by Tara Basi
Approaching the car park I saw the other Bobby and Terry arriving to support the nuns.
“Bobby, Terry you made it, well done indeed,” Mother Superior shouted in welcome. “Those are lovely placards, very well made. ‘Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun and all petty-bourgeois devil worshipers are paper tigers who only stir the ire of the masses!’ Boys, that’s a very interesting thought. Glad to see you’re wrapped up nice and warm it’s going to be a long, cold night. Help yourselves to sausages and tea.”
“Any Peking duck or spring rolls?” the other Bobby asked and then quickly shut up when the other Terry kicked him in the ankle.
Inside the Sick Bucket it was dark, smoky and packed. Through the gloom you could just make out the small arena-like-stage wedged between the dart/knife-board and a big old fashioned jukebox. The brick walls looked as if someone had painted them in lumpy custard, and from this high up it was impossible to say what the floor might be made of. A perfect setting for a Brainchewer musical lobotomy.
I leant with both elbows on the greasy bar of the Sick Bucket. “A pint of Coke and a pint of diet Coke, four straws and four kebabs,” I ordered as manfully as I could.
“You two new around here?” the Sick Bucket landlord asked with a tinge of menace. He was a very big hairy man with thick greasy black hair slicked back into a ponytail. His eyebrows met in the middle in a sort of surfer’s white-out, only it was grey and black. The ends kept going right past his eyes and got lost in his huge sideburns. A giant walrus moustache seemed to be rooted up his nose, filling his nostrils with wiry hairs, and then falling down to completely hide his mouth behind a curtain of mangy whiskers. The ear hairs were quite fluffy and delicate, curling into little wispy black clouds that floated around his lobes. A raggedy, beer-soaked beard seemed to grow wherever it found space and light, like some Amazonian creeper. Little suspicious pink eyes peered out from under all that hair over a bulbous red and purple nose.
“Worshipers from the mainland,” I spluttered.
“Lots of strangers in tonight. Listen lads, we don’t want no trouble, none of that goat stuff here, just enjoy the noise, bang your heads all you want and then piss off, OK?” the Sick Bucket landlord said. He lifted a big black shotgun just over the edge of the bar so I couldn’t help but see it.
“Yes sir,” I squealed gruffly. About then I would’ve probably wet myself if I hadn’t thought of the consequences for Bobby.
Once my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, I could make out about twenty or so other people in the bar, most with long coats, long hair and dark glasses. We fitted right in. One of the men seemed strangely familiar. Or maybe it was just the hair; my mum had a curly ginger wig just like it.
Suddenly the pub emptied of oxygen and I couldn’t breathe. “Look,” I hissed. “That man with the ginger curls. It’s my mum. What are we going to do?”
“Shut-up and keep calm,” Bobby whispered back. “It’s dark, these are great disguises, enjoy your gig. Look, the band’s coming on stage.”
The band’s bellies appeared on the little stage a little ahead of the rest of them. Of course they were dressed in black, but it was a nice devilish kind of black and there was lots of straining leather, particularly over the bellies. Chop Chop Chopper grabbed his axe, Bumper Thumper settled behind the drums and then, as the excitement mounted, Big Dude Devil Dave hitched up his bass and reached for the microphone.
“I’d like to dedicate tonight’s gig to my granny, who’s 90 today. She’s a lovely lady.”
A polite ripple of applause washed through the pub.
“Now we just need to cover the safety issues, fire exits and stuff. And while I’m doing that, it would be really nice if you could make sure your phones are switched off, thank you.”
With the preliminaries over Devil Dave jumped straight into “Possessed Poodle”. During the intermission the four of us loaded up with more kebabs and drinks and got ready to enjoy the final set. My mum seemed to be having a great time banging along with the best. Mum always said she’d like to go dancing, but why the wig? Maybe she just hadn’t washed her hair?
“I’d like to dedicate this final song to the lovely nuns outside and it’s also one of my mum’s personal favourites. This is Lesbian Nun Motorbike Riders,” Devil Dave announced.
The Brainchewers were fantastic, non-stop deafening noise for three hours, with a thumping bass that constantly jiggled your kidneys and threatened to liquidise your brain. The climax for me was when Big Dude Devil Dave bit the tail off a frozen live cod. Awesome.
All too soon the evening was coming to a close. My mum had sneaked off home. It was time to unfurl our banner. We lurched outside and tottered over to where the nuns had their bonfire. I was excited, terrified and a little sick from all that pop, kebabs and heady music. Madge grabbed one end of the banner and I held on to the other. We unfurled it as dramatically as we could, and stood there defiantly for a good five seconds.
“Everyone has the right to freedom of expression,” the banner read. “This right shall include freedom to hold opinions and to receive and impart information and ideas without interference by public authority and regardless of frontiers. This shall not prevent States from requiring the licensing of broadcasting, television or cinema enterprises.”
And then we ran, very, very carefully. Tony and Madge had already legged it for the woods. The nuns prayed loudly for our souls and ‘Bobby’ and ‘Terry’ screamed abuse, “reactionaries”, “running dogs”, “bourgeois anti-revolutionaries”, “decadent imperialists”, “tall devil worshipers,” “Jesus was short,” and more until their cries faded into the distance.
Back at the bonfire the nuns were starting to wrap up their protest for the evening.
“Bobby, Terry, I’m so proud. Your approach may be a little unorthodox but you showed such commitment. An inspiration that’s what you are. Well, your taxi has arrived to take you home. I must say Bobby your eye is not looking too good. It seems to have gone a bit squinty and yellow, both of them. Very odd. Pop into to see Sister Joan and let her have a look tomorrow,” Mother Superior said as the boys climbed into the taxi.
As soon as we were out of sight everyone collapsed in a heap. Bobby was exhausted. He’d been carrying me on his shoulders for nearly three hours.
“Bobby you did it, you’re a genius and a half,” I shouted as we sat at the back of night bus on our way home.
“I’m deaf,” was all Bobby said.
“Where’d you get that funny slogan from, the one we paraded in front of the nuns?” I asked.
“For goodness sake Terry, it was lifted directly from the EU convention on Human Rights, the whole reason for the enterprise,” Bobby answered with some indignation.
We didn’t need to get to school till late tomorrow, which was just as well as I really needed the sleep.
As soon as we went through the gates on Friday morning Tiny Tim was waiting for us.
“So I get to join, right?” Tiny Tim excitedly pressed Bobby.
“You did well Tim, you and that funny Chinese student, but you can never tell anyone,” Bobby replied.
“I could get to like high heels,” Tiny Tim happily chattered.
The music was great, we’d made our protest and got clean away. As an obscure bonus Bobby seemed to think that the pictures of Tony and Madge changing into their disguises outside the pub and our perfect alibi might prove very useful next term.
And, although I couldn’t get her to admit it, I’d been on my first official, proper date with Madge. Rock and roll.
Chapter Ten – Author Author
Bobby and I were having a quiet, leisurely Saturday morning coffee break at the Costa-Less-Star-of-India-Cafe, Mr Singh’s latest venture. We’d been discussing the ‘only 78 days till Christmas’ parent panic. Neither of us could remember ever having a problem with shopping or presents but parents seemed to delight in the unnecessary drama. I supposed it helped that my presents were mainly homemade, mostly knitted, croch
eted, sewn, or sometimes stapled. Still, my mum had to buy the raw materials, except when she recycled old stuff, but there was always one shop-bought special. Due to our constrained finances, Mum tended to buy these presents in instalments. One Xmas I got the Xbox, the next the controller and then a game. It certainly kept the excitement up. Bobby’s household would be similarly constrained this year with his dad unlikely to be working again anytime soon. It struck me that if Bobby’s mum was thinking of going down the multi-year instalment present route we should co-operate and perhaps get something instantly useable between us every year. Before I could say anything Bobby spoke up.
“Have you ever thought about the future, careers, what you want to be?” Bobby asked with a faraway expression on his face, suggesting he was asking himself the same question.
Startled out of my own thoughts of practical multi-part Christmas present options we could share, the usual answer didn’t seem good enough. I looked around Mr Singh’s new café for a moment as I herded my runaway ideas for the future into something half-way intelligent.
Mr Singh’s latest venture, the Costa-Less-Star-of-India-Café, was an army surplus tent sat in the road right outside his shop. Inside was a small white fold-up metal table, today’s newspaper on a chain and two very uncomfortable metal chairs. The café-tent had been tied to the drains, a street light and a waste bin and from the top of the tent hung the all-important emergency release pull rope. The tent wobbled only moderately in the standard gale that blew past Mr Singh’s shop at this time of year. Today, as well as the wind, an average deluge pummelled the mostly waterproof tent. Inside you could quite easily imagine the rain was machine gun fire and Bobby and I were on a coffee break from some Special Forces mission while the battle raged all around us.
Mr Singh didn’t actually supply coffee. He made this very spicy, milky, sweet tea with lots of debris in it, called Chai-Aroma-Chino, CAC for short. It was great as long as you remembered to keep your teeth tightly clenched when you took a sip, to avoid swallowing tree bark or a giant poisonous seed. CAC came in four varieties, Frappe, Latte, Matte and Pupae, as well as three different sizes, Super-Grande, Massive-Black-Hole-Grande and Galactic-Grande. Non-regulars thought the names referred to different CAC flavours, in different size mugs. Those of us with loyalty cards knew there was only one CAC flavour in the one size mug but the star which was stuck onto your loyalty card was a different colour depending on what combination of CAC you ordered. Which made perfect sense when you understood the CAC was free, and Mr Singh was charging for the loyalty stars. Different stars cost different amounts, naturally. My favourite was the CAC-Pupae Galactic Grande but that cost 2p more. Best of all, when you’d saved nine stars you could choose your tenth star for free, when you paid for a CAC.
I was disturbed from counting my loyalty stars when Bobby started answering his own questions about careers, reminding me I was supposed to be herding other thoughts.
“I want to make a difference in the world. Right wrongs, fight injustice. Build a socialist utopia. Sweep away prejudice, poverty and ignorance. Stand up for the oppressed, democracy and freedom,” Bobby announced confidently.
“You’re going to run for president of the UN?”
“Idiot, of course not. There’s no such thing anyway. Besides, I’ll need real power and influence. I’m going to be an actor, A-list of course, and I’ll use my powers only for good. I shall adopt millions of attractive multi-coloured orphans, train them to be proper socialists and then release them into the capitalist strongholds,” Bobby explained, while staring up at the ceiling of the tent which punctuated his point by releasing a big drip onto his eye.
“That’s a great plan Bobby. Can I have your autograph now?” I replied, truly impressed by Bobby’s certainty.
“Not now Terry. We’d need an appropriate writing instrument and proper paper, not that horrible biro you’re always chewing and Mr Singh’s toilet paper napkins. Returning to the question in hand, what are your thoughts on the future, still the same?”
I was dreadfully confused. I tried explaining my dilemma to Bobby, knowing his huge brain and acting skills would come to my rescue. I started hesitantly.
“Well you know how I’ve always wanted to be an F1 driver.”
“Indeed, far-fetched and unlikely, but we all need to dream. At least my ambition is rooted in the reality of my looks and acclaimed performance as King Lear.”
“Looks? Anyway, this year we’ve done lots of things, medical, scientific, banking, politics, entertainment. We even dabbled in sport and religion and I liked it all, except for the occasional humiliation, beatings and constant terror. So, I’ve started thinking. I’d like to still do F1 but I’d also like to be a banker, scientist, doctor, politician, impresario, sportsman, philosopher and, maybe, Pope, and have adventures, but without all the boring learning stuff or the painful, terrifying, humiliating bits. Oh, and be irresistible to women, but only good looking ones. Is that possible?” I pleaded, hoping Bobby would find me an answer.
Bobby breathed deeply and let the air out very slowly, a sign he was thinking hard or had swallowed a bit of tree bark from his CAC. I knew he was thinking hard when his hands started to flutter around his belt. After agonising minutes - and just when I was close to suffocation from the anxiety - Bobby hitched his pants and spoke.
“Strangely enough it is possible. You can be all the things you want to be, have fantastic adventures, attract hordes of beautiful women and make loads of money at no personal risk and without having to know anything much about anything,” Bobby replied and smiled, obviously very pleased with himself.
I was excitedly quiet for a while, waiting for Bobby to continue, and then it suddenly dawned on me.
“I’ll be an actor too,” I shouted and would have leapt out of my seat had the tent roof been a bit higher.
“Of course not, you’re far too short and don’t have the right kind of ear lobes,” Bobby smirked.
“What then?” I squealed in frustration.
“A writer of course.”
“What? You mean like Dickens, Woggle-dagger, the writers of Space Captain Nearly Human Curt Novac?”
“More like the latter.”
“And I’ll get the women and the money, and I won’t get thumped?”
“Exactly.”
“Wow, how do I get started?” I screeched, quite overcome with excitement.
“Calm down, it’s all very simple really. First, the easy bit, you write something. Then we get you an agent, which for ordinary writers can be very tricky, so I shall be your agent. Then we’ll need a publisher and an appropriate marketing campaign, obviously something viral,” Bobby explained.
“Like the black plague, that’s my favourite; bubonic is OK too. But that’s it? All I have to do is write something? Great, I’ll start now. What do I write about and how much?” I asked, eager to get started.
“Exactly, that’s all you have to do, decide what to write about then write as much as you feel you should. Leave the rest to me, especially the viral stuff,” Bobby replied.
“Any clues about what to write?” I asked hopefully, looking for a something a little more specific on the writing front.
“Terry, the bond between writer and agent is a sacred thing. There are certain rules. I cannot advise you what or how much to write, I can only criticise. Now finish your CAC, go home, get out some nice, fresh, blank paper and write whatever you want,” Bobby answered, looking very serious.
I had a lot more questions but our conversation was cut short by the sound of a lorry engine and reversing beeps. As usual, we panicked and just dashed for the tent flap sending chairs, table and CAC flying everywhere. Outside we found Mr Singh frantically beating against the side of a delivery van as it slowly reversed over the tent.
“You flatten my Café again! How many times I have to tell you? Delivery at back during Café season, at back, not front, at back. Who pay for damage? Who? You, no, poor school boys have to pay, it’s terrible,” Mr Singh
shouted.
“What poor school boys?” I asked as innocently as I could.
“That’ll be 33p, as agreed. If you stay in tent, pull emergency rope and carry onto pavement without damage I pay you 33p, remember?” Mr Singh explained as he bent over and mimed pulling the rope, while holding an imaginary chair and table, lifting the invisible tent on his back and then stepping onto the pavement.
“Terry, stop squabbling like a fishwife and pay Mr Singh, then get home and start writing,” Bobby called back over his shoulder as he strode off for his tea.
Monday morning and I made straight for Bobby.
“Are you talking to me as Bobby your agent or as Bobby the soon-to-be world-famous actor.”
“Neither, I’m talking to you, OK. I couldn’t write anything, nothing. I tried Bobby, I really tried. I wrote ‘The’ and ‘Once upon a time’ and ‘He said’ but it was all rubbish. What do I do, tell me,” I squealed in frustration. The weekend had been awful. It seemed so easy to start with. Organising the pencils, the paper, the comfy cushion on the right seat, the little table in my bedroom at the right angle, picking the right background music, the Brainchewers’ opera ‘I’m Gonna Eat Your Lower Intestine’. Finally, late Sunday afternoon, I sat down to write. Then I got up to sharpen the pencils. When there were no pencils left to sharpen I turned to the box of Biros and chewed while in deep but mainly blank thought. By the time I went to bed late on Sunday my tongue was very blue, the wastepaper basket was full and I still had lots of fresh blank pages left.
“Well, just this once, but from now on if it’s any kind of agent business you must approach me wearing dark glasses so I can get into character. Start a writer’s note book, all the greats do it. Just jot down anything interesting that happens to you, anything you see or overhear which is intriguing or unusual. Do that for a couple of days and your masterpiece will magically leap off the page and smack you right between the eyes.”
