Robert Rankin - The Brightonomicon

The Brentford Trilogy:

The Antipope The Brentford Triangle

East of Ealing

The Sprouts of Wrath

The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

Knees Up Mother Earth

The Armageddon Trilogy:

Armageddon: The Musical

They Came and Ate Us

The Suburban Book of the Dead

Cornelius Murphy Trilogy:

The Book of Ultimate Truths

Raiders of the Lost Car Park

The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived

There is a secret trilogy in the middle there, comprised of:

The Trilogy That Dare Not Speak Its Name Trilogy:

Sprout Mask Replica

The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag

Waiting for Godalming

Plus some fabulous other books, including:

The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse

And its sequel:

The Toyminator

And then:

The Witches of Chiswick

The Brightonomicon

The Da-Da-De-Da-Da Code

Necrophenia

Retromancer

The Japanese Devil Fish Girl and Other Unnatural Attractions

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO

THE PEOPLE OF BRIGHTON

Who are renowned for their

sense of humour

AND ALSO TO DAVE AND DEE

Who suggested that I dedicate

this book to the people of Brighton,

and remind them of their sense of humour,

in the hope that they would not tar and feather me.

It was the day before yesterday.

And I was dead.

I confess that I found this circumstance somewhat dispiriting, for I had always been of the opinion that a long and prosperous life lay ahead of me. To be so suddenly deprived of existence, and at such an early age, seemed grossly unfair and I determined to take the matter up with God at the first possible opportunity and register my extreme disapproval.

The opportunity, however, did not arise and I did not have words with the Divinity. Perhaps He had business elsewhere, or perhaps, in His infinite wisdom, He had already mapped out my future and was simply sitting back upon His Throne of Glory, observing the situation.

Or perhaps, just perhaps, He does not exist at all.

My death occurred on Saint Valentines Day in the Sussex town of Brighton. Or more precisely two hundred yards off the coastline, in the chilly waters of the English Channel. I had travelled down from my native Brentford by train with my teenage sweetheart Enid Earles, hoping for a weekend of sexual adventure in a town that is noted for that sort of thing. I had even purchased, from Mr Ratters jewellery shop in Brentford High Street, an engagement ring set with faceted glass that might well have passed for a diamond in uncertain light, my hope being to offer this to my love should she display any signs of hesitancy when it came to the moment of actually doing it. Sadly, as it turned out, this ring was given up to the waves and my relationship with Enid never went beyond the platonic. Which is not to say that she did not indulge in the carnal pleasures upon that fateful weekend. Simply that she did not indulge in them with me.

We had taken, as I now recall so well, a stroll upon the Palace Pier, where I made some attempts to interest Enid in its architectural eccentricities. She yawned somewhat and I, in my innocence, took this to be a sign that she was eager for bed. I suggested that we take a drink or two in the pier-end bar before turning in (I confess to a degree of Dutch courage being required upon my part, for I was young and, though eager, inexperienced). Enid agreed and I ordered a Babycham for her and a large vodka for myself. And, as an afterthought, asked the barman to add a large vodka to Enids Babycham also.

We were three or four drinks in when the unpleasantness occurred. This day before yesterday being in the nineteen sixties, Brighton was playing unwilling host to a large contingent of Moderns, or Mods as they were then called, and a goodly number of these young hobbledehoys were milling around in The Pier Bar. They wore gang-affiliated patches that announced them to be members of the Canvey Island Mod Squad. And one of their number their leader, I presumed, by the nature of his arrogant bearing and loquaciousness took an unhealthy shine to my Enid.

I have never been a man of violence and although I have always been sure that I would be able to handle myself in a sticky situation, I was vastly outnumbered, and possessing not the martial skills of the legendary Count Dante, creator of the deadly art of Dimac, I suggested to Enid that we should take our leave, head for our rented room and get to know each other better.

Enid, however, did not seem too keen. In fact, she performed shameless battings of the eyelids towards the leader of the gang, who approached our table and made suggestions to Enid that were little less than lewd. I took exception to this and made certain suggestions of my own, mostly to the effect that this interloper should take himself elsewhere at once.

More than words were then exchanged, which resulted in myself being hauled bodily out of the bar by several burly Mods and thrown from the pier into the frigid waters beneath.

It is well recorded that in those final, fleeting moments that precede the onrush of sudden death, ones life is said to flash before ones eyes, much in the manner of a movie of the biopic persuasion. This indeed occurred to me and I found the experience thoroughly disheartening. Whilst I am certain that those who have lived long and active lives receive a biopic of the Cecil B. DeMille persuasion, widescreen and in Technicolor, I was treated to a brief black-and-white short, apparently shot on standard-eight stock with a handheld camera and directed by some inept film student with no concept of plot. It appeared that I had done nothing whatever of interest or note and that the substance of my life was destined to be filed away upon some high shelf in a dark corner of the Akashic Records Office, there to gather dust for evermore. Which was as dispiriting a prospect as the actual experience itself had been.

My final glimpse of life and the living was of the pier above and Enid looking down from it. The leader of the Canvey Island Mods had his arm about her shoulders. And Enid was laughing.

And then the waters closed above my head.

And I sank beneath them.

And I became dead.

And sought to take issue with God.

I have small remembrance of what happened next. I have vague impressions, but these take more unrecognisable forms than Gary Oldman.

I returned from death to find myself in a curious room, towels about my head and shivering shoulders, a crystal tumbler of Scotch in my trembling hand, a large and awesome figure towering above me.

Who are you? I managed to enquire.

I am your deliverer, he said.

Are you God? I asked. Because if you are, I wish to register my extreme disapproval.

The towering figure laughed. I am not God, said he, although in this life I am probably as close to being a God as it is possible to be.

Then I am not dead, I said.

But you were. I rescued you from the sea and applied certain techniques known only to myself in order that I bring you back to life.

The sea, I said and took to the swallowing of Scotch.

Gently, said the towering figure. That is a fifty-five-year-old single malt from the cellars of Lord Alan Mulholland of Hove, to be savoured respectfully from the glass, not gulped away like workmans tea from a chipped enamel mug.