Free Sprout Mask Replica by Robert Rankin Page A

crammed into the back
eventually became so great that it reached critical mass. There was then a
mighty implosion which sucked the van’s sides into the shape of the great
pyramid and resulted in the creation of one single super-dense proto-hippy, who
was left sitting cross-legged on the floor.
    And
this cosmic event spelt the end for Club 300.
    The end
was as mundane as could be imagined. While my brother regained his senses in
hospital, the uncle whose name I never can remember, returned to his old
profession of light removals. And the very first job he took was to transport
some record decks and lighting equipment from a private house to the local
church hall. My uncle recognized his employer at once (although he couldn’t
recall his name) as a Club 300 regular.
    This
fellow had come up with an idea based upon my brother’s, but one that could be
turned to even greater profit. Forget about holding your disco in a van, hold
it in a hall where you can get more people in. Use the van to transport your
own sound equipment.
    And
such was the birth of the mobile discothèque. And the death of its travelling
progenitor.
     
    But it must have been
fate. For if it had not happened then I would never have met the super-dense
proto-hippy and received my great REVELATION.
     
    It came about in this
fashion. The year was 1966. England had just pulled off the double by winning
the World Cup and putting the first man on the moon. Sonic Energy Authority
were celebrating their tenth number-one hit single and the summer of love had
arrived a year early.
    The
truth that I was partially responsible for all this had yet to dawn.
    Allow
me now to set the scene and explain how it all came about. The Ealing Club had
changed hands and was now called Fangio’s Bar. Getting there on the bus was no
longer a problem as, since the October Revolution of the previous year, all
public transport was now free.
    Things
have changed a lot since then.
    But
that’s the way I like it.
    With
jobs for all and any job you fancy, I had become a private eye. And, with the
national drinking age lowered to fifteen, a semi-alcoholic. On the evening of the
great REVELATION I was sitting in Fangio’s Bar, sipping from a bottle of Bud
and chewing the fat with the fat boy.
    The fat
boy’s name was Fangio but I hadn’t decided yet upon mine.
    In
those days I had a lot of time for Fangio, although thinking back I can’t
recall why. Certainly the guy was fair, he never spoke well of anyone. And when
it came to clothes, he had the most impeccable bad taste I’ve ever encountered.
He suffered from delusions of adequacy and his conversation was enlivened by
the occasional brilliant flash of silence.
    Once
seen, never remembered, that was Fangio. Many put this down to his shortness of
stature, for as Noel Coward observed, ‘Never trust a man with short legs, brain’s
too near their bottoms.’
    But he
did have obesity on his side. And on his back. And on his front and Fangio was
ever a great man when it came to the Zen Question. The one he posed for me upon
this fateful evening was the ever popular, ‘Why is cheese?’ Of course I
knew the answer to this, every good private eye did, but I wasn’t going to let
on.
    The way
I saw it, if you’ve got a small green ball in each hand, you may not win the
snooker, but you’ll have the undivided attention of a leprechaun.
    Fangio
pushed a plate across the bar top. ‘More fat?’ he asked.
    ‘No
thanks, I’m still chewing this piece.’
    ‘Might
I ask you a personal question?’
    ‘I’m
easy.
    ‘That
wasn’t the one I was going to ask.’
    We
laughed together, what was friendship for after all?
    ‘It’s a
dress code thing,’ said the fat boy.
    ‘Go on
then.’
    Fangio
fingered his goitre. The guy had more chins than a Chinese telephone directory.
‘You cut a dashing figure,’ said he. ‘And I speak as I find, as you know.’
    ‘I do
know that,’ I said, and I did.
    ‘I’m
thinking of buying a hat,’ said