Part I: Act I 'Double Vision, Or: On How Not to Stage a Gothic Rock Concert'

Part One, Act I

The Sweet Smell of Rebellion

Ah, the sweet smell of rebellion!

Busted and Bollocked

Now, what we have to bear in mind before I magically scene-shift to a louche-and-languorous summer’s day, the sun glowing in a devoted monastic glow upon the boarding house lawns, was that I’d already been busted in the 4th form for the possession of booze. I was a severely cautioned fourteen year old.

A bottle of Martini had been ‘discovered’ in my tuck-box during one of those notorious midnight tuck-box raids.

Breaking and entry into private property more like.

That was the only private space I had!

Mind you, it was lucky I hadn’t discovered mail-order-Hamburg-fetish-porn at the time because otherwise I would have been in real trouble. Not least, financially.

‘Now then, laddie, what’s this bottle of Martini doing in your tuck-box?’ asked a disgruntled but curious housemaster, - his large blue eyes magnified by some very powerful long-sighted spectacles, and his whole owl-like appearance polished off by an enormous besparkling chrome-dome, the tawny long hair drooping wisely from either side of his overwhelming skull.

‘Oh, that? It’s for my sister, sir.”

‘Sister?’

‘Yes, sir; I bought it for my sister’s birthday present. Stashed it away for safekeeping, sir.’

‘Well, why didn’t you ask me to purchase it for you then, laddie?’

That stumped me.

Shrewd sage.

Busted.

Busted and bollocked.

At the time, I thought this booze transgression was all a bit harmless. I really didn’t see what all the fuss was about. It was in that trusting state of naivete that unprompted me to take all the precautions necessary for life at boarding school; precautions that are necessary, that is, - if you want to have good time. And I certainly would regret my lack of diligent planning a year later when the ‘Screaming Brides’ were banned from overdriving their Marshalls in the annual Rock Society rumpus.

The injustice!

I just didn’t know how to play the game. Imagine my consternation when I found out, 30 years later, that Jez -g had a lockable area for his booze beneath the floorboards in his study! I mean, that’s Aery Neave shit, right there. That’s ‘Escape from Colditz’ ingenuity. What a dastardly fox!

Mind you, I did feel a sense of schadenfreude recently when Jez told me how he had to move out of his dwelling in Parsons Green, owing to a persistent urban fox that kept shitting on his barbecue. Oh, wily urbane fox. Oh, nosy Reynard of the Parsons!

The Legendary Mr Norwood

Anyway let’s cut forward one year to a louche-and languorous summer’s day, the sun glowing... Oh no, I’ve already done that bit. It’s a shame, really, because I enjoyed that ‘monastic’ catachresis.

So it’s the 5th year. The end of the fifth year. We think we’re grown-up now. Mature. A right bunch of Victors. Going into the sixth form soon. The academic year is winding down. No proper lessons. The only trauma left would be sitting through the tedium of speech day.

There you would be, nailed into your woollen Sunday suit, rammed side-by-side in a blisteringly hot undehumidified marquee, having to politely laugh at witty jokes you don’t understand, delivered by some bloke from The Grocer’s Company dressed in a bizarre get-up of green-gown-fur-and-onions that, by comparison, makes a Grandmaster Freemason look like a scrupulous accountant.

Anyway, that kind of boredom would just be tolerable. It would be offset by the resounding success of the Screaming Brides’ debut at the annual Rock Society brouhaha, our fame in the stratosphere after delivering an electric-shade-ified flanged-out-to fuck version of ‘Body Electric’ to our adoring and fawning fans.

What could go wrong on the last week of term?

So, let’s bustle.

Now, at --ndle, no end of term festive celebration could be complete, or indeed possible, without the legendary Mr Norwood, of Norwood’s Taxis, --ndle.

Actually, I once got into a spot trouble with my parents over the amount of business I brought to Mr Norwood as his committed and faithful client:

‘A---, what are all of these taxi fares?

‘Taxis?’

‘Yes, there’s £150 charge in taxi fares here on our end-of-term bill. Norwood’s Taxis?’

‘Oh, yeah. I forgot. Mr Norwood lets us lads bundle into a taxi and takes us to -----borough on Saturday afternoons.’

‘I thought you had games on Saturdays?’

‘Sometimes.’

(Almost never, dear readers; - you should have seen me scarper after lunch!)

‘What do you do in -----borough?’

‘Shopping. You know, records and stuff.’

(That’s not to mention getting arseholed in The ---- and ---- and attempting, with ambitious acne-ridden hope, to snog some local Goths.)

‘But £150!’

‘I know. Mr Norwood lets us put the fares on the bill. Really generous of him. You’d like him. Great bloke, Mr Norwood, great bloke!’

I did the thumbs-up reassuring gesture and wink.

For some reason, my parents didn’t seem to agree that the flow of generosity came from the Norwood direction.

A Gentle Declivity

Anyway, back to this confession.

It’s approaching the last weekend before the final week of term and the sun is shining in a beatific monastic glow.

The chaps are at a loose end and we need a plan.

‘Lads, lads, I’ve got a great idea! Let’s get wankered!’

I had it all strategically planned out. Fool-proof. Water-tight. We bundle into a Norwood’s taxi, get to -----borough, buy some records, wave them about in the pub in an attempt to impress some local goths, get the Norwood to pick us up, and then, oh then, my dear readers - the piece de resistance, the masterful tour de force, - on the way back we get dropped off in a quiet country pub and seriously hit the Abbot Ale!

After all, in the remote paradise of a country pub we would be totally unlocatable by the dystopian instruments of oppression, - the schoolmaster and prefect surveillance system.

But which country pub? There’s the dilemma! Hmm.

Ask a trusted good bloke in the upper year! Lets’ ask James-‘Seriously?’-Turner:

‘Need a country pub, JT. Remote.’

‘Seriously?’

‘You know, out of reach of the powers-that-be?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Not too remote though, JT. Don’t want to disappear like the ----- at ------- ----!’

‘Ha! Seriously Peril, sometimes you’re a serious scream!’

‘Well?’

‘Oh, The B---- H----- in N---------- is seriously good. It’s got a gentle declivity.’

‘Cheers, JT.’

So, back I biffed…

‘I’ve got it, lads! The Black Horse in Nassington!’

‘Nassington?’

‘Yes. JT says it’s “seriously” good. It’s even got a gentle declivity.’

‘Declivity?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s that?’

‘No idea. Sounds good though.’

‘Genius, Peril, genius!’ said Tom.

You knew when you’d struck gold because Tom would flash you a charismatic smile.

Back to Solitary

Now, pulling off with aplomb such a boozy prospect would be a truly redemptive achievement.

You see, I still had to even the score with my housemaster for ramming me in solitary confinement.

I had entirely forgiven the shrewd old sage for busting me for booze the previous year, coming to carefree terms of letting ‘bygones be bygones’. I thought pardoning him for the error of his ways, his injustice even, showed the true mark of charity on my part. At the time I was a terrified agnostic and assumed that if there was any angry revenging god or two roaming about, they would give me a good pat on the back for my benevolence, cheer me on to performing more upright deeds, and maybe even turn a blind eye or two if I chose to go off the rails.

Or further off the rails.

So I wasn’t worried about that booze transgression whatsoever. All things forgiven. Clear conscience. I had entirely unburdened my mind of it. A clean slate as far as I was concerned.

But the possibly of forgiving him for that whole weekend-in-solitary-learn-by-heart-shit-loads-of-Samuel-Taylor-Coleridge-episode was far too much for the boundlessness of my benign benevolence to bear.

That score had to even’d, eye-for-eye.

Oh vengeance! Oh Furies! Oh, spirits that tend on mortal thoughts!

You get the gist.

Now, I don’t want you to get me wrong here. I’m not really the revenging type. When it does cross my mind, I go a bit Hamlet-hearted. Half-Hamlet-hearted. Out of character, you see. I’m the kinda guy who says, ‘Go your ways and be merry!’ Or, if I’m on more intimate terms, - I become a ‘Hey, let’s plummet in depravity and have lot of fun while we’re spiralling downwards to the edge of doom!’ type-of-guy. I’ve got no time for petty disagreements about this or that. It gets in the way. But this solitary confinement matter, well; - give housemasters an inch of your charity and they take a cross-country mile. Or two.

But those of you who know me probably wish to stop me in my tracks right here, knowing full-well that one of my all-time party-pieces is to recite, with word-perfect perfection, the whole of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s tripped-out-to-fuck poem, ‘Kubla Khan’. You’ll be saying, what a great housemaster, there’s an upside to all of this! Why are you so sore about it?

Others of you will be saying, ‘Oh, he’s the bloke we should blame, eh?’ That ‘party’-trick, as you call it, has really been a party-poopster of the most notorious order. Talk about the disruption of good cheer and merry fellowship!

Aha!

You’re all wrong!

I didn’t learn ‘Kubla Khan’ with word-perfect perfection until I read Harold Bloom at university, and, finally, oh, finally, understood what the fuck it was about.

You can’t recite poetry unless you know what the fuck it’s about! You’re ruining a damn fine poem if you jam a bloke in solitary, don’t explain it, and tell him to repeat it like a Budgie, Cockatoo, Eclectus, Macaw, Psittacus, or Amazon Parrot.

It’s just not on.

Well, he was a Mathematics teacher.

But any which way, it’s an outrage to the Divine Muses of Mount Olympus and the reputation of Coleridge. I mean, Coleridge just wants a bit of restful repose up there in Highgate these days, doesn’t he? Don’t trouble him. His work is done.

So it turns out my retribution was justified.

Oh vengeance! Oh Furies! Oh, spirits that tend on mortal thoughts!

…

In retrospect, I was struck that he considered a suitable deterrent for the habit of smoking 20-a-day High Tar Camel Cigarettes (in desperately convenient smoking-holes hidden in the crooked alleyways of –ndle Town) would be for inmates to learn, word-for-word, an opium-induced poem. A really tripped-out-to-fuck honey-dewed damsel-with-a-dulcimer-playing hallucinogenic poem!

I mean, he was hardly setting a good example to the youth of yesterday, was he?

I could quite easily lead myself astray, so I really didn’t need any more encouragement from balefully wicked Mathematics housemasters.