Sick On You Read online

  “Yes, I am certain. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my entire life. Now for Christ’s sake, bugger off and let a man wash his balls in peace.”

  Silence, then a snort, then footsteps and a door closing. She has gone. I wait for a few seconds then clamber delicately back into the tub. I turn the taps so that a soothingly cool pool eventually envelops my dangling tackle and slightly relieves what feels like the sting of a hundred especially spiteful bees.

  Half an hour later, wrapped in a towel and after much peering down the hallway to make sure the coast is clear of meddling Dutchwomen, I waddle back to my room with as much dignity as I can muster. On my back, on the bed, legs spread wide, fanning my groin with the Let It Be cover, I reach out for the Dettol bottle on the bedside table and study the label. Among the many words printed on it are these: cleaning floors, sinks, unblocking drains. Do not apply directly to skin. Serious injury may occur. Dilute ten parts water to one part Dettol.

  Oh.

  The next few days are a painful blur. I go to work, moving gingerly, dealing with the hailstorm of trousers, coats, and toppers under a duress that, of course, must be kept private.

  On top of that, the food situation is becoming critical. I quite simply can’t afford to eat. The canteen at Moss Bros is rather good, with mouth-watering shepherd’s pies, stews, egg and chips, and the like, cheap too, but I just can’t squeeze any coins out of my budget to buy a morsel.

  The reigning Miss Moss Bros 1971, voted by management and staff and well worthy of the title, takes pity on me and, without asking, buys me lunch one day. Next day, after work, she takes me home on the train to Kent for tea with her mum. For obvious, private reasons I must remain chaste. In fumbling hallway encounters I deflect her advances under the pretext of being noble and respectful of her mother. This drives her even madder with desire.

  * * *

  An ad in the Melody Maker announces a huge sale this Saturday at the Orange shop in Denmark Street. The “Biggest Sale in the History of Orange,” it blares. Presumably that’s big. Doors open at 8 a.m. I’m going to have a look. I arrange for a couple of hours off at Moss Bros.

  I’m up early on Saturday and arrive at Denmark Street at a quarter to eight to find a lineup of musicians three deep, stretching over a hundred yards along the pavement. And this early in the morning that’s not an attractive sight. Oh well, in for a penny. I join the line.

  The chap in front of me looks like one of the Three Musketeers (a lesser one but by definition it’s a small club): skinny and slight of frame, sporting shoulder-length auburn hair parted in the middle, a pointy goatee attempt, and a twirled mustache. We start to chat and establish a surprisingly immediate rapport. He’s Irish, from Dublin, and he’s a guitarist. He says he has been in London for a couple of years, playing in bands and such. His name is Eunan and he lives in Cricklewood.

  The doors at Orange open and a mob scene erupts. A herd of fat women at a bake sale are better behaved than this bunch. Pushing, shoving, elbowing, swearing, and for what? For a load of rubbish, that’s what. Everything on sale appears to be broken. Speakers dangling from split cabinets, amplifiers dented beyond recognition.

  What a gyp. Mostly what’s on offer seems to consist of dozens of cardboard boxes overflowing with old leads, tubes, plugs, assorted knobs, circuit boards, and bits of unidentifiable plastic. I fight my way back out the door and head toward Shaftesbury Avenue. I’ll get a cup of tea and wait for Foyles to open. What a chronic waste of time.

  Wonder what happened to the Irish guy?

  IV

  In the Moss Bros canteen, nursing my salesmen grievances and my recently napalmed nethers (the crabicide was a success), I notice a box on the wall, over which is the word “Suggestions.”

  I write a suggestion.

  I suggest that I be issued with a cricket bat to smash the salesmen in the teeth and teach them some manners.

  Sincerely,

  Andrew Matheson

  I pop it into the suggestion box.

  * * *

  My freedom of movement gradually returns and the day I no longer walk like John Wayne with a hernia I resume the audition process. It’s a Wednesday and I read for the tenth time last week’s Melody Maker, trying to spy that one ad I missed, the one that screams out at me, “Here we are.” But none do.

  It is getting depressing. Hungry and lonely are the predominant themes of the evenings I spend up in my tidy eyrie. The starkers lady across Ifield Road has not, to my knowledge, played a return engagement at her dressing table. I check every fifteen minutes so I’m reasonably sure. I can’t plug in the AC-30 because of Dutchy and the other two down the hall, so I plink, plinkety, plink on my chipped blue Strat, hour after hour, trying, in vain, to forget my beautiful Vox Mark VI.

  Morning: a glass of water, a cold bath, and I’m off on the Tube to Covent Garden. Goolam is kind and gives me a cup of horrible tea from a flask he brings in every day. He hails from the island of Mauritius and is the first Muslim I have ever met. He sings:

  This is my island in the sun

  Given to me by an Englishman

  The manager of the lower level of Moss Bros is a sour, humorless individual with a thousand crushed aspirations typed all over his gray face. He’s not mad about me and makes this obvious with looks, sneers, tuts, and sighs every time we cross paths. So it must be killing him to have to track me down in my tucked-away little corner of chaos, and even worse to have to hand me an envelope with my name on it and a gold-embossed message in the top-left corner: From the desk of Harry Moss.

  I know he is waiting for me to open it, and that the curiosity is gnawing away at him like a bowel maggot, so I just stand there looking down at the envelope, smiling and nodding. Finally, I stick it in my inner coat pocket. “Thank you,” I say, and turn back to my tasks.

  “Hrrmph,” he replies charmingly.

  Later, in private, I open the envelope. Stark raving wonder of wonders, it is an invitation to take tea with Harry Moss tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock.

  The next day I’m in a good mood. I’m famished, of course, but I feel fab. I’m in black velvet strides and a purple polo neck. Not even the idiot salesmen can get me down today.

  Just before three o’clock I get in the lift and tell the operator to take me to the top floor.

  A lady is waiting who ushers me in to the inner sanctum of the Moss Bros empire. And there he is, sitting behind his desk, white haired and about as dignified looking as a gentleman who isn’t my landlord can possibly get. Harry Moss, the great man himself, wearing an eye-popping suit and ascot. Wonder where he shops.

  “Do sit down, oh, and would you care for . . . ?” Harry indicates a food-laden cart the size of a hay wagon being wheeled over to us by the lady who escorted me in. There are crustless sandwiches of at least a half-dozen varieties, the puffiest of pastries, silver pots of tea and coffee, the creamiest of creams, sugar-cube pyramids, cakes and crumpets and all manner of other unidentifiable edibles. It is all I can do to concentrate, mind my manners, and stop myself from diving in like a fat boy at a county-fair pie-eating contest.

  Harry sips tea while I tread the tightrope between gorging my starving self and being a polite, forelock-tugging employee.

  “So Andrew, I . . . I, um . . . received your suggestion yesterday.”

  He distinctly raises an eyebrow when he says the word “suggestion.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes,” says Harry. “Yes, it was brought to my attention and I must say it did give me quite a chuckle. I was most amused. Cricket bat?” Here, he balls his right hand into a soft fist and allows himself a quiet “Heh, heh, heh” into it.

  What follows is a surprisingly comfortable and frank discussion of life deep in the depths of Moss Bros, and Harry Moss himself seems sincerely interested. After pouring us each a second cup of tea Harry poses a question.

 
“So, tell me, Andrew, if you don’t mind me asking. What is it you earn on, shall we say, a weekly basis here at Moss Bros?”

  The manners. The manners in the marrow, the sheer born-in-the-bone politeness of that question. This man is the supreme being at Moss Bros. He has but to press a button and some minion will all too readily impart the information regarding precisely what pittance this lesser minion is earning. Harry Moss is no doubt already well aware of what I earn. And yet the status-conferring question.

  “Eleven pounds fifty a week, sir.”

  “Hmm. Well, let me just say that while I can’t, heh, heh, condone this cricket bat business, I do applaud your attitude.”

  “Well, thank you, sir. I just . . .”

  “And so I thought I would authorize a rise to fifteen pounds per week, effective immediately. Would that suit?”

  Would it suit? Would it ever. That’s a massive £3.50 increase and effective immediately, which means I get paid that sum tomorrow, Friday, payday.

  Harry and I wrap things up with smiles and a handshake and I’m back in the lift, heading down but feeling up.

  Walking home from Earls Court station, I stop in at Gandhi’s brother’s joint for a celebratory tin of spaghetti, some fish paste, and a loaf of bread. A little further on I buy the Melody Maker. Money no longer being an object.

  That night I am full of food and optimism. I read the Melody Maker, looking for that ad that screams. Then, oddly, one does jump out at me. It doesn’t exactly scream but it does raise its voice. It nags.

  Violent, extrovert vocalist

  Rock ’n’ roll band. Semi-pro?

  Must be happy

  Reasonable gear

  01-427-1001

  6:30 pm

  It says rock ’n’ roll but I’m suspicious. What do they mean “Semi-pro”? That’s a dreary sign. And, confusingly, they want a “happy” “violent” guy. Do I qualify as happy and violent? I don’t feel overly happy. And what constitutes “reasonable gear”?

  I almost don’t call. On the Thursday night I don’t. On the Friday I don’t. But on the Saturday I read the ad again and gather a pocketful of two-pence pieces. Standing in the phone box in Redcliffe Square, I dial the number, the receiver is picked up, and I rock the coin right into the slot. I speak to a chap with the non–rock ’n’ roll name Tim. The band sounds promising, no whiff of Brylcreem at all really. He did mention that he once played with Screaming Lord Sutch, but I’m only dimly aware of what that means in musical terms. Tim says they auditioned some singers earlier that afternoon but none worked out.

  The “reasonable gear” they want me to have is a microphone, an amp, and a couple of PA columns. I tell him about my Strat and AC-30, and he says a swap should be easy. Tim and his bass player are coming to Earls Court to see me Monday night. So that’s that, then. Maybe I’m on my way.

  * * *

  On Monday night Tim and his bass-player pal Roger arrive on schedule. Both are older than me by at least three or four years. Tim, the guitarist, is a rumpled sort, jeans and T-shirt, stocky build, mid-length hair, a bit thin on top. Roger is the complete opposite. Stylish in a dance-palace lad sort of way, thin, wearing a yellow-and-gray checked jacket with lapels like twin ironing boards pinned to his chest, black trousers with a crease that could slice bread, black shoes, serious platform soles. Dark shoulder-length hair, and he’s got a distinctly sardonic look wrapped around his boat. Looks-wise, he’s not a million miles removed from Bill Wyman.

  We talk and they plug in the amp and check out the Stratocaster, sighting down the neck and yanking on the tremolo. Tim twiddles the knobs of the AC-30 like a safecracker, listening for hiss or buzz. None, as it happens. He nods his approval, plugs in the guitar, and launches into a raunchy snarl of a twelve-bar. After thirty seconds or so he stops, props the Strat against the amp, and, sticking his chin out like a grizzled doorstop, he decrees, “Not bad, not bad.” Which, oddly enough, is exactly what I am thinking about them.

  An audition is set for Saturday.

  Next day, I check out of Moss Bros early and take my Strat and AC-30 back to Macari’s. The man himself seems pleased as Punch to see me again and, one nonstop chatter-fest and two backslaps later, the trade is made. I am now the proud possessor of an Electro-Voice amplifier, two scratched and scuffed speaker columns of suspicious pedigree, a mic stand, and a Shure microphone. Well, sort of a Shure microphone. Shure-ish at least. Yeah, Shure.

  Macari helps me carry the equipment out to the street, hails a cab, and helps me load it in. As the taxi pulls away from the curb he waves good-bye. That is such a cheery smile on his face.

  Later in the evening, as if to cap off an eventful day, the lady on Ifield Road reappears, nude at her dressing table, brushing her hair. I watch for minute after minute until she turns quickly, looks up, and catches me spying. I jump back, almost knocking over the speaker columns that now dominate the room. I’ve been caught in the act, exposed as a peeping Andrew.

  Lights out, into bed. I lie there in the dark thinking about the naked lady, my upcoming audition, my ravaged though healing genitalia, and a gray swirl of other random thoughts and fears. Just before I fall asleep, it occurs to me.

  At Macari’s my Mark VI was no longer hanging on the wall.

  V

  It’s Saturday. I’m excited and nervous but acting cool, riding in a blue Humber van. Tim has come to Earls Court to snag me and the gear and haul us to somewhere called Stanmore for the audition. The gear seems to have passed his inspection. Macari’s has cachet. Tim is chatty and gruffly cordial, weaving expertly in and out of traffic, telling tales of Screaming Lord Sutch, and Jerry Lee Lewis, whom he also played with somewhere back down the line. As previously mentioned, I’m not a paleontologist, but I try to hang in there with the details. Talk turns to the Stones and the Pretty Things. I don’t know much about the Pretty Things but I can hold my own with the Stones chat.

  Truth be told, I have a positively encyclopedic knowledge of all things related to British pop music from at least February 9, 1964 (Fabs/Sullivan Show) onward. And who came before then, anyway? Cliff, Frank Ifield, and Helen Shapiro? Come on. Ask me who the bass player is for the Dave Clark Five and I’ll spout out Rick Huxley. Ask me what was the third single released by the Yardbirds and I will tell you “For Your Love,” of course. Ask me if Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich are any good and I’ll say, “Of course not.”

  It’s a forty-five-minute drive and we cover a variety of subjects. I ask about the ad.

  “So, did you have a lot of response?”

  “Yeah, a bit. Tried out a few last Saturday, mostly wankers.”

  “Well, I’ll give it a go.”

  “I know you will.”

  Such assurance. What a boost. Maybe I can start to feel a little less nervous. Tim continues.

  “We got a call from a piano player.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Who needs a piano player?

  “Yeah, but I’ve lost his number, actually. Norwegian guy, called Gorvan or something. Maybe he’ll call back.”

  “Norwegian?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Stanmore in Middlesex is Pinewood Studios beautiful. Leafy, cobbled in parts, picture-postcard perfect, and the antithesis of anywhere any rock ’n’ roll band has ever rehearsed. The church hall, for it is a church hall, where the audition will be held, is just south of magical. Small, redbrick exterior, worn wooden floor, arched ceilings, spooky acoustics, small kitchen off the main room—I’ve never seen anywhere better to set up and plug in.

  Tim and I lug in my gear. Roger is there and already set up. He says hi, sitting back in a chair reading Mayfair magazine. He doesn’t seem bothered about a thing in the world. His Fender Jazz bass leans against a wall. In the middle of the room is a Premier drum kit. Beside it, on his knees, is a stocky roadie fiddling with something underneath the ride cymbal. I am pleasantly surprised that they have
a roadie.

  We plonk down a column and Tim gestures toward the roadie. “Andrew, this is Nigel, our drummer. Nige, Andrew.”

  Our drummer? Not a roadie? He’s got frizzy hair, his clothes are wrinkled, his jacket is tatty tweed with worn suede elbow patches. This is not a drummer; this is a geography teacher. Anyway, we set up, we plug in, we get ready—ready teddy to rock ’n’ roll. But what shall we start with? How about “Johnny B. Goode”? All right with me, mateys, because I’ve learned the lyrics. I grab the microphone and right away I’m deep down in Looziana.

  We’re moving now. Against all odds, I’m having fun. Tim knows his way around a Fender Tele. Roger’s the shining star of this outfit. He plays fine, looks great, and throws in a backing vocal every now and again. It’s ragtag, but it’s all right.

  But there’s something happening here. What it is is exactly clear.

  The drummer is more than slightly off. Nigel’s timing is scattershot, his rolls and fills haphazard and unpredictable. And if they are out then the whole equation is iffy. And iffy is useless and useless won’t get you anywhere.

  If you don’t have a drummer you have nothing. That’s gospel. That’s how important they are. Any other part of the band can be squidgy. The bass can wander, the guitar can be out of tune and time, the singer can wail away off-key, but if the drummer is on the money then the show rolls merrily along. It’s bad when they know this, of course, because then they quickly develop all the charm and modesty of Buddy Rich or Ginger Baker.

  But that’s just the way it is.

  On the Tube back to Earls Court I am positively aglow. Roger and Tim gave me the thumbs-up. I’m in. But now to reshape this thing into what I want it to be. The pros are that it is an actual band, with a van, rehearsal facilities, rock ’n’ roll roots, and Roger and Tim seem like good sorts.