From: L.H.Wood@lut.ac.uk
Subject: Re: Goodbye Reunion Goodbye
Reply-To: L.H.Wood@lut.ac.uk (Lloyd Wood)
Organization: Loughborough University, UK.
Date: Thu, 7 Jan 93 00:08:58 GMT


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
 
 

Xref: sparky alt.non.sequitur:893 talk.bizarre:43442