— Swisshh! Crack! — ‘Calm down. We can’t all go to church. Hit-ler look too suspicious.’ The Word of the Brother Tosa-Stompenführer set to fall on the stoniest ground. ‘Rioting. England’s speciality. Nothing could be simpler. Boys, I want war of the worlds … You do know how to riot, don’t you?’
The band of lost fighting sheep not betraying the battle-ready Onwards Christian Soldiers spirit the Stompenführer is looking for.
‘Do what comes naturally. Shout. Smash some chairs. Crack some heads. This is what England expects.’
(murmur murmur)
‘Right. Settled. Timing is everything.’
‘At around half-past three precisely,’ continues Goebbels, ‘you black balls — run down the stairs — here.’ (tap tap) ‘Stack as much stuff as you can sally your hands on against the Great Gate — here.’ (tap tap) ‘That should keep the pigs at bay —’
(murmur murmur)
‘All white. Settle down.’
‘— The good news, boys, we’re taking hostages —’
‘That’s right,’ says Tosa-the-Man-Mountain. ‘Hostages.’
‘— Get your fat bellies down to Chef’s kitchens and scramble up the skylight — We church people will be waiting on the roof with a rope ...’
(murmur murmur)
‘... We lead a twin-fork attack.’
‘A twin-fork attack, gentlemen! Now doesn’t that sound impressive?’
‘I want my mummy!’ sobs Hess a broken puppy.
‘The first one who says he doesn’t want to ride in the front seat of my American-made bellychopper is a rotten scaredy cat ...’
‘Scaredy cat! Scaredy cat!’
‘... Gets left behind ...’
‘... Scaredy cat! Scaredy cat!’
‘Nothing will go wrong. This is a Military Operation.’
‘Scaredy cat! Scaredy cat!’
The Great Escape to the Promised Land — Essex. ‘Walton-on-the-Naze here we come!’
‘Walton-on-the-Naze! Walton-on-the-Naze!’
‘Gentlemen —’
‘Whoo!’
— Swisshh! Crack! —
‘— I give you Operation —’
‘Operation!’
‘— Armageddon!’
‘Army-Gideon!’ echo the converted pack of lost fighting sheep.
***
London rain-waves crashing the concrete prison yard with a violence wondrous to behold in Mother Earth even in her death throes.
Concrete pores exude sin which forms a froth flowing like magma but filters the sediment upon subsidence of the floods.
End of the World Weather: moon turns to blood, sun hides its face, stars tumble the skies, Eastenders grinds regardless.
Best remain inside with a good book such as esias ryder's bestselling A Gentleman’s Guide to Lesbian Poetry, a lick at £139.99 from all good bookshops (if you can find one), a bit of a grind, the pages tend to stick, but you’ll come up smelling of roses.
Sheets of radium-water blanket the Block for sound.
As snug as a bug on a slug inside a Colt 45 lonesome Hurd feet up in the suite of staff rest rooms with a good book, The Adventures of Slippery Dave, New York’s skazziest detective, the latest penny-shot-boiler from that groovy cat from across the stagnant pond, esias ryder.
Hurd with half an eye cocked, and half-expecting a tall dumb broad to moosy thru the door with demands for a dick’s services. Big deal. Big big deal.
Goddammit.
The goddamn tub-thumping foot-stamping from two hundred radio-boxes tuned to the same channel creeps past the thick door with ease. Under a hot tin roof the jazzy smoky tenements of the Twos, Threes and Fours smooze to a bone-gnawing baseline.
Goddammit.
So long the night. Hurd likes his hero lantern-jawed, Luger cocked, loaded with stiff book and bulging bottle to wash the streets from the filth and the lowlife who sell their own mothers at the drop of a hat.
Bet yr last cent there will be just the right cocktail of car chases, gin fights, gun fights — you want blood? Sure! Slippery Dave pulls his man but not by the book, kisses the dumb broad, bites the bullet and hey! No big deal.
Boooom! Boooom! Boooom! Posting your brains to Pallookaville.
Old Sally clings to the rainmac of Slippery Dave like gum to the sole of yr shoe. Old buddyroos.
Dark grey flannel suit, wide-brim hat and one of those checkered vests. Strictly Ivy League. Big deal. Slippery Dave stands next the wall, smoking himself to death and looking as bored as Hell. Big big deal. A detective. For Chrissake. That kills me. The phoniest police force you ever heard in your Life.
Restless Hurd cooped a pretty lonesome with customary good book and flask of Mrs Hurd’s homemade chicken soup.
Boooom! Boooom! Boooom! Goddammit. What they see in this modern housy music is a mystery.
No hanging with Slippery Dave tonight.
Featherstonehaugh-Major, Head Mouse from the Home Office, with standing orders for a minimum two Screws on the night shift. The Governor soon remembers old-school rules when it suits him.
Slap-shot Hurd not invited to the management training days in the Welsh mountains. They probably think Hurd is over the hill. Out to grass. Has seen better days. Nobody gives Hurd a second thought. No Ladies’ Night. No budget to squander.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Goddamnit.
Hurd swings moodily onto the boardwalk of the Ones and into a wall of sound — Master Simon Wong’s Life is a Dream.
Hell thumping loose like a speakeasy, the Block bops to the beat and if your name’s not on the list, you can’t come in.
A towering inferno of red bulbs pulsate like lights on a two-bit Christmas tree. He swanks to the main noticeboard and peers at the scribble:
SUNDAY 11AM. CHAPEL. THE RARELY REVEREND MALCOLM GREEN
GOD: FACT OR FICTION?
The small noticeboard and one name larger than Life:
WARNING! C33 JASON KNEES CATEGORY AAA NIL BY MOUTH!
Doin’ time in the slammer. Darn shame. Spacehead to the stars. Name top of the A-List. A guy could get buoynt on da streets with Marshal James in town.
OK, sucker! Go for yr gun! Dis town ain’t big enough for da both of us! My name is Cool Hand Hurd and I’ve come for ma boy! I shot the sheriff — sure! — but da deputy is certified brain-dead. What a way to go!
Hurd swaggers the boardwalk of the One to the end of the line, to the bullet-grey door of Solitary 1 — lifts the rack-flap to confront two Paul Newman eyes: ‘Jesus, Knees! You freaked der livin’ daylights houtta me! I wish you wouldn’t do dat!’
Long lazy lashes flutter an Absence of Malice — ‘Ah, Hurd. Brought your pocket money, eh?’
‘We shouldn’t be talking. I — SAID — WE — oh never mind.’
‘My dear chap. Can’t you fix a private suite with valet and sea view?’
‘See what I can do.’
‘And where’s my crate of Krug?’
‘Hurd squints the mean gunsmoke and licks keen gunslinger lips. ‘… You remembered the cards?’
‘And you’ll be wanting your usual seat.’
***
The Lesser Escape of Governor Archibald Gerbil James from Candida James, the Beast of the Bedroom, and feather duster — her topmost Weapon of Mass Distraffing — providing momentary relief, and a transfer of verbal revenge to the young cab driver visored with red baseball cap. The end of the line — the nuclear-rubbish-incineration-plant — leaving the Governor to scramble down the alley, up the junction, past The Slaughtered Goat, the butcher’s, the baker’s, vibrator-maker’s, seminary, crèche, off-licence, to stand before the vertiginous brutality of Colonel Pinochet house.
The boneshaker lift houses a family of four, and smells of wee-wee, and regurgitates the Governor onto the tenth floor. Where, green and grasping a carrier-out bag, the Governor diagnoses the unhinged black door, peeling paint and scored with graffiti, as that of Whitelaw and Pym.
Along a dim-lit passageway — the Governor hoofs curry cartons, beer cans, cigarette packets, coat hangers, kebab wrappings, bathrobes, plastic evidence bags — and stumbles into the living-room fitted up with three broken-spring armchairs, small plasma television, antique copper bin choc to the brim, roughly fabricated from copper, and Whitelaw ever willing to present a rare visitor with— the copper’s copper copper.
Ahhhaat last! Lights! Camera! Action! With the panting anticipation of three naughty schoolboys, the Governor, Whitelaw and Pym settle for a session of staring at a stuttering screen and a video replay of a serious lack of action on the front lobby of the Lower Springwood branch of the Fascist Benevolent Bank.