Read Broken Birdie Chirpin for Free Online Page B

shirts, thin black ties, and tidy coiffures. We were rock n’ rollers
in drag.
    Headmaster
Moobs immediately spotted Skeffington and descended upon him in a beat.
“Skeffington, my boy. I had no idea you were such a renaissance man. Smashing.”
    “Yes,
sir.”
    “And
how is your father? Splendid, I hope.”
    “Dad’s
great. He wanted me to tell you that it’s scotch and cigars at the club as soon
as he’s able.”
    “Wonderful,
wonderful. Well, best of luck today, sport. If you bebop half as well as you
kick, I am certain you’ll be just dandy.” Headmaster Moobs patted Skeffington
on the back and chuckled like an old fart. He noticed me for the first time as
he turned away. “Good day.” His dismissive tone and bothered facial expression
suggested bewilderment that Skeffington would associate himself with such a
distasteful tramp. No matter. Headmaster Moobs was in our pocket and we were
better than any blighters that stood in the way.
    Our
greatest competition was from a quintet who dubbed themselves “The Tight Fitz.”
They offered second-hand rock retreads buoyed by a high energy stage show. Their
frontman, Donnie Fitzgibbons, pranced around like a toad with its hoppers on
fire. Aficionados might’ve found his melodramatic style somewhat infectious,
but I thought it was shite. Moreover, if I cared to hear the latest single by
Johnny Jingles I’d buy the bloody record.
    Skeffington
and I penned a hug and sway called “Wisteria Blues (She Been Dancing with the
Wrong Guy)” just for the occasion. It was insipid enough to make grannies swoon
over slow dances long since disremembered. Even Sister Duff could sing along
without having to scurry to the confessional for a verbal spanking. When played
at the right moment, however, this breezy serenade became a subversive
blueprint for funny business. It was the cherry on top of the whipped cream.
    We
ascended the stage as a four-headed wolf dressed like a choirboy.
    Our
performance couldn’t have been tighter. Skeffington delivered the syrup with a
golden spoon while “The Disciples” stood in the shadows fluffing the pillows.
Headmaster Moobs could hardly contain his enthusiasm. “Delightful, absolutely
delightful.” He sounded mostly chuffed that he didn’t have to sell his soul for
scotch and cigars. Our coronation felt imminent.
    Donnie
Fitzgibbons approached Skeffington as we took our seats in the back of the
auditorium. “When did you become a crooner, Skeff? You and your comrades are
bloody alright.”
    “Thanks,
mate. Your lot wasn’t too bad either.”
    “Much
appreciated. Was that an original composition?”
    “Yeah,
we knocked it off last week.”
    “Impressive,
man. We’ve been trying for months, but there’s nothing to show for it. These
blokes are players, they’re not artists, know what I mean? Bleeding covers will
only get you so far. If things don’t change, I may be looking for greener
pastures. Well, better get back with me band before they notice me fraternizing
with the enemy. Good luck to you.” Donnie Fitzgibbons had planted a seed in
Skeffington’s bonce that would one day blossom into a horrible sodding idea. At
the moment, however, all we cared about was landing our first gig.
    Twenty
minutes later Headmaster Moobs punched our golden ticket to the spring dance.
“My colleagues and I couldn’t be happier with our selection. You were simply
astonishing, and your backing band wasn’t too shabby either. Well done, my
boy.” He shook Skeffington’s hand before wobbling out of the auditorium. The
old prat would be in for a bloody surprise when the four-headed wolf took the
stage without pretense and lit the sodding gymnasium on fire.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    There
was nothing extraordinary about it. Just a simple smacker before I boarded the
bus to Muswell Hill. “Better get on the bus, slapper. Skeffington looks
jealous.” I wanted to stay with her. I’d grown somewhat tired of rehearsals and
pressure. There were only two