From: maharishi@strawberry.fields.edu
Subject: Re: Goodbye Reunion Goodbye
Organization: Yale University
Date: Fri, 08 Jan 93 18:49:28 EST

In article <1993Jan7.000858.10213@lut.ac.uk>
L.H.Wood@lut.ac.uk writes:
 
>
>
>A Reunion - a homage to the Beatles
>
>
>The rain beat a grim tattoo on the slightly balding cranium of
>Reginald Oswald P Reggie to his friends P as he struggled
>unsuccessfully to find that impossibly stubborn C6 chord. He was
>quarterway through his third song and all heUd received for his
>efforts was a measly twenty pence piece, which was nestling somewhat
>smugly in the black cloth cap at his feet that served as a cash
>receptacle. It was a cloth cash receptacle which would undoubtably
>have been far better employed in its intended role P ie. sitting on
>top of Reginald OswaldUs unprotected nobbin and keeping the rain off.
>He always had trouble getting his fingers around that chord. It was a
>real bitch. Most of the time, he could just about disguise the
>somewhat unsightly noise that the chord change would make by raising
>his voice and bellowing out the words to the tune in a badly conceived
>and worsely applied attempt at passion. But today he couldnUt even be
>bothered to do that. Reggie was well and truly fed up.His stomach was
>rumbling away in misery and his much abused fingers were sore and
>aching. It was a familiar scenario.
>There was certainly nothing to remotely suggest that this would be the
>last evening that Reggie would ever spend in the London that he had
>grudgingly grown accustomed to. Equally, there were few indications
>that the future of mankind was perched tentatively on the tips of
>those much abused fingers.
>Busking and Reginald Oswald were uneasy bed-fellows. They had been
>inadvertently introduced to each other some ten years ago P when
>Reggie was in his late teens P and ever since then theyUd just about
>managed to tolerate one anotherUs presence. Reggie used busking in the
>way that he might use an old girlfriend who still had a soft spot for
>him. Someone he visited for reassurance when he was in a desperate
>frame of mind. Except that, whilst an old girlfriend might possibly
>put an arm around his sloping shoulders and whisper sweet words of
>comfort into his ears, busking was a pastime which invariably left him
>in an even worse state of depression.
>The reassurance that he sought today, however, as he stood at the
>entrance to the Angel tube station, was purely financial. Reggie
>needed money. But unfortunately, busking, as usual, was found to be
>wanting. That 20p wasnUt going to get him very far and none of the
>passers-by, who seemed understandably preoccupied with the shitty
>state of the weather, were willing or able to improve the situation.
>Not that the old moth-eaten shell of a guitar he was attempting to
>play helped matters any. Scratched, and plastered in peeling CND
>stickers, its five remaining strings hovered a full two inches above
>its cracked fingerboard. It was almost as if they were defying him to
>attempt to play it.
>RLeave it out, mate,S pleaded a passing building worker from within a
>sea of home-made tattoos. He was distinguishable as a building worker
>through the combination of a savagely bloated beer gut; a pair of
>seriously over-worn old jeans that hung dangerously low on his
>sagging, rotund bottom, exposing a grotesque and hairy bottom crack;
>and, of course, those home-made tattoos, offering such profound
>declarations as: RI LOVE MUM,S and RSUE 4 ME,S. From behind the
>fretboard, Reggie wondered whether Sue was still on the scene, before
>deciding that it wasnUt really worth wondering about.
>The insult didnUt really worry him either. Reggie was not what youUd
>call a keen observer of public opinion. Public opinion and the
>perennially empty cloth cash receptacle told him that, as a financial
>proposition, busking was something well worth forgetting about. His
>friends, hardened by years of enforced listening to his discordant
>strummings, were of the same public opinion. They had long-since
>ceased any attempts to be diplomatic and TniceU in their observations
>on his musical talents. RReggie, letUs face it; youUre crap,S was
>their usual way of putting things.
>But Reggie didnUt quite agree with their diagnosesU. As far as he was
>concerned, he wasnUt TcrapU, he was just extremely misunderstood. Ok,
>so he wasnUt Jimi Hendrix. His finger vibrato didnUt exactly have Eric
>Clapton glancing nervously over his shoulder. His solo runs would
>never really give Jon Bon Jovi any real cause for concern. But, as he
>was fond of saying to anyone who still had enough patience to listen:
>RItUs not what you play, itUs HOW you play.S And he knew HOW to play.
>At least he thought so. So what if his non-paying public seemed
>unwilling to confirm this private opinion with their hard cash. So
>what if babies had been known to spontaneously burst into a series of
>high-pitched squeals when he played. So what if his father had spent a
>fortune on wax ear plugs when Reggie had first started learning the
>poor, doomed instrument. He was destined for stardom. Of that he had
>no doubt.
>Yet these days, unfortunately, he looked increasingly less like a star
>with every passing hour. HeUd once been quite a good-looking bloke (in
>his modest and, most would say, uninformed, opinion). But as he
>approached his thirties, the wrinkles which procreated like over-sexed
>Tribbles on his face, and the hair, whose increasing absence
>graphically demonstrated a severe displeasure with its place of
>residence, both conspired to produce an effect which was profoundly
>un-starlike. Unless, that is, you subscribed to the Phil CollinsU
>school of stardom.
>He was also developing a bit of a belly. But at least, he consoled
>himself, that was something over which he had some element of control.
>Not that a belly had ever harmed ElvisU star rating. Well, not much
>anyway.
>But the desperate cries of anguish coming from the direction of that
>currently empty belly as he launched into a paraplegic version of
>Strawberry Fields Forever, did little to ameliorate his feelings of
>disenchantment today. He hadnUt eaten since Thursday morning. Now it
>was Friday afternoon and there seemed very little prospect of
>supplying it with anything to shut it up.
>This time it was the B7 chord that was giving him gip as he carved an
>unmelodic scythe through the songUs chorus. Once again there was an
>uncomfortable momentUs silence as he clumsily negotiated the next
>chord change. RItUs not that I canUt do it,S he informed himself
>aloud. RItUs just that my fingers are too cold.S Luckily there was
>no-one within earshot.
>Despite the lack of technique which was all-too-evident in his
>performances, there was, however, one thing that couldnUt really be
>faulted about this particular failed, misunderstood busker: Reggie was
>the owner of an almost photographic memory. And whereas he sometimes
>had trouble remembering his own surname; well over 500 songs had
>become a part of his considerable repertoire. For almost a decade he
>had made sure that he learned at least one new tune a week. They may
>have all sounded the same when he was actually playing them, but at
>least he knew in theory what particular chords corresponded to which
>particular tunes. Equally, he was a whiz on the Trivial Pursuit
>machine (sadly, only on the music section) and could almost have made
>a career out of playing them. Admittedly, not a very lucrative one,
>but substantially more financially fulfilling than hanging around tube
>stations and street corners irritating innocent passers-by.
>When Reggie was 14 heUd bought a copy of The Beatles Complete. A big
>thick paperback that had the words and music to practically every
>BeatlesU song. Billeted in his bedroom, heUd spent night after night
>learning the book off by heart. Within four years he could play She
>Loves You to a reasonably imperfect degree of imperfection. HeUd also
>learned a fair percentage of Bob DylanUs songs P in addition to bits
>and bobs by the the Rolling Stones, smidgeons by the Moody Blues, and
>Waterloo Sunset by the Kinks. He gave the seventies and eighties a
>miss P they didnUt really interest him. When punk happened he was
>still trying to master The Times They Are A Changing.
>He completed Strawberry Fields with a mock _ourish (he strummed a
>little bit faster) and moved his eyes once more in the direction of
>the cloth cash receptacle. Still only 20p. And still a stomach that
>with every minute threatened to significantly overpower the sad and
>disconsulate noises that the inequitable combination of ReggieUs
>guitar and voice were busily creating.
>It was almost five oUclock and a few besuited people were beginning to
>percolate through the exit to the tube station. In a short while they
>would be joined by others, who, like lemmings, would leap off the
>cliff of weekday hustle and bustle, and head off in the direction of
>the weekend, grimly determined to enjoy themselves before starting the
>week all over again. It was supposedly a good time to busk. Usually,
>momentarily free of the bonds and trappings of work, people would be
>in a fairly happy frame of mind. And quite often they would
>demonstrate that fairly happy frame of mind by throwing a handful of
>loose change into the cloth cash receptacle. It was not unknown for
>him to leave the station with the ungodly sum of #7 after a Friday
>rush-hour.
>Today however, whatever good humour that his punters may have once
>possessed had been washed away by the rain. An attempt at Get Back was
>greeted with icy looks and frantic shakings of heads, and Reggie
>jealously eyed an old newspaper vendor standing a few feet away from
>him. Not only was he partially sheltered from the dreadful rain, he
>was also _ogging copies of the Evening Standard faster than you can
>say C# diminished. They made brilliant umbrellas.
>In fact, had Reggie been able to prise another five pence from one of
>his disinterested punters, heUd have been quite tempted to buy a copy
>himself.
>There was no doubt about it, desperate measures were called for.
>For the past decade, Reggie had been the unfortunate victim of that
>strange intransigent thing they call a streak of bad luck. A sticky
>patch. Except that the sticky patch he was currently going through was
>the financial equivalent of Loctite Superglue. But if thereUs one
>thing you could say about Reginald Oswald: he was a trier. If his
>musical ability were the equal of his unquenchable optimism, thereUs
>no doubt that heUd have been spending those miserable last ten years
>Superglued to the top of the charts. A household name with bags of
>charm and oodles of charisma. And lots of money with which to placate
>his nagging belly.
>Unfortunately, such dreams seemed several million light years away
>from Islington on a cold, damp and soggy afternoon.
>The trickle of passers-by gradually turned into a stream, and then the
>stream turned into a torrent, and then the torrent turned into an
>avalanche, and then the avalanche turned into a torrent, and then the
>torrent turned into a stream and then the stream turned into a
>trickle. And then, 120 rain-drenched minutes later, there was nothing
>left but a soaked-to-the-skin and considerably unhappy Reginald
>Oswald, and a reasonably soggy but reasonably happy Evening
>Standard-less newspaper vendor, who cheerfully threw a 5p coin into
>the cloth cash receptacle. RDonUt give up the day job, pal,S he
>smiled. Reggie shrugged his shoulders and half-heartedly returned the
>smile before glumly staring heavenwards at the bucketing rain. HeUd
>definitely have bought a Standard if there were any left.
>Then he spotted the strange looking Indian fellow leaving the exit to
>the station.
>Dressed in a brilliantly coloured Kaftan, and carrying long white hair
>and a huge white beard, he headed straight for Reggie, with a smile
>which would have shamed the Chesire Cat.
>	RHello, my friend, sorry IUm late P someone committed suicide on the
>Northern Line,S he said, with a remarkably un-Indian-like accent,
>whilst grabbing hold of ReggieUs right hand and and shaking it
>vigorously, RI see that your playing hasnUt improved.S
>Reggie stared at the Indian, and the Indian stared back at Reggie.
>HeUd seen this strange fellow somewhere before. He knew those odd
>boyish features, with that stubby little hooked nose and those
>piercing eyes. The white hair and the beard were somehow instantly
>recognisable, but he couldnUt quite place him.
>RIUve brought your machine for you,S he said, fishing into his pocket
>and handing Reggie a battered old Sinclair pocket calculator. Rthere,
>I told you IUd give it back.S
>RDo I know you from somewhere?S asked a distinctly puzzled Reginald
>Oswald, holding the pocket calculator limply in his right hand. At
>that remark, the strange Indian fellow burst into a fit of quite
>unpleasant giggles, his whole body visibly shaking with the effort.
>ROf course, you do you silly-billy,S came the response once the
>giggles had subsided. ROf course you do.S
>And he did.
>In fact, Reggie could have sworn that this strange diminutive Indian
>standing before him was none other than the Maharishi. The Maharishi
>Yogi. The guy who had once, many, many years ago, entranced the
>Beatles and lured them to Bangor on that celebrated occasion back in
>the balmy Summer of Love in 1967, when Reggie was only five years old.
>It had been splashed all over the papers at the time, and was now part
>of the sixties folklore that Reggie devoured with a hunger that even
>his habitually empty stomach could never hope to match.
>RAre you the Maharishi?S he asked, fully aware of what a completely
>ridiculous question he was asking.
>More giggles.
>RYou are, arenUt you?S
>Yet more giggles.
>RIs it really you?S
>RPlay Sexy Sadie for me,S giggled the Maharishi.
>Going to the KingUs Head for a pint with the Maharishi Yogi on a
>Friday evening, was something that Reggie hadnUt quite been banking on
>while heUd been picking the sleep from his eyes that morning. For a
>start, the KingUs Head was a place that he usually avoided at all
>costs at weekends. In addition to the bad beer, it was bound to be
>chocka-block full of semi-drunken and completely rat-arsed
>quasi-revellers, who would invariably spill out into the streets,
>blocking the path to the bar and making the task of ordering a pint of
>beer somewhat akin in difficulty to hitting that impossibly stubborn
>C6 chord, ie. marginally harder than climbing Everest dressed in
>swimming trunks and sun-glasses, clutching a Pina-Colada in one hand
>whilst trying to solve the RubikUs Cube in the other. He also hadnUt
>been counting on going to the KingUs Head due to the fact that 25p
>wouldnUt even get you a packet of crisps. And he also hadnUt counted
>on going to the KingUs Head with a five-foot-tall, multi-coloured,
>hairy Indian Guru with an infectious giggle and, Reggie was soon to
>discover, an irrepressible eye for the ladies.
>He was lucky that the Maharishi was paying.
>As anticipated, it took a good three-quarters-of-an-hour to make the
>transition from doorway to bar. Armed with a fiver that the Maharishi
>had loaned to him, Reggie ordered two pints of lager from a
>grim-faced, bar-maid, whilst his Indian companion busied himself by
>talking to a couple of girls who were watching Bob and Charlie, the
>all-singing, all-playing musical duo whose job it was to keep the
>drunken locals entertained and not-too-aggressive on Friday evenings
>from behind a rickety piano.
>As Reggie had suspected, the Maharishi managed to draw a considerable
>amount of attention to himself from the bemused inhabitants of the
>pub. On more than one occasion he had to talk his way out of a
>potential beating, as the odd six-foot-seven-inch-tall drunken
>quasi-reveller would take exception to the little guruUs lecherous
>antics with his girlfriend. The Maharishi simply couldnUt keep his
>stubby little fingers away from any of women drinkers and Reggie found
>himself playing unwilling and bemused minder to one of the sixtiesU
>weirdest characters.
>But despite his new-found friendUs sexual indiscretions, Reggie was
>surprised to find that the inhabitants of KingUs Head soon took an
>instant liking to the Indian. As the evening drew to a close and the
>landlord of the pub was into his third death threat as he attempted to
>empty his hostelry, the Maharishi, with Reggie an unwitting
>accomplice, found himself surrounded by a retinue of drunken
>hangers-on. RThis is just like Bombay, isnUt it my friend?S the Indian
>whispered into the younger manUs ear, before launching into another
>set of truly gut-churning giggles.
>And then it was off to a curry house and a chance finally to talk to
>his unusual new-found friend as they waited in a drunken queue. There
>were quite a few questions that he wanted to ask.
>RSomethingUs been bothering me,S Reggie confided.
>RWhat is that?S smiled the Maharishi, suppressing a giggle and
>revealing a full set of pearly white caps, complete with diamond stud.
>RWell, forgive me if you think IUm a little stupid, but there are
>several things that are causing me some concern.S
>RTell me, son.S
>RWell for starters, youUre the Maharishi, right?S
>RThat is correct, my son.S
>RThe Maharishi that used to know the Beatles, right?S.
>The Maharishi nodded his head and continued that grin.
>RThe Maharishi that went to Wales with the Beatles in 1967?S
>More nodding.
>RThe Maharishi who, for some strange reason, thinks that he knows me.S
>Yet more nodding and a bit more giggling.
>RThe Maharishi whom IUm totally convinced IUve never met before.S
>RChicken Tikka twice,S called a shrill voice in the background.
>RThatUll be us,S said Reggie, heading for the counter with some more
>of the MaharishiUs money and collecting two greasy oblong packages
>from a small, spotty women who had been eyeing the Maharishi
>suspiciously.
>RWhoUs your friend?S she asked.
>ROh, itUs only the Maharishi,S replied Reggie.
>Back at ReggieUs flat on the Essex Road, the Maharishi regarded the
>shabby surroundings with badly-concealed distaste. The dust-encrusted
>black and white portable TV, the equally dust-encrusted stereo with
>only one speaker. The menagerie of dust-encrusted LPUs, and the large
>collection of dog-eared TTeach Yourself GuitarU manuals. His eyes
>skirted disdainfully over the faded BeatlesU posters which Reggie had
>hung to try and camouflage the equally faded wallpaper, gazing with
>especial disdain over the giant sized poster of a bearded John Lennon,
>bearing the legend: TRemember John Lennon 1940-1980U.
>RWell,S shrugged Reggie defensively, Ryou donUt make a lot of money in
>my game.S
>The two men ate their food in relative silence and Reggie wondered if
>perhaps he was going to wake up at any moment, drenched to the bone
>and being trodden on by an avalanche of commuters at the exit to the
>Angel tube station. But no such luck. After furiously blinking his
>eyes for several minutes and then shaking his head for a couple of
>minutes more, the Maharishi was still sitting there on the chair
>beside him in full Technicolor, tucking into his supper with
>unreserved and undisguised exuberance whilst occasionally giggling.
>Actually, that giggling was beginning to get a bit irritating for
>Reggie; but at the least the food was good. His stomach seemed to
>agree also, not about the giggling but about the food being good. But
>Reggie was sure that if it had time to pause to consider, his stomach
>would probably agree about the giggling.
>While he had been thinking and eating, the Maharishi had evidently
>just been eating. The result being that he had managed to wolf down
>the Chicken Tikka in about three minutes flat. Supper over, he put down
>its oblong container and stared intently at the still-eating Reggie.
>And then giggled.
>RYou never change, my son,S he chortled, RyouUre still the same old
>Johnny Jet.S
>Reggie momentarily stopped eating and started choking.
>RWhat did you say?S he spluttered. RWhat did you call me?S
>More giggles.
>Reggie repeated his question.
>RI said,S said the Maharishi, RyouUre still the same old Johnny Jet.S
>RIUm sorry, but youUve got me confused with someone else. My nameUs
>Reggie Oswald.S disagreed Reggie Oswald.
>ROh yes, it is now,S giggled the Maharishi, Rbut you will soon be
>Johnny Jet.S
>Reggie had already decided that if the Maharishi giggled just one more
>time, he would empty the remaining contents of the oblong container
>quarter-full of lukewarm Chicken Tikka over the source of the
>gigglingUs long white beard.
>RDo you mind explaining?S said Reggie, a bit of lukewarm Chicken Tikka
>dribbling slowly down his unshaven chin.
>ROh, no time for that,S said his guest, RI must leave soon... So much
>work to do.S
>RLook,S said Reggie, RIUm sorry, but you canUt just turn up at Angel
>tube station on a Friday afternoon, get me drunk, give me a pocket
>calculator, buy me Chicken Tikka, and then leave. IUm liable to do
>something that I might regret.S
>RStill the same old Johnny Jet,S giggled the Maharishi.
>Reggie stared at the oblong lukewarm Chicken Tikka container and then
>stared at the Maharishi and decided that it would probably be best if
>he simply ignored his aversion to those dreadful giggles and just ate
>the rest of the lukewarm Chicken Tikka.
>RBut youUre the Maharishi,S he said, Rand IUm Reggie Oswald P not
>Johnny Jet P youUre in my flat, IUm confused and I really would like an
>explanation.S
>Rather unexpectedly, the Maharishi ceased his giggling for a few
>moments and began frantically fishing into the pockets of his soggy
>multi-coloured Kaftan. RNow what did I do with it?S he said.
>RDo with what?S
>RWait... youUll see,S said the Maharishi.
>Reggie set the empty oblong lukewarm Chicken Tikka container on the
>wooden table beside him.
>RThere, Eureka!S yelled the Maharishi, producing a battered brown
>envelope from somewhere within his underwear and handing it to a
>startled Reggie. RI have done what you said. HereUs your letter. Read
>it. I must take a pee.S The Maharishi headed off to the bathroom.
>Reggie looked at the brown envelope. He played with its frayed edges
>between his fingers, He held it up to the bare light-bulb hanging from
>the centre of the stained and peeling ceiling, He felt its weight in
>his hands, and then looked at it a bit more.
>It was old P of that Reggie had no doubt. Very old. And if the
>Maharishi had come all the way from Bombay to deliver it, Reggie could
>only presume that he had carried it in his underpants.
>He sniffed it.
>It was soggy with sweat, and smelt remarkably unpleasant P in fact it
>was probably the most unpleasantly smelling envelope that Reggie had
>ever sniffed.
>He decided to stop sniffing it.
>It was brown P dirty brown P but, many moons ago, it might even once
>have been white. Reggie decided not to dwell over what had turned it
>this dirty shade of brown and shifted his attention instead to the
>faded writing on the front. That was when he got the biggest shock of
>the night.
>The words were written in blue biro, and they were so faded as to
>almost be illegible. In fact, were it not for the fact that the they
>were written in ReggieUs own handwriting, they would have been
>completely illegible to him.
>Almost bringing the lukewarm Chicken Tikka back up into the oblong
>lukewarm Chicken Tikka container, and not hearing the front door slam
>as his unexpected caller vanished into the night, he read them out
>loud in a shaky voice:
>RTo Johnny Jet (AKA Reggie Oswald) not to be opened until March 5th
>1991.S
>
>....to be continued
 
The C6 is a cinch, dude. So is the B7. Try again.
 
The Maharishi