Necrophenia (15 page)

The Sumerian Kynges did plenty of rehearsing in Toby’s big rehearsal room, and when we had half an hour’s worth of material ready, we knew that we were ready. Now, I know what you are thinking: half an hour’s worth of material? That’s not very much. But these were the nineteen-sixties, so you do have to allow for the adding in of the guitar solos. Those long and inspired twiddly-widdly guitar solos that were so loved back then, and so missed now by folk who so loved them back then.

So we had ten three-minute songs rehearsed. But if you added in the obligatory twenty-minute guitar solo at the rate of one per song, well – you had a decent performance.

And when we were done with our rehearsals, we took to the road with The Flange Collective.

The Flange Collective was the catch-all title, the banner, as it were, beneath which danced the colourful ladies and dandified gents. Where the jugglers, stilt-walkers, fire-eaters, tumblers, clowns, madmen and fools followed their crafts. Where freaks and freaksters mingled. Where strange music played. Where strange drugs were imbibed. Where the weird and the wonderful were the ways of the everyday. And in the midst of what might be mayhem one moment and revolutionary genius the next, stood a single figure. A grey eminence. A puppet master supreme. What Warhol was to the Factory, The Flange was to The Flange Collective.

There is much that could be said regarding The Flange, all of it fascinating in its own way and books and books could be written about him, but to give you an idea, I’ll tell you about a pet theory of The Flange’s that he spent the last few years of his life trying to prove. The Flange believed in the Universal Axiom that things are where they should be because they should be where they are. The Flange’s deepest desire was to facilitate the Second Coming of the Lord, and in his retirement, he worked long and hard to create something that he called The Lounge of the Lord – the perfect sitting room for God. He believed that when the room was completed, correct to the tiniest degree, completely and utterly correct down to the sub-atomic level, then following the Universal Truth that states that things are where they should be because they should be where they are, Jesus would come and have a good sit down in that sitting room, and that the Second Coming would come to pass.

Weird and wonderful were the ways of The Flange, and I am truly glad I met him. For had I not, things would have turned out very differently…

But I digress, and I will stop that now. Honest.

On the day that we were to begin our tour with The Flange Collective, Mr Ishmael sent a furniture van to pick up all our equipment, then had his own chauffeur (Rapscallion, his name was) come over and pick us up in the limo. Which was pretty fab and raised our spirits no end.

Not that our spirits were down, really. Back together and playing again, we had sort of picked up where we left off. And although we all thought that we’d given up music for good, deep down in those rock ’n’ roll hearts of ours I feel certain that we’d all been secretly hoping that we might get the chance to climb back up on a stage again. In front of a genuine and appreciative audience this time, and hopefully composed of teenage girls.

And this time we were really ready.

We’d grown into ourselves, as it were. We were no longer foolish boys who would probably, in truth, have gone all to pieces on the road. No, we were older and more sophisticated and mature and better able to cope.

So this was our time. And we meant to make the most of it. Take it to the limit and beyond.

So, Rapscallion drove us off to The Flange Collective, which was presently camped upon Ealing Common. And we had the windows of the limo wound down so we could shout out at the girls.

And I think it was Neil who first coined that immortal hailing-of-the-female call, ‘Yo, bitches.’ Or it might have been Rob, although I think he was mostly calling, ‘You cheeses.’

But I cannot be altogether sure, so please don’t quote me on it.

What I can be sure of is that I was most impressed when, having stepped from Mr Ishmael’s limo, I was greeted by The Flange, who presented to us a most unique appearance. He was wearing the robes of a wizard of myth, all stars and moons and sigils. And he carried a staff of the Gandalf persuasion and wore a mighty wig that reached down almost to his knees.

‘This fellow,’ I said to myself, ‘is a character.’

And The Flange shook me warmly by the hand. ‘You,’ said he, ‘are a character, sir. Dressed up as a billiard table.’

‘It’s Glam Rock,’ I informed The Flange. ‘We invented it. But it has yet to come into its own.’

‘Well, welcome, friend, to The Flange Collective, the place where dreams come true.’

‘I often dream of cheese,’ said Rob. ‘Do you have any cheese in The Flange Collective?’

‘More cheese than you can shake a stick at, should you so choose.’ And now The Flange admired Neil’s baldy head. Because Neil, having had his head shaved, had decided to stick with that look.

‘Superb,’ said The Flange. ‘Might I stroke it a little?’

But Neil wasn’t keen and said, ‘No.’

‘Never mind, never mind – welcome all.’ And The Flange shook Andy’s hand and made admiring glances at his mullet, asked why he was dressed up as a postman but did not receive a coherent answer, and led us all into the tent.

A big top, it was, one of those jolly candy-striped affairs with seating all racked up around a central ring. And this ring was covered in sawdust, just as a ring should be. I admired that big top very much, for I was fond of the circus. There was a circus on Ealing Common for one week each year. It would appear as if magically from nowhere, set up and perform and then in a week be gone, leaving nothing but a circle of flattened grass.

I recall, years later, seeing photographs of crop circles and reading the ludicrous theories put forward to explain their existence. I shook my head rather sadly, I also recall, knowing that the mundane but obvious explanation – that of ‘travelling circuses’ – didn’t seem to be making any headlines.

I’ve seen crop circles myself and there is no doubt in my mind that they are the result of travelling circuses. Travelling fairy circuses, I might add.

‘Why is this not called The Flange Circus?’ I asked The Flange.

‘Because it is not a circus. It has elements of circus, but it is more a shared experience, an interactive human be-in.’

The Flange had a freak or two in that show. And I’d never encountered a real freak before this time. Certainly there were sufficient human oddities living in the Ealing area during the nineteen-sixties to have overstocked P. T. Barnum’s American Museum, had he chosen to return from the dead and set up shop once more, but you didn’t see them much in the streets. My mother told me that there were conjoined triplets living at number twenty-seven. But other than the family of dwarves who lived at number thirty-two and the Human Blancmange who lived at number forty-two, you just didn’t see them around. So I must confess to a certain amount of fascination, be this either, ‘morbid’ or simply ‘justifiable’, when I was first introduced to The Flange Collective’s Human Menagerie. But I must say, as many others have before me, that inside they were just like normal people. Adding that, during the long years of my life, I have yet to have it accurately defined for me what exactly normal is supposed to mean. I have met many many folk, but none I regarded as normal.

First I was introduced to Peg, The Flange Collective’s resident fat lady. Today, of course, fat ladies are two-a-penny (so to speak) but back in the sixties, they were a rarity. In England there was Peg and in America there was Mama Cass (who did not die choking on a pork sandwich!).

Whether there were any other fat women in the world, I couldn’t say. But if there were, I never saw them.

Mind you, it’s strange, that, isn’t it? Because, again as far as I know, there were only two fat men in the sixties. In England we had Robert Morley and in America there was Alfred Hitchcock. How times change, eh?

The Flange then introduced me to Mr Shrugger, the World-Famous Shrugging Man. And he was a real shrugging man, not just some skilful actor mocking-up the shrugging. Mr Shrugger gave a free demonstration of shrugging to me. And, even though I have since met men who walked upon the Moon, Hollywood actors and an entire pantheon of gods,
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I do have to say that I would number Mr Shrugger right up there in the list of the Five Most Remarkable Men that I have ever met.

The Slouch I didn’t think too much of. He was just a little too laid back for me. And as for Fumbling Fernando, the Bird-Brained Butter-Fingers, well, I could do that myself and I honestly think that the only reason he rose to prominence, and he was a big star at The Flange Collective, was because of his Spanish origins. Who back then could resist a Spaniard? Especially one who fumbled?

We might sneer at those times now, but remember, all the very best music came from then, and The Sumerian Kynges were the best of the best.

Let me tell you all about our first tour.

I have mentioned how all grown-up myself and the other guys in the band had become. How responsible and professional. And so, when it came to our first rock ’n’ roll tour, we realised our responsibilities. And we were determined to do the job properly and be remembered for so doing.

And so it became the original ‘Bad Behaviour’ tour. The tour that set the low standards of behaviour by which later rock tours, such as those of Led Zep, would be judged.

We did it first, I tell you, and the original is still the greatest. And when it came to sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll it was a case of been there, done that.

Especially when it came to the drugs.

Well, one drug in particular.

It changed my life for evermore.

Let me tell you all about it.

Apparently Mr Ishmael and The Flange had put their heads together and planned the tour of The Sumerian Kynges with The Flange Collective very carefully. It was designed to make an impact, the idea being that we would arrive in town, blow as many minds as we could possibly blow, then move on, leaving a legend behind.

At this time we didn’t have a record to market. No forty-five single, nor indeed album. We were spreading the word, as it were. Putting ourselves before the public and so on and so forth and suchlike.

It was an interesting tour.

Nine dates in all. Hardly taxing, one might have thought. Nothing to get too excited about.

Perhaps not on the face of it. But we did change the face of rock music for ever.

I will pass over our first three gigs. Much as I admired Mr Shrugger and what he did, I was somewhat egotistical, and I did think that The Sumerian Kynges were going to top the bill with The Flange Collective. I was, to say the very least, a bit disappointed to discover that we were only to be a support act. So we will pass over those gigs and take ourselves directly to Hyde Park, to the great free Festival in the Park of nineteen sixty-nine known to this day as The Stones in the Park gig. Memorable to my mind for four main things. For the two hundred and fifty thousand beautiful people who turned out to watch us. For the appearance of Gilbert and George, who, in grey suits and metallic face paint, strolled about the park creating their very own legend. For the drug that changed my life for ever. And, fourthly, for the fact that nowadays no one at all actually believes that The Sumerian Kynges even played there, let alone topped the bill.

So, let me set the record straight.

There had been a bit of unpleasantness two days before when Brian Jones was found dead in his swimming pool. Mr Ishmael had informed us of this tragedy before it had become known to the public.

‘A sad affair,’ he said to us. ‘But we must look on the bright side.’ I had no idea what this bright side might be, so I just shrugged. And Mr Shrugger, who was standing near at hand doing his shoulder exercises, smote me a blow to the skull.

‘It is clear,’ said Mr Ishmael, ‘that as Mr Jones is dead, The Rolling Stones will, out of respect, cancel their free festival in Hyde Park. And so The Sumerian Kynges can step into their shoes, as it were.’

I rubbed my skull and shrugged no more, but I did glance at the other guys. Neil was polishing his shaven head with an early precursor of the J-Cloth, Andy was impersonating a chicken, Rob was eating cheese and Toby was grinning to himself in a manner that I can only describe as ‘iffy’. And I did recall the threat he had made against Brian Jones so long before at Southcross Road School, on the school dance night.

No, he wouldn’t, I thought to myself. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He didn’t.

‘So we will be top of the bill?’ said Rob. And Mr Ishmael nodded.

‘But why?’ asked Rob. ‘Why us?’

‘Because now is your time and you have to make an impression. And you have to succeed and become rich and famous.’

‘Why?’ Rob asked, once again.

‘Does it really matter why, as long as it occurs?’

I shrugged once more, and dodged the swing of Mr Shrugger’s fist. ‘I’m good with it,’ I said. ‘Some fame and fortune would be nice. Any kind of wage at all would be nice, in fact.’

Mr Ishmael cast me a withering glance. And I felt an irresistible need to rush at once to the toilet. Which I did. When I returned, Mr Ishmael had gone and the guys of the band were looking a bit puzzled.

‘Why these looks of puzzlement?’ I asked them.

‘He’s got some purpose to this,’ said Toby. ‘Mr Ishmael. Everything is part of some great Machiavellian Masterplan. We are part of it. What this masterplan is, Heaven only knows, but he does put the wind up me.’

‘Me, too,’ I agreed. ‘But we don’t have any problem with being rich and famous, do we?’

This question occasioned a great deal of shrugging all round. And Mr Shrugger swore loudly, threw up his hands and stamped away in a right old huff.

‘So we’re good to go, guys, yes?’ I asked.

And they supposed that they were.

And as history records, The Rolling Stones did not cancel their free festival in Hyde Park. They’d sacked Brian Jones from the band anyway and got in the replacement that few folk now remember. Brian Blessed, wasn’t it? And they had no intention at all of cancelling such a big gig.

But we were hoping that they would and so when we arrived at the park in our Collective Wagons, we were somewhat disheartened to see Mick and Keith loafing about smoking cigarettes and chatting-up girls. Chatting-up girls! I ask you! Mick was going out with Marianne Faithfull at the time! Good grief!

Mick (you notice that he no longer called himself Michael) hardly even acknowledged our arrival. I later learned that he was under the impression that we were part of a circus act warming up for the bands. Outrageous!

Toby marched straight up to Michael. ‘Wotchamate, Michael,’ he said. ‘So nice to see you again. Which way is the green room?’

‘That Winnebago there,’ said Mick. And he pointed in a rather drippy fashion.

And so we did not help to erect the candy-striped big top. We took ourselves instead to the Winnebago green room to avail ourselves of drugs and groupies, of which, we felt assured, there’d be plenty.

Our way was barred, however, by a very big man who asked us for our passes.

‘Passes?’ I enquired of him. ‘What would passes be?’

‘They would be special passes that license you to enter the green room,’ the very big man told us.

‘Licence?’ I said. ‘Again the requirement for a licence?’

‘No licence pass, no entry,’ said the fellow.

‘This man deserves nothing less than death,’ I heard Toby whisper.

‘Would you respond to bribery?’ I asked the very big fellow.

But he, in sadness, shook his head and told us that it was more than his job was worth.

‘And what exactly is your job?’ I asked him.

‘I am a roadie for the Stones.’

‘My dad was a roadie for The Stones,’ I said, with a degree of wistfulness. As I hadn’t seen my dad for a couple of years.

‘Is your dad a big-bearded Scotsman?’ asked the very big fellow who guarded the green room door.

I agreed that he was.

‘Then your name would be Tyler. And that fellow with you, dressed as a postman – would be Andy.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But how do you know?’

‘Because I am your daddy,’ said my daddy. ‘I thought I recognised you.’

And indeed it was my daddy. Although I would not have recognised him, he had changed so much. The rock ’n’ roll lifestyle, I supposed. That, or he had shaved off his beard. (That, then, probably.)

And so we got into the Winnebago green room.

What a happy coincidence, eh?

We couldn’t see much in there due to the dope smoke. The Beatles boasted that they’d smoked dope in the toilets of Buckingham Palace, when they went there to collect their CBEs. But they probably said that in an attempt to look cool. In the hope that it would take right-thinking people’s minds off the fact that they had sold out and actually accepted CBEs. Outrageous!

But The Stones did have style and the green room heaved with dope smoke. And dope-smoking groupies.

‘Hello, ladies,’ said Andy, whose eyesight was perhaps the more acute. ‘I’m John Lennon – does anyone fancy a shag?’

And how well did that used to work!

We availed ourselves of the dope-smoking groupies.

And indeed of the dope that they were smoking.

Well, at least the others seemed to, anyway. I just bumbled about somewhat trying not to step on writhing bodies whilst breathing in an awful lot of dope smoke. And this went on for a considerable time, until Toby chose to introduce something new into the proceedings. A drug that I had not even heard of before. A drug that Toby told me was called a Banbury Bloater.

‘Banbury Bloater?’ I enquired as I floundered about somewhat in the smoggy Winnebago, searching for a groupie I could call my own. ‘What is a Banbury Bloater?’

‘Who said that?’ called Toby, his mouth somewhat muffled by bosoms.

‘It’s Tyler,’ I said.

‘Ah,’ said Toby. ‘Exactly who I’d hoped for.’

‘What did you say?’ I asked. Putting my hands upon something naked that didn’t belong to me.

‘Hands off my bum,’ said Toby. ‘I said, “Lets all do Banbury Bloaters.” You can do one first.’

‘Could I have some sex first?’ I asked. ‘I’ve been really hoping to get some sex, but so far-’ And then I said no more, because I became aware of a lot of female sniggering.

‘But I suppose that’s how it goes,’ I continued. Loudly. ‘When you’re Ringo Starr.’ And the sniggering stopped. But no one offered me a shag.

‘Down here,’ said Toby. And I located him in the fug. But did have to turn my face away. Because he was having sex. With two women simultaneously. How did he do that?

‘Stop ogling my bits,’ said Toby, ‘and score a Banbury Bloater.’

‘You were going to tell me why it was so called,’ I said. Accepting a large tartan something that strongly resembled a psychedelic gobstopper. ‘And what am I supposed to do with this?’

‘Firstly,’ said Toby, who continued with his dual-lovemaking as he spoke, ‘it is called a Banbury Bloater because it was developed in Banbury by a Druid named Pendragon Bloater. Pendragon was employed by the CIA to develop the drug. It was designed for soldiers in Vietnam, for them to take when they were dying.’

‘To revive them?’ I asked. Then I had to apologise to a groupie for stepping on her bottom.

‘To revive them? No. To send them on their way in a correct fashion. I read all about in it Conspiracy Theories Today magazine. Those soldiers in Vietnam, they are nothing more than sacrificial victims offered up to placate the War Gods. I bet you didn’t know that.’

‘I’ll bet you that I did,’ I said. Because I did.

‘Yeah, well, it has been in all the Underground Press,’ said Toby. ‘But the drug was designed to be taken at the moment of death to bestow a universal consciousness to those who took it. It’s not so much a psychedelic gobstopper.’ And Toby held this item towards me, between his forefinger and thumb, and I viewed it very closely amidst the swirling smoke. ‘It’s not so much a psychedelic gobstopper as a universe within itself. It isn’t a chemical, it’s a micro-universe. They’re everywhere, apparently, but you have to know where to look and then how to encapsulate them into a form that can be taken orally.’

I was staring at the psychedelic gobstopper. And I could see that although it appeared at first glance to be a solid glass marble sort of a body, it was in fact something rather more than that. The closer I looked, the further away it seemed. There appeared, indeed, to be an eternity of nothingness within this spherical something. A fathomless, bottomless pit in which microscopic galaxies gently revolved, and all this was very very cosmic indeed.

‘How many of these do you have?’ I asked of Toby.

‘Just the one, so far.’

‘And you are offering it to me?’

‘Well, you don’t think I’d be so dumb as to…’ Toby paused for a moment, though not in his lovemaking. ‘What I mean to say is that I’m not as cosmic as you, am I? You’d be the first to admit that you are very cosmic.’

I was aware of a lot of chuckling, but I did not consider that any of it could possibly be directed at me. Because, after all, Toby, with more awareness and wisdom than I would have given him credit for, had, in his way, struck the nail right upon its enlightened head. I was pretty cosmic. And if anyone would be the suitable someone to take such a cosmic drug, then that cosmic someone would be me.

Cosmically speaking.

So to cosmically speak.

‘Orally?’ I queried. Staring hard at the fair-sized cosmic something. ‘It does look rather big.’

‘What it appears to be and what it is are two different things,’ said Toby. ‘Just to the right a bit there, Marianne… yes, that’s perfect.’

‘What?’ I queried.

‘It has no absolute size. It inhabits no absolute time. It inhabits no absolute space.’

‘How exactly did you come by it?’ I enquired.

‘Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.’

‘That isn’t much of an answer.’

The groupies were growing restless. ‘Bung it in your gob,’ called Mama Cass.

‘Well,’ I said. And I wobbled a bit as I said it, because I had been breathing an awful lot of dope smoke. ‘I would take it, because I am pretty cosmic, but I’m just wondering whether-’

But whatever it was I was wondering, and I cannot in truth remember now just what that might have been, my wondering about whatever it was was abruptly curtailed by the opening of the green room door.

And Mick Jagger entered, tripped upon bodies and fell forward, right on top of me. Knocking me forward and the out-held Banbury Bloater right into my mouth.

And right, in a Cosmicky kind of a gulp.

Right deep down my throat.