The Final Battle
The Crusade of Britain had been a harrowing journey for all of us, fraught with bitter cold, malnutrition and that inimitable brand of Anglican embitterment we all know and love. But the challenges so far were all building up to last hurrah, the capital, Londinium, where all my worst English fears slink out of the alleyways, manifest in every ghoulish pommie stereotype from Mordrid to Mr. Hyde.
The misty plains of the Birmingham may have been desolate and eerie, but the foes were easily dispelled. The three ugly sisters of Walkers Chips, each more repulsive than the last, almost succeeded in bestowing their soft bellied cadaverous British-ness on be, but I was saved by Sir Gum, who banished every one of them – Prawn Cocktail, Smoky Bacon and Steak’n’Cheese – to far behind the bar fridge where they could taunt us no more.
The labyrinth of Manchester almost ensnared me forever in its Escher come Spinal Tap backstage area, but again the knight remained strong and the quest continued.
But in London a true sense of foreboding permeates the scene.
After we played and retreated upstairs, our stronghold was quickly assailed by an army of fun loving, rider consuming Londonites, who disoriented us enough to split our party down the middle. A rift in the group was all they needed. Before we knew it me and Jay were stumbling over damp cobblestones, dodging stray Dickensian stereotype, hands plunged in coats, heads burrowed in scarves like strange antipodean turtles in the tundra.
Amid the furor of escaping Heaven we had become somehow attached to a disconcerting chap in a long trenchcoat, who displayed signs of the grossest inebriation. By some inadvertent lapse in communication – maybe due to his schizophrenic see-sawing between being an amiable young Sydney sider to a grizzled cockney tramp – the man, calling himself T., had become our guide. We were no use anyway, being completely overwhelmed by the onslaught before, cold and confused, he ushered us into a taxi with the promise of finding our friends. Into the night we sped.
After much yelling and tense parries of miscommunication we were unceremoniously ejected into the street. T. hurled some colloquial expletives after the taxi then turned to us with a warped grin. “Here we are lads, The Witches Tit, the oldest pub in London”, he gestured towards a creaking sign swinging over a dilapidated inn with grimy windows, which depicted, unsurprisingly, a witch’s tit. “It looks a bit of a shambles, but you should see inside. Besides, there are some regulars who are just dying to meet you…” He let out a rattling cough, then led us through the front door. Inside it was just the musty squalor one would expect. A solitary gas lamp cast a dim glow around the room, dramatically foreshadowing the faces of the destitute regulars as they forced their faces away from their pints to peer at us as we entered. Their suspicion was palpable. The barkeep whispered into one of the drinkers ears, keeping both eyes fixed on us and a cigarette drooping from his lips. Before we had inescapably intruded on this exclusive assembly, T. ushered us up a narrow staircase across from the front door.
The top floor was a vastly different scene from that below, as resplendent as the lower level was derelict. Portraits of foxhunting gentlemen and country manors bedecked the walls, ornate wooden tables and chairs, spindly and impractically delicate, were tenaciously gathered in private clusters. The room was overwhelmingly red, boasting voluptuous velvet curtains and upholstery. But, instead of being warm and inviting, this gave the place an air of eerie diabolism. There was no music, hardly a sound at all save the muffled clinking of the bartender, who a curious character indeed. He was an elderly oriental chap, with long spidery whiskers and an ornate silken gown. Most unusual for a London drink hole. He returned my stare sanguinely, idly wiping some glasses in an unconvincing display of efficiency.
The silence was terrifying, portentous of some malignant evil waiting behind the walls. In this room the warm glow of the lamps heralded not a calm respite, but rather the possibility that the walls could imminently crumble to reveal the thousand screaming souls of purgatory, a great concealed inferno in the wings.
“Ah, our guests have finally arrived”, a silken voice wafted from the corner, “I trust you encountered no difficulty on your way? Our great capital can be rather imposing, especially for you of such…humble stock”. At this jibe some quiet laughs – male, female or neuter – echoed in response. The young man who spoke rose to greet us. He wore a red dinner jacket and a black cravat, thin black trousers and blindingly polished black loafers. His hair was combed in a side part stuck fast to his skull, which flaunted his long white forehead. He was extremely thin, and his face was strikingly elegant but had an ageless, cadaverous quality which made him look like some mummified dandy necromancer. He introduced himself as A. and apologized for his initial rudeness. “I hope you understand, the English sense of humor can be difficult to decipher for those of the peripheries of the Empire. But I mean no harm.”
A. raised his hand to summon the bartender without taking his eyes from mine, “two Old Fashion’s for our esteemed guests, if you please”. When we got our drinks, a queer tasting concoction that seemed to take expert preparation, we settled into our chairs and listened to the refined anecdotes and gossip of the soiree. Some were becoming increasingly drunk, and would often assault T. or ourselves with foppish derision. Their superiority grew with their intoxication. They would reference some fashionable French philosopher, and when T. neglected to laugh, would say, “cheer up old chap, feel free to join in our mirth. You’ll find we’re not so different from the tramps at the Free House, besides, it would make less of a spectacle of your ignorance”. This cowardly bullying continued, and T. became more and more sullen under the weight of their petty taunts. His once boisterous inebriation descended into morose drunkenness. He looked woozy, looking into his lap between frequent trips to the ‘Cloak Room’. It didn’t take long before he abruptly stood up, swaying dramatically, and announced his departure. The company put on a nauseating display of mock disappointment. “Oh do stay! Your wit will be so sorely missed. The party will simply not be the same without you!” They promised him that the waiter would be only to pleased to go downstairs and fetch a pint of something “more suitable to a proletarian palette”. But he had had enough, not being so drunk or stupid to be fooled by their sarcasm. With a brisk nod of his head our defeated guide donned his cap and coat and bustled out.
“Thank God for that” the remaining guests exclaimed. “I say, I could smell the reek of the Spikes from here. It was like sleeping on the Embankment!”
A. then turned his attention to us, “well then, now that our friend has retired, we are free better make your acquaintance…” he grinned with an elegant savagery, distant and cruel like a caged monster. “I have been waiting to meet you for some time, you see. I am a fellow artist, and as an artist I understand that there are some appetites that cannot be quenched among typical company…” Jay and I exchanged worried glances. “The best of us are not afraid to use, shall we say, unusual means to plumb the wells of inspiration. A true modern gentleman, after all, does not shy away from Experience. It is our creed, our Bible our Koran our Buddha and all of our patron saints. You wouldn’t deny these, would you?” He gave us a puppy dog look that only heightened his wickedness. “We live in such dreary times, my friends. But there is light and color and vibrancy to be found, if one is willing to look for it. And the only place to look, as many of us know, is to travel abroad. We have all done it, and found such joy, such catalysts of thought hidden over the ocean. Asia, my friends! India and China! The colour and the fragrance! Did not the heroes of the impressionists, Monet and all, find new life in Japan? It is a pity then, that we can’t go there all the time. But if one is in possession of the right means, it possible to bring the intoxicating spirit of the orient home. Traveling physically is one thing, but spiritually and mentally, well, that is quite another”.
A. was beating around the bush interminably, and all I could do was cock my head in gross ignorance at his florid bullshit. He looked around at his friends smugly, who gave confidential giggled of titillation. “What I am trying to ask, my friends,” at this he leant forward and lowered his voice, “is if you have ever…ridden the dragon?”
The rest of the night, I am afraid, must rest in confidentiality. Firstly because of my reluctance to relate the inner workings of the opiated dandy underground to the big wide world, and secondly because the inherent obscurity of such experiences makes them nigh on impossible to recall with any clarity. I will, however, try and draw my original analogy back from its sprawling tangent to some kind of conclusion. After being weakened by its food and weather, I was finally run through by the decadent dagger of London. The nemesis who defeated me was the ceaseless social to-ing and fro-ing, meeting and greeting, following and being followed, dodging some and seeking others that the city demands. You can never be sure of what you actually want to do. It seems the social norm of London is to indulge in every fashionable, sordid imitation of celebrity you can, while still maintaining a façade of indifference. This is enough to send anyone insane, unless, like some admirable folks I have met, animals born and bred for this habitat, you willfully immerse yourself in the hysteria. I am not one of these animals, and so in an Arthurian analogy of our crusade across Britain, the strains of London sociability achieve the dubious title of Mordrid.
Luckily the parallels continue after my death in battle, as I was carried onto a ferry, crossed the ocean and found myself in glorious Avalon. The ‘Prawn Cocktail’ crisps had been replaced with oozing cheeses, multifarious breads, meats, smoked salmon, delicately dressed salads and vast fruit bowls. The tins of Stella and dwarfish “coronitas” were replaced with soft red wines and exotic heady beers. Even the bands we were with had been magically transformed into gorgeous women playing ghostly electronic folk in wonderful harmony . In fact all the women were beautiful! I had crossed into the heavens of Europe. I was no longer plagued by the jaded, servile bureaucratic squalor of the mother country. Vibrancy and civility reign on the continent. The cold seems so much more bearable. You never realize how rife disenchantment and narrow mindedness are in the western world until you go to Europe. It should be easy to remedy, the old rule of ‘don’t be a dick head and no one will be a dickhead back’ being an obvious answer, but I guess some diseases are malignant. They are too deeply entrenched to be changed by mere rationality.
Anyhow, before rant too much, I should say I love Australia, England and America in their funny ways, and I’m sure Europe is full of its own eccentricities that would come clear all too quickly if I was a local. But, by Jesus, it can be frustrating seeing the all encompassing ‘live and let live’ statute work so well. End.
p.s. i didn't take opium in London. I didn't do most of this stuff in London actually.
