Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

‘But-’ said I.

‘There’s something mystical about humping the gear, don’t you think?’ said Toby.

So I humped the gear by myself.

And I must have made a really good job of it, because once in a while I’d peer across at Mr Ishmael’s parked limo and see Toby and Neil and Mr Ishmael quaffing champagne and laughing together. And if one of them caught my eye, they’d grin very broadly and raise their glass and give me the old thumbs-up.

Nice chaps.

But I do have to say that I didn’t think much of The Green Carnation. It was a regular dump. It looked like a derelict building. The door was hanging off its hinges and the electricity appeared to be supplied by a mobile generator.

I cast a dubious eye over these insalubrious surroundings and one of the members of Venus Envy caught me at it.

‘Chic, isn’t it?’ said the he/she. A very thin one, scarcely taller than a dwarf. ‘Post-holocaust chic, it’s called. You wouldn’t believe how much it cost to make it look like this.’

I agreed that I probably wouldn’t, then asked where exactly the stage might be.

‘You’re standing on it,’ this Glen/Glenda said. ‘It’s an entirely new concept in concert staging. A “level-header”, it’s called, level with the audience. One day all stages will be like this.’

But I did not agree that they would.

I continued with my humping. And when done, and somewhat breathless, I asked the Venus Envy she-male where exactly the bar was, so I could avail myself of a beer.

‘We don’t have a bar, as such,’ the man-woman told me. ‘If you want a beer you’ll have to go to the pub next door. I think our roadie is in there already. You can buy him a pint for helping you to shift your gear.’

I settled for a glass of water. Or would have done, if there’d been any. So I sighed and shrugged and went off to the toilet. And then the obvious struck me and I went out to Mr Ishmael’s limo, to share in the champagne.

Only to find that Neil and Toby and Mr Ishmael were now entering the club. As they’d run right out of champagne.

‘This is rough,’ said Neil. ‘And when I say rough, I mean it. Let’s make like a ****** and get out of this ruddy hole.’

There was a moment of silence then.

Followed by a longer one, and then a longer one still.

The moon, briefly out, went behind a cloud and a dog howled in the distance.

‘Never,’ said Toby, finding his voice, ‘never, ever say anything as evil and revolting as that again.’

And I agreed with Toby. ‘That was rough,’ I said.

‘Sorry,’ said Neil. ‘I thought I was amongst manly men who would be prepared to share a joke about a ******. But apparently not. Which says so much, doesn’t it?’ And Neil went off to tune his drums. For he was the drummer that week.

I looked at myself and then at Toby and then at Neil.

‘Why did I think,’ I asked Toby, ‘that there were more than just the three of us in this band?’

Toby shrugged. ‘Because you are silly?’ he suggested.

‘I am going next door for a beer,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘After you have done your sound check, you might care to join me.’

And off went Mr Ishmael, leaving us behind.

And I looked at Toby once again.

And he looked back at me.

‘What is a soundcheck?’ I asked Toby. ‘I’m sure I did know, but I think I must have forgotten.’

‘It’s a check,’ said Toby, authoritatively, ‘to see whether all the walls are sound. Whether they are all right to take the vibrations of our instruments. You know nothing, you.’

I bowed to his superior knowledge. ‘So I’ll leave that to you, then,’ I suggested.

‘Where do I set up my drums?’ Neil asked. ‘I can’t find the stage.’

So I had to show him and sigh at his amateurism.

And as the ladyboy from Venus Envy was still hanging around, I made certain enquiries of him regarding, in particular, where the PA system, bass and rhythm-guitar amps and speakers that we had been promised happened to be.

And the birdie-bloke just laughed. ‘We’re all in the same boat here, sweetie,’ he/she said. ‘It’s row like a big boy or bail out like a girl.’ And then he/she giggled foolishly, which put my teeth on edge.

Toby, now with his Gibson EB3 bass out and nowhere to plug it in, waggled the jack-plug in my direction. ‘I have a really bad feeling about his,’ he said.

‘Listen,’ said I. And I shrugged. ‘We’re top of the bill. Venus Envy can hardly play without a PA, amps and speakers. We’ll bide our time. Play it cool.’

And so Toby played it cool. And Neil played it cool. And I played it cool. And we stood about, playing it cool and waiting for something to happen and for someone to turn up.

And so things came to pass.

It was about ten of the evening clock when the first nightclubbers arrived. I say first, although we didn’t see Mr Ishmael again that night. He never came back from the bar next door. And when we did eventually go looking for him, his limo had gone and he had clearly gone with it.

But folk were arriving. Although they didn’t look to me to be your typical clubbers, as it were. And certainly not the class of audience I had been hoping for. Nightclubs are known as the haunts of the young and trendy. These clubbers were old and far from trendy and they smelled rather strongly of meths and cider and looked like the sort of folk who would probably appreciate a joke about a ******.

I engaged the guy/gal from Venus Envy once more in conversation. ‘Still no amps or speakers,’ I said. ‘And a bunch of winos have turned up, several of whom I recognise as residents of Cider Island. I’ll give it ten more minutes, then if things do not correct themselves, myself and my colleagues will be taking our leave.’ Which was quite an eloquent little speech, really.

And it seemed to get the job jobbed.

The blokey-bird fluttered her/his eyelids and jigged all about in a fluster. ‘Oh, please don’t go,’ wailed and whimpered this person. ‘It is so important to the club that you perform. The equipment will be here shortly. Oh look – here it is.’

And it was.

Giant ladies now entered the club. Ladies with high heels and higher hair. And that is one of the things that I have always liked so much about transsexuals and female impersonators: the sheer scale of them. I mean, your average man is about five-nine, five-ten, but put a pompadour wig on him and a pair of five-inch stiletto heels and he’s going to be hitting near to the seven-foot mark.

Pretty impressive.

And so these giant lady-men, the lad/lassies of Venus Envy, hauled their gear into the club. I do have to say that they didn’t haul in much gear. And what there was of it looked pretty rough.

‘You can’t imagine how much it cost to make the gear look like that,’ I was told.

But I didn’t answer at this time as I was fighting off a bag lady who was trying to go through my pockets.

‘You won’t need to do a soundcheck, will you?’ asked a giant lady-fella, who looked to me to be one of Cinderella’s ugly sisters from panto. Possibly played by Les Dawson, who would, in a few short years, become the most famous female impersonator in the country.

And certainly one of the most convincing.

‘Actually, we did the soundcheck before you got here,’ I told this colourful personage, which must have impressed them a lot.

Neil appeared with a troubled face. ‘A gigantic woman wants to play my drums,’ he said.

‘Give and take,’ I said philosophically. ‘It’s swings and roundabouts, live with it.’

‘And another of them is retuning your Strat.’

‘No she’s ruddy not.’

But she did. Or rather he/she did. Well, they were fearsome, those Venus Envys. Big high heels and big high hair and great big eyelashes, too. They fair scared the bejabbers out of us and I am not ashamed to say so. Because they were fearsome.