25. Praise...We got our fair share...but...and it's a very big BUT...

 Taken shortly after the incident. Hodge replaced Duncan who was lead guitarist at the time



Most bands got compliments and we in The Chequers got our fair share. In some cases it was undeserved and totally over the top. For example... 

                “I tell you, man, I really reckon you oikes are better  than the Beatles”... 

And... 

               “I swear to God, your version of ‘Apache’ leaves the Shadows in the shade.” Etcetera, etcetera... (no pun intended)

These types of compliments were usually fuelled by alcohol...with the volume consumed directly impacting on the magnitude, ludicrousness and over-the-topiness of the compliment. We called this type of compliment the ‘Drunken Compliment’. 

Then there was a second type of compliment, the ‘Ulterior Motive Compliment’, meted out by individuals wanting something from the band i.e. to get into our session free, get a lift home, borrow money, or even cadge a skayfe (cigarette)...Oh, yes, and the ‘Ulterior Motive Compliment’ category would also include sad individuals who'd ingratiated themselves on us because they wanted to hang out with the band in the misguided belief that it actually made them look cool. Yeah, right. 

                                              Not exactly cool

Then there was the third type, ‘The Sarcastic Compliment’ the clue is in the name...today the word ‘not’ would be added to make certain there could be no misinterpretation, i.e. “You guys are the best...not"...sarcasm is not what it used to be. 

And last but not least is the fourth type, ‘The Heartfelt Compliment’. This is when someone who is stone cold sober – otherwise they would fall into the Drunken Compliment category – and this withstanding, rave on about the band, heaping praises upon praise but totally sincere and without a hint of sarcasm.   But just how sound was the judgement of those of 'The Heartfelt Compliment ' Brigade? I will recount an incident which throws some light on them and let you be the judge.

It was way back in the really early days of The Chequers. Our   bass player, Alan Barton was playing his first session with us. At   the time he had only manage to learn four numbers. After we finished playing them Alan turned off his bass completely. However, instead of standing there like a nonce for the rest of the night he made out like he was still playing, moving his fingers up and down the fret board with the fluidity and dexterity of the Spanish guitar maestro, Andres Segovia. 

As with most ‘sessions’ in Rhodesia we started at 8 p.m. and finished at 12 midnight. So in the four hours Alan had actually played bass on only four numbers. Four numbers each lasting approximately 3 minutes equals 12 minutes. Twelve minutes in 4 hours...that’s like 5%. Hold that thought.

Eventually the clock struck 12 midnight, the last number ended and we started packing up our gear. A guy who obviously believed himself to be a musical aficionado wandered over. 

               “I have to tell you guys I’ve heard a lot of groups in my time but I swear to God you are the best”...we waited for the punch line but no put down came. 

               “No bull, you guys are not good, you guys are great.” 

As he spoke I could feel a weird tingling in my head. 

               “Really great...Excellent. No bull." 

Yes, there could be no doubting it, my cranium was definitely expanding. 

              “You guys could go a long way”. Uh-oh here it comes, he’d set us up for 'the further the better' gag. 

But he didn't add the 'put down' appendage, instead he said with all sincerity, “All the way to the top,” adding “I cannot believe you are not professional. You really should turn professional. You’ll clean up.  

           "However", he continued, "as good as you are, I have one piece of  advice which if you take it on board...well, the sky’s the limit. I've got one slight problem with the band which you can easily rectify by the turn of a knob”. 

We looked at this Svengali of rock n’ roll, this Rhodesian equivalent of Brian Epstein, who through his deep knowledge of rock music and bands had recognised our immense talent. We waited with baited breath for the guidance which would launch us into the big time. When he voiced his nugget, his gem, it spoke volumes; literally. 

              “The bass guitar is way too loud...you turn it down and you've got it made.”.

One of us should have mentioned to the guy, at least in passing that the bass had been switched off for 3 hours and 48 minutes of the 4 hour session. One of us should have but no one did...until now.

24. Photos of The Chequers 1960's Rhodesia

Here are some photographs of The Chequers rock band from the 1960's.

We played regularly at the Uni...

                                                                University 1962/3

     L. to R. me (John) Jack & Alan

                                       


Also played lunchtime sessions at the Punch Bowl...it did get busier...honest.

                                    The Punch Bowl Hotel 1961/2

Verlaine singing

            

...okay so maybe it didn't!!!

           The Punch Bowl Hotel 1961/2

  

                                                           Kamfinsa 1962/63
                                          outdoor stage

We used to play every Sunday afternoon at the Kamfinsa Hotel...pack up grab something to eat then head off to the Kenya Coffee Lounge for the regular Sunday evening gig.

Me, Hodge, Jack, Alan and Lea

                                         
                


                                                           University 1962/3

Hodge and Alan ...77 Sunset Strip...Lea's head is just visible above the amp

                            

The Kenya Coffee Lounge. We played every Wednesday, Thursday, Friday Nights and Sunday evenings.

.

Jack, me and Lea at the Callies Club just before we turned pro and headed down south

23.Band practice...and the most gut-wrenching humiliation ever visited on a fourteen year old in the history of mankind.

                                        Taken round about the time... 1962
            
                              Left to right: Me, Verlaine, Lea and Barry Forrest

We were extremely conscientious about keeping up with the hits of the day and tried to make sure we learnt most if not all of the UK top ten. (Along with all the groups in Salisbury we played covers) This meant we rehearsed every Tuesday, Tuesday being the one night a week we weren't booked to play. Rehearsals always took place at our home,146 Victory Avenue. This meant every Tuesday evening around 6:30 our long suffering folks vacated the comfort of their lounge and carried the TV, along with our young brother Charlie, into their bedroom where they remained until rehearsals finished, usually around 11:30 p.m.

This talk of band practice has set me thinking of a mortifyingly crushing incident I experienced... the magnitude of which in sheer, raw, unadulterated embarrassment stands head and shoulders above all others I have ever suffered, even surpassing the ‘tick incident’ I endured when as a seven year old I discovered two ticks attached to one of my ball-bags. Although acutely embarrassed I told my mom who to my complete horror invited friends and neighbours to check it out. The shame I suffered then paled into insignificance when set against the gargantuan humiliation I’m about to recount. It left me so traumatized it still has the power to give me the raging heebie-jeebies just thinking about it. Maybe I’m over egging it. You be the judge. 

As Lea worked at Radios Limited, an electrical shop with a record section, he would ‘borrow’ the latest hit records when he left the shop on Tuesday evening and returned them, albeit slightly scratched, first thing Wednesday morning.

The band would gather around the gramophone and listen to the record which would be played over and over until we had all the chords, lyrics, bass lines, drum patterns and lead guitar figures off pat...then we’d try and put them all together.

We’d learn two sometimes three new songs per rehearsal. Though how we actually managed to is beyond me - we seemed to spend most of the time sitting round talking, drinking copious mugs of coffee and smoking copious skayfs. 

I need to wind the clock back a couple of years from 1963 t0 1961. I was fourteen at the time and had just started going out with this girl who I will call Lucy.  It was band practice night and Lea had driven me round to Lucy's house to collect her and take her back to our place so she could experience the pleasure of watching us rehearse and making the band coffee when required...lucky girl.

I rang the doorbell and was met by Lucy's mother who told me Bridget wasn't quite ready and invited me into the house. Lucy's family, her dad, younger sister and brother were gathered in the lounge. I was introduced and invited to take a seat.  As I sat down I was almost doubled over with an intense stomach cramp. The pain was excruciating. I asked if I could use their loo and was pointed to a door. To my abject horror I discovered the door was the actual toilet door. The toilet led straight off the lounge. I sat down on the toilet seat with the disconcerting knowledge that a single flimsy door separated me and any sound I made from Lucy's family. I needed to go desperately but I would have to control the flow so to speak, and make it as noiselessly as possible...at least that was the plan. What happened next will be forever branded on my being. I let out the loudest fart imaginable. I'm talking seismic.  The sheer volume of the anatomical retort even gave me a fright. I'm sure it must have registered on the Richter scale. It was that loud I am convinced somewhere in a dusty old Rhodesian government office, hidden away in some long forgotten civil servants drawer, under a pile of paper yellowing with age, is an earthquake graph from 1961 with a sudden and inexplicable peak.

Under different circumstances I may well have taken pride in the thunderclap I had let loose. If for example it had happened at Churchill School where a loud doeuf (fart) was feted; something to be proud of, my gargantuan boomer would have been greeted with total respect. I’d have been lauded by fellow pupils. Spoken in the same breath as such Churchill luminaries as Nigel Minnify who’d been caught smoking behind the bicycle shed and as punishment ordered to sit in the middle of the quadrangle and smoke fifty cigarettes straight off, one after another without a break, in the mistaken assumption that it would make him violently sick. Nigel Minnify who was probably on 100 plus a day got through the packet of fifty Peter Stuyvesant without any visible signs of discomfort then asked the teacher overseeing the 'punishment' if he had anything stronger, something toasted without ‘sissy’ filter tips, a packet of Gauloise, Texan or  Malbro. 

Yes, if it had only happened at Churchill School they’d still be talking about me today. But it didn't. It happened in my girl friend’s home with her mum, dad, sister and brother seated a few feet away.

I was completely and utterly mortified. I just sat there as the sound resonated around the loo, echoing back and forth off the tiled walls. It was excruciating. But a worse was to follow.

Even though I’d been half expecting it, when it came it cut me to the quick, sweeping away any last vestige of dignity I’d been clinging to.

The sound of laughter coming from the other side of the loo door. Laughter which started out as a soft, stifled snigger then suddenly erupted into a chorus of howls, hoots and shrieks.

I sat on the pan a broken man, well a broken fourteen year old. I just didn't know what to do. How could I face Lucy's family and their mocking laughter? I prayed to God to put me out of my misery, to let the floor open up and swallow me whole... but my prayers remained unanswered. I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit on the toilet for the rest of my life.

If God wasn’t going help me I’d have to help myself. A thought sprung into my head. Maybe I could climb out the window and leg it into the night. “Yes,” I said to myself, “that’s what I’ll do. Genius! I’ll climb out the window and leg it into the night then I won’t have to face Lucy's family’s cruel mocking laughter.” But when I checked the window above the cistern I discovered that apart from it being way too small it also had ornate wrought iron burglar bars covering it. I was stymied. There was only one way out the loo and that was the way I’d come in. There was nothing for it I had to open the door and face the music. 

And that’s what happened. I waited for the laughter to abate... and bit the bullet. Trying to look completely unconcerned, as completely unconcerned as a fourteen year old kid can after he had let rip with a boomer within close proximity to his girl friend’s family; I opened the door and stepped into the lounge. I don’t know what I expected but nothing prepared me for the torrent of laughter my red faced appearance evoked. It was like the floodgates had opened. They sat there with tears streaming down their faces. Then, when I thought the laughter was about to stop, Lucy came in and asked what was so funny and it started up again.

So there it is, out in the open. I know this is going to sound trite but I feel a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Recounting this episode is similar, or so I imagine, to lying on a psychiatrist’s couch and letting it all out. There is something therapeutic, almost cathartic about divulging a trauma that has been locked away festering for years. For won’t of a phrase, it’s like opening a door to a musty old room and letting in the fresh air... Back to The Chequers.

22. Electrician extraordinair

John Van Der Bosch worked at Radios Limited as did brother Lea.  Lea was supposed to service the electrical counter selling electrical appliances. However most of his day was spent across the store selling records. This entailed escorting customers to curtained off booths where they were able to listen to records before purchasing them...a kind of audio ‘test drive’ so to speak.

John Van Der Bosch was Radio Limited's in house electrician who maintained and repaired electrical goods. John was also into rock 'n roll and came to most of our sessions and is probably best known, among The Chequers that is, for coming up with what can only be described as a health and safety nightmare.

The band was fed up with plugging all the amplifiers and sound equipment into a single socket via a tower of double adapters. 

                          an example of our over use of double adapters


                                                                    Kamfinsa hotel

                           note the tower of adapters on the wall next to my head

At some point during our ‘sessions’ someone would deliberately or otherwise, kick, knock or cause the tower of double adapters to be ejected from the wall socket. Sparks would fly, power would be terminated and on rare occasions fuses would blow and have to be replaced. No big deal really, but it irked. 

What we needed was a ‘junction box’ known today as a ‘power strip’ or ‘power board’.

John Van Der Bosch, electrician extraordinaire, said he would knock something up for us and true to his word he did.

Now most, if not all, junction boxes consisted of a rubberized electrical cable with a three point plug at one end which would be plugged into the mains to source the power. 

The other end of the cable was attached to a box with a row of sockets into which amplifiers could be plugged removing the need for any double adapters.  The reason I said most, if not all, was because I know of one junction box which didn't adhere to this design. The 'John Van Der Bosch model'. To be fair it did incorporate a long twenty foot length of rubberized electrical cable with a three point plug attached, to plug into the wall socket to source the power, but at the other end of the rubberized cable, instead of the junction box with the row of sockets, he had attached ANOTHER THREE POINT PLUG which in turn plugged into the junction box to fire it up.

Time after time one of us would take out the plug from the junction box leaving the other end of the cable  still plugged into the wall socket. One of us would pick up the plug not realizing it was live and ZAP!!!! we'd be thrown across the stage. 

I for one suffered that extremely painful fate on a number of occasion as it did the rest of the band. 

Why we never thought of taping the plug to the junction box and eliminating all danger is beyond me, but we never did. 

21. Rock Till You Drop at the Duthie Hall...it wasn't only the dancers who suffered sleep deprivation

In the early 1960's a craze sweeping America and the UK filtered through to Rhodesia. An endurance rock ‘n roll dance competition aptly called,  “Rock Till You Drop” in which competitors did just that, rocked till they dropped, literally; either from exhaustion or boredom...whichever came first. The last couple left dancing were crowned the winners. 

       1930's dance marathon

An updated rock n' roll version of the 1930’s ‘Depression’ dance marathons which the movie, “They Shoot Horses Don’t They” was based on.

Promoter, Jackie Cooenz, recognizing a bandwagon when he saw one, jumped aboard.  He hired the Duthie Hall and asked us, the Chequers, along with a string of other groups, to play. 

                        A wrestler who bears a passing similarity to Jackie Cooenz

As Jackie was an ex all-in wrestler when he asked us to do something we tried not to disappoint.

Rhodesia’s very own ‘Rock Till You Drop’ competition was to be held over the ‘Rhodes and Founders’ bank holiday weekend. It would kick off on Friday night at 6:00 p.m. and finish 12:00 midnight on Monday – that’s if any competitors were still dancing – all in all 
a maximum of 78 hours. 

                                                                      1960's dance marathon

We turned up at the Duthie Hall on the Friday night an hour or so before the contest kicked off and set our gear up on one of the two platforms provided for the bands.

Jackie's idea was to have two bands rotating, thirty minutes on, thirty minutes off. Over the course of six hours each band would play a total of three hours...after which time another two bands would take over and the system would continue...that was the idea anyway.

Incidentally, the unfortunate drummers had to keep playing throughout the thirty minute sets non-stop to keep a beat for the dancers to dance to. 

The contest was open to couples and each couple had to splash out £2 on the entrance fee.  An area was cordoned off for the competition and with a first prize of £25 (a sizeable sum in 
those days which according to the 'Historic Inflation Calculator' equates to £477 today) the cordoned off area was packed with couples from all corners of Rhodesia...each with an identification number pinned to their backs.

The audience had to hand over 1/6d for a day ticket from 8: 30 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. and 2/- for the night session 8:00 p.m. through to 8:00 a.m.

We flipped a coin with the other band to see who would play first. We won and chose to play second. Little did we know that decision would have dire consequences.

Once the competitors where introduced to the sizable audience – there must have been two hundred plus – Rhodesia’s very own “Rock Till You Drop” dance marathon began.

The band launched into their opening number and the competitors started strutting their stuff.

Some bright spark opened a book to take bets on who would win. Jackie Cooenz heard about it and the would-be bookmaker was shown the door. 

Being 'shown the door' by Jackie Cooenz was not something I’d wish on anyone...we had had first hand experience.

Months earlier Jackie booked us along with another band, The Raiders, to play at club he was running. Each band would be on ten per cent of the gate. A combined total of twenty per cent.  

After the session ended Jackie handed over the bands' cut. The leader of The Raiders, a singularly mouthy dude wasn't happy ...and with some justification. At the very least there had been two hundred kids in the club. Ten per cent of two hundred is twenty. It was two bob to get in.  Twenty two bobs equates to forty bob (shillings) or two pounds old money. Jackie Cooenz had handed over a miserly fifteen shillings... an under payment of one pound five shillings. When challenged, Jackie ran through the figures. He reckoned seventy kids had paid to get it (which was laughable), ten per cent of seventy is seven, seven times two bob equal’s fourteen bob... he was feeling generous so added an extra shilling.

It was at this point that ‘stupid’ was added to ‘mouthy’ when describing the leader of The Raiders. He only went and refuted Jackie’s figures...which was as good as calling this twenty stone mountain of an ex wrestler a liar. Not a good idea.

In one swift movement Jackie swung the guy above his head, carried him out the club into the stairwell – I forgot to mention the club was on the first floor – and chucked the 'stupid', 'mouthy' leader of The Raiders' down the flight of stairs.

Jackie came back into the club, sauntered over and asked us if we had a problem with the money.

“Too right we have, Jackie”, we answered to a man. “There’s no way we’re going to accept fifteen bob (shillings)! No way! We want what’s owed to us...and that, my friend, is two quid at the very least!” That’s what we should have said. That is what we’d liked to have said. But instead we metaphorically touched our forelocks and ingratiatingly thanked him for his generosity in adding an extra bob to our pot. “The Chequers...?” We should have been called “The Grovellers”. But if you had seen Jackie Cooenz you’d understand. He was one mean okie.

And the self-same mean oike was running the 'Rock To You Drop Contest'.

The trouble with marathon dance contests is they aren't exactly entertaining for the spectator...well not until the competition nears its conclusion and the competitors, deprived of sleep and in a state of complete and utter exhaustion, start dropping like flies...then it’s definitely entertaining and well worth the price of a ticket. But on that Friday night it was days away...and the sight of people dancing, less than energetically to save energy, got boring very damn fast.

                                                                 Get the picture

When the other band were about to finish their thirty minute set they went into “Johnny B Good”, Mac, Hodge and I slung on our guitars and switched on our amps, Lea got behind his drums and we joined in...after a couple of bars the other band stopped playing and we 
continued – seamless.

We finished our thirty minutes and went into, “Just Seventeen”, the other band joined in and once again after a couple of bars we left them to it.

And so we rotated until 11.30 pm when the other band finished their last set, packed up and disappeared...and we took over for what we thought was our final thirty minutes. 

Twenty minutes into our set and there was no sign of the two new bands that were supposed to take over from us.

At five to twelve they still hadn't put in an appearance.

Unease started to permeate The Chequers. It turned 12 mid night on that Friday night at The Rock Till You Drop Contest and still we were the only band. If none of the other bands turned up we could still be here come Monday night.

We asked someone to tell Jackie we wanted a word. After a couple of minutes Jackie wandered over and told us he had spoken to the bands but unfortunately both their vans had punctures. The likelihood of two vans on their way to the Duthie Hall getting punctures was pretty remote. Jackie must've picked up on our scepticism because he added he didn't believe the lying bastards and told them not to bother turning up at all. He told us not to worry as he had sorted something out. When we asked if had had organized another band. His eyes went all flinty and he repeated that he had sorted something out. The memory of the mouthy band leader tumbling down the stairs was still fresh in our memory so we didn't take it any further. The thirty minutes turned into an hour, the hour turned into two, three, four hours... 

...It was seven a.m. before we were relieved. We had been playing seven and a half hours without a break. The finger tips on my left hand, my chord hand, were red raw. Lea had kept the beat going none stop for a solid seven and a half hours, his drumsticks must have felt like dumbbells.

We were exhausted, totally knackered. 

When at last we were finally relieved it wasn't by a rock band. No, we were relieved by records, discs.

Jackie had a 'back up plan'. In the likely event that one or two of the bands didn't turn up, Jackie had a back-up plan.  A record player with large hefty speaker cabinets was at the ready in his van parked outside. He was only going to let us play on until about one in the morning before switching to the records...so the paying punters couldn't moan about there not being live music. Before the advent of the Disco, playing records at a session was a big no-no. Live music was what people paid their money to hear, not records you could listen to at home.

Earlier that night Jackie had taken himself off to crash for an hour but ended up sleeping through to 7.00 a.m. He mumbled something about making it up to us...we didn't really know what he meant and were too tired to ask. But whatever it was he never did. Oh, well, such is life. 

20. Hodge's wonky digit

Before a session at the Hatfield Hall a friend who lived near to the venue invited the band around to his place (his parents' house) for a braai (barbecue). There was a swimming pool in the garden and we were goofing around in it.  Hodge, our lead guitarist, turned up late and was standing on the side chatting to Mac who was up to his waist in the shallow end. Eventually Hodge asked Mac, who incidentally stood six foot four, how deep the water was. Mac believing Hodge was joking ducked down under the water, which was no deeper than three feet, and poked his hand out. For some inexplicable reason Hodge actually believed Mac and dived in, head first, straight down...into the shallow end. There was a muffled thud, an explosion of bubbles and seconds later Hodge surfaced. The index finger of his right hand was set at a crazy angle, dislocated at the knuckle joint when his hand slammed into the bottom of the pool.  Surprisingly Hodge didn't experience any pain, possibly he was suffering from shock, who knows, but he seemed to relish everyone’s horrified reaction to his wonky digit. He started goofing around, hollering, “They went that a way! No that a way!” whatever direction he pointed the dislocated index finger pointed directly upwards. 

After exhausting numerous finger related signs, ‘two’s up’, to mention but one, the feeling returned to Hodge’s index finger - with interest - and his laughter was replaced by a string of expletives that grew in volume and colour as the pain intensified.  

We rushed him to the Salisbury General Hospital where eventually the offending digit was yanked back into place...a procedure which Hodge described as agony heaped upon agony with extra agony thrown in for good measure.

Incidentally, Hodge played the session that night, but not very well. 

19. The Ghost Car - Paranormal activity in Greendale, Salisbury, Rhodesia

A terrifying ‘Paranormal Incident’ took place as Lea and I drove home to Greendale one evening. 

I was about fourteen at the time which would make Lea sixteen. Lea was driving our mum’s sandy-coloured Standard 8 - driving licences were issued to sixteen year olds in Rhodesia.

                                               Similar to mum's Standard 8

Before I continue with this terrifying tale I should point out that there were a couple of decidedly odd things about mum's Standard 8 - the epicentre of the paranormal activity. For starters it was haunted by the spirit of the previous owner, a young guy who had committed suicide in the car after being dumped by his girlfriend. He’d gassed himself with a length of hose pipe attached to the exhaust. The other oddity was the boot...bizarrely it didn't have one. I'm sure the British Standard Motor Company who produced the Standard 8 wouldn't agree. But what they would argue as being the boot wasn't something anyone else would recognize as one. If, for example, a bag of shopping was to be placed into what they erroneously called the ‘boot’ you couldn't just walk round to the back of the car, open it and place your shopping inside. Why? Because there was no access from the outside. It was solid. It didn't open. Instead you clambered into the rear of the car, folded down the back seat and shove the shopping into the space behind. No way is that a boot. Absolutely no way! 

The reason I'm banging on about the boot that wasn't, is because the space provided behind the back seat, only accessible from inside the car, was perfect for the sudden unexpected manifestation of the spirit of the guy who’d topped himself. Actually, I'd better come clean, there was no young guy.The story’s a load of baloney Lea and I had concocted.

So here's what happened. We had just turned off Jameson Avenue - one of the main roads in and out of Salisbury - onto Coronation Avenue and spotted a figure ‘thumbing’ a ride...we immediately recognised it as a friend of ours, a guy named Ian.

Lea and I  had one of those telepathic moments. He looked across at me, “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

I nodded.

He smiled malevolently, “Let’s go for it”.

We had waiting for the right moment to execute our ‘Paranormal Activity’ practical joke...and this moment could not have been 'righter'. Not only was it getting dark and Coronation Avenue had no street lighting, but more importantly, in friend Ian we had the perfect victim. He was, in a word, gullible.

Lea slowed the car down to a walking pace, allowing me time to clamber in the back and squeeze into the space behind the seat...even after all these years I can't bring myself to call it a boot. Hidden from view I asked Lea if he had remembered put the skayfs (cigarettes) under the passenger seat. Cigarettes were crucial to the success of our scheme.

“Yeah, yeah. Just done it”, answered Lea. “Sssh, keep quiet. I’m stopping”.

The car pull off the tarmac road onto the gravel shoulder and stopped. From my hiding place I heard Lea call out, “Hey, is that you, Ian?” 

I thought the question was an inspired touch. 

Lea continued, “Do you want a lift?”

“Ja, man.  Thanks a span”. (Thanks a lot).

The car rocked slightly as Ian hopped in and settled in the front passenger seat.

“Yissus, man, I tell you I’ve been walking for bleedy miles and you’re the first okie to stop”.

“Then I’ve done us both a favour...I really don’t like driving by myself in this car...it gives me the creeps”.

              "How’s that?” questioned Ian.

 “Well..." As Lea pulled away he went to work, saying how he kept feeling there was a presence in the car. He recounted how the young guy, devastated at being dumped by his girlfriend had topped himself, etcetera, etcetera. 

Ian, suitably impressed by the story, or should I say suitably troubled, kept repeating, “Is it!” (‘is it’ is not a question it’s an exclamation – hence the exclamation mark)

Lea cranked up the story, “You won’t believe this, Ian, but just before I turned into Coronation Avenue I saw a misty, smoke-like stuff in the back of the car...”

“Is it!”

“...and it started taking on a human form”.

“Swear to God?”

“Swear to God. Then I saw you thumbing a lift and as I pulled over...it just seemed to melt away”.

“Is it!”

“Swear to God”.

Lea gave a cough, which was my cue. He said he had dropped a packet of skafs under the passenger seat and asked Ian if he could fish them out.

As Ian leaned forward I made my move. Quietly as humanly possible I folded the back-rest down, squeezed out the space and took up a position directly behind Ian.

Lea asked Ian to light him a skayf which he duly did, then started upping the anti. In a hushed tone Lea whispered, “Am I imagining it or has it suddenly turned cold?”

“You’re not imaging it, man”, murmured Ian in a low voice.

“You can feel it too?”

Ian nodded. “Dead right I can. It’s definitely turned cold”.

And it definitely had, which was hardly surprising seeing as Lea had opened the side window whilst Ian had been busy fishing the skayfs from under his seat.

“There’s a presence in the car, Ian. I can feel it. The feeling’s strong, really strong and it’s growing stronger”.

Before rock ‘n roll had taken over our lives Lea had won numerous amateur dramatics acting awards at various eisteddfods so when he put his mind to it he could be convincing...and on this particular evening he certainly had poor old Ian convinced. 

Suddenly Lea gripped the wheel and blurted out, “Show yourself to us, spirit. Show yourself!”

Ian stared at him nonplussed , “What are you saying...?! You crazy?!" he started pleading to the bogus entity, "Don't listen to him, man! Don’t show yourself. Pleaz! Don't show yourself!" 

Lea suddenly peered into the rear view mirror, did a double take worthy of Frankie Howard, and with a  trembling  voice, shouted, “It’s too late. He’s here! The okie...The okie who topped himself! He’s here! Look behind you!” 

Ian, gripped with terror, turned round. As he did so I leaned forward and as we came face to face I yelled, “Boo!” I know it’s corny but I couldn't think of anything else to say. 

Ian gave a stifled scream, opened the passenger door and jumped out...we must have been doing 40 mph at the time.

It took a couple of seconds for us to realize what Ian had done... then we absolutely shat ourselves. Shiiiiiit!!!! Because of our dumb ass practical joke we could have killed Ian. It was kind of ironic really. The ‘terrifiers’ had become the ‘terrified’. 

Lea hit the brakes and despite my protests turned the car round and drove back. He trained the headlights on the side of the road where he judged Ian had exited the car... I couldn't bear to look.

“Oh, my God”, whispered Lea after a moment.

“Is it that bad?” I asked.

“There’s no sign of him”, answered Lea.

I looked up at the stretch of road illuminated by the headlights. Lea was right. There was no sign of Ian anywhere. He had  vanished.

Lea stopped the car, got out and checked the immediate area.

“Ian! Ian, are you okay, man...? Ian, where the hell are you?”

A stubby bush replied, “Has it gone? The spook? Has it gone?”

Ian, covered in dirt and dry grass and to our relief, very much alive, appeared from behind the bush.

“Jesus, Ian, are you outta your mind. You could’ve killed yourself!” Lea berated the dusty figure. “Get back in the car, man”.

Ian stayed his ground and repeated the question. “Has the spook gone? Has it gone?”

“No”, said Lea. “The spook has not gone. It’s still in the car. But I think it may want to apologize to you”.

All of the above is true, except the friend could have been Alec and not Ian. I can’t remember which but it was most definitely one of them.