Kaptain's Blog

The writings and musings of The Kaptain

Saturday, August 9, 2008

The Number One Under Heaven (44)

Harold Cheeseman had been attending to the increasingly sordid needs of his boss for decades, ever since the chance encounter that brought them together on the slippery wet streets of North West London. Their early years together had been spent in a carefree manner – Bazza’s money and a shared willingness to ignore the warning signs conspiring to insulate them from the harsh realities that were encroaching upon a promiscuous world. But Bazza’s terror at the rapid demise of rock legend Freddie Mercury soon led him to completely denounce penetrative sex and the ‘exchange of fluids’ with anyone, male or female. Except, that is, those he knew were extremely unlikely to be carrying the AIDS virus or its host, HIV.

Those he subsequently craved were mostly virgins, then.

As young and inexperienced as possible.

Kids, in other words.

Paedophilia was not some sickness that had suddenly hatched one day, after lying dormant in Bazza’s psyche. It was something he had grown into through circumstance: a deliberate choice, in fact. And once he had begun acting upon his new inclination, the fascination it held for him – the sheer excitement – was something quite unexpected. So the boys and girls from his old orphanage who would regularly visit Uncle Barry’s for a special day out got more than just cake and ice cream. Even traditional games such as Blind Man’s Buff, Hide and Seek, and Sardines took on sinister new meanings within the context of the kids’ parties he threw at his upmarket London mews house. These were heady days for the fading pop star, restoring his flagging interest in what he liked to term his joie de vivre. Seeing his boss’s rejuvenation, even Plums had gone along with it, quietly. But once the rumours of Bazza’s newfound proclivity then began to be whispered among the beautiful people of the London club scene, he knew it would soon be time to make good his escape before wider exposure, conviction and a nasty, potentially lethal jail term finally caught up with him. And so, eventually, Bazza left Blighty for good, becoming in the process what was one of Britain’s first paedo-exiles.

Flush with cash following the unparalleled success of his number one single ‘Tight Fittin’, the chorus of which – “Chocolate starfish/Black or white/Bazza like it fittin’ tight” – had both captivated and flown straight over the heads of the British public for a full ten weeks one hot and giddy summer, he chose like many of his peers to flee to less rigid jurisdictions. In his case first Spain, then Thailand, Cambodia and, finally, as he was hounded from a succession of preferred residential locales, Vietnam. Bazza was fortunate that Plums was prepared to throw in his lot with him, devoting his life to the erstwhile star, at great personal sacrifice. For Plums was the rock to which Bazza’s lifeline was tethered.

A little unimaginative, Plums had no idea why his boss had given him this particular nickname – even when, cupping the witless valet’s testicles in a hand, Bazza would provide him with the most obvious of clues. But despite his somewhat challenged intellect there was one, breakthrough suggestion Plums had once made to his boss that had completely floored Bazza with its simple genius. Apropos of nothing, as they sat in doleful contemplation of their latest deportation, he had just blurted it out: “D’ya ’member when we was back in Marbella, boss?” He had pronounced the place name with the full force of two ‘els’, as opposed to the required ‘y’ sound. “Yeah, so what?” Bazza had answered sulkily, feeling a little down on his luck. “Well, one of your mates – who was it? Pete Collymore, Noose’s drummer, I fink. ’Ad a boat, didn’t ’e? Big’un. Lived on it.”

And there it was. A stupendously crafty idea, delivered with numbing simplicity – a triumph, in fact, for Plums’ cockney logic: why bother living around people – voyeurs who snooped around all day watching what you were doing – when you could live on a boat? Live on a boat. Live on a boat! That’s it! Live on a fucking boat! And a fucking huge one, at that! the former reggae legend had instantly surmised. Why be a goldfish in a bowl, when you could be a dolphin in the sea? he added, mentally, congratulating himself on his cleverness. Yes, Bazza liked the reasoning all right. “Shit on sticks, Plums! I think you’ve gone and done it again, darling!” he had exclaimed. And almost immediately, he began writing a new song about it. “’Cause I like dolphins, Plums,” he affirmed, gleefully hugging his manservant. “They’re my favourite fish,” he then concluded, with theatrical solemnity.

posted by Kirk at 11:23 pm  

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