The Time Traveller
2: Selsford 15-03-84
“Ladies and Gentlemen! Please welcome to the Stage - Eddy Drew! Callum Woodrowe! Ben Woodrowe! Susie Curfew! This - is - Woodrowe!!”
There they are! Woodrowe! From that first introductory note, fighting for space amongst the cacophonous scream of the baying crowd - it’s unmistakable magic!
It may be true to say I’ve been waiting my life and some borrowed bits of others to be here today. Selsford. First gig of the tour. It rained for an hour or two, but by the time the doors opened to let us into the venue, the stars began to shine, the Moon began to crescent and my heart leapt in my chest. I didn't know it could feel like this! Frankly, I had much disregarded what I would feel once I had begun this journey through time, once in one direction, twice in the other.
And up jumped the first song. ’Which Side Do You Want It’, off their debut album. Some of those riffs are from the eponymous Rory Read, the one Susie Curfew took over from. Poor kid. Almost made it, but, as they say, he just wasn't good enough, not for the big leagues. Oh, he was, and is, still a very competent guitarist, but let’s face it, not a patch on Susie. Next up, ‘Is This Your Number’. Trust me, I have this set list memorised, right down to the glitches and bumps of bum notes from the numerous reviews, both of the time and retrospectively, in the countless authorised and unauthorised biographies of the band. Of course, each member wrote their Tell All, but they mostly contradicted each other. But where it was, right in front of my eyes. History. Oh! Those chugging power chords! ‘Work On A Little Extra Service’. One of my favourites. Off the new album, this, which won’t be released for another six months. In this time frame, obviously. And, of course, the notorious ‘No One Really Cares’. That song was implemented in a spate of suicides. Will be. That hasn't happened yet.
Of course. That hasn't happened yet. Not yet. There’s still time -
“Hey, kid! Great, isn't it!” My enthusiasm was spilling over. I told the kid my name. He told me his.
“Hippy?” I asked.
“No. Ippy.” he replied.
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t know. It’s what people call me.” shrugged Ippy.
“Oh right.” I replied, “Ippy? You and me are going to be friends!”
There was Susie! Look how young she was - is! “Aren’t you a little old?”
Still smiling, I replied, “Probably, but here we are, and we both have Woodrowe in common. That’s - that’s synchronicity, that is.”
“Synchro what?” Ippy asked.
“Doesn’t matter, Ippy, mate.” I explained, “When it’s over, let’s go wait by the Stage Door. See them this close.” I expressed, demonstrating our closeness.
“We can do that?” asked Ippy.
“Boy, Ippy.” I said, “Have I got a lot to teach you, kid.”
So we did, when it was over and the lights came up, me and Ippy raced round to the stage door, where I saw exactly who I expected to see.
There was Corakayla - her name was Cora Kayla, but everyone portmanteau-ed her name. And there was Viv, Freddie, Loffie, Comfy, Ippy and me. Somehow, around this bunch, I felt younger, and began to look younger also. Maybe it was a consequence of time travel? Who could possibly know? But there we were, the Followers. The Groupies. The Obsessed. I was with my Family. But they had to introduce themselves first. I had to make their acquaintance before I could be with them. Sometimes the chronology of time is a bitch. Having to do things in order is a pain in the arse. But here they are - all of them. And they have no idea what’s in store.
Corakayla thrust her bangled and laced wrist with hand extended to me and Ippy. She was just as exuberant as I remembered her, “Hi. We call ourselves Woodworms. We’ve been following Woodrowe around for years. Some of us longer. Every tour, every venue - every night - we get prepared, come out and rock out. Such a cool life. Really. You’re more than welcome to join us. We’re like a little community - watch out for each other, find food together, eat together -“
“Sleep together.” interrupted Comfy.
“No we don’t, Comfy!” admonished Corakayla, “Some of us are saving ourselves.”
“And some of us are Loffie. She’s after Eddy, you know.” continued Comfy, with his trademark smirk.
I asked, “I thought he was with Susie?”
Loffie looked incensed, “Oh, that was over ages ago.” she snorted.
Corakayla was on the offensive now with Comfy, “What, you think you’ve got a chance with Susie?” she asked amusedly.
Comfy shrugged, “It’s worth a try.”
Corakayla countered, “She doesn't even know who you are!”
“Yes she does!” spat Comfy, “She’s smiled at me at least a dozen times!” He nodded to accent his claim.
So Freddie piped up, “She smiles at everyone, mate. Even you.”
Comfy thought about that for a moment or two, “What’s that supposed to mean?” This caused the others to fall about laughing.
And Viv turned to me, “See? We’re just one, big, happy family.” he expressed with a broad grin.
Ippy too then turned to me, “I think I’m going to like it here.” Yes, Ippy. I think you will.
#
She was the only one I ever truly loved, properly, because of what she gave to me. Unselfishly? Of course not. That’s not possible, but it was symbiotic, it was what we both needed at the time. But it couldn't last. It never would. She died. They all die. She left me bereft, lost, lonely, alone.
So much love from Emmy.
So much you wouldn’t know.
I need that again. Or even a fraction of that love. And I will. I know I will.
#
He had his own room, his own set desk - his own single bed with the obligatory Woodrowe bedspread. Everyone had a set of those. At least everyone I knew. Right up into their thirties. It was a bit threadbare by then, and Susie had nearly worn away from the dry humping I and many like me performed in the privacy of our bedrooms. Oh, Ippy was a boy of simple pleasures. He’s seventeen. Stop calling him a boy. That’s what he said, and I tend to agree with him. Poor kid. Sorry.
His Mom is a peach. That is to say, in common parlance, a MILF. Maybe not the F. Not for me, at least. Old Swollen Foot, and the gouging, you know? She was - is kind to me. Must remember the tense. Must have remembered the tense? Must remember to remember the tense? Linear time is far too complicated. Give me muddled time any - time?
“That’s Tony. Mom’s Tony.” explained Ippy, of the bearded nonce sitting at the kitchen nook. He was drinking from a brown mug with circle patterns on it. He eyed me suspiciously, but then so would I, except I know what I’m like, and I’m fine with that.
“Want a cuppa?” asked Mother.
“I’m sure he doesn’t want -“ began Ippy, but I was already forming the words.
“Thanks, Mrs Ippy. That’d be nice.” I said. Ippy flicked a look.
“So, uhm - whatever your name is - you met Ippy - God save us, with bloody Ippy. What a stupid name. You met Ippy at that gig last night?” asked Beardie Weirdie.
“In Selsford, yeah.” I answered, taking the offered mug from Mother. She looked at the t-shirt I was wearing. It was obviously a Woodrowe one, with the band in a row, posing oddly. Mother reached over and caressed the face of Ben Woodrowe, and by implication also my chest, suggestively. Tony was to engrossed looking at his handiwork in the garden to give a crap.
“Oh, he’s so cute, don’t you think Tony? Look at that face - that body -“ Mother only looked away from the shirt portrait and into my eyes once. Once was enough.
“They’re in Rookland tonight. We’ll need to go soon, or we’ll miss the bus.” cut in Ippy, a little put out.
“You’re not going to go see them lot again, are you? Bunch of poofs and shirt lifters!” remarked Tony from behind his Bear-like beard.
“Oh, Tony! Don’t tease the boy! At least he’s found something he likes.” admonished Mother gently.
“What’s that supposed to mean, woman? I work my fingers to the bone -“ countered Tony dangerously.
“I’m going to get my denim jacket. Back in a minute.” muttered Ippy to me, disappearing down the untouchably wallpapered corridor to the perfectly pedicured - or manicured, I’m not sure which - carpet, with every thick pile as erect as the next. I stood in the middle of nothing, waiting.
“So, you’re a bit older than Ippy, aren’t you?” spoke Mother suggestively at my shoulder like a demonic Jimminy Cricket.
There was a mirror before me, and I certainly looked younger than I had. “Maybe a little.” I replied.
“What you doing hanging round with children? Don’t you like adults?”
“He’s seventeen. Sorry. I just love Woodrowe. So does Ippy. We’re going to follow them around the country.”
At that moment, Ippy came thundering down the stairs. We left then, banging the front door behind us. Tony made some inaudible shout about knocking off the paintwork, but Mother could just about be heard saying, “Wait, what? Follow them - Ippy?”
“Do you like my Mom?” asked Ippy suddenly.
“She’s alright.” I replied.
“No, I mean like, like?”
“Never thought of it Ippy mate. Honestly.” I said, but I don't think he was convinced.
Poor Ippy.
Poor kid.
Man.
Boy.
Damn it.
At Rookland Bus Station, we met up with the Woodworms.
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