The Marquee of Sorrow
The peepshow on the corner of Brewer Street and Wardour Street
announced its continued presence despite regular raids, by
contriving an arrangement of lights to shoot waves of blue neon
up into the night sky. On the corner of Peter Street, in the
Intrepid Fox and further up the road in the Ship, punks, Goths
and muso's drank up their last orders as tourists giggled at the
displays in the Ann Summers' shops. Unsavoury doormen in suits
that LOOKED pungent stood as both guard and enticement for the
strip clubs, clip joints and soft core porn flick houses. Whores
skulked on corners like Macbeth's Witches scene taken from a
French art house movie. They appeared to proposition in
subtitles.
What Gary actually said as Dave backed the Escort out of Duck
Lane and into Broadwick Street was: 'At least Neil's still doing
it.' What he meant was: 'How come that bastard is playing support
to a name act at the Marquee and I've just been watching him?'
'You should have gone left at the end.' Jon informed Dave as he
turned right into Poland Street. Jon had been the roadie with the
band that Dave, Gary and Neil used to be part of. Neil had been
the drummer. It was Jon who had persuaded Dave and Gary that they
should take the opportunity to see Neil's new band, "The
Glory Boys" supporting Katrina and the Waves.
'Well I thought they were good.' Jon raved.
'Well I though the whole show was good.' Dave no longer held any
ambition to play the Marquee. Bearing no jealousy, he was only
glad that for once being on someone's guest list had been a
pleasurable experience. The elusive good lig.
'Don't know about you but I'm walking on sunshine,' He Waved to
himself. He was feeling high. It was either Rock and Roll or Love
or possibly the yellow powder that Mandi had offered to let him
lick off her finger before they all started out from the studio.
'I'm Mandy. Fly me,' She had 10cc-ed offering dabs of amphetamine
sulphate.
'You won't get me touching that shit.' Gary had rasped but Dave
was up for any shit Mandi chose to offer, even the real thing.
Dave had conceded that he should have gone right at the end, when
twenty minutes later they found themselves back on Wardour
Street. With the effects of the sulphate wearing off, his
attitude began to sour. Mandi and Gary embraced in the back seat
and Dave began to realise he had never been a contender, just a
chauffeur.
'I ought to be a fucking minicab driver.' He told Jon.
'But you can't even find your way out of Soho!'
'Didn't that used to be the Vortex?' Gary observed as they
reached Oxford Street.
'Showing your age.' Dave pointed out pointedly becoming more
viscous then a dead sex pistol. His obvious disapproval of Gary's
proximity to the almost adolescent Mandi had contaminated the
atmosphere and annihilated all conversation.
No one imitated The Leighton Buzzards and sang 'I discovered
heaven on the Seven Sisters Road', as Seven Sisters Road came and
went.
No one remarked upon the covered well on the left as they turned
right by the Robert E Lee on Tottenham High Road. Nor did they
comment as they passed the giant gothic dildo that is the High
Cross, on its own traffic Island. No one pondered its purpose
though it has existed for no apparent reason, in one form or
another, since 1600.
Barely a word was spoken until they reached Ferry Lane and the
bridge over the River Lee. Mandi groaned that she felt sick.
'Please not in the car for God's sake.' Dave urged having lost
all compassion. With her natural complexion on view, her face
washed clean by sweat, and with her sparky humour and precocious
intellect dulled by alcohol, she was no more than a winging kid.
'Bleaugh!!!!' she chundered. 'Sorry, I'll clean that up when I
get home,' she assured them -- and they allowed her to keep her
word. With only the smell remaining Dave and Jon left and Gary
stayed.