“I say! Was that Richard Burton you just spilt your drink over?” 

if you made it this far, i’m inclined to consider your offer.

I hate the world and all the muelling little cunts that sail in it.

Why, only last night in a musichall on old sydney street,  i was enjoying the entertaining and sharp reparte of a cabaret star who liberally spinkled the word Cunt about among her adoring fans so that we would become educated as to its true meaning & poetic status. she had us all singing along, “Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!”, fantastic stuff! it just never comes out that stylishly when i start using naughty words on-stage, i simply let off steam and only some of my audience has stayed behind. still, best to sort the wheat from the chav early-on, i say.

anyway. as i made to go to the bar with but half a glass of light ale left in my hand, i had the misfortune to stumble over a pair of size ten boots that had been carelessly left in the thoroughfare by some snivvelling sub-goth wannabe. as i straightened out to gracefully receive its apology for its lack of spacial awareness, my grinning mug was met by an achingly cool sneer of disdane from, as it turned out, a sub-post-neo-goth-a-like teenage girl. well, fuck her and the heroin induced infants she will spit out. “Cunt!” i shouted, and began to laugh uncontrollably as i poured what remained of my light ale (it was piss anyway) down her cheap, black, frilly fronted frock.

i was peomptly bungled out of the establishment and thrown onto the street, shit-arsed drunk.

…no sense of humour, these cunts have…

A new foxaque record has been recovered from obscurity! “Hot Rashida”.

Oriental and middle eastern themes were popular and influential in jazz throughout the 1920’s e.g. “the Sheik of araby”, “Istanbul (not Constantinople)” and “Nagasaki” to name but 3 of vast menagerie. especially attactive to the british colonial mentality. the theme and style of the music was shaped mainly from Jewish immigrants from the former Czarist Russian and Ottoman empires who had settled in the USA. Klezmer cannot be discounted in the development of jazz. it’s energy enthusing the “Hot” style without doubt. in this example, Foxaque has joyfully plagiarised and constructed (in his own signature style) a racey brothel theme – leaning towards the bawdy cabaret scene of London – and the main tune is barely disguised over that of “Leena The Queen o’ Palesteena”. even the lyrics reference related tunes: that of “Rebecca Came Back From Mecca” with the immortal lines, ” Rashida’s waitin’ in the harem/ she got clothes but she don’t wear ‘em”. it’s naught but smut in the Foxaque vein. also clearly revealing the WASP-ish attitude held at the time regarding “naughty Arabs”.

Foxaque was a product of his time. at heart a bohemian jazzer but forever trapped in the less tasteful attitudes of the “Haut Bourgeoise”: he was a Taff posing as a Toff. passing it off due to his expensive education and social conditioning in the English Public School system that so moulded him in his formative years. a racist, not. bigoted by the colonial mentality and class divisions, certainly. Foxaque was often seen mixing with all sorts of exotic types: blacks, orientals, Indians, arabs, babbling Mediterraneans, even irishmen. as long as they shared a bon vivante and a creative bent. but street licking scrubbers he couldn’t stand. he was hiding, very well, the fact that he was one of them.

this goes a long way to explain why he hated the underclass, but always took a shine to the “underdog” – a different being altogether, for all artists a essentially that. Foxaque was comfortable on the periphery of society, although he craved high society too. he was a socialite. he like the champagne, but cared naught for the socialism that sometimes came with it. in fact, Foxaque was of the opinion that the Bolsheviks (in his mind, ever unshaven and about to kick down his door) would cause a lot of trouble in the world now that they had got a grasp on Russia… high society was foxaque’s daily bread and an equal society would not precipitate an easy living. what profit in entertaining the “have nots”?

Good art begets good money and Great fortunes begat great artists.

might as well start at the bottom of that ladder, foxaque do speculate…

The devil, you see, was not the traditional fire and brimstone, smelly, horned fellow the Christians would have you believe. No. he was one of many: these people had, in fact, cross bred over centuries throughout the world’s aristocratic and ruling classes. They were industrialists, political figures (kingmakers rather than public servants), military leaders, empire builders, slave traders, famous and skilful artists or musicians. All were immensely rich and influential. They had refined and subtle ways of manipulating those they wished to rule, and if that didn’t work, they had immeasurable resources of thugs and brutality to persuade a stubborn mind. To wager your soul with such a person was purely symbolic in many ways. You were really wagering everything you had, materially and socially, your very identity. It was a short cut to the top. If you won, you joined the shadowy “influencial” class. If you lost, it was off to the gutter and slums, joining all the halfwits, prostitutes, alcoholics, drug addicts, criminals, scrubbers and servile plebeians, with little chance of bettering yourself. Certainly, no one had ever regained their former status. Not even near…

Now Foxaque never liked to play on a sticky wicket as a rule and he sensed things were not quite right. Added to which, he was keenly aware of the fresh scent of shaven cunt wafting into his nostrils, making him dizzy and distracted. The two young nobles had fixed expressions – drawn and agitated. Unknown to Foxaque at that time, the two young men (Rudolph and Dimitry) had, in the haze of drunken bavado, decided they would compete at cards with the Devil. They would risk their reputations, influence, future lands & titles, their very souls. They were eager for power and glory, desperate to match the heroic exploits of their older siblings and cousins who ad fruitlessly laid down their lives in the Great War. They would have stood to inherit multiple titles and lands by now had not their Parents been relatively young. Foxaque hoped to god there wouldn’t be another war, else who would be left to lead a rudderless Britain if we splash the remains of the ruling classes upon another futile conflict? Imagine the kind of politicians we would end up with!!?? Even more bent than the aristos… back to Rudolph and Dimitry, though. Now these two were competitive and not averse to dropping each other in the shit… Prince Lois, of course, knew this and took full advantage, gently playing one against the other (as any sensible royal figure would do to keep his barons under control). The two Masonic Nobs subtley followed suit, being older and wiser, and worked the two naïve young men. The politician, who looked uncannily like, if not was, Winston Churchill, smelt blood too and played for an easy get out by exploiting their rivalry in his own insidious way, learnt in the corridors of Westminster and the cloisters of his own expensive education: banter, confusion, snide quips and the usual array of bullshit that any decent politician has in his survival armoury.

The industrialist and foreign military officer seemed indifferent and were clearly playing for their own reasons.

Foxaque’s thoughts were elsewhere, though. Nonetheless, he had worked himself what seemed like a winning hand and had scrawled himself an IOU note promising only a few pints of ale in a pub of Lois’ choice. Foxaque wasn’t taking it seriously. Quell surprise…? He wasn’t in the mood to gamble that evening anyway…

He was, o the other hand, in the mood for pleasure. The Amazonique attendant had been leaning over him for more than he could ignore. She would run her fingers through his hair and whisper breathily into his ear for “Refill?”. Foxaque glanced down to the opening in her gown, revealing, to his satisfaction, that she was indeed naked underneath, and hairless. Foxaque Confidently and discretely slipped a hand in the opening and found her to be more than receptive. She squeezed the bulge in his britches. It wasn’t Foxaque’s pocket watch she felt ticking, for sure. Before he could compose himself, his cock had been loosed from his trouser flies and a skillfull mouth was gently obliging him.

At this point, a number of events in quick succession caused utter pandemonium. As Foxaque was enjoying his blowjob, he calmly realised why all, bar the two young men, were perfectly placid and relaxed. As this pleasing revelation hit home, raised voices erupted from across the table.

“You swindler!” cried Dimitry, jumping to his feet, pointing an accusatory finger at, surprisingly, his own companion. The politician leered. Prince Lois raised an eyebrow in mock surprise and oh! So painfully smooth nonchalance.

“how dare you!” shouted Rudolph, shaking with pure indignation, “How dare you say such a thing!” now rising to his feet, his trousers undone for some reason. “You Shit!” he continued, in his defence, “I’ve trusted you precious little and now I know why!” he punched his accuser. Pointing, he resumed “have that! I never saw you shed a tear for your fallen brothers, covetous cunt! And now you dare to accuse me of a thing that comes all too easily to you?!!”

As he raged, retainers and servants rushed from the shadows of the room. Although small and seemingly old, Prince Lois’ servants were fast getting the better of their charge as they tried to restrain him. Not that any of this was shocking in itself. It was more common than you might think when playing cards with the devil. Foxaque, not wanting to loose his new playmate gripped her air and neck. He was on the home straight and cared little for her need to breath. As Foxaque squirmed and postured ready to shoot his bolt, Dimitry did suddenly brandish a small revolver and fired a round into the chest of his sometime friend, all the while shouting furiously, “damn you to Bæeelzebub and rot in the flaming circles of Hades, you self-righteous wanker!” and so he did. All faces jumped with surprise, except Foxaque who was busy emptying his sacks, not that the others noticed. Yet more servants darted from th shadows. Before they could grapple with the wild eyed Rudolph, the military officer sprang from his seat, throwing aside, until that moment, a concealed usherette and whipped out a pistol. Surprise upon surprise! Quickly followed by distaste: the officer was also sporting a glistening erection protruding from his uniform, freshly cocked but as yet to be discharged. Rudolph, whilst struggling with no less than two of Prince Lois’ wrinckled retainers, brought is revolver to bare on the new threat, but too late. 2 shots burst in quick sequence. The first put pay to Rudolph, but in so doing, Rudolph indiscriminately off-loaded a round into the eye of the industrialist, the back of his skull and contents therein,spattered across Churchillk’s face. The industrialist had been leaning over the table at the time reaching for his money, a large wad at that. Foxaque looked on, glazed, still unloading his own wad into the mouth of the poor unfortuneate twixt his thighs. The bound notes of money that the industrialist was reaching for was somehow flicked into Foxaque’s lap just as his obliging attendant rolled away, spluttering her recent gift upon the grubby, unwashed shagpile. Two and a half thousand pounds swiftly following a good gobble. And in cash! Anarchy ensued. Foxaque grabbed the cash and his still throbbing, dripping cock and instinctively rolled under the table. As he did so, another pistol shot tore through the back of Foxaque’s freshly vacated chair. The officer (and his little sergeant), grappling with a fresh wave of satan’s staff, ad accidentally shot one off into Foxaque’s seat. He was disarmed and the gun was catapulted from his grip and bounced off Prince Lois’ brow, knocking him back, upending his seat, leaving his pointy Italian shoes signalling all to look up! “Police!” shouted somebody from the hallway. Anyone still alive scrambled for the door, still scuffling and landing blows in the gloom.

Foxaque was high with the excitement of events and rushed out with the others, his cock still hanging from his trousers. Cash in hand, he grabbed his overcoat. The panicked usherette he’s first met was still at the door, wishing a goodnight to each person leaving, not knowing quite what to do with herself. Foxaque ran towards her. She was aghast and thrilled to see so many well dressed men run past with their tackles out. Foxaque, in his passion, gathered her up and kissed her. She was shocked again! He released her to exit the house but on second thoughts turned quickly before doing so and grabbed her by the hand, puling her into the night air, escaping to the shadows of dark alleyways to sin anew with his fresh catch…

Some say he sold his soul to the prince of darkness. And some say Foxaque bluffed him. Some say Foxaque was the Devil. The Devil says otherwise. And it is also said that the Prince of Darkness is a gentleman. A fine gentleman. And gentlemen don’t Welch on a wager.

But why would old Lois Cypher want Foxaque’s Brandy soaked soul?

Foxaque for one, was probably unaware that Lois was the devil and certainly not fully conscious of having wagered his soul over a game of cards.

Foxaque was of the opinion (and Foxaque’s opinions were usually worthless) that the Devil hadn’t much to do these days. Foxaque had survived the Great War by a whisker (though he still bore the scars from a German bayonet), and considered the war a great evil thrust upon the world by the hand of delusional politicians rather than Satan. Grinding poverty (the 1920s weren’t so roaring for common folk); unshaven Bolsheviks; the Spanish influenza – all these things he could rationalise and the cause of most of the world’s misery at any moment, Foxaque could boil down to human greed and exploitation. At no point could he see where the hand of Lucifer was actually doing any real harm. Not that Foxaque was in any way religious; he was a noted dissenter and “anti-Christ”. As such, Foxaque was certainly not convinced of the Devil’s existence either. But, reasoned Foxaque, if the Devil were to exist, he would be beastly drunk somewhere (probably on the Mediterranean somewhere between Barcelona and Genoa), having little else to do with his time except gamble and “indulge”…

Well, at that moment, it would happen that the Devil had decided to visit gas lit back streets of the old Hackney borough of London. There, amongst the degradation, prostitutes, dingy pubs, opium dens, immigrants and illegal gambling houses, lay an old stately mansion off a dark side street, thickly shrouded in wispy smoke, gnarled trees, unkempt bushes and wildly overgrown garden. A small gatehouse drew one into the decay. The keystone of the arch still had a semi-legible date on it, half besmirched by lichen and weathering – 16 sixty-something. Restoration for sure, although the foundations and layout could have been medieval – Roman perhaps. The building itself was supposedly to have been the sometime property of the notorious libertine, the third Earl of Rochester who treated the place as a debauched and private whorehouse and wine cellar. By all accounts, according to hushed and local opinion, nothing much was different by the 1920s.

Foxaque gingerly stumbled through the garden to the poorly lit front porch and tapped the door with the handle of his walking cane. The place had been recommended to Foxaque by an acquaintance who he had been entertaining in a private Mayfair champagne club not two days before. Foxaque hadn’t seen his sweetheart for a week now and she was nowhere to be found, unless she was in Paris as she had said – in which case, Foxaque reasoned, whatever Josephine Shaker was up to he would do to…

The beauty that opened the door pleased Foxaque greatly. Any guilty thoughts, unlikely to have been entertained, were certainly locked out by now.

“Come in Mr Foxaque”

“Don’t mind if I do” he murmured.

The glamorous usherette took Foxaque’s hat and overcoat and gestured him to proceed down the hallway. It had a high ceiling. A chandelier cast a strange glowing light. The wallpaper was seemingly a deep blood red velvet and there appeared to be no determinable shadows. What concerned Foxaque more, however, was the slumped body being carried out of one room by two servants.

“Don’t worry Mr Foxaque, this one’s had more than a skin full” said the exotic usherette.

“Ra-ther!” smirked Foxaque.

“It would appear, Sir, that a place at the poker table has opportuned itself. Please take your seat, Mr Foxaque”.

“Thanks awfully” he replied “Do you have the time? My watch appears to have stopped…” Foxaque inquired, mildly irritated.

“We have no concern for time in this establishment, good Sir”

Foxaque grinned a thirsty grin and entered the candlelit gloom…

Old Nick introduced himself as Crown Prince Lois Cypher of… somewhere or other. Eastern Europe or near Persia or some such, Foxaque wasn’t paying attention: his eye was distracted by Prince Lois’ exotic female entourage. A hunger welled inside him and Lois sensed Foxaque’s unfettered lust for pleasure and flesh. Lois spied a weakness, an opportunity. But, even for the Devil in such licentious times of material greed, failed to wholly grasp the extent of Foxaque’s covetousness or the half-witted simplicity of Foxaque’s clown-like misfortune that somehow leads him to such surprisingly (and consistently) top results. Why? Only last year, he’d managed (quite unawares) to seduce the deliciously aromatic Marlene Dietrich in a Berlin club called Paradise (Foxaque was rightly proud of himself, but had simply no idea how he’d done it).

Despite the gloom and flickering light, Foxaque had successfully made every effort to espy Prince Lois’ attractive attendants. He certainly wasn’t fully conscious of all the proceedings of the card game at hand. Prince Lois, ever the strategist, began to slowly make his manoeuvres to net Foxaque: he, with the merest gesture of a finger twitch, dispatched one of his Amazonian servants to keep Foxaque distracted and goodly toped up with fine wine. Foxaque had read about Redman Barry Lindon, and knew that it was probably a ploy to gather intelligence of his hand and convey the information by coded actions or a refill of wine from the right instead of the left, and all that, so he played it close. Not that Foxaque disapproved of the olive skinned belle in her flowing robes, seemingly naked beneath, tantalising his eye as much as his twitching cock. Her dark skin, elegant jaw line, full lips, high cheeks and oriental eyes that flashed with assertive, sexual violence. My kind of girl, thought Foxaque.

To the game:

Around the table were a few others. Aristocrats, manly, but one or two industrial nouveaux riche and political types, a high ranking military officer (Turkish or Bulgarian or some such) with a fez-like hat on – it gave Foxaque an idea for a stage outfit, just like that. The aristos could be clearly split into 2 groups: older ones (Masonic types, for sure) with lands and titles; and younger looking ones- too young to have served in the great war (the class of 1914-18 were conspicuous for their absence for obvious reasons. Foxaque was the only one at the table of an age to have fought.

Save for the older aristocrats who were playing for cash and sipping cognac, at ease in their surroundings, the other players seemed to have folded, hand written notes at the ready for play: I.O.U. notes of credit, presumably. Of all the protagonists, Foxaque observed, the young aristo chaps appeared to have the most at stake – they were nervy and pale and smoked furiously.

Now, Foxaque was known for fleecing people at card games (a skill he was never able to re-establish after his return). To play the Devil at cards was one thing. To bet your soul is another. And Beelzebub is known for collecting the souls of singers: Robert Johnson, Johnny Favourite, Frank Sinatra and (soon, we hope) Cliff Richard. And they certainly didn’t look like the sort of playing cards Foxaque was normally used to either…

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…

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…

]]> http://topshelfjazz.wordpress.com/2008/02/23/the-foxaque-conspiracy/feed/ 1 topshelfjazz http://topshelfjazz.wordpress.com/2008/02/23/foxaque-retuns/ http://topshelfjazz.wordpress.com/2008/02/23/foxaque-retuns/#comments Sat, 23 Feb 2008 17:42:06 +0000 topshelfjazz http://topshelfjazz.wordpress.com/2008/02/23/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?”.

“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…

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?”