Part 29 (2/2)

'What did you say, Kobold?'

'Nothing, sire.'

'Now just let me get this straight.' Chief Inspector Brian Lytton was speaking into a police-car micro-phone. 'The festival is not going to be held in Gunnersbury Park? It is actually on the go a mile away at Star Hill, at this very moment?'

'Well,' said a fellow officer of lower rank, 'we're in the mess room here at The Yard, watching it live on TV. So I suppose it must be.'

'Well,' said Brian. 'What a turn up for the book. Whoever would have thought it? Thank you very much for mentioning it, officer. Over and out.' He replaced the police-car microphone. 'b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!' he screamed. He picked up the microphone again and said, 'All cars in the Gunnersbury Park vicinity now proceed at once to Star Hill. Illegal rock concert in progress. Arrest everyone.

'Let's burn rubber.' Constable Ken, now fully recovered from the events of the day before (crime is a disease and I am the cure) and looking forward to his promotion, brrrmed the engine. 'Let's go kick some a.s.s,' he said. 'Which way is Star Hill, Sarge?'

'Possibly that way.' Reliable Ron St.u.r.dy pointed towards the great display of lasers lighting up the sky. 'Just follow the noise.'

'Are you all having a good time?' called the Cardinal, because rock stars always call out things like that. A need for rea.s.surance, probably.

'Yeah!' the crowd replied.

'Then this one's for you. It's off our last alb.u.m. It's called ”Weren't the Sixties Fab?”. Thank you.

'I like this one,' said Mickey Minns to Anna.

'What exactly were The Sixties?' Tuppe called down to Bone.

'Search me,' said Bone.

'Knock on the door then.'

Bone squared up before the door to the Gandhis' luxury artistes' caravan. 'How did we manage to slip unseen past the teams of hired heavies, whose job it is to prevent people like us doing things like this at rock concerts?' he asked Tuppe.

'Does it matter?'

'Not to me.'

'Knock then.'

Knock knock knock, went Bone.

At a Holiday Inn which might have been anywhere, because they all look the same and Status Quo have stayed in them all, the Gandhis were preparing themselves.

Colin, the lead singer, zipped himself into a con-toured black leather jump-suit of Caped Crusader credibility, strapped on a steel codpiece which might have seen the Elephant Man all right as a crash helmet, and became Vain Glory.

'Are we ready to rock?' he enquired of his fellow musicians.

Fearsome personages with hair and studs and straps and boots and pierced nipples with their room keys dangling down.

'We're ready,' said they all.

Atop the Holiday Inn, a helicopter stood with its blades gently twirling. The pilot's name was Colin.

He was dreaming about planes.

'Tuppe,' called Cornelius into the crowd.'Prince Charles,' said Prince Charles, smiling through the open window of his limo. 'I'm with the band.'

'Stage pa.s.s,' demanded the fellow in the official Gandhi's Hairdryer World Tour T-s.h.i.+rt.

'Ah,' said the prince. 'I did have one of those, but I gave it away.

'p.i.s.s off then,' said the fellow.

'Oh,' said the prince.

'Well?' said the king. 'What is it?'

'It's a rock concert,' replied Arthur Kobold. 'Right above my head? My royal, regal head?' 'I'm afraid so, sire.'

'Well put a stop to it, Kobold. Pull out its plug.'

'Yes, sire.'

Copter blades picked up speed. Colin the pilot dreamed about Concorde. The Gandhis had lift-off.

'This will be a gig to remember,' said Vain Glory. Trust me on this. I'm telling the truth.'

But the rest of the band 'weren't listening. They were real Rock 'n' Rollers. They were taking drugs, gang-banging the groupies and eating steak sand-wiches.

Why do they always eat steak sandwiches?

'Tuppe.' Cornelius wandered on. 'Tuppe, where are you?'

'Oi!' shouted a traveller from a bus top. 's.h.i.+ft your hair. We can't see the band.'

And the band played on. The Sonic Energy Auth-ority launched into 'Johnny B Goode'. Why 'Johnny Goode'? Because it's such a blinder of a song, that's why. And the crowd loved it.

Twenty-three thousand pairs of feet stomped out their appreciation. Right over the head of the king.

Fancy his great hall just happening to be inside Star Hill.

'Left at the bottom here,' Chief Inspector Lytton told his driver, as they reached the place at the bottom of the hill where the buses turn around.

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l,' he continued. 'Would you look at all that lot?'

A hired heavy in an official Gandhi's Hairdryer World Tour T-s.h.i.+rt, which bulged somewhat about the shoulder regions, finally answered the door to the artistes' luxury caravan.

'What do you want?' he asked, without charm or interest.

'We're friends of Andy the drummer,' said Bone.

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