Lily Weinbrand
Graeme as captain, Maria as admiral. Nez our navigator. Kyla and Kostas, Arnie and Alfie, Harry and Mitch: our eye-linered pirates. Harvey, Sid and Lily, our traveling troubadours, blowing wind in the sails of the HMS Buckfast. Tall Paul at the rudder. Chama with her flashing lens, keeping a record. And so many sailors: Evan and Jonesy, Benk, Kath, Ronnie and Joe; minding the gap between the real world and this vessel on Little Portland Street. Ours is a mythical story, of love and danger, adventure and laughter.
There was once a time before. A time when we poured pints together, sung songs together, filmed films together. The sails were only waiting to be hoisted, the anchor eager to be lifted. Nez climbed up the mast to steer us, Lily drew up maps of the fun to come, and invited our loved-ones aboard - we had ourselves a night.
Each month since we have sailed forth into the Fracas.
If ever in doubt, find us where the big bird perches. She sits atop a steel door, guarded by men in bandanas. At the rusty bar, get yourself a salted drink and head down into the belly of the thing. Beware of the doors that swell like gills. As drinks pass-the-parcel, it may be tricky to tell who is working and who isn’t, but don’t worry. Worry yourself only with the boom-boom.
A blue band comes on. Then a woman all in red, alone. It feels like a living room, as if someone had chucked a plastic bag over the big light. As if the chair and tables have all been pushed back to make room to move. To move to the kind of music that thumps like a pat on the back from your dad. Dance and dance and dance, don’t let sweat set, even for a second. DJ’s swap out. It’s all hands on decks! What matters is this great big ship in the now.
When lights come on, cups roll on the swaying floors, loo roll sneezed all over the place. It’s quiet, save for the lapping waves. The boat is almost docked and the tide has turned. Now everything is quiet and the music plays again. Again, for the sailmen and women, lingering still, clinging like barnacles, never debarnacled.
Swaying as we exit, no longer cradled by the safe rocking of our boat, it is hard to believe we are in the same place we set off from, all those hours ago. The Fracas had taken us somewhere new and dropped us safe back home.
We’d gotten away with it
like only kids do
making the walk home so sweet
in the light of morning blue.