Foxaque and The Horn Make fools of themselves live on air…

I say!!

paste the link below onto your intergash browser and enjoy members of the TopShelf making idiots of themselves on xpressradio.co.uk (cardiff S.U. wireless show) during early february. we only mention it because no-one was listening because Wales were busily making fools out of england at Twickenham…

http://www.xpressradio.co.uk/pages/audio-file-player.php?id=129

enjoy…

The Foxaque conspiracy

Although records and documents are scant, we know that Foxaque was considered dead in Nov. 1941. within a week, Josephine Shaker also disappeared. Both have resurfaced: Foxaque in Cardiff in 2005 and Josephine Shaker in Melbourne, Australia, also around that same year! Josephine Shaker is still a mystery, however, we may be able to shed light on the Foxaque question. Records show that Foxaque died in November of 1941, nevertheless this was only noted in a number of newspaper obituaries and stories of that time. NO DEATH CERT. EXISTS. We may have reason to believe that these two persons are indeed not under pseudonyms or impostors!

What we know regarding Foxaque’s “death“ was that one of the ambulances that came to retrieve his body after the air raid in Nov. 41 was under direct instructions of a chap representing the name of “Wotchdoor“. There are no traces or records of Wotchdoor other than in the call out forms the original ambulance crew recorded back at their medical station. These statements maintain that Foxaque’s body was placed in the care of an ambulance crew under the eye of the afore mentioned army officer

Cpt. Wotchdoor. They arrived seconds after the civilian crew and took charge of the incident immediately. The statements also mention that the other ambulance crew were in regular military uniforms.

Wotchdoor is also a word or label ascribed to an obscure research company originally based in the Cotswolds of Gloucestershire. Other records of this Cotswolds “enterprise“ remain buried in the belly of secure vaults in London somewhere, probably marked ““top secret“. At any rate, answers and documents are not forthcoming on this matter from any sources we have investigated. It is also possible that Foxaque is not fully aware of his circumstances regarding Wotchdoor. However, we propose a theory that may explain, at least, Foxaque’s reappearance. It may seem far fetched, but other than an “impostor“ theory – which would seem more fitting were it not for our exhaustive investigation proving fruitless in that area – no alternative was more convincing. The theory is simply as follows:

• Foxaque was not killed by debris and splinters in the bombing raid, but was caused to go into a coma as a result of severe concussion (possibly a glancing blow from a brick).

• The civilian ambulance crew state that he was transferred to another vehicle under the command of Cpt. Wotchdoor.

• Other than news reports of his death, no death certificate can be found in public records. The times were a little chaotic and in the heat of the situation, this appears to have been overlooked. However, as his death was mentioned in a number of press publications, it was accepted as fact. No one stopped to ask. Although oddly, no one knew or heard of any funeral…

• “Wotchdoor“” is thought to be a private company or codename for a secret government research project during the 1930’s1930’s and the first half of WWII. We speculate in the light of circumstantial evidence (some 16mm footage of a medical facility (dated to the early part of the war due to the cut of the military uniforms) & 2 declassified documents naming Wotchdoor as a disused medical programme and the disposal of injured human specimens still held on the premises) that Wotchdoor may have been linked to early cryogenics research (much of which was, we now know, funded in part by one of the eccentric million heirs that Foxaque used to entertain)… research, even, that involved chemically or genetically slowing the aging process and cryogenically preserving human specimens over long periods of time.

• Is it possible that, after 60 years or so, Foxaque was finally roused from an unnatural slumber?

• Is it possible that medical treatment for his injuries was given during the preparation for cryo-preservation?

• Is it possible that he had been forgotten about or the staff at the facility moved on or killed during the war?

• Is it possible that he was secretly released in 2004/5 having been ““debriefed“” about events between 1941 and 2000?

• Is it possible that Foxaque believes it was some sort of extended deep coma and the aging process failed to grip him until he regained consciousness, rather like a video pause button concept?At any rate, he was of a generation who would not question the greater wisdom of doctors and other authority figures.

• If this is true, then just who released him?

• What is their involvement?

• Are they still in contact with Foxaque?

• And most importantly, does Foxaque give a fuck about any of this?

He’s certainly taken it all in his stride…

FOXAQUE RETUNS

(A Working Scribble By Green and Snow)

Arthur foxaque : singer in an old jazz style not heard since the 30’s and early 40’s. Hangs around in London and old city ports doing his old thirties stuff.

Picks up a band whom are intrigued by his dress sense and old stylee speakee, his liquour drinking and filthy double entendre humour whilst appearing oh so suave and debonair.

Little details intrigued people. For example: a pocket watch engraved with a date in 1930’s; a medal from 1920’s (some campaign in India or other); his insistence on lace-up leather shoes which he obsessively polishes; cigarette cases; short back and sides; tweed jackets in winter; linen suits in summer; an aversion to babbling foreigners; cricket; maps coloured in pink; brandy; an “I say!” and “How do you do?” and “Thanks awfully.”; a distaste for regional accents and a nervous reaction to loud noises or explosions…

Scars denote an old injury.

But nothing explained as to why for all of these little details. People just think he’s an eccentric who is obsessed with looking the part for the music style he sings in.

Anyway, on tour.

In an old retro style boutique hotel. Foxaque tells the band he’s off for a pint.

Jokes are made about him probably having considerably more than just one.

anyway, he will be back within an hour, he tells them. Or there abouts.

3 hours later, the band leave a message for Foxaque at the reception and leave (the receptionist, an old fellow in a 3 piece suit, looks at them and asks if they are Americans). They all laugh and go out to look for Foxaque in some nearby bars. But everything’s changed. Hardly any cars and the ones that are there are of quite a vintage. “must be a film set for some Sci-Fi programme on the BBC or summat” one of them quips.

Town is very poorly lit.

the signs are slightly different and there appears to be a few ships in a harbour that shouldn’t have any at all as it closed down many years ago.

One or two sailors wondering round drunk.

“we’re off to the dancehall, boys” shouts a couple of pretty ladies.

“I’ve never seen them before, they must be American, the way they’re dressed. So casual…” and other comments like that.

The band are getting a bit nervous, but wander round the corner to a passably large Hotel with a solid dance hall to the side.

Stopped by the head usher at the door, they hear Foxaque singing with a dance orchestra, much drinking, dance and laughing.

Soldiers and sailors everywhere. “where you boys from?” asks the attendant.

Jack the finger, being the cheekiest, replies “we’re with Foxaque’s get-up”

“are these your names?” the attendant shows them the book.

“that’s us.”

“so you are, boys! He left this note saying you might drop in. you work with him?”

“he pays us sometimes and all!” came the reply.

“that’s a first! we’ve heard all about him.” Said the usher, “He must like you chaps if he pays you more often than not. In you go…”

they step in to a poorly lit dance hall. It smells odd.

“this must be one of Foxaque’s fancy dress bashes, I bet.” Spake Harry the Horn.

The whole place is heaving with people in military uniforms, old style suits and sumptuous ball gowns. Dancing while foxaque is on stage swinging to a hot version of “Bye Bye Blackbird”. Most of the sailors are extremely drunk and arguing with squaddies. Two squaddies lurch up to Smokey and the band, “you three look like americans. Are you Americans?” he seemed insistent,”you are, ain’t cha, dressed like ‘em an all. No style. And no bleedin use in this war either.”

“Bush started it…” complained Smokey

“who? Bollocks! Bet you haven’t come to sign-up, ‘ave’s yer? We’re on our own, you yank bastards.” Squaddy takes a swing. Smokey, being sober, lays him out, off balancing the other soldier and the three muzos quickly exit.

But in the hall way, they are greeted with another surprise.

No lights.

Walls are bare and crumbling.

Everything is stripped.

Nobody in sight.

And no noise.

A box on the old counter is lying open. Someone must have found it while they were stripping the place out. In it are some old and decayed posters.

One poster catches the eye: “Arthur Foxaque’s Hit Swing Dance Orchestra. 1st November 1941.”

“is he taking the piss?”

The trio look back into the doorway to find the same crumbling unlit dancehall but at the other end they glimpse Foxaque under a spotlight that fades quickly and vanishes. “Foxaque!”, they shout, but he’s gone, nowhere to be seen in the half lit gloom of a wrecked building.

“this is too bloody strange for my liking. I wanna get back to the hotel.” Spake Jack the finger.

The other two agree and they scarper.

There are more lights, normal cars. But they don’t stop to ask.

They get to the hotel and pack their bags.

As he empties one draw, Smokey notices a newspaper cutting from a local rag laid out at the bottom.

“Crooner Killed In Bombing Raid, November 1941. Arthur Foxaque was the only fatality as he was caught in the blasts last week after he went back to rescue his guitar from the local Dance-Hall.

Foxaque was thought to be on the verge of a serious career breakthrough due to his growing popularity as an entertainer with his Hit Swing Dance Orchestra (also known to some as the Top Shelfers).

His body was found after the all clear at 2am 2nd November. He was still gripping his guitar case and an empty pint glass. Flying debris and bricks are thought to have caused a fatal skull injury that killed him instantly. Rumour has it that he had a lover in London: an infamous Showgirl known as Miss Lula Shaker, who unaccountably disappeared after an air raid over London 2 days later. It is believed she had no knowledge of his death at that time.”

Foxaque enters the room. “what’s the hurry?”

“what the fuck have you been up to?” they ask him

“I was looking up an old flame. Why d’you ask?”.

Foxaque Fiddle’s his Fare: Public transport

“got my ticket!” indeed

 

The megabus seems a bit of a bargain! But for £3 rtn, you open yourself into a world of travail… you resign to delays, cock ups and breakages. Worse still: vile smelling toilets with an unhinged door…

 

For £99 however, you may travel in comfort from Cardiff to Paddington. Granted, once I have parted with £99, then I carry a pistol to shoot any staff that are not forthcoming with a refund when this expensive service fucks up (as it will in Britain these days).

 

One lives in fear of everything grinding to a halt these days, and unshaven Bolsheviks kicking down my door…

Foxaque dribbles on Dietrich

September 1925

 

Foxaque kicks his heals in Berlin, trawling the high society clubs and private establishments, avoiding the edgy atmosphere prevalent on the streets. One club caught him chatting to an aspiring actress by the name of Marlene Dietrich. Foxaque was enthralled and uncharacteristically attentive to her every word. Not that she made much sense as Foxaque was drunk and Dietrich heavily accented.

 

The conversation veered from politics to drugs to social habits, concepts of decency and performance. The silver screen was captivating audiences everywhere and new heights of glamour and style achieved with each film released. Rudolf Valentino, Harold Lloyd and Charlie Chaplin were kings and Jazz was the zeitgeist of the age.

 

Foxaque gushed his usual tripe, “Whats the use in bit parts on stage, I ask you? I hear film is where the big money’s at. Glamour, stardom, the cutting edge of entertainment as we know it. Take lead roles, miss Dietrich. Hollywood next. You never know…”

 

Dietrich was indifferent, “I don’t sink I vill be famoose, herr Fagsmoke…. Maybe I mooff into cabaret or have sing der musicals.”

“Music halls? Your voice is certainly distinctive.” Foxaque’s earnest response belied the fact he’d never seen her perform or even heard of her, “splendid band they have this evening, i say, top of the shelf! anyway. where was i?” He continued, clutching at straws now, piecing together some sort of coherent conversation on the hoof,

“Of course, the quiet patches are frustrating. I’m thinking of becoming a chauffeur. Y’know, drive around a bit. Sort of upmarket taxi service.”

“do you charge for ze furst mile?” Dietrich was beginning to find this Englishman attractive, mainly due to the impression that he was rolling in money and clearly didn’t need to have any kind of job to get by.

Foxaque unwittingly hooked the bait, “depends where you want to go. I’ll have to learn to drive, of course. D’you think I’ll need a licence round these parts?”

 

“I vood be delighted to guide you in ze right direction, herr Focksish”

 

“Foxaque”

 

“Fogzig”

 

“no, Foxaque. Fo-ks-sake. Bit like Volkswagen.”

 

“Volks-zaik”

 

“that’s the one!” he leered and groped around for his rum without breaking eye contact.

“I can show you how to get eet.” Dietrich laid out more bait, but was missing the point, thinking Foxaque was playing double entendre with her.

“Get what? Oh! The licence. Gosh! That’s terribly kind of you. I s’pose I shall have to be sober.”

“Too much dreenk can iffect a gentleman’s performance,” she purred, “but von or two shoot help one rise to ze occasion, no, herr Fuqshag?”

 

“I say! That can’t be legal! Sounds t’rific.”

 

“not all pleasures are restrained by ze law.”

 

Foxaque was chomping at the bit by now, but was neither conscious of, nor understood, the source of his excitement. He was blissfully unaware that he had been talking to her breasts for most part. Drink can do that to a man. “how exciting! What kind of car do you say you have?” he was keen.

 

“ze sort to take sree at a time, herr shakefuck” Dietrich was really dropping hints.

 

“it’s Foxaque. Sounds a hot ride. I’d love to jump in with you some time.” Foxaque was trying his best to please, with unintended results.

 

“you are a fast gentleman, herr fuckhardt.”

 

“it’s Foxaque”

 

“I trust you can go ze distance, no?”

 

“oh! Raaatheeer. Won half colours at school for cross country, you know.” He proudly announced, “stamina.”

 

“Bar tender, order a taxi for me.”

 

“are we going anywhere nice?” Foxaque was ready for adventure.

 

“vee go to paradise for the rest off ze evenink, herr fuckfist.”

 

“is that some sort of club?”

 

Foxaque goes “modern”

Oct 2007

 

Argued with the wife then went to a jazz club… couldn’t decide, in the end, which was worse.

Didn’t realise that things had got so bad since my extended sojourn (about 60 years…).

“Modern Jazz”: everything that is the embodiment of wank! Can’t speak on the efforts of other bands and musicians (especially the pioneers of the cool-wave and the modern fashion) – some of it, I’ve heard, is rather good and worthy of praise (I don’t doubt that for a second). But, as with any avant-garde art form or development, once it “breaks” and becomes, shall one say, institutionalised, the flood gates seemingly open for every half-baked amateur bleating for the right to inflict their inferior emulations upon the rest of us. And, I might add (with some indignation) charge us cash for the displeasure!

 

This evening was no exception: unimaginative at best. A waste of £5 a best!

Bland sax solos, religiously staying within the strictures of received knowledge (and only one key, seemingly). Anyway, the sax man had truly missed the point of Coltrane’s efforts to break the mould. This chap was pure mould all right! Why copy if it’s crap at best? I was informed that this chap was “well established” as some sort of free form jazzer or some such. Wasn’t convinced, myself.

 

It got worse. The singer, well, vocalist (the most charitable label I could reasonably designate) was abysmal. Couldn’t sing with any gusto or variation. Wet and quite limp. Even if I was diplomatic and gave ground for an apparent cold, the vocalist was still piss poor. The lyrics were nothing short of dreadful hippy wank – stars and nature and unkempt pubic hair etc. it was some vague “free improvisation” or some such.

 

Anyway. I don’t pay £5 to hear free improvisation. It’s overpriced improvisation! I made my opinions known to the reverend proprietors of the club and they duely offered me a refund. Despite my contempt for the band’s dreary efforts, my benevolent qualities caused me to refuse: “they’ll need all the money they can get”.

 

Foxaque Fumbles Sorely in Soho

Oct 1927

Foxaque took it upon himself to visit his upmarket social circle in London. the place was still an awfull blot like the inside of a sailor’s lung. he wasted no time in trawling the Soho clubs, bars and other disreputable establishments for pleasure and opportunities. Foxaque, however, was not overly familiar with the essential character or moral landscape of Soho town. he had been there a few times, but had simply been lucky not to have wandered into the wrong sort of place, you see? he reeled into one particular “enterprise” called “The Sea Dog’s Hat Stand”. what’s in a name? thought foxaque…. more than he bargained for…

there were indeed many exotic and beautiful ladies present, as one might expect in a tavern themed for sailors. heavily made-up and speaking in the most gruff and abominable way, but enticing nonetheless. Foxaque was well aware that Londoners were not known for their “hairs and graces”, but was rather startled and not a little aroused by the company in question. he was quickly greeted and ushered in to an attentive congregation of misfits, war-wounded and tempting beauties. stories were exchanged, rounds of drink purchased and foxaque proudly swaggered off, some hours later, with two such ladies to a local hotel sporting agreeable prices and a blind eye to licentious behaviour. His new friends charged by the hour, not that Foxaque remembered or cared (he’d borrowed the money). but he was greeted to the strangest of sights the next morning, having never seen a lady shave in quite such a way before…

Foxaque washed himself vigourously. four times. and left. he felt sordid, depraved, dirty, but far from guilty. it would not be an overestimation to speculate as far as to say that Foxaque felt some sort of ill-deserved pride in the previous evening’s indulgences.

When in Rome…

 

PASSPORT CONTOL

I hate aeroplane flights, ocean liners suit me better.

 

yes, they let me out of Australia, but not without a struggle!

they threatened to keep me there on account that my passport was damaged and vandalised.

I couldn’t see that as a threat, really. it’s a pleasant place to be living, Melbourne.

Anyway, i received the usual lecture and the prospect of inconvenience at immigration. (marigolds and margarine etc. in brushed aluminium toilet cubicles by overweight Helgas). normally, one has to pay for such services, but in this day and age, airports provide it absolutely gratis if one should decide to backchat. those of us whom are skilful at it get more than just a grilling…. complimentary service!

so if you are into degradation and submission, a box of matches and a pair of platform shoes will get you all the attention you need!!

who was that shoe bomber chap? what a fucking idiot! hope he’s being buggered senseless in Guantanamo for being dull bastard. he’s certainly getting a little more than the dunce hat and playground ridicule! giving them poor Muslim fellows such bad press, y’know, and what with Bagdad being such a fashionable party destination these days…

my point being: if one is going to blow up an aeroplane then dont sport a beard and spout gibberish like an excitable foreigner. no! dye your hair blonde, wear a light coloured linen suit and panama hat, swagger about with an umbrella in blazing 40*C heat and say things like “i’m frightfully sorry” and “gosh! really?” and “raaaa-thur. i should say so” and, lest we should forget, “G & T, old man, if you would, please”, resulting in one simply breezing through immigration in possession of the most questionably battered passport (one’s mug-shot was half peeled off at the back due to ware and tear amongst other, earlier mentioned, damage) and not a second glace at my expensive shoes, i might add.

the parting comment of the officer being: “not my problem, mate. your going the other way”. 

back to blighty without a hitch, after all! However, i was obliged to relinquish no less than three cigarette lighters at the check-in desk…

FOXAQUE’S FAUX PAS

May 1926.

Foxaque trawled Smith Street on saturday night, looking for cheap drink and easy women.he certainly wasn’t disappointed by the cheap drink.he reeled into Cas Reitop’s Dirty Secrets, a local speakeasy. at the bar, he introduced himself to the first young lady drunk enough to be within arms reach. she perloined a cigarette off Foxaque and proceded to charm him. not that Foxaque could hear a blasted word she was saying over the gramophone and bawdy din of the other customers (for a speakeasy, they were indeed quite noisey). the young lady in question was certainly questionable. she was a well known showgirl by the name of Miss Lula Shaker, already well established in this town. she had produced her own shows and entertained often in the society parties of the powers that be (she had earnt her own car and chauffeur which allowed her to drink with gay abandon), but she was clearly bored of Melbourne and yearned for the decadence of Europe as much as Foxaque did. Miss Shaker was a trouble maker: a saucy vamp who had left a trail of broken hearts, bleeding noses and empty wallets in her wake. Foxaque had no expectations regarding falling in love and was certainly low on funds, so two points at least counted in his favour. but he was not the most courageous of men and feared any sort of confrontation. a showgirl with a mean right hook was un-nerving and yet, mightily attractive. he went to light his own cigarette, but it didn’t draw on the flame as well as he’d expect. he broke the filter off before relighting, quipping about such a needless addition that ruined the inhalation of pure tobacco smoke. Miss Shaker smirked. She had not actually seen Foxaque light his cigarette, but had guessed from his manner that he was as narcissistic and arrogant as he was stupid, and so he had, in all likelyhood, lit the wrong end. but she let it slide. she saw potential. Foxaque was well dressed. impeccably so, even, and was passingly good looking. She had heard of his visit to Melbourne and had watched him perform. She liked his style. Foxaque needed a showgirl and Shaker needed a hot band. She had finally spied an excellent ticket to free drink and endless balls. a killer combination of style and memorable entertainment. “I hear Berlin is the place to be” she said. Foxaque wasn’t so sure: he’d heard of the Nazis. He suggested Japan instead, although Istanbul was more his bag. Miss Shaker smiled like a cheshire cat. she was the kind of cat that liked to get her cream. she tabled an idea, a money spinner and an irresistable non-stop touring party of decadence and excess. Foxaque was spell bound and all but signed a deal to her business proposal. This cat knew what she wanted and knew how to get it without having to open her legs. But this, however, was all that Foxaque was interested in…”You’ve got to be in it to win it”, Foxaque leered, and they shook hands.It was there that Foxaque & Shaker first locked horns: a terrible pairing of off-kilter minds that would bring his jazz ensemble into a quagmire of ill-repute and misadventure via all the seedy dance halls and ball rooms across the civilized world (bar licenced or otherwise)…

 

FOCSAQUE TAKES THE PITH

It was decided that we were bored of being in old melbourne town, so we donned our safari outfits and Indian pith helmets and took the dangerous trek out to East Brunswick on the old Lygon Street. we ducked and weaved through the land avoiding natives in loud, blinged up cars, upmarket hippy cafes full of borgeoisie types who read books about coffee and feel sorry for starving children in 3rd world countries: all the while sipping the coffee that they buy at bargain prices, thus keeping such places in poverty…

the most dangerous and tempting places we passed, of course, were local kebab emporiums. Harry the Horn had to be lead blindfolded at times, lest the sirens of his addiction get the better of him. needless to say, the many bottle shops (off-licences to you and i) seemed set to ambush us at every turn.

However, we found our salvation in a bar called Plan ‘B’. it even had a billiards room where we played that American game called Pool.

the natives in this bar were exceedingly friendly, for no sooner had we stepped in, than we were lavished with much free wine. the band played, i crooned, and the womenfolk swooned for my suave and  panache (and expensive aftershave).

we exchanged cultural phrases like “g’ay, maaate” and “Safe as fuck, Braah.”

i had been plied with a vast amount of New Zealand wine and by the end of the evening, and was in unintelligible hysterics.

at this point, Harry the Horn’s resolve collapsed and we both ended up in some sort of souvlaki bar, talking complete bollocks and pointing and laughing at the natives whenever they attempted to communicate with us. Donner in hand, we swayed down the road to a waiting car. it was at this point, matters took a bit of a turn. the car we had gotten into was not a taxi but instead was waiting for a couple of robbers who were holding up a bottle shop at that moment. the driver, nervous and twitchy, didn’t waste time establishing who we were. he raced off. kebab juice was spilt all over the back seats, and we had difficulty explaining where we wanted the driver to take us (through mouthfulls of donner meat). we waived notes of cash at him, distracted him with idle chitchat,  but to no avail. when he finally realised we were not the people he was expecting, he skidded and crashed. we crawled from the wreckage, still giggling. Harry was still eating.

upon our arrest, we were roughly cuffed by the officers. our story seemed unfeasable to them and we were taken to the cells. i protested “do you know who i am?”. they shrugged. i explained and as a result of establishing my identity they gleefully bludgeoned me half to death in one of the cells. the chap in the cell next to Harry (who was sleeping like a baby by now) was terrified by the whole set-to and promptly hung himself and died. we discovered the next day that he was some sort of failed producer of a burlesque show or other and a slapstick comedy about a penniless alcoholic who sings in his caravan. he had been arrested for fiddling the accounts: poor chap, suicide was his only honourable way out, really…

the mix-up was soon resolved once i got Harry to bribe the Duty Sargeant. the actual purpetrators were later found in the bottle shop blind drunk and were arrested… we were released, but i managed not to mention the other arrests to Harry lest he asked for his money back…