The Man Who Loved Islands

by David F. Ross

  Bobby’s principal responsibility is securing permission to actually occupy the island for the designated weekend. Ailsa Craig is owned by the Scottish peer, Archibald Angus Charles Kennedy, the eighth Marquess of Ailsa. Following an initial approach, which the Marquess’s representatives rubbished as a drunken prank, they subsequently referred a persistent Bobby Cassidy to estates and property agents in Glasgow who are acting for the Marquess. Just like Max Mojo, Bobby Cassidy has exclusive news just received in the last day or so.

  ‘The dude that owns the island isnae gonnae grant permission for us tae use it. He’s said that there’s too many environmental restrictions oan it for him tae agree.’

  Once again, there’s a detectable ‘well, that’s us fucked, then’ atmosphere in the room.

  ‘Whit the fuck does that mean?’ asks Max. This issue looks less easily fixable; Max’s default setting of throwing money at a problem until it goes away looks unlikely to work.

  However, Bobby goes on to explain that Ailsa Craig is home to one of the largest gannet colonies in the world, with about thirty-six thousand breeding pairs. The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds looks after the colony, which he says it describes as a ‘bustling seabird city, with gannets, puffins, black guillemots, razorbills and peregrines some of the special residents’.

  ‘Who the fuck ae you, all ae sudden … Johnny Morris?’ Max attempts levity.

  Bobby shushes him. ‘There’s strict controls oan any development oan the island, so’s tae protect the birds’ breedin’ ground,’ he reaffirms.

  ‘But we’re no’ buildin’ oan the island, though,’ says Max hopefully.

  ‘Exactly, but it disnae matter ’cos the geezer isnae gonnae grant permission. He thinks it would damage his reputation.’ Bobby pauses, then smiles. It’s not only Max Mojo who has some slick tricks. ‘So … ah bought the fuckin’ island off him!’

  No-one speaks; Bobby is sure they don’t even breathe. Only Hammy looks relaxed.

  ‘An’ ye can thank that dopey cunt for this turn ae events.’ Bobby nods at Hammy.

  They all turn and look at Hammy with a mix of admiration and confusion.

  Hammy winks. ‘He comes back fae a meetin’, aw “Boo-Hoo, the gemme’s up”, like somebody’s eaten his last Munchie, ken?’

  They all smile knowingly apart from Bobby.

  ‘So ah digs through the internet, an’ fuck me, is the island no’ up for sale. It wis put up first in 2011 for £2.5m, but nae cunt’s bitin’ at that price. So they drapped it back to £1.5m. Wi’ the recession still bitin’, the pound carryin’ aboot as much value as a Jim’ll Fix It badge … there’s nae chance ae sellin’ it. So Bobby—’

  Bobby dives in. ‘Ah went back tae them. Ah offered a million,’ he says proudly. ‘An’ ah got the confirmation last night that they’ve accepted.’

  No one knows what to say; least of all Hairy Doug, who is contemplating what impact all of this boundless spending might have on his eventual cut. The meeting has been in progress for less than half an hour and already two million pounds in unforeseen costs have been added to the debit column.

  ‘So … we own a fuckin’ island?’ asks an excited Max.

  ‘Naw,’ says Bobby. ‘Ah own a fuckin’ island. Ah’ll use some ae the dosh fae the sale ae the villa in Ibiza.’

  On reflection, they all realise that this makes sense. Bobby has the money; he sold the Ibiza house for four million euros, largely on the deathbed advice of Laurie Revlon, who’d privately told him to hold out for that amount.

  ‘Whit’ve ye actually bought then?’ asks Joseph.

  As if reading straight from the sales schedule, Bobby describes an uninhabited, dome-shaped land mass lying ten miles off the Scottish coast, colloquially known as ‘Paddy’s milestone’, due to the island being situated mid-way between Glasgow and Belfast, as the crow flies. He knowledgeably informs everyone that geologists believe the island is a plug left behind from an extinct volcano. He confirms that it constitutes 220 acres and comprises a ruined castle, a derelict row of small cottages, a lighthouse and a working granite quarry. He clarifies the extent of the gannet community and how it thrives, now that the migrating rats that found their way there from numerous passing vessels have been eradicated. In a special ‘Did You Know?’ section, Bobby explains how the Ailsa Craig is renowned as the source of the majority of the curling stones currently in use across the world. The granite hewn from the quarry is very dense and non-porous, which prevents moisture from penetrating and pitting the carved stones as they lie on the ice. There is an audible ‘Oooh’ at this revelation. If the Ailsa Craig is ever a specialist subject on Mastermind, Bobby Cassidy will clean up.

  ‘Well, that’s a fuckin’ bonus, then, eh?’ says Max.

  Bobby and Joseph exchange looks. The Big Bang was originally intended to be a memorial for Bobby’s brother, but they are both beginning to feel that Max has conveniently forgotten this fact. He has taken over so much, the project is starting to feel like his vision alone.

  However, Bobby is quick to mention that he intends to rename the island the Ailsa Cassidy. With his ownership seeming like the only option if they are to make this event as memorable as Max is painting it, Bobby’s actions might just help retain the original spirit of their plan, in the face of all Max’s bluster and any other purposes he has in mind. There’s no getting away from the fact, though, that the whole thing is a ludicrously expensive way for Bobby to compartmentalise his guilt.

  ‘We’re no’ out ae the woods yet,’ Bobby says. ‘The environmentalists aren’t chuffed at the prospect ae a music festival. We’ll need tae keep an eye on that yin.’

  ‘Ach, we can just bung them a year’s free supply ae Trill.’ It’s not clear if Max is serious.

  ‘Right, next: you’re up, Hairy.’

  Thirty years ago in this very hall, Hairy Doug almost separated Max’s head from his shoulders for his apparent disrespect when referring to Doug, and his former wife, Fanny in this way. Now though, the septuagenarian can’t be arsed appealing.

  ‘The sound system will be an issue, no doubt,’ says Hairy Doug, his bizarre concoction of regional dialects having not withered with age. ‘But I think we can do it.’

  ‘That’s aw ah need tae ken, big yin. Just keep us posted on the costs ae aw the infrastructure,’ says Max. ‘Finally, there’s ma bit … the campaign!’ He picks up some papers and leans forward on the table, adjusting his monocle to see the words more clearly. ‘Loads ae money bein’ spent, but nae real idea ae how tae recover it,’ he announces. ‘An’ ah get that’s gie’in some ae ye’se sleepless nights, but ah dinnae want ye’se tae worry about that.’

  There is a detectable sigh of relief from all of them. Their de facto leader has a plan. He understands that, in order for the event to wash its face, its credits and debits need to match. He has obviously considered the economics of ticket sales and transport expenditure and…

  ‘It’s gonnae be a free event!’ he announces proudly.

  ‘Ye whit?’ shouts Bobby, incredulous at this notion.

  ‘We’re gonnae gie the tickets away,’ says Max.

  ‘Ah was right aw along,’ says Joseph, folding his arms. ‘This daft cunt’s no’ the full shillin’.’

  ‘Look, shut the fuck up, an’ hear me oot, will ye?’ It appears they have no option. ‘We create an event campaign oan FaceBook, Twitter and aw forms ae social media. Controversy sells. Carefully made adverts done like abstract social statements … a bit like Banksy’s. Every cunt starts talkin’ about them. The buzz builds up. We make it as exclusive as we can. Most folk want nuthin’ more than tae feel like they’re in a club that only they can get intae: “Yer name’s no’ doon, yer no’ gettin’ in!” Ye get it?’

  ‘No’ really,’ Hammy admits.

  ‘Once we’ve created the expectation, we put the briefs oot intae circulation the week before the gig. The kids have tae fuckin’ hunt for them, like Willy Wonka’s golden tickets. Only we put them oot via a social ve
nture. We put oors in sealed copies ae The Big Issue!’

  Joseph was starting to piece this together. Maybe Max wasn’t quite as mental as he’d thought.

  ‘But how dae we recover the costs?’ asks Bobby.

  ‘Sponsorship, mate … sponsorship. Think ae the companies that want tae be associated wi’ a noble social cause. They watch their brands an’ how they’re being perceived. Look at how quickly every one ae them drapped that cheatin’ bastard Lance Armstrong like a fuckin’ stone … or aw these worldwide brands rethinking their financial support for FIFA. Aw these organsiations dinnae mind avoiding their corporate taxes or gettin’ their ain shite made by slumdogs in fuckin’ Calcutta, but ask them tae maintain a position wi’ some other cunt that’s dain’ the same? Naw … aw we’re doin’ is playin’ on their rank hypocrisy. We’re supporting the homeless an’ chargin’ fuck all tae dae it, an’ it’s aw because your Gary – a war hero, dinnae forget – cared passionately aboot the mental-health epidemic an’ how it affects folk wi’ nae place tae live,’ says Max, ‘an’ wi’ that…’ he tails off, knowing that Joseph has it now.

  ‘…ye can license the music through iTunes, sell film rights tae the highest bidder, get free promotions fae the likes ae McDonalds for the catering … an’ get the record companies tae pay through the nose for their artists tae actually appear.’

  ‘Exactamundo,’ says Max Mojo. ‘So let’s stop fuckin’ aboot. There’s work tae be done!’ Only Hairy Doug looks bemused now, but he knows his place: source the light and sound gear and then get it over on a boat and rigged up to generators and onto the floating stage. Simple.

  ‘Bobcat,’ says Max. ‘You an’ me are off tae London th’morra. Breakfast TV booked an’ a day ae startin’ tae make announcements. Noo that ye’ve went an’ bought the fuckin’ rock, ah’ve got another idea. Hammy, dae a letter back tae Maggie Abernethy accepting aw the terms. That’ll put the shiters right up Grant Delgado!’

  Max Mojo is a blur of intense activity. Like a fifty-one-year-old Tasmanian Devil. Irrefutable evidence that the right drugs do in fact work.

  The following morning on the way to the airport, Max Mojo makes a string of phone calls. None seem to last more than a few minutes but all fit a predetermined pattern. Bobby Cassidy can’t help but be impressed at his new business partner’s drive and grip of the situation, even though he only hears Max’s side of each conversation:

  Phone call #1:

  ‘Hullo. Izzat you? Aye. Aye. Aye, definitely. Naw, fuck that. Nae explosives. Right. See ye!’

  Phone call #2:

  ‘Hi. Aye … it’s me. We’re oan. Maggie’s twisted the cunt’s arm so ye’ll get yer bung. Have ye spoken tae yer brother yet? Whit d’ye mean “he’s found God”? Well tell him tae take the cunt in an’ get the reward an’ then get his fuckin’ arse in gear! Aye. Ah’ll phone ye wi’ the rehearsal details. Cheers.’

  Phone call #3:

  ‘Hullo … Hullo! Aye, aye, ah’ll hold. For fuck’s sake, cunt must have a fuckin’ butler. Aye, it’s me. We’re sendin’ ye the contract so the devious cunt cannae back out now, right? Well, just keep an eye oan him, right? Dinnae want him headin’ oot tae the greenhouse like Kurt Cobain, eh? Deid singers sell records, but it’s a bit fuckin’ awkward sellin’ a live gig if the frontman’s fuckin’ topped himself, ken? Right. Aye. The money’s no’ a problem. Ma secretary’s drawin’ up the papers. Right. See ye at the rehearsals.’

  Phone call #4:

  ‘Hullo, aye, it’s Max Mojo. Ah wis tae phone this mornin’ tae see if ma test results were in. Aw, aw’right. Naw, ah dinnae have the time. Ah’m fuckin’ double busy, hen. Ah’ll phone back.’

  Phone call #5:

  ‘Haw, Hairy Yin … just a reminder. Dinnae fuck this up, or ah’m puttin’ ye in an old folks home full ae Daniel O’Donnell fans, so think on, eh?’

  Phone call #6:

  ‘Ma, it’s me … dinnae forget tae feed the goldfish and the carp. Call ye later.’

  Phone call #7:

  ‘Hullo. Ma name’s Max Mojo. Ah’m phonin’ tae set up a meetin’ wi’ Councillor Crockett. Aye, Cramond Crockett. Just tell him tae call ma secretary, Hamish May, oan 01563 73859. He kens me, an’ he kens whit it’s about tae. Aye, thanks.’

  Phone call #8:

  ‘Hi, how’s it goin’? Ma name’s Max Mojo an’ ah’m the promoter ae The Big Bang Festival. Ye’ve probably heard ae it. Aye, that’s right. Well, ah’m lookin’ tae negotiate a price tae hire yer boat. Aye, the Waverley. That’s the very fella. Day trip … aye. Probably about five hundred. 29th ae August. Right. Ye can get me on this number. Cheers pal.’

  Phone call #9:

  ‘Hullo Norman? Izzat Norman Blake? Joe McAlinden gie’d me yer number. Aye, it’s Max Mojo. Hopefully ye’ll remember me. Aye, the same yin. Ye aw’right? Ah’m good man. Listen, ah wis hopin’ tae book the band tae support The Miraculous Vespas on this big comeback gig. Aye. Aye. Aye. Joe told me ye’se were back th’gither, rehearsin’ an’ that. New record comin’ oot? Aye, well here’s a big opportunity for ye … Teenage Fanclub an’ The Miraculous Vespas oan the same bill. Ah ken when we tried tae sign ye for Biscuit Tin, ye said that. Aye. Naw, that’ll be cool, man. Star Sign’s one ae Grant’s favourite records. Okay, you speak tae the guys an’ ye can let us ken, eh? Right, cheers Norman.’

  Max Mojo is thumbing through a black book with alphabetised names, many of whom Bobby knows from their elevated public profiles. The list of contacts is incredible. How many of them are legitimate contacts, and morever, how many of them would welcome the name ‘Max Mojo’ flashing across their smartphone screens is another matter, but it gives Bobby some comfort that, as unlikely as it all seems, Max might just pull this crazy stunt off.

  Phone call #10:

  ‘Hullo. It’s Max Mojo, the manager of The Miraculous Vespas. Is that Chris? Chris Blackwell? Aye, cheers man. Wondered if ye had the chance tae consider the offer yet? Aye? Aye, that sounds good, man. We’ve had loads ae interest in their new record. It’s fuckin’ amazing, man. They might’ve been oot the game for twenty years, but fuck me, it’s gonnae be like that Bowie record, ‘Where Are We Now’. When it draps, it’s gonnae shock every cunt tae their core. There’s so much fuckin’ emotion in it, ken? Aye, well ah’d be lyin’ if ah told ye otherwise. Branson’s been chasin’ us, but frankly, ah just don’t like the cunt. Aye, ah always wanted us tae be on Island Records, an’ Grant fuckin’ loves Bob Marley, ken? Aye. There’s a cover ae ‘Redemption Song’ gettin’ planned for the gig. Aye. Magic. Thanks, man. Look forward tae it. Bye.’

  The car has reached Glasgow airport.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  March 2015. Manchester, England

  ‘You’re here with us on BBC Breakfast. Coming up we have Max Mojo and Bobby Cassidy, who’ll be talking about a bizarre music festival they are staging on Ailsa Craig, a tiny uninhabited island in the Irish Sea…’

  ‘…But first, here’s Carole with the weather.’

  Bobby Cassidy is shaking. He’s watched the BBC Breakfast News programmes regularly on the World Service, and perhaps, like many viewers, he felt that he knew these idiomatic and composed presenters personally. They were like neighbours that you saw every morning as you went out to start your car and head for work. Or at least if he had neighbours or daily employment that required him to get up before lunchtime, he imagined a relationship similar to the one he thought he had with the handsome man in the suit, the beautiful woman with the perfect teeth, and Carole, whose smile was as radiant as the sunshine she seemed to promote daily. Since returning to Scotland, Bobby has never seen Carole downcast, a murderous look in her eyes on account of the rain coming down in javelin-tipped stairrods. They all look unfeasibly healthy. His teeth, by comparison, look like the results of a police baton-charge in a ceramic-tile factory. He is determined not to smile.

  He is surprised to feel so ill at ease, sitting on their curved red sofa. It is undoubtedly due to the extensive paraphernalia of their TV studio in
Manchester. Robotic cameras and miles of taped-down cables, which are always just out of shot. He knows these things are a necessary part of the process, but being ushered in, over and past them has unnerved him. He feels like he has been up all night and the perspiration on his brow is driving the make-up down into his eyes. They shouldn’t have gone to that late party last night with members of The Charlatans, three Premier League footballers and a busty teenager who claimed to be from a place called Geordie Shore. Bobby is hungover. Max Mojo, on the other hand, is in his element. There is a glint in his eye; the type of sparkle that betrays his mordant thoughts. He is preparing to say something outrageous and Bobby knows it.

  The male presenter reprises the morning’s headlines. Despite a life lived largely overseas, Bobby knows him like he knows his own reflection, but he suddenly can’t remember his, or his co-presenter’s names. Neither can Max – but only because he wasn’t paying attention when he was being briefed.

  It’s a slow-news day. Preparations for an upcoming general election are still forming with the main parties, so the news features some minor stories about red meat and how it could now apparently prolong life, and a devastating monsoon named Fred in a far-flung part of the world that Bobby hasn’t even heard of.

  ‘Max Mojo and Bobby Cassidy, good morning,’ says the female presenter.

  Bobby thinks she’s lovely.

  Max isn’t so sure. The malign voice in his head is now under medicinal control, by and large. But, given an audience and the correct circumstances for carnage, it still takes some suppressing. Right at this moment, it is forming lewd racist and sexist phrases for Max to spew at this brown-skinned woman with the boy’s haircut. These would result in the wrong type of news headlines. Max tries to concentrate. He focuses instead solely on the BBC’s male anchor.

  ‘Hiya,’ says Max, calmly.