Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

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?’