People say, “Oooh, he’s not like you expect him.
Thought he was lighter, or thought he was dark.”
Terence the Thespian sat on his laurels.
Counted his royalties, counted his hair.
Terence the Thespian struck down by lightning.
Just goes to show he was mortal. So there!
5
When Terence the Thespian got his comeuppance and copped the old bolt from the blue, his children were left to divvy up the spoils.
The eldest, Alexander, or Sandy to his daddy, or Master Sandy to his private tutors, or just plain jammy bastard to the rest of us, found himself in the enviable position of being a teenaged millionaire.
Now, while it is certainly true that many a man of means owes his success in life to the labours of a deceased relative, it is also often the case that wealth that is suddenly come by is wealth that is suddenly gone.
This was indeed the case with Sandy.
Sandy dispossessed himself of wealth in truly Biblical fashion. He dallied in the fleshpots of Ealing, that modern-day Babylon, where, in his gilded youth, he drank deep of iniquity’s wine and dined upon fruits forbidden.
And thusly did he squander his birthright upon many a libertine pleasure. Carousing with harlots and hedonists, sybarites and sodomites, debauchees, degenerates, wallowers and wastrels.
Very nice work if you can get it, but sadly few of us can.
And having squandered all, and somewhat more besides, Sandy was forced to flee the fleshpots and take unto his toes. And sorely did his creditors mourn for his departure. And greatly did they weep and wail and gnash their teeth and rend their raiments. Yea, verily! And many amongst them did swear mighty oaths and promise him the torments of the damned.
Sandy wandered wearily, footsore and sick at heart, a vagabond with all hope gone, a sad and sorry fellow. He walked alone for many days and covered many miles and, as you do on the road, had all kinds of exciting adventures involving Red Indians and pirates and highwaymen and knights in armour and wizards and witches and giants and goblins and beautiful princesses with long golden hair.
Because there’s a lot more to life on the road than sleeping in shop doorways and drinking aftershave. As anyone who’s been on the road will tell you.
Sandy tramped the highways and the byways for almost twenty years. Scouting for wagon trains, sailing on the seven seas and getting into all kinds of sticky situations involving the princesses with the long golden hair. But eventually he tired of it, cashed in some gold doubloons that he’d dug up on a coral island and bought the Shrunken Head.
The Shrunken Head had always been a bit of a dump. It lay at the bottom of Horseferry Lane, beside the River Thames. You couldn’t actually see the river from the Shrunken Head, but you got a feel of it during the high spring tides when the cellar filled up with water.
When Sandy purchased the place it was a “folk pub”, where men with big bellies and beards, manly men who drank only real ale, howled out those horrible unaccompanied songs that always begin with “As I walked out one morning” and end with graphic descriptions of genitalia being pierced by fish hooks.
Sandy, who had enjoyed the company of a good many long-legged women during his days in the fleshpots of Ealing, ousted the big-bellied beardies and turned the Shrunken Head into a proper music venue. One that would attract the right kind of punter. He stripped the barrels and beer engines from the cellar and opened it up as Brentford’s answer to the Cavern.
Sandy catered to all tastes, bar “folk”, because all tastes bar “folk” attract women. Good-looking women, that is.
The Shrunken Head became the place to go in Brentford, if you were looking to rock ’n’ roll. Because Sandy did the job the way it should be done.
The Cellar, as it was imaginatively called, was small and damp and airless. The beer was served in plastic tumblers, warm and flat and overpriced. The bouncers were brutal, the bands played much too loud, junkies chased the dragon in the toilets and as for the smell …
John Omally loved the place.
Jim Pooley, however, did not.
“I would rather have my genitalia pierced by fishhooks than spend an evening there,” he said, when he learned that this was to be their destination.
“Come on, Jim,” said John, nudging his friend’s elbow. “If this band is as good as they say it will be a night to remember.”
“But the place is a hellhole and as for the guvnor—”
“Sandy the sandy-haired barlord?”
“The man is a twat,” said Jim.
“He’s been about a bit, though, and tells an interesting tale.”
“I tell an interesting tale and I’ve never been anywhere.”
“But do you have a duelling scar?”
“No.”
“Or a bullet wound, or a scald on your arm where a dragon breathed on you?”
“No,” said Jim. “I don’t.”
“And do you know of any other barlord in Brentford who bears the marks of the stigmata?”
Pooley thought about this. “Not off-hand,” he said.
“Or any other bar that attracts so many long-legged women?”
Jim thought about this also. “There’s the Brown Hatter in Fudgepacker Street,” he said.
“Those aren’t women, Jim.”
They walked a while in silence.
“Look,” said John as they crossed the Kew Road. “Just come in with me and listen to the band for a couple of numbers. If they’re rubbish we’ll both head off to the Swan.”
“I like the Swan,” said Jim. “It’s peaceful in the Swan.”
“It wouldn’t be, except for me.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, who do you think sees to it that the brewery’s jukebox remains forever out of service?”
“True enough,” said Jim. “But if you love music so much, why do you do it?”
“Because the Swan is not the place for music. The Swan is a dignified establishment run by a dignified barlord. You go there to relax and enjoy the sparkling repartee and well-versed conversation of its patrons. Not listen to music. If you want music you want live music. And if you want live music you want it in a sleazy overcrowded stinking sweathole of a place. Hellhole of a place. Getting it right is everything, Jim. A place for everything and everything in its place.”
“Let’s go to the Swan.”
“No,” said Omally.
Jim made a sulky face.
“Don’t be a baby,” said John.
They arrived at the Shrunken Head at a little before six. The band was scheduled to play at nine, which in rock ’n’ roll time meant ten. So why were they there so early?
“So why are we here so early?” asked Jim.
“Because we need to be. We need to grab a table near the door and hang on to it. I intend to make myself known to the band when they arrive and buy them a couple of drinks.”
Pooley whistled. “Now that is something I would like to see. You buying drinks for complete strangers.”
“It’s an image thing. And bands play better when they think there’s a talent scout in the audience.”
“And if they turn out to be a load of old pants?”
“Then you will enjoy much laughter at my expense, telling the tale in the Swan.”
Pooley shrugged. “It has that going for it, I suppose. You go on in, then, and I’ll come back at around half past nine.”
“No, Jim. This job requires two. One to hang on to the table and the other to be up at the bar. Now, let’s get inside before anyone else does.”
John pushed open the door to the bar and pushed Jim through the opening.
It was dim and grim in the Shrunken Head.
And it smelt like a wino’s armpit.
The floor was of fag-scarred lino in a colour that has no name.
The evening sunlight drew up short at the windows where the grime held court.
The furnishings were dark and dank.
The curtains rotten and ragged and rank.