Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans
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“… a bit. But what about the primal beats?”
“Well, what is beat?”
“Eh?”
Doreen laughed, not remotely elitist about her knowledge, happy to share.
“What is beat?” she repeated.
“Jeez, I’ve never thought about it. I guess it’s like … a rhythmic basis for music?”
“Excellent!” she exclaimed. “But why do we like it?”
“Why do we like beat?”
Doreen started squeezing my hand rhythmically, sort of offbeat to the cars swishing past us on the Piccadilly Road.
“Why do we prefer music that has a beat?” she asked.
We walked on, and I couldn’t help but notice that the rhythm of our walk now matched the offbeats of the passing cars.
“There are lots of theories,” she continued, “but it comes from deep within us. Possibly from breathing, possibly heart beat … possibly something even deeper.”
It was such a simple idea, and yet quite profound. I was staggered that an idea so simple could be the basis of a university thesis, and said so.
Doreen looked embarrassed as we paused at a red light.
“It’s not that original an idea,” she clarified. “Maybe my musical interpretation is original, but the theory and science isn’t new.”
“It’s new to me,” I said, and she hugged my arm, smiling as the light turned green.
For some reason, we just stopped in the middle of the intersection, momentarily lost in each other’s eyes …
And then her fucking phone rang.
* * *
Vinnie was jubilant, exulting in a manner that had the top boys bemused. It certainly meant a lot to him: “We’ve got the fahker!” he kept shouting, in between waves of maniacal laughter that was, well, unseemly coming from the boss of the Blue Fury.
“Shit on my fahkin’ head, will yer?” he muttered as the top boys eyed one another in bafflement.
The key had not yet been recovered, but its whereabouts were known and its return was imminent, conditional on the Blue Fury remaining outside Paddy Night’s domain. But that was incidental as far as Vinnie the Shiv was concerned. The Malone Clone, as they now referred to the cunt, was, in all likelihood, part of fahkin’ Mervyn Night’s network. Therefore in London, nearby and findable.
“Oh we got you, cunt,” chuckled Vinnie. “Got you by the fahkin’ nads, not that you’ll ‘ave nads much fahkin’ longer!”
The only problem was that McNowt had ordered them to stay out of Mervyn Night’s area - fer the time bein’ - when just two weeks ago he’d told them to start makin’ their presence felt. Fahkin’ toffs! Can’t make up their fahkin’ minds, yeah?
“Stay outta Maida Vale?” asked Finnsy. “You won’t mind that will yer, Beastie Boy?”
A couple of the top boys sniggered at the Beast, who had a large bruise on the left side of his face and still found breathing painful.
The Beast, in normal circumstances, might have reacted violently, notwithstanding Finnsy’s fearsome reputation for hand-to-hand combat. But tonight he just smiled sweetly and remarked that no, he would be quite happy to stay out of Maida Vale.
The remark was so out of character that all the boys studied him; even Vinnie paused in his hilarious triumph to look at the fat cunt and wonder what he was on about. Finnsy looked harder at the artless Beast and felt the merest thrill of - well, of things not being exactly as they ought to be.
The moment passed, and Vinnie composed himself: “Right. Tell the young lads to step up the Ebonefone campaign. I want it fahkin’ everywhere.”
“What for?” asked Georgie Boy, voicing the question in all their heads.
“‘Ow the fack would I know?” answered Vinnie. “McNowt wants it fahkin’ done, yeah?”
“What abaht Paddy Night’s territory?” asked Barry. “‘E said not to go there, but he said to paint ‘Ebonefone’ all over Lahndan.”
“No problem,” said Vin. “The Blue Fury won’t be goin’ into Paddy’s area, but we will.”
The top boys nodded sagely, with the exception of the Beast.
“Yer mean goin’ abaht the streets wivout colours? That’s never been our way, ‘as it Finnsy?”
Finnsy looked hard at the Beast, again feeling a small thrill of - he wasn’t sure what.
“What you fahkin’ on abaht?” he demanded.
The Beast laughed and raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Just tryin’ to uphold our traditions, mate. Thought yer might support me.”
Finnsy gave the Beast his patented “battle ready” stare, but inside he was worried. The Beast was challenging him - but why? Was it just because he’d made the odd joke at the fat prick’s expense? Everyone did that.
“Know what I mean?” persisted the Beast. “Our precious traditions, like always wearin’ our colours.”
Vinnie started to bridle, feeling that the fat cunt was disputing his authority, going on abaht colours.
“Like never missin’ a home game,” continued the Beast raising his voice slightly. A couple of the others smiled wryly. None of them had been to any game, home or away, for at least a year.
“And most important of all,” said the Beast, suddenly almost shouting: “not bein’ a member of MI-fahkin’-5.”
Finnsy probably had a window of about half a second to make the right response to such an accusation. But it was so unexpected that his incredulous derision, when it finally came, was just marginally too late.
THE MAGIC O' THE CUP
Jaffa and I started a new job at Hampstead on Monday morning - another lovely house, another fucking cow that owned it. Why do people have to be such arseholes?
I was still a bit pissed off about the fact that Doreen had, once again, disappeared just as things were getting interesting. But I was very much looking forward to Friday morning when we were taking off for Glastonbury which, according to Doreen, was about a hundred miles west, in Somerset.
“‘Ave yer told Ronnie yer won’t be at the game on Sat’day?” asked Jaffa.
“No. Why should he give a shit? He can barely stand the sight o’ me as it is.”
“Yer don’ understand the way ‘is mind works,” said Jaffa. “‘E loves the team to death, an’ expecks everyone else ter be the same, yeah? You don’ show up to support, an’ it’ll jus’ confirm ‘is suspicions.”
“What suspicions?”
“That you’re jus’ some fahkin’ Aussie tourist takin’ the piss. Not a serious footballer committed to the glory of the Bentham United cause.”
We paused our conversation to manoeuvre a large, oaken bed frame through a doorway and then consider how we were gonna wangle it down a curving stair case without dropping or scratching it.
“Take it apart?” I suggested.
“Naah, fahk that,” said Jaffa. “On’y ‘ave ter put the cunt back together again. Come on, lift!”
With a massive effort, we got it half way down the stairs, but then we were stuck. The bed was just a fraction too large to get round a tightish angle on the stair, and too heavy to take back up.
We