John Barlow - Eating Mammals

Out came the spoon and, of course, you know the rest.

Only it wasn’t quite the normal end to an evening with The Great ‘Cast Iron’ Mulligan. After the last of the plaque had been ingested, Mulligan found himself with a still-mesmerised bunch of drunken youngsters in front of him. Mesmerised, that is, but still a bunch of arrogant fools.

‘Is that it, Mully?’ someone shouted, to which a few equally intrepid souls added their dissatisfaction. Mulligan, for once entirely lost for words, stared at the offending stripling for a handful of seconds. He took up his Egyptian jug, which thanks to the unusually short programme still contained a full pint of the sticky orange liquid, stepped up to the lad and covered him in it, head to foot.

What followed I recall only as a series of blurred, fragmentary images. Two or three young men hanging on to Mulligan’s shoulders … a fist slapping into a surprised chin … legs flying up like brandished hockey sticks … contorted, grimacing faces shouting. Then a red-faced Mulligan was struggling to shake off half a dozen violent revellers and, once he had done so, launched his forearm with great precision towards the small, blond head of one unfortunate youngster, whose body immediately crumpled under the weight of the blow. He was laughing out loud as one by one his assailants flopped down to the carpet, or withdrew from the affray shaking their heads in confusion.

‘The Machine!’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Pack The Machine!’

The crates were soon packed. Those few partygoers with any remaining belligerence looked around them and, finding nothing but pain and cowardice to back up their next assault, shrugged their shoulders and wandered off to the bar.

The young man who had helped with the grinding snuck out with us through the back of the stage to help load the crates into the Rolls. Then, opening one of the crates, Mulligan found the gold platter, wrapped it in a large, oily rag, and presented it to the young man.

‘Here, my boy. I won’t be needing this any more. Take it, with the gratitude of Michael Mulligan.’

The fellow appeared pleased enough with the gift, until he felt its weight and deduced its composition. His big, boyish face turned from surprise to disbelief, and he made some mime of protest, offering to return the valuable plate.

‘Nonsense!’ said Mulligan, brushing the idea away with his hand. ‘No need of it now, you see. None at all. I have,’ and here he cleared his throat rather dramatically, ‘retired.’

We bade the young man goodnight, and off he went. He had only spoken two words to us all evening: It’s brass.

The drive home that night was unusually tense. We said nothing, and we made no stop along the way.

The next morning he presented me with The Machine, and announced that he was going home to Ireland.

Some years later, Captain Gusto arrived in Poland. A tiny border town in the west of the country, all consonants and drizzle. Twice before I’d stopped off there, only a few miles from the point where Czechoslovakia, Poland and East Germany met. Whilst the money I made hardly paid for my transit to the next place, there was always enough interest in my act to draw a decent crowd.

When I got there it was midday, raining, and I set up in a muddy corner of the fairground. My stand consisted of an old Morris truck, the side of which opened out to create a small stage, on which The Machine stood. As I secured the little feet of the stage in the soft ground, I got the feeling that the fair was permanent, that it had been there for months, years, and the locals had lost interest. The faces of the other stallholders were as grey as the sky, and their solemn frowns warned me to expect slow, slow trade. As the afternoon progressed I saw why. The odd loner mooched dispiritedly around, tempted by nothing, reaching into his pocket only to pull out a crusty handkerchief. The manager of the fair, who as always had provided me with a handwritten sign explaining the nature of my act in Polish, assured me that things would improve. I handed him the site rent and hoped he was right, for I had not a zloty more to my name.

By early evening things had picked up a little. Groups of twos and threes wandered aimlessly about, still the crusty hankies, still no zlotys. Something had happened to the town, its former dour, humourless expression had turned to certain misery. A young man, eager to engage me in conversation to practise his English, explained that several local factories had been scaled down or closed altogether after a spat between the local administration and the central government. Times were hard and, as the young man said, with a curious boisterousness: ‘Nobody love to give her sausage you now!’

I pondered my ill fortune. What would Mulligan have done? No sausage, no zloty. No zloty, no go anywhere. In the past I had always managed to wangle a tankful of petrol during my brief excursions behind the Iron Curtain. It was far cheaper there, and the fairmen seemed to have access to it. For that reason I had left German soil and meandered through northern Czechoslovakia with hardly enough fuel to get me halfway back to the safety of the West. I feared what might happen to The Machine if I couldn’t make it quickly back over the border, for these Polish folk had always impressed me as harbouring an imprecise shadow of cruelty within their deep-throated laughter. Had I known then just how cruel, I most certainly would have left the Iron Curtain securely drawn across that particular place.

So, dreading the idea of what might become of me if insufficient raw material found its way into my stomach that evening, I threw Captain Gusto into a bold display of self-publicity. As you might imagine, drumming up business for an eat-all sideshow without the aid of language was as trying for the Captain as it was puzzling for those onlookers whose attention I managed to catch. Not quite sure of what exactly was written on my sign, I nevertheless did my best to reflect the description of my act in a comical mime. Everything within reach I pretended to eat, from my own shoes to the caps of half a dozen onlookers. Confused yet intrigued, people shuffled up closer, read the sign, and fell into disgruntled conversation with their shrugging companions before wandering off, apparently none the wiser. The boy was right, nobody loved to give me her sausage now.

The night closed in, and slowly the crowds grew. I persuaded a young couple to part with a bagful of toffee wrappers, but it was a vain gesture, and as I gobbled them down straight from the bag, without even bothering to grind them up, they looked on with expressions of pure bewilderment, as if to say, Why would you do such a thing? As they walked away, embarrassed I think, I wanted to chase after them and make them read my sign. But I was too shy. Mulligan would have marched up to the young man and broken the sign over his head, whereas Captain Gusto was simply left there looking ridiculous.

Drunks hobbled by, the odd group of teenagers stopped and giggled, and one or two small offerings were accepted, ground and ingested. For pitiful amounts. After several hours of this I had garnered barely enough coins to run my idle fingers through as I waited, hands in pockets, next to The Machine.

Then a straggle of men approached. They were all middle-aged, dressed in rough, old donkey jackets, and each one had a cigarette hanging from his bottom lip. They eyed up my sign mischievously, and from the way they bundled and shoved into one another I could tell they were interested in a bit of fun.

‘At last!’ I said to myself, breathing a long sigh of relief as I prepared to launch into the long ritual which Mulligan, on hearing of my fairground style, had once mockingly named The Belly Auction. Proudly, I strutted up and down in front of The Machine, stroking my stomach with feigned pride, and began to sip from a beaker of the orange liquid which I always carried with me. Then I strode arrogantly up to them and held my sign in front of their noses. They were a dirty-looking bunch, and the smell which radiated from them I can recall still, a damp, earthy mixture of raw pastry and tobacco. But I knew how to get the best from a bunch of drunks. So, choosing the man with the shortest cigarette stub poking from his lips, I stepped up to him, plucked the smouldering butt from his mouth, snubbed it between thumb and forefinger too quickly to be seen, and popped it into my mouth. As usual, it provoked mild amusement, and also caused each of them to re-examine the extravagant claims which my sign announced. They went into conference and I, well accustomed to the inevitable course of the little drama, withdrew a couple of yards and resumed my boastful prowl.