Christian Yorke

CY NOTE: Herewith the next instalment of Funk Moonbeam’s rock n roll road odyssey, transcribed from original manuscripts.

I hadn’t slept for three days straight by the time I found Bourg-St-Pierre in search of Heidi. The air is so thin at this altitude that I almost drove the Red Shark into the packs of St Bernards roaming freely down the lanes. I was fresh out of ether, painkillers and deodorant and so had no option but to see off the Grey Goose that I’d recently sourced from from an unattended liquor wagon. The bats were back in my vision and every time I thought of Ace all I could see was Tiff’s jaundiced eyes bursting from their sockets as he drilled her over my mixing desk. I wished that I’d used the baseball bat on him (instead of attacking him with a lampshade), but that was all history now.

My various wounds were twistin me outta shape when I pulled up at the address that the Samoan attorney had given me from his jail cell. God I was missin that big bastard more than I’d ever imagined possible. Although it was meant to be July I was shakin like a rattlesnake’s tail as I knocked on Heidi’s door, well aware that this was my last chance to straighten myself out with an access all areas makeover.

Holy Jesus, when Heidi opened the door I was rendered blind and mute for over a minute by her powerful dimensions. During that agonising silence she was clearly judging me (wide eyes, hand to mouth, hand covering nose etc) but luckily she had yet to know me long enough to hate me. Things got more regular when I managed to say (as advised) that the Samoan had sent me. This was a knockout move. Heidi giggled, and then we laughed a bit about my stained jogging pants (don’t ask how I came by them bastards), my blood caked fingers, the half empty magnum of Grey Goose and the tears that wouldn’t stop pouring out of me.

By the time she felt confident enough to let me in her basement apartment I was craving a deep snort of ether more than at any previous point in my life. Instead of doing the decent thing, Heidi shepherded me into her miniature kitchen. She insisted on boiling me up a toxic brew of teas from the orient. I noticed the microwave clock. It was early. Heidi wore a silk Kimono of a quality rarely seen in Switzerland. Her blond hair was the equal even of Ace’s glorious mane and for the first time I realised that I was in the hands of a master. Standing nose to nose in that cramped space I spilled my guts about the band, how I had to make peace with Ace and Tiff and get to the Ethereal festival in Rome where we could showcase my album (Magnolia Glock) and hit the big time. Heidi had heard it all before a million times. I was not the first lost soul rock rebel to have crossed her threshold in search of salvation. She clasped my face, our foreheads touched. I was in and out of a trance, confessing all my sins, cleansing my mind before this powerful nineteen year old guru.

Then, in a moment of maximum connection she hit me with the following:

“Superstar, where you from, how’s it going? I know you, gotta clue what you’re doing? You can play brand new to all the other chicks out here but I know what you are, what you are, baby.

Look at you, gettin more than just re-up baby, you got all the puppets with their strings up; fakin like a good one, but I call ‘em like I see ‘em. I know what you are, what you are, baby.”

I was on my knees, head in hands; how could she know me so thoroughly after only an hour or two of intense head holding? Then she continued with the ultimate truth.

“Womaniser! Woman-womaniser. You’re a womaniser. Oh, womaniser. Oh you’re a womaniser, you, you, you are. You, you, you are! Womaniser, womaniser, womaniser!”

I was terrified. What was she accusin me of? Holy shit, would I ever leave this dark place? Heidi’s face softened.

“You got me goin. you’re oh-so charmin. But I can’t do it, u womaniser.”

I begged Heidi to forgive me of whatever it was she knew I was guilty of. I begged her to lay her healin hands on me, just like the Samoan had said she would.

“Daddy-O,” continued Heidi after turning on the stereo (Guns n’ Roses) so loud that she was shoutin, “you got the swagger of a champion. Too bad for you, just can’t find the right companion. I guess when you have one too many, makes it hard. Could be easy. Who you are, that’s who you are baby.”

This reference to me bein a champion got my hopes up, I don’t mind admittin that much, but Heidi’s cruel mind play took a dark twist.

“Lollipop, must mistake me; you’re a sucker to think that I would be a victim not another. Say it, play it how you wanna. But no way I’m ever gonna fall for you, never you, baby.”

Things were movin fast. All the drug abuse and sleep starvation had me trippin out like an adrenochrome fiend. I was kissin Heidi’s feet and legs as Welcome to the Jungle rocked the joint. I was screaming that I didn’t plan to make Heidi my victim, that I loved Ace La Rouge for the sake of all that is holy. The hard stone floor hurt my fists as I beat it.

“Maybe if we lived in different worlds (womaniser, womaniser, WOMANISER) it would be all good, and maybe I could be ya girl. But I can’t…”

Then Heidi left me as I writhed on that cold kitchen floor amongst rotting schnitzel, dog food and cat litter.

I almost certainly blacked out, believing that the Samoan had let me down for the first time. Begging Heidi to straighten me out with a hardcore makeover so I could get the band back together and find eternal happiness had failed. It was dark when my eyes opened. Red light bulbs transformed the flat into a vision of hell and the black walls ran with blood. A glitter ball cast strange shapes, the place reeked of lavender or lillies and through all this strode Heidi, dressed as I had never imagined possible.

She was now at least six foot five in thigh high black leather stack heeled military boots. Only her eyes and mouth were visible beneath the leather premium locking slave hood with snap on leather gag. Other that that she was naked except for the locking spreader bars between her ankles and what looked like a chest restraint belt, leather bicep arm binders with opera gloves, a zippered eyeless (total sensory deprivation) hood, a stainless steel anal hook, Derby-style handcuffs, a steel cock and balls shackle and a heavy steel collar with attached cuffs; all of which was slung her her shoulder and presumably for my benefit.

I jumped to my feet and made for the door. It was tripple bolted. The stereo was pumping out Megadeth. And Heidi came for me (no small achievement in those spreaders!), pointing to an open door…

CY footnote: I am now recovering from the above revelations. Once my strength returns I will transcribe the next part of Funk’s mangled manuscript notes. See you next time.

It’s been almost three weeks since I, Funk Moonbeam, trashed my crib with a baseball bat, smashed Tiff’s nose with a lamp and fled for my life with just a laptop and a hell-red convertible to my name. Livin in the basement of Hotel au Vieux-Valais in Verbier was sicker than that night in the Alpine shack with my uncles and their dogs. It took me longer than expected to steal a mobile so I could get that much needed legal advice from my attorney, the legendary 80 something Samoan. In the end I had to degrade myself with two cleaners, Kimi and Mika, to get the keys to a hotel room. I stole a lot of shit from that hotel room including a dazzling iphone, some moisturiser, waxing equipment, a shoe buffing mit and the entire contents of the mini bar. I was on a heavenly high when I gave the keys back to Mika and I did little to resist when he degraded me thrice more (the last act being secretly filmed by Kimi, but what the hell).

Back in the basement I was amazed that I got a signal and was straight on to the Samoan. He was in a bad state because there is a new inmate in his jail cell. The Samoan refused to elaborate but I could hear the tears in his voice. He did tell me that the pigs had taken his last loin cloth and that he was sweatin out 6 pints of salty grease during the hot nights and his digestive problems were gettin worse. Havin shared that cell with him I felt his pain and we talked about the old days for a while. Then I burdened the big guy with my sorry story and begged him to help me with his wisdom.

The Samoan listened, complaining that the battery in the mobile I’d smuggled in for him, was gettin kinda low. Then, when I was on my knees, beggin for him to help, he said (in that deep voice that used to sooth me to sleep), “We’ve been broken down to the lowest turn. Being on the bottom line sure ain’t no fun. But if we should be evicted, huh, from our homes, we’ll just move somewhere else and still carry on. Oh, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on Oooh, ah baby. Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on ooh, oooh, aah. The only way is up, baby for you and me now. The only way is up, baby for you and me now.”

Every part of my body tingled as his wisdom aroused my pride, gave me belief. Through tears of ecstasy I got a lot of shit on the table, tellin the Samoan about how Ace had betrayed me with Tiff, how my band was in bits and how I hadn’t eaten for days. The Samoan was right there for me sayin, “Now we may not know, huh, where our next meal is coming from, but with me by your side you’ll face what is to come.”

I said, “Boy I want to thank you, yeah, for lovin me this way. Things may be a little hard now but I’ll find a brighter day.”

Havin fixed my head with his counsellin (three little bottles of spirit also helpin to straighten me out), he got down to business. He advised me to clean myself up. He knew a hot girl called Heidi (who owed him some favours) in Bourg-St-Pierre who was good with soap and sissors and could re-invent me as a rock star. A new image would give me the inner determination to find Tiff and Ace, get the band back together and then get us all down to the Ethereal festival in Rome where our music would knock the shit outa the big A n R guys from the majors. If I could find Heidi, all I had to do was tell her that the Samoan had sent me and she would know exactly what to do.

I don’t know where Tiff and Ace are and it may already be too late, but I’m leavin this stinkin basement and headin for Heidi; right after I’ve properly thanked Kimi and Mika for their kindness.

Patrice Phannybaahteur’s Fiat Panda was makin some sick noises and smells when I abandoned it in the road outside my crib in Verbier. I hated myself worse than usual for stealin such a nasty craft. I’d spent the content of Phannybaatheur’s wallet on six cans of deodorant (the snortin kind), two litres of Smirnoff and almost twenty tins of Red Bull. I’d driven the wheels of that beige bad boy half way across Switzerland and was in a state of delerium. I had been sick too often to count (the evidence still splattered around the dashboard, over the pedals and down the outside of the door) and was hurtin real bad. All I knew was that I had to get the master tapes to Magnolia Glock, my laptop and a hot shower before headin down to Rome to catch Tiff and Ace.

I fell over the bins as I ran to the door and then I saw it; the 1971 Cevrolet Impala convertible, gleemin hell-red in the drive. I knew Tiff was probably already in the studio, stealin my work whilst no doubt bangin Ace over the mixin desk. It was time to shut that goat fluffer down for the final time. I was angrier than I had imagined possible, worse even that when my uncles used to join me in my Alpine exile and take photos and videos of me trying to find my clothes and warming parts of their old bodies with parts of my boyish form.

I rammed the front door, but my splintered ribs let me down and blood started pouring from my nose and I struggled to catch my breath.

I was slumped on the steps shoutin at the kids who were laughin at me when the door opened and I fell inside. My mother almost collapsed at the sight of me, her only son, lyin in the soil and weeds. But I drew strength from my anger, from what Tiff was doin to Ace, and made down the hall. My mother tried to stop me and dropped the letters that she’d been readin. I noticed that they were all addressed to me, my private correspondence and I hated that devil so badly that I wiped the blood from my nose and tried to rub it in her face. There was no respect in the way she looked at me and even though it was obvious that she had been on the brandy and even though she was practically naked in the middle of the day she seemed determined to stop me gettin to the studio. I wondered how much Tiff had paid her, or what other inducements that horny rat bastard had offered to turn her against me.

We struggled for a very long time and I knocked my old bike over and stamped on it, even though I might have needed it later to make my getaway. By the time I overpowered mother she was cryin and shoutin the Lord’s name and lookin terrified, no doubt realisin that after I finished with Tiff I’d probably be back in jail or rigged to an electric chair for all it mattered to her. When I burst into the studio my eyes were stingin and I could hardly see. My face was wet with blood and other fluid and as I dried my eyes there they all were; Tiff, Ace and, oh God have mercy, my old man!

Tiff had my laptop in his grasp and looked as though he was packin heat. Ace had her hands over her mouth and although my father was reclined on my bed he jumped up when he saw me. His face looked like the tip of a whale’s cock, all fat and bruised and full of murder. He pointed at me, laughin more than the kids outside, more than my uncles ever had, and started makin baby noises and callin me his little boy. Over and over again, sayin I was his baby and just pointin like he didn’t know what to do with his fists. Then my mother arrived and started sayin much the same. I started shoutin at Ace, wantin to know why she never came to me when I called her name like she’d promised. Whale cock was repeatin himself like he was at a funeral callin me a little boy like I was stupid and, when I could take it no more, I said somethin like, “I get down to dry my hair with a little touch of gel, I read all the newspapers but my mother still reads my mail! I won’t wish my life away but tell me if you can, who decides when I’m grown up and I’ve turned into a man?” Now I was really shoutin as I demanded, “Drop the boy, drop the boy! I’m a man, yes I am but they still call me boy. Drop the boy, drop the boy I’m a man, yes I am and I’ll be jumpin for joy when they drop the boy.”

I spotted the keys to the Impala near the bedside lamp, plannin my next move, but had to get it all out in the open. “I’m tired of the boy thing, I’ve got other things to do. I’d like to be in politics, can’t take another visit to the zoo. No more bikes or plastic models and braces on my teeth. I’d like to drive as Dino and live out of my reach. Drop the boy, drop the boy. I’m a man, yes I am but they still call me boy. I’m a man, yes I am and I’ll be jumpin for joy when they drop the boy.”

Then I did what comes natural in times of trouble and started takin that studio apart. I went at the mixin desk with a baseball bat, deafened by my pumpin heart. I did the window, the shelves, my DVD’s and then went for Tiff. Old whale cock came at me sayin don’t do it son, or some redundant shit like that and I went for him with the bat, determined to burst his cock head and Ace was slappin me and my mother was screamin and Tiff joined in, tryin to get that heavy bat off me so he could use it on me.

Tiff’s abnormal weight and the brain carnage of prolonged deodorant abuse was too much and I was on the floor crawlin to the door and then everythin was clear. I threw a lamp at Tiff and as it struck him full in the face I nabbed the keys to the Red Shark and threw myself out of the window. Somehow I had also managed to grab my laptop and I took off in the Impala. I’m now hidin out in the basement of some hotel layin down this heavy shit. The Impala is hidden under some bushes and garbage and I’m gonna have to steal a new mobile tomorrow so I can try to talk to the Samoan; cos I need help, that giant eighty somethin lawyer will know what to do, he’ll help me. He’ll have the answers. I just gotta talk to the guy and then it just might be okay.

It’s cold in this basement. Cold, lonely and hopeless…

Last night Ace came to me in a dream whilst I was bummin’ a lift in the luggage hold of some tourist coach. It was an unholy sacrifice, but the coach would take me most of the way to Andelfingen where I had to get me some wheels. 

I confess that I’m tired of bummin like a nomad in dark places, hidin out from a twisted world and stealin from bars and postin this muck from trucker’s joints on blagged hardware, but I ain’t got no choice right now. I almost iced my bollocks off in that iron hold and I faced death more than once. It was after snorting a full can of deodorant that the light burned brightest behind my closed eyelids and Ace La Rouge came to me. She wore a yellow catsuit and little else, looking every inch the hottest tits-out rock honey alive and the only woman powerful to take back the lead vocals in my band. In my delerium she floated above me, snapping her fingers to some tune on her ipod. I was writhin between the suitcases, feelin down and troubled, needin a helpin hand. Everything was goin wrong, my sorry life was dark as penguin fur and filled with clouds. And then she sang to me; her voice like a perfect flute, hitting every note in more than one key. Hours later, when she disappeared like a sprite, I wrote everything out in my jotting pad with a green crayon under a flickering lighter. It was an unholy mess when I tried readin it the next day, but as far as I can make out my dream went something like this:

Ace: When you’re down and troubled and you need a helping hand, and nothing, whoa nothing is going right. Close your eyes and think of me and soon I’ll be there to brighten up even your darkest nights.

Me: Here I wrote about how Ace looked like an angel (I’m keepin my actual words private) and think I went on to beg her to tell me how I could get her to give up the private dancing and come back to the band and take me seriously, or some shit like that…

Ace: You just call out my name, and you know wherever I am I’ll come running, oh yeah baby, to see you again. Winter, spring, summer or fall all you have to do is call and I’ll be there yeah, yeah, yeah. You’ve got a friend.

Funk: I was screamin “Ace, come to me, don’t leave me with these leaches and sick swine crushin my dreams,” and noted that the wind was battering the coach and that my heart was cold in the black box…

Ace: If the sky above you should turn dark and full of clouds and that old north wind should begin to blow, keep your head together and call my name out loud

Funk: At this point my jotter reports that I had never shouted so loud. I doubted that this vision of Ace was being 100% truthful. I suspected foul play and demanded to know when and how she would reveal herself to me whenever I commanded her to appear.

Ace: And soon I’ll be knocking on your door. You just call out my name and you know wherever I am I’ll come running to see you again…

In the time that we shared I forgave Ace for almost everything and knew that if only I could get the band back together then we could make it big. But I had to follow the Samoan’s plan and get the Red Shark. When I tipped myself out of that coach and started the 30 mile walk from God knows where to Andelfingen in the canton of Zurich I was hurtin real bad. My ribs was all busted to splinters after the beatin I took at the hands of that mob of street bitches in Montreux. I looked like a sleazy tramp; even my Sean John Hill denim jacket was ripped and quality shit like that don’t rip easily. When I got to the village the sun was goin down and I asked around for Tiff’s uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen. The way the mums shielded their kids eyes and aimed their dogs at me suggested that they hadn’t heard of Tiff’s uncle’s cousin. I was ready to chuck myself in the river Thur when I fell to my knees on Thurtalstrasse 3 near the Marketplatz calling Ace’s name, calling Tiff’s name and hammering my bloodied fists on the paving slabs.

Then, from nowhere, a giant mountain of pure fat bastard loomed over me. I expected to be beaten to death there and then just for being a hot rock rebel, but to my amazement the man mountain helped me to my feet. I had been in this situation more than once, and knew that I would be too weak to fend him off if he dragged me into a nearby alley to soil me; but I was amazed for a second time when he introduced himself as Tiff Pennisbrith’s uncle’s cousin: Patrice Phannybaahteur!

We ended up in some dive either called Zivilschutzzentrum or Spaetzlipfanne or some other combination of Germanic consonants. It was a restaurant of some description and I thought at one point that Patrice (who had a gentle voice, much softer than Tiff’s) was trying to get me drunk and fatten me up on rosti for some consensual romp or other, but no! He just seemed even lonelier than me and kept bangin on about his sad old memories from when Tiff was a boy.

I was zoning out, thinkin of Ace and tryin to call her name without bein too obvious, when I realised that I had to pop the question. I spent about an hour flattering the bastard (complimenting his thick neck and jaundiced eyes) and then told him straight that Tiff needed his 1971 Chevrolet Impala convertible (the Red Shark!) for a bit of business.

Patrice Phannybaahteur laughed in my face, and when he stopped laughing he hit me with it. He no longer had his Red Shark. I spat my drink (Smirnoff Black Label) in his face and made a speech about how he had to give me that car, that my future wealth and fame depended on it. And when I’d calmed down (Patrice had a fork against my groin under the table in the rapidly emptying restaurant) Patrice explained that Tiff had already collected it not 24 hours earlier.

Holy Mary, Joseph and Solomon! Patrice hurt my feelings in the worst way when he told me that Tiff had formed a new band with Ace and that he was taking her to Rome in the Red Shark! In that moment I knew exactly what to do, but Tiff had a head start and I had to move fast. When Phannybaateur disappeared to bleed the lizard I stole his coat, keys and cash and made off into the night full of booze and cheese based potato, like a black panther with a score to settle and a damsel to save…

After my last confession I grabbed my Gretsch and hit the road. The scene with Tiff Pennisbrith in T Bar had bent my soul badly out of shape. My music, my band, Axl (my pet rattlesnake) and the cops could all go to hell. I was so stoked that I couldn’t even be bothered to burn the Magnolia Glock master tapes, but I did find time of source a gallon of ether and a range of clean(ish) hankies.

As I trudged down some rain lashed path I remembered the Samoan’s kind words back in the slammer. Damn the consequences! I had to find Tiff’s uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen and steal his red ‘71 Chevrolet Impala. That way I might still get to Rome, hook up with Stockton and  do a deal to bring my music to the world.

After hours of painful trudging some hot chalet girls, who owed me about a million favours (they like ether even more me), drove me half way to Montreux. It was a tight squeeze and hotter than Satan’s ass crack in the back of that Fiat but they knew how to party. Man they knew how to work their private muscles. It was like a rodeo until the lights went out.

I woke up hours, or days later spitting blood. My left eye was sealed shut. I was coughing up blood as well. My Gretsch was gone, as was my ether. Those musky bitches had screwed me over bad style. All those fanny hags had left me was my Remixdakickz black splash custom Air Force One sneakers, Rocawear “Block Party” jeans, Johnny Blaze hoodie, Sean John Hill denim jacket, Chinchilla coat and Angorra bucket hat. Man I was boilin alive. My sweat started fizzin when I realised they’d f****d off with my gold plated icey highlighted cross pendent and chain, my icey silvertone mic pendent and chain, my Coolio pendent and chain and my Jesus Head and Goldtone bracelet. Damn those jizz smudged vixens to hell and back.

As I crawled out from behind the dumpster I could feel that my balls had been comprehensively emptied. For my next mistake I dropped my jeans to check for further injury and a pack of street wise goons came at me, flashing their blades in the sun. Man, I took one hell of a beating. That night I busted into some grannie house and lifted a fist of francs and later found a bum who scored me some NASTY acid. That was one bad bastard night. Holy Jesus, I never knew bats came in so many colours. In the twisted grip of a trip I found a writing pad and a box of crayons and started bangin out some kind of diary that I’m now deciphering to bring this to you. I must have spoken to the Samoan, at least in my mind, because I’d scrawled out the followin discussion:

Funk-F***k you man, I’m dyin. Those p*****s screwed me real bad, real bad. I ain’t hangin in here. I’m on a bridge you flabby c**t. Yeah man, there’s shit loads of cars below ready to squash my lilly white ass all the way to Palookaville.

The Samoan: Cool your boots little one. Sounds like you need a hug. Imagine me there with you. Let me hug away your tears. You’re bigger than any of those chalet girls. You can’t let them break you, or the street wise gangsters who beat you senseless. Find your destiny, like I advised you. Get to the Ethereal festival in Rome in a ‘71 convertible Chevrolet Impala, find Stockton and all your troubles will be far away. The world will queue up to suck your c**k when you are famous, it’s just a matter of time.

Funk-But look at me, I’m havin an out of body experience and the sun is cookin me! I ain’t got what it takes man, I ain’t gonna be a star, I’m a second rate shit fiddler.

The Samoan-You’re suitably at one with your body and the sun, yes you are! You’ve read Karl Marx and you’ve taught yourself to dance, you’re the best by far! But you keep asking the question, the one you’re not supposed to mention.

Funk-When will I, will I be famous?

The Samoan-I can’t answer, I can’t answer that.

Funk-When will I see my picture in the paper?

The Samoan-I can’t answer, I can’t answer that. You’re a slave to fashion and your life is full of passion, it’s the way you are! You’ve suffered for your art with your jogging in the park, you know you should go far! But you keep asking the question, the one you’re not supposed to mention.

Funk-When will I, will I be famous?

The Samoan-Oh I can’t tell you when you’ll see your name up in lights.

Funk-When will I, will I be famous?

The Samoan-You keep asking me babe.

Funk-I can’t wait!

The Samoan-You’re a talent, you know that I’ve noticed. You’d like to be a legend, a big star overnight! I can’t answer your question.

Funk-I can’t wait. It’s driving me insane…

The conversation must have ended there because the following three pages are filled with crayon sketches of a unicorn being hunted by three dragons and a male pornstar. But, as ever the Samoan had made me see sense. I had to find Tiff’s uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen and get his car. Then a small matter of tryin to get the band back together and finding fame in Rome.

Funk tired. Funk out.

Sweet baby Mary, Peter and Judus this toxic mountain air is turnin me inside out. I know it’s been a couple of weeks since I last reported in but I’ve been confrontin heavy personal issues with the goat herding old timers since Tiff twisted me out of shape. Even if there had been electricity in the hut I’ve been squattin in, I was in no condition to go providin you with updates after that nasty scene in T Bar.

I know Tiff Pennisbrith is a world quality rhythm master but he’s still a South African to the bottom of his balls to the tip of his snout. That bitch had renounced me for a third and final time before I bolted for the mountains. I loved him like a brother, but after what he said that night he is dead to me. The new album can go to hell because the band is finished.

I’m now sat in The Farinet at the Place Centrale in Verbier. The bastard sun is boilin my eyeballs as I try to process all this bad shit. My last clear memory was of chewin the cud with Tiff in T Bar, me in a cosmic mood on account of just bustin out of the slammer. Everything had been cool until Miss Verbier 2009 waddled in, tits and belly rings everywhere; and Tiff went “deep south”. My mind was sparkin in all the wrong directions. I was missin the Samoan, I’l admit it, and Tiff started bangin on my buttons like a vodka banshee.

I had him out on the terrace in a headlock (all 19 stones of pure fat bastard) when he crossed the rubicon. Yes, he brought up the Zermatt thing. Zermatt! God damn that sleazy ski site. We shouldn’t even have been there. I’d been nailin down some evil remixes when I got the call from some pimp I used to ride with. Hotel Simi, down Zermatt way, was deep in dogshit because their resident rock/house band (the great Andy Boller) had come down with some delirium so couldn’t do the gig. Andy is an old hero of mine from back in the day. I’ve followed his career on and off for years. Tracks like Skaffle, She has a Way With Her Eyes and Gimme Water are some of the most potent, stripped back piano driven power rock that has ever been created. I’ve seen pro wrestlers cry like goats when Boller gets his groove on: his vocals are a mashup of (early) Huey Lewis, Falco, that bloke from Cutting Crew and Otis Reading. Balls out rock! Simi needed an old fashioned tits-out rock combo to stand in. I love that haggard  pimp and told the him that I’d get our band over to do the show and save the day.

Tiff was a pain in the ass all the way there, but Ace was as chilled as any sexy minx has a right to be whilst drooling on acid. On arrival we smashed into a snow wall near a horse drawn cart and some devil said I looked like Che Guevara cos I drove a diesel van! Of course I kept my gun in quiet seclusion; I’m such a humble man. After hittin the vodka real hard we played the lobby bar from nine. Twisted crowd. Brits and Germans full of poison. Ace was beyond words from the opening bars of Snore Bitzz. Her eyes were in the back of her head as she generated sounds beyond the range of most humans whilst doin her multi-vocal thing. The crowd went wild. Some cops arrived, probably wantin to rape me and Ace. Tiff was tranced out workin his Moog. Before we blew the crowd away with a fifteen minute version of Just Snorin the police had warned of repercussions. They followed none too soon…

Whilst Ace was behind the bubble bar pukin her guts up some sick Brit bastard started tradin punches with a pock-chinned nazi. Then an unholy shit rained down  upon us all. In self defence I stubbed out my fag in some f******s ear and the fuzz came at me, twirlin their battons and shakin their pistols. I fell under the weight of their metal boots and Tiff’s bass got scratched and his Moog got smashed to hell. And he joined the cops in beatin me down.

Somehow I managed to escape them all. A trickle of strangers were all that were left alive. The mescaline had me seein flyin bats as I screamed and ran to smash my favourite slot machine and jumped the silent cars that slept at traffic lights. It took me ten days to hitch back to Verbier and even then Tiff still blamed me for the pigs wreckin his instruments!

Weeks later, whilst in T Bar, I’d wanted to get the band back together. I hit him with the Samoan’s monstrous plan, The Plan, our biggest opportunity to strike gold at the Etheral Festival in Rome. Did Tiff fall to his knees to pay homage to my brilliance? Oh, no, no, no, no, no! The despicable bastard went turbo despite everything I’d been through to drag the c**k s*****g Plan out of the Samoan. Here was Tiff “why don’t you stuff your Plan up your exit hole” Pennisbrith tellin me to stick it up my arse where mobiles and ipods had once dwelled. He had my balls in his hand and was squeezin hard. I’d have done anything to stop that ball squeezin agony, but it got worse. Through a heavy sweat I reminded him that I needed a ragtop for the trip to the Festival and that his uncle’s cousin (from Andelfingen) had a red 1971 Chevrolet Impala convertible. The perfect Red Shark! Tiff took a bad turn at the mention of his uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen. Using a mix of Afrikaans, French and gibberish he told me to f**k the f*****g band, that I was  a f**go*t, that I smelt like ripe f***y f**t and that he’d rather get bare backed by the Samoan than ride by my side to Rome.

I had been too upset to tell him that he’d be riding behind me in the van with Ace and the gear. He want for his knife and I made for the mountains. As usual.

And now, back in Verbier I still feel sick. Even ether doesn’t move me . Looks like it’s over before it’s even begun. Looks like I’ll be on the streets tonight, although I might go to the studio tomorrow to delete the master tapes of Magnolia Glock.

Das Moonbeam ist nicht Rocken…

Believe it or not, American is not even my first language. My uncles forced me to learn German (and I sometimes compose in that language if a romantic passage is needed-see if you can spot this technique on Snore Bitzz which should be our next single) before I left home for the mountains. Tiff insists on talkin at me in French whenever he is snarled up with the rage, which is most of the time, but that’s okay-French is my mother tongue.

After gettin out of jail I hitched a ride to Verbier in a juggernaut with three big-ass bull dykes off their tits on mescaline. It was like bein in heaven with those angels teasin me about bein a rock star. When we arrived  I felt dirty because even though I had a full load and was still emotional after leavin the Samoan, I knew that I’d been used. Whatever, I made for Casbah, keepin my head low in case I was papped lookin like a street sleeper, hoping to find Tiff.

The sun was still blindin me like a bastard when I spotted said Tiff on the terrace at T Bar. He was locked onto some honnies who were bein guarded by some giant bastards. He had probably been up for three days straight and was givin them the old tongue flick and using a bottle of Hooch like a phallus. I got him out of there just in time and settled him inside near some rowdy British swine who were gigglin like horny she-goats because they’d drunk half a bottle of wine.

Tiff was gettin the eye from everyone in the place and I was gettin the horrors because they were playin some faggot Brit band who call themselves Coldplay. Jesus, what I could teach those boys! Tiff had lost his baseball cap and so was in a bad way cos, even though he has the longest brown hair (at the sides that is) he ain’t got too much goin on up top. He was wailin about the chicks outside and what he had in store for them whilst strugglin to position a napkin on his head like a bandana. I told him that he had a look of Axl Rose and he broke down as I ran to the rest room where I laughed until the puke ran from my mouth.

When I returned I spied what looked like a Brit with his nose in Metamorphosis and Other Stories. I wanted to draw his attention to In The Penal Colony but the mescaline that the bull dykes force fed me was kickin in bad style and Tiff was holdin a beer bottle with menace in his eyes. I wrestled the bottle from him, I admit that much, but his reaction was bang out of order and what happened next almost ended our friendship. When I’ve calmed down I’ll spill the beans and tell you what happened when I first told Tiff about The Plan.

Funk Moonbeam signin in! After an uncomfortable night the feds grilled my for an hour with their legal double-speak. The upshot is that the charges against me are being dropped. I still don’t know what those charges are, or who brought them, but I’m sure glad to be bustin’ out so I can get back to my music.

The Samoan seemed pleased for me and we talked like father and son as I waited for some crazy legal documents to be cooked up. He advised me that I have a rare talent-and he should know, he was there at the start of it all in the seventies. He laid out a genius plan, and the best bits are set out below:

1) Get me some wheels. He was fixated on me gettin a red ragtop if I wanted to do it properly (Ace, Tiff and the gear could follow in a van).

2) fill said ragtop with recreational narcotics and at least one weapon (I was ahead of him there on all counts).

3) get on the road to Rome. The Ethereal Festival is due to start there in June where all the seriously cool music guys get it on. If I can get the band there in one piece and on time and if I can find Stockton then a record contract is mine.

The Samoan won’t be gettin out any time soon so when I find Stockton I gotta say “Dr Duke says that the Gonzo vibe lives on in this skinny ass kid” or some shit like that. This will make it clear beyond doubt that the Samoan sent me with a full endorsement.

When the feds finally came for me the Samoan put on his loin cloth and held me, weeping as though we may never meet again. I was powerfully moved and left him my ipod and mobile and told him that I’d be in touch and that he’d never be far from my thoughts. Then I left, determined to get to Casbah in Verbier as a matter of urgency to clear my mind and nostrils with a hearty snort of ether and a magnum of Grey Goose. Tiff was certain to be there and I had no time to waste in gettin him on board.