Losing It Read online

  Clive has remained tight-lipped about last night, all the way from his house to the Casablanca.

  ‘We weren’t bad,’ says Faruk. ‘Just different. And that’s no bad thing, innit?’

  I’m remembering The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse’s debut gig, also our farewell gig, as it turned out.

  ‘We were different,’ says Clive, ‘in the way that being good is different from being crap.’

  Faruk messes with his kebab, opens it up, injects more sauce. ‘It’s not an easy song,’ he says.

  ‘It’s three chords,’ Clive says. ‘How much easier could it be? How could we balls that up?’

  ‘The audience was expecting a Craig David covers band,’ Faruk says.

  Faruk finishes his kebab while Clive watches people passing up and down a rainy street. The girls who are giggling in the corner booth look like the ones who were giggling at our car the other night.

  ‘Well, at least we know Paranoid doesn’t work as an a cappella version now,’ I offer.

  ‘No,’ Clive says. ‘We know that it doesn’t work when we do it.’

  ‘I said the Masons’ PA would be dodgy,’ Faruk says.

  ‘It wasn’t the amps, it was the wiring wotsits,’ Clive says. ‘It won’t have powered anything more serious than a three valve radio since the war.’

  ‘And that was one tough audience,’ I say.

  Everyone nods, lost in thought.

  ‘Did you see the looks we got when we played Last Handjob Before I Die?’ Faruk says.

  ‘I didn’t think Masons could be so rude,’ Clive says.

  ‘That stamping they did,’ I say.

  ‘The slow hand clap,’ says Faruk, shaking his head.

  ‘Even your dad was shouting, “Get off!”‘ Clive says.

  The girls start giggling again. Perhaps they can hear us.

  I’m remembering how Dad’s Masonic lodge had been blown out by the band they’d hired to give one of their fundraisers some youth appeal. (The accordionist and the xylophonist had contracted flu and the singer was ‘feeling poorly’.) Dad was in charge of entertainments and it was down to him to find a replacement act at short notice – not easy, with the money the Masons were offering.

  As a last resort, he asked me what I’d been up to with that guitar of mine. He’d seen me taking it in and out of the house and might have heard me practising Smoke on the Water or Seven Nation Army once or twice in my bedroom. ‘So, Brian,’ he said to me one day, as I was headed out the door for band practise in Faruk’s garage. ‘Am I right in thinking you’ve joined a musical combo – you know,’ and here he winked, conspiratorially, ‘a band?’ He’s not often right in what he’s thinking and his idea of a band (which, ten to one, will be three Brylcreemed boys and a cheeky drummer), would not have been Donny Tourette’s, for example.

  But I nodded and smiled, pleased that he was taking an interest in me, for a change. ‘I thought as much,’ he said. ‘Now what do you say to this? Your old dad has only gone and got you your first engagement!’ Like playing for a lot of old knackers with funny handshakes was doing us the favour, and not him. And like Faruk’s saying now, loudly enough to earn him disapproving looks from his sister and one more burst of giggles from the party ordering the nitrous oxide in the corner, that gig was ‘a fucking disaster.’

  The career of the Four Horsemen was one marked by frequent differences of opinion regarding the group’s identity and future direction. And now, months after the disbanding of Britain’s Most Exiting Newcomers (I quote from the flyers Clive printed up, complete with prophetic misprint), we’re at it again.

  ‘The problem was your keyboards, really,’ Faruk is saying.

  ‘What was wrong with them? At least I got my grade three piano.’

  ‘We were a death metal band. There’s not even supposed be keyboards. And definitely not Liberace playing them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That silver jacket you wore. With the sequins. That quiff. You know.’

  ‘But we weren’t a death metal band,’ Clive protests. ‘I wasn’t in a death metal band.’

  ‘What were you, then?’

  ‘I don’t know. Indie, maybe. With a hint of early Abba.’

  ‘You were death metal, weren’t you, Brian?’

  ‘Well, yeah, sort of,’ I say. ‘With other stuff thrown in, you know?’

  And that was The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, murdered by musical differences before we’d even begun. Well, not only musical differences – while Faruk had his own guitar, Clive, Diesel and me had taken summer jobs at Henshaw’s Chickens to pay off our second-hand instruments. Nigel Henshaw is head honcho at the Masonic Lodge and shifts at his factory became rarer than hens’ teeth after our gig and our instruments were duly repo’d.

  What was most annoying about this was the waste of hours of preparation that had been put into the project. I’m not talking about rehearsal time, I’m talking about the time and effort I put into writing and designing our album covers, in case we got a record deal. They were bloody good, though I say so myself. We all got dressed up in leather jackets (borrowed from Faruk’s cousins, who are in a motorcycle gang called Allah’s Angels), persuaded my neighbour Jane Gallacher to do our make up and spent an afternoon taking photographs of each other jumping off walls, leaning over balconies, pointing menacingly at camera, striking phallic poses with our axes and generally looking like death metal hombres about to kick musical ass. I Photoshopped the best of these onto a series of mocked up album covers for CD and, to add retro appeal, old-style vinyl gatefolds too. We foresaw a multiple album deal once we were discovered, so I was working flat out for several weeks before the sleeves were completed and I was happy with the result.

  The first album’s front cover featured a black and white shot of The Four Horsemen in a grimy alley, which looks like it might be somewhere in the Bronx but is actually the one where the Casablanca keeps its bins. We look appropriately mean and moody. Diesel manages an Elvis lip-curl and stands, hands on hips, snarling at the camera. Behind him, Faruk, Stratocaster copy over his shoulder and a fag smouldering between his lips, is plainly looking for trouble. Clive leans against a wall wearing sunglasses and trimming his nails with what might be a flick knife but is actually only a nail file. He’s always doing that. And me, I’m in there too, sporting fake designer stubble thanks to a bit of pointillism from Jane Gallacher’s eyebrow pen and I’m wearing a seen-it-all, fucked-it-all expression. We look the business. In fiery contrast to the grainy monochrome image is the splash of blood-red lettering spelling out the band’s name and along the bottom is the title of the album, Slaves to Sex.

  The back cover features the other pictures we took on the afternoon’s shoot, one or two with the camera’s self-timer feature, some others taken by random passers-by. All these images, which for the sake of contrast were in colour, had been exposed to the full range of available effects and filters. Particularly effective is the one where we’re shaking our fists at a nuclear holocaust sky, the environmental message as clear as day. And in a text box on the right of these is the track listing:

  1 Dog’s Bollocks (Dalziel/Dyson/Osman/Johnson)

  2 I’ve Had Her (Dalziel/Osman)

  3 Death’s Handmaiden (Dalziel)

  4 Gonna Make It Big Tonight (Johnson)

  5 Teenage Gunman (Dalziel/Osman)

  6 Black Death in Mordor (Dalziel/Johnson)

  7 Apostles of the Apocalypse (Dalziel/Osman)

  8 Acne Carriage (Dyson/Johnson)

  9 Pox on your House (Dalziel/Johnson)

  10 A Last Handjob Before I Die (Dalziel/Dyson/Osman/Johnson)

  11 Larger Than Life – bonus track (Johnson/Dyson)

  And beneath them, in another text box imposed over police mugshots of the band members (bits of blackboard/chalked names/photo booth) were the sleeve notes, some provisional copy which would promote us with interested record companies and to which minor adjustments and updates could be made for sake of veracity,
at a later date:

  Every so often a band comes along which blows away everything in its path and changes the course of rock music forever. The Beatles, Led Zeppelin and The Sex Pistols were all such bands. Now comes The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, an outfit of such raw energy and startling originality that the music press has not only sat up and taken note, it has prostrated itself before them. The Four Horsemen pride themselves on well-crafted songs, delivered with all the power of an Airbus A-380 on takeoff. Their recent barnstorming British tour, which culminated in a show-stopping performance at the Wembley Arena, has confirmed the Horsemen as the UK’s No I rock act. Their forthcoming tour of the United States and Asia is expected to take Britain’s best to the next level.

  Then there are some faked-up clippings looking like they’ve been torn from newspapers and pasted into any spare spaces. These aren’t actually the clippings I used on the versions I showed the band, but ones that I personally prefer:

  Horsemen Ride On!

  Success won’t spoil four local lads from South Yorkshire. Although their single “Broken on the Wheel” has hogged the number one spot for six weeks, charismatic bass player Brian Johnson (17) says that the band have kept their feet firmly on the ground. “We’re all about bringing death metal to the average man on the street,” Brian says. “We’re into the music, not the trappings of success. Obviously, we’ve all got new cars and I’ve bought my mum and dad a new house which is five miles from the nearest neighbour but apart from that and the tour jet, we’ve not changed a bit.”

  Horsemen Voted Sexiest Band

  Chart-toppers The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have been voted the Sexiest Band of All Time. All members of this amazing four piece polled votes, but attention has of course focussed on bassist Brian “Sex on Stage” Johnson, whose pelvic grindings and thrustings have put Elvis in the shade and have caused many an excited female fan to speculate on just how appropriate Johnson’s name might be. He’s a sex god on stage but is it all just part of the act, we asked? Johnson smiles knowingly. “It’s rock’n’roll,” he says. “Sure, there are groupies, and God knows, we’re only human. But there’s only one girl for me and I dedicate every performance to her.” He’s sexy, he’s romantic, but sorry, girls, he’s spoken for! We wonder which very lucky lady can be the object of Brian “BJ” Johnson’s affections?

  And another one, about how things might develop, given time…

  Peace in our Time

  BoJo (aka Brian Johnson) has issued a warning to warring factions in the Middle East. “Chill out,” says the heart-throb frontman of smash-hit rockers ‘4H’ (previously The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse). Says Brian, “There’s always stuff on the news about people being uncool with each other and I’m asking both sides to come together over 4H’s new download, Fuck Your Enemy, in the cause of peace, love and indie death metal.” BoJo made his announcement following meetings with local leaders prior to flying to Washington for top-level talks with President Obama. The President, who is reported to be a big 4H fan, has said that if the world had a few more people like BoJo, it would basically be a better place.

  I’m still thinking of how things might have been when Clive puts down his Cherry Coke and points at something in the street, where the rain is coming down like sackfuls of silver nails. ‘Is that who I think it is?’

  We wipe spaces in the fogged window to see someone in a bright red, hooded sweatshirt dodging traffic as he crosses the road and trots briskly towards the Casablanca, casting furtive glances over his shoulder as he approaches.

  ‘Teletubby coming,’ Faruk says.

  ‘Eh oh!’ Clive says, as Diesel opens the door and pulls off his hood.

  He sits down, picks up the laminated menu and calls out, ‘Usual, please, Deniz, with an extra sausage and a slice on the side.’

  ‘What’s that?’ says Clive.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That red thing?’

  ‘It’s not mine. Have you finished with those chips?’

  ‘It’s no excuse.’

  Clive has firm ideas on fashion.

  ‘How long for that special, Deniz?’ Diesel calls, his mouth already full with Clive’s cold chips.

  ‘It’s hideous,’ Clive proclaims, of Diesel’s sweatshirt.

  ‘You’re like Red Riding Hood. Only redder and more of a twat,’ Faruk offers.

  ‘In case you haven’t noticed, it’s completely hosing it down out there,’ Diesel says. Deniz, long brown hair pinned beneath a white cap, voluptuous arse encased in a tight pair of black jeans, parks Diesel’s recommended calorific intake for the week in front of him: two eggs, three sausages, beans, mushrooms, extra chips and a doorstep of bread and butter. Watching Diesel eat is an acknowledged source of free entertainment. We’re still amazed and genuinely impressed at the speed of the operation: the grey blur of the fork as he scoops up monumental piles of food like a souped-up JCB clearing hardcore. Today’s is a bravura performance, probably knocking five or six seconds off his record and that’s with the extra sausage. The rest of us exchange looks, privileged to have witnessed this special moment together. While Diesel mops his plate with the slice of bread and butter, Faruk tells him what we’ve just been talking about.

  ‘Great days,’ Diesel agrees, still chewing. ‘The band and all the other stuff too.’

  ‘It’s like we’ve all known each other for years,’ I say, apropos of not much.

  ‘I’ve known Faruk for thirteen years,’ Diesel says.

  ‘Though we didn’t see each other for the last six of them,’ Faruk reminds him.

  ‘Brian and me go way back,’ Clive says, opening the Faruk and Diesel, me and Clive division which sometimes shows itself in our doings together.

  ‘But the fact is that together, the Four Horsemen, by which I don’t mean our cruelly received musical partnership, but us four as mates, go back only a few months. A few months! But I feel like I’ve known you lot all of my life, you know?’

  Am I imagining it or is Diesel starting to well up?

  ‘It’s true, my friends, we’ve lived it large,’ Faruk says.

  Why is everyone getting so wistful?

  Someone asks if we remember getting caught by security guards as we skateboarded through the shopping centre, then someone else remembers the first wrap of hash we ever bought, which turned out to be Oxo cube. Then other priceless stuff is brought up, like Faruk surprising Clive with Trudy’s dildo stuck up his bum (Clive still says he fell on it, getting out of the bath). Then there was the night Diesel and Faruk used a loudhailer and scared the shit out of shagging couples at a remote picnic site. None of this happened more than a matter of weeks ago and yet Diesel’s talking about it nostalgically, like it’s all in the distant past and such days won’t be coming again. It’s like he’s suddenly grown up. he’s suddenly grown up.

  But the rest of us are still top-trumping each other with reminiscences of good times, or times that look good now that a decent interval has been allowed to elapse since they occurred. Diesel’s injuries after he tried to skate down the department store escalator weren’t actually funny at the time. But Faruk and me bonding over all those old records; Clive getting pissed and going shopping in Trudy’s clothes; our graffiti period, torpedoed by Clive’s spelling and Faruk’s colour blindness; our urban adventure phase, when we were marooned on the library roof the whole of a cool summer’s night after the decorator returned for his ladders: we all agree that those were good times.

  Then the other plans we’ve made are revisited, especially The Road Trip, the pipe dream of pipe dreams in which we celebrate finishing school next July by taking off somewhere together. Amsterdam. Barcelona. Marrakech. Wherever. How cool would that be, we ask, for the hundredth time? We all know it’ll probably come to nothing, but it’s always great to talk about. There’s no doubt about it, these last few weeks have bonded us as real friends and right at this moment, it is hard to envisage a time when universities, girlfriends, changes of location and finally, marr
iage and kids will ever tear us apart.

  The Four Horsemen have been built around these things and an unspoken other, which is our shared virginity. So we all see the threat to our tight little unit when Diesel pushes away his plate at last and says, flatly, ‘I had it off with Lauren Sykes last night.’

  And no one knows what to say or even what expression to assume.

  The natural reaction would be to say ‘No way?’ and to crack up. Not Lauren Sykes, we should have said, ‘Lauren Sykes with the legs like skittles and the lunar complexion?’ Who’d be desperate enough to fuck lardy Lauren Sykes of all people, in the bushes behind the bandstand in the park? Surely not Diesel Dalziel, who’s just ‘fessed’ up to exactly that? But none of us says a thing.

  It is an earth-shattering announcement. Yet for reasons which will become clear, we all nod or shake our heads, mould our features into knowing grins and take the news like it’s the most commonplace thing in the world. I had it off with Lauren Sykes. We are amazed, appalled and secretly jealous.

  It breaks down like this: the same thoughts are going through my head, Faruk’s and Clive’s heads, with one or two fairly crucial differences. Faruk, never mind that he’s subject to an arranged marriage with a girl called Rashida, who lives in a suburb of Istanbul, whose photographs I have seen on numerous occasions and about whom Faruk has mixed feelings, has told us on numerous occasions that he lost his virginity with exchange student Donato Epifano, on the night before she went back to Italy. Clive popped his cherry, supposedly, during a weekend in Brighton ‘with mates’. And, as I remember graphically, I assumed the mantle of manhood after fucking ‘some dirty little blonde’ after a party in a house down the road. Needless to say, the family moved almost straight afterwards and I’ve completely lost touch with her since. Diesel was supposed to have lost his virginity with ‘Serena’, a cousin who supposedly lived on the Isle of Wight.

  We used to be four secret virgins. Virgins with stories, which were repeated and embroidered upon whenever necessary, but virgins all the same. It was something we had in common that bound us, something else that had forged our identity as The Four Horsemen or, more simply, as four close friends. Could we ever be the same again? How could we be three virgins and Diesel? How will this affect the dynamics? How can we ever pretend to be other than virgins now – not when Diesel already has the knowing look that seems to say to everyone, ‘Yes, I’ve done it. I’ve actually shagged a girl. So what?’ It is a period for reflection. Clive is playing with his phone while Faruk gazes over the road where his brother is fiddling with the carburettor of our car. I’m sneaking stealthy glances at the girls who giggle. They’re actually just about fuckable, I decide. All about our age, one with the most enormous tits which she’s showing off with a low top and the others a bit overweight but fit enough to be cocksure of themselves. I only wish I was. When Diesel orders a plate of baklava, I notice he winks at Deniz. Does he always do that? I’m not sure.