20
August 1976 – Friday
Archie had a big day ahead. He was armed with knowledge but hoped it wouldn’t need to be revealed. Not yet anyway. He prepared by heading back to the Blue Lagoon. A big urban cave of literal and metaphorical cover. Somewhere to simultaneously think straight and dream big technicolour dreams.
A massive plate of square slice, tattie scone, beans and egg, three cups of tea – with an aggregate score of twelve sugars and two Embassy Regal later, he was sorted. He left a pound tip; important to start living the lifestyle appropriately, he figured. When he picked up the car, it had a parking ticket under the front wiper. He dropped it swiftly in the nearest bin. The Wigwam’s fucken problem. Then he went to collect Heady Hendricks. It was 9 a.m. The High Five would be rehearsing all morning back at the Cross, before turning up at the King’s Theatre for the Heady Heights auditions around 3 p.m. He’d arranged for them to go on last. The impact slot, as Archie perceived it.
Heady Hendricks acknowledged his driver with a cursory ‘good morning’. No dancing arm waving freely as it had on previous days. A far terser manner was at work. Archie looked for clues that might implicate his recent criminality. None were forthcoming. The short journey northwards on a polluted Bath Street and then west to the slightly cleaner atmosphere around the King’s Theatre was conducted in silence. Archie was glad about this. Now that he had secured the audition for Sledge’s malevolent mob of miscreants, he considered a more professional demeanour was necessary. Plus, he may still have to put a darker plot in play, one that had fomented in the infernal heat of the metal storage unit. Pleasantries would only make that harder.
Archie parked the car near the scene dock in the lane behind the old Victorian building. He’d been to this theatre with his dad as a member of the audience many times. In fact, his dreams of making it big in the business of show had been born in this very building, as he’d watched the parochial brilliance of Stanley Baxter and Rikki Fulton during the mid-sixties. They’d grown in stature before his eyes under the coruscating search of the arc lights. He’d witnessed them hold an entire audience of legendarily hard-to-please punters rapt with a comic story about common people like them, and with heartbreaking renditions of songs so familiar, Archie now considered them as family members. He’d also seen many artistes flounder, the stage swallowing them whole under the cruel heckling of the demanding Glaswegian crowd. He’d even watched one well-known comedian deliberately faint, just to be dragged off stage early. All of it intoxicated him and made him uncontrollably giddy. And now here he was, carrying the bags and suits of the greatest UK light entertainer of them all through the famous stage door. Archie Blunt couldn’t have been happier if he’d suddenly started shitting money. The previous day’s anxiety now consigned to the dark recesses. Ludicrous optimism was back in the driving seat.
He followed Heady Hendricks across the boards as the star headed to his dressing room. Although there was no formal TV recording being made, the auditions were being filmed for later, more detailed analysis back at Teddington Lock. Nonetheless, Heady had a polished and manicured façade, and everything connected to The Heady Heights relied on it. Even though not directly appearing on camera, make-up and wardrobe – and his dark, lustrous toupee – were de rigueur. But Heady Hendricks also had an ulterior motive for filming the auditions. He had hit on the notion of airing a filmed section of the worst auditions during the show’s festive finale, although he was keeping that idea within a tightly closed production circle for the time being. His fans might take the view that it would be cruel to laugh at the extreme poverty of people’s performances, although he found it hilarious, and potentially more entertaining than the broadcast programmes of the last three seasons.
‘Are you coming?’ shouted Heady from stage left.
Archie had stopped in the middle of the proscenium, transfixed by the theatre’s volume. He saw roses being thrown from the balcony, the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh leading the calls of ‘encore’, and his dear old dad crying in the front row. A tear welled and grew, then burst into a sprint down his cheek.
‘This reminds me ae the Empire, Jim. We went there loads ae times, me an’ him. The Empire started doin’ its own pantomimes in the thirties. Ma wasn’t that fussed about all that palaver, so he took me instead.’
That’s a cool memory.
‘He loved the place … the whole atmosphere ae it. The smells, the cigar smoke an’ the orange peel. Ah can recall it all that clearly, y’ know? My da was never a hard-drinkin’ man. He drove the trams, watched the Celtic, an’ went tae the music hall as often as he could afford. It was unusual for a working-class fella round our bit, ah suppose.’
You sound like ya loved it as much as yer dad.
‘Aye, ah did, Jim. We even went tae see Laurel and Hardy there twice. The two ae them wore kilts. The audiences went daft. They even had tae bring in polis on horses tae control the crowds.’ Archie laughed as he gazed into a happier past. ‘Ah’ve definitely inherited a love ae aw that fae him … the stage, the lights, the great performances we saw back then,’ said Archie. ‘My God, the turns that were on … Frankie Vaughan, Bob Hope, Judy Garland. Sinatra! My da was greetin’ when The Empire finally shut!’ Archie sighed. ‘It’s a bloody office block now. An’ a pawn shop down at the street level. Still, eh?’
‘Archie, who are you talking to?’ yelled Heady, impatiently. ‘I don’t have time to spare. I said you’d get an opportunity later today. Now please … get a bloody move on!’
Eight acts appeared in the theatre that morning. Their quality was decidedly mixed. From the ridiculous Abie the Baby – a fat sixty-year-old man in an oversized nappy, singing ‘My Boy Lollipop’ – to the relatively sublime Jay Boothby, a Cumbrian wedding singer who belted out a great version of ‘Delilah’. In between them, the range was uniformly mediocre. As lunchtime passed, only Boothby was a realistic candidate to progress to the English shows, although the big baby was guaranteed a starring role in the outtakes. However, the young Englishman left in such a state of high excitement he didn’t properly record his details. Heady’s production assistant was sure ‘Jay Boothby’ was a stage name. Jay had nervously admitted he’d be fired if his employers had found out he’d abandoned his truck to go to a singing audition. Consequently, Heady Hendricks’ mood was darker than a blackout during the three-day week. Heady stormed to the rear of the stalls. He paused at the row Archie was sitting in and turned towards him.
‘These kids you’re bringing better not be wasting my fucking time, son.’
‘They won’t be Heady, trust me. Ah really think they’re just what you’re lookin’ for.’
No other words passed between the two men. Heady Hendricks pulled on his jacket and went out into the foyer. Once again, Archie was relieved. The tension he was now feeling could have transmitted itself to an agitated Heady and he might have pulled the plug on the whole day. Archie was already hoping that the next few acts weren’t totally dire. Not great either, just promising enough that Heady saw the benefit in seeing out the schedule.
Heady Hendricks retook his place in the second row of the stalls, along with his two female coproducers. Also present were Bogart Bridlington, Heady’s musical director, and notably, Vince Hillcock who had returned with Heady.
A succession of overexcited but forgettable panto-style acts were rejected. Archie was surprised to hear the publicist take the lead in voicing criticism, which, in Archie’s opinion, was unduly harsh. Despite this, the would-be impresario was certain that The High Five would surely be an improvement. Archie – now watching from stage left – observed a yawning Heady gradually losing interest in the proceedings. The lowest point came immediately before yet another break for tea. A male children’s entertainer appeared from behind a table with an orange oven glove on his right hand. Two black buttons had been taped to the garment, which was then introduced as the real Sooty. Heady had had enough.
Archie disappeared. He hunted the backstage corridors f
or a pay phone. He had a number – Sledge had given him it – and he dialled it, desperately hoping someone would pick up, receiving the message that his group of young amateur singers from Glasgow’s East End were getting their stage call.
Archie re-entered the hall to the sound of applause. Heady Hendricks was now in a good mood. A fourteen-year-old girl from Rothesay with an unpronounceable surname had just blown his – and everyone else’s – socks off with a fantastic rendition of ‘These Boots Are Made for Walking’. Vince Hillcock was perplexed by the tiny teenager stalking the stage like a scaled-down panther in shiny black, thigh-high leather boots, black leather hot pants and a yellow sequinned bra. The girl’s mother was side stage, apparently having no issue with the older men present leering at her daughter. The green light flashed for Heady Hendricks. The little girl was a star in the making, and her scintillating performance made the show’s real talent forget about Jay Boothby. Her performance also affirmed that this whole trip north of Hadrian’s Wall had been worthwhile. Beyond the peripheral attractions of Glasgow’s nocturnal underbelly, his judgement had again been proven correct. There were pearls among the regional swine. And even the worst of that swill would make good television. Heady Hendricks was a legend; a broadcasting innovator. He already knew it; many more would soon accept it as incontestable fact.
Sixteen other acts came and went. Heady’s imagination was still turning over the possibilities presented by the precocious little Amy. Vince Hillcock had been dismissed, to go and quickly write up a contract. Heady sized up Amy’s family; backward islanders who wouldn’t be difficult to deal with. Only Archie Blunt’s lot were left before they all called it a day.
Archie met the six young men who bore his hopes – and the ill-fitting clothes he’d procured for them – outside the old theatre half an hour after he’d made the desperate call. They were carrying instruments. All stolen. It was fully apparent what role Manky Marvin had fulfilled. None of them had been in such a building before. They were giggling excitedly. Archie initially thought this was a good sign. It quickly dawned that they were living up to at least one part of their name. The sweetly pungent smell betrayed the real nature of their morning rehearsals.
‘Ach, for Christ’s sake. Ye couldnae have stayed off the Bob Hope for one fucken day?’ Archie Blunt felt demoralised. The opportunity was perfect. Heady’s mood was high; but unfortunately, so were The High Five.
He herded the noisy, truculent teenagers inside and gathered them together at the lighting rig, left of the stage.
‘Anythin’ tae eat in here? Ah’m fucken starvin’,’ said one.
‘Aye, me tae,’ echoed another.
‘Me anaw.’
Archie sought out some of the left-over sandwiches offered to the crew earlier. He watched the six inhale them. He hoped this would calm them down a bit. It seemed a forlorn hope.
‘Fucken put that down an’ concentrate.’ Archie shouted louder than he intended, mainly at Manky Marvin, who was attempting to conceal a two-foot-long saw down the flared left leg of his white suit trousers.
‘Archie?’ A deep voice, stage front. ‘Archie Blunt? We’re ready for you now. Let’s go.’
‘Fuck me,’ whispered Archie. ‘Right, this is it. Time for heroes.’ Archie breathed out heavily. ‘Ye’se aw ready?’
‘Piece ae total piss, man,’ said Sledge. ‘Take a fucken break fae yerself, ya balloon, eh?’ Archie was struck by The High Five leader’s sudden composure. ‘We’ve done this before,’ Sledge continued.
For the next ten minutes, Archie Blunt couldn’t believe what he was watching. They plugged in, no sound check offered or requested. And The High Five were brilliant. Well, at least in comparison to what Archie anticipated when he met them outside, thirty minutes earlier. They moved in perfect sync, like they had been drilled by James Brown at the Harlem Apollo. Admittedly, it appeared as if they were wearing their fathers’ suits, but at least these all looked like they had once belonged to the same father. Sledge took lead vocal duties and centre stage. Burkie stood left of him, Smudge stood right. Guitar and bass respectively. Rich and Dobber bookended the line, with a single drum each. How had they worked this out between themselves, thought Archie, and what did Sledge mean by we’ve done this before?
Right at this moment, Archie didn’t care about such details. When the High Five stopped, there was sporadic applause from a few King’s Theatre stagehands, setting up for the Friday evening show. With Vince Hillcock and one of Heady’s young female colleagues gone, only Heady and two others were left. They didn’t applaud. Heady simply shouted ‘thanks’ and got up to go backstage. The other two judges wrote notes on a clipboard. Archie, who’d watched from the stalls, was convinced Heady couldn’t say no. Wee Amy from the islands was the undisputed star of the day, but with Jay Boothby slipping rapidly from memory, The High Five were surely in the silver-medal position. And they were firmly in the target demographic previously stated by the show’s presenter and star. They’d be heading to the televised shows in London, Archie was certain of it.
Thankfully, the judges had left by the time the boys went back to their stupid horseplay. Sledge kicked Rich up the arse, and then pulled down Smudge’s baggy trousers. Burkie pushed Dobber into the orchestra pit, and most worryingly, Manky Marvin was nowhere to be seen. Archie stood up. The stiff envelope that was inside his shirt had been digging into his nipples. It might not be needed anymore.
He headed backstage confident of the verdict but nonetheless nervous about hearing it delivered.
He stood at the green-room door. The dressing rooms were just beyond them. He composed himself, praying calmly that The High Five had made it, and that he wouldn’t have to show Hank ‘Heady’ Hendricks photos of the star being taken from behind by a coloured woman with massive tits, wearing a dildo the sheer size of which made Archie gag. Or other photos featuring a senior cabinet minister in Her Majesty’s Government being whipped by a young naked man as Heady, Big Jamesie Campbell and three other famous celebrities looked on, masturbating. And he really hoped he’d didn’t have to indicate that he knew of the plans to turn the Great Eastern Hotel into a private high-class gentleman’s club, where celebrities, politicians and sportsmen would abuse and exploit young homeless men with impunity, protected from prosecution by a senior member of the Strathclyde police.
The door opened. He peeked around the corner. It was Manky Marvin. The door closed behind him.
‘Fuck sake, you,’ hissed Archie, as he passed. ‘What have you done?’ Marvin handed him a piece of paper. It was a standard letter, which Heady Hendricks had signed.
‘Calm it, Archie. The boys really wanted this … so ah went in an’ wanked the daft auld cunt off! Just tae make sure, like, you know?’
Archie was speechless.
Marvin patted him on the back. ‘Plus, ah wanted tae get away. The cops are after me for settin’ the dole office on fire.’ Marvin laughed. ‘Relax, ya prick … we’re off tae the London!’
THREE
Obscurity Knocks!
21
September 1976
Bobby Souness had seen a desperate, young ginger-haired man run away up the street in the darkness, escaping from The Balgarth Inn. Heading towards the big black car containing Souness, he collapsed onto its bonnet. Three frightening figures emerged out of the gloom, moving at pace towards them. The boy was terrified. His skin had a strange bluish tinge. He looked like a hypothermia sufferer wandering through the Highlands in winter. He was naked apart from a towel wrapped around his lower half. Blood seeped through it. Bobby pulled him into the back. Apart from a long, curving graze in his left side, he didn’t seem to have any other visible injuries. Eyes wide, pleading. Mouth open, but soundless. The three men pursuing the boy were only a few feet from the car. Bobby Souness accelerated and turned the car left at the street end.
When they reached the Royal Infirmary, the boy was unconscious. Souness had dropped him on the path outside A&E at 3 a.m. Laid him out on the tarmac. Arm
s outstretched, feet crossed, towel still draped like a nappy. It looked like he’d just been brought down from the cross. Panicking, Bobby then drove the car to the Dunne Driving compound and abandoned it. He posted the keys.
Within days, he got himself a different job; a waiter on the Southside. He was nearer to his boy. But only weeks after this, Bobby Souness had been tracked down. He had had his thumbs removed. And had been given a beating. Not as punishment for his mountain of unpaid gambling debt. No. The digits had been hacked off because of what he had witnessed that night in the darkness outside The Balgarth. He’d been saved from being beaten to death by a passing copper on a night-shift beat, who’d interrupted the assailant, thinking it was nothing more sinister than a run-of-the-mill scrap.
The assault on his hands had been almost three months ago now. He’d been here, in the Great Eastern, amid those too anaesthetised by daily life to care about who they were, never mind him, or to even remember the name Bobby Souness, should anyone be asking about him. There was a safe anonymity to be found in the apathy of addiction.
The day Archie had appeared in his room, Souness had told him that he knew the word was still out. He’d kept his mouth shut, but he remained terrified that the thumb sanction wouldn’t be enough, that those responsible would fear he’d speak out about what he’d seen. Souness was a wanted man.
Bobby Souness had vacated a job. Archie Blunt had taken it. It was this dawning realisation that had drawn Archie back to see Bobby Souness in the Great Eastern for a second time. The more he mulled it over, the more it persuaded him that there was a bigger story. One that might be relevant to Archie’s own personal safety. If The Wigwam had taken Bobby’s thumbs for an act of Samaritan selflessness, what would he take for the theft of the pictures? As he sat fidgeting in the Dunne Driving waiting room, Archie gulped and crossed his legs.
Welcome to the Heady Heights Page 13
