The Miraculous Vespas
Max Mojo (formerly known as Dale Wishart): their manager
Grant Delgado (formerly known as Grant Dale): the singer, and songwriter
Maggie Abernethy: the drummer
Eddie Sylvester (The Motorcycle Boy): the guitarist
Simon Sylvester: the bass guitarist, and Eddie’s twin brother
Clifford ‘X-Ray’ Raymonde: their producer
Jimmy Stevenson: their driver
Hairy Doug: their roadie and sound man
Rock ‘n’ Roll doesn’t necessarily mean a band. It doesn’t mean a singer, and it doesn’t mean a lyric, really. It’s that question of trying to be immortal.’
Malcolm McLaren
24th September 2014
On Christmas Day, 1995, The Miraculous Vespas appeared on the live festive edition of Top of the Pops. After more than ten years in the musical wilderness, the band’s re-released, remixed debut single ‘It’s a Miracle (Thank You)’, was back in the UK Top Five, and their long lost LP, ‘The Rise of the Miraculous Vespas’ was being hailed as one of the best British debut albums of all time. But their performance that day has gone down in musical history. As shocking as the Sex Pistols ‘Bill Grundy’ television interview and as iconic as Nirvana’s famous appearance on Channel 4 programme The Word. Instead of playing their hit song live to a TV audience of 26 million people, lead singer Grant Delgado unplugged his guitar, took off his shirt and gaffa-taped firstly his mouth, and then that of his fellow bandmates. The act has been simultaneously hailed as the ultimate act of career suicide, and the greatest piece of confrontational performance art ever staged. Now, on the 30th anniversary of the band’s legendary single reaching Number One, a new film written by the band’s controversial manager, Max Mojo, charts the incredible story of the Rise and Fall of The Miraculous Vespas. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Mojo …
Max, Norma … ye can call me Max, hen.
Ah, okay. Thank you, Max … for agreeing to this interview. I feel very priveliged to be the only person you’ve decided to speak to.
Ah like yer stuff. Ah’ve mind ae ye fae The Tube. That programme wis fuckin’ pish, by the way, but you were great oan it.
That’s very kind of you to say.
Ah bet ye didnae know that The Miraculous Vespas were booked tae dae that bastart show. First episode, third series.
Really? No, I didn’t know that.
Fifth ae October, nineteen eighty fuckin’ four. That date’s engrained oan ma memory like it wis fuckin’ tattoo’ed there by Inkstain Ingram.
Who? That was a couple of years before I joined the show.
Disnae matter. He’s deid noo, just like most ae them fae back in the day, ken? The Tube cancellin’ us wis probably the point ah knew ah’d fucked it aw up. But lookin’ back at that noo, ye’ve got tae laugh. They replaced us oan the bill wi’ fuckin’ Culture Club! The bloody irony, eh? They’re oan dain’ that ‘War Song’ pile ae absolute shite, an’ efter that, the Boy George yin gets asked aboot gettin’ fuckin’ kidnapped. An’ the cunt disnae deny it either. That caused us a load ae extra soapy bubble, the bastart.
Because of the trial, you mean?
Naw, no’ really. The arrests an’ the trials aw came later but lookin’ back noo, it wis probably the point that ah knew there wis nae way back wi’ Grant. Aw that crap in the papers meant The Miraculous Vespas had turned intae a joke. A one-hit wonder novelty record fae a band funded by gangsters an’ fuckin’ wallopers. Sad thing wis, the band would’ve been magic … ye’se aw ken that noo. Too fuckin’ late though, eh?
Let’s take our time, Max, if you don’t mind. Can we go back to the very beginning of the story? The film starts with a strange psychedelic sequence. Was it a vision that you had … or a hallucination? Can you talk about Dale Wishart? Could you begin by explaining that transformation?
(pauses) So, ah’m strugglin’ up this fuckin’ hill … the Mount in Onthank, ken? Nae fuckin’ idea how ah ended up in this shitehole, by the way. But ah’m carryin’ a couple ae bastart four by twos nailed th’gither. Fuckin’ skelfs aw over ma body. Agony, it wis. An’ there’s aw kinds ae bampots chuckin’ stuff at us aw the way doon Onthank Drive. An’ ma heid’s gowpin’ tae … worst fuckin’ headache ah’ve ever hud, to be honest.
Anyways, the crowd parts like an Orange Walk’s comin’, an’ through the gap, there’s an auld cunt comes gallopin’ towards us … but he’s ridin’ oan the back ae the biggest fuckin’ Alsatian dug ye’ve ever seen. He’s even got a fuckin’ saddle oan the cunt, as if it wis the 3/1 favourite at fuckin’ Aintree, or somethin’.
Ah starts shitin’ it, but ah canny put the bits ae wid doon. Ken why? ‘Cos some cunt’s nailed them tae ma hands. Whit the fuck’s aw that aboot? The auld boy leaps aff the dug, then says, ‘Down Sheba.’ Ah originally thought he says ‘drown’ Sheba, which is exactly whit ah’m wishin’ some cunt wid dae tae it, by the by. Anyway, he speaks … Methuselah, ken … no’ the dug:
‘Yer wastin’ yer talent,’ says this auld tosser. Tells me his name’s Manny … Manny Wise.
‘Fuck dae you ken?’ ah says back … aw gallus an’ that.
‘Ah ken mair than ye think, boy. Ah ken yer faither … an’ ah can see the future, tae. Your future.’
Ah laughs at this, ‘cos every cunt in Ayrshire kens Washer Wishart. A lot ae them probably wishin’ they didnae. Ah tells him this, just as his massive fuckin’ beast pisses up ma bare leg.
‘Aw for fuck’s sake,’ ah shouts, then the dug growls at us an’ ah wish ah hudnae. But, anyway, ‘Look, auld yin, ah’ve been telt tae get this timber up tae the Mount. There’s another big crowd up there waitin’ for it … an’ it’s just aboot tae start pishin’ it doon. So unless ye want tae grab an’ end, fuck off an’ let me dae ma job, eh?’
And then he says somethin’ that bolts me … puts a shiver right through me, ken?
‘Ye were born fur greatness, son. Remember yer Primary 7 essay? The yin where ye were a superhero … Max Mojo? The wan ye got that prize for?
‘How the fuck dae you ken aboot that?’ ah says, suddenly ah’ve went aw Elvis … aw shook up. Ah’m regardin’ him close noo, right in his face, tryin’ tae work oot where ah’ve seen him before. An’ then it dawns … it’s the Dale cunt’s fuckin’ grampa – Washer’s faither. Ah’ve only ever seen him in photies, cos’, get this … his auld fella died the same year the Dale yin wis’ born … in the fuckin’ 60s!
So, ah’m properly fuckin’ puggled, here … hands absolutely bastart achin’ fae they nails, an’ then he hits me wi’ it …
‘Yer a leader ae men, son. So lead. Dae it right. Get fuckin’ rid ae the auld you. Dale Wishart? Whit kinda arsehole name is that, son? Ye sound like a fuckin’ carpet factory. Take control. Nane ae this fuckin’ aboot at the front, tryin’ tae look like a bloody lassie. Nae wonder the rest ae the band banjo’ed ye. Lead, ya wee prick … an’ there will be untold riches.’
An’ suddenly it aw makes sense. Ah’m Max. Ah need tae wake this fuckin’ Dale wanker up. Take control, jist like the aul’ geezer says tae me. Ah’ve been dormant too long. Need tae shake it up! Lead … like this auld boy says. If ah dae … well …
‘It’ll be …’
01: I HOPE TO GOD YOU’RE NOT AS DUMB AS YOU MAKE OUT
1
7th June 1982
‘Miraculous.’
‘Eh? … whit is?’ The unexpected whispered sound being made by the bandaged figure in the bed was so faint that Bobby Cassidy wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard it at all. He leaned in, carefully though, to avoid dislodging one of a number of tubes that might’ve stopped Dale Wishart from ever speaking again if he had. ‘Dale. Whit did ye say there, pal?’ But there was no response. He had been sitting at the side of the unconscious young man’s hospital bed for almost fifteen minutes. Bobby assumed his bored imagination had simply made more of the unusual rhythm of the various bleeps and breathing interludes.
Bobby had dropped in to the Intensi
ve Care Unit at Crosshouse Hospital, on the western fringes of Kilmarnock, to see Dale Wishart. He’d first checked that none of Dale’s extended lunatic fringe family members were there but that became immaterial as he was no longer in critical care. He’d been moved earlier that morning when tests had determined he had suffered no lasting brain damage. His list of injuries was impressively extensive, mind you: broken ribs, damaged eye socket, fractured clavicle and an eye-wateringly painful-sounding twisted testicle. Two nights prior, the local amateur band Dale fronted had been bottled off stage at the start of a mass brawl that virtually destroyed the Henderson Church Hall. Bobby wasn’t a close friend of Dale’s, but the two eighteen-year-olds had shared some recent experiences, and they had had a love for the same musical influences.
Dale expressed these inspirations directly through The Vespas, his mod-influenced group; Bobby did so via the medium of mobile disco. His own fledgling DJ-ing vehicle, Heatwave Disco, had supported The Vespas on a few occasions. Last night was one of those occasions, although Bobby had – luckily for him, as it turned out – left the DJ-ing duties to his best friend and disco partner, Joey Miller. But he was here now because he felt a sense of obligation to check in on the battered singer. Dale Wishart had contacted Bobby to ask him to aid the band on what was ostensibly a money-making venture for Dale’s gangster father, Washer Wishart. The gig had been dressed up as a charity enterprise and as a result Bobby wasn’t going to be getting paid.
Bobby was shocked when he saw Dale, after being redirected and shown into the six-bed general ward on the third floor. The still-unconscious Vespas singer was hooked up to drips and wires as if he was the Six Million Dollar Man getting recharged. Bobby had just visited his own pal, Hamish May, who was suffering from hypothermia on a ward one floor above. Hamish had also been the victim of some mobile disco-related violence, although his fevered story that he had been abducted by smugglers, bundled into a rowing boat and despatched into the sea for Russian sailors to pick up, seemed delusional. That had been bad enough but at least Hamish was on the road to physical – if not mental – recovery.
Dale, on the other hand, looked like he had been run over by one of those daft new American monster trucks with the wheels the size of an Altonhill prefab. He was bare-chested, and the map of cuts, welts and developing yellow bruises that had been forcibly applied to their skin canvas made Bobby wince. Apart from the two perfectly formed black eyes – which were already turning deep purple – Dale’s face was pale, but relatively unmarked. With the cream-coloured bandage obscuring his hair, Bobby sniggered at the thought of him looking a bit like Telly Savalas in Kojak; all FBI sunglasses and ‘Who loves ya, Boaby?’
Dale Wishart was a decent guy. He was one of life’s eternal optimists. Too nice at times, Bobby thought. He had none of that ‘dae you know who ah am?’ bullshit that usually went hand-in-hand with being a local bruiser’s son. He actually seemed acutely embarrassed about his family business and despite the many understandable reasons for not doing so, nearly everybody liked him. Apart, it transpired, from his fellow bandmates in The Vespas. It was Dale’s group, no doubt, but lately Steven Dent – his pal from early childhood – had been making a play for leadership. It was causing rifts between the two friends, and forcing the two other members into taking sides. Jamie and Andy Ferguson were brothers so they inevitably block-voted in times of dispute. Dale had previously avoided having siblings in the band. It didn’t work for The Kinks or The Everly Brothers, he reasoned, and it wasn’t really working for The Vespas. The Henderson Church gig had actually been a farewell of sorts and – as a result of the numerous arguments – a split had been acrimoniously agreed prior to the event. The Ferguson brothers were both naturally shy and normally shunned confrontation, so recent band arguments always became a question of which of the two more dominant personalities to side with. On the night of the Henderson Church gig, it was clear to Joey Miller just whose side they were on. Although he hadn’t seen it personally, Malky Mackay – Heatwave’s minder for the evening – had informed Joey, with some authority, that Dale hadn’t been hospitalised as a result of the volatile crowd taking action, but as a direct consequence of his fellow band members taking it. Once Steven Dent’s swinging bass had felled Dale, the three of them had battered the fuck out of him, and set his synthesiser on fire. They had then bolted off stage and out of the rear fire door of the church hall before the police had arrived and started ‘lifting’ everyone left in the hall.
‘Musical differences,’ said the taciturn Malky of the split, with no detectable sense of irony.
‘Their fuckin’ arms an’ legs will be havin’ differences of direction fae their heids once Washer gets a haud ae them,’ being Joey’s prosaic summary.
‘Whit ye got ther’, son?’ Bobby turned his head round to see an old toothless man, gurning broadly back at him from the adjacent bed and pointing a shaky finger at Bobby’s plastic Safeway bag.
‘Lucozade,’ said Bobby. ‘It aids recovery, apparently … although it’s gonnae have its work cut oot wi’ this yin.’
‘Gie it tae me then.’ Bobby looked at the old man. The jaundiced skin visible on his body was virtually transparent, but his face had the telltale spidery blood vessels radiating out from a bulbous red nose. He had a thin tube coming across both sides of his fragile face, with an outlet going up each nostril. He had another, thicker one leading from under the thin pale-blue bedspread. Bobby watched the cloudy golden fluid it was now carrying work its way down the tube and into the bag that was taped to the metal sides of the hospital bed. The bag looked like it contained about a pint of Newcastle Brown Ale. The old fellow looked like he regularly contained about ten times that amount. Bobby figured he would be about fifty years old, but looked twenty more.
‘It’s no’ booze, ye know?’ Bobby told him.
‘Ah ken that, son, ah’m no’ a bloody eejit,’ the old man whispered. Bobby stood up and went to the bottom of Manny’s bed. He scanned the clipboard as if looking for a prognosis. He peered at the top of the chart.
‘Manny, is it?’ he asked.
‘Aye, son. Manfred … but naebody ever calls me that. Stupid bloody name.’ Bobby laughed. ‘They don’t gie me anythin’ tae drink in here … ’cept bloody watter. Ye’d think ah wis a flamin’ pot plant.’ Manny sighed as much as his shallow breathing would permit. ‘Nil by mouth … whit use is that tae an alkie, eh?’
‘Sorry,’ said Bobby.
‘Dinnae be … just gie’s yer juice!’
‘Aye. Aw’right. Here. Ye’ll need tae hide it, mind. Or they nurses’ll find it.’
‘No’ worried aboot that, son,’ said Manny. ‘Ah’ll huv that tanked the night.’ Bobby laughed again. ‘Yer pal’ll be fine. Ah heard they doctors aw talkin’. Somebody gie’d him a batterin’, and he’s no gonnae look like Montgomery Clift ever again…’ Old Manny paused, wheezing at the effort a few sentences had required, ‘…but ye dinnae need tae worry.’ Bobby didn’t have the heart to say that Dale was neither a pal, nor that he was particularly worried about his longer-term health. ‘Ah’ve been talkin’ tae him since this mornin’ … y’know, tae help him oot the big sleep.’
‘Cheers. Ah’m sure he’ll huv appreciated that when he comes ’roond,’ said Bobby. He looked at his watch.
‘They three aul’ wummin dinnae say nothin’. It’s like they’re affrontit tae speak tae a drunk. They shut the centre curtain ower and ah’m left masel. Aul’ cows.’
‘Ah need tae go, mate,’ said Bobby. Hospitals freaked him out and he’d already been in this one about three times as long as he’d intended. ‘Hope yir back oan yer feet soon, sir.’
‘No’ happenin’, son. Ah’m no’ gettin’ oot ae here,’ said Manny, with a wry, gumsy smile. ‘End ae the line fur me, boy. But you make sure yer pal stays ootae trouble … just like ah’ve been tellin’ him.’
‘See ye, Manny,’ said Bobby as he walked away from Dale’s bed.
‘Naw ye’ll no’,’ replied Manny, lifting a q
uivering left hand to wave as he did so.
Bobby needed air. He couldn’t understand why the wards always had to be so hot. Did bacteria not fucking shag each other daft and multiply in warm conditions, like Scottish gadgies on holiday in Benidorm? Everybody seemed to be sweating, especially him. Bobby walked down the corridor, under blinking fluorescent lights, alongside flaking paintwork and looking up at numerous gaps in the suspended ceiling tiles where cables and wires hung down. Christ, why the fuck do hospitals have to be so depressing? he wondered.
Noo, at this point in the story, Norma, ah’m only a Voice in the cunt’s battered heid. Ah know he can hear me, but he’s too fucked up tae really ken whit’s goin’ on, y’know? He’s lyin’ there, comatose, an’ ah’m bawlin’ away inside the wee bastart:
‘Wake up, ya fuckin’ moron!
Ah’m no’ lyin’ here any longer. Ah’ve got a fuckin’ destiny tae fulfil … an’ unfortunately for me, ah need your useless cunt ae a body. Immortality’s waitin’ just doon the next Bruce Springsteen motorway…
So, move yer fat arse, ya lazy bastart … or ah’ll gie ye another fuckin’ kickin’ fae the inside.’
Musta worked, though. The daft wee ginger walloper wakes up, ken?
2
20th June 1982
Grant Dale turned up the radio. He still made a regular appointment with the Chart rundown and tried to listen to the whole Top 40 on a Sunday, culminating with the Number One at five minutes to seven. It had been a while since any of his favourite records had actually reached the top of the charts, mind you. The year had started promisingly with the Human League dominating British music with Don’t You Want Me. Grant had regularly considered the prospect of a New Romantic threesome with Joanne and Suzanne, while that prick with the lopsided haircut watched. That was the only downside of New Romantic music … all the guys involved in it looked like posh London fannies. It was a sure-fire route to a direct kicking up around Onthank, if anybody caught you buying the Rimmel out of Boots, that’s for sure.
The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas Page 2
