I sort of yearned to be like that. But it was different for me. I was programmed. I’d been conditioned. I had been taught to be frugal. So I didn’t know whether I had in me that special something that would allow me to squander money if I ever got to be rich and famous.
I thought I’d go and have a word with Jeff Beck. I’d heard that he’d bought himself some really expensive guitars. Had them handmade to his own specifications. Paid a fortune for them. I thought I’d like to shake the hand that played those exclusive guitars.
But although I hung around on the periphery of Jeff s group of chatting chums, I didn’t get the opportunity to say hello and tell him about how I’d seen him back in the days when he was paying his dues at the Blue Triangle Club. So I thought, stuff it, and went off to mingle elsewhere.
And while I was trying to find someone to mingle with, I found myself in the vicinity of the food table. And what a lot of food was on it, and all expensive too. It was quite a trouble getting into the near vicinity of the food table, there were so many rich and famous crowded around and filling their porcelain plates.[20] They do like to trencher down free grub, the rich and famous, which is another thing I admire them for.
I had to make my presence felt in order to get near that table. I had to tread on David Bowie’s toe and elbow Cat Stevens in the ribs, but when I did get myself right up close to the extravagant nosh I spied a most curious thing. I spied someone slipping silver spoons into their pocket.
Now I know that the rich and famous are not averse to this kind of behaviour. And I know that their status makes them immune from prosecutions. Like that secret law that allows people with expensive four-wheel-drives to park on double yellow lines, when the rest of us would get nicked for it. But I was strangely shocked to see it happening right before my eyes. And as this was Barry’s bash and those were Harry’s/Peter’s spoons, I was doubly offended by it.
I leaned over and grasped the wrist of the offender. “Excuse me, sir,” I said, for he was a he, “but I think you’ve inadvertently slipped a load of silver spoons into your pocket. I think we should perhaps go and discuss this matter outside.”
The offender turned to face me. He wore one of those burglar eye masks, the sort that the Lone Ranger used to wear. He also wore what appeared to be a prison uniform of the comic-book persuasion that have the arrowhead (or is it crow’s-foot?) motifs all over them.
“Blimey,” said the malcontent. “Blimey, Gary, it’s you.”
I stared once and then I stared again.
“Dave,” I said. “Dave Rodway, it’s you.”
“It was, the last time I looked,” said Dave. “But I don’t look often, in case I’m up to something. If you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.”
“I certainly do,” I said. “But what are you doing here? I thought you were doing a five stretch in Strangeways.”
“I absconded,” said Dave. “Stole the governor’s keys and his motorcar and absconded. It was dull in there and they wouldn’t let me work in the laundry room.”
“Well, bravo, Dave,” I said. “Let me get you a drink.”
“Nice,” said Dave. “But let me nick you one instead.”
“I can get the drinks for free,” I said.
“Where’s the sport in that?”
I let Dave nick us a bottle of bubbly, then we ejected a couple of Miracles[21] from a comfy-looking sofa and sat down.
“Cheers,” said Dave, pouring drinks, and we drank.
“This is brilliant,” I said. “Seeing you again. I’ve missed you, Dave.”
“No, you haven’t,” said Dave.
“I have, a bit.”
“I heard about Sandra. I’m sorry about that.”
“She’s over there, chatting with Olivia Newton John,” I said.
“She’s what?” said Dave. “But she’s dead.”
“Was dead,” I said. “I reanimated her, like with Mr Penrose. I dug her up first, though.”
“Well done,” said Dave. “You’re still into all that death and magic stuff, then? You’re still a weirdo. I’m glad. I thought you’d sold out to the system.”
“Me? Never.”
“So what are you doing? Up to no good? Wheeling and dealing? Being your own man?”
“Absolutely,” I lied. “The nine-to-five will never be me, as Sid Barrett used to sing.”
“Cool,” said Dave. “And what about Harry? Fell on his feet with this job, eh?”
“Bought a motorbike,” I said, draining my glass. “But what are you doing here?”
“I happened to be passing by – well, running by. I’d been perusing a civilian suit in a West End tailor’s and the alarm went off. The sissy boy bouncer saw my mask and thought I was a guest.”
“And so we meet up again. What a happy coincidence.”
“Yeah,” said Dave. “What about that, eh?”
We got stuck into the bottle of champagne.
“So,” said Dave, by way of conversation. “How is Sandra holding up? Is she – how shall I put this delicately? – is she, well, decomposing?”
“Sadly, yes,” I said. “I have to keep gluing bits back on. But they’re making all kinds of advances in the field of medicine nowadays, grafting and suchlike. I have high hopes for the future.”
Dave nodded thoughtfully and the eyes behind the mask followed a particularly delicious-looking young woman in next to no clothing, who was clicking her high-heeled way towards the ladies. “Look at the body on that,” said Dave.
“Yes,” I said, and I sighed.
“Sandra had a good body,” said Dave.
“Very good,” I agreed.
“Very curvy in all the right places.”
“Very curvy, yes.”
“And that little mole on her bum. And the way she whinnied like a pony when she—”
“Eh?” I said. “What?”
“Oh, nothing,” said Dave. “All women have moles on their bums. And the posh ones always whinny when they, you know …”
“Do they?” I asked.
“So I am reliably informed.”
“I quite miss the mole,” I said. “It came off last week.”
“Shame,” said Dave. “You should get Sandra a new one.”
“A new mole? Where do you buy new moles?”
“I wasn’t suggesting that you buy one. I was thinking more that you acquire one.”
“Acquire one? What are you talking about?”
Dave set his glass aside and put the champagne bottle to his lips. He took a big swig and then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “She needs spare parts,” said Dave. “She’s your wife; you care about her. Her welfare should come first.”
“It does,” I said.
“Then get her some spare parts. If a leg gets ropy, get her a new one. Get her two. And a bum.”
21
Naturally we wouldn't have dared to do this if Smokey Robinson had been about, for we knew his reputation as a bad man to mess with.