Rock Star

By Mark DK Berry

Young Bardell arrives in London seeking fame and fortune as a musician. Embarking on a helter-skelter ride through the heart of the London music scene, he discovers challenges and opportunities abound in equal measure. Living on dreams and fresh air, the bard's luck is reliant on those he crosses paths with. Not everyone falls for his charm or ego and there are hard lessons to be had before he can 'make it', assuming he can 'make it' at all...

A tongue in cheek and blistering romp through the perks and perils of the music business.

(Genre: Fiction/Humour. This book contains adult themes and coarse language.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark DK Berry
• Release date: Dec 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9780648539551

Mark DK Berry

Mark DK Berry's written works include fiction, non-fiction, poetry books, and audiobooks. He also writes and produces music. For further information visit www.MarkDKBerry.com

Book preview

1

Bash Bartholomew Bonchance Bardell bounced onto the up-ramp of the Westway flyover. The coach soon settling back down to motor up the incline, having momentarily jarred his pen across the page. He looked up from his unfinished poem and sighed. A rainbow throwing colours against the grey cloud that blanketed the skies to the north of London on that auspicious spring afternoon. Soon the coach swung back down and onto the Euston Road to turn right. Eventually coming to a stop in the diesel choked shed of the Victoria Coach Station. Bardell dotted the final dot on his poetic masterpiece under the yellow hued and soot-dusted canopies of the wholly uninspiring Metropolitan terminus. He felt like Dick Whittington. Broke, but young and naïve enough to believe that good things were still possible. The moment was upon him. He was ready to do business with the world. Fame and fortune surely just a heartbeat away in this city of king-makers and destined dreams.

His first step outside the station was not onto pavements of gold, but into fresh dog shit. The small culprit not twenty yards off and attached by leash to a rotund lady who was waddling away in the opposite direction.

By Christ, madam, have you no fucking respect! shouted Bardell after her, somewhat less poetically.

The woman turning to shrug her shoulders, suggesting it was not hers, before continuing on.

Fucking bitch, Bardell said to himself, and then more loudly exclaimed, And maybe lose some goddamn lard while you are at it!

Removing the soft brown paste from his boot against the kerb, cuffing his foot this way and that, before absent-mindedly stepping out into the road to be soaked by a passing black Hackney cab as it travelled by just whiskers from him.

Stupid bloody foreigners, said the cabby at him through his window.

Motherfu — Bardell began in response, but then checked himself, took a deep breath in, and readjusted his demeanour.

Looking left and then right, checking for dog shit, cars, fat foe, or any other obstacles that might lie in the road ahead. Seeing none, he made his way over towards the Victoria train station entrance and on into the heart of London.

a city where dreams might come true

but where misbegotten travellers

and unsuspecting bards

might also end up neck-deep in dog shit

2

Through Victoria train station with its busy throng of commuters. Some striding purposefully as if trying to catch up with their own funeral, others standing around looking up at timetables or consulting paper maps. The dress code a uniform set of drab colours, mostly grey and black, but always dark hues and joyless. Some city boys in contrast standing out from the crowd wearing crisp pink or pastel blue shirts, their white collars and cuff-links sparkling, their talk loud and guffawing. Bardell’s footsteps adding to the hubbub, to echo discordantly back from the walls of the bright space as he strode on through. Pushing past a group of people, their London attitude dictating that they do not move without a light shove.

Oi, watch it mate! a voice calling after him.

Bardell ignoring it. Already gearing up to function in London mode. Happened quickly this time, what with the dog shit and the soaking, and then to be called a foreigner, of all things. Take no prisoners if you want to survive here. The pace of this city so much faster than the rest, and something about that drawing his eager soul back, time after time. It held promise against the apathy so prevalent in English culture and especially in towns like Oxford, which he had just left. Compared to those sleepy places, London was alive and vibrant. Like the fight was on to get somewhere, to achieve something, or die trying. There was always something happening in this city, and better yet, it never slept.

On towards the station’s Underground exit. Going past a bar with men sat alone on uncomfortable metal chairs, holding half finished glasses of lunchtime golden lager and staring off into the distance. Catching the smell of baked bread coming from the sandwich shop nearby and remembering, only then, that he has not eaten since breakfast. Reaching a payphone, he drops his rucksack to his feet, kicks it in against the wall, and puts a foot on the strap to prevent sleight-of-hand manoeuvres. Must exercise caution in this thievery hotspot that never misses a trick. Pulls out a small black book of phone numbers, to flick through it. Finds the one he wants and hoists the phone up on his shoulder. Fumbles through pockets, looking for ten pence pieces.

Could you spare the price of a cup of te — an old man’s voice breaking in.

Fuck off, I’m on the phone. Bardell cutting the aged tramp short without a second thought.

And you have a pleasant day yourself, sir, replies the tramp, surprising Bardell with his politeness.

Here. Bardell calling after the man, and shoving a fifty-pence piece into his grubby hand. And now you can fuck off, he adds, this time in a more joking tone and with a friendly smile.

The tramp tapping a finger to his forehead and giving a slight bow of thanks before moving on.

Always pay your fee of entry, Bardell reminding himself, before returning to the matter at hand.

Reading from his address book, taps numbers into the well-worn silver metal plate. Checks the black mouthpiece for gum or dog shit. Sniffs at it, and immediately pulls a face of regret. Wipes both ends on his sleeve to then hold it a safer distance. Shoving the address book back into a jacket pocket. Zips it, checks it, reaffirms his foot is on the rucksack, then double-checks in both directions as he waits for the other end to answer. When they do, tapping frantically on the volume switch, but it makes little difference against the station din.

Shit, I can barely hear you. This fucking phone... Hello… Is Damien there?... No... Damien... IS. DAMIEN. THERE? Yes... Yes... Thank you.

Finger rammed into his other ear.

Hello, Damien?... Betty? Sorry, no, I was after Damien. D.A.M... Yes, that’s right. Oh, he’s not. When do you expect him back?... You don’t? Ah, shit. Betty, sorry, my name is Bardell. Damien said he could put me up for a night or two. I just arrived from Oxford and have nowhere to stay.

A pause on the line. Bardell can hear Betty talking to someone. Voices raised for a moment, but then quieting down and she comes back on.

Yes. Sure… Yes, that’s right. It’s Bardell. I am sorry for the inconvenience… Yes… I really appreciate that, Betty. I am at Victoria station, probably less than an hour away. Thank you. Thank you very much.

Down into the Underground, two steps at a time, waiting for a moment until the guards are looking away to push through the barriers. Force them open, they snap shut behind him as he passes on into the flow of the crowd, unnoticed. Following the right hand side down the escalator. Considering for a moment the chance of making it if he slides down the centre. Spots a metal box secured further down that would eject him vertically if he tried.

Gets off at the bottom. Fast pace walking. Slalom-dodging through the people towards the platform. Catch a train just as it rolls in. Standing room only. Stay by the doors to reduce claustrophobia and avoid the inevitable gag of body odour. Staring at the adverts to avoid eye contact with strangers in uncomfortable proximity, but not before looking around for women ripe for rape and pillage. Nothing above a low five. Disappointing.

Off at Embankment to dodge down corridors like porcelain tiled rat-runs. The unnecessary race to reach the Northern line. A sign mid-platform with broken digital yellow lettering says, High Barnet 13 Minutes. Stand at the yellow painted line with brail-marked edge to watch soot-covered mice dance across rails that would zap a man dead if he fell across them. The platform, empty on arrival, now filling up to begin a jostle for seats as the High Barnet train finally rolls in. The tannoy blasting, loudly repeating,

MIND... THE GAP... MIND... THE GAP... MIND... THE GAP…

Words pronounced so strangely, yet effective enough to make one pause before getting on and ponder just how many people died before they made that recording. Look down at the space below for blood stains remaining, or maybe pieces of leg. All aboard. Take a standing position at the corner by the doors again, with just enough room to suck in oxygen at each stop as it gets busy passing through the city.

Leicester Square, Charing Cross, Euston, then Camden, where the last of the mob exit and fresh faces get on. More room now. Bardell relaxing. Turns inward to check out the form. A half-decent Spanish-looking woman sat a few seats down. Feel someone staring. Look across the carriage. No. It can’t be. Fuck me, it is.

Dirk Blanc stood directly opposite. His black and soulless eyes staring right back at me. His hair styled exactly as I remember it, like Elvis or possibly Hitler. His facial features reminiscent of an Asian but with the physique of an East London brickie. As ever, dressed in a long black coat and trying his best to look like one of the Kray twins. What a wanker. First dog shit and a soaking, and now him. My first day in London. What the fuck kind of welcome is this? Better break the ice. He looks like he might pounce otherwise.

Been a few years, Bardell says, to ease the growing tension.

Dirk giving nothing in return, continues to stare. Bardell meeting his look with soft eyes to present no threat.

So, what are you doing in London? Bardell tries again, giving him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he misheard. Try to keep things up-tempo and friendly, instead just adds fuel to the fire.

What the fuck are you trying to be nice for now? Dirk barks at him across the carriage.

Bardell, not entirely surprised by the response, looks away. Notices that the entire carriage is now watching him to see what will happen next. Turns back to meet Dirk’s unbroken stare.

Jesus, Dirk. That shit was years ago, mate. Ancient history. Move on.

I’ll give you fucking ‘move on’, snapped Dirk. Where are you getting off?

Kentish Town, if you must know.

We’ll sort this outside the station.

If you say so, buddy. Bardell shaking his head in disbelief.

I’m not your buddy. Fucking threaten me with a shooting, muttered Dirk.

It had been a flippant comment made in the heat of the moment, but Dirk seemed more angry now than he had been back then. What the fuck was up with the guy? Other than being relentlessly stupid and perennially aggressive. Bardell had long since gotten over him, her, it, the whole damn lot of them. Ancient history. Avoid all regrets. Don’t dwell. Move on. But there was a code of conduct and a principle at stake here, and Dirk had just never seemed to get that.

Maybe don’t fuck another guy’s wife? Bardell replied, bristling now to be reminded of the pain that Dirk had caused him.

She’d left you.

We were having a brea — What the fuck am I explaining this to you for? Yea, we’ll sort this outside the station.

Bardell now feeling a lot more up for it. Heart pounding in chest, breathing getting rapid, sweat building, and the carriage suddenly feeling hot and a lot more dangerous. The fucker might pounce, and in here I’d have trouble. Need room to manoeuvre and stay out of his reach.

Train braking hard as it slows for the station and Dirk falling forward. Bardell, thinking it’s a move, steps left, but Dirk rights himself and steps back. Still staring. Cold. Soulless. Fish-eyed. Cunt.

Off as the train doors open. Keep my eye on this sneaky fucker. It would be just like him to do something tricky. Clearly should have shot him like I threatened to back then, if only I’d had a gun. Onto the escalator. He’s two steps down. Best to monitor him, stand facing the wrong way, looking down. Could drive-kick him from up here, if I was that kind of guy. Queensbury Rules still holding court in a more gentlemanly part of the soul. Need to address that. These minor aspects of a dying British etiquette may be all that separates the man from ape. Though on days like this one wonders why bother. Fuck them before they surely will try to fuck you. Slide gently to the right now, make no sudden moves, but need to keep my punching arm free and ready, just in case the slippery weasel should leap fangs out. A long and awkward journey taking us smoothly up, that seems to last forever. Almost embarrassing, it is taking so long. Some elevator music would have helped, or better yet, a Spaghetti Western theme tune with close-ups as we eyeball one another menacingly. Still staring hard at me like the insane cretin that he is. Like a big, stupid dog waiting for someone to throw a ball. Whatever his god damn problem is, I do not know? He fucked my wife, for Christ’s sakes! I will beat this fucker senseless in just a few moments and remind him of that fact. I really should just hoof him off this escalator, let him fly down to planet earth. The weirdest idea pops into my head; to lurch and tongue-kiss him. That would blow his mind. There’s no way he would handle it well. Fall back in shock, bounce all the way down, and with any luck, explode on the tracks like a human fly zapper. Bzzz. Pfft. Mind The Crap. Ah, here we are at the top, finally. Escalator levelling off for the last stretch and it seems that he won’t b —

Bardell felt the punch come around his right side and connect with his face the moment he turned to get off. Diving forward to avoid further damage, falls on into the station courtyard. The full weight of Dirk bearing down upon him as he attempts a mount from behind. Further blows racking across his head and back. Cheating bastard. Mayday, Mayday, I’m going down! Face first. Christ, this cunt could kill me. He’s lined me up perfectly. If he gets up and starts swinging a foot for my head, I’ll be licking bus windows by Monday. Got to turn myself around. Okay, better. See his face there, close and unpleasant. He tries to land another across my chops, but it’s a glancing blow. Expected to see stars, but got none. How could he miss a direct opportunity like that? The idiot. Don’t plan to give him another one. Grappling now with this lump sat on top of me, almost gloating. I’d bite his fucking nuts off if I could only reach them. I’ll teach him to take the coward’s way. God, this is actually not looking good, but bad, bad, bad. Hear growling. Oh, it’s me. Rage and fear now engaging. Good. About bloody time. Wrestle, wriggle, and shake this mass of amoebic drizzle and dysfunction right off of me. Got to unleash everything now that all fair rules have long since sailed. Why on earth do I bother with them? Who the fuck was Queensbury, anyway? Dirk throwing a weak punch again, but he’s losing control whenever he tries. I am raging now, full force beneath him. Like a rabid electric eel, or a life-sized vibrator on crack-whore setting. I am also somewhat attached to the need to survive. What’s this now? Spanish girl suddenly in the mix is pulling at his shoulder. She is crying, screaming, emotional. Jesus. Women! Don’t worry, gentle creature, this is just what alpha monkey king savages do. It’s fine. The dying is easy, it’s the living that’s hard. But you have distracted him just long enough, and yes, twist him over, and somehow now I am on top. Oh, you fucking goose. Oh, you have done it now. Push those flapping arms back down and get one locked under a knee. There we go. Mistakes have been made. Those dead fish eyes staring back at me now in mortal fear. Yes. And with good reason, you twat, because I’m your daddy now, and you, my bitch, are stuck. Right hand goes to lock on throat, as what you should have done, you brain dead monkey. Full weight of hips goes into your midriff, lean forward, and now lift this other fist ready to drop it down on you with an added hip twist. Left arm raised. K.O. in one, on its way. Let you have one brief look at my glory before I deliver you to sweet unconsciousness. At the very least some teeth will shortly be getting hammered across the station floor, and your jaw re-arranged by my justice-delivering fist, you absolute fucking fuck. Just one shot, and this is over for you... Hold up. What the fuck is this new shit? Why am I flying backwards, somehow defying gravity? My arm caught against something just as the blow of destruction was in descent. Why are my pants getting rammed up my ass-crack and my belt being crushed hard against my belly? And now I’m sailing backwards through the air and have arrived back to vertical, with my foe growing ever more distant. Though I got my dog shit foot into his crotch before I went, which was pleasing. But this is not right, and just when I’d got that fucker exactly where I wanted him.

and the stars I would have delivered

from Venus to Jupiter

would still not have reached

the dizzy heights of shame and hurt

that he made me feel

back when I had a heart enough to care

3

Pinned against a wall by a policeman who is not a man eager to listen to reason. Spanish girl, appearing to my left with eyes wide in fear, looks like Bambi. I can see the distress in her soft soul. Unable to comprehend these gladiatorial acts of murderous brutality that occur between men.

Miss, please leave the station right now! the copper barks at her.

She touches my shoulder and asks if I am okay.

Yes, I’m okay, but thank you, Bardell replies, then asks, But hey, what’s your name?

Already seeing the possibility of meeting up for discussions on how one might be made to feel even better. But she can’t speak. The trauma kicking in. She bursts into sobbing. Glancing one last time back at me, before walking out of the station in tears and clutching her bag to her chest, head down. Probably for the best. Already done enough damage. Seen that terrified look before. The sudden awareness of mortality as it expands behind the eyes, dilating the pupils. Another innocent soul rudely awoken to the reality of life here in the jungle. Reminded me of my first beating, to be left shivering in fright, bloody and broken. Uncomprehending of the capacity for such cruelty from total strangers. Or friends, who not only did not come to help but then accused me of starting it, all to save face in their own cowardice. Each time, one grew a little tougher to it all, but it was never tough enough.

A second policeman holding Dirk in his respective corner, now shouts over, Says your man threatened him with a gun.

My copper hoofing his forearm into my chest. Pushing against me so I cannot reach for the imagined weapon, knocking the wind from me as he does so.

"What’s in