The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas Read online

  The bus pulled around the sharp corner at the Arches and Max got off to the sound of wolf-whistles and jeers. He resolved to buy Western SMT with the band management royalties and – as Maggie Thatcher had commanded – he’d privatise it and fire that fat prick as his first private-ownership act. He’d make the buses run once a week instead of every half an hour. Then we’d see who thought the bus journey to Kilmarnock to spend their giro money was the highlight of their day. Fucking intolerant, narrow-minded wankers.

  Vengeful thoughts occupied a restless mind as he climbed the shallow incline up to The Black Hoose. When Mac Barber had changed the interviewer, Max Mojo retaliated by changing the location. Two can fuckin’ play at that game! This ‘Farrah’ lassie had better be sharp. The Black Hoose was no place for shrinking violets. It was the undisputed OK Corral of Kilmarnock boozers; a spit an’ shitehole throwback to the halcyon days of industrial drinking dens. A place where the working man of Kilmarnock would go straight from work, if he had any that is – via the bookies, naturally – to avoid the nightly hassle and interrogation from his ‘ball and chain’. On that basis alone, The Black Hoose was a happy place for hard men to relax and in the company of other hard men. It was a place for men’s men. So if a woman entered, the balance shifted. A female presence reminded the regulars what they had at home, or in the unlikely event that she was pretty, exactly what they didn’t have at home. Max was taking a risk himself. He was the sartorial antithesis of a Black Hoose man, especially today. But his deepening sense of annoyance was overriding any fears for his own safety. A point had to be made. And it would be made here, amid the lingering, fuggy stench of stale smoke, spilt beer and sawdusted vomit.

  Max bought a pint of McEwan’s Lager. He wasn’t asked for proof of age. Of all the things the Black Hoose bar staff cared about, underage drinking wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t a big drinker – even before the hospital stay – and he simply selected the keg that caught his eye first. It had a picture of a bearded cavalier on it, a bit like Adam Ant might look when he started drawing a pension, Max thought. After the cursory stares and ‘Who the fuck are you lookin’ at?’ salutations had died down a bit, he sat in the corner furthest from the door. The ‘Farrah’ lassie would have to walk right past the hardened mid-morning boozers. Serve her right.

  ‘Aw, for fuck’s sake, man!’ Max had spotted ‘Farrah’ hovering by the main, swing doors. So had everyone else. Their interrogative gaze had shifted from him to her. She was young; even by Max’s standards. She was dressed unusually; again even by his standards. And she was foreign. She looked around, the disgust registering as the odours assaulted her. She saw Max, waved hopefully and, when he lifted his head in acknowledgement, moved gingerly towards him.

  ‘Hi, I’m Farah. Farah Nawaz … from the Ayrshire Post.’

  Max looked around the bar. Everyone was staring at them. The developing scene was a massive shift from what passed for daily normality in The Black Hoose. Max hadn’t considered this scenario. He was already eyeing up the available options. He could ignore her; pretend that he wasn’t who she was looking for. But that might rule out a future conciliatory interview with Mac Barber. He could tough it out and fall back on the Hav’ you cunts heard ae Washer Wishart? threat. But he was secretly proud of never having resorted to lighting that particular ‘Bat signal’ high up in the Ayrshire sky.

  ‘You must be Max?’ said Farah, more as a question than a statement.

  Max hesitated. Fuck it, he thought. Batman it is, then.

  ‘Aye,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Can I sit down?’ asked Farah politely.

  ‘S’a free country, hen,’ he replied.

  Farah dusted what looked like abnormally large flakes of dandruff off the seat. She took off her long, colourful knitted scarf and put it down before sitting on it. She had a silky, multi-coloured, kaftan-type shirt on and tight-legged, blue, pin-striped jeans underneath. Her black hair was long and as she rummaged in her bag, it fell forward, briefly covering her face.

  When she lifted her head the action was accompanied by a hand throwing her hair backwards like she was in a shampoo commercial. She was very pretty, Max noticed. But he was still in unbending obstreperous arsehole mode, and she’d soon appreciate how deep that particular emotional well could be.

  ‘Well this is a little … unusual,’ said Farah nervously.

  ‘So are you!’ he replied. Her expression changed.

  ‘What, because I’m not white? Or because I’m not a man?’

  ‘Hey … dinnae be havin’ a go at me! Ah’ve got a black lassie in ma band.’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Farah angrily, ‘but I’m not black, I’m brown … like the sauce you no doubt pour over everything you eat.’ She stared at him determinedly.

  Max blinked first. ‘Look, ah’m sorry. Ah’ve nothin’ against…’ He paused.

  She waited for those unintentionally thoughtless words. The ones intended to salve but which only made things worse. Different, more threatening ones came from behind her though. It hadn’t taken long.

  ‘Haw Boaby, look at these!’ A slurred voice, dipped in anger and hard-boiled in hate. ‘Twa P’s in a pod, here. A poofter an’ a Paki!’

  The bar’s occupants sniggered.

  Max looked at Farah Nawaz. She had a look of sudden resignation in her eyes; one of knowing dismay. Max was suddenly ashamed at himself for drawing her to this ironically named place. For putting her in such a situation simply to make what Max had considered to be a principled point to Mac Barber. He looked around the bar room, taking in more than he had when he had first entered. A sign behind the optics read ‘Nae Blacks, Nae Irish, Nae Dugs’; an attempt at territorial humour. A signed Jim Davidson concert poster. A framed portrait of the recently victorious Thatcher. A picture of Enoch Powell pointing an accusatory finger directly at Max. Sentiments and figureheads appropriated from England’s rise of nationalistic intolerance during the previous decade. Menacing reddened faces were suddenly everywhere, it seemed. The Black Hoose was a pub for the right-wing, racist drunkard. He hadn’t been aware such a place even existed in East Ayrshire. Sectarian boozers, aye … they were ten a penny if you looked hard enough, but this? A pub full of monosyllabic, pitchfork-wielding morons; the Washer clause would cut no ice here, he reckoned.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he whispered to Farah, rising and placing himself between her and the rest of the bar. He motioned behind his back and Farah stood and moved closer to his right-hand side.

  ‘Haw … John Inman, ah’m gonnae teach ye a fuckin’ lesson, son!’

  ‘Hah-YA!’ Max adopted a stance the bemused barflies had only previously seen on an episode of Hong Kong Phooey. ‘Dinnae fuck wi’ me, man … ah’m a Karate Black Belt, seventh Dan,’ he lied.

  ‘Fuckin’ Desperate Dan, mair like,’ said one.

  ‘You’re fuckin’ gettin’ it, ya cunt … you an’ yer Paki burd!’ shouted another.

  Max pushed Farah towards the door and lifted his cane. The advancing boozer tripped and fell over it, headbutting the solid wooden bar top. Max looked at the cane. It was about to save him from a Black Hoose battering. Propelling Farah through the doors, he turned and wedged the cane between the handles and listened briefly from the street as the pub regulars leapt to the aid of their fallen colleague.

  Max and Farah ran down the hill. It was – or rather had been – a good and loyal cane, but it wouldn’t hold the back the Black Hoose bampots forever.

  Out of breath and out of Black Hoose reach, Farah Nawaz vented her anger at Max Mojo. He again attempted to assure her that it was nothing personal, that his choice of meeting venue had purely been to display his annoyance at Mac Barber’s disrespect. Farah responded by informing him in terse, formal fashion that Mac loved the band, but that a close relative of his had died suddenly. Rather than postpone the interview, Mac had suggested to his editor that Farah be given a chance. She had looked upon their meeting as an honour, and a big opportunity to show what she could do. Max Mojo f
elt dreadful. His emotional range was a daily pendulum swing between unbridled aggression and soft-hearted empathy. Right now, it was firmly in the latter sector.

  ‘Lemme buy ye a cup ae tea, eh? A bacon roll an’ that … ye dae eat bacon, right?’ he asked anxiously.

  Apparently satisfied with his numerous apologies, Farah Nawaz accepted. ‘A pot of tea will be fine,’ she said.

  They walked to the Garden Grill in the centre of the town, in sight of the Cross. If the Black Hoose search party had left their home turf to hunt for the pair, there were enough coppers patrolling the nearby Burns Mall to provide official protection. As he considered this, Max dismissed the threat. Those bastards were homing drunks; they’d leave the pub reluctantly, sometimes with a message written on their wrists, but they never ventured too far from home base for long. Nevertheless, Max insisted they sit at the one table in the Garden Grill that had a clear view of all possible approaches. A young waitress brought over their order. She looked disdainfully at Max and pitifully at Farah Nawaz.

  ‘See the looks ye get, eh … just for being a wee bit different?’ said Max, shaking his head. Farah’s own ‘tell me about it’ expression needed no more elaboration.

  ‘So where are ye from, originally like? asked Max.

  ‘Lahore,’ she replied before clearing up his evident confusion by adding ‘Pakistan.’

  ‘Is that in India?’

  ‘No. It’s definitely not in India.’

  ‘Whit brought ye here then?’

  ‘I was at school in England, going home for summers, but my father has been gradually moving his business to Scotland.’

  ‘Ah … ah get ye. How long ye been livin’ in Killie then?’

  ‘I don’t. Live here, I mean. I live in Glasgow. My family are there … and my future husband’s family too.’

  ‘A wee bit oan the young side tae be gettin’ married, are ye no’?’ said Max. ‘Could understand it if ye were fae ’roon here. They get hitched at thirteen, oan average.’

  It was a joke. Farah knew it and she laughed. It was the first time Max had noticed her teeth. They were absolutely perfect, just like her skin. Fae a well-aff background, nae question.

  ‘Ye like it here, then?’ Max asked. ‘Ye must find it absolutely fuckin’ freezin, naw?’

  ‘I’m getting used to it, I suppose. Although I had only been living here permanently for a month when I got caught out in the worst snowstorm I had ever seen.’

  ‘Nae snaw in Le Hoor then, ah take it?’

  ‘No. Never. I didn’t know what to do. The car wouldn’t move. I was stuck and it was nighttime and … I don’t know what I would have done if an old couple hadn’t stopped and helped. The old man got out a shovel and dug the car out.’ She looked out of the window. ‘Most people are lovely,’ she said.

  Max slurped a large mouthful of tea. ‘Can ah ask whit yer dain’ workin’ for the Ayrshire Post, then?’

  ‘I’m doing a bit of work experience before university. To help with my English, you know?’

  Max nodded, but her grasp of the language was already exemplary, unlike his.

  ‘I have an older brother in a band … back home,’ said Farah, taking out a small tape recorder. It seemed that the formal business was about to begin.

  ‘Aye?’ said Max.

  ‘You sound surprised,’ said Farah, ‘that I might be related to such people.’

  “Naw,’ said Max. ‘Whit type ae music?’

  ‘Heavy rock, mainly,’ said Farah.

  ‘AC/DC and Black Sabbath an’ that?’

  ‘No, Foreigner or Rush. He sings with a high-pitched voice. My father can’t stand that type of music.’

  ‘Aye … ah ken that feelin’,’ sighed Max, not talking about his own father, but empathising with hers.

  ‘So what made you form the band, Max?’

  Over the course of almost two hours, Max talked enthusiastically about destiny; his and that of each individual Miraculous Vespa. He spoke honestly of the dreams that were relentlessly propelling him towards something significant, he was sure. Of how he had put the band together, and although the potential for unforeseen fuck-ups languished around almost every corner, it was worth it, because the four of them were already individually great. It was his job to make sure they were collectively greater.

  But they talked about Farah’s dreams too. Her natural anxieties about her upcoming arranged marriage, and her fears about losing her burgeoning identity along with her name. Her wish to do something significant to help young, disadvantaged women in Pakistan receive proper education, and give them the chance at the life of opportunity Farah had had herself. She went further, into her hidden dream of owning a powerful motorbike and driving it, unburdened by time, from America’s East Coast to its free-spirited West. She confounded herself. Max Mojo was the first person she had told of such private, personal things. He promised to keep it to himself. And she agreed to keep his secret fears – that Grant would leave the band, and him – out of any future print. They had known each other less than three hours, but already they had made a pact. It was a surprising morning.

  The following week, a full-page report on ‘The West of Scotland’s best new band’ appeared in the music section of the Ayrshire Post. It was a beautifully written piece, in Grant’s opinion. And much more positive than Maggie and the Sylvester twins had dared hope for. Farah had captured the band’s restless desire, their raw talent and the inspirational drive of their complex and contradictory manager. It was the first public break The Miraculous Vespas had had. Max Mojo wouldn’t forget it.

  28

  Ye were askin’ there about the point where ah kent we had it. Well, Norma, there wis two things that really fuckin’ kicked it aw oan, ken? Hearin’ the Smiths for the first time … an’ Wembley. An’ baith ae them happened in the same bastardin’ week, tae. Fuckin’ mental.

  28th May 1983

  10.25 pm

  ‘Mon, lets jist fuckin’ go, ya prick. Whit’s stoppin’ ye? Yer maw?’

  ‘Why the fuck would ah want tae go tae London, jist tae see a daft fitba match?’

  ‘It’s no’ jist any fitba match, G … it’s fuckin’ Scotland an’ England, at Wembley. It’s a fuckin’ rite ae passage, boy.’ Max was getting annoyed. Grant’s antipathy to the plight Max was currently in meant that the band’s manager would have to elaborate. He might even have to hint at the truth.

  ‘Look, don’t fuckin’ make me spell it oot here, eh … ya fuckin’ bastart, ye!’ It often felt like virtually every sentence uttered by the teenage would-be music mogul to his band’s singer now ended with a cursed insult. Grant was no longer offended. And Max had long since ceased to give a fuck anyway.

  ‘Ye need tae disappear for a few days, aye? Ah’m no’ fuckin’ stupid, Max. Hairy Doug, Doc Martin and noo some cunt wi a tractor … aw your doin’. Am ah right? Why dae ah need tae come tae though?’ said Grant. The thought of three or four days – or maybe more – cooped up with someone as high maintenance as his band’s manager didn’t in any way appeal.

  ‘Cos ah’ve got two fuckin’ tickets, ya cunt! Whit ah’m ah meant tae dae wi’ the ither yin? Shove it up ma erse?’

  A week earlier, the day after Pebbles, Max Mojo was on the hunt for a copy of ‘Stoned out Of My Mind’ by the Chi-lites. He’d loved the song since first hearing The Jam cover it on their farewell single the previous year. It was on a rare EP, which also featured ‘Have You Seen Her’, ‘Oh Girl’ and ‘Homely Girl’. A record fair in Glasgow city centre seemed to offer a decent opportunity to find it but Max was to be disappointed, although he did pick up some other obscure records. Some of those that left the Merchant City Hall with him that day were ‘I’m on My Way’ by Dean Parrish, Esther Phillips’ ‘Just Say Goodbye’, and Curtis Mayfield’s seminal ‘Superfly’.

  Max was offered a lift home by the owner of a local lounge bar who knew Washer and Frankie Fusi. The bar owner had been to the fair to get shot of stocks of old vinyl for which there was now litt
le space and even less audience.

  On the drive back through Thornliebank and Whitecraigs, he offered Max two tickets for the upcoming England v Scotland game at Wembley. The lounge bar owner had to attend a funeral on the Wednesday of the game and consequently couldn’t go himself. Max acknowledged that the offer – of the lift and the tickets – wouldn’t have been forthcoming had Washer Wishart not been related to him. Nevertheless, it did present a welcome window through which to vanish just as an irate Hairy Doug was closing in.

  Grant was right; Max didn’t care about the football. He wouldn’t have known many of the players, although he did know about the match’s recent history. Six years earlier, this footballing fixture had achieved worldwide notoriety when – in celebration of an unlikely victory – the Scots hordes descended from the terracing, broke the goalposts and took large sections of the pitch home with them. The legends that followed suggested that there were around 400 penalty spots on the pitch that day, the Scottish daily newspapers uncovering numerous revellers all claiming they now had one of the two legitimate ones planted in back gardens from Banff to the Borders. This was all done in the supposedly good-natured spirit of Bannockburn, 1314. Unsurprisingly, the local residents of North West London didn’t welcome the bi-annual intrusion. In the aftermath of this particular match, various suggestions from the English FA hinted that the oldest international fixture in football’s history had finally run its course. There was a fine line between the happy drunk and the football hooligan, and Scots fans in particular walked that line many times in the years that followed 1977. Between this match and the infamous Old Firm Cup Final of 1980, the reputation of fans north of Hadrian’s Wall suffered badly.