P.G. Bauhaus

The Cape Of Abandoned Hope

I’ve been searching for the right home for this but I don’t think that exists. I’d love it if there was a lit journal specializing in laboured Sisters Of Mercy puns and Wodehousian characters, but alas… So in the spirit of punk rock I do have the means with this Substack to just put it out myself. I was thrilled to find my cassette of Swing The Heartache - The BBC Sessions for this photo. I still fondly remember the day I got it, from Graf Wadman at the Trumbull Mall during winter break 1993

I had the first line for a while, rum and ginger beer being of course the ingredients of a Dark & Stormy, and was thrilled when I came up with the idea of ‘P.G. Bauhaus’ to be able to use it. October seems the right time to unleash this, being the month of spooky things, haha. And so please enjoy my tale of a young Bertie Wooster-esque figure going to his first ever goth club. And if you like it, please share

The Cape Of Abandoned Hope

It was a rum and ginger beer night. And I, Peregrine Goodby, of the Wiltshire Goodbys, was down-the-hatching my third of such beverages whilst sat on the mezzanine balcony of The Drones Club, yes, named after that famed gentlemen’s establishment of yore, though an entirely different concern, going as somewhat of an experimental indie disco, and situated along one of Shoreditch’s darker alleys. I was regathering my wits and waiting for the return of that scoundrel Edwin Toulouse-Étoiletrek. Not that I expect the reader to recognize either of our names, though we are men of some wealth and one might say a little notoriety but definitely not fame in the strictest sense of the word, and oh yes, I see, taste, well, these cocktails certainly are delicious, nevertheless, after what happened not one hour ago, any compassion I might have fleetingly felt for The Devil has been defenestrated. It had been a most frightful evening. You see, I had just been to my first ever gothic music club.

Perhaps the cards were stacked against me from the outset, what with friends corrupting my Christian name to ‘Grin’ and frequently combining both appellations to ‘Goodgrin’, instead of taking a more fanciful flight on the predatory associations of the falcon or even straining for etymological resonance with the early saints, either of which would have stood me in better stead for such a venture. But, no, during the walk to the venue and whilst traversing its dark entryway, Edwin was all ‘Goodgrin this’ and ‘Goodgrin that’. And that entryway, well let me tell you! A slat opened at eye level emitting the spookiest silence this side of Christmas Eve, to which Edwin simply flapped a velvet glove over his shoulder – not part of the ritual as far as I was aware – and uttered the phrase ‘What ho!’ The domed wooden door creaked and we were allowed to pass. None of this having to invite us in as if we were part of the vampiric brethren or any of that ceremonial hijinx that I was half-expecting and, truth be told, a little disappointed not to encounter. Once past the sentry however, Edwin explained he’d had it on good authority that the rite used to be somewhat more complicated. In the beginning - the early days of the club, not the very biblical beginning often associated with these words – well, once the panel finished its diabolical slide, a voice deep enough to come out of the abyss boomed ‘Abandon all hope’. And the initiate, or expectant guest or what have you, was required to respond ‘What hope?’ Required that is if they wished to gain entrance. There were plenty who, feeling the ick of the great god Pan, turned and ran at the first two syllables, not even stopping to inquire what the name of the band was that was on that evening. Anyway, due to time deteriorating all things, entropy, etcetera, the password has now degenerated to a perfunctory ‘What ho!’, sotto voce’d in response to that crack of the slat, and all and sundry will be welcomed in.

That last sentence is misleading. For one must be dressed, of course. And to the elevenses, nevermind the nines. And so it was that I spent my pre-departure hours prancing betwixt wardrobe and mirror attempting to get the tone right. What was this goth music I’d only so recently been introduced to? And would my search for the correct sartorial spirit be in vain? I put on some newly acquired records that had proved to be my introduction to this world of the dark twist, what I’m told are ‘the classics’, and let them guide me in selecting my outfit. Night Moves by Bob Seger & The Silver Bullet Band, the group name featuring the added bonus of a werewolf reference. I had seen the film Underworld and knew what to expect there. Elton John’s Sad Songs (Say So Much), the very raison d’être for goth music, I’m told. Smokey Robinson’s The Tears Of A Clown, for I heard about the costumes and carnival-like atmosphere I was sure to come across as part of the scene. Speaking of which, I had read somewhere that there’s a subset of the genre who chose to dress as piratical marauders leading me to drop the needle on Come Sail Away, the 1977 smash hit by Styx - well done there too - and was thus inspired to dig out the white frilly shirt I hadn’t worn since Virginia Prune’s Evelyn Waugh-themed fancy dress party. It seemed I had remembered Put Out More Flags all wrong, but I digress... Keeping the dance machine at full throttle, I found myself cutting quite the solo rug as I moved on to The Pogues’ The Ghost Of A Smile, and it wasn’t long before I emitted a ‘golly, that’s good!’, what with frowning being a gothic forte, and I must admit a certain shiver of pleasure slalomed down my spine at the resonance with my own nickname. Mr. MacGowan you’ve done it again!

In the end I descended my front steps clad in blood-red flared trousers, the kinkiest of black faux-leather boots - more Dr. Ruth than Doc Marten - lemon spats, the aforementioned frilly shirt above a belt buckle of a giant steer skull, in case cowboys were also some sort of cultural subdivision, and covered by my favourite plum cape that I was delighted to find further excuses to wear now that I was becoming a fully-fledged goth person.

As soon as Loosy saw me – Loosy being what I often call Edwin Toulouse-Étoiletrek, though in cases like this one was to become, the appellation frequently gets flicked to The Louse – he pointed in the direction of home and told me to return there immediately and change. ‘I say!’, I said. But he wouldn’t hear of it. Informing me of the strict all-black dress code and nailing the point home that I was in flagrant violation of this many times over. I don’t see how the pirates get in. And with them on my mind I enquired if I could still wear the belt buckle in the hopes of being welcomed by the cowboy contingent. The Louse appeared flabbergasted. He followed me back to my flat and kept rapping his knuckles on the bedroom door as I attempted to gather the correct garb, every now and then shouting ‘you’d be late for your own funeral’, which I rather thought was the point. In a huff, I had shed everything above the belt, including that very accoutrement, and left such items in the sitting room en route to my present circumstances, poised on the precipice of my wardrobe. Topless and slightly nippy, even with their plum-coloured cousin banished to the discard pile on the arm of the divan, I couldn’t help but browse my collection of capes once more, and was quickly diverted by a gorgeous yellow contender I had not worn since Mercy Kihn’s Sherwood Forest fancy dress bash. In what drawer had I tucked the rest of that getup away? The top came complete with the R badge which could stand for either Robin - Hood or Boy Wonder - though I was tempted to change the insignia to a G for the evening. Surely there must be exceptions in the dress code for The Dynamic Duo? I mean, wasn’t The Batcave club where this whole gothic shebang began? Batman himself seemed too obvious, dozens of chaps would be certain to have that costume cornered, and more than likely some kind of seniority system was in place that one would have to work up to. However, the club had been going for some years, so how do they keep the floor from filling with Adam West impersonators? Robin appeared to be the side on which to kick. I knew I had a swimsuit around here somewhere, candy apple grapehuggers that might be just the ticket below my Merry Men tunic. Taking liberties where the colours splash, I know, but one has to get with the times and so on. Right when I commenced looking for this en-semb another violent rap shook the door, and ushered in the conclusion that it was perhaps a mite too cold outside to be prancing about in one’s underwear, even though I was assured half the clientele would be doing exactly that.

But why was I, Peregrine Goodby, off to a gothic music club in the first place, I hear you ask. Well it all started the other night when Victor ‘The Bishop’ Kerr, Seth ‘The Actor’ Spiano, Boodj, and I were watching The Psmiths give a most effervescent performance at The Drones Club. I remarked that earlier that day I had been earwormed by the squirmiest of invertebrates indeed, an infectious little number blaring out of the speakers whilst I procured a vital part of my luncheon from the local Tesco Express. I didn’t quite catch the name of the band, something to do with mathematics I believe, but the chorus kept going on about Love being torn apart. I glanced down at the baguette I would soon be ripping into tiny pieces to dip within the pot of beloved fondue I had on the boil, salivating at the thought of scrumptious forkful after scrumptious forkful popped into my mouth, again and again, and well, I felt a communion with the arts I had not experienced since I was sipping a steamy cup of PG Tips and Kelly Clarkson’s Tip Of My Tongue came on the wireless. I mean, I say, my tongue, my initials!

Edwin, The Louse, came and joined the tail end of our conversation and said he knew some places I could catch more of this spiffy stuff and even dance to it if I so chose, well outside the confines of the supermarket. Better still, he’d be happy to escort me, if ‘happy’ is the word we want. I replied, ‘You know, old bean, I might be into that.’ And The Louse continued to regale us with tales of his adventures amidst the gothic underworld cabarets, bearing names like The Devil’s Duck, 1313 Tamerlane, and The Florist Du Mal, all the while our companions growing more and more certain in their conviction that they would rather be drawn and quartered than even dip a toe into such bacchanalia. ‘You have to pay extra for toe-dipping,’ confided Edwin, mysteriously.

I, however, could not contain my excitement. That synthesizer line from the fondue song had not left my brain nor did I wish it to. I made plans with Edwin - as I called him that night, him being much in my good graces - for the following Thursday, and upon waking the next afternoon, made a beeline to my local vinyl emporium, Phoney Graham’s, where I could always count on its proprietor to steer me in the right direction. Assuring me they were touchstones of the genre, Graham picked out the records I dressed to above, along with Bruce Springsteen’s Born In The U.S.A. album - the title, he told me, referring to silver screen icon Vincent Price as well as the record boasting the goth classic Dancing In The Dark - a Roy Orbison greatest hits collection that featured Crying and Running Scared, plus Santana’s Abraxas for Black Magic Woman obviously, ‘but don’t forget the opening track Singing Winds, Crying Beasts’. Armed with these most gothic of platters, I headed home, overjoyed - though loathe to admit such positivity – at my upcoming transformation.

It took a further two attempts until The Louse was satisfied with my garb. Adhering to his précis I reemerged clad in the black and white jersey of Grimsby Town, a more perfect name for our undertaking I could not dream of. And when sent back again to change, The Louse had the nerve to then veto the Notts County top I sported. What did Edwin have against Sherwood Forest, I ask you? Or The White Stripes? Was it because I had left my lemon spats on? I often do, some might say it’s my m.o. I don’t know how football players can stand to get their boots so muddy. But I guess lesson number one would be that goth music nights are no occasions for footwear protests, no matter how well-intentioned one might be. And now I really was in a pickle, especially as Edwin stared down my argument that white wasn’t a color at all but a shade and should therefore be welcomed with open arms by the Committee of Infernal Attire. And if things turned into an after-hours game of five-a-side, I’d already be two steps to the good. I’d even forego the lemon spats, if my team insisted, for one does tend to want to fit in on one’s first visit. And I guess I’d have to sacrifice bringing out my splendid pickle-pigment cape. Though with options adwindle, what could I do? I spied the fishnet bodysuit I had worn to Lazarus Radley‘s Biblical Professions party but what with the cold that put the kibosh on my Robin outfit, I nixed that idea as well.

Luckily, I stumbled upon the crows feather boa I had worn to Poppy Gulch’s Wizard Of Oz ball and that got the ball rolling, as they say. I must tell you The Scarecrow with his trespassers slain and worn about his shoulders had not been my initial choice for that affair. It was my express wish to attend as conscientious observer The Yellow Brick Road but, alas, my cloak of the same colour was at the launderette, recovering from its sluicing of ink the previous evening at Isaac Emsworth’s James Bond masquerade. That devil Caesar Oliver Krebkie having had the gall to come dressed as the giant squid from Dr. No, complete with working tentacles and siphon. Thankfully, my dry cleaner Mr. Newell lived only a five minute dash away and I was able to rescue her in time. But having learned Krebkie would be attending Ms. Gulch’s as one of the flying monkeys from the film, my costume was sealed. Let those wings around my neck be a warning to him! Boa chosen, the rest of the garments came quickly, even if they lacked any pigment of that fabled rainbow. Truth be told, it was rather nice to take my oft-neglected cape of deepest night out for a whirl, and when I emerged again, Edwin delivered no resistance. He applied to my visage some eyeliner, attached a clip-on earring, and we were off.

Once underway, as mentioned above, it was all ‘Goodgrin this’ and ‘Goodgrin that’, telling me of his experiences at various hotspots about town. His latest gothic adventure having been at Charon Cross, held on a boat in The Thames, guests either amorously amphibious or retching over the rails from too many pomegranate cocktails. Edwin partaking of a bit of both, though I soon lost interest in the tale due to – given the perfect opportunity – not a single pirate appearing anywhere on the horizon. Really, The Louse can be quite insensitive at times, especially after I’d told him at length over the previous few days how much I wished to encounter these outlaws amongst the tribal subsidiaries. Unfazed, on the surface at least, he launched into another nocturnal anecdote but I could tell via the occasional sideways glance that he was burning his cerebral candelabra at both ends to try and summon such characters into the story and having a deuce of a time doing so. We walked on in silence until...

Behold, Grendelville! Our destination’s exterior stonework was magnificent. Gargoyles with popped eyes, beckoning felines, giant insects swarming out of rabbit skulls, troubled bears in mystical trances, I say, if any of these creatures were to come to life... Heaven knew what they augured for the inside, and I found myself held in a delicious state of terrified anticipation. Every record I had been listening to these past few days had not prepared me for this. We single-filed it down a long catacomb-esque passageway, I severely tempted to reach for Edwin’s re-gloved hand, so profound was the fear I was experiencing. Strange pulsations tumbled through my body and pairs of beady red eyes flashed about us, the sounds of scurry giving one the goosebumps. But these were no geese, not even ganders of the underworld, rather the racket of rodents. And large ones at that. Or so I gathered until I bumped my head on a speaker and realized the ruckus was being piped in. How ghoulish! The artificialness of it somehow made the milieu exceptionally creepy, simmering with malicious intent. We arrived at another door, unguarded this time, and once past its barrier, I bristled at the throbbing bass. So here I was, Peregrine Goodby, standing on the threshold of full-on gothhood. And the coast was clear, no pirates anywhere, nor a single cowboy in sight. Though I was too overwhelmed by the spectacle, as well as the odd bouquet of ozone in the air, to much mind at all. Not to mention the music. This was a considerably more aggressive auditory disturbance than what I was used to in my Introductory To Goth courses, far darker than Elton John or Bruce Springsteen had given me cause to believe. Not that I wasn’t keen. I mean, I say, the percussion seemed less a drum machine than a whole demolition site, and the vocals the wail of those who had chained themselves to whatever was being wrecking ball’d and were going down with the ship. Not to bring the pirates back into it. And of course not to leave the cowboys and girls out. Hats were not a prominent part of the décor but there certainly was a writhing throng of boys and girls, dressed as each other and every shade in between. Angels, demons, dandies of the distant past, and cybernetic disrepairmen of uncontemplatable futures. There was even a skunk-in-human-shape cousin of Pepé Le Pew running around dousing the congregation with scent from behind its knees, whilst what can only be described as a trichotillomaniac raccoon molted wherever he pleased. Despite the ‘anything goes’ atmosphere of the night I felt a sense of justice when I later saw these two – needless to say older gentlemen - given stern warnings by a bouncer. Though I did miss the eau de cologne when the air became exceedingly pungent with the sweat and other emanations of the crowd.

Eager to learn all I could about my new countrymen, I asked ‘pray tell, good fellow, and what is the name of this particular beat combo?’ to the intro of every tune that blasted through the speakers. Shocked that ‘The Banshees’ weren’t backing up a whole host of different singers as was implied by the sounds on offer. But I must say I was having a devil of a time, dazzled by the complex magic lantern shows illuminating the walls, those eerie figures morphing ever more monstrous from the moment they took form. And Edwin, grown greatly generous after a trip to the gents, was plying me with the speciality of the house, a bombastic beverage known as The Intense Humming Of Evil. At first I instinctively recoiled from such a libation – its handle as well as sulphurous appearance – though the concoction turned out to be quite sweet, and Edwin clued me in that it had been christened after a song by the Manic Street Preachers. Wanting to fit in, I began to imbibe without another word, silently wondering if any of the dog-collared brethren here tonight were actually members of that band or religious organization or whatever they are...

The dancing was something else as well, far from the traditional steps and twirls and whatnot, these bodies swam and swung, reverberating out of their cores like tossed cabers freshly landed, so much so I speculated about what this had to do with ‘the Scottish play’ as there were circling groups of three witches in every direction I cast my eye. And just when I was on the verge of asking if I could employ some of the more submissive attendees to provide protection as I tango’d down the tiles, the music decided to crash to a halt. Smoke billowed out over a platform at the far end of the room. Its previous occupants clearing off and a ghoulish quintet materialized from their midst and mist. The scene had all the trappings of a rock and roll show!

“Oh you’ll enjoy this,” Edwin sidled up, informing me that indeed a band was about to sing us some tunes. An outfit by the name of Cruel Tea, whose most recent single One Lump Or Two? had quickly become a staple of these nights. But this so-called ‘band’ was nothing like what I’d encountered on a stage before. No ‘when I say ‘blood’ you say ‘letting’, or claims they can’t hear the audience when said crowd is shouting at the top of their pyrotechnic-smoke-filled lungs. Swathed in shadow and dry ice clouds, only half of Cruel Tea’s members performed with what my third year music professor Mr. Sourde would know as an ‘instrument’, those being the chap manhandling the six-string thingamabobby and the electric pianist, this latter dispatching flurries of noise with one hand whilst twiddling a row of knobs with the other. There was the vocalist, naturally, but the other two resembled a mad scientist and deranged chef, the Village People’s village graveyard dug up and reanimated – not as undead navvies and navy men, for that would be too tantalizingly close to my pirate fantasies coming true, and of course one can’t have it all – but rather the township’s other professions brought back to life and banging on a mic’d up cauldron with sledgehammers as they proceeded to toss a smorgasbord of unsavoury ingredients into the burbling mixture. At one point it was as if they were emptying in a sackful of the rats caught from the entryway whilst simultaneously milking a three-legged goat into the pot. However unappetizing this was to witness, the music itself entranced, and I was having a whale of a time, even with the bevy of ritualistic physical contortions happening around me in appreciation of the spectacle.

After Cruel Tea encored with their signature number Brooding, I was in desperate need of the gents, and, despite having been warned what moral wastelands these were, I set off in search of where I could alleviate my bladder. That’s where it happened. And a good thing too the incident occurred post this urethral unloading. I was finishing up laving the old phalanges when I chanced to look in the mirror. What I saw there froze my soul to the very darkest of licorice ice lollies. For just above my shoulder, and only for an instant, hovered some sort of loo creature in my reflection. Though on my double take whatever it was had disappeared and I had to stare myself down in the mirror and administer a good talking to. ‘Peregrine, old man,’ I began, ‘no doubt this heady atmosphere is getting to you. Best cool it on the Intense H’s of E for a while.’ My soul was bypassing my brain to offer advice which I couldn’t quite grasp. For a stiff tumbler of the strongest spirit was exactly what I needed at that very mo to calm the nerves and recover from this most egregious fright. I resolved at once to go procure one. Brandy, or perhaps a Creamy Cowboy, equal parts Bailey’s and tequila, sure to buck one right up. And then it struck me. The phantasm seemed the identical twin of the horned cattle skull featured on my belt buckle earlier this evening. But how could that be? I’ve already spoken of my grave disappointment at finding neither sea-farers nor ranch hands at the old Grendelville. I mean, there were even gothic cavemen wham-bam-bam’ing about. Not to disparage the club, I was having a gay old time. Well, until seventeen seconds or so ago. I shook my head clear and headed out to the bar. In the end I went with a Rusty Coffin Nail – the usual recipe plus a shot of Old Krupnik, the Polish honey liquor believed by Slavic grandmothers the world over to be the cure bar none for any cold or cough. Glass in hand, I thus hit the dancefloor as I heard someone say this was The Sisters Of Mercy and I felt that quality to be most definitely what I needed right about now. Unless they said Misters Of Circe, but I take it the point would still stand, as that goddess warned Odysseus to stay away from her father’s cattle.

The tiles turned out to be the perfect place to exorcize this demon or whatever it was I saw in the lavatory mirror. And soon I entered into the spirit of things, thrashing my body up down and turned around, like a side-blotched lizard on amphetamines trapped in a chrome-plated pipe tobacco tin, blending in swimmingly. Once I got the hang of that, I resumed my previous practice of enquiring after artist and song title of the record spinning, eager to retain them in the old nog to purchase from Phoney Graham on the morrow. I was duly informed these stellar tunes were Hiss N Hearse by Larval Cockroach, Mourning Sickness by Dr. Mandrake’s Estranged Medical Unit, and Flesh In The Pan by Pan’s Flesh. I was loving this. Until...

After being told the arid synthesizer sweeps rattling the sound system were the opening strains of Eastern Wood Western Urn’s Stallions Ablaze, as I was shaking my left hand all about, I noticed my cape was missing. No wonder I was moving with such glorious abandon! I went to procure another Rusty Coffin Nail and consider the situation. How could I have misplaced it? Where could I have misplaced it? And how would I be able to find my frock amidst this sea of black? It was then I felt the true sorrow at the heart of goth music. Having lost a piece so precious to me, so vital to my wardrobe and warpath, I was positively forlorn. True, I hadn’t worn the wrap since Claire Saturn-Crustacean’s Last Days Of Rome party where Chrysler ‘Bang Bang’ Whalingship convinced me to go as The Emperor from Star Wars as a hoot, but nevertheless, it held pride of place in my cape closet. And what’s more is there were dozens of capes in the exact same shade currently swooshing about the venue. Perhaps the best vantage point to spot it would be from within the melee. This was confirmed when just at that moment the DJ began to spin This Town Ain’t Big Enough For Both Of Us. The marvellous thing about music is its power to change one’s mood and, spectral visitations aside, I had been very much enjoying the proceedings. So, confident the cape would makes its way back to me, I let myself go and plunged in. Misguided, maybe, though I never could have expected or been fully prepared for what came next. Whilst everyone around me was faux-flamenco dancing to the middle of the song, I again caught glimpse of, yes, the creature! From across the dancefloor, but there was no mistaking, amongst other things, the brazen breach of dress code, what with the sunbleached white of bone. Its red eyes bore into me and only later did I realize I should’ve called the bouncer to throw him out for displaying yet another colour. But amidst the present panic, I was captivated by its piercing stare. The skull seeming to float through the crowd, on the sea of black beneath, holding my gaze as it began to tack towards me. In a flash I noticed that part of the fabric of this expanse, directly under its jaw, was my missing garment. True, the entire throng were tricked out in this tint, but a gentleman knows his capes! The figure stood before me and I was paralyzed with fear.

‘JOIN US!’ The skull boomed over Sparks’ monster riff.

I haven’t a clue how I found the strength to speak, but speak I did. ‘I say, old man, old cow, old skull, whatever you are. This is simply not on. One doesn’t steal another man’s cape no matter how much one covets it.’

The skull adopted an air of rebuke.

‘Oh, I see. Well yes, point taken, you aren’t another ‘man’ as you so rightfully indicate, but dash it -’

‘JOIN US!’

‘I say, now really. This isn’t any way to recruit folks to your organization, and such a tiny one within the greater gothic community.’ And at this point I snapped, lunging for the cloth for all I was worth. But the beast was too quick, sidestepping my attack and throwing my own cape over my head. Supernatural forces at play, I presume. I struggled valiantly to get free though in the process wound up on the floor, those red eyes glaring at me from above. It was most chilling. And what truly did me in were the hands – human hands – shooting out and whisking the cape away once more.

Saturated with terror I fled the scene. Steps echoing behind me as I reengaged the entrance corridor but I dare not look back towards the boney man, or whatever it was. Huffing and puffing, I reached the safety of the outside world. Though not for long. Casting my eyes heavenwards for some sort of angelic guidance, what should I encounter illuminating the firmament but the Bat Signal itself! Rendered here in the form of a cattle skull, shining wide over the architecture of our fabulous city. Reader, I ran.

Down alien alleyways and across fiendish thoroughfares, shadows jumping out at me from every incandescent streetlamp. My heart pounded in my throat, blood battering my eardrums, as crow feathers stuck to my lips after repeatedly penetrating my mouth, glued on by surreptitious spit. A blessing again, perhaps, to not have a cloak on my shoulders, allowing me to cruise at full speed. I did not stop until I felt the assassins on every side lower their sights on my sanity. Though it was still with much trepidation that, miles away, I risked another peek at the night sky. A sigh has never tasted so sweet. For in that moment no cattle - undead, luminiferous, or otherwise - roamed the clouds.

I wasn’t in the clear yet, for once back within the hoped-for sanctuary of The Drones, the DJ had the ruddy cheek to be playing a techno remix of the theme tune to Dallas. I ordered my first drink special of the evening and went for a bit of respite on the mezzanine balcony. The second Dark & Stormy began to unleash its magic and I set about infusing myself with a third. That potent zest of ginger and warm wave of rum worked wonders on my insides though had yet to tickle my gargoyle exterior.

‘I say Goodgrin, you look positively spooked. And why are you dressed as a raven?’ Leave it to The Bishop not to recognize crow feathers even when they’re right beneath his beak. Seth ‘The Actor’ Spiano and Boodj crowded in, just as perplexed as to my demeanour. I couldn’t tell them what happened, not yet. Their attire was more suited to our environs – snorkel necklaces and faux-chain mail blouses, in Day-Glo, natch - and I stuck out like a sore hitchhiker. Which I guess is precisely what I had been doing at Grendelville. An avian tourist diving in dark waters. There and then I resolved to stick close to my spiritual home of The Drones for the foreseeable.

The Bishop, The Actor, and Boodj, getting nothing out of me, headed off to the dancefloor to flop about to 2 5 1, the latest single by Jazz Playlist, leaving me on my lonesome. It wasn’t long, however, before I felt a most dubious presence lurking in the shadows. A brown-paper package, wrapped in rope, flopped onto the low table in front of me. ‘For you.’ Unable to remain concealed, Edwin Toulouse-Étoiletrek stepped into my field of vision guffawing like a troop of chimps, gorillas, and orangutans flanked by red-bellied lemurs, Paraguayan howlers, and lion-tailed macaques all heading over Niagara Falls in the barest of vessels. As this ruckus showed no sign of abating any time soon, I opened the parcel.

‘My cape.’

‘Yes, my dear boy. It was all deliciously simple. I swiped the discarded belt buckle from your sitting room whilst you spent an eternity getting ready. Using some of the club’s lighting equipment was but a trifle, I merely had to ask. To lead up to that, the idea came to me on our walk there. Your disregard of my nocturnal adventures due to, of all things, a lack of pirates I found disrespectful in the extreme. Especially to someone introducing you to the scene. Well, I knew your keenness to come across cowboys as well, wherever you got such a notion in your head that they would be represented this evening, I haven’t the foggiest. But with the belt buckle in my hands, I became convinced that particular theme could emerge. You see, lately I’ve gotten to know one of the Grendelville regulars, chap by the name of Setpiece, costume designer with a healthy interest in osseous material. Has quite the taxidermy collection too. It was but the work of a moment to inquire if he could go fetch one of his cattle skull masks and bring it down. Always up for a bit of hijinx, Setpiece is.’

‘But why did you steal my cape?’

‘Well, my boy. Couldn’t have you recognizing my outfit, could I? Very practically, the cape covered my own threads. Wasn’t expecting you to lunge like that though, most unsporting of you.’

Yes, my fright when we’d hit the floor had obscured what really stood before me. And here he was in a similar position, groping around in his trousers for an obscenely long time. At the end of which he tossed my beloved belt buckle on top of the folded cape. I rose to take my leave, greatly dazed by the events of the evening, but now intent on returning these restored treasures to their rightful place in my wardrobe and getting some much needed sleep. The sounds of The Drones beat on, crackling with electrical current, and Edwin, having made his confession, was soon borne away by those waves once again, lost to darkness and distance and all that.