. ‘I’ll give you a smack. I’ve done it before.’

  ‘You’ve one hand bandaged. I wouldn’t try your luck.’

  ‘Luck doesn’t enter into it when you fight as dirty as me.’

  John made them all line up in the entrance hall. It was a very tidy entrance hall now. John had spent much of the previous day clearing it up, with no help at all from the Gandhi men. Under normal circumstances he would never have considered clearing it up, but, well, it’s not every day you get to meet the Beatles.

  ‘Look,’ said John, inspecting his troops. ‘They’re old men. They’re rock legends. Please show a bit of respect.’

  Soap stuck his head out from behind the kitchen door. ‘Can I meet the Beatles too?’ he asked.

  ‘All right,’ said John. ‘Get on the end of the line there, next to Pigarse.’

  Soap got onto the end of the line and stood to attention.

  ‘You dick,’ Pigarse whispered.

  The front door swung open and men in black entered. They flanked the doorway, flexing their shoulders and looking ‘useful’. And then into the hall walked an old gentleman, supporting himself on an ebony cane.

  ‘Blimey,’ mumbled Soap. ‘It’s Eppy. Brian Epstein.’

  ‘Old turd-burgler,’ said Pigarse.

  Brian Epstein hobbled along the lined-up Gandhis, saying things like, ‘So you’re a Gandhi, are you?’ and ‘So you’re a Gandhi too?’

  ‘I’ll nut him if he touches me,’ said Pigarse.

  The Beatles now made their appearance. Out of their wheelchairs but shaky on their ancient pins. They wibbly-wobbled along the line, saying the same sort of thing.

  All except for Lennon, of course. Lennon hadn’t lost it.

  ‘I really love your music,’ he said to Litany. ‘You’re a very talented lady.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Litany. ‘I’d love to sing to you before you go on stage. It would make a great difference, I promise.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ said Lennon. ‘I’d like that very much.’

  Soap got to shake hands with them all. He was, frankly, entranced. Overwhelmed. He knew it was all wrong. That it just shouldn’t be. But here it was happening anyway. Here was he, Soap Distant, actually shaking hands with the Fab Four. It was a moment he would treasure for ever. A magical moment. A moment that nothing could spoil.

  ‘I can see right through your nose,’ said Ringo. ‘Horrible, it is.’

  22

  There were plenty of ducks on Gunnersbury Lake. But soon many of these would be taking to their wings. Driven from their dabblings by misbehaving fan-boys tossing beer cans.

  At just gone ten of the morning clock the park gates were opened and the ‘ticket-holders only’ flooded through.

  Soap Distant stood on the concert stage beneath the great aluminium half-dome, hoping to get a glimpse of Geraldo. But as the green g
rass sank beneath the tidal wave of black-T-shirted youth, Soap’s heart sank with it and a lump rose in his throat.

  ‘Thousands of the ugly-looking blighters,’ said Soap. And his voice carried through the speaker system and echoed all over the park.

  It was a poor start to the proceedings. But in view of what was yet to come, it could well have been considered a high point.

  In various bedrooms in Gunnersbury House various Gandhis were togging up in their stage clothes. They were very expensive stage clothes. Very exclusive stage clothes.

  Pigarse struggled into a pair of leather drainpipe trousers.

  On his bed sat an old gent with a tattooed face and a good line in scar tissue. ‘Ram a codpiece down your crotch for art,’ was his advice. ‘It gets the girlies going and if they’re disappointed later then it serves them right for being so cock-happy.’

  ‘Cheers, Dad,’ said Pigarse. ‘I’ll use your motorbike helmet.’

  Litany sat at a dressing table in another of John’s guest bedrooms. There seemed to be at least twelve such bedrooms, although John had never counted. All the bedrooms but his remained empty, but for the Gandhis’ visits. John could have lived the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle, had he so wished. He could have partied every night. But he didn’t. He lived alone with his memories. Drunk for much of the time, but always there to do the Gandhis’ business.

  John sat upon Litany’s bed, idly toying with one of her shoes.

  Litany glanced at his reflection. ‘Cheer up, John,’ she said. ‘This is going to be a big day. The day that we change history.’

  ‘I know,’ said John. ‘I just wish Jim could have been here to see it.’

  ‘You’ve got to let Jim go. It’s been five years. If I can get over it so can you.’

  ‘He was my bestest friend. I loved that man. In a manly mannish sort of a way.’

  Litany adjusted her false moustache. It was green, as it was Saturday.

  ‘Do you know what?’ said John. ‘I’ve never seen you without a false moustache on.’

  ‘Nor have you ever seen me naked.’