Nicola Barker - Five Miles from Outer Hope

‘I want you to stop singing that insufferable shit right this instant.’

‘It’s Andrew Lloyd- Webber ,’ he tells me (as if astonished by my ignorance). ‘It’s Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat .’

‘So?’

‘ Joseph , I tell you.’

‘So?’

‘It’s the song Joseph sings when he’s been forcibly kept by Herod’s men against his will.’

‘ So ?’

‘You mean to tell me,’ he pauses in horror, ‘that you have never even seen Joseph ?’

‘No,’ I echo blankly, ‘I have never even seen it.’

La Roux’s eyes bulge through his balaclava.

‘I went and saw it in London a few years back, actually,’ Jack intervenes, almost apologetically, ‘but I can’t say I entirely recognized it from what you were just singing.’

‘Oh, come on.’

Jack shrugs. ‘Sorry.’

‘Oh, come on .’

Jack merely smiles.

‘As it happens,’ La Roux tells him, ‘I personally own the original English Lloyd-Webber version on record. But in truth my favourite recording is the all-South-African-cast one. I went to see it in Johannesburg when I was seventeen. It featured the wonderful South African singer Bruce Millar as Joseph. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of him over here?’

Jack shakes his head. ‘Not that I can recall.’

‘Well,’ La Roux continues determinedly, ‘I would happily bet a considerable amount of money that Bruce was probably the best Joseph in any production.’

Jack says nothing (He seems to have no particular feelings either way on this subject, and why should he?).

‘The South African version had some minor differences to the English version,’ La Roux continues, ‘but they were all good differences in my opinion. They were improvements .’

Jack continues fishing in silence for a while and then he suddenly says, ‘How can you be sure of that? You didn’t even see the English version. Or any others, for that matter.’

La Roux (plainly delighted at having finally provoked some opposition, no matter how half-hearted) instantly jumps onto his high-horse and straddles it like a pincer-kneed professional. ‘That’s hardly the point,’ he says. ‘In my experience of musical theatre — which is extensive because we have a real passion for it in South Africa — I have never seen an actor so well cast for a role as Bruce was for Joseph .’

‘But you didn’t even see the English Joseph ,’ Jack counters dogmatically.

‘I heard him on record and that was enough for me. He was useless. In fact he was embarrassing .’

Jack immediately takes offence at La Roux’s harsh and fatuous criticisms. He indignantly draws himself up to his full height. ‘He certainly wasn’t useless when I saw him.’

‘Well, he was useless on record. And Bruce was great recorded. That must mean something.’

Jack snorts derisively. ‘I’m afraid I simply can’t agree with you. A recording is a very different kettle of fish indeed from a live performance. Someone could easily perform live brilliantly and then record badly. It happens.’

‘Fine,’ La Roux concedes, ‘but if you’re such an admirer of his talents, how about telling me the actual name of the actor who played the English Joseph ?’

Jack thinks hard for a minute. ‘I can’t honestly say I remember. All I can recollect is the fine performance he gave. I don’t believe he was especially famous. I can’t even recall having seen him in anything before or since…’

‘But doesn’t that tell you something?’ La Roux expostulates victoriously. ‘He performed in Joseph and then he sank without a trace. You never heard of him again . Listen to yourself! It’s so easy. It’s like snatching candy from a little baby.’

‘No. I said I’d never heard of him since. That doesn’t mean he didn’t have a perfectly respectable career after. I just don’t happen to follow the world of musical theatre as closely as…’

‘ Enough! ’ I bellow. ‘What the heck is wrong with the two of you? That is it. If I hear another fucking word about Joseph I am going to kill somebody. I am fishing. Don’t you know what that means ? It’s a spiritual experience. It’s a kind of devotion . I need some peace and bloody quiet !’

Both men turn and stare at me with expressions of surprised incomprehension, as if my sudden show of bile is entirely disproportionate to the net irritation caused.

‘Fine then,’ Jack eventually mutters. ‘Very sorry, I’m sure.’

He turns his back on us and reels in his line. As soon as he’s not watching I poke a stiff finger into La Roux’s spine (he yelps like a kitten). ‘I know what you’re doing,’ I whisper ferociously, ‘and you’ll live to regret it if you carry on. Just shut the fuck up and stop driving me crazy .’

La Roux leans back a way and stares at me indignantly. ‘Well get a load of you, Miss High and Mighty!’ he exclaims. ‘As far as I am aware,’ he continues haughtily, ‘you have absolutely no reason to believe my voice isn’t actually deeply alluring to fish. In fact, you have no logical or scientific basis for thinking fish aren’t actively attracted to my singing.’

‘La Roux, just put a bloody sock in it,’ I hiss.

I return to my rod. A mere five short seconds later, La Roux cheerfully commences whistling the overture to Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat (the English version, naturally, to garner support from his Lloyd-Webber ally), then calmly proceeds to perform it in full. With a whole infuriating variety of embellishments.

Straight after the overture comes the first vocal number. And it is exactly half-way through his hyper-energetic performance of this song (during which the narrator kindly sets the BC scene) that I finally decide to throw my first punch.

Thereafter, things get really ugly.

When we arrive back at the island (a tumultuous twenty soggy, splashy, salty, sweaty minutes later), knuckles have been bitten, bruises have blossomed on lips and on backs-of-heads, blood has been drawn.

Jack clambers out first, ties up the boat, then turns and peers down at me.

‘Is he still breathing?’ he asks anxiously.

I peruse La Roux at my leisure. ‘Of course he is. Can’t you see his chest moving?’

‘But did you really have to sit on his face all the way home?’ Jack persists.

I smile, brightly. ‘Come on, Jack, I gave him fair warning. When I sat astride his chest he still persisted in whistling. In my book that’s a declaration of war and at that point I was actively obliged to take the appropriate action. There was no alternative.’

Jack still doesn’t look convinced. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ I tell him, ‘this man has had six months training in the South African armed forces. He’s seen military action. I am a sixteen-year-old girl with a short fuse. It’s hardly unfair competition.’

La Roux kicks out his right leg, furiously. Jack shrugs, rescues his mackerel and quickly makes off with it. As I watch him retreating, I take a good, deep breath, clench my buttocks one last time and then rise from that boat like a tall, teen, phoenix.

Unrepentant, ruddy-cheeked and righteous.

Yeah, Buster . That’s me.

Talk about one helluva lousy and unproductive fishing expedition. When I finally arrive home again (it’s seven a.m. already — I mean, the day’s literally over ), completely fish-free and horribly groin-grazed (you honestly think he let me sit on his face for quarter of an hour without champing at my genital region like an avenging two-humped camel?) I spend a fair old while digging out and then trowelling half a bottle of Germolene on to my assorted cuts and grazes.