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Tabasco and I were perched on bar-stools waiting for Windolene one evening, when Covonia interrupted a conversation about putting Sting in a bottle and slinging him into the sea.

‘I want to do something different for Halloween this year,’ he said as he built a house of cards out of beer mats on the bar counter.

The word ‘different’ exploded like a Catherine Wheel at a state funeral and halted the debate on what message Sting should be carrying in his bottle. We looked at each other and then at Covonia.

‘Different?’ said Burdock in disbelief. Covonia nodded without looking up and steadily continued with his cardboard pyramid.

‘But we always have fancy dress - I rock up as a hooker and Burdock rocks up as a pimp,that’s the law,’ advised Dandelion.

‘Correct,’ agreed Burdock.

‘Not this year. This year we are going to contact the other side - speak to the dead.’

‘Ooh how exciting,’ enthused Tabasco.

‘I can’t see or hear you, Tabasco - you’re still barred,’ said Covonia.

‘Why would you want to contact the really dead when you’ve already got the living dead sitting here?’ asked Dandelion pointing at Tabasco.

Covonia stepped back from his handiwork, admired it and helped himself to a vodka. ‘Because I can get one of those creepy blokes that talk to ghosts really cheap. He’s just got out of nick, so I’ve been able to negotiate a good rate. The chicks will love it. Women love all of that crap.’

Burdock was just about to protest further, when Dandelion stopped him with a hand to the chest.

‘ Think about it, they’ll pour in here wanting to speak to their dead dog or something, be scared shitless and will (a) want a stiff drink or ten and (b) will want to hang on to the hand of a protective man.’

‘That’s where we come in, obviously,’ said Dandelion, gesturing to Burdock.

‘I knew you’d like it,’ said Covonia with a smile.

‘When are you going to do something to get some nice young men in here?’ protested Tabasco.

‘Never,’ replied Covonia.

Tabasco narrowed his eyes, inhaled deeply and sent a stage school sneeze flying across the bar. ‘Sorry,’ he said but didn’t mean as Covonia’s house of beer mats fluttered to the floor.

Halloween arrives…

‘Nobody told me it wasn’t fancy dress,’ howled Formica, as she detached the brace that held a false wooden leg in place and lifted her black eye-patch with a plastic cutlass.

‘What are you supposed to be?’ asked Burdock.

‘Are you for fuckin’ real? I’m a pirate, aren’t I,’ she replied.

‘That parrot is a wonderful prop,’ said Tabasco reaching out to touch it. ‘Aargh,’ he screeched as a beak clamped his finger. ‘It bit me!’

‘Of course he bit you, he’s my nan’s best mate. She’s been chemical coshed by the district nurse this afternoon, so I thought I’d borrow him.You’re a good boy aren’t you, Minge.’

‘Fuck off - fuck off - fuck off,’ squawked Minge.

‘I don’t know where he gets that fuckin’ language from?’ said Formica. ‘Burdock, will you give him a bag of peanuts to shut him up?’

‘We’re a bar - he can have a pretzel or a stuffed Andalusian olive.’

The Chief sidled in wrapped around a pair of twins that spoke very little and wore even less.

‘ So, where’s this ghost dude? Covonia was going on about me lining up a drum roll track for him,’ said The Chief.

‘A performer demands a drum roll on his entrance,’ said Tabasco and before Dandelion and Burdock could utter a syllable added ‘And that is not a euphemism for my arse.’

The Chief took a sip of Wild Turkey and apple juice ‘Well, I do Ibiza and Ayia Napa, but I don’t do drum rolls.’

Covonia bounded in carrying a microphone. ‘They’re nice,’ he said admiring The Chief’s new friends.

‘They can say ‘yes’ in five different languages,’ said The Chief.

Dandelion, Burdock and Covonia nodded their heads in respect. ‘You lucky bastard,’ sighed Covonia. ‘Anyway, the spooky fella’s just finished getting himself ready in the office, so you better cue the music.’

The Chief finished his drink, picked up another and the trio disappeared into the crowd.

Covonia made his way to the doorway next to The Chief’s DJ decks. He tapped on the microphone and cleared his throat.

‘Ladies and gents, well, mainly ladies - all the way from the mystic East, here is the world famous ghost bloke - Ali Bingo.’

‘I’ve Got The Power’ boomed from the sound system as a reed-thin man, wearing and embroidered floor-length kaftan, a lurex turban and a streaky false tan appeared in the doorway.

‘Fuck off - fuck off - fuck off,’ squawked Minge amongst the muted applause.

Ali Bingo frowned in the direction of his feathered heckler, then raised his hands.

‘Can I have a bit of hush please,’ he said in an accent that suggested that he actually came from East of Doncaster. ‘I’ve interrupted my world tour with Carnival Cruises to be with you tonight.’ He gestured to an empty space at his side. ‘Also with me is my Indian spirit guide, Laughing Drain. Ladies, do not be alarmed if Laughing Drain touches you via me, he is just feeling your aura.’

‘I bet he is,’ said Tabasco.

‘Let’s get going then.’ Ali Bingo closed his eyes. ‘I’ve got someone with me called Uncle Ben.’

The crowd muttered and looked at each other. Ali Bingo cautiously opened one eye and then the other.’ No one looking for an Uncle Ben?’  Heads were shook. ‘Okay, how about Aunt Bessie - Granny Smith?’

‘Fuck off - fuck  off - fuck off ‘ squawked Minge.

‘I can’t concentrate with that bird bumping its gums every time I speak. He’s shittin’ on my chakras,’ hissed Ali Bingo to Covonia.

‘I thought that was one of the punters,’ replied Covonia and marched off to investigate.

‘Anyway, where was I? What’s that Laughing Drain, you feel an evil Halloween presence….’

‘Get that-that, thing, out of the bar,’ ordered Covonia when he at last reached Formica.

‘If he goes, I go,’ said Formica.

‘And?’ said Covonia.

‘You can’t make us go out there, its pissing down. He’s used the tropical temperatures of my nan’s living room. He’ll catch his death.’ protested Formica as Minge shifted from claw to claw on her shoulder, then screeched ‘Shite.’

‘Oh bloody hell,’ spat Covonia. ‘Here, give him to me and I’ll shove him the office.’  He reached out.

‘No-no-no! Don’t touch him. He doesn’t like to be touched,’ wailed Formica as she protected the bird from Covonia’s hands.

‘Give him to me,’ insisted Covonia as the bird pecked at his fingers.

‘Fuck off - fuck off - fuck off,’ squawked the bird and then, without even saying ‘goodbye’, launched itself into the air.

It was fair to say that screams and pandemonium ensued as the parrot flapped its way around the bar, depositing unwelcome gifts on panic-stricken heads.

‘He’s a twat - he’s a twat,’ it announced as it headed straight for Ali Bingo’s turban.

Ali Bingo’s escaping skills proved to be as dead as his act as he fought off the avian attack in vain.

The Chief, under the influence of Morocco’s finest calming herbs and not known for panic in any form, stepped from behind his booth and gallanty took one, firm swipe at Ali Bingo’s turban. The parrot immediately retreated to Formica’s shoulder as a flutter of  bank notes burst from beneath the hat and snowed down on the now elated crowd.

‘What a finale,’ shouted Tabasco as he dived in the air to catch a ten pound note.

‘That’s no finale - that’s my fuckin’ cash float,’ screamed Covonia.

Anyway, can’t sit around here all day talking to you lot. Until the next time - peace and love…

This entry was posted on Wednesday, November 4th, 2009 at 4:39 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.