Flinging myself flat on my back onto the soft mattress, pillows behind my head, I savoured the soft linen while trying to ignore the cloying smell of air-freshener. It was only a single bed, but I was pretty sure I could squeeze in one more…
When I woke it struck me that the room, which had been flooded with sunlight, was now dark and illuminated by artificial light filtering in through the window.
Night-time. Surely not? I looked at my Timeco Z112.2 XG. It read 19.41. I’d slept for almost ten hours. Hardly surprising, I supposed.
But wait. Clemmie. The Suicide Poets. What time would they be onstage? I dared not miss them.
Launching myself off the bed, I immediately felt dizzy.
Any self-respecting lothario would have taken a shower. I was too nervous of missing the performance, and so my date, to spare the time. Instead I peeled off my safari suit – wishing I had a change of clothes as I did so – and slooshed myself down from the sink. The cool water felt like a balm.
As I dressed again I pushed out creases and brushed off dust with a hand. This is what explorers looked like, I decided. Clemmie would surely trade my exotic tales for a little wear and tear.
As I left the Rose Room that pesky sensor hit me with another squirt of atomised old-lady. Hardly the aromatic effect I was after. Then again… it was a scent of sorts. So I shimmied back in and out for a further brace of blasts.
Good to go.
I wondered whether to ring the bell for Clemmie on the way down the stairs, but the house was very quiet so I assumed she must already be out. Plus, I definitely didn’t want to have to talk to her mother or father. They might demand to know my romantic intentions while their teeth fell out.
The reception was dark and unmanned. I opened the front door and closed it gently behind me.
The night air was soothingly warm, the perfect antidote to the itchy heat of the Nameless Highway. It would be just a short walk back up the main drag, the route Charlie had driven in on, to my goal. (And my girl.) Thoroughly refreshed and brimming with hope, I felt like I was bouncing on air.
A young boy cycled towards me.
“Evening!” I called out.
He stared at me on the way past. “Paedo!”
“I’m not a paedo,” I felt obliged to point out.
The incident would not flatten my mood.
Then I remembered Jimmy’s Topless Bar and Dextrose.
There it was, the lettering now lit up and surrounded by white lightbulbs, only half of which were functioning. The windows were blacked out and no discernible noise came from within. Might he still be in there, arseholed and besotted? Frankly, I’d have been amazed if he weren’t. But he wasn’t going to spoil my night. Not tonight.
I turned left and headed for the theatre, whistling a classical tune. Bit of sophistication.
It was almost eight o’clock when I tripped up the doorstep into the Flattened Hat Theatre, having jogged a bit to make up time.
I needn’t have worried. The place was all but empty.
A tatty desk and chair immediately inside the door, incorporating an ancient bloke dozing, comprised the box office. At the far end of the room was the stage, before which rows of perhaps 100 seats had been set up (wishfully, thus far). Suspended above the stage, three coloured lights – red, blue and green – flashed on and off. Along the right wall was a perfunctory bar.
The place smelled of age and dust, of the ghosts of Thespians and erstwhile punters. The seats were red velour, the wallpaper flocked, the woodwork dark and the once-white ceiling attractively corniced but nicotine-stained. It was like wandering into the psyche of a Victorian gin addict.
Expectantly, I looked around for Clemmie. But there was only one woman in the joint, hunched under an unfashionable hat, knitting in the third row. Not her.
Elsewhere: three figures onstage, all male, setting up five standing microphones; one old codger, bald with waistcoat, behind the bar; a tall, flamboyant-looking chap in a dark velvet frockcoat, seated at it, staring into a glass.
Poetry, I thought, and shivered.
The dozing box-officer had not stirred and it seemed a shame to rouse him, so I walked straight in and made for the bar.
It was better stocked than Socks ‘N’ Sandals, though only just. Three optics and two hand pumps, plus a selection of bottles on unrefrigerated shelves. The barman, stout with comb-over, wore a long-sleeved shirt with those garter things around the upper arms. I could not imagine what use they were. He was smoking a cigar and his pitted face suggested he had suffered from terrible acne in his youth.
“Yes, sir?” he said. Smoke drifted into his eyes and he winced.
“I’ll have a pint, please,” I said.
“Lager, lager or lager?” he asked.
“Lager, I guess.”
“Yeah, which of the three?”
“The middle one?”
“Wise,” he said.
“And four bags of peanuts, please.”
I felt a tap on the shoulder. It was the flamboyant-looking chap: dark, flowing locks swept back from his face, pointy-nosed and haughty. His eyebrows had been plucked and his eyes were piggy. Beneath the frockcoat he wore a frilly shirt, opened to the chest.
“From whence does one hail?” he asked in rich, upper-crust tones. He was English.
I grinned at him, despite suspecting him of poetry performance. It was heartening to hear a familiar accent, made home seem nearer. “I’m English,” I said. “You are too.”
He held his arm at waist height and bowed over it. “One is apparently in the presence of genius. Did one travel here purely to see we Suicide Poets? Is one a…” he could barely bring himself to say it, “fan?” He was so posh, the ‘fan’ sounded more like ‘fayen’.
I pointed at myself. “Who, me? All the way from England? To see the Suicide Poets?”
He looked down his nose at me. “Yeeees.”
“No, from the Desert Rose guest house, actually. Five minutes walk away.” That told him, the flouncing twot.
He took out a lace handkerchief from his top pocket and waved me away with it. “Heathen,” he said, and returned to his stool.
“One pint of lager,” said the barman, plonking the glass in front of me. Under his breath he added, “He’s a right wanker, in’e?”
I downed a half-pint in one go, followed by a bag of nuts, then looked around for Clemmie, however there was still no sign. A new customer pulled up a stool beside me. He was wearing a red leather three-piece suit with shiny blue winkle-pickers. Dyed black, his hair had been cut into a mullet, and his face was caked in make-up.
He stared at me. Metallic-blue eyeliner, green eyes.
Another bloody poet, I didn’t doubt.
The flouncing twot to my other side called across to him: “That chap’s from England. Came all this way to see little old us!”
“Ohmygod!” gasped his colleague, slapping my knee. “Are you an interviewer? Which paper do you work for? Better not be The Stage!” His voice was twangy and nasal, highly camp.
Time to make my excuses. A break for the toilet would suffice. “Any idea which way the loos are?” I asked.
He stood up. “I knew it! Questions, questions, questions!” Raising his right arm and pointing down at himself, he performed a little twirl and announced in a loud, sing-song voice to those present, “Pay attention, everyone. I’m being interviewed!”
I was rather taken aback.
“Do close your mouth, honey,” he said. “You’ll have spiders crawl in there in this place!” He looked around the theatre and mock-shuddered.
“I…” I began.
He put an arm around my shoulder and steered me towards the right of the stage. “You come backstage with me and you can ask me anything you want! I’m all yours!”
“But I…”
He held a finger to his lips. “No buts, honey.”
‘Backstage’ turned out to be a room little larger than a cloakroom. Indeed, it possibly was one. A single lightbulb
illuminated the space, containing just two benches opposite one other and a mirror on the wall. Clothing was piled on the floor and there was make-up and sandwiches on one bench.
“It’s not much but we call it home!” trilled my new friend.
He sat down, ushered me opposite, crossed his legs and put his hands on the uppermost knee. “Right!” he said. “I must tell you all about myself!”
“I’m not a journalist,” I pointed out.
“That’s what they all say, honey.”
“No really, I’m an explorer.”
“Journalist, explorer. Explorer, journalist. What’s in a name? Now, where’s your pen and paper? You’re going to need to take this down. Just you wait – I give dynamite quotes; you’ll be able to sell this anywhere.” He wagged a finger at me. “But if you sell it to The Stage I will hunt you down, honey! OK?”
“I don’t have a pen and paper,” I said.
“And you’re a professional journalist?! Whatever next? Here, have mine.” He produced a bundle of pens and several pads wrapped in an elastic band from his red leather jacket pocket, selected one of each and handed them to me. “Right, fire away!”
“Er, well, em,” I stammered.
“OK, so I’m Bish-Bash-Bosh. Like Percy but with more balls, you know?”
I didn’t, which didn’t stop him. “Then there’s Esteban, who you’ve met at the bar. If you print that we’re lovers, it’s libel. Isn’t he just adorable, though?”
No, I thought, he’s a complete bastard. “He didn’t sound very Spanish to me.”
“Well, there’s a story there.”
I wished I hadn’t said anything.
Bish-Bash-Bosh continued: “His mother, right? She once crawled all the way from Canada to Spain in an underground sewage pipe! Can you believe that?”
No.
He went on. “Then there’s the identical twins, Romulus and Remus. They were up on stage just now, setting up. Did you see them?”
“I hadn’t noticed they were identical twins.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. Between you and me, they’re bitches. And their names aren’t really Romulus and Remus. They’re Keith and Kevin.” He shuffled delightedly on his bench. “But swear to me you won’t print that.”
“I swear,” I swore. (It was true.)
He winked. “Good. And finally there’s Nooooooo. He was on the stage too.”
Come again. “Sorry, Noooo? There’s someone called Noooo?”
“Honey, which century are you living in? Of course there’s someone called Nooooooo. And please, promise me you’ll spell his name with seven o’s. If people spell it was fewer or more, he goes men-tal! He really does.”
I looked at the door willing someone, anyone – preferably Clemmie – to come in and interrupt us.
No one did.
Bish-Bash-Bosh proceeded to interview himself, perhaps unimpressed by my efforts. “When did I first realise I was a poet? Well, I wrote my first poetry in the womb, so you do the math. My mother was a slave to the Threepenny Opera, she really was. I suppose you’ll want to know why we call ourselves the Suicide Poets? It’s so obvious, honestly. So boring. But don’t worry, I like you so I’ll answer your question.”
He paused. “Are you writing this down?”
“Er, yes, sure,” I said, and scribbled on my pad:
“Right, OK. So we’re called the Suicide Poets because we are prepared to die for our art, honey.” He clawed theatrically at his heart. “We are.”
“Prepared or intending to?”
“Good question!” Bish-Bash-Bosh furrowed his brow. “Both. Either. One or the other. Actually, it’s rather a silly question!”
Alright. “Have any of the Suicide Poets ever killed themselves?”
He looked at me as the teacher might study an errant school-child. “Now now, honey! Don’t you start coming over all investigative on my ass!” He stood up and pretended to look at a watch, though he wasn’t wearing one. “Time’s up! Lovely to meet you.”
He blew me a kiss and off he skipped.
When I returned to the auditorium, my heart missed a beat.
Clemmie was there.
She hadn’t stood me up! (I had never doubted her.) She was sitting in the back row wearing a sleeveless black dress that showed off her upper arms. Her hair was down and she wore bright red lipstick. She was gorgeous. I waved at her but she didn’t notice. The theatre was woefully low-lit.
I sneaked up behind her and playfully covered her eyes with my hands. She shrieked and jumped out of her seat.
“Oh. It’s you,” she said, panting and holding her chest. “What did you do that for?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” I was hopping from foot to foot.
Someone tapped on a microphone, which echoed around the all-but-empty hall. I glanced towards the stage. The five Suicide Poets were on-stage, looking arty and middle-aged. Bish-Bash-Bosh blew me another kiss.
I waved. “I just interviewed him,” I told Clemmie.
“Oh,” she said, retaking her seat.
I sat down next to her and she shuffled slightly away, the seats being rather too close together to allow adequate personal space.
“Do you come here often?” I asked, already regretting the cliché.
“Hello, good evening! We are the Suicide Poets!” announced the five poets in unison.
Then Bish-Bash-Bosh said: “We tour nations bringing culture to the masses. Consider it our duty, laying wordplay on your asses.”
Besides myself, Clemmie, the old knitting lady (still knitting), and an earnest-looking young man in a corduroy jacket, the audience comprised three young men in adjacent seats in the front row. They were jostling each other and spilling their pints.
“Get on with it!” heckled the middle one of the three.
Bish-Bash-Bosh shot him a withering look.
The heckler persisted: “If you’re the Suicide Poets, kill yourselves!”
“Brilliant,” retorted the lead poet. “How many times do you think I’ve heard that?”
Clearly a rhetorical question, it seemed to confuse the heckler. “Seven? Twelve? One?” he flapped, then shut up.
“I didn’t introduce myself,” I said to Clemmie.
“No,” she replied.
“I’m Pilsbury.”
“Hello,” she said, eyes firmly on the stage.
Three of the performers had departed, leaving only the identical twins. They wore pinstripe suits and had donned bowler hats; each stood under an open umbrella. They were thin-faced yet fat-bellied. One wore big red spectacles, the other wore blue.
“We are Romulus and Remus,” said one.
Through the corner of my mouth nearest Clemmie, I told her, “Actually, their real names are Keith and Kevin.”
The other twin said, “This is a poem called Turbulence Inside Our Heads. We wrote it for Trevor.”
When no one clapped, they removed their microphones from their stands and each took a step backwards.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!” bellowed one, bent double but still holding up his umbrella.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!” bellowed the other, ditto.
(After that, they alternated lines, which went…)
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”
“GGGGGGGGGGGNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!”
“GGGGGGGGGGGNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”
“SAVE US!”
“SAVE US!”
“Save us!”
“Save us!”
“NO!”
“WE WILL NOT!”
They bowed and left the stage to stunned silence.
Well, I thought. The old knitting lady had packed up her wool and left halfway through. It had been ki
nd of a capella death metal. The best I could think to say of it was that it had sort of rhymed until the last two lines.
I checked to see that Clemmie hadn’t left and was relieved to see her still seated next to me, if looking a little on edge.
Next came a godawful noise, as if a disorientated bluebottle’s repeated battering against a window-pane had been amplified. Again it came, and again. Then all five Suicide Poets took the stage, each cradling the same musical instrument.
I couldn’t quite believe it.
“This next poem is dedicated to Charlie, who tuned our bagpipes this morning. Without him, we couldn’t have performed this for you,” said Bish-Bash-Bosh.
I was filled with quiet amusement and horror.
“This is called Five Open Letters to Paul McCartney Concerning Mull of Kintyre,” the lead poet went on. “We haven’t performed it since 1994, so we may be a little rusty. Please forgive us.” He bowed.
Rusty – on the bagpipes? I sunk down into my seat.
Each Suicide Poet created a discordant, infernal racket that might have been heard in space. Then they took it in turns to recite – at least reducing the number of bagpipes played from five to four – at hollering volume.
It went like this:
Bish-Bash-Bosh:
“Paul McCartney.
Please don’t start me.
No, it’s too late now.
I’ve started.”
Esteban:
“Paul McCartney.
‘Mist rolling in from the sea?’
Only waves of nausea
rolled over me.”
Romulus (or Remus):
“Paul McCartney.
It was you, Linda McCartney,
and Denny
Laine. The shame.”
Remus (or Romulus):
“Paul McCartney.
What would John-ny
Lennon have said?
Did your lame song make him dead?”
Happily we never got to hear Nooooooo’s open letter to Paul because the heckler from earlier launched himself onto the stage and started wrestling the bagpipes out of Esteban’s arms. His mates joined in and a fight broke out.
Looking for Mrs Dextrose Page 18