The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas

by David F. Ross

  ‘Ah’m sorry, Mam. Ah’ve let ye doon. Everythin’s turnin’ tae shit. Ah dinnae want tae be doin’ this anymore.’ Fat Franny Duncan was in tears. He hadn’t cried since that night in 1957. Now he felt he wouldn’t be able to stop. His mum couldn’t hear him. He sat in the darkness running his hands through thinning hair and down to the tied-up, greying pony tail. Empires crumbled, and just like Brando at the end of Apocalypse Now he now faced the heart of his particular darkness.

  11

  15th December 1982

  ‘Everybody here?’ asked Washer Wishart.

  His nephew, Gerry Ghee stood up gingerly to answer. ‘Aye, boss. Aw assembled,’ he said before sitting down again on the big cushion.

  Washer Wishart sat at the top of the long table. He looked out at the faces of his colleagues. He remembered many of them sitting here with him on this same wooden floor forty-odd years ago, singing Jesus anthems, glum-faced, since none of them were religious. These older, wiser faces were still glum, but for different reasons.

  The drum kit was immediately behind him. One of its high-hat cymbals lay on its side. Washer had kicked it over in frustration at his son’s attitude on being informed that the church hall couldn’t be used for rehearsals that evening. More important issues had to be debated. Since Max Mojo couldn’t conceive of anything more important than the destiny of his band, an argument had ensued. Washer tried to keep his anger in check, but eventually it was either the cymbal or Max’s head.

  ‘Ah don’t fuckin’ need this pressure on!’ Max had exclaimed.

  ‘Wait … wait. Ah’ve got it,’ said an excited Gerry Ghee. ‘Spandau Ballet. “Chant No. 1”!’

  ‘Who rattled your cage, ya cunt?’ shouted Max.

  ‘Hey. Enough. Dinnae fu … Don’t speak tae yer cousin like that. Ah need the hall, right? Ah’ve got a bloody business tae run here. Ye’ll need tae go somewhere else the night.’ Washer had turned away from Max, indicating that the conversation was over.

  When Washer wasn’t looking, Gerry Ghee made a slow, waving motion with his hand which worked its way into a two-fingered salute. Max booted an empty paint tin. It flew up and caught Gerry in the groin. He dropped to his knees like James Brown at the Harlem Apollo.

  ‘Ooyah wee bastart! Fuck sake, no’ again!’ he groaned.

  ‘Fuck off, dickhead!’ said Max, as his father launched a boot at the cymbal stand, sending it flying. Max Mojo left, slamming the heavy wooden double doors of the church behind him.

  ‘That yin needs a good fuckin’ slap, Washer,’ whined Gerry.

  Washer Wishart just grunted. More important things were on his mind.

  With his full extended crew assembled, the meeting began. The table to the side contained only a few bottles of Emva Cream sherry, and about six open boxes of Finefare Yellow Pack Mince Pies. As a measure of the potential festive bonus to come, this was not a good sign to the twenty or so footsoldiers now seated adjacent.

  Washer stood to deliver his state-of-the-nation address.

  ‘Lads, there’s nae hidin’ that business has been tough this year. Thatcher might be claiming that the unemployed are aw oan benefits but she disnae live in Crosshoose. Naebody has any money an’, as a result, naebody’s doin’ any business, legit or otherwise.’ Washer looked at everyone. As a unit, their heads were visibly drooping. He had no upbeat conclusion to this preamble. It would be a lean, lean Christmas in the Wishart camp.

  As the meeting went on Washer’s frank appraisal of the direction for his business was quickly forgotten; the ‘Nae Christmas bonuses’ bit stuck fast with each of the men present, though. It was understood in advance that profits had been down for all of the individual businesses through which cash from various discreet sources, known only to Washer, was filtered. But most couldn’t really comprehend the parallel between a nation with high unemployment and increased numbers on benefits, and the black economy. Logic suggested to them that lack of legitimate employment opportunity would lead to criminality or desperation simply as a means of getting by. But the Wisharts weren’t money-lenders, they were launderers. The former racked up relatively small amounts, by threat, intimidation and ridiculous levels of compound interest from folk with no disposable income to fund whatever lifestyle or craving they needed. The latter attempted to legitimise other people’s illegal proceeds. It was obviously criminal in its own right, but it allowed Washer, and his assembled cabal of incorporated small businesses to feel that their proceeds were no more ill-gotten than those of white-collar tax evaders who most probably contributed to the Tory Party election funds in the first place.

  ‘No’ a good night, boss,’ said Gerry Ghee as he watched the last car leave the Manse car park. Frankie Fusi walked up the path, hands stuffed deep into his Crombie coat pockets, collar turned up against the developing wind.

  ‘Aye. Ah know. Cannae dae anythin’ about it jist noo’, though,’ said Washer. ‘We need tae take stock, son. Diversify an’ that. Christ, even the bloody laundry’s takings are doon. Aw’right Frankie?’

  ‘Fucking Thatcher … nae bastart can even afford tae get their clothes washed, never mind their funny money.’ Frankie Fusi summarised the problem succinctly with his only contribution of the evening.

  Gerry Ghee smiled, and eventually Washer Wishart did, too. ‘Ah’m gettin’ too auld for aw this, ken?’ said Washer, ruefully.

  ‘Aye, man. Things are tougher than they’ve been since ah joined ye,’ Gerry agreed. Washer opened a bottle and poured each of them a sherry into a paper cup. ‘Maybe yer daft boy an’ his band’ll hit the big-time an’ ye’ll be able tae retire?’ Washer Wishart laughed at the thought. He had always been a decent kid, Gerry. The ongoing business with Max had taken Washer’s eye off the ball; there was no doubt about that. Washer was aware that his cohorts at the meeting would all have been thinking it.

  ‘Take they mince pies back tae yer Ma, son,’ he said to Gerry. After the meeting had ended, Washer’s offer of a Christmas sherry and a pie had been ignored. He wasn’t especially surprised. All of these local Crosshouse businessmen were taking massive risks to be part of the Wishart consortium. They had just been told that right now there would be no reward for that risk. Their patience wouldn’t last long into 1983. Washer wished he could trust them with the bigger picture. As the first snowflakes of the year began to fall on Crosshouse, Washer Wishart and his inner circle had some big decisions to make.

  9.27 pm

  ‘Fuck sake, get that shite aff!’ Max Mojo’s mood hadn’t improved by the time he’d reached the Wee Thack. Maggie and Grant were already there. It was a Wednesday evening and the pub was relatively quiet. The three had the back area, where the Jukebox was located, to themselves. But, as they waited for the band’s new guitar and bass player to appear, Maggie’s choice of records was irritating the fuck out of the young music-mogul-in-waiting.

  ‘Don’t push me, ’cos I’m close to the edge…’ she sang, into his face. ‘I’m tryin’ not to lose my head … a ha ha ha.’

  ‘Bugger off, ya n…’

  ‘Don’t even fuckin’ think it, boy,’ said Maggie, deadly serious. ‘Ah’ll end you, if ye ever say it.’

  Max looked immediately at Grant. Grant was clearly angry but said nothing. The song faded out and The Jam’s swansong, ‘Beat Surrender’, replaced it. The collective mood improved immediately. That song united them all, including the brothers Sylvester, who had entered the pub just as Paul Weller announced the opening title.

  ‘Where the fuck have you two been?’ asked Max Mojo.

  ‘Ma Da didnae pass oan the message,’ said the taller Simon Sylvester. ‘We ended up oan the bus tae Crosshoose. Stuck ma heid in through the door ae the church an’ a fuckin’ Masonic meetin’ or somethin’ wis goin’ oan.’ Simon and his brother, Eddie sat down. ‘Some local tit wi’ webbed hands telt us ye were here.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ said Max, as he walked to the bar to get them a drink.

  It had been almost a month since Eddie Sylvester had pressed
his dirty, chocolate-marked face up against the RGM Music window, before taking Max Mojo’s card home. Eddie was nearly three years older than Max. He was quiet and sensitive, but he had taken the initiative in phoning Max’s number to enquire if the guitar and bass positions in his band had been filled. Fortunately, Eddie hadn’t made it clear during their phone call that Simon was a relation. If he had, Max would’ve said no to both of them on the spot. Max had gone to the Sylvester family home in Caprington. Eddie was there – in a garage that resembled an Aladdin’s cave of white goods and motorcycle parts – playing a Hendrix riff expertly. Max couldn’t place it at first, but he knew it was Jimi’s. And he also immediately knew that this kid could really play. When he’d asked Eddie when his pal was going to join them, Eddie casually told Max that Simon was his twin brother, and that he was still upstairs in his bed. Max Mojo was presented with an immediate dilemma. He’d been looking to complete the classic band line-up for months with no realistic candidates, and now, a guitarist of genuine talent had materialised, but potentially only available as another fucking sibling double-act. Max waited patiently for the other Sylvester brother to show face. He’d earlier decided that, regardless of Eddie’s skill, the deal would be off if Simon was a prick.

  It was four in the afternoon but it took over an hour for Simon Sylvester to get up. That didn’t auger well but in the intervening period, Eddie Sylvester demonstrated agility with a guitar that left his potential band manager stunned. The twenty-one-year-old had challenged Max to name a song that he couldn’t play. Max came up with The Byrds ‘Eight Miles High’, Mott the Hoople’s ‘Roll Away the Stone’, ‘Another Girl, Another Planet’ by the Only Ones, and Wire’s ‘Outdoor Minor’. Eddie knew them all. By the time Simon Sylvester appeared, unshaven and uninterested, Max Mojo had decided that the cunt could be the bass-playing Yorkshire Ripper, but he’d still be in. At least they weren’t identical. That was something.

  Max nipped out into Grange Street for some fresh air. Although he also smoked, the thick density of the fug in the Wee Thack was bringing on another brutal headache. He felt inside his denim jacket pocket for his fags. He found them and brought one out but his zippo lighter was gone. He reflected on the three days of rehearsals the full band had undertaken since the Caprington accord. They hardly rivalled Chuck Berry in terms of hard work, but various personal interruptions had curtailed their progress. Grant developed laryngitis and then, having recovered from that, promptly twisted an ankle playing kerby in the street with Maggie. Maggie had subsequently gone into a brief spell of hiding, having informed Rocco Quinn that any relationship they once had was now definitely over. And – in a portent of the future – Simon Sylvester had given his brother a black eye after losing a hotly contested game of Buckaroo.

  When he came back to the table with a tray of drinks, a piece of paper with a list of names was written on it:

  The Bisciut Tins

  Bisciut Tin Mentality

  Scattered Showers

  Scattered Showers & The Bisciut Tins

  Buffalo Bisciuts

  Buffalo Springside

  Jam & The Mallows

  Peek & The Assorted Freans

  Gari & The Baldis

  THE VENUSIANS

  ‘Well?’ said Eddie Sylvester. ‘Whit yin dae ye like?’

  ‘Like for whit? said Max.

  ‘The name ae the band, man,’ said Eddie, arms outstretched. Maggie sniggered.

  ‘The name ae this band … is The Miraculous Vespas. End ae story,’ asserted Max.

  ‘Whit kinda fuckin’ name’s that, Max? Folk’ll think we’re a parkawearin’ trapeze act fae Billy Smart’s!’ said Simon Sylvester.

  Max picked up the paper and looked disdainfully at it. The first nine were written in a childlike scribble; the final one written in more considered – and mature – capitals. ‘Some cunt got a fuckin’ biscuit habit or somethin’?’ They all looked at Eddie Sylvester. ‘Mighta kent. Ye cannae fuckin’ spell either. Who came up wi’ the last yin?’ said Max. Grant raised a hand, mid-drink. ‘At least that yin sounds like a fuckin’ band!’

  ‘Well, The Mekons were from Venus, ken? So…’ said Grant, tailing off.

  ‘Aye. It’s good … but naw. Ah’m namin’ this band.’ Max had spoken.

  ‘But should we no’ go for somethin’ simple?’ said Eddie. ‘Look at aw these stupid bands comin’ oot noo? Orchestral Manoeuvres in the fuckin’ Dark? Blue Rondo à la Turk? One the Juggler?’

  ‘Who the fuck’s One the Juggler when they’re at hame?’ said Maggie, laughing.

  ‘They were in the NME,’ said Eddie confidently.

  ‘An’ also … Scattered Showers & The Biscuit Tins? The only simple thing aboot that name is the cunt that came up wi’ it!’ said Simon Sylvester. This time they all laughed.

  ‘Talkin’ ae names, ah’m changin’ mine.’ They all looked at Grant. ‘Grant Delgado,’ said Grant. Simon laughed so hard a snot bubble formed on his top lip. Eddie was in mid-slurp and gave himself hiccups. Maggie just smiled.

  ‘Fuckin’ beezer!’ said Max. ‘Max Mojo an’ Grant Delgado.’ Max Mojo raised his pint glass.

  ‘Here’s tae the rise ae The Miraculous Vespas,’ he said. They all clinked his glass, and repeated the toast. As they sat down, Madness began singing about the House of Fun, and the males all joined in, nutty-dancing around the back of the Wee Thack like four versions of Chas Smash. Maggie Abernethy remained seated, regarding them proudly like Olivia Walton watching John-Boy, Jason, Ben and Jim-Bob horsing around at a barn-raising hoe-down.

  12

  25th December 1982

  ‘Surprise! Merry Christmas, babe’

  ‘Eh, Jeezo! … aye, Merry Christmas, Mags.’ Grant Dale kissed his gorgeous girlfriend. She was standing at the front door in a short, sleeveless dress, even though the snow lay thick on the ground outside. ‘Wasnae expectin’ tae get ye today, hen,’ he added, showing her inside.

  ‘Jist thought ah’d come up and see ye.’

  ‘Fuck, Mags … ah huvnae got yer present yet,’ he admitted.

  ‘It’s fine, honestly.’ Maggie kissed him again, this time on the cheek.

  ‘Who is it, Grant?’ Senga Dale called down from the top of the stairs.

  ‘It’s, em … jist a pal ae mine, Mam,’ said Grant, his pale cheeks turning the shade of Rudolph’s nose.

  ‘A pal! A pal?’ said Maggie, teasing him.

  Senga came downstairs.

  ‘Whit’s this? Ye didnae say yer pal wis a lassie!’ Senga smiled at Maggie and introduced herself.

  Maggie told Senga she was the drummer in Grant’s band and Senga showed Maggie into the living room, raising an approving eyebrow in Grant’s direction as she passed him.

  ‘Sorry aboot the mess, hen. The weans are up the stairs wi’ their presents but they jist leave aw the wrapping at their arses, ken?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Maggie. ‘Ah’ve got a few sisters ae ma own.’

  ‘Ye staying for Christmas dinner, Maggie?’ said Senga. ‘There’s more than enough for five ae us.’ She already suspected Grant and this girl were more than just bandmates. Although she was a different shade than that usually witnessed in Ayrshire, they looked like a well-matched couple – both tall and with chiselled cheekbones.

  Senga made tea and brought it through from the kitchen on a tray with a small Munro made out of chocolate Hob-Nobs. Grant was kneeling in front of the televison set, flicking between an animated cartoon film about racoons that had Leo Sayer voicing one of the characters, and The Island of Adventure on the other side.

  ‘Telly’s pish as usual,’ he concluded. ‘Bugger all on ’til Top ae the Pops at two.’

  ‘3–2–1’s on later,’ said Senga. ‘Ah love that Ed Roger.’

  Grant laughed.

  ‘Whit?’ she said.

  ‘It’s Ted Rogers, Mrs Dale,’ offered Maggie.

  ‘Well, hen … ah dinnae care if there’s two ae them. Ah still love ’em,’ she laughed.

  ‘Whit di
d he get ye then?’ said Senga, sipping at her mug.

  ‘Eh, well…’

  ‘Ah huvnae got it yet, Mam. Ah ordered it fae the Embassy catalogue … but thanks for bringin’ that up again, eh?’ said Grant.

  ‘It’s fine, Mrs Dale. He didnae know ah wis comin’ over today. Ah jist wanted tae surprise him.’

  ‘Ach, that’s lovely, hen. In’t that lovely, Grant?’

  ‘Lovely, Mam,’ said Grant, now back with the racoons.

  ‘Wid ye leave that dial? Christ, are ye tryin’ tae watch both programmes at the same time?’ said Senga. ‘Jist put it off tae the Queen’s on. You young folk … always got tae have the telly boomin’ away in the corner. Nae time for chattin’, eh?’

  ‘Yer right, Mrs Dale,’ said Maggie, as Grant shot her a glance.

  ‘God knows whit it’s gonnae be like wi’ another bloody channel. Four ae them, an’ oan aw bloomin’ day jist aboot! Your generation isnae gonnae be able tae converse with itself soon,’ said Senga shaking her head ruefully.