Death by Odoureaters
'That was "FOURtuitous FOURnication" by Phil Ryan, the
last in our series FOURplay on Four. And now on Radio Four, the
news read by Andi Peters.'
'Armed raiders today held up a hospital cashiers office in south
London. Police are looking for a blue Ford...........'
'Fuck you Andi Peters!' Streetgeezer yelled at the radio. It was
the thought of all those letter-writing, dog-walking,
chrysanthemum-growing provincial women, all having fits of
apoplexy that had first enamoured him to the idea of
"Them" retiring Brian Perkins, a man with a voice like
twelve year old malt, and replacing him with Andi Peters, who by
the same comparison would be a flat bottle of Pink Lady or
Babycham. The novelty however was wearing thin even for the most
determined of iconoclasts.
In his haste to change station he accidentally hit the Capital
button.
'She's gone, Oh Ah, I'll never know how to face it.'
'Fuck you, Hall and Oates......juvenile whinging!'
He finally escaped from the smog cloud, emerging by the exit that
used to be for Sidcup. Tempted by the warm sun, he opened the sun
roof, wound down the window and allowed the car to pick up speed
as he started downhill. The wind ruffled the tenacious, wispy
strands of hair still clinging on after a lifetime of peroxide
abuse. 'This quintessence of rust.' was how he'd describe his
P-Reg Mondeo, the special "Soulman" edition in Otis
Blue. This was also at the time sold as the
"Snookerman" in Whirlwind White and the
"Basketballman" in Sweet Georgia Brown. Late twentieth
century automotive classics. Maybe the last great family saloons:
aerodynamic and efficient, comfort for the weary traveller but
not for a man whose haemorrhoids had flared up. He felt as if a
knobbly tree trunk had been forced up his bum. Someone had once
told him how some of the prisoners of war rescued from the
Japanese after the Second World War were found to have
haemorrhoids which hung like bunches of grapes. Somehow he found
this thought comforting as he shifted from one buttock to the
other.
He pulled off the M20 and flinched as he passed the sign board
declaring to a largely unnoticing and uncaring stream of traffic:
WELCOME TO McVITIEVILLE U.D.C. SPONSORED BY UNITED BISCUITS
'We all joked about Orpington ' He muttered to himself, chuckling
and coughing in the same wheezing breath.
'Laughs on us now.....ha houikkkkk!'
A globule of red speckled green mucus phlegmatically leapt from
his face and clung to the windscreen, the detritus of tired lungs
objecting to twenty years of breathing London.
In the same way twenty years of being slapped in the face by
London had irreparably bruised his complexion and twenty years of
conversing with London had left him talking to himself for light
relief.
'Digestive Boulevard, can't remember when I last digested
anything without chemical assistance.'
He coughed again catching the viscous parcel in the palm of his
hand and immediately transferred it to the stained upholstery of
the passenger seat. He knew he would have to buy some penicillin
soon, he'd been putting it off, spending his money on filling the
tank while there was diesel in the pumps but somehow he had to
lose the cough, it was either that or wait till it was so bad
they would once again have to let him have it free to keep him
alive. NatHealth PLC hate to lose profitable customers. They
don't want you to die; they would rather you remained sick.
His first course of treatment had included the cough medicine at
no extra charge, however this was only an introductory offer for
long term users. The offer also included a signing-on bonus of
two hundred Rothmans.
He looked in his map for the pick up address which he had no
trouble in finding. The customer gave him a Harrods carrier bag
containing a box and a delivery address in north London.
'You don't see many off these about now.' He confided in himself
as he laid the carrier on the passenger seat.
'I wonder what's in it?'
He reached in and took out a box containing a Sony Quietman,
something he had always wanted to try. He read the side of the
box:
'By taking and sound approaching the wearer's ears and playing
the same sound out of phase with the original through tiny
speakers hanging from a head band, the Quietman creates
interference which cancels out the original noise.' He had to
have a go ...it just had to be done.
Surreptitiously he put the apparatus on his head and turned it up
sufficiently to drown out the sound of the engine.
Quiet.
At long last. After all the years of London attacking his ears,
London screaming at him, hooting him, hassling him and insulting
him. Just quiet. Deafening silence.
As his ears adjusted so sounds started to break through but by
turning the volume up the Quietman banished the stray sounds like
germs annihilated by an effective bleaching of the toilet bowl.
'Je ne regret rien,' He Piafed Lamontfully as he looked in the
mirror and reflected.
He laughed to himself as he passed the sign for Odoureaters Town
Centre.(Formerly Foots Cray). He had the thing so loud he could
barely even hear his own chuckling. He also failed to hear the
police siren. The loudhailer calling for him to halt was wholly
inaudible to him, lost in his own thoughts of punk bands and
tattooed jailbait, musicals and minicabs, sons and wives.
In the end all that counts is what you remember: had he been
successful as a musician in his early twenties, by now the money
would all be gone and the only people who would remember him were
those sad types who considered it an achievement to be able to
name the original line up of the Buzzcocks . His memories of
trying and failing were as relevant and amusing as the
recollections of anyone who had made it into the Guinness Book of
Hit Singles.
Had he been a success in banking then that would probably have
been all he could look back on and if any of his other ventures
had been wholly successful he would not have been so long on the
road. He would not have the memory of all the conversations, the
jokes and the rumours; the momentary friendships and passing
adversaries; the wit and wisdom gained from a life on the road.
There was only one memory he felt he had been deprived of. One he
would have enjoyed, just because it existed and not necessarily
for the momentary sensation of the event. One memory he believed
was rightfully his and he resented it being denied to him; that
was the memory of fucking Mandi.
He failed to notice the passing of time and he failed to notice
the helicopter. It is a matter of speculation whether he would
have heard the sound of the rocket-launcher or the explosion, or
the solo singer croaking "Song of Love" at the funeral.
'Thank you Phil Ryan.' The vicar was under no contractual
obligation not to name the singer.
By request the gravestone made no mention of dates but below the
name it read:
'Edgware to Orpington.......via Slough.'
At the reception Gary (Buddy Jet) reminisced with Denny (The
Frog) whilst avoiding meeting Mandi Downs whose distress would
have heartened Streetgeezer.
Some remembered him as Dave others as Henry or Lump. Margaret for
the first time dressed just how her departed ex-husband always
wished she would: in black.