2023: a trilogy (Justified Ancients of Mu Mu)

by The Justified Ancients of Mu Mu

  Today Gimpo is all over London handing out flyers for the FUUK that is planned to take place tonight at the Top of the Pops studio. But there has been nothing random about the handing out of these flyers – it’s all very strategic. As you know, everything BANKSY does is strategic.

  It is just the BBC has no idea this illegal FUUK is going to happen in the middle of Television Centre, as the Christmas Day Top of the Pops is being recorded.

  Over the past few weeks a series of crudely executed graffiti have been appearing on walls on and around Kingsland Road and a couple down in the Borough.

  These graffiti are just words, no visual imagery; just white emulsion daubed onto walls. No one would ever guess the world-renowned artist and filmmaker BANKSY was the unseen author of these words. BANKSY was smart enough to get someone else to do the actual dirty end of the business. That someone being Gimpo. As for the words, this is a selection:

  EITHER DISSECT THE PAST

  OR CREATE THE FUTURE

  DO NOT BE INTERESTED IN ANYTHING

  THAT HAPPENED EARLIER THAN TOMORROW

  IF MARX SAID RELIGION IS THE OPIATE OF THE MASSES

  I SAY ATHEISM IS THE VANITY OF THE ELITE

  IF GOD DOES NOT EXIST

  NEITHER DOES FREEDOM OF CHOICE

  I have chosen these four to give as an example as they are the four that have appeared on walls very close to the Eel & Pie shop in Hoxton Market.

  It should also be noted here that BANKSY has hidden cameras and microphones secreted in the very same Eel & Pie shop. The cameras are only ever turning over when Moses and Henry are at their table, or occasionally when Pete from The Libertines does a turn.

  A young lad – a second cousin of Tony Thorpe – helps himself to a book from the newly reopened Tottenham Library. It is titled One Hundred and it contains what are considered by the editor to be the hundred most important poems written in the English language. This young lad has never seen, let alone read, poetry before. The poems blow his mind.

  The young lad used to be a tagger. He had been addicted to it. But he had never done any more than his tag, which was, ironically, ‘POET’.

  This book containing the hundred poems from the English canon has a profound effect – he is once more prompted into action. Using his spray cans, masking tape and carefully cut cardboard stencils he gets back to work. But this time it is not just his tag, it is the first verses of dozens of these poems that have been appearing all over London in these past two or three months.

  The thing is, because of the expert and precise way they have been executed, rumour has gone around the city that BANKSY is behind the graffiti. Even Will Gompertz does a piece about them for the newly launched BBC programme Arts Round-Up.

  Anyone with any understanding of the work of BANKSY dismisses this immediately. Or at least guesses he would have no truck with the words of these white male colonialists. I mean:

  There’s a breathless hush in the Close to-night –

  Ten to make and the match to win –

  The whole poem, not just these two opening lines, in all its imperial glory on the side of the Old Street roundabout.

  The Shepherdess has always been there. Fashions in cuisine come and go and even come back again, but the Shepherdess on City Road has been there ever since the original Weasel strutted about popping in and popping out of the place.

  But three certain young women from three very different and distant corners of the world, who have never experienced a greasy spoon of any description, have nothing to compare the all-day breakfast on offer at the Shepherdess with, especially one served at 21:19 on Christmas Eve 2023.

  These three women have no language or culture in common. There is no way they can converse beyond warm smiles and sisterly embraces. What these three young women do have in common is they have all suffered and survived years of sexual abuse; have all magically received a book with a yellow cover; have all received a calling; and have all made their escape.

  How they ended up in the Shepherdess within minutes of each other on this Christmas Eve night will have to remain as much a mystery to us as Subcomandante Marcos’s arrival on the Westway. But they are here and tucking into bacon, eggs, fried tomatoes, black pudding and mushrooms. All three decline the sausages.

  And all three are sitting at the same table. It has to be admitted that Arati from Kolkata is using her fingers and not the knife and fork provided to eat her all-day breakfast. That said, she is doing it with only her right hand, and with the utmost daintiness.

  They know they have been called, and recognise the same calling in each other. As yet, they have little real idea what that calling is for. Other than a Baby is to be born and they should be there for the birth.

  Just as Camille is polishing off the last of the bacon fat on her plate with the last of her toast, a familiar face with that warm but bordering-on-threatening smile presents itself to the table.

  ‘My name is Bob Hoskins, and I’m your friendly cabbie for the night. I’m here to take you to your final destination.’

  Meanwhile:

  A coach containing all the members of The Grimethorpe Colliery Band is pulling off Junction Zero of the M1 and onto the London North Circular. On the backseat, and holding court, is our Arthur Scargill. He had waited until the Rolls-Royce turned up to pick him up, before he turned it down so he could travel on the coach with the band – his band, his miners, his men.

  A fluffy black cloud is making its way across the night sky. It may be the same cloud we have seen before but, as I have no idea about the lifespan of clouds, I have no idea.

  But what I do know is that its blackness has only got to do with it being night, and nothing to do with foreboding air.

  Meanwhile:

  An urban fox trots nonchalantly but purposefully along Westbourne Park Grove in a Westerly direction.

  And somewhere up above, unseen in the night sky, a crow is crossing the Thames in a Northerly direction.

  The Mermaid Inn was burnt down in the Great Fire of London in 1666.

  Yoko Ono the Older, President Michelle O’Bama and M’Lady GaGa arrive at the Mermaid Inn in their separately driven limousines – except M’Lady GaGa came in a black cab as her limousine and chauffeur were otherwise engaged.

  They arrive at the prearranged time of 22:23 precisely. They seem pleased to see each other, but you never can tell. Rivalry runs deep, even if these three are not rivals in any sort of obvious way – but then how many would-be mermaids do any of us know? Or for that matter Weyward Sisters?

  The place is packed with all sorts of people dressed in costumes hired from the wardrobe department of the Globe Theatre … or that is what we must assume.

  Or should we assume these three culturally and politically important women have such a force-field around them that they walk into a bar and it is instantly Christmas Eve 1606 and the place is rockin’? That said, the drinks on offer are pretty limited. It is either pale ale or small beers. And there is one young man who is a dead spit for Shakespeare. But I don’t think any of our three major but still supporting characters question any of it. For them it is all part of the parade that is their lives.

  Just as they are wondering which of the handsome young men on parade might take their order, Gimpo walks into the Mermaid.

  Gimpo is not in costume, just jeans, a ‘2023: WHAT THE FUUK IS GOING ON?’ T-shirt and a pair of Dickies work boots. It should be noted here that the whole unbranded movement goes out of style as fast as the Post-Digital fashion becomes so Pre-Age.

  Gimpo is handing out flyers to all the members of the Elizabethan cast, as well as The Weyward Sisters, and if we could read the words on the flyer, they would read:

  Be There at The BIRTH

  The Seminal FUUK

  Live from the Top of the Pops studio

  Television Centre, Shepherd’s Bush, London

  On stage and in person: TANGERINE NITEMARE; Azealia ‘My Quim Tastes Sweet’ Vaults; Nina Simone; The Grimethorpe Colliery Ba
nd + Special Guest; Utah Saints featuring Tammy Wynette; Doctor Whore; The Weyward Sisters; The Golden Bow; FIRST VERSE; Beethoven & His Droogs; Wise Men Three; The Miles Davis Quartet with Max Roach on drums; The Justified Ancients of Mu Mu with EXTREME NOISE TERROR; and Tony ‘FUUK’ Thorpe at the controls

  Be There for the Birth of The

  ONE

  Live Tonight

  ‘BANKSY here. Is that Will Gompertz?’

  ‘Yeah, BANKSY. What is it this time?’

  ‘Have you been tipped off about the Birth tonight at—?’

  ‘Yes, I got the flyer, bought the poster, already wearing the T-shirt.’

  ‘My guess, when the cultural history of these times is written, what is going to happen tonight is going to be seen as the major shift.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind me saying so, BANKSY, that is for the likes of me to decide.’

  ‘You and the likes of E. H. Gombrich, who will also be there.’

  ‘I get the point.’

  ‘And there was only one André Breton.’

  The three Popes stroll into the Happy Shillelagh in full drag. Obviously all the regulars think it is just some eejits in fancy dress for the office Christmas party.

  The three Popes have been tipped off something big is going to happen tonight, and if they are not there, it will be all over for the Roman Catholic Church. From Saint Peter – the first Pope – to now may have been two thousand years (almost), but two thousand years in the grand scheme of things is next to nothing. Plenty of religions have lasted longer. If they are to take the history of these past two thousand years seriously, they had better be there.

  But where?

  Before they have had time to let their three halves of Guinness settle, Gimpo walks into the bar and hands them a flyer each.

  Sorted.

  If not for E’s and Wizz.

  Meanwhile:

  Azealia Vaults is in her dressing room, unaware her name (spelt wrongly) is on the bill for a FUUK that very night. As far as she is concerned, she is there to do Top of the Pops, to promote her new single, ‘Cum in My Space’. Her only concern is the dance steps – can she remember them?

  And into the Korova Milk Bar stroll Alex and His Droogs, as they usually do at this time of night. Now Ultra-Violence is in fashion again Alex and the boys are back in business.

  The Tiger Who Came To Tea is drinking on his own as usual.

  Upsy Daisy is making a scene; nobody is taking any notice though. She is kinda sexy, but they all know she is trouble.

  Dead Perch is also on his own. He is maybe the only life form alive or dead on Earth at that very moment that knows how vital the events of this evening are going to be. Not just for the cultural history of our times. BANKSY is maybe pulling lots of strings, he knows how to make those puppets dance, but Dead Perch can see that what BANKSY is doing is in reality just window dressing, just wine and broken bread. Symbolic at most.

  Dead Perch understands something far, far bigger is going on. He knows if it doesn’t go right tonight, if the One is to be still born, wo/mankind will self-destruct within a generation, taking all other life forms with it.

  With no new life, there will be no new deaths. And if you know your stuff and if you have read this far, you might be beginning to grasp it. To put it in the language of now: Life is the gateway drug to Death. The hard stuff is only on offer after you die. That is when the Big Story begins.

  There are numerous characters in this book who would have you believe it is their billing on the cast-list that confirms their knowledge or understanding. But The Three Wise Men are mere followers; The Shepherdesses are playing a role. Even M’Lady GaGa, Michelle O’Bama and Yoko Ono the Older herself have very little more than their limited nous in how to shape a career. Even they do not see the bigger picture.

  No, the only three characters in this tale who have any idea how vast the horizons are – how high the mountains and how deep the oceans – are Dead Squirrel, John Lennon the Younger and, of course, Dead Perch.

  It is these three who know that the rest may have taken a puff on a joint or had a can of Strongbow, but that is about it. Even Killer Queen and Mister Fox only have a half-clue. As for The Tiger Who Came To Tea, he is totally up his own arse.

  So we will leave it there, just as Gimpo is coming through the doors of the Korova Milk Bar to hand out more flyers, and head back to the action.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ asks Winnie.

  ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ retorts a cockney accent from another age beneath Yoko the Younger’s bunk.

  ‘Yoko, are you awake? Someone or something is under your bunk. Yoko, wake up. I can’t move.’

  ‘What? Who? Where? What? Under my bunk? I wasn’t asleep, just … oh my God. Winnie, there is a man under my bunk trying to get—’

  In less than three minutes Winnie, with the help of Yoko, is down from the top bunk. They have shifted the whole thing to find a half-opened manhole cover and a rather ageing but fully formed man, who doesn’t look even a bit like a string puppet carved from wood, climbing out of it.

  ‘Pardon my language, ladies, I got my finger caught. I take it I am talkin’ to Miss Ono and Miss Smith? I’m Parker – Aloysius Parker. I’m here to free you, but first we must take a few bricks out of this wall and get the good but somewhat feckless Lady Penelope out of her cell.’

  After about 23 minutes of very uncomfortable squeezing along a classic prison-escape tunnel and up into the ladies’ powder room of the Islington Arts Factory on Parkhurst Road, they are all safely in the back of the pink stretch Roller.

  Although Lady Penelope has cracked the champagne open to celebrate their escape, she is far more excited by the fact she is soon to be back in business with what she does and loves best – being a midwife.

  And Parker knows where the Bed is for the Baby to be delivered on.

  The waters are not yet broken, but it won’t be long.

  Yoko the Younger is silent. Half an hour ago she came to terms with spending the rest of her life in jail in exchange for murdering the man she loved. Now she is facing a life on the run. Could living a life on the run be performance art? She is already exploring the concept.

  Even if Yoko and Winnie don’t know, we do. They are all heading for the Top of the Pops studio at Television Centre. And the bed in question is being provided by the future Lady Emin.

  The Blue Boar Service Station

  The M1

  Northamptonshire

  Dear Diary,

  Well, that was more than a turn-up for the books, and this book in particular! Late this afternoon, who should turn up but that lovely Jimmy Cauty from Devon.

  It seems that after – how shall I put it? – my funny turn, and I got incarcerated in this place to spend the rest of my life locked into The Shipping Forecast, he took it upon himself to take my treasured Brough Superior, Belstaff jacket, my Halcyon goggles and my white silk scarf down to Devon, for safe-keeping. Whether that meant keeping them for ever, or until I was in fit mental shape to return to the world of letters and the Ton-Up Club.

  It seems after visiting me today, the lovely Alan Moore telephoned Master Jimmy down in Devon and told him of my improvements. Master Jimmy then took it upon himself to drive the two hundred and something miles up here for a second time to bring me my motorcycle and my Belstaff and goggles, etc.

  I’m sure Matron was most jealous I was getting so many visits from young men in one day.

  Master Jimmy told me his plans were to hitch down to London, meet up with a young lady, and then catch the first flight to New York. Once there he has been promised a second-hand American police car. He was then going to hit the highway and head for the Promised Land. All I could say was his companion on this trip was a very lucky young lady indeed. And I would help him on his way.

  It was the boost to my spirits that Master Jimmy’s visit gave me that in turn gave me the confidence to make my break. I told the slightly tipsy ward sister – it is Christmas Eve, after
all – I was going to see my visitor to the doors of the secure wing. She smiled, almost winked, and nodded her head.

  I then took Master Jimmy on a detour via the morgue. Stewart was long off duty but, as he had predicted, the day had provided a bumper crop. The Frigidaire was full and the surplus corpses were stacked up all over the place. And so he had left the door to the garden slightly ajar.

  We stepped over the bodies, pushed the door open, and I tiptoed into a freezing night and freedom. But before we set off, Master Jimmy pulled out a bag of spliff and skinned up. It seemed like years since I had had a proper toke. He then told me how he had got lost in the new town of Milton Keynes on the way up. While there he saw all these kids rioting. It gave him the idea to break into the model village at Babbacombe when he gets back to Devon and set up a scene of a load of the model teenagers rioting, smashing the place up. I thought this was a brilliant idea. One more toke and it was time to get my Halcyon goggles on.

  Once my thighs were astride the Brough again, it still felt like all the man I had ever needed.

  I gave Master Jimmy a pillion lift down to the Grange Park Junction of the M1. He was going to hitchhike South to his further adventures. I was going to drive North. With a fair wind, I can make it to the Isle of Jura for a late Christmas dinner with Francis Riley-Smith.

  As of now, I’ve pulled up into Watford Gap service station, to refuel both myself and my steed. And to get this last-but-one to the last chapter done.

  I love Watford Gap services. Full of memories from the ’60s, when it was known as the Blue Boar and I would bomb up here from London after the clubs closed in Soho.

  Ham, eggs and chips, with baked beans on the side. Two mugs of coffee. A second round of toast. And I am now ready to hit the road again.

  My next stop will be the Tebay services on the M6, at the top end of the Lake District.