Then Booga came in, followed by Barney and Jet Girl. They leant with their bums against the sink unit, feigning nonchalance. Nobody seemed to be particularly pleased to see that I was up and about.
They were looking at me funny.
I looked at them funny.
“What’s so fucking funny?” I asked, all arsey and grumpy after my extended, near-death kip.
“Nothing’s funny,” replied Jet Girl seriously, “believe me, things are far from fucking funny.”
Barney moved away from the other two, fiddling with the zipper on her undersized kid’s jacket. “Why don’t you tell her what you’ve done, you dick?” she challenged Booga, being careful not to meet his worried gaze.
Booga gulped. “I need a glass of water,” he said with a nervous tremor.
He had a glass of water.
“So?” I asked, tired of farting around the bush.
He turned back to the sink, hoarsely whispering, “I need another glass of water.”
He had another glass of water.
“Booga. Tell it,” I said tersely, my feeble attention span starting to wane.
Booga gushed, “I’ve had a bit of an accident.” I looked at him sternly, trying to gauge how long it was gonna take me to get him to tell me the whole of what he had done. In situations of this nature Booga can take up to three weeks to completely divulge the truth in its entirety. “Okay,” I said calmly, “what sort of an accident are we talking about here?”
Booga’s brow furrowed and his chin sank into his chest. He uttered a few more uninformative words. “I’ve kind of broken something... quite... erm... badly.”
“Okay,” I said patiently, “what sort of something are we talking about here?”
His eyes stayed glued to the floor. “Something that... I’ve... erm... broken... quite badly.”
Jet Girl stepped into the middle of the room, throwing her hands out in despair. “Enough, for fuck’s sake,” she shouted at Booga. Then she spun around to face me. “He’s broken your tank, okay? Booga has busted your most prized possession. He’s totally fucked it. It will never ride again, ever. It’s in even more pieces than one of those fucking 3D jigsaw puzzles with a million pieces that only my auntie can do. It is fucked to bits. It is desiccated. It is dead. He has fucking killed it.”
“What are you trying to tell me?” I asked, more dazed and boggled than before.
“Jet Girl’s right,” said Booga timidly, “I’ve killed your tank. It’s never coming back. And now you’re going to kill me.”
“You’ve killed my tank? How? Why?”
“I was just doing a few stunts, you know, running it up a ramp and jumping over a disused quarry...”
I finished the sentence for him: “And you crashed it into the ground and smashed it to smithereens?”
“No no no,” injected Booga quickly, “I brought it back here in one piece, everything was fine. But I thought that I would have a crafty joint on the way back, y’know, like you do. By the time I arrived outside I was so stoned that I accidentally flicked my roach into the ammunition compartment. Then that started to make a funny fizzing noise so I panicked and scarpered. Then it blew. There was shit flying everywhere. It was a total nightmare. Total devastation.” Booga looked up from the ground and gave me his big puppy-eyed gaze; I could read his thoughts – he was searching for any sign of a slight reprieve. “It could’ve been me,” he sniffed helplessly.
I snapped back, “It fucking well should’ve been you too, you dozy hippie cunt.”
I thought things through for a millisecond. Then all seemed clear to me. “Booga, I want you to go and lock yourself in the cellar and swallow the key. You need to run through what you did back there a few times and maybe figure out why you are such a stupid twat. You can take one thing with you, what’ll it be?”
“Hmm...” he pondered, “...can I take your old copy of MAD Magazine?”
“You mean the one with the rules to 43-man Squamish in it?” I asked seriously.
“Yeah. That one,” replied Booga.
“Okay. But you’d better not blow it up.”
I got up from the kitchen table and stretched my whole body. My bones creaked and cracked like old wood but it felt good anyway.
I barked out the rest of my orders. “Barney, I need you to get hold of Zulu Dobson right away. And Jet Girl, get down to the store and buy me some more cornflakes. And make sure they’re the ones with the free little Captain Scarlet model inside the box.”
“Yes boss, we sure will do that boss.”
And I was alone again.
FOURTEEN
LET’S BUILD A TANK
I had been good friends with Zulu Dobson since high school. Zulu was always ace at physics, chemistry and metalwork, which are, of course, the three coolest subjects that you could ever want to study. He had a talent that could breathe life into any ridiculous idea I had.
He was a tall guy, dark skinned, lean and wiry, had a comprehensive collection of denim suits, smelt of Hai Karate aftershave and wore a huge afro wig to cover his unnaturally bald head (a tragic swimming accident as a child left him without a hair on his body). He also had letters tattooed on his knuckles – F.U.C.K. on the right hand and O.F.F.F. on the left.
I kissed him once at a party – a passionate, sensitive, soul-tickling kiss – and I almost fell head-over-heels, but we decided that it would be a bad idea to mix business with pleasure, so he became my personal weapons designer, to the exclusion of all else, including hanky, panky, and spanky.
It had been over three years since I had last seen him and I was a little embarrassed about my smashed-in appearance. I guess I still had a soft spot for the old rogue.
Barney pulled up on her scooter right outside the kitchen window. Zulu was perched on the back of the bike. I watched daydreamily through the billowing muslin curtains as he dismounted and removed his crash helmet, unleashing his unfeasibly large afro wig. It took my breath away for a second.
I regained my cool in time for his entrance through the screen door.
Our eyes met in a smouldering reunion. He looked me up and down, glaring at my cuts and bruises; I was still clothed in nothing but a few sheets. I stared at his enormous mushroom hairpiece.
“Tank Girl,” he said, his voice as smooth as smooth-style peanut butter, “it’s been too long.”
“Hey, Zulu,” I replied in a throw-away tone, “your wig needs mowing.”
He walked around me, checking out the rest of my wounds. “Shit girl. What the fuck happened to you?”
“I had an argument with an articulated lorry,” I jested. It didn’t raise a smirk.
He drew close to me, speaking with hushed sensitivity. “Who did this?” he asked.
“Friends of some dead guy called Tony,” I replied.
“And they came off a lot worse, right?”
I said nothing.
A deep crease wrinkled Zulu’s brow. “So when you’ve made a full recovery, you’re gonna be jumpin’ in your tank and blastin’ their heads clean off their shoulders, right?” he asked, puzzled and concerned.
“I can’t,” I muttered mournfully, “my tank is dead.”
“Tank’s dead, huh? Shit.”
Zulu paced up and down in silence, stroking his chin like he had an imaginary beard. Minutes passed. Then a thought occurred to him and he turned to me, beaming. “I could build you a new tank!”
“That’s what I was hoping you were gonna say,” I laughed.
“Fuck yeah!” he exclaimed. I could tell he was getting into the idea already. “I’m gonna need two weeks and six million dollars. Can you get me that?”
“Sure,” I replied, “but why six million?”
“That’s the magic number. It’s like the Bionic Man, he’s the benchmark of coolness in my life – if you want something new, fast and cool, then it’s always gonna cost six million.”
I suddenly found myself completely healed and dynamically animated. “Okay Zulu,” I said enthusiastically,
“give me forty-eight hours then meet me back here. I’ll have everything you need.”
FIFTEEN
THE PROFOUND INFLUENCE OF TERENCE HAWKINS
It is generally accepted that Jet Girl is called Jet Girl because she flies a jet, but people should learn that things are never that simple.
She called herself Jet Girl from a very early age – she even had her junior school teachers calling her Jet Girl – and this was not because of her skills in the air, but because of her all-consuming obsession with Jet Harris, the original bass player with The Shadows.
Jet Harris (born Terence Hawkins in London, 1939) was already one of the coolest dudes on the scene when he joined the Shads in the late ’50s. Having learnt the trade in various jazz and skiffle outfits, he wielded his massive Fender bass with poise and character and did the Shadows’ shuffle with an easy grace. He was the quiet leader of the group, like Brian Jones of the Stones. A solo career followed, in which he built on the darker side of his image with his backing band, The Jetblacks.
Jet Girl was attracted to Harris because of his enigmatic moodiness. Harris – who was haunted by the idea that he wouldn’t live past the age of thirty – almost died in a car crash in 1963, bringing a virtual end to his career as a recording artist (one which may well have equalled – or even surpassed – those of Cliff and Hank Marvin in longevity and stature, had it been given the chance to continue into the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s).
I know all of this crap because Jet Girl brings it up on a monthly basis and harps on about it until she’s got it out of her system.
She always ends by saying, “I defy anyone on this planet to watch the end of The Young Ones film – where The Shadows play at the big gig to help Cliff and the kids save their youth club – and tell me that Jet Harris isn’t the coolest fuckin’ god-star this universe has ever seen. Watch him, man, he has the spirits of Buddha, Jesus, and Lawrence of Arabia, all wrapped up in a shiny, silver mohair suit. The camera can’t leave him alone; Marvin’s grinning, bespectacled face doesn’t get a close-up and the drummer and rhythm guitarist don’t even get a look in. It’s like he’s been beamed down from another solar system, he just glows with other-worldliness. He makes me die that I can’t be as cool as him, I just don’t know how he does it. I can hardly speak, he chokes me up so badly. I think... I... love him. ” Or something like that.
So that’s where it began. And from her preoccupation with Jet Harris sprang an interest in all things ‘jet’.
SIXTEEN
NOTHING FARM
Jet Girl divides her time evenly between hanging out at her house and tending to her farm. I’d never been to her farm – I hate the smell of dung – so it was a big surprise to me to find out what she got up to down there.
Barney gave me a ride on the back of her scooter; that was the kind of transportation I didn’t need in my delicate state, but it had to be done.
Jet Girl had disappeared after I asked her to replenish her breakfast cereal supplies. We knew exactly where she would be.
It was a long, bumpy and uncomfortable ride. Barney had kitted me out with storm goggles and a neckerchief across my mouth. The wind was up and we drove on through what appeared to be a minor hurricane; dust and grit pelted the unprotected areas of our bodies. I’d managed to apply fresh bandages and dressings to all of my wounds before leaving, but they were filling up with dirt and sweat and I felt like my flesh was being rubbed down to the bone with sandpaper.
Eventually we left the storm behind and the air became fresh and clean. The barren desert gave way to a lush green landscape. A winding country track took us the rest of the way to the boundary of Jet Girl’s farm.
Then it hit me – the appalling, overwhelming stench of rotting vegetation. We passed a half-collapsed wooden sign that was swinging by a gatepost that read: NOTHING FARM.
Within the space of a few feet, the bountiful woodland paradise had turned into a decaying mulch. It was as if no plant could’ve lived within the perimeters of Jet Girl’s estate. Dark green goo hung lifelessly from broken sticks, large insects chewed voraciously on the blackened carcasses of unidentifiable mammals in ditches of dirty water, and a putrid, shit-brown haze floated just above the composting undergrowth.
“This is it,” shouted Barney, turning her head right around to check out my reaction. I was nearly gagging on the dense atmosphere, my face contorted into a chunder-like grimace.
The gangrenous forest gave way once more to a vast, open tundra of dark marshes and scattered tree stumps. A total lack of wildlife lent the scene an eerie stillness.
In the middle of it all, like a black heart radiating death vibrations across the land, was a small collection of ramshackle farm buildings.
“This isn’t a farm,” I shouted back to Barney, “this is the end of the fucking planet.”
Barney rolled her little 50cc Honda step-thru into the yard and we skidded to a stop. Right in front of us was Jet Girl’s plane, thoughtlessly parked with the tip of its wing embedded in the roof of the farmhouse, which rendered the whole building completely unliveable.
Jet Girl was sitting under the shade of the wing, alone, reading a woman’s magazine, and sipping a cocktail. Her ratty-but-glossy dark hair fell sexily around the collars of her navy-blue pinstriped suit and Edwardian style white shirt. She looked good. A cheap, rusty barbecue smouldered pathetically on a paved area to her side.
I strode up slowly, like a cowboy with rickets, my inner thighs stinging sore from the ride. She looked up from her read and prodded the barbie with a rubber-tipped walking stick. Then she brushed her long fringe away from her eyes and noticed our presence, but her blank expression remained unchanged.
We helped ourselves to seats and pulled them up close to the barbie.
Barney got straight to the point. “Jet Girl, we need you to get the chickens out of your plane so that we can use it to do a bank raid.”
Jet Girl was instantly accommodating, although her expressionless face still revealed no enthusiasm for the conversation. “Sure honey, borrow the plane, there’s no chicks on board.”
“But Booga told me that they were laying eggs in your engines,” retorted Barney.
“Yeah. They were,” explained Jet Girl, “but the bastards made too much fuckin’ noise...” she pointed at the charred, feathery drumsticks, roasting ever so slowly over the coals, “...so I nuked ’em.”
Barney leant in and picked out a particularly bloody chunk of chick from the smoke. I was saving myself for supper.
“What are you farming here, then, if you ain’t got no chickens?” I asked Jet Girl.
“Nothing,” she replied. “Fuck all. Jack shite.”
“Cool,” I said. And what else was there to say? I honestly had no fucking idea what she was talking about – Nothing Farm? She must’ve been completely off of her fucking tits! I’d always known her to be a bit of a fruitcake, but that took the fucking biscuit.
“Zulu Dobson’s gonna build me a new tank,” I continued, trying my best to bring the conversation back to Earth, “but it’s gonna take six mill.”
“Hmm,” pondered Jet Girl, “six mill, huh? Shouldn’t be too difficult. Where are you thinking of doing the job?”
Barney got out of her chair and gave a fake cough to hold our attention. She crouched down, resting on her heels. Me and Jet Girl watched with a modicum of interest as she picked up a twig and drew a circle in the dust, purposefully marking its centre with a large dot.
“Chankers,” Barney said broodily. “Let’s kill three birds with one stone.”
SEVENTEEN
FOUNTAIN OF LOVE
In 1964 Robert Stigwood (who went on to produce Grease) made a musical film called Every Day’s a Holiday (not to be confused with the 1930s film of the same name). It was a cheap imitation of Cliff Richard’s Summer Holiday and starred John Leyton, Ron Moody, Richard O’Sullivan, The Mojos, Mike ‘Run Around’ Reid as the front man for a hilarious band called The Magnolias, Nicholas Parsons, the Baker twins
, and the incredible Mike ‘Come Outside’ Sarne. The light-hearted action centred around a Butlins-style holiday camp during a glorious swinging British summertime. Nicholas Roeg did the photography so the quality of the film was very warm and friendly.
I discovered it by accident when I was bunking off school one sunny day. I was drawn to it in the TV listings because of the use of the word ‘Holiday’, which has its roots in the phrase ‘Holy Day’, the title therefore implying that every day is a holy day, or, in a broader sense, every day has a spiritual significance – a sentiment I would have found more than alluring in the early days of my deism (the same theory could be applied to Cliff’s ‘Summer Holy Day’ – and you can see where that got him!). It came on the TV and I put a tape in the recorder straight away and started to record (I was a big ’60s buff at the time, so I kept anything and everything that came my way). Halfway through, I realised that I was about to record over a very important episode of The Wonder Years, so I switched to another tape and ended up with the complete film on two different cassettes.
My favourite scene was one near the end, where Freddie and the Dreamers – who were playing the part of the holiday camp’s catering staff – do a surreal song and dance routine (involving some fruit and stuff) in the camp’s vast, industrial kitchen. I loved that scene. It was the one thing in this world that could be guaranteed to make me laugh.
No one I’ve ever met has the slightest idea what I’m talking about when I mention that film. It’s not available to buy in the shops, they never repeat it on TV, it’s like I’m the only person who’s ever seen it.
I hadn’t watched it for years and I was meaning to get the cassettes together, splice them onto one tape and maybe do a digital transfer.
The second tape was in my tank when Booga blew it up.
Tank Girl Page 4
