11

 

I LOSE MY VIRGINITY

 

THE LAST THING I NEEDED AT A TIME LIKE THIS WAS A POEM ABOUT drowned sailors’ hats.

What I really needed was a blow job.

And I’m not being facile or frivolous here. I really, truly mean it.

A friend of mine who was once in the TA told me that at that exact moment when you think you’re going to die, your whole life does not flash before your eyes. Something quite different occurs. He’d had his experience on Salisbury Plain. He enjoyed the old weekend-soldiering, got a real buzz out of shooting real guns and throwing thunderflashes at sheep. And he’d been quite looking forward to the war games his part-time regiment were going to have against a unit of full-time regular soldiers. But things didn’t go as well as they might have. He tripped in a rabbit hole and broke his ankle. Considering that the war games were over for him he gave himself up, limped to the enemy camp waving a white handkerchief. It was an ill-considered move. The regulars did not pack him off in a field ambulance, they tortured him instead. They stripped him naked but for his boots, tied him up and put him out in the rain. My friend was in such agony from the broken ankle and the freezing cold and everything that he really truly thought that he was going to die.

And did his whole life flash before his eyes?

No, as I’ve already said, it didn’t.

What did flash before his eyes was the vision of a woman, a kind of composite of all the best-looking women he’d ever seen, and with it came this terrible revelation that making love and not war was probably a very good idea indeed and that he would have been far, far better off lying naked in bed with a woman than laying naked in mud with a broken ankle.

My friend still walks with a slight limp, he is married happily, has five children and lives in Cornwall. He is no longer in the TA.

 

I ran down the alleyway after Litany, who, on long tanned legs, was leaving me behind.

‘Slow down,’ I called after her. ‘We have to find a doorway to nip into, we have to have sex.’

This remark slowed her down. To a stop.

‘What did you say?’ she asked, turning and making a face I thought somewhat fierce.

‘They just shot the barman, and we’ll be next,’ I explained, ‘so we should make love now, while we still have the chance.’

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘At a time like this? I’m deadly serious, it might be the last thing we ever do.’

‘You want me to take my clothes off in a doorway?’

It was clear that this woman had never had a friend who was once in the TA. I’d have to explain it to her later. ‘Forget about taking your clothes off,’ I told her. ‘I’ll settle for a blow job.’

And then she kicked me. Right in the cobblers. I will never understand women as long as I live.

‘If you can’t run, hobble,’ she shouted, and away she went once more. And out through the rear door of Fangio’s Bar came the fellows in the uniforms. The ones with the big guns.

‘Halt!’ they shouted.

‘Screw that!’ And I hobbled.

At the end of the alleyway stood the limo, shiny and black, the stars reflected in its roof. The stars, white dots upon a black background, just waiting to be joined up to spell out the answer. The big answer.

Because the pattern is there, right there, in the heavens.

‘Cut that crap and get in.’ Litany threw open the passenger door. She was inside. At the wheel.

‘It isn’t crap,’ I said (once inside, with the door locked and the car in motion). ‘It’s part of the big picture. Everything is part of a big picture. Everything links together. We are all small links in an infinite chain, all cells in the body of God.’

And then she leaned over and smacked me in the mouth. ‘You’re delirious,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘You’re in shock. Now just get your head down, there’s going to be some action.’

‘Oh good. You’ve changed your mind—’

And she hit me again!

I got my head down and sulked as she drove. And she drove very fast. My pride felt as injured as my privy parts. Well not quite so, but near as damn it. She took a right here and a left there, although I didn’t know where here and there were. And once she braked very hard and my head hit the dashboard.

She may very well have braked hard again, but I don’t remember if she did, because I had been knocked unconscious.

 

I awoke all alone in the limo

Parked upon grey mud flats

In the distance I saw

Several men, three or four,

They were searching for drowned sailors’ hats.

 

And the sea was a ribbon of mercury

That underlined the sky

And the sky was blue

As a blue suede shoe

And sweet as apple

 

Smack! went a fist into the side of my face.

‘Pie,’ I said. ‘Ouch,’ I continued. ‘What did you hit me for this time?’

Litany smiled in through the open car window. ‘The poetry,’ she replied. ‘It’s appalling.’

‘It’s a necessary evil. I nursed my grazed cheek, felt at my fat lip and gingerly tested my testes. ‘I have to keep poetry in my head. To concentrate on. Otherwise I have to compensate. Endlessly. For everything.’

‘Yes, I know all about that.’

‘You do?’ She opened the car door and I scrambled out onto the mud. ‘What do you know?’

‘While you slept, I hacked into your uncle’s computer. I know all about how you have to compensate, maintain the balance of equipoise. It’s all in there, your entire case history. The Ministry of Serendipity have been monitoring you for years.’

‘They never have?’

‘They have too.’

‘Bastards!’

‘The gigs you played last night. The jokes you told from the print-outs. That was all part of a secret government experiment, to see whether you could actually affect great changes by performing small actions. Be the mystical butterfly of chaos.’

‘Secret government experiment?’ I shook my head, which hurt my cheek and my fat lip, but mercifully left my testicles in peace. ‘So are you saying that my brother and my uncle both work for the M.o.S.?’

‘It’s all there in the computer files.’

‘Does it say what damage I caused? They said something about typhoons, disasters.’

Litany smiled. It was a blinder of a smile. I could almost forgive her for all the hitting. Almost, but not quite. ‘You didn’t cause any disasters,’ she smiled. ‘It was a controlled experiment aimed specifically at creating fluctuations in the world’s money markets.’

‘But they said—’

‘Forget what they said. They got it wrong.’

I shook my head once more. But carefully this time. ‘They’re all a pack of bastards,’ I declared. ‘And I’m not working for any of them.’

‘So what do you intend to do?’

‘Well, I’m not going home. I’ll stay here. Where is here, by the way?’

‘We’re just outside Skelington Bay on the south coast.’

‘Well, I’ll stay here. I’ll merge anonymously into the holiday crowd.’

‘It’s not a bad idea,’ she said, with yet another smile, ‘except for one thing.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘If you want to merge anonymously, I think you’d better change out of your gold lamé catsuit. Come on, I’ll drive you into town and buy you some new clothes.’

‘That’s not a bad idea,’ I said. ‘Except for one thing.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Well, if you’d care to look behind you, you’ll notice that the limo has now sunk up to its roof in the mud.’

She looked and she saw and she didn’t smile this time.

 

We walked into Skelington Bay and I must confess I did get some pretty funny looks from the passing menfolk. And some bitter ones too. But I could understand that, I mean there’s nothing more annoying than seeing some jerk who’s got really bad dress sense with a really beautiful woman on his arm, is there?

I didn’t take to the town at all. Something felt wrong to me about the houses. If I’d known anything at all about architecture, I suppose I would have spotted it right away.

Much of the town was Neo-Georgian, but given a vernacular style because the architects had obviously vacillated between the comparatively robust forms of Palladian composition and more attenuated compositions with slightly applied ornament, as popularized by the brothers Adam, who designed in a much more virile manner.

But I knew Jack Shit about architecture, so this didn’t cross my mind.

A fist crossed my mouth again. Which I found mildly annoying.

‘And what did you hit me for this time?’

‘Being pretentious.’

‘Fair enough.’

We found a clothes shop (or boutique), and I let her choose me a shirt and trousers. A friend of mine who’d actually had a girlfriend once, said that it’s a really good idea to let your girlfriend choose your clothes. It shows her that you trust her judgement and she’s also pleased because you look the way she wants you to look.

How vividly I recall him standing there in his pink flares and paisley-patterned shirt waving goodbye to her as she went off laughing with the bloke in the jeans and leather jacket.

Mind you, he also told me that the best present you can buy a woman is a wristwatch, because she’s bound to look at it several times a day and each time she does, she’ll subconsciously think of you.

I came out of the changing-room. ‘Are you sure these pink flares are really me?’ I asked.

Litany smiled. ‘They certainly are.’

‘I’d like to go on to a jeweller’s next.’ I examined my reflection in the wall mirror. ‘I’d like to buy you a wristwatch.’

‘That’s all right, I already have one.’ And she looked down at it and a wistful look came into her eyes.

I settled for a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt and a leather jacket. I said I’d owe her the money.

We went looking for a place to stay and as we walked along I wondered over the events of the night before and tried to draw a few conclusions.

Why was it, I asked myself, that if this Ministry of Serendipity intended using me for its own ends, they had sent storm troopers into Fangio’s, blowing up the place and shooting-people? I wasn’t much use to them dead.

And why, I also asked myself, had Litany risked her life helping me to escape?

Well, the second one was easy. It was clear that the dame was wildly in love with me. Clearly all the hitting was her way of showing affection.

I made a mental note that as soon as I got her clothes off, I’d make a point of tying her down to the bed.

We checked into a hotel called the Skelington Bay Grande.

‘Double room,’ I told the desk clerk.

‘Two singles,’ said Litany.

‘Oh yeah,’ I winked at her. ‘I get you. Two singles.’ She didn’t wink back.

 

We took lunch in the Casablanca dining-suite. I had to go part vegetarian and only eat half of my lettuce to compensate for the ghastly décor. The ceiling was so high that I had to put four sugars in my coffee and take off one of my shoes.

We shared a bottle of Chateaubriand over the starters. Then a carafe of Chaudfroid with the main course.

To accompany the cheese and biscuits we each had a glass of Vol au Vent.

And to bring the meal to a successful conclusion, two balloons of chilled eau de vie.

Well, one out of four wasn’t bad for a waiter who only did basic French.

A smack in the ear informed me that I was being pretentious again.

‘Just you see here,’ I said, which wasn’t easy, considering what I’d just drunk. ‘I’m getting fed up with all this hitting. What say we dispense with all this foreplay, go upstairs and do it till we fall unconscious?’

She sipped from a schooner of Mal de Mer I’d failed to mention earlier and shook her beautiful head.

‘Why not?’ I asked, suavely. ‘You’re obviously gagging for it.’ ‘Oh I am. But not with you.’

‘Why not?’ I reiterated, not quite so suavely this time. She smiled again. (I was beginning to find the habit more than just mildly annoying.) ‘Look, you’re a very nice guy and everything, but, well, you’re—’

‘What?’

‘You’re too old.’ ‘What?’

‘I’m sorry, but there it is.’ ‘How old do you think I am?’

‘I don’t know, forty, forty-five, maybe.’

‘More like fifty,’ said the waiter, pouring me a pint of vichyssoise.

‘You keep out of this,’ I told him.

‘No offence, monsieur, but in labial France such practices are an everyday affair. Beautiful young woman, dirty old man. We think nothing of such things.’

‘I’m so pleased to hear it. But surely you mean la belle France. Doesn’t labial mean—’

‘Trust me, monsieur, I know exactly what it means.’

‘Do you know what bugger off means?’

‘Indeed I do.’ The waiter bowed by lifting his nose and departed from our table.

‘Now just you listen,’ I said to Litany. ‘I’m not forty or forty-five or anything like that. I just look old for my age.’

‘So how old are you really?’

‘I’m fifteen.’

She gave me a look. It was a long look. A long long look. It was a look so long that had it been a willy it would have belonged to none other than Long King Dong himself. ‘Fifteen?’ she said. ‘Fifteen?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Then you’re much too young for me.

‘Now cut that out.’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘All right. I can’t go to bed with you. You might lose your powers.’

‘I’m sure I’d be good for an hour or two.’

‘I mean your mystical powers.

‘Oh those. I’ve frankly lost all interest in those as it happens. Let’s go upstairs.’ I didn’t like to beg, begging is so undignified. ‘Please,’ I wailed, falling to my knees. ‘Please. I’ll do anything you want.’

‘We mustn’t,’ she said. ‘You are the Chosen One. I’m not worthy.’

‘Pay the bill,’ I told her. ‘We’re going upstairs.’ And she paid the bill and we went.

 

We went up to her room rather than mine. When we got inside I found out why. Hers was somewhat bigger and grander. I put this down, of course, to the luck of the draw. After all, what else could it be?

She went off to the en-suite bathroom to do whatever it is that women do prior to making love.

‘Sit down on the bed,’ she said. ‘Watch TV for a few minutes, I won’t be long.’

I sat down on the bed and tinkered with the controller. I don’t watch a lot of TV myself. Used to, all the time, but something had happened a few months before to a friend of mine which changed all that for me.

His name was Ray Bland, but we used to call him ‘Cathode’ Ray. Well, we had to call him something and Ray didn’t mind, because he felt that it gave him an air of individuality. Of course it did nothing of the kind, because we were only taking the piss. But Ray didn’t mind that either, because he felt that we did it out of grudging respect.

This too, of course was a fallacy, but Ray didn’t mind about that either. In fact, Ray didn’t mind about anything much and this was the one thing we liked him for.

‘Human nature is as inexplicable in its many-sidedness as the Sunday Football League,’ Ray once told Jim Pooley. And Jim felt that this was probably the case.

Ray’s life was divided, far from fairly in his opinion, between working at the Blue Bird dry-cleaners (at that time still a wet-cleaners), and watching television.

‘In the future,’ Ray declared, ‘nano-technology, allied to genetic engineering, will create a classless, workless society, which will be dedicated entirely to ceaseless sensory stimulation. In the meantime, however, we must make the most of what we have, to wit, television. Whenever possible we should sate our senses at the screen.

Sating his sense at the screen was indeed an obsession for Ray. It was indeed an addiction.

‘I have seen High Noon twenty-three times,’ he told Pooley, upon one of his rare nights out away from the screen. And then proceeded to date each separate occasion.

‘That “Cathode” Ray is a dull one, to be sure,’ Jim told Neville. ‘Although he doesn’t mind.’

‘And lastly, 16th August 1965,’ said Ray who was not to be interrupted during the disclosure of such important information.

‘Sing us some of your 1950s TV commercials, Ray,’ said Old Pete, seating himself down at The Swan’s elderly piano.

Pooley drank up and left, he had heard the spirited renditions of Rael Brook Poplin, the shirts you don’t iron, and Shippams for tea, for tea, for tea (performed to the tune of The Blue Danube) all too many times.

‘OK,’ said Ray. ‘As you’re asking.’

Pooley lurched drunkenly out into a windswept Ealing Road.

From the saloon bar of The Flying Swan, the haunting strains of Keep going well, Keep going Shell, You can be sure of Shell, Shell, Shell, sung in a most unconvincing Bing Crosby voice, drifted after him.

‘Boring little tick,’ muttered Pooley.

‘The Esso sign means happy motoring,’ crooned ‘Cathode’ Ray Bland. ‘Why doesn’t he just bugger off and sate his sodding senses?’ complained an old soldier, who had seen it all before and heard quite enough.

 

The television detector van, disguised this week as one of Lorenzo’s Ice-Cream wagons (but to the trained eye an obvious fraud, as the ice-cream selections were spelt correctly), swung into Mafeking Avenue pursued by the inebriated Pooley shouting, ‘Just one damn choc ice, that’s all that I want.’

The driver, Aaron Lemon,[22] who, in his mother’s opinion, had the hands of a concert pianist, stood heavily upon the brake. ‘We’ll pull up here, I think,’ he said.

The dull thud as Pooley’s head struck the van’s rear door was hardly audible within.

‘Switch her on, Mickey,’ said Aaron.

Mickey Vez[23], who, in his mother’s opinion, had the legs of an African tribal warrior, threw the switch and the dazzling rocket that masked the antennae atop the van began to rotate.

‘It’s a little like being at mission control,’ observed the romantic Mickey.

Aaron eyed the screen, ‘A little,’ he replied, ‘but not a lot.’

Without any warning at all, because it was quite unexpected, the little screen lit up like a piper at the gates of dawn (?). Well, very brightly, anyway!

‘Great steaming bowls of sprouts,’ cried Mickey, whose mother had taught him not to swear. ‘What is it? A nuclear war?’

‘It could be an electrical storm or something. Turn it down, it’s blinding me.

Mickey adjusted the brightness control. ‘It’s coming from over there,’ he said, consulting his Captain Laser wrist compass and pointing towards the east.

He checked a map and sinister government-issue directory. ‘Number twenty-three Sprite Street. Name of Mr Raymond Bland.’ And then his face lit up to match the screen. ‘Eureka,’ said Mickey. ‘No TV licence.’

Below the van a prone and muddy figure with a bruised forehead mumbled, ‘One bloody choc ice, is that so much to ask?’

‘Cathode’ Ray was back at home. He sat before, or more accurately within, his pride and joy and glory. Wall-to-wall-to-wall-to-wall television. From his swivel chair in the centre of his front parlour he could sate his senses on the screens of some four hundred televisions lining the four walls (one hundred to a wall).

‘It is the dream of a lifetime realized,’ said Ray, who, in his mother’s opinion, had the eyes of Bette Davis.

Ray had arranged four video cameras, one high upon each wall and angled down towards his chair. The four top rows of televisions[24] were connected to these and by swivelling the chair, Ray could see himself continuously, whilst keeping an eye on the lower screens, each of which was tuned to an ordinary channel, controlled by a master unit strapped to the arm of his chair.

The floor was a snake-house of cables, and aerial leads ran up to the hole drilled in the centre of the ceiling, giving the room something of the appearance of a circus tent interior. In Ray’s back garden an eighty-foot ‘commandeered’ electricity board pylon served as the very acme of aerials.

It was all very exciting.

And very illegal.

‘Good evening and welcome to World of the Weird,’ said the three hundred and sixty faces of Jack Black, a popular TV presenter of the day, who, in his mother’s opinion, had the hair of the dog that bit him.

The ten left ears, ten right ears, ten faces and ten backs of heads of ‘Cathode’ Ray Bland looked on appreciatively.

‘Lovely,’ said the ten mouths. The other bits remained silent. Aaron Lemon knocked upon the front door.

‘Tonight,’ said the faces of Jack, ‘we visit a man in Norfolk who claims that he can hypnotize fruit and veg in order to increase yield. Discover just why the planet Jupiter got so very fat. Pose the question, order out of chaos, God’s will or just a passing fad? And learn the terrible truth about the Scandinavian garden gnome trade.’

‘Jolly good show,’ said the ten mouths of Bland.

Aaron Lemon put an authorized shoulder to the front door. ‘Come on, Mickey,’ he said, ‘this is THE BIG ONE.’

On three hundred and sixty screens a small man in a turban stood in a sprout field shouting, ‘Grow, you buggers, grow,’ as Aaron Lemon with the pianist’s hands and Mickey Vez with the legs (of the tribesman, not the piano player), burst into Ray’s front parlour and came to a staggering, stumbling stop.

Mickey struggled for breath and was the first to find his voice. ‘F***ing H*ll!’ he went, remembering his mother.

Ten TV screens behind him showed sweat breaking out on his forehead.

‘Big, big, big one,’ mumbled Aaron, ‘big, big.., big… one,’ as to right and left of him his ears looked on in batches of ten.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ roared the ten mouths of Bland. And as he struggled to his feet his waistcoat, high on the TV screens, ruffled magnificently. ‘Get out of here at once!’

‘You… you…’ Aaron’s jaw rattled up and down. Never in his long and celebrated career as a TV detector man had he ever seen anything to parallel this. ‘You.., you… I…’

‘We’ll all be in The News of the World,’ gasped Mickey. ‘I never knew I had a mole behind my left ear,’ he continued, looking up at the screens.

Ray’s hands began to flap about. Jack Black’s three hundred and sixty faces were saying ‘petrified dwarves.

‘Get out of my sanctum,’ screamed ‘Cathode’ Ray. ‘Get out of here, idolaters!’

‘I want my mum,’ blubbered Aaron, assuming the foetal position, thumb thrust firmly into gob.

‘I could have that removed by surgery,’ said Mickey examining his on-screens mole.

And then suddenly a darkness entered the room.

And with it came the reek of Brimstone.

And with it the Angel of Death.

The Angel of Death was dark and foully bespattered. He raised a terrible fist that clutched a terrible paling torn from the front fence outside.

‘Give me a bloody choc ice or die!’ he roared.

 

Now, reports vary in regard to exactly what happened next. The explosion was heard five miles away, registered on the seismograph at Greenwich and scored a chart position on the Richter scale.

‘Cathode’ Ray was out of town for a long while and when he returned he was bearded, wore the habit of a monk and referred to himself as ‘Brother Raymond’.

Jim Pooley declines to talk of the incident. But I have seen him hurriedly crossing the high Street before he reaches the television repair shop. And the very mention of the words ‘choc ice’ is sufficient to send him ducking beneath the nearest table with his hands clasped over his ears.

 

I lay upon Litany’s bed smoking a Senior Service and sucking a Fisherman’s Friend. ‘That was wonderful,’ I told her.

‘What, the short story?’

‘No, the love-making. It was my first time, I will remember it for ever.’

‘Well, you didn’t do too bad for a kid of fifteen, apart from when I was up on your shoulders and you—’

I put a finger on her lips, ‘That’s our secret. I think I successfully distracted the readers’ attention by slipping in the short story, what do you reckon?’

Litany smiled. ‘What, as a substitute for a graphic description of two hours’ horny love-making? Oh yeah, I should think so.’

And then she smiled again and I didn’t mind at all.