When MR James rings you and says there’s a potentially scarier sight than him in town, you just
gotta find out what’s goin’ awn! This gibbon had a character to transport and show good times to. However, this was a very angry young man who we worried would have problem getting into the final ever concerto of Big Al Jourgensen’s Ministry.
We started off drinking Cosmos and talking about our periods until we realised the temporal, cultural and frankly geographical shift was a little odd and went back to Ale, Stout and Rum, just like our forefathers had taught us to drink. Rabbi Ballantine Baines was a virgin to the gig of the heavy-metallers and was slightly worried about his appearance, feeling he was more Huggy Bear than Dave Mustaine. I reassured without any knowledge of his eventual fate.
Dk Sizzle was an angry fucking baby, I gotta say. His appearance suggested anarchy, his attitude was more Sipowitz than Hutch and I knew we were gonna run into some serious shit with this terror toddler. The deal was to get drunk enough that the bouncers would be blinded by our excessive hand gestures and be forced to let the cheeky chappy in. The wean walked through the streets of Dubalin with an aggressive gait, rather like a small Canarian dog or a large Jack Russell, all bustle and little testicles. He started on at least three of the city’s finest shell-suits, who were subdued by the shocking sight of this creature.
The ladies flocked to Ballantine, the flak was attracted to Dk Sizzle and I got peanuts.
So we stood outside Kehoes and drank merrily while doling out cash to beggars who seemingly are a nuisance to the big wallets and brassy hair of this country’s suited animals. We tried to contain the rat, who viciously screamed at us, something to the effect of,
“Nobody puts baby in the corner!”
At the door of the club our fears were allayed as it turned out we were too drunk to turn away. The bouncer grabbed Dk Sizzle by the drawstrings of his nappy, hurled him inside and said,
“C’mon lads, yis are gonna miss the first song!”
All seemed well, until I looked around and saw the baby-spew all down the seam of his super-puffy bomber jacket. He went to go for us, but the invisible bouncer forcefield stopped him from moving from the two-foot area he was shuffling in.
“Phew,” I thought.
Revolting Cocks were being played on the sound system. We were at the right club. Straight to the bar where we met MR James who was talking to what looked like Guns’n’Roses groupies. All apparently blonde, all very not. He regaled them with stories about how he would gather all the children of the village together and scare the shit out of them with dark magic, frightening shadow puppetry and unsettling nursery rhymes while their parents looked on eating cheese puffs and drinking cheap Merlot. The parents would worry for their kids and go,
“Nay, none’o’that lad. Nearin tipping point you aaaaareee.”
The end of the story involved him being chased back to his stately home by the torch-brandishing villagers. They were just about to set fire to his house when he gently reminded them from the upstairs toilet window that he was the only employer in the area and was in control of their pension schemes. They were all forced to back down and let him adopt their children until they paid off all their debts.
Ballantine took of his hat, wiped his brow and said, “Now that’s what I call bullsheeit.”
A fight ensued. Where was Dk Sizzle gone? Ministry had come on and launched into “Let’s Go” just as MR James screamed “Let’s Go.” The place went mental, I was sucked into the crowd and before I knew it, Dk Sizzle, MR James, Rabbi Ballantine Baines and moi were moshing right up against the steel fence in front of the band. Burt Reynolds couldn’t have come up with a set so apt. The background visuals were incessant with the imagery of tanks, death, George Bush-Bush and Osama Bin-Caught Stealin embedding themselves on my astral eyeball.
Ballantine and MR James, with huge grins, had their hands on each others’ shoulders and were spinning around in circles like a heavy metal threshing machine, as “Lies, Lies, Lies” tore the place apart. Stretch here was also spinning and I was concerned to see that there were many people at the gig stroking their chins and obviously impatient to get home and write serious blogs about the Ministry now and the Ministry of their youth. It angered me and made me spit. Baines was beaming, completely confused by the combination of anger and utter friendliness.
“That bitch there, y’see. Fucker knocked me down. I’m just about to get vicious and I see his hand, ready to pick me up again. Good folk these.”
Up on the balcony behind a rafter, I spotted a local sex-peddler I knew called The Mysterious Dark A, who I always ring by accident, coz he’s in my phone as A Dark Mysterious The. He waved, made a hand gesture to phone him and sank back into the shadows.
Black balloons with “M”s on them fell from the ceiling and caused a riot during “Khyber Pass,” a song about the disappearance of a bearded terrorist that the Americalian Polis were anxiously searching for. Even going as far as putting his picture on the back of milk cartons. Baines grabbed one at the same time as a pretty girl. He grabbed it off her, she gotta ready to fight, but he smiled his best gold-toothed smile and she swooned in his presence. I congratulated him on a incident well averted and he held up his hands and whispered,
“Girls like balloons man, theys like the balloons.”
During the encore Dk Sizzle, like a cannonball-baby, was running headlong into punters’ stomachs, creating an odd rhythmic parallel with the song “Thieves.” His bonnet was covered in blood and he was frothing at the mouth. Worried that he’d had too much sugar, I kept him close as the gig was coming to the end. Big Al gave a small speech of thanks to the audience and launched into a version of “What a Wonderful World,” which turned the crowd into a bunch of wedding-dad dancers, all arms around shoulders and teary eyes. Very homo-erotic if we’d been less drunk. They kicked the song into Ramones speed and we all hit the floor, exhausted and covered in baby-vomit.
On the way home, Baines, James and I looked into the pram and Dk Sizzle was fast asleep with his cigar in his mouth and I think I could almost see a small smile, maybe a grimace, go across his face.