"Watch me!" he says, whirling round and striking a pose before his fingers find their places on the strings and a melodic, bell-like chord chimes against the walls of the rehearsal room.

And watch him I do, captivated as always by this scrawny boy with eyes the colour of blackbird's eggs. He strums another chord - and another ... and another - before spinning on his heel and pounding out a pulsing boogie riff, jaw jutting out pugnaciously as he thrusts his hips in sync with the rhythm pumping out of his guitar.

"Very nice," I say, not unaffected by the way he moves those lean loins. "And what do you do for an encore then, Brian - play Auld Lang Syne with your dick?"

But he only laughs, eyes shining, as he turns away and carries on playing that 12-bar boogie a while longer.

And then he turns back to me again, face bright and alive.

"Hey, Beano!" he exclaims. "I've got this great idea for a riff. Listen!"

I beat out a quick tattoo on the snare drum. "Well don't take all friggin' day, then, you tosser - I'm gaggin' for a slash ... "

But he knows and I know that I don't mean it.

For a moment he stands lost in thought, eyes staring unfocusedly at the ceiling, then touches his guitar almost reverently before flexing his fingers. His whole body seems to unfurl and he stands tall and straight and erect - and then he bends over his guitar again, hands caressing the neck and the body like a lover, his lips moving quickly as he 'pah's a tune to himself. He strokes the strings, plucking random, experimental notes and I feel the breath catch in my throat in the way it always does when I know Brian is about to do something incredible.

He slides his fingers down the strings, checks everything, looks back at me with an evil, impish grin. "Try this for size, you fuckin' sheep-shagger ... "

His fingers go to their prearranged places and a slow, sombre refrain follows. He repeats it several more times, making subtle melodic alterations and chord changes in each repetition before finally letting loose a wild cascade of notes that tumble and fall from his hands, dropping through his long, shapely fingers like glistening jewels.

As usual I'm lost in admiration for this boy's extraordinary talent. I'm glad that the others are still arguing the toss about Neil's shortcomings as a manager in The Rising Sun across the way, listing their woes over oceans of Jack Daniels. Because as I listen to Brian play, the music spiralling like dust motes in the afternoon sun, I don't want to share this with anyone. Brian is playing for me - just for me - and that's the way I want to keep it. He wants to play this for me and I don't want any of those other fuckers muscling in on it.

Brian tosses his hair, strutting and fretting his way across the stage as he coaxes magic from a simple box strung with wires. He pouts, windmills his arm defiantly, and strikes poses, all the time grinning at me from under his fringe, almost daring me to deny the awesome talent he wields. Not that I could do that even if I wanted to; the music I'm hearing makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck and all I can do is worship at the source.

As the music picks up pace, he gives me another look. "Beano ... " He nods. "Give me a beat here ... "

For a second I feel like refusing - all I want to do is listen and I'm afraid of spoiling the web he's weaving with those metal strings. But I can see that he means it - he wants me to play with him. And as he plays on, I find myself being taken effortlessly into the rhythm and I begin easing myself into the tempo, making practice feints at the drum-skins as I wait for the right moment to join in. And when it comes, I'm in like Flint, matching my rolls and breaks to Brian's chords and guitar runs, watching him carefully to make sure that I meet him beat for riff and don't lose my way.

Before long we're flying, my drumming matching the liquid soul of his guitar as he spins and teases the notes from his guitar, his hair falling round his face like dark wings. The natural intuition between musicians takes off between us and instinctively I know when to match his rhythm, when to let him have his head, and when to be the one who sets the pace. And Brian works with me, knowing when to be the one to be in control and when to hold back for me to pummel the life out of the drum kit, enjoying the freedom of simply jamming with a friend.

And then, just as we both begin to falter and I feel the moment beginning to slip away, Brian throws back his head and plays one last, sobbing note that holds its breath and then slowly dies away. Recognising it as his usual cue for the end of a guitar solo, I let Brian wring the last possible drop of emotion from the note and then hurtle in once more, ending with a spectacular tattoo of drumbeats before he catches my eye again and we finish together on a blistering chord and an explosive drum roll.

In the silence that follows all I can hear is our rapid breathing and the feedback hum from Brian's amplifier. He's standing with his head back, eyes closed, chest heaving as he grips the neck of his guitar and rubs the palm of his free hand across the curves of the instrument in a way that has me swallowing hard and tugging on the neckband of my t-shirt. When he finally looks at me his eyes are slightly glazed and his full lips seem more swollen than usual. I swallow again and try to ignore the fact that the trickle of sweat running down my back has more to do with him than with my exertion.

"Beano ... "

And for a split second I realise that for once even I may be in with a chance here - until the sound of voices and the slam of the outside door breaks the spell and lets the world back into the rehearsal room. My heart sinks as I realise that my moment with Brian is over and I feel strangely lost and disorientated. Something has touched me in a way I don't quite understand, and I'm not sure I'll ever be quite the same again - a thought which has me scuttling back to the safety of my bucolic West Country persona before I have time to analyse the feelings too much.

Brian takes off his guitar and jumps down from the stage; but as he goes to greet Karen with a hug and kiss, he turns and flashes me a brief look which seems tinged with regret for ... something that I could just be imagining or ...

But no, I must have imagined it - because Brian's hardly likely to want to fuck me, is he? Not good old Beano Baggott, parish village idiot and all round arsehole. Karen - definitely. Tony - um, perhaps. Les? Probably not. Ray ... maybe. Hughie? Well, there were rumours ...

But me?

No. That was about as likely as Mrs Mills doing a sing-a-long piano-party medley of Black Sabbath's Greatest Hits.

Because Beano Baggott doesn't have any softer, gentler feelings, does he ... that's what he's always told everyone. Girls are for shagging, not having meaningful relationships with - and shagging blokes is for poncy types like Ray. Shag 'em and leave 'em and never get involved - and never ever fall in love ... Oh no. Kiss of death, falling in love. And good old Beano isn't likely to ever fall in love - and certainly not with the likes of Brian Lovell ...

... But Brian has the ability to touch everyone - and as I watch Brian and Karen kissing and observe the others laughing and joking together, I suddenly feel completely alone, trying not to let the emotions I know I need to keep locked away have free reign. And because deep down inside I have feelings, too - just like the rest of 'em. And because I tell them that I don't need anyone or anything else - certainly don't need love and affection like they do. Because love is just for tossers ...

... And because sometimes - just sometimes - Beano Baggott tells lies ...

* * *

Use [back] button on your browser to return to index page.