Mister England's Good Night
In The Decade of Our Lord 1990
The following piece is from my upcoming collection of interrelated stories, tentatively titled The Slip Cycle and Other Tales. I hope you enjoy it. And Happy Birthday Dear Departed Ollie!
Mister England’s Good Night…
In The Decade of Our Lord 1990
I fell on the playing field
The work of an errant heel
The din of the crowd and the loud commotion
Went deafening silence and stopped emotion
The season was almost done
We managed it 12 to 1
So far I had known no humiliation
In front of my friends and close relations…
And father had had such hopes
For a son who would take the ropes
And fulfill all his old athletic aspirations
But apparently now there's some complications
But while I am lying here
Trying to fight the tears
I'll prove to the crowd that I come out stronger
Though I think I might lie here a little longer…
There's my father looking on
And there's my girlfriend arm in arm
With the captain of the other team
And all of this is clear to me
They condescend and fix on me a frown
How they love the sporting life
The sporting life…
~The Decemberists
Fame, Wisdom, Love, and Power were mine,
And health and Youth possessed me;
My goblets blushed from every vine,
And lovely forms caressed me;
I sunned my heart in Beauty’s eyes,
And felt my soul grow tender:
All earth can give, or mortal prize,
Was mine of regal splendour.
But I have lived, and have not lived in vain:
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire,
And my frame perish even in conquering pain;
But there is that within me which shall tire
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire…
I see before me the Gladiator lie:
He leans upon his hand- his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low-
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena swims around him- he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.
~Lord Byron
He seems to be completely unreceptive
The tests I gave him showed no sense at all
His eyes react to light, the dials reflect it
He hears but cannot answer your call
See me, feel me, touch me, heal me…
I often wonder what it is he’s feeling
Has he ever heard a word I’ve said
Look at him now in the mirror dreaming
What is happening in his head?
What is happening in his head?
I wish I knew.
~ The Who
Valetta, Malta: Sunday, May 2, 1999
“But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth, I’ve learned to think, and sternly speak the truth; Learned to deride the critic’s starch decree, and break him on the wheel he meant for me.” Byron might have written that one with me in mind. Man is at his happiest when there’s no interior life; only the exterior. The word spat forth like a gob into the world and made flesh. The actor spewing his lines. “Listen to me. Learn from me. I was not the best because I killed quickly. I was the best because the crowd loved me. Win the crowd and you will win your freedom.” When the script is good the actor is at home in the world and he need not inner dwell. Win the crowd and damn the critics. Here’s another jewel put in my mouth by Mr. Franzoni: “Ultimately, we're all dead men. Sadly, we cannot choose how but what we can decide is how we meet that end, in order that we are remembered, as men.” Such words endow their speaker with noble heroism, even if uttered by an old notorious reprobate. My lines on the page keep blurring and tangling with others in this dyslexic boy’s mind. “There is a stream of things entering into being, and time is a raging torrent; for no sooner does each thing enter our sight than it has been swept away, and another is passing in its place, and that too will be swept away.” Marcus Aurelius, wasn’t it? Contemporary of my Proximo, or the Proximo I am busy making mine with flesh and voice. All ultimately exterior.
INT: Interior. EXT: Exterior. The skeleton of the script for the actor to hang his flesh, blood and tongue on; the genesis of the performance. Such are my thoughts in the bath this late morning, looking over this poxie script for the hundredth time. This very idea of interior and exterior action. In the script, of course and obviously, INT. and EXT. indicates whether a scene takes place inside or outdoors. But there is something else at play here as well, something sinister perhaps. The perfect script, to my mind, would use these terms to represent the division between the Interior life of a man- his soul, consciousness, what have you, - and his Exterior life out in the objective, observable world. That’s the script for me. Because that is really the only way to get at the heart and soul of a man. Even if that man wants to be free of anything Interior. And even if there’s nothing in the Interior but scripted lines and a library of dead men’s poetry.
To wit, EXT: A grizzled old actor lies in a hotel bath reading a script. INT: The grizzled old actor is still a little boy and is in communion with ancient spirits who will impart great thespian truths to him. “To mingle with the Universe, and feel, What I can ne’er express- yet can not all conceal.” Yet there is one ghost I channel more than Byron.
No matter the INT.’s and EXT.’s, the danger is that the script becomes a sort of master narrative as I read it; the brevity of the script above all else. In this it may be true to existence. Life passes in an irretrievable royal flash, a mere 90 to 120 minutes of screen time. And rather than a proper feature film, most of us leave the earth with little more than what amounts to a short film stitched together by some art school student in Leeds rather than an epic feature of life truly lived. If the work remains a script only-and I’ve read my fair amount of those bitches-, this becomes more readily apparent. Time indeed abandons you as you turn the pages and approach the last. The script closes, and a kind of life draws to a close with a shudder of dark premonition. “Do not go gentle into that good night; Old age should burn and rage at close of day, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Old Welshman Dylan, a proper one as well.
Still, “There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore.” Josie respects the Interior and Exterior and that’s why I can be with her. She’s silent; knows her place. She’s present, which is all I require from her. I can forget she’s even there and live in my head; think as I please; no matter that I haven’t a thought I can call my own. Most women can’t shut their mouths for a waking moment; always prattling on about nothing of interest, which is why men prefer the company of men. Not my child bride. Only sixteen and me a lad of 42 when we met; the press made me out to be a real Jerry Lee Lewis. Her barely older than my own kids then. Get ‘em when they’re young and you’ll have no trouble, I say. I don’t even know she’s there most of the time. And she respects the Exterior too; when the moon is full and I’m howling mad with my mates she’s there as well, quiet as a church mouse. Even now, she’s sitting silently in the other room, thinking God knows what, if anything. That’s the woman for me. Something the bulldyke feminists will never understand is that men will always rule the world. And we like our females quiet. Other than having one off and them serving up some proper mashy peas, men have no reason for congress with women in the Exterior world.
Long time in the bath today, most of the morning, thinking about tomorrow. Talking out loud to Granddad Tree as usual, summoning him; the old bugger never once let me down. That’s the only posh acting school I ever attended: Sit in the water and wait for him to tell me how I should play it. I think I have it now, so goddamn your hide, Ridley, and stand back tomorrow. The sheer nerve of having me screen test for the part. Afterwards, I told him that I don’t do sodding Latin so there had better be none of that or I’ll just piss off now. He laughed at that one, and we’ve been smashing ever since. I didn’t touch a single drop the whole time in Morocco. Let’s get ourselves out of this water. Out of the mind, out into the Exterior.
There it is again, ancient bloody old broken thing in the looking glass. Ruddy flaming vein-burst pink flesh somehow ashen, red, and tanned at the same time. White hair, white beard to top it off, nothing but gray and pink and the whisper of decay and death. Nothing of the old boy who was once so dusky dark of feature everyone thought him a gipsy. Jack the lad I was then, not this ridiculous old doddering bugger. Measured my chest before I left Ireland; I’ve lost a full 10 inches off it in the last few years and put it round my waist instead. Something of beauty still there in the mirror though; the old gleam of the eye. I still recognize the old boy.
And the scars, still so lasciviously pink, now just part and parcel of the mug of a refined and reformed pub fighter. The glassing that damned near cost me my career; did so for the better part of a year. Bloke called me Dracula; didn’t even get the film right. I took the bait and took the glass in the Men’s. Changed everything and made me a monster for real. I would never miss an opportunity to take the bait after that night. Holding my face together and spitting out teeth in the cab to hospital. As soon as I was stitched up- went from werewolf to being called Dracula to Frankenstein’s monster pretty quickly, didn’t I?- I got pissed as all hell then tried to have one off with the missus, bleeding all over her.
Before all that, they somehow thought me some Cockney king of the Soho beatniks in spite of my quack-quack aristocratic airs and public school manners. Oh, but granted I played the brooding beatnik part sodding well, tooling about with my shirt tied across my waist like some Miss Nancy and a skull chained around my neck. Mods, Rockers, Teds; had to be some fashion or other in them days. One brooding beatnik job after the other back then. Hammer came calling and made my career and destroyed it in one fell swoop; rescued from the beatnik grind but destined to remain a B-movie baddie in horror pictures. Probably made more of those bollocking things than anything else all these long years. Beatniks, beasts, bruisers, and brawlers, that was my lot. And a wealth of real boozing, crumpet, violence, and chaos seemed to go right along with it. Bust ups, dust ups, fuck ups, knees ups. I performed more off-set than on, and the acting was much better off for it. Soon there was no there there. No me a’tall. Boo fucking hoo. Funny thing was I never was one for a punch-up in a pub until that bollocks blindsided me in the pisser and ruined my good looks. Then I spent the rest of my life hellraising, freezing, crystallizing that moment in time into a lifetime. Something deeply perverse in that, what?
Got that lovely bastard’s whore Russell to thank for the career after that one, and any respect I ever got. Best work, maybe best times I ever had. Debussy, Rossetti, Lawrence’s Crich, Huxley’s Grandier, Tommy’s Uncle Frank. Still quite young then, wasn’t I? The real Mr. England, Ken is, truth be told. Even if he is a Papist convert, not proper C of E. What makes someone do that? Where does such a need or impulse come from? To make such a fuss over religious affiliation. Then make every effort through your films to take the piss out of the church you spent a year trying to gain admittance to. Strange bird, Ken. Lovely nutter.
Downstairs now with my Josie, passing reception and the fucking porter gives me his usual glare. I should dot his eye for him and teach him the bloody class system. A couple of late nights in his poshy bar and he’s taken to giving me the evil eye. Gave his mate a good chinning last time and I’ll do the same for him. That was the day that Crowe, the Aussie convict upstart, had the timber to put together a cricket match against the locals and forgot to include Mr. England himself on the roster. That went far beyond insult with me, so I got stinking drunk at The Pub and proceeded to bang hell out of the door of his trailer as he cowered like a young girl within: “I demand satisfaction, you Aussie dog!” Giving up, I made my way back to the hotel; vague memories of pushing and punching anyone who crossed my path and sometimes being pummeled in the back of the head and kicked in the arse in return. In the hotel bar, a bit bloodied and bruised, more such encounters with the friendly staff and I cut my forehead on the teeth of one. Hemmings stepped in out of nowhere and smoothed things over, but the next morning the producers received a written warning that, under threat of immediate arrest, I was barred from all public parts of the hotel except the swimming area and passing in and out of the lobby. Good riddance to bad rubbish, cunts.
Down to the beach with Josie. The heart really pounds these days. On the rocks by the bright blue sea. The tide goes in; the tide goes out. Mist seems thicker today, like it will wrap around me and speed me away to another realm. Melancholy old geezer. Back up into town; every moment repeated or just the same, ad infinitum. Hello. Looks like some fellows playing a bit of footie in the park. Hale well lads! Lo and behold, it’s Franzie and some blokes from the crew. I’ll give them a shout:
“Move that fucking ball, you lazy bastards!”
“Come and show us then, professor!” someone shouts back. Mad, rakish laughter floats to me across the air. Oh! Look at that brilliant header from the gaffer lad! The sporting life. Life’s most tragic figure is the aging athlete. That would be Me. Not so long ago, was it. Bones like rubber that never break, energy that never fails, never sick, never tired. What the old never tell the young; the fate that awaits them all too soon. The young will forever think old age and decrepitude are simply some sort of choice made by those that have given up on life and become bored with it. I wish it were so and I would never have grown old.
And so the broken down old thespian greets his public once more. Malta, late morning beauty but what fresh hell is this. Everything prim and proper and in its place. Old, invisible man to the local lassies passing by. How times have changed. What was that beauty’s name on the werewolf picture? Maltese anyway, and fueled my interest in the place. Yvette? Yvonne, it was. That wolfman job really put me over. Evermore, a gentleman one moment, a psychotic animal baying at the moon the next. Never escaped that role. The real me. Or so I insisted. The piss artist, paid buffoon, baboon, baddie. Jeckyll and Hyde. Or Heckyll and Hype. “I was known as the wild one…” Recorded some dreadful pop songs as a lark back in Swinging London daze. Certainly wasn’t
“Whilome in Albion’s isle there dwelt a youth,
Who in Virtue’s ways did delight;
But spent his days in riot most uncouth, and vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
Ah me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
Sore given to revel, and ungodly glee;
Few earthly things found favour in his sight
Save concubines and carnal companie,
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree…”
Polite greetings from the local merchants hoping I’ll spend my money in their establishments. I have to pick out things for Josie; the little fool never wants anything but to look. So, a purse, a skirt and some sunglasses for her and a ruffled pirate shirt for myself. God above, why so glaring the sunlight? Hits you like a bomb when you’re old. As though God were telling you that your place is in the tomb, not in taking part in the daylight of fresh youth. Blast. Byron surely wrote something about withering old age having no part in the youthful and passionate Mediterranean heat. It’ll come back to me. Nevertheless, it’s brilliant here and must be something like ancient Rome. Quiet now over coffee in a wonderful little café off Archbishop Street. Thinking of old gladiators. The pugilist at rest; that’s my story here. The Dying Gaul.
That’s quite a church there; need to look that one up in the guide; have a look inside tomorrow maybe. I do understand the need for all that rubbish. Nobody knows and I would never tell. Not even the wife knows how often I’ve sat quietly in churches down the years. Silent, personal moments for me. That little church in Wimbledon I used to stagger inside to sit, sometimes staying the night, sleeping it off. The little chapel in Dorking when I was Lord of Broome Hall. Am I too old now to die bravely? I once made the air move. Should count for something. Been sitting in St. John’s here quite a bit lately. Might stroll by there now; show it to Josie. Hard to make decisions when your life’s not organized around the next boozer stop.
You start pondering the end of things and there you are, alone with religion. The Interior takes you over and the mind just won’t stop. Russell and Broome Hall and death brings to mind Keef mad motherfucking Moonie, but I’ve not got no time for him today, God bless him. So many things flashing through the Interior today.
Why did I even bother to get out of the tub and go to town? Just to entertain Josie? Oh yes, because I have been forbidden to do so, most likely. Tell a confirmed hellraiser he is under house arrest and may not drink and you may as well beg him to burn the damned town down, like angry villagers in a Hammer film. May well be, but I want to know if you can get a decent curry in this cursed place. The Chinese is quite wonderful, but I need a change. Curse all, even the heathen Chink’s is closed on Sunday morning. “Onto the pub then, love?” I mutter to my lady.
And there’s hard man Maximus himself crossing the lane ahead with his lady, locking eyes with me, then looking away dismissively. Fucking rotter. Arrogant ass with a head like spoiled mash. A porridge-faced poor man’s Mel Gibson. Gibby, now there’s a man after my own heart. Beautiful name for an actor, Crowe, but he’s more pigeon than blackbird and already run to fat in his youth. And I’m the resident expert on destroyed looks, so have a listen. I’ll still go stark bollocking naked next to him and compare results any day. The miserable, moody-broody bratbastard.
Young Phoenix, though; he’s become like a son to me. Wonder where he’s floating around today; likely hungover and still in bed. Phoenix with his scarred beauty, rising from the ashes of his horrid early life, so much like myself. The boy will go far indeed, mark my word on that. Crowe and Phoenix; a pair of birds on this picture: One a scavenger and carrion-eater arrogantly feeding off the talents of others; the other a solitary mythological creature ablaze with rebirth and possibility: “And Glory, like the Phoenix midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.” Long may Joaquin’s youthful Byronic spirit blaze! Then there’s broken down old Dickiebird Harris shooting a scene or two and hoping his hairpiece doesn’t slip around. Must send him a note to fuck off; keep our gag running.
“Join us down at the water, Ollie!” Mad bugger Hemmings wheeling by on a bicycle with the wife.
“We already have done, you layabout. Morning’s half gone. So piss off, Cassius!”
“Looking much better today than at dinner. Stay out the pub, damn your eyes! Ha ha! Tally ho! Hello Joesphine!” Daft old bastard. Met him on that first film with Winner all those years back. Swinging London. And I swung his girlish frame over a balcony one night back then. He ain’t girlish no more, God knows. The life has caught us both up. Damned good mate down the years, David. Although rumour has it the mad bugger promised Sir Scott to keep me sober. Talk of the lunatics running the asylum. Wasn’t myself with David at dinner last night; some new exhaustion and the nagging chest pains. The feeling of some thick white mist settling over everything. Old age. Stiff upper lip, chappie.
Where’s that boy who read Winnie the Pooh like it was sacred Gospel, who hunted faery folk and hobgoblins in English gardens of perpetual springtimes? Where now, Nutwood Village and Forty Acre Woods? Where now the blessed cubs Edward Bear and Rupert who got this boy through the Blitz; shivering in the kitchen Morrison shelter at nanny Morgy’s knee as she read to me and transported me to fairer, more enchanted climes? Half my mind is taken up by Shakespeare and Byron and the rest belongs to Pooh Bear. “…In that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.” Such truth.
Should have stayed with Her Majesty’s and had a proper, respectful, if still drunken life. Always thought I might find my way to becoming a film director or writer myself. Don’t care about that one anymore, but there was that story I tried to get Winner to shoot about the bloke who carried his cottage on his back so he would always have a home to curl up in at night. And Russell gave fuck-all about my story on the assassination of Thomas Beckett. Both were about as bloody British as it gets. Like the three of us.
Then, the moment I’m finally one of God’s golden boys, the whole bollocking Brit film biz goes tits up and folds like a house of cards and every twat and his mother is telling me to sow my oats in Hollywood. In a pig’s eye I’ll leave England, and I had my say about that when I sicked up on Steve McQueen’s shoes on a “promotional visit.” Mister bloody England indeed. I can still hear Winner whining, “Don’t piss your career away in the boozer, dahling”, around the time he went to Hollywood and dropped me for Bronson. I was bleeding Bronson in short pants by the time I was six! Still, truth be told, I did imitate him a bit a couple of times over in Italy; the man was in vogue and he was bloody tough and inscrutable; a man after my own heart if a bit of a sourpuss. Then Shaw snatched up both Jaws and The Sting when I turned them down and the rest is bitter shite history. Not a smart one, Ollie. Poor old Devil Drink Shaw; dead not long after, so perhaps the parts were cursed. Dodged the proverbial bullet I did. Perhaps. Oddly enough, I did get hired for that ridiculous, ramshackle sequel years later, playing Shaw’s role even. As far as Hollywood bothers to consider, one intense hellraising actor from the British Isles is as good any another, as interchangeable as tinker toys. They don’t know between a Harris, Howard, O’Toole, or Shaw, unless you manage to become an establishment figure like Bates or Caine or Finney or some bloody Bond boy. Or you’re fucking Liz Taylor.
Oh, what’s all this? Grim thoughts assail me in this late chapter of the script. Sooner rather than later they’ll write that I lived as I pleased. Not true. I merely lived as I could. I’m a bloody entertainer and I worked hard to give the punters what they wanted. Maybe they can get their sodding computers to make a new me and finish this fucker up. There’s been talk of such wonders if the insurance gets blown. I was never in front of the camera anyway. Not the real me. Or maybe all there is of me. The image, a man who was never there. Time to settle down somewhere perhaps. Bugger off somewhere. Maybe Ireland again, be lord of the manor in the realm of ghosts, like landed gentry.
And what’s this? Some little old man crossing the street and running toward us, shouting gibberish. Maltese I assume, a vile Semitic tongue. I move to push him aside, thinking him some crazed beggar, but he grabs hold of my arm. “Listen you,” says I, grabbing him by the collar and noticing his blackened eye, “You, sir, need to fuck off!” As I make to fling him out into the road, a younger man trots over, clearly his son. “Time to take Daddy home, I think,” I spit at the new arrival, releasing the old man and giving him a shove.
“Please, listen,” pleads the younger in broken Queen’s with hands up, “My father, he say two days ago, you hit him in this very street, then pushed my mother to the ground. He is quite upset.”
Josie gets between us and tries to soothe the young man but he continues. “Why do you go around hitting old people, sir? Is this what film stars do for fun?”
“Josephine, please give the lad some money so we can be on our way.”
She apologizes profusely to the shouting men as I grab her arm, push them aside, and stride on. The young man shouts after us, “You are a pig and an asshole and a coward!” An accurate summation lad, methinks. “Adieu, ye joys of La Valette! Adieu, Sirocco, sun, and sweat!” I offer over my shoulder.
Where are we now; let’s see. There’s the Parliament Building, and turning here, Republic Street, and hello, bless my soul, The Pub, so it says. My home away from home. “You will find, old man, that the future looks rosiest through the bottom of a glass…” Whisky, gin, Guiness and Grolsch… Just a quiet tipple or two with Josie to get me out of my head; get me to that needed Exterior location. They bloody well better be flying the Union Jack inside. If they prize their windows. They know Daddy is coming.
Smiling faces from behind the bar, a salute even. Only the telly dispels the Lord’s Day quiet, blaring the start of the Formula One trials in San Marino. I’ll have some of that. My Edwardian armchair awaits in the corner, and I do mean my chair, bought it myself and had it brought over. A bulldog marks his territory and stakes his claim. Already three empties on my table; I point to them and “Yes, please, my son!” to the barman. Two down the hatch in as many minutes, and I’m already moving on to the set.
A rowdy salty tempest of a sea breeze straight from the homeland crashes through the door. Oh, the beauty of Her Majesty’s finest sailors in their crispy whites, a whole gang of them banging their way up to the bar, shoving each other about and acting the fool. God bless them. Some talking loudly, a bit drunk already; others fixing on the race as the barkeep takes their orders. One turns toward Josie and me in the corner, gives a polite nod, then his eyes go wide. “Bloody hell!” He elbows his mates, keeping his eyes on me. The others turn and gaze upon me with a similar awe. I stand at attention and render a hearty salute, palm out, then wave them over. “Here, lads! When I drink with Her Majesty’s, the honor and the bill are mine. Black rums all around! Consider yourselves at home. Consider yourself one of the family!” and a mad little jig to drive the point home. Explosions of laughter as they saunter over, big smiles all.
“Dear sir!” shouts a Chief returning my salute, “May I present for your inspection sir! The illustrious crew of Her Majesty’s frigate the HMS Cumberland, sir! All hands are on deck and stand ready to buy Mr. Reed copious amounts of booze, sir!”
“I will be the one standing the drinks here, shipmate. In memory of my own service and in honor of those who now serve!
‘I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone;
The mountains are vanish’d, my youth is no more;
As the last of my race, I must wither alone,
And delight but in days, I have witness’d before.’”
Showtime for Bullyboy Reed. Man is happiest when there is no interior, only exterior. “Nothing is free in this life, lads, so I will have the satisfaction of competition.” Plonking elbow down on the table, the games begin and the drinks do flow. I win some and lose some but hold my own. The last round I won, but that pain and the thump thump of the heart from last night’s dinner with David stung me from arm to chest to head and back again. “Shall we do this nude, my lord?” a boatswain jests as I take his arm to table quickly. “You need the extra weight I think, lad!” Cheers. The head swims amid the mist. I don’t even know where Josie is by now; she is obscured by the wall of fit white-bedecked bodies and the fog of smoke in the air.
To the barman: “Oi! You mean cunt! I’m paying for all as usual, so set these fine gentlemen up again now before I lose my patience!” And snatching the cigarette from the boatswain’s hand, I extinguish it on my tongue and flick it away. The crowd responds accordingly as I down my shot.
“Dear sir,” calls one, “Can I offer you a lightbulb to wash that down with?”
Another: “Bill Bloody Sikes! In Malta for Chrissakes! Gor’blimey, guvner!”
“Sikes is in me blood, shipmate,” laying on the faux Cockney and really starting the show, “Me grandad played Fagin on the stage and me dear uncle Carol put me in the picture. My dad, God bless his cowardly soul, told me I was only fit to end up an actor or a cat burglar, so why not throw a murdering pimp into the bargain as well, ay? I did an Irish jig at the coward’s funeral. Give old dad a bit of credit though, poor old bugger that he was, he gave me something when he named me. Unless Mother did the naming bit.”
Dear old Dad. Never a single cuddle from that one. He hated me for my dyslexia; they called it idiocy back then. So I figured I would show him and became the star sportsman, and I was good on the field, mind you, a champion. Dear old Dad told me I was nothing but a trained gorilla and that civilized men made their living with the mind. I didn’t show him any of my trophies or have much to do with the bastard at all after that, you can be certain.
At least I loved my bloody kids, which is more than I ever got from my old ones. What’s Mark these days? 40? Little Countess Sarah, she must be…Quiet days at home when they were little more than babes. I’d hide the gnomes and take them goblin-hunting all through the gardens. Our Forty-Acre Woods. Seems like yesterday. Those beautiful bluebells around Broome Hall. Convinced little Sarah that faeries lived in them. Leith Hill, my little piece of England’s green and pleasant land. Quiet days were never for me, though. Too many of them these days in County Cork. Giving up drink and trying to be a domesticated animal is a path to lunacy.
Giving myself a rest, two sailors match arms for a full five minutes before the one goes down like a torpedoed battleship; both he and the table hitting the floor and glasses flying.
“Well done, lads!” Two hours suddenly gone by; the clock on the wall in perpetual, almost discernible motion as the fog thickens.
“Pardon me,” slurs a young seaman, “But I never met anyone famous. How do I address you, sir?”
“You may address me as Corporal Reed of Her Majesty’s Medical Corps, dear shipmate. Now you bloody bastards, let’s have ‘God Save the Queen’ or it’s your asses I’ll have!” Standing atop the table now and directing the chorale with arms outflung:
“O Lord our God arise,
Scatter our enemies,
And make them fall!
Confound their politics,
Frustrate their knavish tricks,
On Thee our hopes we fix,
God save us all!
From every latent foe,
From the assassin’s blow,
God save the Queen!
O’er her thine arm extend,
For Britain’s sake defend,
Our mother, prince, and friend,
God save the Queen!”
“Come on, get it down you! And join me in another one, boyos! Sing loud, damn your eyes! And raise a glass to dear old Ireland!” Boos all around. “Of course, we Britons fear them when we meet them at the Palais du Dance, for the Celts are the better dancers. But a more noble race the Crown has never subdued. Sing with me, my boyos!”
There was a wild colonial boy, Jack Duggan was his name
He was born and raised in Ireland in a place called Castlemaine
He was his father's only son, his mother's pride and joy
And dearly did his parents love the wild colonial boy…”
Drunk as a lord suddenly. The ritual has begun and the decorative Roman helmets are snatched from the walls, placed on heads, and glass sprays the pub as bottles are shattered across them, the combatants staggering uncertainly to sit on stools and floor. One boy places a plate of lightbulbs in front of me with a wink. “Thank you but I’ve just eaten.” Then I stick out my tongue at him before extinguishing my own cigarette on it. They always love that one.
“All for one and one for all, fine maties! Down the hatch and here’s to Lord Byron and Dylan Thomas!”
Where’s my first knight when I need him? Beautiful little British bulldog with a fierce bite was Reg. Brutal bit of fireplug he could be. Saved my ass a million and one times. On the set and in the pub. Funny he was my stand-in, so short he was. Then fucking about in one of our usual brawls, over the balcony he went. Broken back. Broken brotherhood. Lawsuit. Hurt me more than it hurt him.
And here now, on my apportioned area of the table, a quick tally based on empties and glasses. No, that can’t be right, surely. Six pints lager and nine double rums in so far. At least a half bottle of whiskey as well, but that’s been cleared by the staff. What grand fun if Cassius my protector or Great Scott himself walked in right now. Probably give them a Glasgow kiss and get thrown off the damned show altogether. The entire outfit was told behind my back that anyone caught giving Ollie a drink would be bloody well fired. Well, Ollie Bear can damn well buy his own goddamn drinks. The smoke in the place is beginning to obscure my vision. Should get my eyes checked; might need a new pair of Michael Caines.
“Give us a poem then, Ollie!”
“Sadly, dear shipmates, my own poetry has not been altogether well-received. My own brother once described it as that of someone who had apparently been on LSD every day of his life. Alright, listen up you salty bastards and I will declaim. Shall we begin with a bit of A.A. Milne and his Pooh bear?”
“I have been foolish and deluded, and I am a bear of no brain at all…” The sailors groan collectively.
“Ah, not to the discerning tastes of some among us. Childrens’ tripe, so it is. Will you then entertain Byron, you mongrels? Childe Harold’s Good Night, before I bid you seafarers adieu…
‘Adieu, adieu! my native shore;
Fades o’er the waters blue;
The night winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native land- Good Night!’”
“Give us another sailor’s song!” Rambunctious they become now.
“‘He that sailed upon the dark blue sea
Has viewed at times, I ween, a full fair sight,
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be,
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight-
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,
The glorious Main expanding o’er the bow,
The Convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now-
So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.
Oh, the little warlike world within!
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,
The hoarse command, the busy humming din,
When, at a word, the tops are manned on high:
Hark, to the Boatswain’s call, the cheering cry!
While through the seaman’s hand the tackle glides;
Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by,
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides,
And well the docile crew that skillful Urchin guides.’
“And yet one more, my proud sons of Albion fair:
‘So we’ll go no more a-roving
So late into the night. Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears his sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.’”
Where’s all this bloody smoke coming from? The clean-living tribes of Malta do not partake of tobacco and the swabbies aren’t chain smoking. Like a fog, so thick I can barely see what’s in front of me. But the show must go on.
“Ollie, let’s please see the tattoo mate.”
“On me John Thomas? But a myth, dear boy…”
“Thought it was a national institution, mate. Give us the Eagle’s claw.”
“I keep me trousers up these days, lad. I’ve got Peter the Great’s blood coursing through my balls. It would be churlish and immodest to shamelessly brandish the plank attached to them.”
The clock speeds through its relentless cycle; three hours gone up in the smoke that engulfs us. I can just make out the sailor at my elbow, muttering that they have to get back to the ship before libery is secured. Firm handshakes, warm embraces, and the old autograph and photo or two, then as ever, the party’s over. The boys file out like phantoms. I’m left in the mist suddenly very alone.
The barman brings over two more whiskeys. The mist has obscured everything. I hear my own voice pattering away, but it’s a voice from the past; strangely disembodied, but recognizable.
During the war, I used to be a cocktail barman for my mother’s lovers’ cocktail parties. And they were from Flight Command, from Bomber Command. And the parties used to get smaller and smaller, and the laughter got less and less. And they used to laugh, and go off to war, and die…Drunk. And so, death and drink to me have been, from my early age, both a fantasy and a reality.
So familiar it is, not simply because it’s my own voice, but because the words have all been spoken before in just this manner. Can’t quite put my finger on it. Can’t see my bloody finger through the smoke for that matter.
When I asked my mother why the cocktail parties had gotten smaller and smaller, for instance, where’s Lovely Gravy? He got killed. That’s all…
I turn toward the television to see if they’ve put on some film of mine to take the piss, but the white mist has covered everything and I can’t see a bloody thing.
I regret not having made love with every woman on Earth. I regret having not kissed the wet nose of every dog on Earth. I regret having not been in every bar on Earth. But that doesn’t make me a hellraiser. If somebody punches me on the nose, I’ll punch them back. If someone buys me a drink, I’ll buy them one back.
Suddenly, it comes to me. It’s a television transmission all right. From only a few years ago; the only appearance I made in decades where I didn’t make a drunken ass of myself.
You’re just a horror film actor. Or you’re just a drunk. Or you’re just a brawler. Or you’re just a carouser. Or you’re just a hellraiser. Or you’re just an angel in Heaven.
Just after “Wild Thing” with Higgins and all that bit. They asked me to provide my own funeral eulogy. 93 was it? 94? BBC? What was the name of that stupid bloody show…
I’m frightened of not dying bravely. The punctation mark I leave on this helter-skelter of life: On my gravestone was written: “He made the air move.”
It’s as though I am speaking the words again but for the first time. I am not repeating the words from the transmission; I have become the transmission, floating in some timeless cloudy realm beyond time and space. A misty white enchanted forest. The Forty Acre Woods? The Exterior weightless now; no more. I know what is coming next. I taped the bloody show, didn’t I?
I died in a bar of a heart attack. Full of laughter. And we were having a cabbage competition. And I was very confident for once that I was going to win this vegetable competition. And someone made a bet with me that was so lewd that I took it on. And he shook my hand, and I laughed so much I was sick. And I died.
Looking down at my chest, I see my Oxford go-to-town jumper has been replaced by the white shirt I wore for that broadcast. That silly bloody silver fish broach is even pinned on it. Never knew where that came from, but can’t pretend the symbolism is lost on me now. My voice from the obituary show continues, simultaneously from my own lips and transmitted from elsewhere.
I asked for ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ to be sung last. First, I wanted ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. And in the middle I wanted a Barbadian band and singers playing ‘When Michael Rows the Boat Ashore’. And it was wonderful.
The mist continues to wash over me and the room is gone. Feed me my line please. “We mortals are but shadows and dust.” That’s the one. “I don’t feel good.” Is that me? The pub is coming back into focus, but the mist lingers. Am I on the floor now? Why did I sit on the floor when I have my own armchair? Did someone steal it from under me? Arms grabbing at me, propping me up again but not in my chair. The sound of the race is fading out; the mist is so thick now that I can’t make out much of anything. Still, the broadcast voice continues over everything else.
And the only thing that happened that I regret about my funeral was the fact that I couldn’t go to my own wake. Because it was a wonderful party. And everytime I kept on tapping someone on the shoulder-I’m going to cry now- They didn’t know I was there.
Feeling tired; too much excitement I guess. The fog clears intermittently to give me a glimpse. Now Josie in my face; wanting a cuddle I guess, but when I go to kiss her, suddenly it’s the barman I’m kissing. “Fuck off!” I try to shout but only whisper as he advances to rubbing my chest. What’s this all about? The pain under his palms suddenly rather intense. Made a flick once called The Party’s Over. So many stupid fucking movies I made; suddenly I see every one; like flashes on a screen. I remember telling my brother one time, “If I die I want everyone to come to my funeral and cry. And if they don’t cry they’re not allowed in.” Rubbish, please don’t mourn me. My children suddenly flood into my mind; why did I tell Sarah not to come here for a visit? Will someone explain to my dogs that Daddy won’t be home to Churchtown again? They’ll wonder where I am and think I’ve forgotten them. Guess I might not be burying the sword of Marcus Aurelius in the sand of the coliseum tomorrow. Ridley will have to carry on without me. They’ve got their computers now to recreate me and really, there wasn’t ever a real me to begin with. Just the Exterior. And only the Interior turns out to be real. Only the Forty Acre Woods.
“It is hard to be brave,’ said Piglet, sniffing slightly, ‘when you’re only a very small animal…”
Who will pay this tab; I always paid the tab. There’s Josie again, thank God, wiping at my lips with a wet bar towel. I hear a tired voice that resembles my own. “Help.” Then, “Hurt.” Then she’s gone and there’s only the mist. The bright, bright mist.
“But, of course, it isn’t really Good-bye, because the Forest will always be there…and anybody who is friendly with Bears can find it.”
Stiff upper lip, chappie. Keep calm and carry on…
“Remember, O man, that dust thou art, and to dust thou shalt return.” Friends We Will Miss…
“I Give you a Testimonial!” Wayne Kramer 1948-2024. Rest in Revolution Brother.
I had the great pleasure to spend some precious moments with Brother Kramer back in 2010. He was doing some events at South by Southwest alongside Don Letts and Billy Bragg in support of their Strummerville and Jail Guitar Doors prison charities. In addition to being one of the great rock & roll showmen of all time, I found Wayne to be an exceedingly kind and generous soul and a very inspirational figure who used his hard-won life lessons to make the world a better place. Eight years later, I was blessed to see and hear him shred much axe with his MC50 lineup at The Mohawk, and I saw him sit in with other acts occasionally in Austin over the years. In addition to Kicking Out the MC5 Jams, I highly recommend Wayne’s 2018 memoir The Hard Stuff: Dope, Crime, the MC5, and My Life of Impossibilities. We won’t see the likes of Brother Wayne Kramer again. Truly one of a kind. Truly a Revolutionary Human Being. Looking at you, Baby.
“Gonna Fly Now.” Carl Weathers 1948-2024. There will ever only be one Apollo Creed.
“You Can’t Kill Me!” Mojo Nixon 1957-2024. I was never a big fan of Mojo Nixon to be honest. Just wasn’t really my thing and I couldn’t even hum a single song of his if you held a gun to my head and called me Fried Chicken. Like Joe “King” Carrasco, he was just one of those ubiquitous presences in the 1980s Texas New Wave scene I was immersed in but an artist I never paid a great deal of attention to. While he wasn’t a Texas act per se, Mojo was a constant, always playing around town, always raising hell, always doing something around the Lone Star scene, including his SXSW showcases at the Continental Club I attended here in Austin in more recent years. Strange how the passing of a musician whose work I never bothered to get around to appreciating can leave a void with his passing. He was deeply symbolic of my generation, of my own Texas punk rock youth. And he will rightly be missed by his many admirers.
