James Fennimore Bacon, of no fixed address, today received a life sentence for selling his patented Elixir of Life pills in defiance of code laid down in the Witchcraft and Fraudulent Mediums Act. He had previous convictions for selling his 'tablets of immortality' in 1959, 1943, 1920, 1857, 1703 and 1628. 'Seems a bit harsh,' I said.
'He'll breeze through it,' said Mr Rune. 'He always does. But it wasn't that article which caused me to "Plah!" Read what is below it.' I read. 'Out loud,' said Mr Rune.
I read it out loud. ' "EAT YOUR FOOD NUDE",' I read. ' "The new naturist restaurant is opening tonight in George Street, Hove. The Sussex constabulary are cordoning off the area in expectation of the crowds of protesters."' I looked up at Mr Rune. 'What will they be protesting about?' I asked. 'They have yet to taste the food.' 'Perhaps the nudity.'
'Ludicrous,' I said. 'These are the nineteen sixties – you cannot protest about nudity.'
Mr Rune shook his great bald head. 'Rizla,' said he, 'these are indeed the nineteen sixties – people are protesting about everything. Hadn't you noticed?'
'I have noticed that our landlord protests about you not paying him the rent.' 'Please do not broach that subject again.'
'So what does this restaurant opening have to do with us?' The question was scarcely out of my mouth when I realised that I knew the answer. Mr Rune's rat-bone protestations had him barred from every eating-house in Brighton. The opening of a new restaurant was bound to interest him.
'I do not know whether I fancy eating my food in the nude,' I said.
'You can always place a napkin in your lap if you fear the spilling of hot soup on to your 'nads.'
'I was not thinking of that. I was thinking of the diners. Few folk look appealing in their bare scuddies. Of course, if all the other diners were "Page Three" girls, that would be an altogether different affair.' 'We'll take on the case,' said Mr Rune. 'What case?'
Hugo Rune rose ponderously from his favourite chair and took himself over to the big wall-mounted street map of Brighton, the one on which the enigmatic figures of the Brighton Zodiac had been coloured on to the streets and roads and culs-de-sac and whatnots. The figures of the Brightonomicon.
'See there,' said Mr Rune, and he took up his stout stick and pointed with it. 'The Sackville Scavenger. It lies across Hove with its mouth wide open. And there, you see, at the line of his belly – George Street.' I looked and I saw. 'Very good,' I said. 'But the case?' 'The case will present itself, Rizla. Have a little faith.' 'I have plenty of faith,' I said.
'And I also,' said Hugo Rune. 'And if faith were bread, my belly would be full. But it is not and neither is my belly.' And he yawned and drew out his pocket watch and viewed its elegant face. 'The sun is over the yardarm,' he said. 'I suggest that we repair to Fangio's bar and there avail ourselves of his complimentary peanuts and the chewing fat that he currently has on offer.' And so we did. I looked up at today's pub sign. ' "The Merry Terrorist",' I read.
Within The Merry Terrorist, the furnishings were as ever they had been: the hubcap ashtrays, the Ford Fiesta wheel-arch loungers, the car-bumper footrests before the bar counter, the Vauxhall Velux headlamps on their chromium wall sconces. Mr Rune and I approached the bar and there we encountered the barman.
'Morning, comrades,' said Fangio, raising a blackly gloved fist. 'Great day for the overthrow of the capitalist system.'
I looked Fangio up and down, then up and down once more. The barlord had a somewhat military look on this occasion. His portly form had been ladled into figure-hugging camouflage fatigues, and upon his head he wore a beret. A beard had been sketched on to his chin with the aid of a felt-tipped pen. Hugo Rune made groaning sounds. But I was caused to smile. 'Let me guess,' I said to Fange. 'Che Guevara, is it not?'
'You have it in one,' said Fangio, which I have to say rather surprised me.
'Of course, Che was not really a terrorist,' I said. 'He was a revolutionary.'
'Oh,' said Fangio. 'I thought he was a fashionable boutique in Kensington High Street. I paid a packet for this fab gear. It goes down very well with the ladies, so I'm told.'
Mr Rune was tucking into the complimentary peanuts. I ordered two pints of Texaco Unleaded and Redex chasers.
The dedicated follower of fashion did the business. And being the professional he was, chalked up the cost to Mr Rune's account. 'This peanut bowl is empty,' remarked the Lad Himself.
I tucked into the chewing fat while Fange refilled the peanut bowl.
'So you are up for the overthrow of the capitalist system, are you?' I asked Fange, by way of making idle conversation.
'I'm up for anything, me,' said the camouflaged barman. 'You name a cause that's worth protesting about and I'm up fork.' 'Blood sports,' I said. 'Pro or and?' 'And,' I said. 'Up for it,' said Fangio. 'And what if I had said "pro"?'
'Then I'd have said "up for it". I'm all for democracy. Although I support the Communist Party, of course.'
'You are only dressed up like that and talking like that because the brewery has inveigled you into it.' 'And because of the bird-pulling potential of the attire.' 'You hypocrite,' I said.
'Excuse me,' said Fangio, 'but I take exception to that. In fact, I protest! I am dressed like this to keep the job I enjoy and to have sex with women. Where is the hypocrisy in that?' I scratched at my head. He had me there. 'You need a haircut,' said Fangio. 'I protest about that' 'Top man. I'll join you on the march.' 'So will you be protesting tonight?' Mr Rune asked Fangio.
Fangio took out his diary and leafed through it. 'I get off at six,' he said, 'and I will be joining the Angry Lesbians of Kemp Town in their sit-down protest at the swimming baths, over the mixed-ninepennies. That should be a noisy one. Then at six-thirty I'll be with the Miffed Mimes of Moulsecoomb – we'll be trying to escape from an imaginary phone box, so that should be a quiet one. Then at seven I'm going to be part of a human chain across the car park at Tesco. That's an animal rights thing – I've been issued with a whistle for that one.'
'Will you not be joining the protesters who are seeking to stop the opening of the Eat Your Food Nude restaurant in George Street?' I asked.
'Heavens, no,' said Fange. 'I'll be dining there myself -the brewery has sent me two free tickets. It's one of their new theme venues.' I looked at Mr Rune. And Mr Rune looked at me. 'I think I will go to the toilet now,' I said. Some hours later, I asked Mr Rune, 'Why are we dressing up?'
'We'll want to look our best for the occasion.' Hugo Rune had on his best tuxedo, with the lacy shirt and velvet dicky bow.
'But it is a naturist restaurant. We will have to take our clothes off!' Mr Rune let free a mocking laugh. 'Rizla,' said he, 'Hugo Rune does not disrobe in public' 'Shy, eh?' I said.
'On the contrary,' said Hugo Rune, 'but should I expose what lies presently dormant beneath my kecks in a public eatery, the inevitable attention of the womenfolk present and the inadequacy felt by their male companions might well erupt into jealous rage, which would interfere with my digestion.' 'Indeed,' I said. 'So can I keep my clothes on, too?'
'We will represent ourselves as high muck-a-mucks of the brewery, come to observe the proceedings.' 'Well, you have acquired the brewery's tickets.'
'Quite so. Now let us hasten to the street where you can hail us a cab.'
The driver of the taxicab was a fellow who called himself Darren. Darren was a supporter of a football club named Hull, to which even 'torture to the third degree as administered by cardinals of the Inquisition could not procure disloyalty'. Darren expounded his theories regarding why Marmite went white when you repeatedly patted it with your ringer. And how there was really no such thing as chicken.
'Eggs, right!' said Darren, as he drove along Western Road en route to Hove. 'Every day there are millions and millions of eggs. You can buy them everywhere, right?' I nodded in agreement.
'But also everywhere, there are millions and millions of chickens for sale in supermarkets, and sandwich shops, and restaurants, right?' 'Right,' I said. 'So where do they all come from?' 'They come out of eggs,' I said. 'But the eggs are all for sale.'
'Well, obviously not all of them,' I said. 'A very great many must hatch into chickens. A very great many.'
'Which would require a very great many cockerels to inseminate all these chickens that lay fertilised eggs that turn into more chickens.' 'I would assume so,' I said.
'So where are all these stud farms full of randy roosters?' asked Darren. 'You have all these battery-chicken farms where chickens lay eggs. But you'd need millions and millions of randy roosters. It's all a conspiracy. Eggs come off assembly lines, and so do chickens. They're artificial. And we should be told. I'm going to start a protest.' I scratched at my head. 'You need a haircut,' said Mr Rune. When we arrived at the police cordon that blocked off Church Road some one hundred yards before George Street, I left the cab with haste, leaving Mr Rune to deal with the matter of the fare.
And I recognised two of the policemen in the cordon – the same two who had ordered Mr Rune and me to move back behind the line before the Earl-Grey-weeping statue of the late Queen Victoria.
'Good evening, Officer,' I said to the first policeman. 'Nice night for a protest, eh?'
'Perfect night, sir. Move back behind the line, if you will.'
'I have tickets to the restaurant opening,' I said, and I flourished same.
'You lucky bugger,' said the first constable. 'All those "Page-Three" girls with their kit off, and me and my compatriots here with nothing to enliven our evening other than the thought of the inevitable truncheoning-down of protesters that lies ahead.'
'And the stun-gunning,' said the second constable. 'And the tear-gassing, of course, not to mention the employment of the bowel-loosening infrasound canons that have been supplied to us for testing by the Ministry of Serendipity.'
I felt it prudent not to mention those bowel-loosening infrasound canons. 'Very wise of you,' said the first constable. And suddenly Mr Rune joined me.
'Oh,' said the second constable, sighting Mr Rune. 'It's you, is it? Are we supposed to tip our helmets or something, you being a Thirty-Fourth-Degree Mason or whatever?'
'A simple curtsey will suffice,' said Mr Rune. 'Now please clear a path for us between the protesters.'
'There are no protesters,' I said, for my powers of observation were keen.
'No,' said constable number one. 'I've just heard word on my special police walkie-talkie that they are presently trapped inside an imaginary telephone box on the Level. Imaginary firemen are cutting them out.' 'I just love the nineteen sixties,' I said.
'Me, too, sir,' said the second policeman. 'Especially the drugs.' I don't know whether we were the first to arrive at Eat Your Food Nude, but I knew that we were not the last. There is a balance to these things and a strict pecking order, celebritywise. But I will not go into any of that here, because frankly I did not care – I was just hungry. There were a lot of paparazzi present and these individuals aimed their cameras at us. But to Mr Rune's appalled disgust, they did not take any pictures. 'They do not know who you are,' I said, as we strolled up George Street, past the charity shops. 'They are only here to photograph the famous.'
'Rizla,' said Hugo Rune, 'how would you like to appear upon the front page of the Leader tomorrow?'
'That very much depends,' said I. 'If it is alongside the headline "DO YOU KNOW THE IDENTITY OF THIS MURDERED MAN?", then I am not altogether keen.'
Mr Rune smiled that certain smile of his, the one that I might not have mentioned before, and we strolled on towards dinner at Eat Your Food Nude.
We were greeted at the door by two muscular types wearing nothing more than fig leaves.
'Invitation,' said one of these, fingering the fig leaf that he wore upon his head. And I made free with our tickets. 'Go through, please,' said the other. And we did so. 'Fine-looking women,' said Mr Rune.
Now, I have to say that I rather took to the decor of Eat Your Food Nude. It had that comfortable, lived-in feeling to it. The walls were painted all-over mauve, which I knew to be this year's black. Upon them hung many silk-screened prints of the Andy Warhol persuasion. There were sofas and chairs of a velvet ilk and many a beanbag sack. And tables of oak of every shape, which answered every occasion. 'Most poetic,' said Mr Rune, 'but that was the last chapter, surely.'
'It is a very nice place,' said I. 'And we appear to be the first arrivals.' 'First in, last out,' said Mr Rune. 'I have no pretensions.' 'If the sirs will proceed to the disrobing area,' said the maitre d', who had approached us silently upon his bare feet and now loomed before us, as naked as the day was long. Mr Rune explained to him that we were from the brewery.
'Indeed, sir, yes,' said the maitre d', with exaggerated politeness. 'But as you will observe from your rickets-' and he turned them over '-"NO KIT OFF – NO SERVICE". It's in big black capital letters here. I'd overlook your dinner suits if I could, but it's more than my job's worth.' I looked at Mr Rune. And Mr Rune looked at me. And our stomachs growled in unison. Now, I really do not wish to go into this in detail. Mr Rune and I were guided to the disrobing area, where we divested ourselves of our garments and received cloakroom tickets for same. When Mr Rune asked where exactly we might be expected to put our cloakroom tickets for safekeeping, as we no longer possessed pockets, he received a reply from the cloakroom attendant (who looked very much like a bog troll to me) that might either be described as 'cheeky' or 'downright insolent', depending upon your point of view.
Mr Rune and I, then in the buff, were escorted to our table. And I do have to confess that as to whether Mr Rune's claims regarding God's generosity to him in the matter of wedding tackle were genuine, I could not say. Because I really, truly did not want to look. We sat ourselves down and took up our napkins. And I laid mine over my lap.
Well, you never can be too careful regarding the soup course.
The tablecloths were of crisp white linen and the cutlery was none too shabby, either. There was a selection of glasses, rising from little tiny shot jobbies to great big brandy balloons. A bit like a set of Russian dolls. Or dogs, perhaps. And there was salt and pepper. And only ketchup, no HP. Proper posh.
Mr Rune called for the wine list and made his choice guided, as far as I could see, by price alone.
'The Mulholland eighteen fifty-one,' said he. 'And bring two pint pots.'
And then, as we sat guzzling wine, the other diners began to appear. And much to my utter amazement, many of these were famous. And I do have to say that, much to my utter amazement, once they had visited the disrobing room and returned to the restaurant as naked as jaybirds, I was hard put to identify them. It is really difficult to recognise the famous when they have their clothes off. They all look alarmingly similar. 'Is that Jimi Hendrix?' I asked Mr Rune. 'No, that's Janis Joplin.' 'But that is Brian Jones, surely?' 'No, I think you will find that it's Jim Morrison.'
'Ah,' I said. 'I know that is Johnny Kidd – he still has his eye patch on.'
'No,' said Mr Rune. 'That's David Bowie. Oh, good, they're throwing him out. He always tries to sneak into events like this.'*
Mr Rune pointed out Gram Parsons from the Byrds, Pigpen from the Grateful Dead and somebody called Kurt Cobain, who was not even born yet.
'Tell me,' I said to Mr Rune, 'who is that black fella over there?' 'That's Robert Johnson,' said Mr Rune.
I gave my head another scratching and considered the possibility of getting myself a haircut. 'Now hang on a moment,' I said, 'I recall having a conversation with your confederate Hubert, and he told me that all these rock stars had died at the age of twenty-seven.'
'That hardly surprises me,' said Mr Rune, finishing off the last of the Mulholland '51 and calling out to the waiter for more. 'Hubert claims to be a descendant of Nostradamus. But surely you're missing the point here, young Rizla. Everything we deal with is to do with time – my search for the Chronovision, anomalies of time, holes in time.' * Allegedly. 'But these rock stars are dead,' I said.
'They don't look very dead to me,' said Mr Rune. 'Would you care for me to introduce you to any of them? Most are personal friends.'
'I do not really fancy getting up,' I said, steadying my serviette. 'I am comfy here.'
'We've extra chairs at our table and we haven't ordered the nosebag yet. Who would you care to speak with?' 'Him,' I said. And I pointed.
'Robert Johnson,' said Mr Rune. 'Why does this not surprise me at all?' 'Because you are the All-Knowing One?' I suggested.
'Bobby boy,' called Mr Rune to the great blues legend. 'Would you care to join us over here?' All right, I confess it, I had trouble with this.
Perhaps all of these nineteen-sixties rock stars had not yet died at age twenty-seven. Maybe one or two of them had, but possibly their deaths had not been featured in the Argus or the Leader, concerned as those organs were with local events.
But I was damn sure that Robert Johnson had died in nineteen thirty-eight.
But there was Robert Johnson, naked as the day that he was born, approaching our table. 'Lower yourself into a chair,' said Mr Rune. And Robert Johnson did so.
'This is my companion, Rizla,' said Mr Rune. 'He is anxious to meet you.'
Robert Johnson smiled upon me and I smiled back at him. And through my smile I also stared in awe. Could this really be the Robert Johnson?
The man who started it all – rock music, soul music, all that now we had and loved?
The man who had supposedly gone down to the crossroads at midnight with a black-cat bone and sold his soul to the Devil, who then tuned his guitar? The man who always after this played with his back to the audience, for fear that they might see a magical something?
That magical something that Keith Richards discerned when he first heard Johnson's recordings?
That you would need an extra finger upon your left hand to play the way he did? Robert Johnson put out his hand for me to shake it. It was his left hand.
As it extended in my direction, I took to counting the fingers. And as it reached me, I exclaimed, 'Oh my God!'