Journey to Beatlemania - although it's probably not about that at all...

Geoffrey decided to give them a lift, that’s Duggie, his mate and the cyclist - let’s forget about the Pike, he’s sleeping.

[“We always sleep with our eyes open,” said the Pike, “actually, we haven’t got any eyelids anyway.”]

Geoffrey had wanted to pop into town to pick up Zippy and George from the dry-cleaners [“What!” said the Cyclist, “I thought they were real!”]

Bungle was waiting outside the shop.
[“Blimey!” said Duggie, “I thought there was a man inside Bungle!”
“...err there is,” said Geoffrey, “he’s just a little bit weird.”]

This being 1982, they could only find cheese sandwiches with curled-up crusts for sale locally. The Greek newsagent imported them from Hounslow via Zaire and a dodgy deal at Heathrow Airport.

[“My cheese tastes like rubber!” said Duggies’s mate.
“No, that is rubber,” said the Greek, “you’re eating an inner-tube.”]

“Look,” said the Cyclist, “I need a pint. We might have been in a lager bubble, but I’ve finished all me Red Stripe!”

“What, you’ll be lucky,” said Geoffrey, “it’s arf-past 2!”

[One of the problems with time-travel is that you’re tuned into the culture and traditions of your time, not the time you’re travelling in. You’re lumbered with that. In this case, the culture and tradition of getting as rat-arsed as possible before closing time, in order to get through to 6 or maybe 7pm when the pub doors open again.]

“What am I gonna do? said the Cyclist, “is there a Tesco or something round here?”

“Hey, Cyclist,” said a man on the radio - a big ghetto blaster that they were walking past.

“Who me?” said the Cyclist.

“Yes you. It’s 1982, mate, you’ve got more chance of buying booze from Al Johnson in prohibition Chicago than you have getting a drink round here after closing time.”

“Thanks radio man!” said Duggie, “and by the way, you’re thinking of Al Capone, not Al Jolson!”

“You’re wrong Duggie-boy.” said the man on the radio, “I’m talking about Al Jolson who owns an ‘offie’ in Illinois.”

Geoffrey: “We can always try the garage off that new bypass, there’s a Russian guy in there. He’ll serve us.”

“I know the place,” said Duggie, “and you’re dead right he’ll serve us! He’s in 2010.”

“Oh, is he?” said Geoffrey, “so that’s why my newspaper’s got colour photos in it. And I never knew that Nat King Cole had a daughter called Cheryl.”

Bungle declined to come, said he had a picnic to attend in the woods.

Geoffrey turned on his car radio and - yeah you can guess it - the ‘man on the radio’ was broadcasting: “Ok you lot, I’m gonna guide you through the time tunnel. Don’t want you getting lost now. But that’s after this classic tune from the mighty Hair Tom: “Plastic - didn’t know - Jam”, their Beatles pastiche.

[Yes, Hair Tom got there first. In 1982, no one was bothered about The Beatles. This was before the obligatory ‘A’ Level in Beatles Studies was handed out to every budding guitar band.

Their work also pre-dated the ‘Tears for Fears’ travesty of a Beatles Pastiche - Sowing the Seeds of Love and the more memorable XTC Oranges and Lemons and Dukes of the Stratosfear stuff.]

“Beatles, did you say The Beatles,” said Duggie....

“The Beatles” Said Duggie’s mate, “ we haven’t talked about them yet.”

“Yet,” said Duggie.

And they both went all starry eyed and had silly grins on their faces as Geoffrey’s car chugged off to the petrol station in the 21st Century.

“Oi - wot’s going on?” said The Cyclist
[“Nah Cyclist,” said the pedant, “that’s Marvin Gaye, not The Beatles”]
“Wot about my cans of Red Stripe - never mind the bleedin’ Beatles.”

“Ho, ho, Zippy,” said George, curled up in sports bag in the boot, “this is exciting, isn’t it”

“No, George, it’s dark!” said Zippy.

Interlude - My short trip, by Duggie's mate.

[Looking through the eyes of Duggie's mate and using his mind to directly translate the experience as a piece of prose. It's a bit clumsy here and there, but that's what 'stream-of-thought' monologues are like, isn't it?]

(We - me and Duggie - are in the studio in the Torpid Emancipator with Hair Tom. It's 1982 and me and Duggie are 14 years-old again, travelling through time. Just to let you know, our role in life is to fish in the canal [“...don't remind me!” -Mr Stickleback] and tell strangers about the music we are into. At the moment we are giving you - via time travel – the full story of the great 'Hair Tom', a group at the forefront of the 'Sound Of Torpidity' prog-rock movement...So far, Matt Score - lead guitar, Hair Tom - has invited us into the studio to watch a rehearsal and Doland - rhythm, acoustic and percussion - has skinned-up a powerful looking 'funny fag'...)

First I'm passed a joint. Not really seen one in 'the flesh' before. Like a roll-up, but more kind of triangular (conical?). Sort of. It's a bit soggy, too. Doland is laughing as I put it in my mouth and suck a bit.

Sort of cool sensation of smoke and air - like sucking dry-ice through a straw. Tastes like ground up earth - an intense version of the smell of formerly bone-dry pavements, following a cloudburst.

I breathe in the smoke and try to hold it down without gagging. It's an effort. But the more I hold it, the looser I get and the release of smoke, from my lungs into the air, feels like floating down the river on a gondola made of silk.

“Take another toke, man!” I can hear Doland saying, “The first toke has laid the foundation, for exploration...”

Oh, yeah [exhales] he's right...

I hand the joint to Duggie, or somebody to my left. I'm really not too sure.

Sitting 'in' the chair now. Not on it, coveted by material that shimmers over and around me, like 'the dance of the seven veils', or something.

Bob-bob-bob-bobbing bassline...tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkly-too keyboard. I can actually see the notes coming out of the speakers, quaver by crochet by double clef and treble clef. Oh, not forgetting the bass clef too.

Some of the notes bash into each other, like when there's a distorted note, or something. Then they bow to each other and apologise before continuing. Others dance together and merge, jiggling into shape.

Words are coming out of everyone's mouth. I can see them, written up in the air, as if I was watching some film credits roll by.

The joint returns again, soggier and shorter than before and I have another bit of its cool and earthy substance, feel a little bit queasy with that one. I pass it on quick.

It's sort of dark outside now, though it's about mid-afternoon in the summer. I think. [to explain, he thinks he's looking through a window, when in fact he's staring at a blank frame that used to contain a mirror.] In fact it's totally black, no stars or nothing. Mr Moon, Mr Moon. You asleep, or something?

I've never seen it that dark before. Suddenly a white image appears, at first a little melty, then sharp as sharp. It's an owl. A kind of simple graphic design of an owl. then I recognise it. It's the picture from the label of a 'midnight mint' choc-ice [unavailable these days, by the way. They were a plain chocolate choc-ice filled with mint flavoured ice cream. A premium product]. And then the owl winks at me...

Oh, no. I've messed up my brain! I look up, and the low roof of the studio has attained cathedral dimensions, a cavernous space and I can see my thoughts echoing around.

Ok. Get up. I try. (Need to get away, bed, piss. Both) But my legs won't operate. They're as stiff and heavy as the girders they make Irn Bru out of. Girders. or Grrdrrs (as they might say in Scotland). GrrDuzz. Gurrrdezz. Grrrrrdrrrrs.

[At that point, Duggie's mate passes out. Musical notes flying from his ears like loose wax].

“Guess the kid wasn't ready for a peace pipe, man,” says Doland.