I nod, a little feebly.
Jimmy sniggers. ‘Fuck me that was piss, real piss. Then your fucking pants caught fire! Bloody hell.’
I find the courage for a riposte thanks to the width of the counter separating me from my critic. 'Well what about you waving your todger and your bollocks in front a group of old women and children?'
My words are spoken just a woman with a tight perm and even tighter lips enters the shop. She walks out immediately in disgust, tutting.
'Come on lad, you're losing me customers here.'
The shop door opens again.
‘Hi John.’
I recognise the next customer’s voice immediately. I turn around to see Brenda. She proceeds to slap my arse and then walk towards the hinged part of the counter, which she lifts to access the serving area. For a moment, I am expecting her to don a white overall and start wrapping chips, but she just embraces Jimmy and disappears into the back.
Jimmy looks at me with a twinkle in his eye. 'I tell you what lad, that's one great girl.' He empties his chipped potatoes into the fryer, and his gold tooth glistens as the fat boils with a hiss.
'Does she work here?'
'Does she fuck. She's me business partner.'
'Your business partner?'
'Owns half of it.'
Probably another twenty-first present.
'Are you still playing with the Rockets?'
'No lad, it's over. I've hung that microphone up for good. Sold me gear and bought this place with me sister.'
'Brenda's your sister?'
'You know her?'
'Yeah... we've, erm, met on a few occasions.' The 99 Club ordeal looms large in my thinking as I speak.
Brenda re-emerges from the back, carrying a folding table and a couple of folding chairs. She is unquestionably a girl who likes to wear her clothes tight. Her jeans appear designed for Twiggy, and her yellow cowl neck jumper may just as well have a sign attached saying ‘Look at the size of my tits!’
‘Take hold of these gobshite,’ she says, passing the furniture over to me. The instruction is not up for discussion.
I grab the table and chairs, awaiting my next command. I stand there like a lemon.
She points at the corner where I had been playing pinball a few minutes earlier. ‘We’ll put them there.’
I stare in disbelief as she single-handedly picks up the pinball machine and moves it a few feet to the right. I am glad to see that my task of unfolding and arranging the furniture requires a little less strength. Jimmy indicates that my fish and chips and Brenda’s scallops are ready. Like it or not, I am being conscripted to dine in this improvised café.
We both initially concentrate on eating, until she says, ‘So what do you think about your Lord Snooty and our Amanda as a couple?’
I would have preferred an easier question like 'What’s the capital of France?' or 'Name a twentieth century dictator, first name Adolf?' I do have genuine doubts about Amanda, but I know I cannot give an honest answer. My response is inane. ‘I think they look fine together.’
‘Bollocks,’ she replies, in the unmistakable manner of a woman who has never sat on the fence in her life. She really is the female version of Ged. ‘Amanda’s got a good heart, but she’ll eat that poor fucker for breakfast. She needs a real out and out bastard like you.’
‘Like me?’ My indignation is almost physical.
Amanda laughs like a rugby player. ‘Only joking, you soft bugger! You’re a fucking marshmallow.’
She pushes me with the palm of her hand. Predictably, I fall off the chair and squeal like a castrated pig when I inadvertently put the weight on my bad foot. I explain the happenings of last night to a lack of sympathy but a chorus of sniggers.
‘You stupid twat!’ she concludes with characteristic bluntness. It confirms that her blossoming relationship with Ged could well turn out to be a match made in heaven.
I manoeuvre the conversation away from me. 'You and Ged seem to be getting on well.'
'Fuck off.'
'That's exactly what he'd say.'
Brenda stretches for a ketchup bottle from the edge of the counter and squeezes a bit of sauce on to her food. She evidently does not want to talk about herself.
I return to the subject of her sister. ‘Why do you say Amanda needs a bastard?’
‘Because birdbrain, she has to have a challenge when it comes to guys. If you’re talking about the perfect gentleman like your mate, she’ll lap up the initial attention but get bored shitless before the day’s out.’ She pauses to put a giant scallop in her mouth and adjust a bra strap.' Isn't that right John?'
'What's that love?'
'Our Amanda... a bit of a man killer.'
'Bloody hell, I'd say... takes after Brigitte, her mother. The old fella couldn't resist her.'
'My heart stopped beating the day she died
My time was up, I was paralysed.'
It appears that Jimmy, Brenda, and Amanda share the same father; a father who fell for the other woman, Amanda's mum. It is now a fair bet that Brenda and Jimmy's mother looks like a docker while Amanda's is more French film siren.
Brenda snaps the end from my cod and shoves it down her gob. She is a girl who readily embraces the act of talking and eating at the same time. ‘She knows she’s a fucking stunner and that all the guys want to shag the arse off her, so the best kind of bloke for her is one that plays it cool; one that shows a bit of indifference... better still, one that flirts with other girls. It’s the old treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen thing. It makes her try harder and keeps her interested.’
‘She doesn’t strike me as the kind of girl who’d tolerate that kind of behaviour.’
‘That’s the point bog breath, she doesn’t. So what does she do? She does the same, flirting with other guys so that the bastard gets hungry for what he can’t have and comes back round sniffing for more.’
‘Sounds all a bit too complicated for me.’
‘That’s because you’re a thick sod!’
‘Thanks very much.’
‘I mean that in a nice way.’
‘So thick sod is a compliment?’
‘Believe me, in my world, that’s a compliment.’
I believe her as she grabs my last chip. I fold away the table and chairs, watching in awe as she lifts the pinball machine back to its original spot as though made of candyfloss. A combination of the fish and chips, my unexpected dinner date with the demanding Brenda, and the singing of Jimmy’s old chart failure is weighing heavy on my stomach. Perhaps the pea burger meal was the better option after all.
*
It is the next evening, and I am at the Social Club gig. On reflection, I thought I would show solidarity. I know if I was in the lads' shoes, I would still want to play. However, I am not sure that the boys have made the right choice. The performance I am watching is an embarrassment. My deputy Dick more or less knows the songs, but he is playing them in a tempo more pedestrian than an old age pensioner with a walking stick. Tonight’s version of ‘Good Golly Miss Molly’ sounds like a Perry Como single played at 33 rpm. Normally at this time of the evening, there would be a gang of people dancing away in front of the band. Tonight the only ones up are an elderly couple waltzing to ‘Paper Plane’ by Status Quo. It is quite a relief when the boys finish their set, and everyone gets ready for Harry Carlton to have a field day at Dick’s expense. He does not disappoint.
'Bloody hell Harry, the last time I saw hands move that slowly was when I came home to find the wife in bed with her Italian lover!'
'That was fucking shit,' says a disconsolate Ged, slumping into his seat and taking a long sip on a pint of bitter.
'Man, there were bad vibes going on there, bad vibes.' Brian's looks like he is suffering from the bends and leans back to recover.
'Hey Tom,' says Jules.
'Yes.'
'I think I speak on behalf of the other guys when I say it was mistake to do that gig without you.'
'No, a
s the saying goes, the show must go on.' I say the words, but I know Julian is right. However, Dick’s loss is my gain. There is a new found appreciation for my drumming, a true novelty, and I find this a tremendous boost to my flimsy self-confidence as a musician. I know I am not the next Carl Palmer or Buffin, but neither will I let the boys down. I can almost feel my toe getting better, and I am now itching to get behind the drums again.
'Just hurry up and get that fucking toe fixed, soft lad.'
Harry winds up his act, and I jump up. ‘Let’s play a few songs.’
‘What’s that?’ says Julian.
‘Let’s cheer ourselves up and get back on the stage.’
‘What about your toe?’
‘Fuck the toe!’ I shout, just as everything goes quiet.
I wave an apologetic hand at the more sensitive club members and see Julian whispering in Harry’s ear. We get the thumbs up and the four of us head back to play the gig of our lives. I have adrenaline rushing around my body. There is no pain coming from my foot as it pounds the bass drum repeatedly. We are performing with an energy that we have never had before, and I know it is down to me. I am the drummer in the band, the engine. We have already seen what happens when you put the mechanics of a lawnmower in a Rolls Royce, no offence Dick, but you know what I mean. The club members and visitors, previously sitting like senile octogenarians with their mild and Martinis, are now bopping and hopping like nobody’s business on the dance floor. Thanks to my damaged toe, Dick’s uninspiring performance, and my temporarily out of control ego, Plain Truth are on fire.
We then discover it is Harry’s birthday. Ged has the idea to dedicate a few songs to our favourite compère, and so we perform ‘Black Magic Harry’, ‘Whole Lotta Harry’, ‘Harry B Goode’, and ‘Harry in the Boy’s Room’. Playing in a band has never been such fun. I know that I will suffer later when the adrenaline subsides and the pain returns, but the price is worth it.
At the end of our spontaneous performance, I return to sit down and drink a well-earned glass of Coca-Cola, a feeling of euphoria sweeping over me like an ocean wave. I then feel the predictable throb from my toe, though right now, I could not give a hoot.
13. The Kiss
Julian has already broken up from university for the Christmas break, so we are off for a lunchtime game of table tennis to help relieve the tedium of my working day in Strathconas. My toe is fine now after a few weeks’ rest and the first port of call is Sayers to buy a sausage roll, ring doughnut and carton of orange squash. Then it’s across the road past Marks and Spencer towards the Co-op Department Store. The offices of the Birkenhead & District Co-operative Society are on the first floor, above which there is a large hall used for various purposes such as amateur dramatics, ballroom dancing, and orchestral practice. Having paid £1 to become a member, I am entitled to use all facilities including the full size table tennis table.
I do enjoy a game of ping-pong and usually compete against Phil from the warehouse, playing the best of three for a 25p bet. My game is based on a defensive strategy, whereby the simple aim is to get the ball back on to my opponent's side of the net, forcing him to make a mistake and lose the point. Phil is an exhibitionist who loves nothing more than a pile-driving glory shot, which looks brilliant when it comes off. Unfortunately, like Des O’Connor’s music career, there are more misses than hits for Phil. I have started to feel guilty about taking so much money off him and have suggested we play for fun, but he will not contemplate it. His exhibitionist tendencies are matched only by his eternal optimism. All in all, I am happy when Julian agrees to play a match without any cash being at stake.
Before we start, there is the ritual of getting the bats and equipment from Roger the caretaker. This man has the persona of a drag queen, though without the ball gown, tiara, and lipstick. He wears thick horn-rimmed spectacles and is a picture of bri-nylon, brushed cotton and stale perspiration. On the face of it, he is a nice guy with a pleasant manner. Unfortunately, the wearying thing is that his every sentence is soaked in suggestiveness. Roger is Mr. Innuendo personified; a true one man Carry On film.
‘Hi boys, have you come to play with my balls?’ This is Roger’s habitual opening line.
‘Good afternoon.’ I am always careful how I engage with him. The slightest slip and he will pounce with a saucy line or two. Give him an inch and he will give you six inches in return.
He eyes my friend up and down. Jules has recently shaved off his beard and cut his hair a little shorter, accentuating his dark good looks. ‘Hello, I see you’ve brought someone new to share your grunting and thrusting upstairs.’ Roger likes what he sees, his eyes focussing on the Levi jeans that are hugging Julian's thighs like a frightened child with its mother.
‘Yeah, have you got the bats Roger?’ I say, with slight exasperation.
‘I don’t believe he’s handled my equipment before has he?’
‘Come on Roger, my sausage roll’s going cold here.’ Regrettably, my embarrassment in front of Julian at these pantomime exchanges has paved the way for a classic own goal against the Co-op man.
‘Ooh, you don’t want your sausage going cold do you? Particularly at this time of the year with Christmas just around the corner!’
It is a relief when we are finally walking up the stairs to play. I am beginning to think that the £1 lifetime membership fee was not such a bargain after all.
In the hall itself with its huge, incomprehensible mural depicting agricultural labourers, the table tennis table is resting on its side next to a raised stage that houses a battered upright piano. We sit on a couple of isolated chairs and eat our lunch to talk about the fantastic news that we have managed to get a gig at the world famous Cavern Club in Liverpool next Sunday 17th December. It is a special ‘Battle of the Bands’ night and we have the half hour slot from 8.30pm. One of the organisers heard about our residency at the St John's Social Club and came along to see us play, after which he invited us to perform at the Cavern show.
Objectively speaking, the old Beatles venue no longer has the prestige it had in the 1960s when it was the place 'where it’s at'. The 'it' has long moved on, but there are still a lot of decent rock groups who play there. Ged and Brian went to see Budgie a few months back, so it definitely feels for us like one-step closer towards the Liverpool Stadium. The talk is that the show will attract talent scouts from record companies on the search for the next Led Zeppelin or Deep Purple, so we are taking no chances. We have been practising every hour we can spare at the Funeral Home.
The sausage roll and doughnut combination is now sitting uncomfortably in my stomach, indicating that it is time to get the equipment and set everything up for an energetic game of table tennis and an accompanying bout of indigestion. We carry the table to the middle of the floor, leaving plenty of room for the playing style of a Phil the pile-driver. Julian, however, is from more reserved stock, and his approach reflects his personality, laid back and composed. Our tactics cancel one another out, so a series of endless rallies take place. This, however, enables our conversations to continue as we play, and once we have exhausted talking about the Cavern gig, Julian drops a bit of a bombshell.
‘Tom, I thought you should be one of the first to know.’
‘What’s that Jules?’ I return his backhand lob with a backhand lob.
‘I’ve bought an engagement ring for Amanda.’
Julian wins the point. I do not even play a shot.
‘You seem a bit shocked old man?’
I over compensate, ‘Shocked? No!’ I laugh nervously. ‘No, that’s great news, congratulations.’
It sounds like a disastrous idea to me and not just because of the salon incident. I am thinking of Brenda's counsel at the chip shop, adamant that her sister needed a bad boy, and she should know. Julian is a gentleman, someone she will tire of very quickly. My serve goes straight into the net for the second time in succession.
‘I’ve not asked her yet, but I’m very confident the answer will be yes.’
Julian sends a gentle forehand return that I miss completely.
‘Can I say something Jules?’
‘Go ahead my good man.’
We stop playing. ‘Don’t you think it's a bit young to get engaged? I mean, she’s a real catch, but why not wait until you’ve done your degree. If she’s the one, I'm sure it can wait.’
Julian looks pensive and puts the bat up to his mouth to silence himself. He eventually says, ‘Your serve Tom.’
It seems that talk about his engagement is over for now. I try a forehand topspin serve that hits a very small divot on Julian’s side of the playing surface, and the ball spins off at an acute angle to the right. It is totally unplayable. I apologise to my friend, but he simply congratulates me on 'the shot of the match', ever the gent. We only have time for the one game, which I win comfortably in the end 21-17. We tidy away the equipment and finish our orange squash.
‘On reflection old man, I think you’re right about the engagement.’
Julian's sudden declaration has caught me slightly off guard.
‘Listen Jules, if you want to get engaged, you get engaged. What the hell do I know about such things?’
‘No Tom, I really appreciate your honesty. I’ll put the idea on the back burner for now. Anyhow, we’ve the Cavern in a few days, and I shouldn’t have any distractions.’
I open the door and gesture Tom through. ‘I can’t argue with that point.’
We are walking down the stairs when Julian says, ‘Have you seen anything of Sofia in the last few weeks?’
This innocent question sets off a few butterflies in my stomach. ‘No, we haven’t spoken since I injured my toe.’ Despite repeatedly telling myself to forget her, my unwavering feelings towards her feel like a life sentence.
'That's a shame.'
We return the bat, balls and net to Roger downstairs before we leave. I keep my fingers crossed that he is busy elsewhere, but there is no such luck. He is on hand to deliver a few more gems of smutty insinuation.
‘My word boys, your balls feel really warm in my hands.’
‘Thanks Roger.’ I am trying to respond with a bat as straight as the one John Edrich employs when facing the first delivery of a test innings against the West Indies at Lords.