SMACKUM YACKUM
Sandalhulme, as the year's favourite music and arts festival, was widely reversed as evoking the tenets of the alternative hippy culture and lifestyle, and invoking the spirit of luv'n'peas; be blowed to the straightnormal capitalist society in their suits and business, why they can go straight to billy-o! We don't need that authoritarian gutter object! This is the new-fashioned province, person! Get with it or be without it!
But the Pub Tent still wouldn't give you any fluidic sustenance without first accepting an offering of such items as were widely recognised to be tokens of exchange for goods or services. So it was fortunate that Twitch was able to borrow Azalea's guitar and busk awhile outside. This had never been very successful when he had tried it in the Hub, but here most of the passers-by had recently taken steps to alter their perception and half an hour of pared-down Baboomba Baboomba cover versions had produced quite a haul, even after the legal tender had been extricated from the plethora of buttons and other coin-shaped bobs and ends, including actual coins from other places, the most interesting being the13-sided ones from the realms of faerie, which Twitch put in one of his secret pockets, mindful of the legends that surrounded them; it was supposed that they could be used to purchase immaterialisms, such as animal magnetism and the ability to hover. They might come in handy some day[1].
So now he was standing sitting cross-legged on the grass in the canvas haven of the Wolf and Whistle with his new friends and a crowd of even recenter strangers, drowning his sorrows with fermented apple juice, or at least moistening them. The management had taken steps to recreate the pub environment under a textile shelter; there were pool tables of the latest hue, dart boards flapping in and out on their flexible walls, and fruit machines, contrived contraptions constructed of pineapple, pear, peach and porcupine which mobiled teeteringly about the earthen floor gathering strokes and pats from the patrons while the pub cat perched upon the bar quietly planning his revenge upon these robotic interlopers. In keeping with the media-consciousness of the modern tavernal establishment, it also had a TV tuned to the most boring of the available channels, which at the moment was providing a head in a houndstooth cap evidently taking great pleasure in describing the attractiveness of a particular flower, whose days of beauty were now numbered in single digits after having been plucked from the life-giving soil to be twirled about in a grubby hand for the meagre reward of being displayed to the viewing public.
"Jus look at that, innit luvly!"
The flower's impressions of its admirer were destined to remain unrecorded, but it was a fair bet the feeling was not mutual, thought Twitch.
*
The feeling was muted. It had also been mooted; for lo these many years the young Wally and Phoebe had put forward the proposition, watching the vacuous attempts at pop performance by lacklustre entities that featured regularly on lo this very show, that were they ever to appear they would be so pleased with themselves that they would perform with enthusiasm, zest and verve, yes they would show these pale shadows of apologies what rock'n'roll was all about! But it didn't seem like they were going to; it wasn't the encounter with Finbo Widger, the sterile studio session or even the lack of their appointed singer that had flattened them; it was the non-atmosphere. They were surprised they hadn't expired from lack of oxygen, so thin was the ambience. They were also surprised by Bilson appearing from nowhere in a cloud of smoke, he having raided the special effects cupboard from next door's studio, which was producing yet another episode of Chunk Bedrock - Galactic Hero.
"Go team! The time approacheth, my Martian life-forms, for you are the first band on! Let us hustle!"
"Yeah, 'kay." "Mmmm." "Me Ogg! Big drum!"
Well, in its long and long history there had been highlights… Arxenblatt had once released an ill-advised single and appeared on the show. It had been quite amusing to see the bewildered gum-chewing audience trying to dance to the mallowtron drone. And there had been the one that everyone was talking about at school the next day, which featured an unprecedented plural of interesting acts; not only StormBird and Zed, but Millie Baggott complete with the simulated decapitation of their lead singer. Ooh, there had been outraged letters about that one! Most of them complaining that it was a simulation.
Yes, if they made the effort, they could revive the tradition of buried treasures emerging from the homogenous abysm that was HotCha! Wally grinned at the thought of being the subject of playground natter. Yes, it had happened many times before, but this time it would be positive and he wouldn't be around to overhear it, nor was it likely to be followed by a Chinese burn, unless Phoebe was in one of her playful moods.
"OK gang! Let's set the house on fire! Let's blow the roof off! Let's make a little paper horsey out of the paper this show is written on!"
"You what?"
"Are you with me gang?"
"No, you lost me with the bit about the horsey."
"Ten seconds!"
A man with headphones prodded them with a pole in the direction of the stage, while Bilson lured Ferdie into position with a meths-soaked rag.
*
The vermin Steve prodded Twitch with a pole.
"Pool?"
"I haven't got my swimming trunks."
"Game?"
Twitch wasn't game at all. The last time he had played pool some merry prankster had substituted an egg for the cue ball, with predictably hilarious results, although the resulting shampoo had rendered the baize in great condition for days afterwards. The balls had sunk deep into it, making the game even more challenging.
"Nah."
"How about you, Moonie?"
"You know I'm not very good, Steve."
Moonie indeed! Twitch would pay him back for this unseemly truncation of the beautiful name!
"Fear not, fair maiden, I shall champion thee!"
"You're playing then, are you, mate?" overfamiliarised the lungfish.
"I certainly am, old buddy-boy!" Two could play at that game. Not the pool, the name-calling. "Rack 'em up! I'll even let you break!"
Because Twitch suspected the only thing he would break if he broke would be his nose. His agitation was causing his grasping hand to quake wildly. He would wait a while to give it a chance to undulate up his arm; by the time he came to play it would probably just be wiggling his left ear. He knew the habits of his convulsions.
He watched the enemy line up his shot. He observed as the foe punted the egg into the ranks. He surveyed its trajectory as it cannoned into the target. He attended as the balls bounced off the cushions and two of the same colour popped into pockets.
"Double bubble!"
That's right, Steve, gloat. All the better when I annihilate you!
Twitch monitored the situation as a long shot along the cushion dropped another sphere down the hole. He viewed the journey of the fourth orb as it bounced off two corners and leapt across the table to disappear into its burrow directly opposite. He ignored as Steve lined up another shot.
"Good zoider this, isn't it, Moonflower? Nice woody taste." He picked a splinter from his gum.
"Oh Twitchie, I had no idea you were a connoisseur of fine booze!"
Oh how they laughed.
Finally Steve stood back from the table with only the black to sink.
"Right, where's my bat?"
Picking up his weapon, the Gallant Avenger strode up to the table, assumed his stance, steadied his aim and prepared to fire.
At this point the rockin' barman, having noticed that the horticultural head had given way to a popular weekly music show, turned up the volume, just in time for the voice of an eerily disturbed-sounding Finbo Widger to make the opening announcement:
"First on this week, a treat for all you Mon Rockers out there, you knew all the time didn't you, no-one told me, a new band surely dredged up from the dregs of the cesspit, it's THE MASKED MARTIANS with their NEW SINGER Ferdie McIntyre HE'S THE VEEBIL I TELL YOU!"
*SPASM*
The tic which was
inspiring Twitch's ear to wave hello everybody took a fit at this news, and
just at the vital moment when he took his shot waxed lyrical and exploded violently
throughout his body. Such was the shock
to his brain that he barely noticed that not only had he laid the egg, he had
pocketed the black, a blue and two oranges.
In an ideal world,
this would be considered a great achievement, with slappings of the back and
free drinkies all round. But Twitch was
living in the bum deal world, one in which his feat merely instigated merry
roars such as the following:
"Too
soft!"
"Too
hard!"
"Too
easy!"
"Wrong
angle!"
"Wrong
ball!"
"Wrong
table!"
Our hero slowly
allowed his senses to return to regretful reality. He was sprawled across a pool table at which stood a group of
gentlemen in leather and denim gaily decorated with motorcycle emblems, eyeing
him coldly. He glanced across at the
neighbouring table and saw his companions, also looking in his direction. He looked around, and saw the rest of the
world, joining in the fun, watching and waiting, wreathed in jolly grins.
It was left to the
precious Moonflower to break the silence.
"Never mind,
Twitchie, at least you've scored a bullseye!"
He followed her
pointing finger, and it was true. Smack
in the middle of the dartboard there was parked a quivering cue. Along its path stood another collection of
motorcycle enthusiasts, many nursing the jagged remains of pint glasses.
There now advanced
one of their number of particularly impressive proportions, the sentiment
"HATE" emblazoned on one set of knuckles, while its opposite number
proclaimed "HATE". A low
rumble began to emanate from deep in its throat, emerging from between
alternately yellow and blackened stumps as a string of words arranged to form a
sentence.
"Oi fink you
just made a teensy little mistake."
"I do beg your
pardon, sir. Please allow me to offer
my humble apology." Twitch knew
that discretion was the better part of cowardice, but there was a muted version
of His Band playing in the background with some imposter pretending to be him
and getting the words wrong; "Ah yer ferkit wee neezels slingyer
ooks!"; and his ire was irritated.
Instead of the craven utterings of contrition he had intended, he
roared:
"JUST WHO DO
YOU THINK I AM AFTER SEVEN PINTS OF CIDER!
I DID IT AND I DOED IT AND I EXECUTED THE ACT SO THERE!"
The looming
features of Mr Large twisted and turned in a slow burn. The other patrons began to climb on chairs
and tables for a better view, and one enterprising individual swiftly started
to run a book on the imminent injuries; but leave it to Steve to spoil all the
fun.
"Actually, it
was still my turn. I was just chalking
my cue."
Well. Some people just have to interfere, don’t
they? Can't resist picking those nits
and splitting those hairs. Let the
consequences of Steve's actions be a lesson to you.
"Oh, it was
your turn, was it?"
There was no faulting
the logic, really. Surely it was the
duty of every sportsman to ensure that the game was played to the rules. We can see here the dire consequences of
allowing a less competent player to wilfully ignore the precedents set out by
experts; one simply could not have
dilettantes straying willy-nilly onto the field and displaying individual
techniques. Good heavens, a person
could be prompted to think it was meant to be fun! So it can be seen that Motorcycle Mick was completely within his
rights in taking the ensuing disciplinary action.
It would be nice to
think of it as poetic justice, if one could possibly construe it as just; but
to Twitch at least, it was pure poetry, to see his erstwhile opponent
describing an elegant arc across the arena.
This could have
been the end of it, if the Human Missile had not come to rest at a table
occupied by a group of Bicycle Punks.
There had long been a rivalry between the tribes of Motor and Push; as
Projectile Steve settled among the wooden shards of his objective, the
skinniest Bike Punk, the one in the yellow jumper and silliest plastic hat,
glared across at his aggressor.
"You spilt moi
point!"
As etiquette
demanded, the two lurched from their appropriate ends to join in a merry
dance. Recognising this as an
international signal, the throng erupted, and all to the soundtrack of The
Masked Martians and their New Singer Ferdie McIntyre, performing their great
new single Meklik Eggen Bettit Fenzij!
"It's all
right Moonflower! I’ll save you!"
The courageous Twitch bravely swept the distressed damsel into his arms and heroically ran away. As for the others, Azalea also rescued her loved one, hiding her guitar among her hair as she trotted out through the tent flap; Growlf, man of peace, strolled nonchalantly after, protected by his aura, but mainly by the sheer hardness of his head as chair-legs and barrels simply bounced off it; while Ariadne had fastened her jaws to a passing leg and was happily dangling as its owner was hung from a tent-pole.
But what of
Dinzel? That question was answered as
they returned to the van to hear him softly singing between the axles. He had been there all the time!
"Hi! I thought you'd all forgotten about me. Did I miss anything?"