The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag

17

I didn't get too angry with Arthur Thickett. After all, it really wasn't his fault that he was in 1965 and I was in 1997. So I didn't get too angry. Violent, yes. I did get violent.

But he took it like the English gent he was. And after the natives returned and patched up his bruises, he introduced me to them as his brother Derek. We got along very well, Arthur and I. He was an interesting fellow, and I think he quite enjoyed having me for company. I told him all about the Hippy Trail and Woodstock, and he said he'd probably give them a go. And he told me all about the mysterious drug from the Amazon and lucid dreaming.

It did come as quite a revelation to learn that the world of so-called cyberspace, which I now inhabited, was the same world that we visit in our dreams, or when we do hallucinogenic drugs or have a mystical experience. Arthur referred to it as the weird space, the mundus magicus. Not a physical place, but real none the less.

Little did I know that ten years from now I would be shouting these truths at a doctor in the Conspiracy Theorists' Correctional Facility. And that this doctor would not believe a word.

What do you know about voodoo?' I asked Arthur, as we sat upon a rock diddling our toes in the ocean.

'˜I spent three years in Haiti,' said Mr Thickett, '˜back in the late Forties. I learned what I could, but a white face isn't welcome at the ceremonies.'

What do you know about MaГ®tresse EzilГ©e?'

'˜Enough to avoid rummaging in her handbag.'

'˜Go on.'

Well, firstly voodoo is not a cult like John Frum. John Frum is based on a misconception. Voodoo is a full-blown religion with a pantheon of gods. What is fascinating about voodoo is that it did not stem from Africa. It was not imported, it sprang into being in a complete form on Haiti. But each voodoo god echoes a previous god in another religion. MaГ®tresse EzilГ©e is a good example. She echoes the Virgin Mary. But the Virgin Mary of course is an echo of previous female divinities.'

'˜You think all religions share a common origin?'

'˜That's a popularly held belief, but I don't subscribe to it. What if MaГ®tresse EzilГ©e is the Virgin Mary in her latest incarnation? What if all the voodoo gods were previously other gods known by other names?'

What would be the point? Why would gods do that?'

'˜Ah,' said Arthur, '˜the point is this. The voodoo gods are living gods. They're right here and now on earth. The voodoo priests and priestesses commune with them daily. You don't do that in other religions. Christians may talk about being 'њfilled with the spirit'ќ, but Jesus doesn't come into their living rooms for a cup of tea and a chat. Christians know where Jesus is, he's in heaven.'

'˜But not with his mum, if she's in Haiti.'

'˜Perhaps they take it in turns,' said Arthur. What is also interesting is to trace the roots of each religion. Some, as we all know, are spread on the 'њconquer and convert'ќ principle. But each religion has an exact point of origin where it sprang into being. You can mark them on a map of the world. And I don't think there's anything random about it. It's as if the gods choose a particular place for a particular reason. But, before you ask, I have no idea what this reason might be.'

'˜You've clearly given it a lot of thought,' I said. '˜Tell me some more about MaГ®tresse EzilГ©e.'

'˜She's an odd one. On the one hand she's your standard mother goddess, her followers are her children, she rewards the righteous and punishes the unrighteous. But then you have all this business about her bag.'

'˜The voodoo handbag.'

'˜She is supposed to carry this bag made from skulls. In the centre of it is a human skull, but all around are other skulls which are not human.'

'˜Animal skulls.'

'˜Not animal. Beings from the spirit world. The bag has a cult following of its own. It is venerated as something apart.'

'˜Isn't it supposed to be able to transport you into the spirit world?'

'˜On a one-way trip, I'd have thought. It's rumoured that human sacrifices are made to the bag.'

'˜I've heard such rumours. But the handbag is a real thing, it's physical, you could walk up and touch it?'

'˜I wouldn't recommend that. But it is real. It's not some legend. It's an actual artefact. I've never seen it myself, but I have a friend who told me that a friend of his once saw it.'

Well, you don't argue with evidence like that.'

'˜So what is your interest in MaГ®tresse EzilГ©e and her voodoo handbag?'

'˜It's all part of the Billy Barnes business. Billy's mother claims that the handbag has been held in protection by her family for several generations. Billy went missing, and then the handbag, shortly afterwards.'

'˜And you think that this Billy Barnes might have it?'

'˜He'd apparently been feeding it with bits of his granny. And he took her when he went. For all I know he's got some other poor bugger boxed up under his bed being fed to the handbag a finger at a time.'

'˜Horrible,' said Arthur. '˜But listen, I have to go now, the drug's beginning to wear off. Is there anything you'd like me to do for you back in nineteen sixty-five?'

I shook my head. '˜Nineteen sixty-five was a pretty unmemorable year, really. It's a bit early to go warning Elvis that he should diet or trying to persuade John Lennon not to move to America. But listen, the summer after next, make sure you're in San Francisco. That will be the place to be. The Summer of Love, it will be called. Be there or be square.'

'˜Thanks very much,' said Arthur.

'˜And Arthur-'

'˜What's that?'

'˜If you bump into a chap called Charlie Manson in San Francisco, turn around quietly and walk the other way.'

'˜Charlie Manson. All right, I'll remember that.'

'˜I'll see you some time, then.'

'˜Don't be a stranger,' said Arthur, and he vanished.

I sat awhile on the rock and skipped pebbles over the ocean. It was tempting just to stay here, enjoy the dusky maidens, the coconut wine and all the other benefits of godhood. Or maybe I should dream up a neighbouring island and establish my own personal cult there. One of those Free Love jobbies with me as Lord High Muckamuck and a bevy of nubile porno actresses for acolytes. All right, I know it's your bog standard male fantasy fodder, but come on, imagine if you could really do it.

And I could really do it.

And one part of me wanted to.

One part in particular.

But I knew it was a bad idea. After all I was a fugitive. And the point was that I was here. And here wasn't real. Not here in the Necronet. It seemed real and it was tempting, but it wasn't real and all the pleasures here were synthetic. I wanted out and I wanted back into the real world. And so I really couldn't lounge about here wasting time.

The sun shone down on the beach and I got to thinking how nice it might be to enjoy a good old pint of English beer to refresh the senses and aid cogitation.

And so, with a kind of theatrical puff (which is not to be confused with a theatrical poof), I vanished too.

POOF!

Just like that.

Poof indeed! As a matter of interest, have you ever wondered about the kind of noise the Big Bang made? And whether, in fact, it was the first noise? If it was the first noise, then it was undoubtedly the biggest and the loudest, and all later noises are a terrible let down in comparison. But was it the first noise?

I remember being taught at school that sound cannot travel through a vacuum. And if that's the case, then the Big Bang couldn't make any sound at all in the infinite vacuum of space. Which would mean that it wasn't really a Big Bang at all, was it?

It was more of a Big Poof!

It always tickles me when a scientist comes up with a new theory about how the universe began. And especially how he always has a string of equations to support this theory. What on earth (or off it) do mathematical equations have to do with the creation of the universe? Mankind invented mathematics, the universe invented itself.

It seems to me that the string of equations says a great deal more about the scientist's inflated opinion of his own intelligence than anything else. To actually believe that he can reduce anything as irreducible as universal creation to a string of equations! What a bloody cheek!

Who do these people think they're kidding?

However, that said, there is one man who figured it all out. But you won't find him in the bestseller's list alongside Stephen Hawking. Because this man doesn't own a pocket calculator, and this man's attitude is that '˜If it can't be worked out on the back of a cigarette packet, then it can't be worked out at all'.

This man's name is Hugo Rune, and Rune's Universal Creation Solution,^{2} of which Rune's Law of Obviosity is an offshoot, stands alone for its simplicity and elegance.

Rune's Universal Creation Solution states:

The birth of the universe was the most impossible thing that could ever happen: and that's why it happened.

It might take you a little time to get your head around that one. But it's worth it in the end, because it has to be the solution. Emphasis must be put upon certain words. The word most for instance. The birth of the universe was the most impossible thing that could ever happen. Think about that. In an eternity of timelessness many other impossible things could happen. But the birth of the universe was the most impossible. And that's why it happened.

Naturally the grey beards of the scientific community, outraged that Rune should have solved it all with such ease and no equations, demanded that he explain his solution more fully. It wasn't enough that he had given an explanation that actually explained things, they wanted to know how it explained things. And by what route he had arrived at this explanation.

Rune gave a lecture, where he patiently explained to the grey beards how it all worked.

In essence it was this:

Order out of chaos. Before order you had randomness. Randomness down to a molecular level. Universal randomness - endless, endless, randomness. And then you had a coincidence. The first ever coincidence. A seemingly impossible thing to happen. Two bits of randomness doing the same thing at the same moment. The first coincidence, a new event in the history of the universe. Something altogether new. This new thing couldn't have happened had not the coincidence occurred. This new thing was in itself a new piece of randomness, utterly unique. Until it bumped into another thing, identical to itself, that had occurred due to similar coincidence elsewhere. When the two met, something new again happened, because this coincidence was another new event. And so on and so forth, but all this simultaneously in an infinitesimal moment. Bang!

Big Bang!

Rune did explain that we had the wrong idea about the universe. The physical universe, which is composed of matter, is not incredibly large. It is infinitesimally small. Space is endless, but there isn't that much matter in it. The Big Bang was really a very small bang. No big deal at all in fact. Something that happened on a microscopic level. A tiny event.

The grey beards stroked their grey beards. It did appear to explain everything. But they asked Rune whether it could be simplified. Reduced in fact to a few letters. If Randomness was called R, and coincidence was C, and creation of the universe was B (for Big Bang), how did it work?

Was it R + R = C, C2 = B, or was it B = R2 x C2?

Rune explained that you'd have to break the Rs up: R(1) would be original randomness, also known as R0 R(2) would be the second act of randomness, post-coincidence, but prior to R(3), when two post-coincidence events coincided simultaneously to create a third (R(4)). B itself was a combination of R(1)2 x R(2)2 x R(3)2 x R(4)2. Recurring.

What were the catalysts that sparked the original random events? asked the grey beards. And how did these fit into the equation? Could these be called ORs?

Rune took up a piece of chalk and went over to the blackboard.

He never gave another lecture on the subject.

And he never worked out the equation.

Some say that he spent the rest of his life trying. But others, who are better informed and were present at the lecture, state that Rune laid about the grey beards with his stout stick before adjourning to the pub for a pint.

A pint of good old English beer, probably.

I gave the Jolly Gardeners a miss. I mean, come on now, did you really think I was going to make my way back there and walk straight into a trap?

You did? Then shame on you.

I dreamed up a pub of my own. I called it Rob's Bar, placed myself behind the counter, and peopled it with all the folk I'd ever wanted to meet.

There was Captain Beefheart playing dominoes with Salvador Dalí, Aleister Crowley chatting up Madonna, Hugo Rune arguing with Einstein, Oscar Wilde coming out of the Gents, and Long John Holmes going into the Ladies.

I sipped my good old English beer, served a pint of Death by Cider to Jimi Hendrix, and smiled upon the congregation. They were all chatting happily away, in fact they all seemed to be on first-name terms. It's typical that, isn't it, the way the rich and famous chum up together. I was about to serve Bob Dylan (the young version, not the present-day plonker) when I had to leave the bar for a moment to eject David Bowie whom I hadn't invited.

I returned to the bar, served Bob and then bashed my knobkerry down upon the counter. '˜Ladies and gentlemen,' I said. '˜If I might just have your attention for a moment.'

The hubbub continued and I was ignored.

'˜Ladies and gentlemen, please.'

More hubbub.

I bashed my knobkerry down with some force. '˜Ladies and gentlemen, please.'

Further hubbub.

'˜Please! Please! Please!' and Bash! Bash! Bash! The hubbub ceased and heads turned in my direction.'

'˜Thank you,' I said. '˜Now you are probably wondering why I brought you all here.'

1 gazed at them and they gazed at me.

Well, in case you were wondering, it's this-'

And they all started hubbubbing all over again.

'˜Now stop that!' I bashed with considerable vigour. '˜I have asked you here because I have admired your work in the past and I would value your-'

Chris Eubank came forward and handed me something.

What's that?' I asked.

'˜Autographed photo,' said Chris.

Well, thank you very much, but that's not what I want.'

Chris snatched it back. '˜Just watch it!' he said. '˜Twat.'

'˜I would value your opinions,' I continued. '˜You see, each one of you has in some way helped to shape my life. A record here, a painting there, some show or event I went to.'

'˜Excuse me,' said Hugo Rune, '˜but who exactly are you?'

'˜I'm Rob,' I said. '˜And this is my bar. My dream bar actually.'

'˜And are you famous?'

'˜No.'

'˜Then what possible interest would you be to us?'

'˜Now stop all that,' I said. '˜I'm well aware of how you rich and famous chum up, that's only to be expected. But if it wasn't for the little people like me to buy your records and so forth, you wouldn't be rich and famous.'

'˜I think you miss the point,' said Rune. We are rich and famous because we are different. We are the herd leaders, we change society, alter the direction of the herd.'

'˜And that's why I'd value your opinions, you see, I'm in a lot of trouble. I'm trapped here and I need all the help I can get so-'

'˜Have to stop you there,' said Rune. '˜You really are missing the point. Do you recall Margaret Thatcher saying 'њThere is no such thing as society, only groups of individuals'ќ?'

'˜Yes,' I said.

Well, she was talking out of her handbag. What she should have said was 'њThere is a group of individuals. And there's the rest. And the rest equals society.'ќ'˜

'˜You pompous prat,' I said.

'˜It is the privilege of the dwarf to insult the giant.'

'˜The dwarf on the giant's shoulders sees the furthest of the two.'

'˜Not if he doesn't get a leg-up.'

'˜And you're not going to give me that leg-up. Is that it?'

'˜You're a statistic,' said Rune. '˜A sales figure. Those at the top do not view you as an individual. Only as a percentage.'

'˜You callous bastard.'

'˜Callousness does not enter into it.'

'˜Come on,' I said. '˜Anyone here. I've supported you. The least you can do is help me out when I'm in trouble.'

'˜Help you out?' Rune raised a startling eyebrow. '˜And where were you when we needed helping out? Take Mr Keith Richards here.' Keith waved and I waved back. Where were you when he was going through his heroin addiction? Did you turn up at the hospital offering to change his bed pan?'

'˜Some fans did.'

'˜But not you.'

Well, not me personally.'

'˜In fact you're probably one of those bastards who secretly enjoys it when someone famous goes off the rails. Gets involved in some scandal, loses all their money. You get a vicarious thrill from that. The tabloids wouldn't sell any copies if it wasn't for people like you who glory in the problems of the famous.'

We don't-'

'˜Aha!' said Rune. '˜We, that's what you said, we. You're not an individual. You're one of the herd that buys the tabloids.'

'˜I am an individual. But come on, give me a break.'

'˜No,' said Rune, '˜we won't. Take Ms Madonna here.' Madonna waved and I waved back. '˜She has millions of fans. Imagine if every single one wrote to her asking her for advice. She might well want to give it, and indeed she is a very caring person, but she wouldn't have time. She couldn't possibly answer all those letters. So she does what she does. She entertains, and that makes millions of people happy all at once.'

'˜So you won't help me out? That's what you're saying?'

We can't,' said Rune. We have already helped you out. You said it yourself. Each one of us here has in some way helped to shape your life. That is what we do. Through our music, our books, our paintings. It's not callous that we cannot deal with you personally. It's just not how it works. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

'˜Yes,' I said, and nodded gloomily. We're not bad people,' said Rune. '˜No, I understand that.'

'˜It's simply how it is.'

'˜Yes, OK.'

'˜You must do your thing and we must do ours.'

'˜All right, I get the message.'

'˜It's the way of the world, it's-'

'˜I said all tight! Don't labour the point. You're not going to help me, but it's not your fault that you can't.'

'˜Precisely,' said Rune.

'˜Then you might as well all piss off.'

What?' said Rune.

'˜Piss off, you're no use to me.'

We're having a drink and a chat,' said Rune.

'˜Yeah well, there's no point in it now.'

'˜That's hardly for you to say, is it?'

'˜It is for me to say, now piss off the lot of you.'

'˜You ill-mannered little twat,' said Hugo Rune. '˜Don't call me a twat, you fat bastard.' And then Hugo Rune swung his stout stick and hit me in the face, and I swung my knobkerry and hit Chris Eubank, and Chris Eubank chinned Max Miller and John Steinbeck head-butted Edith Sitwell and Andy Warhol kicked Tod Browning in the knackers, and everything sort of fell to pieces all around me.

I sighed as Lawrence of Arabia punched my lights out.

'˜That's showbiz,' said Lawrence.