Chapter 12
The war of
Love and Fear
‘You can’t
get The Fear,’ wrote Fact, sipping a can of Genius and smoking, ‘If you don’t
want your crew to get The Fear, then you
can’t get The Fear.’ Fact was writing, syphoning off the latest news updated off
the Radio Alabama 1928 App, whilst enjoying cold pizza, and trying to tell the
story, as it happened, - all the while listening to The Great Wise Tiger’s
magnificent soul-stretching style of narrative, and the story of how the
legendary crew he sat in company now of, had made it off that crazy little
Spidermonkey planet.’ You can’t get The Fear,’ he wrote again, ‘you gotta tap
it out.’
Khan’s
theatrical mutations were a sight to behold, contorted colours and faces and
voices merging into the figure that roar-recited gently from on the golden
stool. The Pranksters were transfixed, bathing in the ego-sauce of the
recounting of their legendary story.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
‘What
is this powdery potion to be just add water to set you free in stand wonder oh
pot of old dry noodles and processed soul pieces with a sachet of ketchup. This
is not magic this is puff pastry powder louder grown longer and Chris Kiwomya
for full flight of fallen down fancy we can tear asunder nothing but our
bedsheets and our minds as we grow uncomfortable and make complaint against
complaint - what is it that agues you oh Dangerous Dave?
For
you have removed and replaced your jumper one hundred times between Ealing
Broadway and Stamford Brook - can you not sense the goodness in that song that
plays over in your mind, Belle and Sebastian I think you will find, all lilting
and sweet and triumphant as if it were composed in Maryland - a far off future
place - future though it is indeed concurrent with where you are sat now on
District Line. What’s this? Stuck between stations? Late and mixed up with so
much boiled and braised trouble on your platter, with a healthy side salad of
girl trouble too. Difficult to stomach like the white cider gut rot you and
your mate Kingsley have been glugging like crying cannot-be-appeased babies.
But at least you laughed. Here now there are many beauties upon this carriage
and they have seen your pretty face but you’ve got no dough bro. And only the
quirky ones who used to like The Cure will see the merit in your tatty jumper
and one must be a smoothy in this day and age - not a bag of nerves, but if
only they could see you play the drums! A-one a-one a-one two three four bom bom
bah bom ba bom bah bom bom bah bom bah bom bash badda dada dada dada dada... oh
what excellent fills. But ‘you could never be a sessionist,’ says a Nasty One
perched slobbishly on his left shoulder, really enjoying the train delay. ‘Yes
I could!’ blurts Dave out loud (just before the age of ‘hands-free’, when it
was easier to spot the nutters you see). He tries in vain to stay looking sane
whilst snapping back at his demons, for all to hear on the train.
‘Oh
no you couldn’t!’ suddenly sing a chorus of the little bathtards and Dave had
to laugh out louder upon the train which made the sweet smelling leggy career
type blond start and look at him with careful passing disgust before turning
the page of her Metro to read some more crap.
You
see there was some kind of interference in Dave’s mind that was distorting the
magic signals, the sweet melody of the homecoming swansong that beautified the
brains of his Prankster pals, was disfigured by doubt; cruelly de-harmonised by
a terrible war in his brain. The Nasty Ones were gaining an alarming runaway
lead in the polls whilst the Nice Ones were tired and disorganised, slovenly
and sheepish, with no comic counters or vigorous voices to defend the poor
young man. The two sides had always been fairly matched until now because
Dangerous was a very bright star - especially when he banged his drums; so much
excitement why should he keep still? His eyes sparkled so much to think of what
was here on Earth for him and what could be done, but with every second he sat
in supreme shuffling discomfort upon that sorry train, his eyes grew dimmer as
the war raged on. The election had been postponed due to outbreaks of sporadic
violence between The Nasty Ones and The Nice Ones, and worse still some of the
latter’s troops were turncoat terrors in disguise, ship-jumping fairweather
friendly villains. By now there was a funny-silly ensemble of malicious
musicians swelling the ranks of the Nasties - a riotous punk band in Dave’s
head - which mock serenaded him about all his faults and sung him songs about
hanging his friends and they were so catchy, he had to fight to stop humming
them.
The
Judy Song was all wrong in his head, and by the time he staggered into work, he
was a barmy boy with a very noisy mind. How indeed please miss, we should have
asked at school, are we to proceed in the workplace and answer telephones and
listen attentively to our boss, when there is a full scale war of Love and Fear
exploding its bombs and siren song chaos - messy messy theft of calm calamity
boom smashing - perpetually in our poor diseased brains? Or to put it another
way - why is there no A level, or a GCSE at least, in coping with fear?
THE FAIRY
PRANKSTER AND HER INVISIBLE INTERVENTIONS CAN SAVE YOUR LIFE
The fairy Prankster
does what malignant sprites do only nice things. There was the tale of the
runner who ran for glory and his life and got distracted once too often. It was
night-time and the swell of something in his mind and heart had made him fear
the invisible chaser who followed him everywhere and raced him to lampposts
before cars got there and wouldn’t let him relax.
This
runner had done some good and done some bad and ever since he was a child he
knew he was chased, chased to school, chased home from school and sometimes the
evil spirit got inside a weak young aggressor and made him start on the poor
boy, at least he could see his enemy that way.
Now
on this night his head was funny and he hadn’t stretched properly but at least
he was out there on the balls of his feet breathing in that messy mixture of
life and pollution. The fumes from the beasts had made him dizzy, and
superstitious people must remember their rituals or else they panic and lose
concentration. Now when he ran past the cemetery he forgot to do what he always
did which was to salute the dead. He did this because it allowed him to stop
feeling sorry for himself for one moment at least and to thank the universe for
his feelings which - though a straggler - he knew meant life and to be alive is
a miraculous thing, and to be still alive is even more extraordinary. But on
this sorry occasion he forgot to salute the dead and though he told himself it
was okay it didn’t matter it was a silly ritual anyway and that he should be
pleased with himself that he had enough self-love to exercise, he couldn’t
leave himself alone.
But
then he stopped, cold. And a wave of nastiness carouselled - shot like a swift
and spiralling snake around his spine.
He found himself against the wind against the tide of life; making back
for the cemetery. ‘You’ve still got time,’ a very clever Nasty One with the
voice of a very very Nice One urged him on. He was rushing back, when he should
have been homeward bound to reward himself with tea and hot bath soak, he was
rushing back to salute the dead - and as he turned the corner of Chase Road
North Acton - no time for irony now young man - he saw death sprinting after
him, the ghastly shadow was tearing it down the hill after him and so he tore
as fear – a bomb-inside-a-robin exploded in his chest and sent shards of chaos
into his poor brain, he turned to run what else can we do? And ninny ninny nah
nah you fool you fool - ‘we tricked you we tricked you!’ dn b sl man… don’t be
silly man, death ran after the poor boy and tripped him with his scythe at the
crossing of the A40 called Gypsy Corner; he had not the composure or room in
his overcrowded overladen overlooked and overcooked mind to keep his feet.
Death
tripped him with the tiniest tip of his blade and he was smashed out of life by
a thundering stop-for-no-one 7 and a half tonne blue and yellow beast that bore
the mysterious letterings ‘IKEA’. No one else saw death trip him, no one knew
of his horror of seeing in tangible there-it-is
shadow shape, the invisible chaser - who had followed him, sometimes teasingly
sometimes furiously, since the moment he had learnt to run.
So,
no witnesses then.
Verdict:
‘misadventure’ what a magnificent collection of letters that bogus usage is.
Dead dead, unlucky Fred, your poor broken mother and her son’s empty bed.
Well
my point - would you believe there is one - is that the fairy Prankster follows
those who give enough energy of belief to her and her deeds are invisible blessings,
like but not like the invisible curse of death. She grants you life with all
manner of invisible interventions.
BUY FROM AMAZON
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