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.

Me and Marc Almond

[It's dawn. One week later. Me and Duggie Chop are back by the river.

Our bikes are next to us, laying in the tufty grass and Duggie is attempting to light a camping stove in the wind. He fancies frying up some sausages.]

"I'm not sure about the bangers, Duggie," I say, "they'll just attract stray dogs, like that Irish Wolfhound who came over a couple of years ago, when you were trying to cook up some chicken soup, remember?"

"Yeah," says Duggie, "Janine gave me 'River Cottage Cookbook' for Christmas."

"And you spent months experimenting on the camping stove," I say.

"And that Wolfhound came over and gobbled up me fish!"

[Duggie remembers the day well, it was about the only time we'd caught any fish worth eating.]

But he gets the bangers on anyway, and as they start to fizz and pop, I notice someone with a familiar face walking by.

[And you know that feeling when you see someone who you think you know, but you're not quite sure what part of your life they come from. Well, I had that feeling, then.]

"Hi," I say, waving.

The man stops and lifts his hand and starts to walk over.

He's dressed in tight black clothing, and although he has a clear and blemish-free complexion, he could easily be 50. He's got the tattoo of a bird on his neck.

My word, it's Marc Almond!

Duggie's busy flipping his porkers and doesn't notice.

"Doing a bit of fishing, eh?" says Marc.

"Yes," I say, "I'm sorry for waving and calling out, I thought I knew you."

"I'd like to say it happens all the time but, you know, that moment passed ages ago! Ha!" says Marc, flicking his head towards the river or the distance or somewhere.

[And when I'm in this kind of situation, my brain freezes. I know Marc Almond's music pretty well.]

"In fact I was only listening to 'Jacques' the other day," I say.

[Was that a thought inside my head or did I just say it?]

"Jacques?" says Marc, "oh my, that was a labour of love. I'd been on a roll, you know with the Gene Pitney stuff and all..."

"Something's gotten hold of my heart!" I sing, badly. [loving music doesn't always mean you can sing in tune.]

"...yes," says Marc, rather politely, I think, "when you have a bit of success, they kind of believe in you. At least for 5 minutes. It doesn't last."

"I loved 'The Lockman' (L'Eclusier) and The Bulls (Les Toros), was fantastic. As good as Scott Walker did Brel to my ears."

"Thanks," says Marc. "You know, someone came up to me once and thought that 'Les Toros' was the guy who wrote it, wanted to know where to get more of his stuff. Can you believe it?"

I nod, just like a fill-in shot from a TV news interview. And it feels like that, too.

"The record came together over a period of a couple of years, and what a time that was. The '80s. Such freedom!"

Marc's shaking his head. He looks sad, all of a sudden.

"You ok?" I say.

"It's just the passing of time. Oh, you know. I'm on my way to the 'Torpid Emancipator'. I've not been there for years. Bet it's all video games and t-shirts now. Amazing it hasn't closed down."

I can't quite believe that Marc Almond is a regular at the 'Torpid Emancipator': record shop, studio and way of life.

And, he explains: "I used to record backing vocals there and I'm doing some today, for an album of George Michael covers. It's renowned for backing vocals, you know, 'the Torpid one'" says Marc.

"Yes, Me and Duggie - Duggie Chop over there frying-up some sausages - we used to go down there all the time. Then we hit our 40s and..."

"Don't go there, love, I know only too well," he says, getting up to go.

"Why don't you stay and have a banger?" I say, "Duggie will have done more than enough, eyes bigger than his belly that boy."

"Oh no," says Marc, rolling his eyes to the clouds, "I'm a vegan. Didn't you know!"

And he leaves, saying: "Look out for the new CD, it'll be ready for the summer." He disappears rapidly, enveloped in smoke and fumes from Duggie's friying bangers.

Duggie yawns and says: "The thing about this flamin' camping stove, is it takes so long to cook anything on it. Do you think they're still pink?"

"I was just talking to Marc Almond," I say, "He was just passing by on his way to record some backing vox at 'the Torpid one,'" I say.

"What are you on about?"

"Marc Almond," I say.

"I know what you said, but I don't know what you're on about," says Duggie.

He looks thoughtful and says: "All I remember about Marc Almond, apart from 'Soft Cell' and 'Tainted Love', was when we were students."

He stabs a fork in a banger, the fat spurts out, he continues: "You were running around our flat in your underpants, with the sleeve from 'The Stars We Are" on your head, like a dunce's hat."

"The Stars We Are?" I say.

"Yeah, the one with Gene Pitney on it," says Duggie and chomps on a sausage, burning his tongue in the process."

"You doing any onions to go with them?" I say.