THE GHOST OF ROCK AND ROLL

One was from Yokohama, the other from Kyoto. Peter was the happiest guitarist in Cosham. He lived with two beautiful Japanese ladies.

'I'm content here, said Peter. 'I wonder how many times I think the whole world is wholly explicable. Everything is natural beneath the good lord's sun. Nothing supernatural ever happened. I am please all is natural, my girls.'

Christmas Eve. The skinnier lady was pouring green tea.

Rain was pouring down. Peter could see the attractive train down to Fratton between the flats opposite his. He knew the stations between Cosham and Portsmouth Harbour. He once examined a harmonica on Hilsea Station. He once held an acoustic guitar

on Portsmouth and Southsea station, tears staining his face tight between jostling and intoxicated football hooligans.



Peter went to the bank. He wanted a new credit card. He accidentally snapped a card reaching inside his pocket walking his local crescent. He was not too pleased. Yet another privation thrown by life. A broken card!

Probably a distracted thought behind the accident. Too much time with the Japanese women prompted Peter to muse he needed a male friend. The guitarist knew this. He needed a male friend.

‘Hello, Alan. Still busking?'

It was Alan from the charity shop right before the bank.

‘As a matter of fact, Peter. Making some good money, friend.’

‘I’m looking into finding some meaningful friends for once,’ said Peter. ‘Looking into getting some country and western group together.’

The Cosham Skiffle Band was rehearsing. Peter felt he had found a friend. Douglas was an excellent drummer.

‘We’re doing alright,’ said Peter. ‘I must admit you did give me a bit of a fright. I thought John was our drummer. John goes off for an onion sandwich. Nobody occupying that drummer’s seat there.

Then you were there, Douglas. I swear you just appeared there.’

‘Sounds like a good thing,’ said Lewis. ‘He’s a darn good drummer.’

Lewis was the recruited pianist.

‘You’re almost like a ghost,’ said Peter. ‘The ghost of rock and roll.’

‘We’re doing skiffle, man,’ said Douglas.






Ram Heaven was burning up the stage. Peter’s tight leather trousers were brasher than Hell itself. Douglas was pounding and pounding his magnificent set of dreams. The audience was hearing loud and fast heavy metal.

The band’s singer Jake was menacing and large.



I’m on the road with my motorcycle moving

Best avoid my speed, and it’s the speed I’m loving



Peter motioned his fingers through the exhilirating guitar solo. The number Moving was reaching its tremendous ending.

The boys enjoyed orange juice and hot dogs in the small, hot dressing room.

‘Good show, men,’ said Peter.

‘Sure,’ said Jake.

‘I swear going into Love’s Gone Forever’ I turned seeking out Doug. I swear to God there was nobody behind the drums,’ said Peter.

‘Cut it out,’ said Lewis. ‘I think the crowd did Southsea proud. We damn rocked, fellas.’

The men watched Douglas. He seemed superhumanly tall. It was unnerving.

‘Heard there was once a drummer killing himself jumping before a car near Southsea Common. Just over there, isn’t it? He was not playing the music he wanted to play. This is my guess.’

‘Happy Christmas, Douglas,’ said Peter.



Peter and Douglas put up Christmas decorations in Peter’s flat together. Most of the decorations once belonged to the guitarist’s parents. The drummer showed expected dexterity adding just the right amount of items to the lovely tree.

The very essence of Christmas seemed to be there.

‘Do you think Pompey’s going up this year, Douglas?’

Douglas did not answer.

Peter thought back to the green tea. How was it that sharing the tea with his Japanese friends seemed to be just two hours back? He thought he had known a lot of rock and roll since he met Alan before the bank.

Maybe a year had passed. It had to be that. A year holding both the skiffle and the heavy metal experiences. He remembered. He wanted a male friend. He wanted a complimentary brand of masculinity. He then met Douglas.

Portsmouth down in a lower division. The lads had ambition. There was to be a return to the promised land. Peter knew he had a room graced by thirteen electric guitars. The room represented the element of fire.

This was Peter’s opinion. Surely ghosts were made of strangeness.




The saddening suicide reached Peter’s soft ears. He was so monumentally shocked.

‘Jake, I can’t deal with this. Where did our dear friend jump?’

‘Before a car, man. He was always talking ‘bout this sort of thing. It really gives old Jake Hunter the creeps.’

‘I’m really sorry to hear this, Jake. We’ll pull ourselves through this together, babe. I think we’ve lost a very fine drummer.’





The woman was there on the bridge. Peter thought she was from Mongolia.

‘I think I can help you,’ said the woman. ‘You just took the wrong turning. You perhaps got in with the wrong vibe in this universe, you. Just go back to your roots, you. Sounds alright?’

Peter reflected. He still had his room of guitars. He smiled. Snow seemed to be touching Fratton Bridge. It was Christmas Day. Peter remembered Uncle Tommy loved BBC’s The Black and White Minstrel Show from years back.

He’d get into that. Something nice and old-fashioned. Yes. The man of thirty looked at the Guildhall Clock, the face there traditional and assuring. Peter walked well away.