Free Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls by Robert Rankin

note, that seemed to enter into Pooley through the very pores of his skin and—
    What?
    “Cleanse,” whispered Jim. “I am being cleansed.”
    “Thank you, Brentford, and goodnight.”
    And all the lights went out.
    And when they came back on again, the Gandhis were nowhere to be seen.
    But what there was to be seen was something quite extreme. Blokes were clutching at themselves and weeping. Weeping men, and manly men too. Some were fingering at their heads and going “My barnet, it’s back” and others were feeling at their faces, saying “All my spots are gone.” And others still were patting private places and mumbling things like “Me piles have vanished” and “Ye pox is no more.”
    Jim blinked and boggled and sighed and took deep breaths. Men in black T-shirts were sniffing at their armpits and each other’s. “Nice,” was their opinion. “Very fragrant.”
    Jim found that he was sniffing too and nodding as he sniffed. And he felt so well. So healthy. He felt as if he had just spent a week at one of those places the toffs go to, where they cover you in mud and feed you lettuce and suchlike. Whatever that felt like. Good, is what that felt like. Incredibly good.
    “What about that, then, eh?” A tiny voice spoke in his earhole.
    Jim turned to see the fat bloke in the black T-shirt and shorts.
    But.
    The fat bloke wasn’t such a fat bloke any more.
    “Four bloody inches,” the fattish bloke said. “Four bloody inches off my waistline.”
    “How?” whispered Jim. “I mean, what happened, how?”
    “It’s her voice. I knew it was true. The others didn’t believe me. They said it was just a rock legend. But I talked them into coming. I knew it was true, you see. I’d read all about the Gandhis and their Apocalypso Music”
    “Slow down,” said Jim. “I don’t understand.”
    “This was the incident. The one that started it all. And now I can say I was there. And if no one believes me” – the fattish bloke plucked at his trousers – “they’ll believe this, won’t they? My mum will be dead pleased. She’s always going on about me losing weight.”
    “You knew this was going to happen.” Jim fought to make sense of it all. “You knew. How did you know?”
    “Looked it up on Porkie.”
    “What’s Porkie?”
    “Its real name is SWINE. Single World Interfaced Network Engine. It pretty much runs the whole planet. Or did.”
    “I’m losing this,” said Jim.
    “Of course you are. But even if I told you all about it, you’d never believe me.”
    “I’d give it a go.”
    The fattish bloke turned to his friends, who were blissfully sniffing their armpits. “What do you think?” he asked them. “Should I tell him?”
    The armpit-sniffers shrugged. One of them said, “What does it matter? We’ll all be off tomorrow.”
    “Off?” said Jim.
    “We’re going to Woodstock.”
    “Woodstock?”
    “Yeah. But never mind about that. Do you want me to tell you, or what?”
    “Please tell me,” said Jim. “Tell me how you knew and tell me just what happened.”
    “All right, I’ll tell you it all. I know I really shouldn’t, but as you tipped me off about John Lennon, I’ll tip you off about something in return. You might do us all a bit of good by knowing.”
    “Geraldo,” said Jim. “It is Geraldo, isn’t it?”
    “Was the last time I looked.”
    “Geraldo, what do you mean about John Lennon?”
    “You tipped me off that he didn’t die.”
    “But he didn’t die.”
    “No, but he should have done. And if he didn’t, it means that Wingarde’s been interfering again.”
    “Curiously,” said Jim, “you’ve lost me once again. Who, in the name of whatever I hold holy, is Wingarde?”
    “He’s a flash little hacker with a better rig than mine.”
    “All becomes clear.”
    “Does it?” asked Geraldo.
    “No,” said Jim. “It does not.”
    “Yeah, well don’t you worry about Wingarde. He might think he’s been really smart. But now that we know what