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save the rain forests. Or that Japanese
bunch who had put the chemical warfare bombs in the Tokyo Underground. Or it
was the Discordians, or the Church of Euthanasia, or J. Bob Dodds. Or it was
the evil French or the New Age Travellers.
    And the
rumours would spread and the panic would grow and newspapers would deny it.
Then one newspaper would come out in a cling film wrapper, demanding that
government health warnings be put on rival newspapers. And people would freak
out and say that it wasn’t safe to read any book or newspaper unless you were
wearing rubber gloves. And there would be a lunatic rush to buy up rubber
gloves, at any price.
    I left
Waterstone’s that day with my head spinning. The implications were indeed
terrible, and it was a very good thing that all the Johnny Quinn books had been
pulped and the matter could be laid to rest. The chap at Waterstone’s made me
take a solemn vow that I would never reveal a word of anything he’d told me.
    ‘Trust
me,’ I told him. ‘I won’t mention it to another living soul.’
    And I
have of course remained true to my promise.
    Well,
apart from mentioning it to my Uncle Brian.
    Just in
passing.

 
     
     
    The Spurs of the Cockerel
     
    Boy racers pass in large numbers
    Waking priests from their reverent slumbers,
    Vanish in clouds of blue gasoline
    Leaving dark marks where their tyres have been.
    Engines that move by the power of ten horses
    Occupants altered in shape by G-forces.
     
    Boy racers pass in their white GTs,
    With the spurs of the cockerel behind them.
     
    Climbers on peaks in the Andes
    Dream of the life of the dandies,
    Slim cigarettes held in holders of jade
    Drag boys who stroll on the glass esplanade,
    Cool Coca-Cola in blue-tinted glasses,
    Silver decanters and late dinner passes.
     
    Climbers on peaks sit and wonder,
    With the spurs of the cockerel behind them.
     
    Crass Latin waiters hold trays up
    In clubs where the night person stays up,
    News-reading ladies in glittery togs,
    Paid baby-sitters look after their dogs,
    Cherries that toast in a sea-fire of brandy,
    Debutantes sipping their apricot shandy.
     
    Crass Latin waiters swear under their breath,
    With the spurs of the cockerel behind them.
    Brown paper clerics read masses
    To herds of the best-tailored Fascists,
    Fast people’s custom-made Rolles and Mercs,
    White hands that ill disguise tailor-made smirks.
    Silk-lined cravats and velvet pray-dos,
    Never a glimpse of the old tennis shoes.
     
    Brown paper clerics are playing it safe,
    With the spurs of the cockerel above them.
     
    Not that I’m bitter.

 
     
     
    4
     
    Times don’t last, tough people do
    MACHO
MAN RANDY SAVAGE
     
     
    ‘Cock-a-doodle-do, chief.
Up and at it.’
    I
opened up my eyelids and almost managed to focus on the ceiling. Almost.
    ‘Come
on, chief, it’s a glorious day. What shall we do first, breakfast at Tiffany’s,
or hit the big surf on Bondi?’
    ‘Get
out of my head, you little shit.’
    ‘Come
on now, chief, that’s no way to speak to your Holy Guardian.’
    ‘Demonic
tormentor, more like.’ I re-opened my eyelids the merest crack and squinted
bitterly at the ceiling. It was the same ceiling, the same padded ceiling,
that I’d been waking up to for almost three months now.
    ‘I have
to get out of here,’ I told Barry. ‘I have to. I do.’
    ‘I
know, chief. I’m on your side, after all. But if you want to get out of here
you’re gonna have to sharpen up your interview technique.’
    ‘Yeah,
right. But what can I do? If I lie, he says I’m “in denial”, and if I tell the
truth, he thinks I’m a stone bonker.’
    ‘Difficult
times for you, chief.’
    ‘Thanks
for your warm support.’
    ‘That’s
what I’m here for.’
    ‘Huh!’
I flexed my aching limbs as best I could in the straitjacket. I sorely needed
the toilet. ‘Couldn’t you put a word in for me with the doctor’s Holy Guardian?’
I asked Barry.
    ‘Vic
the Spud? Wish I could, chief, but it’s against the