Folk do remember them.
Folk do turn up for the gigs.
Which is where the “fan-woman thing” comes into it. (Or vice versa!)
Many of the giggling, screaming girlies who dampened the seats in those bygone days of slim-hippedness have evolved into rather fine-looking middle-aged ladies, most of whom have also taken that other revolutionary step from married woman to divorcée. And they do tend to turn up at the reunion concerts.[15]
Which can be pretty cool if you’re a middle-aged (and several times divorced) author who’s looking to pull.
It had been far less difficult than Omally had supposed to enlist the services of The Rock Gods for the Brentford United Benefit Night. Nor, indeed, several other name bands from the past.
“Don Omally?”
A large and horny hand fell upon the shoulder of Omally, who was sitting in his office at The Stripes Bar, and the son of Eire looked up to gaze upon its owner.
“Tim McGregor,” said the owner of the hand, now putting it forward for a shake. John Omally shook this hand.
A big hand it was, and horny with it. “John Omally,” he said. “I was speaking to you earlier, I believe.”
“On the Nina[16],” said Mr McGregor. “I’m the road manager of The Rock Gods. I’ve a van full of mosh[17]. I’ll be needing someone to give me a hand unloading it.”
“Jim here will give you a hand,” said Omally.
“Hang about,” said Pooley, who was lounging near at hand with glass in hand and didn’t feel too handy. “I’m the manager of a football team, not a roadie.”
“Look at the time.” John Omally displayed a wristlet watch before Jim. It was a brand-new wristlet watch. It had been given to John by Mr Ratter, who ran the jeweller’s shop in the High Street, in return for an endorsement on the team’s shirts. “It is six-thirty of the evening clock. I have so much here still to organise.” John made expansive gestures.
Jim took a glance about The Stripes Bar. Aside from himself, John, Mr McGregor and Mr Rumpelstiltskin, it was somewhat deserted and looked no more in need of organising than it generally did.
“I can’t do it all myself,” said Mr McGregor. “If it’s too much trouble, then stuff it. We’re doing this for free and if you can’t be arsed to—”
“It’s all right.” Jim put up his hands. “I’d be pleased to assist you. The Rock Gods, did you say? The real Rock Gods?”
“How many Rock Gods do you know?”
“Well,” said Jim, “there’s—”
“Don’t even start,” John told him. “Just go and help the man unload.”
Pooley hastened, without haste, to oblige.
The van stood in the car park outside. It was a very knackered-looking old van, a van that had clearly seen a lot of action. The words “THE ROCK GODS” had been spray-painted on the sides, although some wag had scrawled out the letter “R” and substituted a “C” Jim viewed the van and sighed. A life on the road with a rock-and-roll band, that really would be something. Mr McGregor flung open the rear doors to reveal a considerable amount of mosh.
“Coo,” said Jim. “Do you really need all that stuff?”
“What would you prefer, mate? Unplugged? A bunch of Marshas[18] sitting on stools, strumming acoustic guitars?”
“Perish the thought,” said Jim. “But it all looks rather heavy.”
“Yeah, don’t it?” Mr McGregor smiled upon the heavy-looking equipment. “And heavy makes you happy, as we used to say.”
Jim tried to smile upon Mr McGregor. There was a fair amount of this fellow to smile upon. He had very big hair, which was very dark and very tied back, and he was dark of eyebrow and long and plaited of beard. And he was generously muscled: big and burly were his shoulders, large and rippling his biceps. And all the bits that were visible, bulging from his vest and shorts, were colourfully tattooed with designs of the Celtic persuasion.
“What are you smilling at?” asked Mr McGregor. “You ain’t a Leo[19], are you?”
“Certainly not,” said Jim. “I’m an Piscean.”
“Then help me fish out that Marshall amp and we’ll get on swimmingly.”
And so, puffing and blowing and trying very hard not to complain at all, Jim Pooley helped Tim McGregor unload the van.
“You see,” said Tim in reply to some question that Jim hadn’t asked him, “it all gets a bit tricky. Mr Penrose wasn’t the original lead singer of The Rock Gods. That was Cardinal Cox.”
“Wasn’t he in Sonic Energy Authority?” Jim asked.
“Not originally – that was Phil ‘Saddle-Sniffer’ Cowan. The Cardinal was the original lead singer with The Gods, so when he split with them due to musical differences they discovered that he’d copyrighted the name, so they changed it to The God Rockers, which wasn’t too good, then later to The Gods of Rock – that was when Mike ‘Damp-Trouser’ Simpson was lead singer. But he died in a freak accident involving a three-in-one hair trimmer and a pot of fish paste.”
“Where is this leading?” Jim asked as he struggled to unload yet another big, dark loud-speakerish jobbie.
“There’s three bands,” said Mr McGregor, taking up his end of same in a single hand and all but heaving Pooley from his feet, “all called The Rock Gods, all doing the club circuits up north. Each band has one of the original line-up. And they’re all Ravis[20].”
“Even this one?”
“This one’s probably the worst. I’ve been with them for twenty years now. I only do it out of schadenfreude. I love to see the looks on the faces of the punters, who’ve usually coughed up twenty quid a head, when the band lurch into their first number and the punters find out just how bad they are. And I like the rioting, too, gives me a chance to keep my hand in with the old martial arts[21].”
“No?” said Jim and he made a horrified face.
“Only winding you up,” said Tim. “They’re a great band. They’ll see you all right.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Jim, straining to keep his end of the big, heavy speaker jobbie off the ground.
“As long as their needs are met, they’ll be fine.”
“I’m very glad to hear it.” Jim continued with his struggling.
“I’m very glad to hear you say that,” said Tim, who appeared to be carrying his end with little more than one finger. “Personally, I find all this ‘pandering to the needs of musicians’ stuff a pain in the backstage[22]. They get above themselves. They all need a good smack in my opinion.”
Jim Pooley’s fingers were now giving out.
“Not much further,” said Tim.
Jim continued with his strugglings. “What exactly did you mean about ‘pandering to their needs’?” he asked, when he could find the breath.
“You’ve not read the riders, then? Your mate Don has the list.”
“I’ve not seen any list. What’s a rider?” Jim had a serious wobble on. “We’ll have to put this down or I’m going to drop my end.”
“Give it here.” Tim took the heavy-looking speaker jobbie, lifted it from Jim’s hands and humped it effortlessly on to the stage. “That’s the last of it,” he said.
“Did you really need my help?” asked the exhausted Jim.
“Not really,” said Tim, “but I enjoy the company and the conversation. Life on the road can be lonely at times.”
Pooley shook his head. “What is on the list?” he asked.
“Oh, you know, all the usual stuff. White African lilies in the dressing room. Three bowls of Smarties, with all the red ones taken out. The services of an acupuncturist and a foot masseur. Canapés, whatever they are, and—”
“Don,” called Jim, across the bar.
It does have to be said that the plain folk of Brentford, the plucky Brentonians, do like an event. And they do like to dress for an event. Especially a star-studded event. And so, all over the borough, folk were togging up in their bestest duds, slicking back their barnets in the case of the gents, and primping about at theirs in the ladies’. So
to speak. Shoes were being polished and mothballs plucked from the pockets of suits that hadn’t seen action since the last time a relative died (so to speak, also).
Lily Marlene put her high-heeled sneakers on her feet and her wig hat on her head. Small Dave, Brentford’s pint-sized postman, ironed his man-sized turnups and Soap Distant (Brentford’s resident hollow-Earth enthusiast) took a bit of spot remover to his going-out Wellington boots. Old Pete pinned his 14-18 medals of valour to the breast pocket of his dress uniform and Councillor Doveston stuffed pamphlets into every pocket he possessed. The Campbell tucked a claymore into his belt, a dirk into his sock, a pistol into each of his shoulder holsters and a stun grenade into his sporran.
Neville the part-time barman looked gloomily upon his empty bar. He was still wearing his carpet slippers.
Jim Pooley went home for a wash and a change of clothes.
And the clock ticked on towards the hour of eight.
Which was kick-off time for the Benefit Night.
Omally regarded his wristlet watch. “It’s nearly eight,” he said to Rumpelstiltskin the barman.
“Don’t blame me,” said that man. “I don’t make the rules. I’m not God, you know.”
“I’ll have another pint of something,” said Tim McGregor. “What do you recommend?”
“Large,” said John Omally. “Pour the man a pint, please, barlord.”
“Have you got the opossum?” Tim asked Omally.
“Certainly not,” said John. “I always use a condom.”
“Most amusing,” said Tim, accepting the pint that was drawn for him. “The opossum that Mr Penrose likes to pet in the dressing room before he goes on. It was at the top of the list of riders. Well, under the lady-boy.”
“Ah yes,” said John. “The list of riders.”
“Was that ‘ah yes’ as in yes, you’ve got it? Or just ‘ah yes’, you vaguely remember the list?”
“Ah yes,” said John. “Hello, who’s this?”
A long, thin fellow with an exciting shock of bright red hair had entered The Stripes Bar, looking somewhat lost.
“Can I help you?” John called to him.
“Tom Omally?” asked the man.
“John,” said John. “I think there must be something wrong with my mobile phone.”
“Oh, right,” said the long, thin fellow. “Well, I’ve got the Beverley Sisters outside in my van. Could someone help me unload them?”
Jim Pooley was having a bath. Jim was trying very hard to remain cool, calm and collectable. It wasn’t easy. But then this was John’s responsibility. If anything went wrong tonight, then he, Jim, was not to blame for it. Even though the responsibility for everything that went on with the club now lay with him, John and he were a partnership and this was all down to John.
Jim doodled about a bit in the bath water. He’d play it cool, have a good soak, tog up, slowly stroll down to The Stripes Bar, catch the action, press the flesh, do a bit of networking (Jim had once heard this phrase used), put names to faces (also this one) and if all went well …
Take the glory.
And if all didn’t go well …
Know where to lay the blame.
“Don’t worry,” Jim told himself. “All will go well. John knows how to organise things. Not that I’ve ever seen him organise something like this before, but he’ll be fine. It will all be fine. It will, it really will.”
“They’re dead,” said John Omally.
“That’s not an expression I like to use,” said the long, thin fellow with the exciting shock of bright-red hair. “Resting between engagements is the way I like to put it.”
Tim McGregor peered in through the open rear doors of the knackered old van that was now parked next to his knackered old van. “They do look dead,” he said.
“They’re living legends,” said the long, thin fellow. “They’re the Beverley Sisters. My name’s Howard, by the way.”
“Is that hyphenated?” asked Tim.
“No, it’s Welsh.”
“But they are dead,” said John Omally. “They’re preserved corpses. They’re mummies.”
“I thought they were sisters,” said Tim.
“Technically speaking, they’re not entirely dead,” said Howard, “although I have to confess that he is.” And Howard pointed a long and twiglike digit over the shoulders of the three Beverley Sisters, who sat in their glittering stagewear staring sightlessly into space, towards …
“That’s Tom Jones,” said Tim. “The Rock Gods once supported him in Abergorblimey in Wales. No, they were Citizen’s Arrest then. Tom made the lead singer – Kevin ‘Pud-Puller’ Smith, it was then – flush the bog for him after he’d had a Gordon[23].”
“Tom Jones is dead?” said John Omally. “This is news to me.”
“Died in a car crash in Nevada in nineteen eighty-three. The CIA put out a hit on him due to his involvement with a covert operation that sought to liberate the captive space aliens from Area Fifty-one.”
“You can’t put dead rock stars on stage,” said John.
“Tom’s never really been rock,” said Howard. “He’s more pop and ballad. But of course you can put them on stage, it’s done all the time. Animatronics, remote control, recorded tapes. How do you think that Cher goes on and on, always looking the same?”
“Dead?” said John. “You’re telling me that Cher’s dead, too?”
“I always thought she was,” said Tim.
“Please keep out of this,” John told him. “But how come you have Tom Jones’s body in your van?”
“You phoned me up, asked for him to appear. He’s just finished his latest British comeback tour and I was boxing him up to return him to the States, so you caught me at the right moment. You’re not in the biz, are you?”
“Who’s that?” John pointed.
“Tina Turner,” said Howard, “but you can’t have her tonight. One of her legs has come off and I’ve got to glue it on again.”
“This is absurd,” said John Omally.
“It’s business.” Howard shrugged. “After Elvis snuffed it, along with Marc Bolan in the same year, the music industry decided that although sales figures went up after well-known musical figures died, there was more money to be made if they ‘kept them alive’ indefinitely. My dad worked in Hollywood as a special-effects man. EMI employed him to wire up Tina and Tom after they died at Nutbush City Limits in a freak accident involving some green, green grass of home and a pot of fish paste.”
“Was there any CIA involvement in that?” Tim asked.
“Funny you should say that,” said Howard.
“I thought so,” said Tim.
“And they really look convincing when they’re on stage?” John asked. “Even though they’re dead?”
“That would appear to be the case, wouldn’t it?” said Howard.
“Then we’d better get them unloaded before anyone sees us.”
“Fair enough,” said Howard. “Would you like Cliff as well? I brought him along on the off chance.”
And so they came, if not in their thousands, then at least in their hundreds – the plain folk of Brentford, the plucky Brentonians, dolled up and dressed to kill. John Omally sat at the door, taking the money.
“You got the Beverleys,” said Old Pete, viewing the hastily penned poster that now adorned the wall behind John. “I thought they were dead.”
“Free admission,” said Omally. “Move through, please.”
“Can we get autographs after?” asked a lady in a straw hat. “If I’d known Tom Jones was going to be here, I’d have worn a pair of knickers to throw on the stage.”
The Rock Gods now sat in their dressing room. It wasn’t a dressing room as such; it was Jim Pooley’s office, which was better than some dressing rooms, but not as good as most. And it was now a very crowded dressing room/office. Howard was testing out the Beverleys with his remote control. Tom Jones was propped up by the window. And an all-girl funk/soul band rejoicing in the name of Stevie
Wonderbra were going through a workout routine, much to the pleasure of Tim McGregor. And Tony Hancock. And then there were the jugglers. The Rock Gods weren’t happy.
“Where’s my opossum?” asked P.P. Penrose (lead singer).
“And where’s my lady-boy?” asked Captain Venis Wars (bass guitarist).
“And my Smarties without the red ones?” asked Steve “Chucky” Wykes (lead and rhythm).
“And my two ounces of Moroccan Black?” (Jah Dragon on drums.)
Tim McGregor finished off his seventh pint of Large. “Guess who I just shagged in the back of a van?” he asked.
“Tina Turner?” said Captain Venis Wars.
Tim McGregor grinned.
The Stripes Bar was now filling up. Rather well. All the team were there, dressed in a selection of suits supplied to John Omally by Mr Gavin Armani, who ran the men’s outfitters in the High Street, in return for an endorsement on the team’s shirts. They were shaking hands with all comers and draining pints of Team Special that Omally had laid on especially for them.
“I have great hopes for this evening,” said Ernest Muffler. “Things are going to change, we are going to succeed.”
“The builders didn’t turn up today,” said Billy Kurton. “My patio’s never going to get finished.”
“When we win the cup,” said Morris Catafelto, scratching at that nose of his that so resembled an engineer’s elbow, “you’ll be able to buy a hundred-acre estate in Spain and patio over the whole blinking lot.”
“Do you really believe we’ll win?” asked Trevor Brooking (not to be confused with the other Trevor Brooking). “I mean, let’s be sensible here, those tactics we practised – they’re not exactly orthodox, are they?”
“They’re great,” said Ben Gash, the goalkeeper. “They keep you buggers well away from my end of the pitch.”
“Listen,” said Dave Quimsby, “I can hear a lark rising in Candleford[24].”
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