The Time Traveller
4: Foole 17-03-84
It was after the gig, and as one we hurried round to the Stage Door and waited.
The coach was parked right outside, and it required a short walk for the band to get to the door, get in and fly away. It didn't quite happen like that, though. Something magical happened that night. It might have been a full moon, or the wind was blowing in the right direction - or the band had a pretty fun gig that night and were elated, or they’d received some good news - oh, who knew, or ultimately cared? That night, it fit right. It was comfortable, freshly airiated and conducive to mellowness in scene.
There were others here also. I suppose there had to be, and there would inevitably be the idiots asking the obvious questions - the usual. When did you start playing guitar, Callum? Do you guys still talk to Rory Read and any of the others from The Munns? When’s the Album coming out? The sort of questions that drive bands to despair and make them not want to talk to us fans. Idiots like that spoil it for the rest of us. We of the Woodworms, we were serious, dedicated - we were the real deal. These others were carrion, magpies, picking off the scraps - opportunists.
#
Some people try too hard.
The disease of the modern day is very much of the individual, while conforming right along with the rest.
Just look at that prat in the green wife-beater, the current headphones, the current phone, the shades worth more than his life -
And the tattooed sleeves, displaying the worst of imagination possible.
Doesn't he look so - so - millennial?
Some people try too hard.
Try too hard.
Where was I? Oh -
#
“How you enjoying the tour so far?” asked Eddy Drew, moving the delicate strand of hair from in front of Loffie’s eyes.
They had come out, Eddy first, quickly followed by a reserved Ben, a smiling Susie and an effervescent, if blotto’ed Callum, “Hey kids! You’re waiting here for us?” he sparked, slurring clearly, with an overflowing bucket full of sarcasm. There was Ben, signing the albums and the magazine covers efficiently, keeping a beat with a regular stroke, one, two three, four - a four-four beat to the rhythm of the crowd. He was one of those types who wore sunglasses at night.
Comfy had naturally bee-lined to Susie, and by all external appearances, they were getting on like a house on fire. Not that I’m jealous. Am I?
“She’s a Rock Star, you know,” said Corakayla, sidling up to me as I watched Susie laugh at something Comfy had said, “Comfy could talk the knickers off Emmeline Pankhurst. Not Susie though. She’s got men coming out of the woodwork. Let him have his moment, eh? I’m sure you’ll get your turn.” she said, smiling and squeezing my arm as we watched the scene, side by side. It has to be said, however, that even as Comfy talked and the both of them flirted, my eyes burned a big nasty hole into Comfy. I’m surprised he didn't feel the heat of it.
And if only Corakayla was more than just a really good friend, who knows how things could have turned out? Oh, she flirted, she cuddled, she shared her places with me, but it was never anything other than plutonic. I would have wanted more, but she was just a very friendly girl, and it’s better to have a good friend than a bitter ex-lover. I suppose.
Though it was quite obvious he was doing it for another’s attention, Eddy Drew mercilessly flirted and touched Loffie gently as they talked and laughed. He did all the right things. He looked into her eyes, he was attentive, with the touching. Trust me, Loffie is a very attractive girl. She certainly looks older than her years, but I could see Susie shooting them the odd glance and a touch of the green devil in her eyes too. Thankfully, Loffie was none the wiser. I hoped she would never know what and why she would receive attention from Eddy. I doubted very much it was why she thought he smiled at her, touching her - but who am I? A friend. And that’s all I can be. Just look out for her, and be there if and when she needs me. Same goes for the rest of this lot.
Viv had cornered Ben Woodrowe up by the coach door. They were discussing the finer parts of Trad Jazz, it seemed, from the powerful tones of Count Basie and the big sound of Duke Ellington, Jelly Roll, Oscar Peterson - and there helpfully was Callum Woodrowe, hanging on his Brother’s shoulder with his chin, pulling faces and mocking his diatribe. It looked as though Ben was quite used to ignoring the antics of his Brother. Such was the way with siblings.
And when Callum found out from Freddie that we were following them on the tour - Callum became astounded at this. He just didn't seem to get fandom at all. He was a doer, not a follower, as he was very pleased to divulge. No one bothered to remind him of the time when he was fourteen and he followed Hinterland for their short lived career and even shorter tour. “Where’re the groupies when you need ‘em, eh?” he asked the world drunkenly. Poor Ippy, poor kid, he just stood there, not quite believing what was happening. Callum turned his attention to Ippy, ruffling his scraggly hair for his troubles, “You alright kid? You’ve got a very strange look on your mush?”
“Well, you’re - you know -“ Poor kid, like I said.
“Call me Callum, kid.” winked Callum Woodrowe. I think, I might be wrong, but I think Ippy may have had a combination of a stroke, a piss and an erection all at the same time. But, damn it, they couldn't stay there all night. They had a gig to go to the next day. So did we.
Callum adventurously leaned out the coach window as it was pulling away, “We’ll keep an eye out for you lot next gig. You better be there!” he said, as the coach began to disappear into the provincial single traffic, one way system roads of this and every other town, the Woodrowe logo flashing silver on its side. The Woodrowe Juggernaught.
#
Oh, I experienced much rejection in my life. Trust me. Not all from the fairer sex, not always quite so obvious, like when I was outshined by another, much more skilled than I.
It produced the first senses of rejection and low self worth - something I think I’ve been looking to escape ever since. We learn from our mistakes, don’t we? And there was, of course, Heather.
She rejected me. Boy, how she rejected me! Made fun of me too, but I still fancied her. How could I not? It was Heather! How do I make you understand? Oh, I’m sure you had your own Heather, or at least liked to think you did. But there was no one like her, not then, not now. I think she was teasing me because she was flattered. But School - it made idiots out of us all.
The Teacher who favoured his brightest and ignored or barely tolerated the rest?
“Haven’t you gone on big toilets yet?”
Hey! Don’t let anyone tell you that your School days are the best of your life. It’s utter crap. It has to be, or you’re not living.
And then there was Matthew Dixon, the boy we all wanted to be -
I remember lightning hitting the School once. It rode the conductor right across the roof, burning a near permanent mark in the wall outside the classroom I was in.
Well, the Teachers had shared them out. All of them. Including mine. Egg mayonnaise sandwiches. They stole them. By the time I came to eat, I was really looking forward to tucking into my sandwiches. But there were none left. I cried and those bastards accused me of being selfish. But they were mine! Mine and they stole them!
Who gave them the right to take someone else’s property? It didn’t bother anyone else, but it stays with me even now. It’s one of those memories that if I think about it long enough, it brings back the same emotions - the tears, the anger. That’s what authority did, to me, to everyone. They did and took what they wanted, no matter how much it affected us, then accused us of being selfish.
That’s what they do. Wake up.
#
Naturally, we debriefed until dawn. We were on the Train somewhere in Arlesburn, on our way to Hollney. It was in one of those old National Railway carriages with the giant sprung seats - new at the time, I’ve no doubt. Second Class. We had that little room to ourselves, and we were boisterous.
“She gave me a peck on the cheek.” revealed Comfy, with the pride and exuberance it deserved.
The girls gasped and the boys looked a little beaten. Trust Freddie to speak up, however, “Damn you! You lucky git!” he expressed with a Fatherly grin.
“Yeah, that’s great, Comfy.” I muttered. I must have muttered too loud, because everyone was suddenly looking at me.
“Sorry?” asked Comfy.
I tried to hide my disappointment, but I may have flashed green eyes, “I’m genuinely pleased, mate, honestly.” Maybe my eyes weren't smiling. Maybe that was it.
But Comfy being Comfy - “If you want to see if she likes you -“
i would never get over how generous of nature Comfy was. He was the best of us. It made me feel very small, under the shrinking rays of the gazes I received, “No. Of course not. Everyone loves Susie, mate. I’m honestly pleased that she likes you.” I was - mostly - truthful that time.
“You’re sure?” Comfy asked, for confirmation.
I laughed. I made an exaggerated play to grab him, “Comfy, do you want me to throw you from the train?”
Then Comfy did something no one was expecting. He thrust his hand through the open window, turned the door handle, opened the carriage door and slipped out, dangling his feet into the oncoming storm, “Like this?!” he laughed as he swung there, his armpits over the lip of the window frame and preventing his falling. The Train was picking up speed and the tufts of grass beside the track cleaned his shoes as they brushed them. This idiocy became a staple of Comfy’s repertoire. If he was in a Train, out came his party trick. He did it right up to the day -
“Comfy! Get back in here now!” screamed Corakayla, grabbing for the fool.
Of course, Comfy just laughed outrageously and we play fought until the Train Guard walked past the carriage section door that we stopped messing around and tried to pretend nothing was happening, as we didn't want to get chucked off the Train. Oh, we looked so guilty, with our red faces and our sweating, and the outrageous laughter at the thought.
We spent that night in a Hotel room, all sharing the one bed, vying for position. Giggling was rife. Of course Freddie had to actually get the room, as he was both the oldest looking, and the one with the money. Once in the room, we tried to behave and go to sleep. I was on one side of the girls, Ippy on the other. I felt Corakayla’s warmth and her soft breath on the sheets, while Loffie cuddled up with Ippy. It amused me no end to see the look of concern, mixed with desire and a tincture of fear play in Ippy’s eyes, until he too fell asleep and he relaxed, naturally putting his arms about her. She sighed contentedly at this, much as Corakayla did when I turned from her, to get more comfort. This left me looking into Comfy’s short lined face. What did she see in him? Stop it! Not everything should revolve around me. Things happen. Good luck to the kid. It’ll come to nothing anyway, I’m sure. What does a Rock Goddess want with a spotty teenager anyway? That’s not fair. Comfy was a very handsome man, lying there, immovable - is. Comfy is a handsome, young, man.
#
“It’s none of my business what my Brother does. And it’s none of your business too.” Ben Woodrowe said, in an interview for Rockage Radio, 104.2 FM ‘The Real Rock Station!’, we caught as we ate a kind of continental breakfast Corakayla and Loffie had pilfered from outside other patron’s Hotel rooms. Ben had won that one. He’d beaten them with logic, “Besides, the only person Callum loves is himself.” This had been in connection with a false claim by a girl that Callum had made her pregnant, and was shirking his responsibilities as a Father. As it turned out, Callum would not comment on the allegations, leaving Ben to face the music. Figuratively speaking. It wasn't the last time, certainly, that Ben was forced to answer for his Brother’s supposed actions.
Wrong target of victimisation, as usual. If they can’t find the truth, they make the lie a truth. And with Ben’s words, nothing was resolved. The case went on, but it wouldn't be for at least another year until Callum was truly exonerated.
People in retrospect put it down to his homosexuality, but at that time, coming out was career suicide. Especially for a man who’s whole persona was as a singing erect penis for the welcoming vagina of fandom. It must have been obvious, but no one wanted to see it at the time. So much bigotry. So much shaming. Still, he always seemed to be a happy man, privately, and at heart. In fact, the man Callum eventually revealed to the world as his boyfriend, and subsequently Husband, was the lead singer from a Woodrowe tribute band, so, in a way, Callum Woodrowe did eventually make love to himself.
#
Yes, we each touch and influence those we meet without knowing the result, mostly. If it is a positive meeting, then the outcome is usually positive. And there is always the contrary position. There has to be, for balance. It’s a simple fact of environmental psychology.
And music. Well, music is the only thing that cannot die and will always be there for me. I mention this only to demonstrate the ways in which I use things about me to escape the insufferable boredom I fall into far too often - that I just need to find as many distractions as I can.
It goes for everyone else too, obviously, though mostly those people don't view or interpret them as distractions, choosing to see them as a job, a hobby, a friendship, even an action occurring to someone else, never them. It won’t, it can’t ever happen to them. They’re them. Things like that happened to others. Not them.
Love is a distraction. Procreation is a function; sociability is a necessity for human development, and combined it produces love, relationships, break-ups, rejections, pain, suffering, unwanted pregnancies, planned parenthood - we must spend life together in some kind of compromise, yet each party chooses their own course. Individuality is the murderer of humanity. It’s too late to stop it now. All that can be done is distraction. Distract us from the inevitable.
Sad but true, kids. Sad but true. No message, no moral. Just truth. Take it as you will.
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