The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas

by David F. Ross

  As the single received more coverage and critical acclaim, the band – apart from Grant Delgado – appeared to be taking it all in their stride. They had made in-store appearances in a number of national record stores and even the frenetic Motorcycle Boy seemed to be enjoying the attention. Max had even received a bizarre enquiry for the band to license a ‘Motorcycle Boy’ action figure. He had still to work out if that was a serious proposition.

  In the middle week of September though, everything went stratospheric. The record leapt forty-eight places to number four in the UK charts. Max was speechless; no one could comprehend how this had happened. Biscuit Tin Records didn’t have squads of A&R men running around London, exploiting the pluggers and bribing them to manipulate the bar codes in HMV. It was truly astonishing. An independent record from a regional band recorded cheaply and at the arse-end of nowhere was selling more than the current David Bowie, George Michael and Shakin’ Stevens singles combined.

  Two hours after the chart rundown had finished, the telephone in the manse had rung more than fifty times. Mostly they were from wellwishers, some from more record companies; but one was from the BBC looking to book the band for Top of the Pops the following Thursday. Grant couldn’t believe it. It seemed like some surreal Jim’ll Fix It episode that he couldn’t recall having written in with a request. The Miraculous Vespas met at the church hall just after ten pm. No one spoke initially, but when they eventually sat down, all five – even Grant – simply dissolved into fits of disbelieving laughter.

  They sat on the stage, drinking beer to celebrate and playing records on the portable player that had now become a permanent fixture there. Max was smiling contentedly. It felt like a vindication of everything.

  Grant was happy but he was also quiet. He wasn’t sure it would ever be this good again.

  After an hour, X-Ray Raymonde turned up. He joined in, telling them stories of famous bands and their touring exploits. Max sensed most of them were fabrications.

  ‘The Smiths are gonna change everything for independent music. You’ll soon be able to buy their records in Boots or bloody RS McColl’ said X-Ray.

  ‘Aye … every cunt sells oot, sooner or later,’ said Simon Sylvester. He hurled ‘This Charming Man’ across the church hall as if it was a frisbee flying across Irvine beach. It hit the far wall and shattered.

  ‘That wis a fuckin’ limited edition, you!’ shouted Max. ‘That’s a fine. A week’s wages.’

  ‘Break a few more, eh? That bastardin’ Queen yin for a starter … an’ ah’ll pay it for ye,’ said Grant.

  Simon apologised, protesting that he didn’t think the disc was actually in the sleeve. With the amount of loose, unsleeved vinyl lying around, it was an acceptable – if unlikely – explanation. Max let it pass. He had four copies of The Smiths record, in any case.

  Washer Wishart had also heard the chart rundown. He knew the focus on the band would intensify and that the lumbering prescence of Gregor Gidney would be darkening the Wishart doorsteps again. Washer had suspected that the recent influx of strangers in the local pubs was connected to the Glaswegian hardman. Gidney knew far more about Benny Donald’s sudden disappearance than he’d let on, Washer was certain about that. Frankie Fusi had insisted on securing a private chat with Gregor Gidney. Washer was fearful of this, but his old friend wasn’t going to be put off. They both knew things were coming to a head with the McLartys, and since Don McAllister was still weeks away from decisive action, he wasn’t certain they could all hold out.

  Washer Wishart hadn’t actually thought through all of the various permutations of robbing the McLartys of their illegally obtained money. With Benny Donald now missing in action, there was actually proof as to the source of the money. Although he felt for the boy, his predicament was one largely of his own making. If the worst came to the worst, Washer could always simply deny Benny made any of the payments. That was Don McAllister’s ultimate tactical strategy. But it would require some cast-iron evidence if the combined regional resources of the Cop Squad were to round up the McLarty crime conglomerate. A smoking gun and/or a strong witness willing to give evidence in court remained elusive parts of the prosecution’s case.

  In a call from the Sun, Max received an indication that ‘It’s a Miracle (Thank You)’ was likely to be number one, based on early week sales. Max was unaware that a Radio 1 DJ had made it his record of the week. At a time of unruly strikes and IRA mainland bombing campaigns, the DJ had lauded its upbeat and topically optimistic subject matter. The song was on everyone’s lips at this happy time, Max was told. He was asked repeatedly about his feelings for the Royal Family. Were the band all royalists? Or was it only Grant Delgado? Max Mojo was blindsided by these questions, but since he was currently being bombarded by bizarre requests from everyone, they didn’t seem too out of place. As the band’s principal spokesperson, he’d recently been asked about their – and his – sexual orientation, whether Maggie was an illegal immigrant, and if the Motorcycle Boy was an extraterrestrial. Attitudes regarding the birth of a new Royal baby seemed logical by comparison. Max Mojo hadn’t yet twigged that ‘It’s a Miracle (Thank You)’ had been wrongly assumed to be about Prince Henry, the newly born Royal baby. Mike Read had changed the key line to have the word ‘boy’ inserted as he sang over its chorus. The song was surfing a Unionist, blue-rinsed feelgood factor, painting the band as royalists. Max was confused and euphoric. He just hoped Grant didn’t cotton on until after they’d done Top of the Pops.

  The Miraculous Vespas were to be at BBC studios in Shepherd’s Bush at lunchtime on the Thursday. There would be a full run-through, and the show would be going out live that evening. In the meantime, Max Mojo was trying to find time to organise the Mineworkers’ Support Gig, and more importantly, to get to Shabby Road for a listen to a tape of the full LP.

  ‘How ye, Frankie? Long time, eh?’ said Gregor Gidney.

  ‘Ye could say, son, aye.’ The use of the word ‘son’ was strange. Frankie Fusi was a few years younger than Gregor Gidney.

  Both knew this impromptu meeting was going to end in violence. The calmness of the initial exchange was simply a preparatory part of the dance they were both now beginning.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Whisky … nae ice,’ said Frankie.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Gregor as he handed the glass tumbler to Frankie. ‘Would’ve been better tae have avoided this, eh?’

  ‘Ah needed a word in person. There’s nae other way,’ said Frankie calmly.

  ‘Unfortunately, by the time guys like us get tae talk … like this, face tae face … well, there’s nothin’ left tae discuss,’ said Gregor Gidney.

  ‘Sometimes, yer oan a collision course. Like they wee Scalextric motors. Ye sense that yer goin’ too fast but you don’t have the controller, y’know?’

  ‘Aye. Ah dae,’ said Gregor. He stood up. He moved the glass table in the centre of the room to one side. Frankie Fusi stood and took his jacket off. They faced each other; two solid, rugged blocks of middle-aged humanity. Italian. Scotsman.

  Seconds out!

  Forty-five minutes later, one man emerged bruised and battered from the entry to the four-in-a-block in Glasgow’s southside. An eye was closed, a tooth had been knocked out and he had a knife wound in his side. But he was still in better condition than his opponent. Frankie had gone to Howwood, and he was still standing. A slightly fortuitous uppercut with a knuckle-dustered right fist had shattered Gregor Gidney’s jaw. Just as well, as Gidney seemed intent on ending a fair fistfight with a blade. The knife wound wasn’t serious but it would need stitching. Frankie hobbled along the street until a telephone box emerged through his blurred vision. On the balance of probability, it wouldn’t work, but he was lucky, with that call at least. He dialled. After six rings, a response:

  ‘Speak.’

  ‘Washer, it’s me…’

  ‘Ye aw’right?’

  ‘Aye, ah’m fine. Cunt had a chibb, but it’s jist a scratch. Can ye sort us oot wi’ some
body that can dae a few stitches?’

  ‘Aye. Head back here,’ said Washer.

  ‘Listen, ah’ve picked up a stack ae auld McLarty’s postcards. I think they’re aw targeting yer boy!’

  ‘Everythin’s comin’ tae a head, mate. Jist another week, or that. McAllister’s guys jist need one more thing tae tie the old man in.’ Washer Wishart was scrabbling. It was fortunate that Max and the band would be heading to England the following day. Max had also accepted invites for Grant Delgado to do a photo shoot for Smash Hits, and to appear in a bizarre photo-strip adventure for Look-in, which would also feature ‘friend of the band’, Boy George. Those appointments – and other requests for interviews and in-store appearances – would keep Max and the band out of the way, and on the move until the middle of the following week at least. Washer couldn’t trust Max with the full knowledge of the threat he was under, so a patched-up Frankie Fusi would have to be the shield.

  48

  The Miraculous Vespas recorded their Top of the Pops debut live on 20th September 1984. Countless VCRs in Kilmarnock recorded it for posterity. It was presented by the Radio 1 DJs Andy Peebles and Steve Wright, whose afternoon show the Motorcycle Boy absolutely loved. Having spent much of his recent life dreaming of this happening, Max Mojo found it all a bit procedural and boring. The dancing audience were herded disrespectfully around the small studio like the extras from a soap opera Grant assumed them to be.

  The band spent the three hours between an earlier rehearsal and showtime throwing things out of their green room window to the local kids below. Cliff Richard – in the room adjacent – complained about the noise they were making. Simon Sylvester responded by posting a series of libellous accusatory notes under the Christian singer’s door. They all had ‘Max Mojo’ written at the bottom of them.

  Adam Ant spent time with all of The Miraculous Vespas before their slot, and was especially interested in Maggie. Jimi Sommerville appeared more interested in Max, and staying true to his underlying character, Simon Sylvester stole a watch from one of the Sister Sledge sisters.

  On arriving Grant had been informed that David Bowie would be on the show. His crushing disappointment at discovering that it would only be in promo video form was clearly detectable during the band’s live performance of ‘It’s a Miracle (Thank You)’. It was a gloriously catchy song but Grant Delgado was the picture of abject misery as millions the length and breadth of the country watched him.

  Grant had protested that they weren’t ready to play it live. These protests were totally in vain. It was a live recording or nothing, he was told. Max’s nonchalance about this important issue only worsened Grant’s mood. He suspected Max had been told this days ago, but hadn’t seen fit to share it with everyone else. The band played the song as instructed, and against a ludicrous backdrop of a ginger-haired baby’s smiling face. Two Hot Gossip dancers were either side of Grant as he sang. Without the proper preparation and the band’s own instruments, Grant felt the song sounded totally different to its recorded version. He was worried they would sound amateurish in comparison.

  Surreal though the whole experience was, the appearance helped The Miraculous Vespas hit the number-one position in the national UK charts on Sunday 23rd September 1984. They knocked ‘I Just Called To Say I Love You’ off the top spot – a rank rotten bucket ae fuckin’ sugary puke, as Max had referred to it in an interview. The double A-sided single from a band of misfits, led by a schizo-additive-suffering twenty-year-old part-owner of the independent Biscuit Tin Records, based in Shabby Road; a converted flat, up a close, behind a Chinese restaurant, in Kilmarnock, in Ayrshire … had sold almost 275,000 records. The world – and everything in it – was theirs for the taking.

  24th September 1984

  Frankie Fusi appeared. His eye had healed apart from the purple patch around it. He had come down for breakfast from his room on the first floor of the remote Buxton Manor Hotel on the outskirts of Blackpool.

  Grant and Maggie were seated at a window table. The other three hadn’t yet surfaced. Maggie burst out laughing when Frankie approached. Grant hadn’t seen him coming. He turned around and he laughed out loud, too. Frankie Fusi was wearing a t-shirt that read: FRANKIE SAYS RELAX. He had picked it up in London to wear as a joke. It was now the only clean shirt he had. It was the polar opposite of how he actually felt.

  Frankie and the band had hired an estate car to get them there from London. They had left the capital two days earlier, but had detoured to Cambridge for the Smash Hits shoot, which was to take place with the band on a punt in the middle of the Cam. Predictably, the Motorcycle Boy fell in.

  Frankie was keeping contact with Washer Wishart from various telephone boxes. From these calls he understood things were bad and getting worse. As he had anticipated, Ayrshire was being turned over by Malachy McLarty people, led by the equally under-pressure Ged McClure. Max Mojo – or in fact any of the band – were principal targets for abduction. Frankie Fusi had a contract on his head. Washer had moved Molly and Gerry Ghee’s growing family out of the area. He was certain they would be next as the McLarty machine worked its way down the available target list.

  Frankie Fusi said a polite ‘good morning’ to his young charges. He ordered a full English breakfast with four slices of toast, and a pot of Tetley’s. He then excused himself to make a phone call from the hotel’s lobby.

  ‘Frankie, we’re fucked,’ said Washer Wishart. He had never sounded this nervous to Frankie before. ‘The fuckin’ McLartys torched the band’s studio last night. Totally up in fuckin’ smoke. Some poor bastart’s been found deid inside.’

  ‘Wis it definitely them?’ said Frankie, not quite knowing what else to say. He knew that the odds of an accidental fire happening at a location associated with the Wisharts, when Glasgow hardmen stalked the Kilmarnock streets hunting for Max, was a million to one.

  ‘Ah got a postcard through the door. It had DISCO INFERNO written on it. Couldnae be anybody else,’ said Washer. ‘Auld prick an’ his fuckin’ cards. He kens ah widnae risk goin’ tae the polis wi’ just that an’ nothin’ else. We’re ootae time, mate. Even aw the money off their record comin’ in isnae gonnae make this yin go away.’

  ‘McAllister?’ asked Frankie.

  ‘He cannae act until his bosses up at Pitt Street say so, an’ they’re tellin’ him he husnae got enough direct shite tae get Malachy convicted. Aw their witnesses are retractin’ their statements.’

  ‘Whit dae ye want me tae dae, Washer?’

  ‘Ah don’t ken, pal. Ah’m done. Ah’m fuckin’ sittin’ here in the manse, just waitin’ on a bloody Molotov gettin’ lobbed in through the windae,’ he said.

  Frankie was devastated. Washer Wishart, his closest friend, sounded broken.

  ‘Listen, just keep Max doon there just noo,’ said Washer. ‘Maybe if they get tae me, they’ll be satisfied. They’ll maybe leave Max an’ Molly an’ you alone.’

  ‘Washer, listen tae me … these cunts’ll never let go. The money fae the records, they’ll make aw that theirs. Malachy’s no’ gonnae jist walk away this time, even if it is wi’ a few scalps.’ There was a long pause. ‘We’ve got tae bring them doon, mate.’

  ‘Ah don’t know how tae, Frankie. Ah’m aw oota masterplans.’

  ‘Washer, leave it tae me. Ah’ll sort it oot. Jist stay fuckin’ safe, mate … keep yer heid doon, okay? Ah’ll be back the morra.’

  They both hung up; neither certain that they would even see each other again. Frankie Fusi returned to the Buxton Manor’s dining room. The whole band plus its manager was now all present and correct. Frankie wolfed his lukewarm breakfast, and slurped his tea. He gazed out of the window at the hotel’s beautiful grounds. The trees were a lovely burnished colour. Their leaves hadn’t fully fallen, but the undressing process had begun. Frankie wished he was back in the beautiful, rolling hillsides of Tuscany, watching the shimmering sunsets over the olive groves. He now knew that wasn’t an option for him.

  They piled into the
car, the helmeted Motorcycle Boy jammed into the boot along with Grant’s guitar case; the only instrument they had brought with them. With Frankie driving, they headed out of Blackpool, ignoring the Motorcycle Boy’s muffled pleas to stop at the Pleasure Beach en route. The Look-in storyline involved an unlikely meeting between Boy George, lead singer of the UK’s biggest band, Culture Club, and Grant Delgado, frontman with the UK’s most talked-about new group. They were to appear at the end of a young fan’s birthday sequence, playing ‘live’ for her, on the stage at the Cavern.

  Grant had agreed to do this to appease Max, and also to deflect a bit of focus away from the various phone calls and direct approaches he was getting from the majors, Morrison Hardwicke especially. Max had nailed his colours to the mast by insisting The Miraculous Vespas would never leave Biscuit Tin Records, regardless of the money they were being offered. Initially, Grant admired his single-mindedness. Latterly though, it seemed like bloody-mindedness. Max was making unilateral decisions that affected all of them, without consulting anyone. In the beginning, when none of them knew – or really cared – where it was leading, it didn’t really matter. Now, though, offers were flooding in; offers that were actually worth thinking about. Substantial advances based on five-album deals. Promo video ideas to be filmed in San Francisco or Tokyo. The opportunity to work with Steve Lillywhite or Stephen Street as producers of the re-recorded debut LP. All of these were things that Grant Delgado now craved. He acknowledged that it was unfair on Max. He’d stayed true to his original ideal. But Grant was having his head turned.