The Rise, Fall and Disapparation of Rupert Atwell

Where’s the ice cream?

“Joey Jo-Jo: My work is a satire/commentary on media saturation. This piece is called Exterior Semiotics. It proceeds by a series of entropic methodologies, utilising installations and live performance.”

Rupert Atwell normally didn’t read notices at galleries. The written word should be an afterthought when appreciating art. That was the idea anyway but Joey Jo-Jo, whoever he was, was stood in the middle of the stage next to three stacked televisions dressed in what looked like a black hood and cloak. He was playing white noise through a keyboard sampler. The TVs were playing silent, slow motion VHS-grade montages. At one point one of the screens showed the face of a man, frozen in petit mort, superimposed over a rotting sheep carcass.

Entropic methodologies! Honestly, kids these days… But that was the thing with multi-media exhibitions, for every loony touting his entropic methodology you got a relatively well-written one act play about Echo and Narcissus as fashionistas. Besides, Rupert reminded himself in these situations it was best not to be too harsh. Hitler would have killed the lot of them as degenerate artists.

He liked going to this part of town too. The Deptford/New Cross/Rotherhithe quarter was really coming up in the world; the best kept secret in hip circles and easy to get to, now the East London line was open. It was a secret but for how much longer? There was no harm in checking it out. Things moved so quickly these days. He was also there because his girlfriend, Carla, had a spot in the exhibition too, which she filled with some of her lovely found-object sculptures. They weren’t her best work, but Rupert wasn’t going to tell her that.

Rupert 2.0

Rupert was not middle-aged, he was middle-youth. He was a man on the way back. The collapse of the Nova Express had hit him hard. He was a well-known editor/proprietor [1], he was the magazine. There was a fair element of schadenfreude among some senior journalists and media watchers in established outlets when he/it went down. This mostly manifested in concerned calls, consolatory lessons left on his answer phone “how’re you bearing up”, “do you need help”, “most magazines fail within five years, you did really well to last that long”, and so on.

But Rupert was more relieved than aggrieved by the end. There was a horrible scene when a bunch of staff were left without their final month’s wages. The disgruntled rebels locked three managers in the office and refused to let them out without a written guarantee of payment. But by this stage the administrators had been brought in and Rupert was long gone. He spent some weeks after that working for a friend of his in the Inner London Honey Company. After that he wintered in a villa in northern Morocco, coming back to Britain in the spring after things had died down.

He had come back with a plan, he called it Twang magazine. Rupert pulled on all his contacts, a considerable network stretching back to his prep-school days, difficult though it was, to help raise the capital and profile of his new venture. The same journalists and media watchers wondered if it was not just Nova Express Mk 2, but they missed a subtle difference. The new emphasis was on Austerity Chic: rustic dining, vintage clothing, slow-art, slow-cycling, real folk music, moustaches and bakery.

Rupert was on his way back, with a new career and now a new girlfriend. He was a little bit embarrassed still about dating someone so much younger than him. But Carla wasn’t that young and, anyway, she was great. Rupert was tired of complicated women, and women his age were all complicated. Carla was a simple, beautiful soul, prime to live and love life. She was Norwegian, twenty-two, going on twenty-three, now post-graduate. She came to London for her second year to study art. Rupert met her at a Halloween house party in mansion in Hampstead, six months after returning from Morocco.

He had gone as a favor to an old school friend, Eric, who was trying to meet someone there and wanted a wingman. Eric was an effortless networker though and soon Rupert was alone amongst strangers. The host had lain on cups instead of cans; it was a classy kind of party. Rupert was standing a queue for the keg when the woman in front of him turned round to speak, wanting to share a joke her friend had just told her. Rupert, who was half-sunk in an alcoholic daze, burped in shock. Fortunately Carla chose to find it, and Rupert’s frantic apologies, amusing. Things developed from there quite quickly. She was just so easy to talk to.

Friends warned him he was going through premature mid-life crisis, that she was a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, depthless, the illusion of liberation. Rupert didn’t really care. He loved her face, her touchy-feely enthusiasm, her sing-song approximation of the London accent, the way she moved, framing her body, expressing herself with an arch of her back or the turn of a wrist, so subtle; all this and she never once asked where the relationship was going.

Afters…

After the party comes the after-party. The venue was obvious. Everyone in the group, Rupert and Carla’s gang, we to head back to Vicky’s creek-side flat, a short walk away. The drug connection was a little less obvious. Rupert tried a few numbers, asking if Mandy was in the area. It seemed she wasn’t. There was the brief notion of clubbing together to get some Charlie. A slightly bitter memory fluttered over Rupert as realised there was a time when he wouldn’t have thought twice. Then he realised:

“Kingston Jerome, of course! Let’s try him.”

Kingston Jerome, an odd fellow. Not really a dealer or a big user but Rupert remembered he knew how to get hold of some unusual stuff. Kingston was from south-east London, something on the UK Garage scene back in the late 90s, a promoter or a DJ or something. Several old Express journalists knew him and one of them still had his number. It turned out he was actually a graphic designer. He ran quite a successful bill sticking company until the local authorities held a clampdown.

“That’s good to know, thanks” said Rupert. “What does he do now?”

“I don’t know” said the journalist, whose name was India. “I don’t know what he’s up to now. I saw him about six months ago, at a club in Dalston.”

An hour and a half worth of ringing but it was worth it. Kingston made it right at the end of the exhibition. He came bounding up to the front door.

It’s Kingston…

“Who’s that guy?” Carla whispered to her boyfriend as Kingston approached. “He looks gay.” But everyone looked gay to Carla. That was her way of being right on. Her habit sometimes caused a little embarrassment. But before Rupert could say anything Kingston stretched out a hand.

“Hi there” said Kingston. He had a transatlantic voice with a swish inflection. “It’s been too long; looking good Rupert” he said, flexing a charming, sunny smile. Rupert and Kingston shook hands. “And you must be Carla.” Kingston immediately gave her two bold pecks on either cheek. She felt a little embarrassed but laughed nonetheless.

Kingston was buff looking, certainly top heavy, dressed in upmarket, sporty clothing with a rather unseasonal lightweight parka, unbuttoned, and carried with him a low-slung shoulder bag with a retro football logo on it. Rupert ransacked his memory. He remembered Kingston used to be slightly overweight.

“You’re looking good too” said Rupert, now sounding a little metrosexual himself. “Have you been working out?”

“We are all born perfect” said Kingston, “but some of us keep getting better and better.” Rupert suddenly remembered his maternal Grandmother, who spent some time as Sylvia Pankhurst’s secretary. She would have described Kingston as having a "husky glow" and meant it as a compliment.

“Let’s walk” said Kingston. Rupert gestured to Carla’s friends, who were talking together in a huddle a few yards away. They walked. Rupert racked his brain for a safe place to do the deal, any good late night pubs or cafés, but this bit of London hadn’t been fully rejuvenated yet. He was surprised and pleased though when Kingston offered to go back to Vicky’s flat. It was a rare dealer who would go to a stranger’s flat just like that. He certainly seemed confident.

They walked, back to Vicky’s flat in the student district, a happy herd. Rupert and Kingston chatted briefly, swapping memories of UK Garage. Kingston had many more than Rupert. The conversation developed into a syncopated monologue:

“All those lyrics about champagne and coke and jeeps and stuff, it was fantasy, it was escape. I didn’t know anyone who had a jeep… You had to make what you could while you were making it… Looking for that moment… They called it the Sunday Scene. No one could get a Saturday licence… Then there were the clothes, people wanted to look good, and the hair, even guys, you know, taking pride in their appearance… Feeling the love… It’s that moment, in your twenties that, like, no matter where you come from or where you’re going, you feel equal, even if you’re not. You can’t tell in a club… Not like today…”

“Nothing’s like today” said Rupert. Silence fell.

It was just past midnight. They were walking over the bridge on Creek Road, nearly there. The traffic was quiet. It was quite cold for the time of year. Rupert felt glad of the coat he bought. The air was still, so still it seemed on the point of turning to mist, so still apart from the bubbling, elated chatter. Rupert listened for a second:

“The pseudo-erotic qualities of the piston may be a cliché but, sometimes, we have to be genre-consistent, particularly if we are developing motifs, ones that resonate anyway.”

“So, uh” said Rupert, pulling away from the other conversation, “what’re you doing now?”

Kingston looked at him sharply, boggle-eyed: “uh?”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a vet” said Kingston, without blinking, his accent suddenly veering into MLE. Despite the new, strange undertone Rupert couldn’t help laughing. Carla, who had been talking to her friends, too happy to be cold, came bounding to the rescue:

“So, does that mean you can get hold of some K?”

“Babe” said Kingston, smiling again, “I can prescribe whatever I want. Though why you’d want to touch that stuff I will never know.”

Carla, now between the two men, grabbed her boyfriend’s arm and put on a grimace-smile. “You are a handsome man.”

“Thank you” said Kingston, “but we’ve already established that.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” asked Carla, now attentive looking.

“No, I don’t” said Kingston.

“A boyfriend then…?”

Kingston stopped walking. “Wait a minute…” Pause. Kingston looked at the pair, deadly serious again. “I don’t know what you’re thinking but… I’m not gay.”

“No?” said Carla, she clutched Rupert slightly harder, shivering a little, definitely anxious.

“Nah” said Kingston, milking the tension before adding. “I’m ecstatic.” He let out a big laugh. “You guys are alright! C’mon, we should be there by now. Let’s blow this pop stand.”

Back at the house

Rupert was a little surprised to find Vicky’s flat wasn’t a flat but a quite small terrace, off Norway Street, not far from Cutty Sark. She lived there with her boyfriend, Leon, a junior doctor, currently working nights she said. There weren’t enough seats for everybody. Rupert perched on the arm of a sofa. One person, a friend of Carla’s sat on a stack of medical books. It was hot inside and slightly damp. There seemed to be washing everywhere, on radiators, on driers. Rupert accepted this. It gave the place a William Burroughs/Chinese Laundry feel. Vicky fetched an armful of stubbies from the fridge, handed them out and they toasted Carla’s success (though Kingston abstained – he didn’t drink).

Someone put on a little mood music, Fleet Foxes second album. Too mellow, Rupert thought; he’d change that when he could, but it was down to business. They bought a few wraps and some weed from Kingston. Vicky fetched some dinner trays, chopped and laid out some lines. It was good stuff, fast acting, strong but not overwhelming. Rupert came up almost instantly and snuck off to discreetly the change the record.

Kingston stuck around, shared a toke and enjoyed some of the chat, talk about art, representation and appropriation. Was it right to appropriate images and symbols from oppressed groups for the purposes of art?

“The trouble is” said Carla “you say ‘is cultural appropriation legitimate’ but culture is appropriation, that’s what it is.”

Rupert had resisted the urge to wade into the debate. He was proud. That was his girl holding forth, so smart. He couldn’t resist. Still sitting on the corner of the sofa, he leant over and gave Carla a big, sweaty snog, losing his chewing gum in the process.

Twenty minutes later everyone started coming down. Kingston timed his attempted departure perfectly:

“Have you got some more?”

Kingston had made his excuses and was at the living room door but Rupert clutched his shoulder.

“Mate…?”

Kingston took a second to size him up. He had that familiar look, Rupert, yearning, nervous, pie-eyed, chewing… He laid aside dealers logic and said:

“There is something…”

“Great” Rupert snapped.

“It’s not what you want though” said Kingston. “But it may be what you need” he said with a sly smile. He gathered everyone round the living room table, had the music turned down a little. “This is important what I’m showing you now… Important, yeah…?” No one noticed Kingston’s accent slipping again they just stared eagerly as he fetched a pair of rubber gloves from out of his bag. Someone asked:

“What are those for?”

“You’ll see” said Kingston. “This” he said producing a small metal box, “this here is very potent.” He opened the box and, very gently, fetched a see through bag. Inside were thin, transparent strips of paper, about the size of a dot plaster.

“What is it?” asked the same choral voice.

“This is M386” said Kingston. “Pirated from some of the most top secret laboratories connected to The Department…”

“What does it do?”

“It takes you high” said Kingston. “It lifts you right out of this universe kaj vi tuŝos la nigra spegulo.” This just left the crowd baffled but excited. Kingston laid the strips out on the table. “Put one on your finger. You will absorb it through your skin. It’s very potent.” The group did as they were bid.

Rupert came up again in seconds. It seemed to be working on the others too. Rupert felt the lights in the room flicker and transform. Slowly the place filled up with butterflies. They fluttered gently against his face. Through the cloud he could see Carla. She was standing next to him, smiling at him, more beautiful, more radiant than ever. The same libidinal charge flowed through him as before. He reached out to touch her, to share the joy, but his hand fell right through. What had just happened? Rupert held his hand up and clutched his face only to find neither was actually there.

Footnotes

Although, toward the latter days he had to start selling different stakes in his publishing company.
In his late-thirties Rupert discovered that he loved touching, free, un-negotiated with other human beings.
Their social circle consisted almost entirely of Carla’s friends.
Vicky being the friend of Carla’s sharing the joke in the keg queue.
This was during Ms Pankhurst’s campaign against the Italian occupation of North Africa.
Whose primary recollection was the brief, NME-led campaign to have the So Solid Crew accepted as the New Sex Pistols; 2001 was a grim time.
Multicultural London English (abbreviated MLE) is a dialect (and/or sociolect) of English that emerged in the late 20th century. It is spoken authentically by working class, mainly young, people in inner London, and some outer London boroughs such as Brent, Newham, Ealing, Haringey, Enfield and more.
Old Skool – no MP3 shuffle here.
Always leave them wanting more.