been anyone left in the school hall, anyone who had not followed The Rolling Stones out into the playground, where they were apparently signing autographs and deciding which fourth- and fifth-year girls they would be taking on elsewhere, then I bet, just bet, that had there been anyone remaining to watch us play, then that someone would have been really impressed by our musicianship and stagecraft. Even though my vocal renditions were a tad countertenor-ish.
But there wasn’t and we played to an empty hall.
And when we were done, Toby reiterated his intention to kill one of The Rolling Stones. ‘Drown his head in a bucket’ being the expression that he used.
‘I’m thinking,’ said Rob as he retuned his ukulele, for he had done some fearsome finger-work, ‘I’m thinking that perhaps I am not cut out for the crazy world of rock ’n’ roll. I am thinking that I might just go into advertising and become a copywriter.’
‘Not quite so fast,’ said Toby. ‘Playing to an empty hall is part of paying our dues. It will not happen again, you have my promise on this. And let’s look on the bright side – the fact that the hall was empty means that no one will ever know how truly rubbish we were.’
I looked at Neil and Neil looked at me and Neil looked at Rob and et cetera and et cetera.
‘We were pretty rubbish, weren’t we?’ said Rob.
‘We were excruciating,’ said Neil.
‘I was good,’ said I.
‘You were the most rubbish of all,’ the blighters said. In unison.
‘Perhaps I could go into copywriting also,’ I said.
‘You’d be rubbish at that, too,’ said Rob.
‘So where does this leave us?’ I asked.
‘It leaves you, gentlemen, with a most exciting option.’
Now, I never said that, and nor did Neil and nor did Rob and nor did Toby. And nor did Mr Jenner, nor any of The Rolling Stones, nor any of the fourth- or fifth-year girls of Southcross Road. Nor even Mrs Simian the school cook, nor her weird sisters of the kitchen cauldrons.
‘Who said that?’ asked Rob. ‘Or Who’s Next, as I might put it, if it were an album, or something.’
‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ said a gentleman. For surely indeed this was a gentleman. He stepped from the shadows at the rear of the brightly lit hall. The left-hand side, when looking, as we were, from the stage.
‘Looks like a man of wealth and taste,’ Rob whispered to me, as I was standing closest to him.
‘Who are you, sir?’ I asked.
‘Call me Ishmael,’ said Ishmael. ‘Mr Ishmael,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘I liked your performance.’
‘You did?’ I was puzzled by this. To say the very least.
‘Perhaps he’s a homo,’ whispered Rob. ‘They’ll say anything in order to get a bit of youthful bottom.’
And then Rob said no more. He sort of clutched at his throat and sort of fainted dead away. And all we Sumerian Kynges hastened to ignore Rob’s plight and see what Mr Ishmael’s ‘most exciting option’ might be.
‘You are not, by any chance, the owner of a vast cheese empire?’ Neil asked Mr Ishmael.
‘Why do you ask me that?’ the other replied.
‘Because Rob has fainted. I’m asking on his behalf.’
‘Ah,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘I see.’
‘Glad that someone does,’ said I.
‘The Sumerian Kynges,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘I like the name. It is very – how shall I put this? – meaningful.’
Our young heads went nod-nod-nod. Here, it was clear, was an adult who was on our wavelength.
He had now stepped fully from the shadows, and we were able to have a really good look at Mr Ishmael. The hall being so brightly lit, and everything.
He was very, very smart, was Mr Ishmael.
He was tall. In a way that transcends the way that the famous are tall. Because the famous are, in truth, rarely if ever tall. The famous are mostly short, but look tall because they are famous. And one naturally feels that famous folk must somehow be tall, and so we invest them with a quality of tallness, which mostly belies