Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘What about them?’

‘It’s pur- retty clear they want to fondle yer tom-toms.’

‘Groupies are groupies.’

‘Yer point being?’

‘They want a pop star. They don’t want me.’

‘So? Yer still get to do the ravishing. Or, ravishing– s. ’

Griff thought of Elf and Bruce.

‘Just plunge in,’ said Dean. ‘What’re yer ’fraid of?’

‘Pubic lice and five varieties of the clap, for starters.’

‘Yer know what we say about female hygiene in Gravesend.’

‘Why do I suspect,’ said Griff, ‘that the next words out of your mouth’ll put me off my food till next fookin’ Easter?’

Dean acted wounded. ‘Wholesome advice for my comrade-in-arms is all I’m offering yer: “ If it smells like chicken, keep on lickin’. If it smells like trout, get the fuck out. ”’

Griff tried not to smile. ‘You are foul.’

‘It’s a gift.’ Dean zipped his zipper. ‘Seriously, threesomes don’t come along that often, and yer mojo needs a work-out. That’s why yer’ve been all pale ’n’ quiet ’n’ … hungry-looking.’

Two weeks later, standing with his tray of fish and chips and bottle of Coke, Griff looks around the Blue Boar motorway services restaurant. Two tribes occupy the place during the graveyard shift. The truckers have short hair, plaid shirts, bad backs and swelling bellies. They pore over the Mirror , the Sporting Post or road atlases and discuss routes, miles per gallon, speed traps and dangerous bends. The showbiz tribe are musicians and performers, plus managers, roadies and entourage, if applicable. Male hair tends to be shoulder-length, and costumes this year are Paisley, velveteen and ruffled. They gossip about labels, signings, venues, musical instruments and which promoter went mysteriously bust before receipts from the last tour were paid. Of Griff’s brother Steve, there is no sign. Griff isn’t worried. It’s an icy night and traffic is slower than usual. The Beatles’ table is free, so Griff heads over with his tray to claim it. Everybody on the British touring circuit refuels at the twenty-four-hour Blue Boar, located in Watford Gap, a notional border – not near Watford, despite the name – between the north and the south of England. When Jimi Hendrix first came to London, he heard the Blue Boar mentioned so often that he assumed it was a hip club in Knightsbridge or Soho.

Griff sits in Ringo’s seat because it has a sight-line on the Beast, parked close to the restaurant. He isn’t assuming a brother performer would be so low as to smash a window and make off with an amp, but he can’t assume they won’t. He tucks in. After the drive to Birmingham, playing support for The Move at the Carlton Ballroom and the drive back here, he’s famished. The fish isn’t fresh by Hull standards, but he’s too hungry to care. He sprinkles vinegar from the sticky bottle and bites into the slab of cod. Jasper sits down with a plate of eggs, beans, grilled tomatoes and toast. ‘Nice and warm in here. Is this the Beatles’ table?’

‘Aye. That’s George’s seat you’re sitting in.’

Jasper cuts a precise square of toast and loads it with a cargo of baked beans. ‘Are you sitting in Ringo’s?’

‘You’re a mind-reader, Zooto.’

Jasper chews slowly. ‘“The Hook” sounded good.’

‘It’s Dean’s best song. Don’t tell him I said that.’

Dean rolls up next with his bacon butty and a hill of chips and takes McCartney’s seat. ‘Seen who’s over in the corner?’

Griff follows Dean’s nod. ‘Herman’s fookin’ Hermits. Purveyor of poppy jingles so sugary your teeth’ll fall out.’

‘Those poppy jingles took them on a twenty-date tour o’ the States,’ says Dean. ‘Think we could play support for them?’

Elf takes John Lennon’s seat. She has a pie. ‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with HH.’

‘I was just saying,’ says Dean, ‘wouldn’t it be great if we were their support act in America?’

Elf tucks a paper napkin into her blouse. ‘I’d rather we got there under our own steam than hanging on Herman’s coat-tails.’

‘It takes a hell of a lot o’ steam to cross the Atlantic,’ says Dean. He forks a chip, glumly. Meaning , Griff translates, more than a number sixteen hit and a flop that peaked at number seventy-five. Levon told the band that their second single has dropped out of the Top 100 after the Birmingham show, and Dean was unusually quiet on the long drive over.

‘We’re not bland enough to be a support act,’ says Jasper. ‘The headliners want you to make them look better.’

‘Same story tonight,’ says Elf. ‘The Move’s manager was all “Have a great show” when we started, but after “The Prize” he was telling Levon, “Get ’em off, they’re only the sodding warm-up act”.’

‘Archie Kinnock once took the Yardbirds along for a twelve-night tour of the north,’ says Griff. ‘Know how long it lasted? Three dates. They stole the fookin’ show every night. Archie couldn’t stand it. Eric Clapton wrote “Green-Eyed Monster Blues” about it.’

‘I thought that was about a woman,’ said Jasper.

Griff squishes mushy peas onto a big chip. ‘Now you know. Eh, wasn’t it classic when Elf said “If you hold your ticket over a naked flame, you’ll see the words ‘ Our LP is out now ’” – and that one wazzock actually did it and set his fookin’ ticket on fire!’

‘I stole that from Peggy Seeger.’ Elf squirts ketchup onto her chips. ‘So “The Hook” went down a storm again tonight, Dean.’

Dean scowls at his bacon sandwich. ‘Unlike “Abandon Hope”, which went down like a lead balloon. Ilex didn’t push it. That’s the problem. They should’ve put adverts in NME and Melody Maker .’

Griff looks at Elf. Elf looks back. ‘Lots of great songs don’t sell shit, Mr Sulkypants. Lots of shit songs sell like hot cakes. Look at Herman’s Termites. Ilex won’t drop us yet.’

‘Griff’s right, Dean,’ says Elf. ‘It’s not the end of the—’

‘It’s a bloody disaster.’ Dean shoves his plate away.

‘Oh f’ fooksake!’ Griff loses patience. ‘A famine in China, an earthquake in the Philippines, Hull City losing to Leeds: that ’s a fookin’ disaster. Fookin’ get over it or go and get a job in a café.’

Dean huffs and puffs. ‘Next time I try to push for something, if there is a next time, Ilex’ll be all “ Don’t think so: what ’bout the time you thought ‘Abandon Hope’ was a Top Ten hit? ’”

The Blue Boar plays a syrupy Muzak ‘Silent Night’.

‘If we’d released “Mona Lisa”,’ says Dean, ‘we’d have a song in the Top Ten over Christmas.’

‘There’s no way of knowing that,’ insists Elf.

‘That’s what Amy reckons. It’s what you reckon too.’

‘Self-pity really doesn’t suit you, Dean.’

‘Hey.’ Jasper dangles his watch. ‘It’s officially Christmas Eve.’

‘Kiss and make up,’ says Griff, ‘or you’ll be on the naughty list.’

‘I’m not kissing that ,’ snorts Elf. ‘I’d rather kiss …’

‘Peter Pope?’ suggests Dean.

Elf’s anger wilts, a little. ‘Mmm.’

‘Sorry,’ says Dean.

‘Blame the dice,’ says Elf.

‘Here’s to never abandoning hope.’ Jasper raises his glass of Tizer. He betrays an occasional fondness for puns.

‘Here’s to Utopia Avenue,’ says Dean. ‘Now in all good record shops, between T for Shirley Temple and V for Gene Vincent.’

Griff lights a cigarette. ‘Nine songs we got down, in two weeks. Most LPs have shit in to pad out the sandwich. Not ours.’