So he girded up his loins and put his best foot forward and stuck his hand out boldly at the bus stop.
“You should wait until you see a bus coming before you do that,” said a lady in a straw hat. “And get to the back of the queue or I’ll punch your lights out.”
Jim got to the back of the queue.
The journey was for the most part uneventful. No terrorists hijacked the bus. The driver did not fall asleep at the wheel, nor did he become lost. No Red Indians attacked and there wasn’t a highwayman to be seen.
A couple of pirates did try to get on at the traffic lights, but the bus conductor blocked their passage and firmly tossed them off.
At length Jim found himself in West Ealing, outside the Wimpy Bar. It was everything he’d hoped it would be, and just that little bit more besides. Delicious odours wafted from within, and through the window Jim could make out beautiful people in elegant clothes, discoursing, no doubt, upon intellectual topics whilst tucking into their brunches.
Jim sighed a sigh and dreamed that dream we have all dreamed. That one day he might own a Wimpy Bar.
He then took a deep, preparatory breath, pushed open the door and went in.
Gentle music played from hidden speakers. Subtle lighting touched upon the tasteful decor. The beautiful people looked up from their brunches and eyed Jim with suspicion.
Pooley sat down at the nearest table and cast his eyes over the menu.
It was a gorgeous colourful gatefold affair, printed upon paper, yet sealed within a transparent plastic shell through some method of technological wizardry that was beyond Jim’s understanding. Jim viewed the photographic portraits of the toothsome viands. Here was a double cheeseburger with all the trimmings and here a saveloy known as a Bender. On the back page was the ice cream selection. The now legendary Brown Derby and the Jamaican Long Boat. Each of these could be had as it came or with a choice of cream or maple syrup.
Pooley’s mouth began to water. It was all too much.
A waiter approached his table and stood looking down upon him. He wore the traditional red and white livery and the jaunty paper cap. This perched somewhat perilously upon a mighty hive of hair.
“Do you wish to order, sir?” asked the waiter. “Or have you just come in to dribble on the table?”
Jim looked up and went, “Oh!”
“Oh?” said the waiter.
“Oh,” said Jim. “Aren’t you Ricky Zed?”
The waiter nodded his big-haired head. He was long and tall and lanky and lean, all cheekbones and dark sunken eyes. Jim was taken at once by his curious hands, each finger of which had three knuckle joints instead of the usual two.
“I thought you were the griddle chef,” said Jim.
“I am,” said Ricky. “But we have a change-around each week. It’s company policy. One week on the griddle, one on the tables, one on the washing-up and one on the cash register.”
“That must be exciting.”
“No,” said Ricky. “It’s shite.”
“Oh,” said Jim.
“Yes, oh,” said Ricky. “Now what did you want to order?”
“Well, actually I didn’t want to order anything. Well, that is to say, obviously I would like to order everything. I mean, who wouldn’t? But I came here to see you. About your band.”
“It’s not my band. It’s our band.”
“Right,” said Jim. “Well, I saw you and the band play last night at the Shrunken Head and it was one of the most incredible experiences I have ever had in my life.”
“So what do you want? My autograph, is it?”
“No,” said Jim. “I want to manage you.”
Ricky looked Jim up and down. “Fuck off, mate,” he said.
“No, please,” said Jim. “Just listen to what I’ve got to say.”
“And what have you got to say?”
“Well, my partner says that he can get you a record contract within the week.”
“Won’t happen,” said Ricky. “Can’t happen.”
“Why not?” asked Jim.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Then try me, please.”
Ricky shook his big-haired head and his cap fell off. He did not stoop to retrieve it, he simply waggled a finger at Jim.
“Do you have any idea just what happened last night when we played?” he asked.
“No,” said Jim. “All I know was that it was something marvellous. Something wonderful and something that the whole world should hear and experience.”
“The whole world will never experience it.”
“Oh yes it will,” said Jim. “Apocalypso music will be the biggest thing ever.”
“What did you call it?”
“Apocalypso music”
“That’s a good name,” said Ricky. “I like that.”
Pooley made a hopeful face.
“But it won’t happen. It won’t be allowed to happen.”
“Why?” asked Jim. “Who would want to stop it?”
“Record companies,” said Ricky. “Record companies would stop it”
“Why?” asked Jim once more. “That doesn’t make sense. Litany’s voice can heal the sick. I saw it happen. I heard it and I felt it too. Any record company would pay millions to own an artiste like that.”
“No, they wouldn’t,” said Ricky. “And I’ll tell you why. There are no independent record companies any more. They’ve all been bought up by the huge corporations. And the huge corporations don’t just market music. They market everything. Cars and food and weapons and telecommunications and technology and chemicals and Pharmaceuticals. All these companies interlink and a few people at the very top control everything.”
“Scientists,” said Jim.
“Businessmen,” said Ricky. “And the House of Windsor. So imagine what would happen if all you had to do when you were sick was to put on a music CD and be cured.”
“It would be brilliant,” said Jim. “And everyone in the world would want that CD.”
“And then they would all be well and free from sickness.”
“Brilliant,” said Jim.
“Brilliant for them, perhaps. But not so brilliant for the mega-corporations that make zillions of pounds every day from producing and marketing pharmaceuticals. It’s like the everlasting lightbulb and the motorcar tyre that doesn’t wear out. These things exist, but they’ll never see the shop counter. The mega-corporations see to that.”
“Bastards,” said Jim.
“Exactly,” said Ricky. “But that’s the way things are. That is the way society has evolved.”
“Ah,” said Jim. “Evolution.”
“Evolution,” said Ricky. “Would you like me to tell you all about that?”
“Well,” said Jim. “Actually—”
“Everything evolves,” said Ricky. “Everything. And not just living things. Inanimate objects, too.”
“Eh?” said Jim.
“Take cars,” said Ricky. “The way cars have evolved.”
“Cars?” said Jim.
“Cars,” said Ricky. “Take the Ford Escort, for example. The Ford Escort of today bears almost no resemblance to the Ford Escort of twenty years ago. And why is that?”
“Because it’s been redesigned,” said Jim.
“No,” said Ricky. “That’s what they’d like you to think. The Ford Escort has evolved by itself, with no help from human beings.”
“What?” said Jim.
“I’m telling you the truth. I used to work for Ford at Dagenham. I worked on the production line, putting the rattly bits in the doors.”
“I often wondered who did that.”
“Well, it used to be me, but I left because I couldn’t take all the pressure. But do you know how long it takes to set up a production line? Make all the tools that make the parts and the moulds and templates and so on and so forth?”
Pooley shook his head. He didn’t know.
“Years,” said Ricky. “Four or five years. So imagine this. There are no spare production lines standing empty. All the production lines work non-stop turning out cars. Seven days a week they work, and fifty-two weeks of the year. And if you stop a production line for even five minutes it costs the company thousands of pounds in lost production. So they just rumble on and on and on.