Snuff Fiction (12 page)

‘Now, we need a good name for this festival.’

‘I’ve got one,’ I said. ‘It’s Brentford’s Ultimate Music Festival of Love and Peace. BUMFLAP for short.’

‘I like it,’ said Chico.
‘I
don’t,’ said the Doveston.

‘Nor do I,’ said Chico. ‘I don’t like it at all.’

‘You’re becoming a right little yes-man, Chico,’ I told him. ‘No I’m not.’

‘Yes you are.

‘No I’m not.’

‘Yes you are.

‘Chico,’ said the Doveston. ‘Get us all a beer.’ ‘Yes, man,’ said Chico.

Oh how we laughed.

Once we had all got our beers and the laughter had died down, the Doveston said, ‘We are going to call this festival Brentstock.’

‘I like that,’ said Chico.

‘I don’t,’ I said. ‘What does it mean?’

‘It means quality and taste at a price you can afford.’

‘I knew that,’ said Chico.

‘Oh no you didn’t.’

‘Oh yes I did.’

‘Oh no—’

‘Excuse me,’ said Norman. ‘But Brentstock does mean quality and taste at a price you can afford. Because Brentstock is the name of Mr Doveston’s exclusive Brentford Reserve Stock Cigarettes, which will be on sale to the public for the very first time ever during the festival.’

‘I knew that too,’ said Chico.

‘Oh no you didn’t.’

‘Oh yes I did.’

‘Oh no you—’

Chico drew a gun on me and aimed it at my ribs. ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘If you say you did, then you did.’

‘So,’ said the Doveston, ‘rimming the rooster’ with his yo-yo. ‘We have the bands, we have the name. So what about the drugs?’

‘The drugs?’
I ducked as the yo-yo whirled in my direction.

‘Drugs!’ The Doveston ‘rogered the rabbit’. ‘I do not want my festival ruined by a lot of out-borough drug-pushers selling bad dope to the crowd.’

‘Damn right,’ said Chico. ‘They can buy their bad dope from us.

‘That is
not
what I meant. I don’t want there to be any dope at all at this festival. Do you understand?’

‘Oh yeah, right, man.’ Chico winked.

‘No,’ said the Doveston. ‘I’m deadly serious. No dope at all.’

‘But this is the Sixties, man. You’re always saying this is the Sixties.’

‘No dope,’ said the Doveston. ‘I want everyone to enjoy themselves. Norman will be organizing all the stalls, won’t you, Norman?’

‘Oh yes.’ The shopkeeper nodded. ‘The cigarette stands, the T-shirt stalls and, of course, the beer tent.’

‘And the food?’

‘All taken care of Hot dogs, ices, macrobiotic brown rice and falafel. I’ve rented out the pitches and we take a percentage on sales.’ Norman patted the top pocket of his Paisley-patterned shopcoat. ‘I have all the figures written down.’

‘Then perfect. The punters can eat and drink and rock to the music.

‘And purchase Brentstock cigarettes with the money they would otherwise be wasting on dope?’ I suggested.

‘They might.’ The Doveston performed a trick with his yo-yo that left him all but breathless. “‘Straining the greens”,’ he explained. ‘But trust me on this. There will be secret policemen mingling amongst the crowd. I don’t want people getting busted. I want this festival to run like a well-oiled—’

‘Penis?’ said Chico.

‘Machine,’ said the Doveston.

‘Curse this dyslexia.’

Brentstock did
not
run like a well-oiled machine, nor even a well-oiled penis. It ran, if anything, more like a painted turnip through a field of eager toothbrushes. Or at least it did for me. I can’t speak for anybody else. Most of those who actually survived it were in no fit condition to say anything to anyone for a number of weeks afterwards. Some even took vows of silence and never spoke again.

Sitting there that evening in the Doveston’s flat, none of us could possibly ever have predicted what would happen.

I’m not saying that it was
all
the Doveston’s fault. Some of it undoubtedly was. I will say that none of it was
my
fault. I am innocent of all charges.

I told the magistrate, ‘It wasn’t me.’

But did he listen?

Did he bugger!

He said that in all his long years at the bench, he had never heard of such appalling stuff and that he was having to undergo counselling to help him get over the nightmares.

Which is probably why he handed down such a heavy sentence.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Nineteen sixty-seven, the Summer of Love and Brentstock.

Ah Brentstock.

I was there, you know.

It all began on the Friday night.

They came in their thousands. Gentle people, with flowers in their hair. They wore beads and they wore bells and they wore sandals. They also wore flares, but as these were the 1960s, they could be forgiven.

They were colourful and beautiful and the plain folk of Brentford looked on. Mothers stood upon their doorsteps, cradling their infants. Fogeys leaned on walking-sticks and sucked upon their briars. Shopkeepers came out to gawp and pussycats on window sills raised their furry heads and gazed and purred.

Old Pete lounged in the doorway of his allotment hut. ‘Pack of pansies,’ he said as he observed the arrivals. ‘They could all do with a dose of National Service.’

‘Peace and love not really your thing?’ I said.

‘Don’t get me wrong, boy. I’m all for free love.’

‘You are?’

‘Damn right. I’m fed up with having to pay for it.’

I smiled politely. ‘Well, I have to be off,’ I said. ‘I have to make sure that the stage is all set up and everything.’

‘Huh,’ sniffed Old Pete. ‘Oh, and when you see the Doveston, tell him I want those drums of chemicals moving from out of my hut. The fumes make my knees go wobbly.’

‘Drums of chemicals?’ I asked.

‘Fungicide. The stuff we used on the crop. Some American rubbish that’s all the rage in Vietnam. Can’t be having with it myself. I told the Doveston, but did he listen?’

‘Did he bugger!’

Old Pete spat into the water butt. ‘Precisely,’ he said, ‘so bugger off.’

I buggered off. I had a great deal to do. I had to make sure that the stage was OK and the lighting
and
the PA system. Oh yes, we’d got all that. The whole shebang. Hired it from a local prop house called Fudgepacker’s Emporium that supplied stuff to the film and TV industries. There’s not much you can’t get in Brentford, if you know where to look.

I’d had to pay for it all with my Post Office savings, but the Doveston had promised that I would be reimbursed.

I climbed up onto the stage and stared out over the hairy heads of the growing multitude. And then I did something that I’ve always wanted to do. I took hold of the nearest microphone and went ‘One two, one two’ into it.

It was something of a disappointment, really.

I turned to one of Fudgepacker’s men, who was carrying cable about. ‘This microphone isn’t switched on,’ I said.

‘Nothing’s switched on, mate. We can’t find anywhere to plug the power cables in.

It was one of those very special moments. You know the ones. The ones that separate the men from the boys, the heroes from the woosies, the captains of industry from the shovellers of— ‘Shit,’ I said, going weak at the bladder. ‘Nowhere to plug the power in.’

‘What time are you expecting the generator van?’

I smiled in a manner which I felt might inspire confidence. ‘What is a generator van?’ I enquired.

The Fudgepacker man nudged a companion. ‘Did you hear that?’ he asked.

His companion smirked. ‘Perhaps he just wants us to plug it into someone’s house.’

I used the voice of quiet authority that always gains respect from common types. ‘That is
exactly
what I want you to do, my good man,’ I told him. ‘I can’t be having with generator trucks. My own house backs on to the allotments, we can run the cable through the kitchen window and plug it into the socket we use for the electric kettle.’

By the way that their jaws dropped open, it was clear I had gained not only their respect, but also their admiration.

‘Electric kettle socket,’ said one of them, softly.

‘That’s right,’ I nodded. ‘We
do
have an electric kettle. These
are
the 1960s, you know.’

‘Right,’ they both went. ‘Yeah, right.’

It took a lot of cable, but we finally reached my back wall. I shinned over, climbed through the kitchen window, pulled out the kettle lead and plugged in Brentstock.

I was rather pleased with myself and as I walked back to the stage (you will note that I walked and did not shuffle) I ignored the foolish titters and behind-the-hand remarks. These fellows knew they were dealing with a natural superior and I’m sure that it must have irked them greatly.

Peasants!

On my return to the stage, I was glad to find the first band already setting up. This was Astro Lazer and the Flying Starfish from Uranus. Chico had recommended them to me. They were a mariachi band.

They looked very smart in their national costume: sleeveless denim jackets, headbands and tattoos. I watched them as they tuned their trumpets, flugelhorns, ophicleides, comets and euphoniums. I wondered whether it would be a good idea for me to go out in front and do a couple of one twos into the mic. just to get things started. And then it occurred to me that someone should really be introducing this festival.

And that someone should be the Doveston.

I found him around by the mixing desk and I must say that he looked the business. He wore a long flowing white robe that reached to his ankles and, what with his lengthy hair that was parted down the middle and his wavy little beard, he put me in mind of— ‘Christ!’ went the Doveston. ‘What do
you
want?’

‘Karl Marx,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘You put me in mind of Karl Marx, 1818 to 1883, the German founder of modem communism in England from.., oh...’

My running gag was cruelly cut short as I spied out the floral-haired hippy chick who was kneeling down before the Doveston and giving him a— ‘Blow!’ went the Doveston. ‘Scram! Clear off!’ ‘But I thought you’d want to go on stage and officially open the festival. It is
your
festival, after all.’

‘Hm. A very sound idea.’ He waved away the hippy chick. ‘You can finish adjusting my yo—yo later.’

I viewed the Doveston’s yo-yo. ‘You’d better put that away before you go on stage,’ was my advice.

‘What?’

‘Well, you don’t want to trip over the string.’

Imust say that the Doveston’s opening speech was a blinder. The style of his oration owed a lot to that of another famous

German. The one who had given all those stirring pep talks to the Aryan nation at Nuremberg before the last war. There was much cupping of the hands over the groin area, stepping back to let a point sink in, beating the heart with a fist and so on and so forth and suchlike.

I couldn’t help thinking that the little FOhrer might well have enjoyed an even greater success had he been able to adopt the Doveston’s technique of spicing up his speeches with a yo-yo trick or two.

The Doveston spoke of love and peace and music and how it was our duty to make the very most of every minute. And when he broke off suddenly to light a cigarette and ‘enjoy a Brentstock moment’, I realized that I was truly in the presence of greatness.

He left the stage to thunderous applause and joined me back at the mixing desk. ‘What did you think?’ he asked.

‘Brilliant,’ I said. ‘It will be worth at least three paragraphs in the biography. Although I do have one criticism.’

‘Oh yes, what?’

‘You didn’t go one two, one two into the mic. before you started.’

Friday evening was a gas. The bands played and the beautiful people danced. And they ate and they drank and they bought Brentstock cigarettes. Chico and some of his buddies moved amongst the crowd, targeting any out-borough pushers and teaching them the error of their ways. The sun sank low behind the mighty oaks that lined the riverside and I felt sure that this was going to be a weekend to remember.

It was.

I was rudely awoken from my bed rather early on the Saturday morning. I rolled over, expecting to see the beautiful face of the young woman I’d met the previous evening. The one with the blond hair and the colourful bikini top, who had been sitting on the shoulders of a bloke right near the front of the audience. Her name was Litany.

But Litany wasn’t there. Because Litany had told me to piss off.

‘Wake up,’ shouted Norman. ‘We’ve got troubles and they all begin with P.’

I groaned. ‘Troubles always begin with P. Remember my Party, everyone came as something that began with a P.’

‘Really?’ said Norman. ‘How interesting. But this lot all begin with P. Private Property, Public order offences, Police Prosecutions and Poo Poo.’

I took to groaning some more. ‘Go on then,’ I said with a sigh. ‘Tell me about them.’

Norman took a deep breath. ‘Urgh,’ he said. ‘You’ve farted.’

‘All men fart first thing in the morning. Tell me about the bloody troubles.’

‘Right, yes. Well, firstly no-one got permission to hold the festival on the allotments. They’re private property, the council owns them. Then there’s all the noise. Most of the nearby residents have complained and so the police have come to close the festival down. And then there’s the poo poo.

‘Tell me about the poo poo.

‘Well, there’s two thousand people camping out there and most of them need to take a dump. Would it be all right if they used your outside loo?’

I scratched at my tousled head. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I expect so. I’ll have to ask my mum.

‘That’s all right then.’

I leapt from my bed. ‘No it’s bloody not!’ I shouted. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘I thought I might just run away and hide somewhere.’

‘We can’t do that. We can’t let the Doveston down.’

‘Why not?’ Norman asked.

I gave this some thought. ‘Where would be a good place to hide, do you think?’

‘How about South America?’

I shook my head. ‘We can’t do it. We can’t let all those people down. We can’t disappoint them.’

‘What, all those people who’ve come to see Bob Dylan and Sonny and Cher?’

‘What’s the weather like in South America?’

‘Very favourable.’

The Doveston now entered my bedroom.

‘The weather’s looking favourable,’ he said.

Norman and I nodded our heads. ‘Very favourable,’ we agreed. ‘So,’ said the Doveston. ‘Any chance of some breakfast? I’ve spent half the night bonking away with a bird called Litany and I’ve worked up quite an appetite.’

‘There are one or two problems,’ said Norman, carefully. ‘What, not enough eggs? Never mind, I’ll just have some bacon.’ ‘The police are surrounding the allotments. They’re going to close down the festival.’

It was another one of those special moments. The ones that separate the men from the boys, the knights of honour from the ne’er-do-wells, the lion-hearted from the lily-livered, the bulldog breed from the— ‘Bollocks,’ said the Doveston. ‘I think I’d best pass on the bacon.’ He rose to the challenge, though, left my house, shinned over the back wall and marched out to meet the policemen. The Doveston had long since ceased to shuffle and as he moved through the crowd, now all sitting down and many with their legs crossed, they cheered him and rose to their feet. It was quite stirring stuff really — almost, dare I say this, Biblical.

At the gates, which someone had had the foresight to close and bolt from the inside, he paused and stared eye to eye at the gathered policemen. ‘Who is in charge here?’ he asked.

A big broad-shouldered chap stepped forward, the uniform of a chief constable straining to contain a mass of corded muscle. ‘Hello, Doveston,’ he said. ‘I see you’ve got Norman with you and who’s that twat skulking there in the pyjamas?’

I waved feebly.

‘Don’t you recognize
me,
then?’

The Doveston viewed the amply sized upholder of the law. ‘Mason,’ he said. ‘It’s that softy Paul Mason from the Grange.’

‘Softy no longer. And it’s Chief Constable Mason to you, you hippy turd.’

‘Oooooooooooooooh,’ went the crowd and someone muttered, ‘Pig.’

‘I’ve come to read the riot act,’ said Chief Constable Mason.

‘But there’s no riot here.’

‘No, but there will be once my lads have started to lay about your lot with their truncheons.

‘Oooooooooooooooh,’ went the crowd once more and someone muttered, ‘Nasty pig.’

‘I suppose you have us bang to rights,’ said the Doveston.

‘Certainly I do.’

‘Show us your warrant, then.’

‘My what?’

‘Your warrant. You do have a warrant, don’t you?’

‘I don’t need any warrant, lad. I have the evidence of my own eyes. I can see two thousand people trespassing on council property.’

The Doveston glanced around. ‘Everyone sit down again,’ he shouted.

Everyone sat down.

‘Now what do you see?’

‘Two thousand people sitting down on council property.’

‘Almost,’ said the Doveston. ‘What you are actually seeing is two thousand people
squatting
on council property. We claim squatters’ rights and we demand that this land be returned to its rightful owners, the Navajo nation.’

‘Crap,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘This land never belonged to the Navajo nation, that was the Memorial Park. And I should know, my great-grandfather fought in the battle.’

‘Did he kill many Indians?’

‘He wasn’t actually fighting on that side. But that has nothing to do with it. The Navajo nation never owned this land.’

‘Oh yes they did.’

‘Oh no they didn’t.’

‘Oh yes they did. You can look it up in the library.’

‘What?’

‘Look it up in the land charter at the Memorial Library. And if I’m wrong, I promise I’ll give myself up and everyone else will walk away quietly without any fuss.’

‘You promise?’

‘Cross my heart.’

‘Right,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘It’s a deal.’ He turned away to take his leave. And then he paused a moment, shook his head and turned back. ‘You must think I’m really stupid,’ he said.

‘Excuse me?’ said the Doveston.

‘You think I’m so stupid that I’m going to go round to the library now and look up the land charter?’