Nowhere Near Milkwood Read Online Free PDF Page B

hairstyle, Ginger. He guessed something was up, so he treated me like an unwanted bill, which is the overused pun I truly was. He deferred me indefinitely, like the climax of my song. It still hasn’t been performed in its entirety, so I’ve heard.
    Somebody had left a newspaper at the bar, so I perched awkwardly on a stool and sat reading it. Anything to appear unobtrusive. The front page was bursting with news about trouble in distant lands. Lots of revolutions had broken out at the same time. The nations of Africa, the Americas and Asia had overthrown their governments. There were angry mobs in every street demanding globalisation and a single world state. As they marched to victory they sang anthems. I recognised these. I’d written them with the Cussmothers. The songs from our first (unsuccessful) album. It was clear what had happened. The secret societies had finally made their move. My former colleagues ruled much of the planet now. I felt like the fifth Beatle or the sixth sense, left out of things but still there, cheated, frustrated and helpless, an orphan of cuss.
    I folded the newspaper and returned to my immediate surroundings. I needed to confront my own mess.
    Some of my support acts began strumming guitars for their personal pleasure, while Goodbut kept repeating to himself and anyone else who would listen: “Infinitely bum! Infinitely bum!” And the beers and glasses of wine slipped down all other throats smoothly, but not down mine, and parts of me wept for the rest.
    The very bald singer from Satori came up next to me. “That gig wasn’t big enough for the all of you.”
    I nodded every one of my heads.
    The atmosphere in the room became strained. The songs which came out of those guitars were painful. Every time a G sharp was sounded, the walls sparked red. There was shame and heat. The people winced. Even though these G sharps should have been different to the one I’d extracted from ‘And Dug The Pigdog A Tomb’, the horror was there. My fault for welding it to one specific context! The note was alloyed with that context forever now, tainted and ugly.
    A mirror for my existence.
    I felt a strong grip on my biggest shoulder. Bridget Wells was standing behind me. Then she growled:
    “You’ve destroyed G sharp! You’ve ruined an entire note. Never again will anyone be able to play that semitone. There were only twelve in a full scale and now there are just eleven. All musicians must regard you as an enemy from this instant. You’ll never get a gig anywhere. You should go home now. Leave us forever.”
    “I have no home,” I replied miserably.
    “Just get out of Swansea,” Goodbut added. “I’m sure the miasma will part itself especially for you.”
    “I’ll finish my drink first,” I said, and I raised my pint to my lips, but I didn’t taste it. I suddenly found myself surrounded by grinning people. So many happy faces! I felt light and immersed in compassion, warm and at peace. This is the way it should always be! I laughed my typical laugh but the sound was a fraction softer.
    Then I realised that I was lying on my back parallel to the bar with my feet still resting on the stool. I was upside down and the grins were sneers and pouts. The warmth was gore. There was a gouting neck where one of my heads had been. I felt a fraction more stupid. But I rapidly worked out what had happened. Fed up with my delaying tactic, Bridget had punched me. Don’t mess with that girl!
    I crawled away, out of the room, out of the door, onto the street. It had started to rain. The sky washed me. Cars helped by splashing puddles. All the moonless gutters were damp and crooked. I didn’t enter any of them. I crossed the road and found a patch of soggy greenery, Cwmdonkin Park, it was. There was no real shelter here, but I lay flat on my back again and thrust my legs up into the air.
    All songs are now played without G sharp. Strings have been removed from pianos across the globe. Banning this note may