Beggars Banquet

‘Ooo-ooo! Ooo-ooo!’

‘Ooo-ooo! Ooo-ooo!’

And you’re the banshee in a rock and roll band…

Where is this party? The tall windows are draped with black velvet. Candles; red lightbulbs; batik scarves thrown over lampshades. Sweet herbal fug in the air. Drug cocktails a speciality de la maison. The host – you’ve barely spoken with him – is minor aristocracy according to one of your sources, dabbles in the stock market according to another. The food has mostly gone. Guests have been folding up multiple slices of smoked salmon and cramming them into already bloated cheeks.

It’s hard to tell because of the lighting, but nobody looks really well. Faces are pierrot white, or would be in daylight, in sunshine. Is there sunshine outside? Watches are being removed at the door, taken away and hidden by the host. No clocks. No telephones, radio, TV.

‘We’re out of time,’ he’d said, smiling. ‘This party does not exist in time. And we keep on partying till nineteen-seventy. ’

You’d felt like asking him how anyone would know when nineteen-seventy arrived, but then someone had passed you a joint and you hadn’t asked any questions after that for quite a while.

What was it? Not just hash: hash you can handle. Some altogether weightier matter: a touch of heroin in the mix? A well-toked speedball? There’s music playing, and bodies strewn over the floor and the sofas and the scatter-cushions. You were brought here by two of your subjects – you’ve begun to think of them as ‘subjects’, not that you’re their master, quite the reverse – but now you can’t see anyone you know. Jeff the Nose has been and gone. Klein was invited apparently, but no way would he show: rumours of contract difficulties, of money owed. A Beatle… did a blessed Beatle drift past your eyeline an hour or more ago? And did he look too mortal?

Ke

Everyone knows.

You’ve been reading a book, The Master and Margarita. Maria

Something you’ve so far failed to put into words.

A woman is handing you a joint. Her eyelashes are thickened to spider legs. Her long straw-coloured hair has been braided and piled atop her head, looking like coiled snakes.

‘Medusa,’ you intone. ‘Will you turn me to stone?’

She ignores the question, asks you something about Clapton, and you’re shaking your head as you inhale.

‘Bailey?’ she tries. You shake your head again and she moves away, her snakes writhing, but that’s all right, because inside your head you can hear percussion and jungle vocals.

Primal: that’s the word you’ve been searching for… And now you have it, you don’t know what to do with it.

The party is carried along by its own momentum. Guests come and go, but the core group stays, becoming stronger. Then suddenly a decision is made and everyone’s groping for jackets and scarves, flouncing out of the flat and down the stairs. It’s evening, and the fresh air feels like nothing you’ve ever experienced. You suck it in, and listen to the traffic. Cars and taxi cabs, everyone’s heading somewhere and you’re part of the flow. A ten-minute ride, and you’re spilling out of the vehicles, scurrying back indoors. A nightclub this time, the Vesuvio. You’ve been here before, but never in such exalted company.

There’s someone tugging at your sleeve. You’re wearing the ruffled white shirt which you’ve been told makes you ‘ever so slightly Byronic’. An arm around your shoulder, lips pressed to your ear.

‘From now on, sweetcakes,’ you hear, ‘everything’s strictly off the record. Deal?’

Of course it’s a deal. And you’re in.

Is that McCartney over there? Gifts are being unwrapped: it’s Mick’s twenty-sixth. Hard to believe, all the history he’s made. Christ, anything’s possible. It’s 1968 and everything’s spi

The DJ a

‘Good dog,’ someone says, rubbing your hair. ‘Good and faithful servant.’

He’s wearing sandals and tight red trousers. You recognise the voice, of course. You force yourself to look up towards his face, but see only radiance.

And the record plays on.

A respectful amount of time later, when the album has finished and the crowd has finished its applause, McCartney hands the DJ something his own band have been working on. The crowd sway and sing along to the chorus. St Jude – patron saint of lost causes. The song seems to go on for ever. And it’s so sad, so personal, and emotional, you begin to cry.

A week later, you’re still crying.

The album isn’t going to be released. Both record companies – UK and US – want the sleeve changed. They don’t like toilet humour. You’d made your own humble suggestions about possible graffiti, and managed to feel snubbed when none were taken up.

‘Toilet wall,’ someone commented. ‘Brilliant idea, just perfect. ’Cos that’s where this decade’s headed: straight down the shitter.’

You wondered at the time what he was talking about. But the first single, released into a summer of street riots, has already been ba

Let them wait. The story no longer matters to you. What matters is a sense you have of where things are headed. Which is why you’re enraged when Mick makes his film and you’re not allowed on the set. He’s acting with Anita. There are tensions there to be exploited. Then Maria

You talk to Brian about it. He’s moved into A. A. Milne’s old house, and wants to show you around. He says you can feel free to take a dip in the pool, but you refuse. His voice, always a quiet lisp, seems already otherworldly. He has big ideas and a nice sense of betrayal. He tells you again that you can swim any time you like. You were never much of a swimmer, and now you feel like you’re sinking. More uppers, more downers, and more of everything in between. The magazine gives up on you, but another shows interest. Everyone thinks you have access. Only you know the truth. The access you want, the only access that matters, is the one you’ll always be denied. You’ve captured barely a glimmer of the story.

Your original employer hears about your new employer and decides to sue. Ugly bits of paper fly around your head, full of legalese and figures. Lawyers want your notes and tapes. They want everything you produced. You hand over a single sheet; five hundred words. You lie about everything else, and spend three weeks in your freezing flat, promising your agent (who has promised a West End producer) that you’re writing a new play. Another black comedy.