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CALLASSA
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The Lizzie Starks Band
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Written for my dearest and pulsing heart-throb, baby sweet Philip Hurd-Wood
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Foreword
There is much that happened prior to this conversation that took place on a Saturday night at the Old Lantern pub. There is much after too. This is about a group of aspiring rock musicians, The Lizzie Starks Band, because it was Lizzie’s idea and she is a local girl, as are the other members, so has clout, as they say. Little Hampton is a place that most avoid like the plague and there is much detail regarding why and what the people who live here are really like. It also has to be said that an amount of this is written in the Yorkshire vernacular with the intention of capturing the specific personality and ethos of these fascinating people. Oh, and the passage has expletives and sexual references so best be over ten before reading.
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The Lizzie Starks Band
Lizzie Starks. lead vocals
Terry ‘Fatty’ Culzean. lead guitar
Pete Kenilworth. bass guitar, keyboard
Balthazaar Blackness. drums, percussion
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“I tell you, listen to me.” It was my voice, Lizzie Starks, carrying just above that of Lantern’s drunken hoard and not to forget the old juke box. Our conversation, I refer to the band, is in full swing. Note that I am talking about myself so stop doing it. Huh. Sure. “Philip … He was telling me he laid naked in the clouds … Can you imagine? … That pair of balls, and me as wet as Fanny’s pisspot after a Saturday night here at the Lantern?”
No one was listening. Philip was not the fascination. Harry ‘The Tash’ Mulett was. The man was coming over and it was likely the old git was about to make a donation to our band. I tell you, I am the lead singer and the band is named after me, just so you know. Well, it is at the moment. Like I said, Harry was coming over, maybe the old sod was packing a handgun and about to use it, thus ridding Hamp of Lizzie Starks, once and for all. Har. Har. (He wouldn’t do it himself).
I was watching Philip. He was looking his usual lost self (aren’t we all). This perception of my heart throb had hurt me. I have one of his home-made books hidden in my jeans. He’d given it. I would read it later while in the girl’s toilet. Hopefully he was amenable to a romantic conversation. It wasn’t likely he would be, but there was hope things could develop, you know like immediately I would be undoing his fly, or buttons (does anyone use buttons on flies?) Me holding his cock and my tongue shoved deep down his throat. What am I on about? Harry Mulett was here, looking like the proverbial fucking shyster. Fat Terry greeted the great one with, “Nice tie, Harry.” Harry kept a bungalow over in nearby Bredon. It was crammed full with nicked gear and had bars on the windows. Harry had been a safe specialist by profession before moving up into used cars. It’s said that at the bungalow there’s a loaded crossbow fixed at a strategic place should anyone manage to get in (and stay there). The Filth had been here loads of times questioning Harry over things he knew nothing about.
“Right load of pillocks spend fuckin Saturday nights sitting with each other. Fuckin Hell-ass, fuckin boo boos, if you ask me. Fuckers.”
“Thanks Harry,” said Fatty and meant it. Harry could say and do anything he wanted. Everyone would just nod and say, yes. Harry was wearing a yellow tie and a shiny grey suit that looked like it had been wrenched out from a Hollywood movie. All that was needed was Marilyn Monroe to be laughing, rubbing her tits on his arm, complimenting him on his immaculate pencil-line moustache and agreeing with everything he said, asking him for some ‘dough’ and later she would be sitting on his face, that kind of thing. He was saying something.
“Here and call it a fuckin loan. I isn’t no charity and I don’t like fuckin noise either, but Cedric over there says you’re worth stock, being as he’s gonna manage summink, so take this and go shove it up Lizzie’s fuckin horse colon.”
Harry threw a roll at the table. It landed on an ashtray and bounced toward Pete, who was looking at it like it was first time love on a pillow, whispering, endearing and warm. Not that he’d be interested in that, being a psycho, but the shock value was obvious. Pete took it before Fatty had the chance.
“Gee thanks, Harry,” voiced Fatty to Harry’s back while the shiny suited man was walking away, “Thanks a ton. Harry,” he carried on. “You’re a gent.”
“Fuck off you cunt,” was Harry’s reply given without turning round. He was gone. How an act of the monetary nature can transform things. Terry was already counting twenty-pound notes.
“How much is there?” asked Fatty. There was great eagerness mixed with something else, likely to do with the question whether Pete could count? Had he learned to while in Borstal? He wasn’t doing it very quickly,
“Three hundred quid,” came Pete’s eventual declaration. “Might be three fifty.”
“Three hundred and fifty quid!” Fatty was whistling and breathing more heavily than usual. That’s three hundred divided by four …Which is … Then, four into fifty…”
“Eighty-five quid each,” I offered, because the two were having a problem with the arithmetic.
“Sounds about right,” answered Fatty, who was slobbering and feeling the money in an inappropriate way. Fucking weirdo.
I was pleased by the gift, but I was still preoccupied by darling Philip. What was it about his charm that was different tonight? Darling Philip. Why was he so enthralling? He was sitting down now. He was staring over at our table. Why didn’t he just come over and sit down? There was a spare stool and he could sit on me, if he wanted. He could do anything or should I say, everything. No one wanted his books. Soon, he would leave. This was his pattern, to dress himself up and be alone while obviously more intelligent than everybody else. I mean, I know that’s not saying a lot. How provocative he was. How mystical. How fucking frustrating. He had the most luscious red lips and tit warming hair. He’s got teeth to bite me with. I say that because most around here don’t have any. Really, I’m not kidding. I bet he tastes like sparkling honey.
Fatty and Terry were driving the money into piles of four. They were like children, well to be complimentary. What a wonderful pair, was my thought while getting up. It should be a million quid. See how they’d cope with that. Millions and millions of quid piled up.
“Where’s ya going girly?” asked Bad Pete. His money was in a more neatly made pile than the others.
“I’m just going to see Philip.”
“Fuck yourself off then,” was Pete’s curt response. And put some music on the box, I’m sick of hearing that fucking shite. While yuz about it fetch us new glasses.”
“I saw your boyfriend earlier outside,” voiced Fatty, eager to tell me about Philip. “He was talking to himself, rehearsing like, then arguing with Harry while he was coming in. He said Harry was generous. I heard him, not that I was nebbing. I think he was asking him for some dough.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha. Bet he took that as a compliment…Generous?”
“He did but …”
I was wondering why Harry would have donated money to the band and before that Philip had been telling the great one he was generous? It was coincidence, obviously. Philip . . . what a darling. I’m just dying like crazy to fuck him and keep on fucking him. Throw my knickers and they’ll stick to the wall. I’m supposed to be concentrating on writing songs and stuff and all I can think of is Philip’s cock …..
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(c) Callassa MMXXI
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CALLASSA
The Lizzie Starks Band
