Free Necrophenia by Robert Rankin Page A

my drums?’ Neil asked. ‘I can’t find the stage.’
    So I had to show him and sigh at his amateurism.
    And as the ladyboy from Venus Envy was still hanging around, I made certain enquiries of him regarding, in particular, where the PA system, bass and rhythm-guitar amps and speakers that we had been promised happened to be.
    And the birdie-bloke just laughed. ‘We’re all in the same boat here, sweetie,’ he/she said. ‘It’s row like a big boy or bail out like a girl.’ And then he/she giggled foolishly, which put my teeth on edge.
    Toby, now with his Gibson EB3 bass out and nowhere to plug it in, waggled the jack-plug in my direction. ‘I have a really bad feeling about his,’ he said.
    ‘Listen,’ said I. And I shrugged. ‘We’re top of the bill. Venus Envy can hardly play without a PA, amps and speakers. We’ll bide our time. Play it cool.’
    And so Toby played it cool. And Neil played it cool. And I played it cool. And we stood about, playing it cool and waiting for something to happen and for someone to turn up.
    And so things came to pass.
    It was about ten of the evening clock when the first nightclubbers arrived. I say first, although we didn’t see Mr Ishmael again that night. He never came back from the bar next door. And when we did eventually go looking for him, his limo had gone and he had clearly gone with it.
    But folk were arriving. Although they didn’t look to me to be your typical clubbers, as it were. And certainly not the class of audience I had been hoping for. Nightclubs are known as the haunts of the young and trendy. These clubbers were old and far from trendy and they smelled rather strongly of meths and cider and looked like the sort of folk who would probably appreciate a joke about a ******.
    I engaged the guy/gal from Venus Envy once more in conversation. ‘Still no amps or speakers,’ I said. ‘And a bunch of winos have turned up, several of whom I recognise as residents of Cider Island. I’ll give it ten more minutes, then if things do not correct themselves, myself and my colleagues will be taking our leave.’ Which was quite an eloquent little speech, really.
    And it seemed to get the job jobbed.
    The blokey-bird fluttered her/his eyelids and jigged all about in a fluster. ‘Oh, please don’t go,’ wailed and whimpered this person. ‘It is so important to the club that you perform. The equipment will be here shortly. Oh look – here it is.’
    And it was.
    Giant ladies now entered the club. Ladies with high heels and higher hair. And that is one of the things that I have always liked so much about transsexuals and female impersonators: the sheer scale of them. I mean, your average man is about five-nine, five-ten, but put a pompadour wig on him and a pair of five-inch stiletto heels and he’s going to be hitting near to the seven-foot mark.
    Pretty impressive.
    And so these giant lady-men, the lad/lassies of Venus Envy, hauled their gear into the club. I do have to say that they didn’t haul in much gear. And what there was of it looked pretty rough.
    ‘You can’t imagine how much it cost to make the gear look like that,’ I was told.
    But I didn’t answer at this time as I was fighting off a bag lady who was trying to go through my pockets.
    ‘You won’t need to do a soundcheck, will you?’ asked a giant lady-fella, who looked to me to be one of Cinderella’s ugly sisters from panto. Possibly played by Les Dawson, who would, in a few short years, become the most famous female impersonator in the country.
    And certainly one of the most convincing.
    ‘Actually, we did the soundcheck before you got here,’ I told this colourful personage, which must have impressed them a lot.
    Neil appeared with a troubled face. ‘A gigantic woman wants to play my drums,’ he said.
    ‘Give and take,’ I said philosophically. ‘It’s swings and roundabouts, live with it.’
    ‘And another of them is retuning your Strat.’
    ‘No she’s ruddy not.’
    But she