“True.” Miss Brunner touched a finger to a blackened lid. “Should we emphasise the urine angle?”
“Piss-stools.” Clive laughed a high-pitched, artificial laugh. “Rebels with bladder problems?”
“Now you’re being facetious. It won’t do, Clive. This is serious. We want the name in every paper by Thursday.”
“But the record isn’t mixed yet.”
“The record, dear, is the least of our problems. We want the front page of The Sun And the rest of them, if possible.”
Clive put a pencil to his post-office lips. “Well, we’d better get busy, eh.”
“Our first problem.” said Miss Brunner, “is to find a nicer word for gob.”
And Now, the Sex Pistols Controversy
Mo came out of Balham station and walked into the High Street. DIY shops and take-aways stretched in both directions.
“Nobody ever really hates you,” said Mitzi. “It’s more that they enjoy being threatened. You know, like throwing a baby up to the ceiling. You couldn’t lose. It’s just that you expected a different reaction. It’s all fantasy. It happens every time.”
“You could kick ’em in the balls and they’d keep coming back for more. You’ve got to feel contempt for people like that.” Mo was down.
“I don’t know why. They’re only enjoying themselves. That’s what they pay for. Better than fun fairs. What you’re asking them to do is to take you seriously, to believe you’re real. But you’re not real. You’re a performer.”
They reached a high, corrugated-iron fence.
“Here we are,” she took a key from her pocket and undid a padlock, pushing open the creaking door.
It was a junkyard. Piled on top of one another were dodgem cars, waltzers, chairoplanes, wooden horses and cockerels, roller coaster cars.
“See what I mean,” she said.
“What’s the point of being here?”
“There’s a fortune in scrap, Jerry.”
Sex Chaos
Frank Cornelius zipped himself into his leather jacket while Maggy added a few touches to his make-up. “Why is everybody flying South?” he said.
“It’s the way the band-wagon’s going. Balham, Brazil, Brighton.”
“Get the car out. I’m heading for Highgate.”
As they went down the stairs, he said: “What we need is a few more novelty acts. They only have to think they’re new, that’s the main thing. As long as you think you’re new, you are new. And the punters will think you’re new, too. There’s nothing new under the old limelights, Mag.”
“What about the spirit?”
“You mean the blood?”
He began to laugh. It was a hideous, strangled sound. “New equals good. It’s been going on for at least a hundred years. The New Woman and all that. New equals vitality. New equals hope. One thing’s for sure, Maggy. New very rarely equals profit. Not at first, anyway. It has to be modified and represented before anyone will buy it in a hurry. That’s the secret of the process. But it takes so much energy just to get a little bit of something happening that there are bound to be casualties. Look at poor Brian Epstein. It was the writing on the wall for management. It had to become us or them. We didn’t want another manager coughing it, did we? How many A&R men do you know who’ve killed themselves recently?”
“I dunno.”
“None. It’s the survival side of the business, my love.”
They arrived at the street. Ladbroke Grove was full of beaten-up American cars. Maggy went round the corner to the mews to get Frank’s Mercedes.
“It really is time we moved away from this neighbourhood,” he said. “But it’s where I’ve got my roots, you know.”
C’mon Everybody
“Your mistake was in cocking a snoot at the Queen, my lad.” Bishop Beesley unwrapped a Mars Bar and, like an overweight pigeon, began to peck at it.
“Well, we took things more seriously at the time. We needed something.” Mo sat down in a battered dodgem. “Do you really own all this?”
“Every bit. You must have a lot of money stashed away. How would you like to invest?” The Bishop wiped his pudgy hands on his greasy black jacket. “Americans buy it, you know. And people from Kensington and Chelsea. It’s decorative. It’s nostalgic. It’s fun. Good times remembered.”
“If not exactly relived,” said Mitzi.
“You can’t have everything, my dear. Junk, after all, has many functions and takes many forms. None of us is getting any younger.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Mo. “This is an investigation.”
“Into what, my boy?”
“We haven’t decided yet.”
“Anybody dead?” His chocolate-soaked eyes became speculative.
“You thinking of buying in?”
“I have an excellent wrecking crew, if you’re interested. And we specialise in salvage, too. I mean salvation.” He grimaced and sought in his pockets for another Mars Bar. “We could be mutually useful to one another.”
Mo got up. A pile of Tunnel of Love boats began to creak and sway.
“We’ll be in touch,” said Mitzi.
From somewhere within the stacks came the sound of heavy breathing.
Bishop Beesley went back into his hut and locked the door.
Amateur Night at the Moscow Odeon
It was a mock-Gothic complex. Frank signed in at the gatehouse and Maggy drove through. The gates were electronically controlled and shut automatically behind them. Surrounding them were tall brick walls topped with iron spikes. At intervals was a series of buildings once used to house Victorian painters. Now they were used for recording purposes.
The largest of the buildings was at the far end of the square. Maggy parked in front of it.
Wheezing a little Frank got out of the car. “I should never have had that last bottle of amyl.”
He mounted the steps and pressed a buzzer. A bouncer in a torn red T-shirt let him in. He descended to the basement.
The studio was deserted. In the booth a shadowy figure in a rubber bondage suit sat smoking a cigarette through an enema tube.
Frank said: “Mr Big sent for me.”
“Not ‘Big,’ stupid. ‘Bug.’” The voice was mysterious, slurred.
“Are you Mr Bug?”
“I represent his interests.”
“Somebody’s on to us.”
“What’s new?”
“My mother just told me.”
“So?”
“Hadn’t we better start worrying?”
“Worrying? We’re just about to make the real money.”
Frank was nervous. “I can’t see how … “
Mr Bug’s representative began to unzip the front of his suit. “In exposure, you fool. What do you think The News of the World is for?”
“I’m not entirely happy,” said Frank.
“That’s the secret of success, isn’t it?”
Frank began to sink.
The voice grew sympathetic.
“Come here, you poor old thing, and have a nibble on this.”
Frank crawled towards the booth.
Wotcha Gonna Do About It?
The train from Balham was stuck on the bridge over the Thames. The bridge seemed to be swaying a lot. Mo felt tired. In the far corner of the compartment, Mitzi Beesley had curled herself on a seat and was asleep. Elsewhere came the sound of desultory vandalism, as if weary priests were performing a ritual whose point had been long-since forgotten.
The train quivered and began to hum.
In the sunset, the Houses of Parliament looked as if they were on fire. But it was only an illusion. The structure remained. A little graffiti on the sides made no real difference.
“Who’s got the money?” Mo asked again.
Mitzi opened her eyes. “The people who had it in the first place. That’s where it comes from and that’s where it goes. How much did you spend at the pub last year?”
“About thirty thousand pounds.”
“E
xactly.”
“What are you trying to say?”
She shook her head. “What the bloody hell did you ever know about Anarchy in the UK, Mo? You gave all the power back, just like that. You gave all the money back, just as if you’d found it in the street and returned it to the police station.”
“Bollocks!”
She shrugged and closed her eyes again. “What’s in a name?”
From the luggage rack above them an old hippy said: “Words are magic, man. They have power, you know.”
Mitzi glanced up at him. “You’ve got to walk the walk as well as talking the talk, man.”
“I blame it all on nuclear energy,” he said.
“Well, you’ve got to blame something. It saves you a lot of worry.”
As the train began to move again Mitzi sang to the tune of Woodstock.
“We are wet; we are droopy
And we simply love Peanuts and Snoopy … “
Hundreds of drab back-gardens began to fill the windows. The train made a moaning noise.
Mo slid towards the door.
“A pose is a pose is a pose,” said the hippy.
CLAIM THREE: LABOUR OR TORY? THE OLD DOUBLE CROSS
Cries of “Anarchy!” have always been associated with bored, middle-class students who followed each other like sheep.
But the Pistols are spearheading, or hoping to, a backstreet backlash of working class kids who have never really had it hard, but are still put down.
“They try to ruin you from the start. They take away your soul. They destroy you. ‘Be a bank clerk’ or ‘join the Army’ is what they give you at school.
“And if you do what they say you’ll end up like the moron they want you to be. You have got to fight back or die.
“You have no future, nothing. You are made unequal. Most of the time the kids who fight back don’t use their brains and it’s wasted. Join a band is one way, or teach yourself is another. It doesn’t take very much.”
—Record Mirror, December 11, 1976
Nestor Makhno, anarchist hero of the Ukraine, took another glass of absinthe and looked out onto the deserted Rue Bonaparte. “As far as I’m concerned,” he said, “I died in the mid-thirties. But you can’t believe anything you hear, can you?”
“I know what you mean,” said Sid.
Things were quiet, that evening, at the Café Hendrix. The romantic dead were feeling generally low; though there was always a certain atmosphere of satisfaction when another young hero or heroine bit the dust.
“Besides,” said Brian Jones, “there are these second and third generation copycat deaths, aren’t there, these days? You’re not even sure if some of these people really are martyrs to the Cause.”
“What Cause is that?” Sid helped himself to a slice of pie.
“You know—Beautiful Losers—Dead Underdogs—Byronic Tragic figures. All that.” Jones was vague. It had been a long time since he had thought about it.
Sid was under the impression that Jones was simply upset. Maybe he thought his thunder had been stolen.
James Dean limped in and put his Michelob on the table. “It’s all bullshit. Boredom is what brought us to this, my friends. And little else.”
“That isn’t what the fans say. They think we died for them.”
“Because of them, more likely.” One of the oldest inhabitants of the Café Hendrix (if this timeless gathering place could be said have an oldest inhabitant), Jesus Christ, offered them a twisted grin. “Dead people are easier to believe in than live people. As soon as you’re dead you can’t stop the myth. That’s what I found. They want you to die, mate.”
Several heads nodded. Several hands lifted drinks to pale lips.
“You always wind up doing what the public wants,” said Keith Moon, “even if you don’t do it deliberately. They expect violence, you give ’em violence. They expect a tragic death, well … Here we are.”
“That’s showbusiness,” said Makhno. “The pressures get on top of you. You’re carrying so many people’s dreams. And all you wanted in the first place was a better life.”
“They expect you to do the same for them.”
Makhno was disapproving. “That isn’t anarchism. You scream at them for years not to follow leaders and they’ll say ‘Isn’t he wonderful. He’s right. Don’t follow leaders.’ Then they come round and ask you what they should do with their lives.”
“They think anarchism means impulse or something. They don’t realise it means self-determination, self-discipline and all of that. ‘Neither master nor slave.’ It serves us right for becoming heroes.” Michael Bakunin was on his usual hobby horse.
“Don’t say you never liked it,” Makhno refilled his glass.
“Only sometimes. Anyway, how do you stop it once it starts?”
“Go into hiding and lead an unnatural life,” said Jesus. “I wish to God I had. It wasn’t any fun for me, I can tell you.”
“You didn’t have so many bloody journalists in your day,” said Sid. “And you had a high opinion of yourself. Admit it.”
“Well nobody was calling you the bloody Son of God.” Jesus tried to justify himself, but they could tell he was embarrassed.
“They called me the Antichrist,” said Makhno with some pride.
“Johnny called himself that,” said Sid.
Jesus sighed. “It’s all my damn fault.”
“You should be such a big man, to take the whole blame.” Brian Epstein sipped his orange juice. “Do you think we’re in Hell?”
“It was all a bloody con.” Marc Bolan adjusted his silk shirt. He was sulking again. Albert Camus, from behind his back, winked at the others.
“We just try to make death seem worth something. Like saying good comes out of pain. You can’t blame people. And that’s our job.”
“Dying young?” said Sid. He was still pretty new to the Café Hendrix.
“Making death seem romantic and noble.” Byron began to cough. “How they can think that of me I don’t know. Death is rotten and we shouldn’t have to put up with it.”
In a far, dark corner of the café, Gene Vincent began to cry.
Nestor Makhno lifted his glass. “Ah well, here’s to another boring evening in Eternity.”
“Fuck this,” said Sid. He went to the door and tried to open it.
“I’m afraid it’s stuck, old chap,” said Chatterton.
Sub-Mission
“Self-hatred makes excellent idealists. You tolerate yourself and you get to be able to tolerate almost anything. I suppose there’s some good in that.” Mitzi stood on Mo’s shoulders and climbed over the gate of the Gothic studios. “What do you want me to say to him?”
“Just that I need to see him about me wages.”
“All right.” She scurried off into the darkness.
“I wish she’d stop bloody talking,” said Mo. He turned up the collar of his trenchcoat and lit a cigarette. “This whole thing is ridiculous.”
A few lights went on in the farthest building. Then they went off again. He heard a car start up.
The gates opened outwards, forcing him backwards.
A Mercedes droned past. In it were Frank Cornelius, Maggy and, trying to hide from him, Mitzi Beesley.
Mo shrugged and got through the gates before they closed again. He would do his own dirty work.
We’re So Pretty
“You always think you must be in control,” said Frank, as the car turned towards Hampstead Heath, “but it’s usually other people’s desperation that’s operating for you. As soon as their desperation disappears, the scam stops working. You have to keep as many people as desperate as possible. Look at me. I know what bloody desperation means.”
“But you should never let anyone know that,” said Mitzi. “That’s where you went wrong, Frank.”
“You were too honest,” said Maggy.
“I couldn’t keep all the balls in the air. When you drop one, you drop the lot.” Frank wiped his lips. “Still, there’s always t
omorrow. I’m not finished, yet. Lick a few arses and you’re back on the strength again in no time.”
“You should have been rude to him,” said Maggy.
“My morale’s weak. After what mum said.”
“Mum’s’ll do it to you every time,” said Mitzi. “Are you sure Mo will be all right in there?”
“He’ll be better off than you or me,” said Frank. “Little wanker. He deserves all he gets.”
I’m a Lonely Boy
“Every business is a compromise. You get into the business, you get into a compromise.” Mr Bug’s representative stroked Mo’s frightened head. The old assassin lay spreadeagled across a twenty-four track desk, his wrists and ankles secured by red leather bondage bracelets. Everything stank of warm rubber.
“Now what can I do for you, Mo?”
“Not this.”
“You know you like it really. And you’ve got to do something for the money. Are you ticklish.”
“Blimey,” said Mo as the feather mop connected with his testicles. He added: “But that’s not where I’m dusty.”
“Are you a virgin, love?” The voice was greasy with sentiment.
“It depends where you mean.”
“Enjoy life while you can, darling. This whole place is due to go up in a few hours. Insurance.”
“Aren’t the tapes all here? Auschwitz?”
“Every single copy, my beauty.”
“They must be worth something.”
“They’re worth more if they’re destroyed. Didn’t you ever realise that? The harder things are to get, the more valuable they are. If they don’t exist at all, they become infinitely valuable.”
“Is that a fact. Tee hee.”
“There, darling. You are ticklish.”
“Did you want to see Mr Bug?”
“Mr Bug anything like you?”
“I’m only his representative. I’m an amateur compared to him.”
Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail! Page 16
