The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas

by David F. Ross

  And there was now another factor. Maggie was pregnant. She had only just found out, but already Grant had looked beyond the perceptibly limited lifespan of a band with a variety of personality issues, to a longer-term solo proposition. They weren’t The Beatles after all, and their one – admittedly brilliant – hit single now shared a similar associative categorisation as ‘Come on Eileen’.

  The photographs for the adventure strip were over quickly. Boy George seemed distant. He said hello politely to Grant, but The Miraculous Vespas singer wondered if he had inadvertently offended the Culture Club star, or – perhaps more likely – that a wired Max had done so.

  While the close-ups were being set up, Frankie Fusi pulled Max to one side. Grant could see them talking in animated fashion. Max was waving his arms around; Frankie was generally impassive. And then the bigger, older man leaned in, bear-paw on shoulder. And Max was suddenly calm. It was as if Frankie Fusi had flicked a switch and turned him into an obsequious Stepford Wife; all passive obedience.

  ‘What the fuck wis’ aw that aboot?’ said Grant. ‘Wi’ you an’ Frankie, ah mean?’

  ‘Eh … nothin’. Jist that we’ve tae go back doon tae London. Tae get the train. There’s a hotel we’re goin’ tae stay in, for a week or that,’ said Max. He looked shiftier than normal, although, regarding Max, Grant found the boundaries of what constituted normality to be increasingly impossible to draw.

  ‘Fuck that, Max. Ah’m goin’ hame. Ah’m knackered, man,’ said Grant.

  ‘Naw. We’re goin’ tae London. Orders.’

  ‘Ah’ll fuckin’ orders, ye, ya prick. Ah’m no’ takin’ orders fae you.’

  ‘They’re no’ fae me, Grant. They’re fae Washer,’ Max said.

  ‘Max … whit the fuck’s goin’ oan here?’ said Grant.

  Max sighed. ‘It’s the studio … it’s been burnt doon.’

  Grant laughed at this. Then he realised Max was being serious. ‘Whit? Burnt by who?’

  ‘Washer disnae really ken yet. He thinks it might be gangsters wi’ a grudge against him.’

  ‘Eh? Fat Franny Duncan? Don’t talk pish. He’s oot the game, noo.’

  ‘Naw … Glesga yins. Bad fuckers. He jist wants us tae lie low a bit the noo,’ said Max.

  Grant shook his head. ‘How we gonnae dae that, Max, wi’ a fuckin’ record at number one, an’ pictures on every bastart tabloid front page?’

  Max looked away.

  ‘So whit aboot X-Ray? Is he aw’right? The fuckin’ LP tapes?’ said Grant.

  ‘They’ve found a body, but don’t think it was him. That wee engineer boy … probably him,’ said Max.

  ‘Fuck sake, Max. He’s deid? Jesus Christ, we need tae go tae the cops!’

  ‘Naw, Grant. Look, fuckin’ listen tae me, we’ve tae go tae London. Keep oot the road.’

  ‘Fuck off, Max,’ shouted Grant. ‘Ah’m done wi’ this shite. Mags an’ me are offski. You dae whit ye like.’

  Max was hyper again, like he was being jolted by a cattle prod. Propelled by speed and coke, he’d been unable to sleep for almost four days. He’d given countless interviews over the phone to people whose names and publications he now couldn’t remember. He felt as if his seams were coming apart.

  Grant Delgado felt it too. It was unbelievable how quickly the pressure of the spotlight had affected all of them. Paradoxically, only the Motorcycle Boy now seemed qualified to wear Frankie Fusi’s new t-shirt.

  They were in a dark corridor at the back of the Cavern. Boy George had scarpered, and his people were still frantically searching for him. Frankie Fusi also seemed to have left. Maggie and the Sylvester brothers – bored at their lack of involvement – had gone to the Pierhead to look for the ferry that crossed the Mersey and, in the Motorcycle Boy’s case, to look for Yosser Hughes. Only Grant and Max were left in the lightless bowels of The Beatles’ spiritual home.

  In the darkness, Grant could see Max staring at him. ‘Whit?’ he barked, beginning to compete with Max in the shaking stakes.

  Max blinked once. Then leaned in and kissed Grant on the lips.

  ‘Ti … fuck!’ Grant spluttered.

  ‘Christ … sorry. Grant. Sorry. Ah … didnae…’

  ‘Ya fuckin’ prick, ye!’ Grant screamed. ‘D’ye dae that for? Jesus Christ!’

  ‘Grant.’ Max put his hands up to Grant’s shoulders.

  Grant threw a spontaneous punch at Max. It connected with his throat and knocked him backwards against a wall.

  ‘AAAH! Ma fuckin’ wrist, man. YA BASTART!’

  Grant looked down at Max. ‘We’re done. Ah’ve fuckin’ had it! We’re finished, you an’ me!’ He walked out of the corridor.

  A fire exit door opened. Blindingly bright light flooded in. Max’s eyes couldn’t adjust quickly enough. The door slammed closed again. Max Mojo was left slumped in a basement made famous twenty years earlier by four young men on their way to a level of immortality few could ever match. Max Mojo was alone. He was in pain, and in tears. Deep down – and even though it had only just really begun – he knew the dream was over.

  Saying silly things that made no sense at all. Trying to sort out the problems, but there were so many of them … You say you love me … through my rise and fall.

  Epilogue: The Fall … & Rise

  24th September 2014

  Max Mojo, it’s an incredible story, but can I ask you why the film starts in mid 82, and then stops quite abruptly in September 1984? You mentioned being dropped from The Tube TV show earlier but there’s more to say about what happened after that period surely?

  Well, Norma, like ah tried tae tell ye, ah cannae fuckin’ remember anythin’ that happened afore the hospital shite, ken? So even if ah wanted tae, ah couldnae have. As for efter it, well everybody kens aw that. Ah just thought it would be better no’ tae bore every cunt senseless wi’ stuff they can get aff the internet.

  But I think what’s missing is your perspective on all of that.

  Aye, mibbe so … but ah made a promise back then that when it came oot, ah’d keep schtum aboot it. Folk could make up there ain minds, y’know? Whether that wis right or wrang, who fuckin’ kens, like. But that wis it … que sera!

  I have to ask you, Max. Can you tell me what happened after Grant left? It’s an opportunity for you to set any records straight. After the film comes out, it’s the question everyone will be asking.

  Hmm. No’ sure aboot that, mate.

  Why take the chance? Where did you go after the incident at the Cavern?

  [After a long pause…] Ah went tae London. [Another pause…] See that shite wi’ Grant? Ah wis’ ootae ma fuckin’ box then. Ah’d been up for aboot three fuckin’ days straight. Hit the brightlights an’ that, ken. The night ae the Top ae the Pops thing, ah fuckin’ drank champagne oota one ae they Miami Sound Machine’s high-heeled boots! Fuckin’ mad. An’ ah went oot drug-shoppin’ wi’ Malcolm tae.’

  Malcolm McLaren?

  Eh … aye. He kent how much ah thought ae him, like … an’ asked for a meet. Whit a great geezer, he wis’. Ah went tae his send-aff in Golders Green four or five years ago.

  Stood at the back, like. No’ like aw they false wallopers desperate tae get their picture taken at it. The cunts!

  So, you were saying … You went back to London?

  Aye. Hung oot doon there for a few weeks. We made up some shite aboot a ‘personal bereavement’ tae get the band ootae aw the fuckin’ PR gigs that were comin’ in, ken? Ah hudnae a fuckin’ clue whit tae dae next. Ah couldnae get a haud ae Grant. Him an’ Maggie fuckin’ disappeared tae Mull or some other pile ae muck up the West. Him an’ fuckin’ islands, eh? Away for three weeks, an’ every cunt kens if ye want tae dae a vanishin’ act in Scotland, hit one ae they tiny wee bastart islands. Jist ask Paul McCartney, eh?

  The Sylvester brothers?

  They stupid cunts were jist in the hoose. Waitin’ oan a phone call affa me. Nae clue anythin’ wis up until the Sun turned up oan their doorstep.

  When
was that, Max?

  [Another pause…] When the whole Boy George thing broke, ken? Mibbe aboot three weeks efter Liverpool.

  What’s your perspective on the Boy George story now? Were you a party to what Frankie Fusi was planning?

  Whit d’ye mean?

  How much did you know about what Frankie Fusi did?

  [A long pause…] Em … he telt me that he wis gonnae kidnap the Boy George yin, an’ he asked me tae cause a wee bit ae a commotion wi’ his people that were at the photo shoot. He telt me it wis tae help oot Washer. So ah did. Frankie bundles the dude intae the boot ae the motor … mooth taped up, an’ hauns tied an’ that ken?

  What happened next … in your opinion?

  Frankie drives tae the Lake District. Hings aboot tae it’s dark, an’ then drives up the road back tae Ayrshire. Efter midnight, he sees a car comin’ oan the other side ae the road. It loses control an’ fuckin’ rattles the central barrier. Skelps aff it, an’ cowps it ontae its fuckin’ roof. Frankie’s first oan the scene … nae other cunt aboot. So he gets oot, drags a wumman ootae the motor jist before the fuckin’ thing bursts intae flames. He drags her up the hill, runs back doon tae move his ain motor … wi’ the kidnapped cunt still in the boot, mind. Then he phones the polis, an’ an ambulance. Whit a fuckin’ hero, eh?

  Do you think Frankie Fusi waited for the police to come to the scene deliberately … knowing he would get caught?

  Aye … ah dae. Frankie wis totally loyal tae Washer. Washer saved the cunt’s life when they were both in the army in fuckin’ China or some slanty-eyed shitehole. Anyways, the Boy George yin hears the sirens, an’ sterts batterin’ away inside the boot. Frankie mustae kent the game was up.

  But it wasn’t actually the Culture Club singer that he had taken…

  Naw. Jist as fuckin’ well, probably. Culture Club were absolutely bloody massive in 1984. Biggest fuckin’ band in Britain, ken? Their record label used ‘Boy George’ looky-likeys for aw kinds ae shite where the real yin didnae have to sing or speak … or where the cunt frankly couldnae be arsed. Frankie Fusi had kidnapped a fake yin.

  Stroke ae genius, though. He gets arrested. An’ tells the cops that he wis instructed tae dae it by his boss … Malachy McLarty! [A pause…]

  He’s got aw these fuckin’ postcards … big scribbled, weans writin’ oan them. Aw sayin’ ‘GET THE BOY, G!’ an’ ‘G, BOY FOR RANSOM’, ken?

  So what happened next?

  Instead ae askin’ for a lawyer, Frankie asks tae speak tae Don McAllister, a senior polis in Ayrshire. He kent Washer tae, like. So, before ye can say ‘dae ye want a flake wi’ yer ’99?’ the polis have rounded up every McLarty-related cunt there is, an’ Fusi’s the central fuckin’ prosecution witness in aw this ‘ice-cream war’ bollocks. Frankie’s claimin’ that he wis the guy that fronted the McLarty Ayrshire drug takeover.

  Frankie Fusi took that fall for your father, then?

  Yeah, ah’m sure he did. Aw they McLarty fuckers, McClure, Terry Connolly, that fuckin’ baldy bastart Gidney that followed us doon tae Wembley … they aw went doon for more than twenty years. Connolly even had pictures ae his knob posted in the Sunday Sport! Bet that worked well for him in the showers at Barlinnie!

  The auld man Malachy, he died in the Bar-L. Malky McLarty got ten years, but he wis oot in the early 90s. There wis fuck all crime mob left by then. So he started again … tried tae get intae politics anaw, the fuckin’ diddy.

  Frankie got three years for conspiracy tae kidnap the poor ‘Boy George’ cunt. He got time aff for comin’ tae the aid ae the wummin that crashed her motor, an’ then the rest ae it suspended on McAllister’s recommendation, ‘cos ae the vital evidence gie’d against the McLartys. Once he’d done it, other jakeys fae the East End ae Glesga aw came oot the widwork tae. Eventually, Crown Prosecution had more evidence than they kent whit tae dae wi’. Even Donald Findlay couldnae get the cunts aff.

  The ‘Boy George’ walloper writes a book aboot the experience, an’ makes a packet. Breakfast telly appearances an’ everythin’. Gettin’ kidnapped wis the best thing that ever happened tae that prick, man!

  Where did Frankie Fusi go?

  Ah cannae tell ye that. Let’s just say a load ae the cash aff the number one single gie’d Frankie Fusi a new life. Let’s leave it there, eh?

  So what about The Miraculous Vespas?

  Well … the nail in that coffin wis that fuckin’ NME article. Efter that, there wis nae goin’ back. The record drapped oot the charts like it was a song advocatin’ child porn or somethin’.

  Do you remember the interview taking place?

  Naw.

  Nothing at all?

  Nothin’. The article got printed near the start ae November. Grant phoned me. Ah wis back at the manse by this time, ken? It wis the first ah’d spoken tae him since, well … Liverpool, y’know? Ah say ‘speak’, but ah didnae actually say anythin’. Couldnae get a word in. He wis callin’ us for everythin’. Sayin’ ah’d fuckin’ ruined everythin’ … any chance ae a solo deal wis whit he meant though.

  You hadn’t read the article at this point?

  Naw, ah hadnae. Once ah got it, ah’m readin’ through it an’ thinkin’ some cunt’s havin’ a fuckin’ laugh here. Ah’m oan the front cover, an’ the article’s claimin’ an exclusive under the headin’ ‘IS THIS THE MOST HATEFUL MAN IN BRITAIN?’

  Ye’ll have seen it … every cunt has. But it’s got me allegedly claimin’ folk that have got AIDS fuckin’ deserved it, the miners’ strike is just a bunch ae lazy anti-government bastarts, jist wantin’ time aff tae fuck aboot in the pub an’ the bookies, an’ that ah wrote aw the songs … no’ Grant Delgado. Didnae matter how fuckin’ beezered oan the ching ah’d been, ah’d never ae said they things. Ah wis tryin’ to organise a gig tae support the striking miners, for fuck’s sake. But then … the fuckin’ kicker. The journalist wis a Stevie Dent. He’d used a different name oan the phone. Enough fuckin’ said, eh? Remember the cunt at the beginnin’ ae the story wi’ the tattoo’ed erse? The yin that apparently put me in the fuckin’ hospital in the first place? Well did the sponny bastart no’ become a fuckin’ freelance music journalist. Ye couldnae make the cuntin’ luck up, man! [laughs…] Got tae hand it tae the cunt, mind you. As revenge goes, it’s much better way than boilin’ yer rabbit in a fuckin’ pot, eh?

  So why didn’t you sue if it was all false?

  Well, firstly … throw enough shite at a wa’, an’ it disnae matter how much rain there is, it’ll never aw totally wash off. An’ anyway, there wis the fuckin’ Band Aid disaster an’ then ah wis totally fuckin’ fucked efter that final fuck-up.

  Why did you even go to the recording?

  Fuck knows! Honestly. Nae idea, mate.

  Was it desperation to see Grant again?

  Ah had nae idea Geldof or that other yin … the wan ootae Mary and Mungo, had even asked him.

  Are you sure about that, Max? Years ago, you had said the invite came to you originally.

  Who kens? Who fuckin’ cares? If ye dinnae want tae hear ma side, jist go an’ ask him then!

  Sorry. Please continue.

  Ah went back tae London. Stayed overnight at some decent hotel … the Grosvenor, mibbe. Charged it tae the band’s account, naturally. Headed oot early oan the Sunday mornin’. Did a few beefy lines for breakfast … confidence-builders, ken? Studio was ower in Notting Hill. Ah wis wan ae the first there, man. Musicians are a bunch ae lazy cunts, by the way.

  Geldof’s no’ gonnae let us in, but wee Jimi Bronski Beat comes oot an’ smooths it. So ah’m in. Grant’s no’ turned up yet. Ah’m listenin’ tae a first playback ae the song … which ah think’s total pish, but that’s by the by. It’s pretty obvious where the key line is, so … thinkin’ it’d help … ah tries tae insist that Grant gets it. The Ure gadgie tells me that yin’s goin’ tae Bono fae U2. Ah tells everybody, Bono especially, that he’s no’ fit tae lace Grant’s DMs. But it aw jist descends intae fuckin’ chaos. They claimed ah fuckin’ nutted
Geldof, but ah didnae. Ah jist fell forward an’ ma heid planted one oan his. Amazin’ the amount ae cunts since that have telt us they’d wished they’d fuckin done it! Anyway, ah get thrown oot intae the street, jist as Grant’s walkin’ up it wi’ Paul Weller. The two ae them jist walk past us as ah’m sittin’ there in a puddle … in a white fuckin’ suit. Grant says nothing tae us. Neither does Weller, although tae be fair, the cunt probably had nae idea who the fuck ah wis.

  Did you actually say what the Sun reported you as saying?

  Probably, aye. But ah wis fuckin’ ragin’, man. Ah’d jist been kicked oot oan ma erse, an’ ah’m dressed like a fuckin’ tramp that’s jist found John Travolta’s clothes dumped in a skip.

  This Sun prick comes up tae an’ says: ‘Any words for the people of Ethiopia, Max?’ an’ ah says, ‘Aye, sorry we fuckin’ missed ye’se oan this tour, but we’ll get ye’se oan the next yin!’

  Fuckin’ game over efter that, ken?

  Jumping forward to 1995, and everything suddenly changes.

  Too fuckin’ right, man. [A long pause…] Ah had pitched up in Ibiza. Bobby Cassidy … remember him fae the beginnin’ tae? Well, he puts us up in his place ower there. He had a club an’ wis makin’ a fuckin’ mint DJ-ing. Ootae the blue, ah gets a postcard. But a decent yin, this time. It’s fae fuckin’ X-Ray Raymonde! Ah’m staggered ‘cos in the light ae the Shabby Road fire, he totally shot the craw. Everybody originally thought it wis him that set it. Anyway, dopey aul’ cunt’s aw excited an’ desperate tae see us. He flies oot an’ Cassidy an’ me meets him. Knock me fuckin’ bandy, but X-Ray’s got the only surviving master tape copy ae The Miraculous Vespas LP! Ah couldnae fuckin’ believe it, man. It sounded absolutely magic. Mibbe even more relevant at that time, than in the 80s.