dddk 8 - the man with the gold plated arm

He’s not sposed to be a mate of mine, bloke like that. You wanna get a look at him; all that flaky, saggy skin, and the smell. I was never very comfortable around crumblies before. He’s gotta be fifty if he’s a day. Daft old sod.

The first time I lays eyes on him it’s down Greasy Ron’s at the back of the arches. I’ve taken him down a motor and he’s getting really funny with me, like « If I tell you I want a top whack Beemer I do not expect to see your spotty little cakehole behind the wheel of a fucking Day-Glo Toyota jeep. «  and I’m like, « Ron, me old mate, take it easy - it’s a good motor, just give us a ton - I’ll be out of your face and you’re still up for a very tidy profit. » and he’s like, « What the fuck do you know about profit you smacky little cunt. » And then I sees Big Al put down his spray gun and start walking over, and Tel, giving it the big heavo, rolling out from between the two front wheels of a black Jag, masked up in the throes of a total makeover. He’s oiled and gleaming like some brimstone basted jack-in-the-box. And I’m thinking the sweat that is now running down my back has got nothing to do with my current cravings, or the heat from the arc welder that sparks up not two feet from my head. When in he bounces.

« Gentlemen, » says he, « I find the odds before me several leagues from the realms of justice. » There he is, this great streak of lanky grey, a greasy dribble of a ponytail sprouting out the neck of his filthy trench, fists bent up to his nose, hopping from foot to foot. « Queensbury, my good fellows? »

We’re all standing there fucking gobsmacked. Ron snaps back round towards me, a look of total and utter dis-be-lief flickering across his bulging brow. « Get your stumpy little arse out of my arch now. » I can feel his spit pricking my face, « And take Henry Cooper with you. » And I’m thinking about the motor and the ton, and the brown, when I feel this hand on my shoulder - and it’s gently, but firmly wheeling me out into the light.

He pulls a minging fag-holed Burberry scarf out of his pocket and wraps it elaborately round his chicken neck. « I suggest we take a jar to celebrate your lucky escape from mutilation. » He says to me, but the sweats are pumping now, and I’m needing real bad. « Later man. » I says. And he sort of shrugs and starts walking back up towards the high street. I can feel this thread. It’s fucking space man, like it’s unravelling from my guts, like it’s tangled up in his crusty scarf and pulling me after him. And Andrex puppy I bound, panting to his side. « What’s your name mate? » I asks him. « You, young man, can call me The Prof. » He looks me up and down. « We’ll take that glass another time I think. I rarely stray beyond the cosy constraints of the arse end of Deptford; and I set great store by karma. » And with that he swings round and John Waynes it off into the sunset.

The next time I sees him I’m sliding into The Dewdrop - to see a man about a dog - and there he is, large as life holding court from the far end of the bar. I can hear his voice fluting through the fagsmoke. I catch his eyes as they swivel, rapidly, in full audience assessment. « And that gentlemen, » dramatic pause, «  is the mystery of The Kundalini. Little Dave my young friend, » he doesn’t miss a beat, « I believe you owe me a bottle of Ma Darling’s finest Newcastle Brown Ale. » I scans the room looking for The Hobbit, but he seems to be running late. And anyway I looks up at The Prof and he is sporting the most evil grin I have ever witnessed, and suddenly I can think of no better way to spend my ill gotton gains. « Yeah, I think I do. » I tells him.

Apart from the neck ache, you get started talking to this bloke and he just sort of sucks you in. He knows so much stuff. He had me up Blackheath the other day - hunting owl shit - reckons he’s recording the demise of the species. We’ve seen a kingfisher on Deptford Canal. I remember this one night, we’re totally tanked, lying on our backs in the middle of Greenwich Park and I’m seeing if I can remember the constellations he’s shown me, when out of the blue he starts getting really arsy. « Has nobody ever thought to initiate you into the art of intrinsic musical rightness? » Well, as the old beatbox is whacking out a tasty new Ronny Size tune at this precise minute, I’m having an hard time working out where he’s going with this one - that said, I have to admit that this is not a problem I am unfamiliar with. Anyway it don’t take long to catch on as he rolls over and smacks the stop button on the cd. He starts fiddling with the radio, wheeling the knob from left to right with his ears pricked up like a fucking cocker spaniel. Then he catches something he must like, cos he lets out this rumbling groan and rolls back. And I’m thinking it looks like he wants his belly scratching, I’m actually contemplating doing it, when this voice grabs me by the goolies and starts squeezing. She wants something that no geezer in the history of the world can give her, this bird. She’s got a fucking liberty I’m thinking, and I’m gonna say so, but the hand squeezes tighter and as the voice rolls out into the blackness I can feel myself being swallowed, and I’m with her and we are being eaten alive. The music stops and there’s this one perfect second before some tit chimes in and The Prof heaves over and gently pushes the power button. « That, my son, was Julie London. » And I can’t help but laugh, cos I looks at him, and he looks at me, and the pair of tarts that we are, we’ve both been crying rivers.

Music is not the only thing we sometimes disagree about, me and The Prof. I once made the mistake of asking him if he wanted a little chase. He may be old, but he slapped me round the head fucking hard enough. He don’t like smack. He reckons it’s juicing me. Slowly pressing me, like a navel orange, squeezing out every last drop of goodness. Sometimes I think he’s got a point.

Last week he knocks me up at me muvvers place, wants to see if I fancy a stroll. But I’m gauching in the corner, and the old dear answers the door. « He’s sold my fucking telly, » she’s screeching, « the ungrateful little bastard. What am I going to do? » And I’m vaguely aware of her shuddering and bawling into The Profs stinking mac.

That’s how he got me to The Ritzy. He’s decided I need more help than he alone can give. « Enlisting the big guns boy. » He says. « If anyone can do it Frankie can. » Well two hours of celluloid cold turkey later and despite The Famous Old Grouse we’ve been nipping all the way through I am feeling remarkably sober. We’re on the top deck of the 137, heading back to The Palace and he’s yammering on about nailing up windows and rites of passage, and the bile is rising at the very thought. But he don’t let up.

I’ve tried telling him. I can’t show him, but I need to make him understand about this place. This parallel universe where I’m held, and I’m the fucking baby Jesus and Mother Mary is filling me with her love, and the bliss bubbles out my nose. But he just sighs and says I have to want to become a man.

I’m woken up at half past bastard nine this morning. Thought it was a raid, nearly shit me knickers. Then between the thumps hammering on the front door I makes out his voice. « David! The gods are truly smiling on us boy. » I open the door, he pushes past me into the passage and starts pacing, backwards and forwards, flicking open his fists and jerking elbows in what I could only assume was a gesture of aggravated astonishment. « He’s here, he’s here boy… As I am standing before you Frank Sinatra is sucking London air through his shining epiglottis…and tonight David, he will be topping the bill of The Royal Variety Performance. » Well I didn’t rightly know what he was expecting me to say to that. I suppose I must of raised me eyebrows, quizzically. « Tidy yourself lad, » He’s got a scabby looking tie knotted up under his adams apple. « Come along…come along… Young man, we, are going to the London Palladium. »

It weren’t that late, time we got there. We’d stopped off at a little saloon in The Dilly for a bit of dutch, but it turned out to be a poofs pub, so we didn’t hang around long. Still, there was already quite a crowd, pushing against the barriers that had raised the entire building to unattainable celebrity status. I think I expressed my surprise at this. The Prof looked at me with loving pity, « One could wait a lifetime, for one moment of Frank’s time…Onward! » With which he engaged in the arduous battle to the front lines of the stage door.

We passed the waiting hours swigging on the bottle of Thunderbird The Prof had thoughtfully brought along. He regaled me, and a large percentage of the crowd with a potted history of the life and times of a certain Mr. Sinatra. Then this buzz starts and there’s these big vibes thrumming over us. The door swings open. A knot of suited black geezers shuffle out James Bonding into walkie-talkies. The clanging silence of anticipation falls around us. I look up at The Prof, as he’s looking down. There’s that grin again. He winks, then turns back to the door.

Movement, and then a cheer swells up around us as a silver shining head appears before us, framed and backlit. « Frankie! » Has everyone here been waiting a lifetime? I look back up at The Prof and there’s this second of confusion that’s folding his face, then he starts windmilling his arms, slowly at first, then faster, « Frankie! » We’re all forcing ourselves back trying to avoid the pummelling blows he’s laying out - and I know he’s forgotten the bottle - cos when it smashes against the barrier he looks as surprised as anyone else. But the effect is immediate. The eyes of not only Frank Sinatra himself, but also his host of corporal protection, lock onto those of The Prof. « You’ve got to help the boy Frankie. » He screams, leaping over the steel railing.

The bodies are on him before he’s placed his feet. I see an arm pierce the mound, punching the heavens. « Frankie! » He yells as he slides his head free of a restraining boot, « we’ll do it your way…. »

They gave him a serious pasting. Yankee bastards. The old bill heaved in soon enough, but not soon enough if you know what I mean. The last I sees of The Prof he’s on a gurney, sliding into the maws of a tatty ambulance;

He’s got blood all over his tie, I’m thinking. I don’t know what hospital they’ve taken him to. And do you know what? I don’t even know the daft old sod’s real name…