Jumping Jack Flash

The Linger Loco!

Chapter 17: Jumping Jack Flash

‘I can’t believe we’ve got to leave. What about Beyonce?’

‘Si, fuck Beyonce, we’re going to see The Rolling Stones.

Doesn’t that mean anything to you? I’ll tell you what, you

stay here all loved up and couple-like and I’ll catch the

next bus to Rio and see the world’s most famous band perform

live on Copacabana Beach…for free!’ My loud voice

echoes around the small local restaurant and a moody couple

peer over at us. I smile at them before lowering my voice.

‘For free I tell you, do you understand what I’m saying here?’

‘Back up there, buddy-boy, I hear you. OK, so Beyonce

may well be as fit as a butcher’s dog, but nothing is going

to stop me from seeing old Mick strut his stuff.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes!’

‘Look, the last thing I need is you whining in my ear

because you miss sucking on her titties.’

‘Chris, I said yes and anyway, show Beyonce some

respect. Our little intimate liaison was about more than

just sucking on her breasts and slapping her firm buttocks.

There was a spark.’

‘Ah, that’s so romantic.’

‘You don’t have to worry, I won’t mention her anymore.’

‘Good because you can’t rattle on about how much you’re

missing a chick, when you’re about to get trashed at a

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Stones concert. It’s just wrong.’

‘And you think Mick Jagger would leave a girl like that

behind for the love of rock ‘n’ roll?’

Chris laughs, and nods his head enthusiastically. ‘Yes,

but he would probably impregnate her first with his love

child.’

‘Why do rock stars always do that?’

‘Impregnate groupies with their love child?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I don’t know, I guess because they can. I mean, who

cares what happens when you’re a rock star. The last thing

on your mind is being responsible. Besides, the Rock God

isn’t the only one to blame.’

‘I guess that’s the ultimate, isn’t it,’ I smile, flicking a cigarette

into my mouth. ‘You know, being able to be reckless

and still have the money not to worry about it. When

you’re skint you always have to be so friggin sensible all of

the time, or suffer the consequences.’

Chris frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, we can’t go around impregnating girls for the fun

of it, can we?’

‘Why would you want to?’

‘I’m just saying. We’d have to work really hard to feed the

little beggers. We wouldn’t be able to travel anymore.’

‘You could always just sow your seeds and then run for

the hills.’

‘Now that would be unjust. I may be a sinner, but I’d prefer

to be around when I have kids. I don’t like the idea of some

other dude filling my child’s head with the ridiculous.’

‘Si, you’re a fucking control freak.’

‘You know what I mean. I want to watch them grow up.

They’ll be carrying valuable Simon genes around with

them for a start.’

‘What a thought! Genes for big ears, paranoia and uncontrollable

mood swings. Maybe it’s time to let those disappear

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from the gene pool. Humanity will have a much easier

time.’

‘Fuck you! My genetic makeup has a valuable role to play

in society. The world needs a percentage of shoe gazers.

It’s all part of the balance that keeps the world in check.’

‘What’s a shoe gazer?’

‘It’s a wallower.’

‘A wallower?’

‘Yeah, someone who enjoys that melancholy low feeling

of lost love, or disillusionment. You meet a lot of wallowers

on the indie music scene. That’s where the term shoegazer

comes from. Haven’t you ever seen a lead singer or a guitarist

with his long hair in front of his face looking down towards

his scruffy trainers?’

‘No, only you.’

‘Oh, well, that’s a shoegazer.’

‘Look, shoegazer, rock star, whatever you are – the bus

leaves Cuiaba in two hours, so we should drink our juice

and grab our things.’

‘I might quickly phone her before we leave.’

‘Si, what is it with you and saying goodbye to chicks, if

it isn’t Martina its Beyonce.’

‘Hey, mother fucker, there’s no law against being kind

and showing natural feelings of love towards a young

lady.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘It’s not my fault you’re not romantic. You should try it

sometime.’

‘Hey, I am romantic in my own little way.’

‘Yeah, right, I’d love to be a fly on the wall when you’re

wooing a girl. Talk about fucking comedy.’

‘Hey, chill out there crackerjack, I’m only messing with

you. Look, do what you like, mate, but I need to go back to

the hotel first and drop the kids off at the pool before we

go.’

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‘Why don’t you just use the toilet in the restaurant?’

Chris glances over at the toilet door. It’s positioned right

next to a table of girls and the cash till.

‘No, I think it’s best if I wait,’ he grins, turning red. ‘I

don’t want to cause a scene.’

‘What scene? You’re only going to take a dump. What

could possibly go wrong?’

‘Forget it.’

‘Have you still got the shits?’

‘Half, half.’

‘Half, half of what?’

‘Ease off, will you. I’m fine! I just need to drink plenty of

water and concentrate hard.’

‘Maybe you’ve got a parasite living in your guts, a big

hungry parasite with hairy legs and sharp teeth.’

‘Yeah, thanks. Let’s just leave it, shall we. Come on, let’s

go to Rio!’

It takes two nights of non-stop bus travel to reach Rio de

Janeiro in time for The Stones concert. We stumble off the

bus around nine o’clock in the morning, and wander in a

daze around the vast bus terminal. It’s absolute chaos, with

thousands of people dashing between platforms and struggling

with their oversized luggage. We find a public shower

and decide to freshen up after nearly 36 hours on the road.

Chris returns from the shower facilities looking clean

and fresh. ‘You can guarantee half of these monkeys are

here for The Stones concert,’ he smiles slipping his soiled

pants and socks into his rucksack. ‘Where the hell are we

going to sleep tonight? All of the hostels are going to be

bursting at the seams.’

‘Maybe we should’ve booked ahead.’

‘Yeah, probably, but booking ahead involves planning

and we’re not very good at that. Hey, I know, let’s not bother

with a hostel at all?’

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‘You what?’

‘Why spend money on a night’s accommodation, when

we’ll probably be out all night, anyway? Let’s just throw

our bags in storage and hit the town!’

‘All night, do you think so?’

‘Actually, no, we’ll probably be in our PJ’s and tucked up

in bed by ten…of course, you numb-nuts!’

Buzzing with excitement we dump our rucksacks in 24-

hour storage, and exit the bus terminal into the notorious

world of Rio de Janeiro. We march over to a long queue of

yellow taxis, and wait in line. A young girl with a clipboard

points in the direction of the terminal, and informs

us we need to pre-pay at a ticket office. Chris heads back

inside while I hold our place in the queue.

He returns covered in sweat and waving a ticket in the

air. ‘A one way ticket to The Stones!’ he cries.

‘Rock ‘n’ roll! How much was it?’

‘It cost shit loads!’ he cries. ‘Forty reals for a taxi to

Copacabana, we probably should’ve got a bus.’

‘Oh well, it’s too late now. At least we’ll be there nice and

early. We need to try and get a good spot near to the stage.’

Jumping into the back of a cab, I’m surprised to see the

driver of the taxi is an attractive middle-aged woman.

Chris hands her the ticket and she smiles and speeds into

the heavy flow of traffic. She confidently controls the car,

as we race through the city streets and hurtle along a twolane

highway. Passing the huge concrete Sambodromo,

where the Rio Carnival parade takes place, she smiles over

her shoulder and turns up the Carnival music playing on

the car stereo. To the left of the highway colourful ramshackle

houses litter the hillside.

‘Favela?’ I ask the woman.

‘Sim, favela,’ she replies, using her red manicured nails

and feminine fingers to mimic firing a handgun.

I look at Chris and he grins nervously.

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‘Muito problemos?’ I smile.

‘Sim. Muito, muito,’ she nods vigorously.

Sounding her horn, we push on through the heavy traffic

and quickly find ourselves down by the ocean. Peering out

of the window I look in awe at the breathtaking landmarks

of Sugar Loaf Mountain, and the lush green peak with the

enormous Christ the Redeemer towering above the city

with his arms outstretched. The mountains look higher

than I had imagined, and I feel overwhelmed to be in the

legendary city of Rio de Janeiro (River of January).

‘Copacabana,’ the woman smiles pointing at the golden

beach. She pulls up close to the curb, cranks on the handbrake

and leans over and kisses me on both cheeks. ‘Bom

Carnival!’ she chuckles.

‘Bom Carnival,’ I stutter, surprised by her forwardness.

Leaping out of the cab we stand outside the grand white

Copacabana Palace Hotel. We admire the stage on the

beach and the half-a-million-dollar bridge that has been

constructed for the band, so they can stumble from their

hotel room and onto the stage. We cross the road and buy

a perfectly chilled green coconut from a small wooden

kiosk, and walk over to some tents at the front where a

group of hardcore fans have been camping on the beach

over night. Many of the people are wearing Rolling Stones Tshirts,

and have already started to drink beer. We position

ourselves close to a police tent in front of the barriers,

which separate the crowd from the stage. Making ourselves

comfortable on the sand we exchange the coconut

for a couple of chilled cans of Brazilian beer, and people

watch for a while as TV crews interview fans from across

the world.

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* * *

I crack open another beer and watch a crazy guy with big

Afro-hair and enormous purple bug-eye shades, strum a

guitar and dance through the crowd. People clap and

cheer and the Globo TV News crew rush over to capture

the entertainment. Chilean flags flap in the hot wind close

by and music fills the air from huge speakers. We listen to

a variety of Brazilian Rock bands as helicopters and stunt

planes zoom through the clear blue sky. I look over at the

impressive white Copacabana Palace Hotel – an elegant

white building with a penthouse suite costing a mere

US$2,300 a night. If I’d known the hotel was right in front

of the stage I would’ve pre-booked a room! I can see a

group of people on a balcony at the top of the hotel, and I

imagine it’s Charlie Watts and Mick Jagger checking out

the crowd below – Keith and Ronnie are probably still in

bed nursing hangovers from the night before.

Si falls into conversation with a guy sat next to us in blue

Speedos. His name is Francisco and he’s a journalist

working for the São Paulo governor Claudio Lembo. We’re

introduced to his two friends, a girl and a guy, and we

drink beer and chat about Brazil and how cool it is that

The Rolling Stones are playing here for free. I suppose

Jagger has to show his Brazilian kid what daddy does for a

living.

‘Have you been to Sampa?’ Francisco smiles, as he delicately

sips his beer.

Si frowns. ‘Samba?’

‘No, Sampa,’ he laughs. ‘It’s our name for São Paulo.’

‘Oh, right, no we haven’t been.’

‘You should go, but it is not like Rio. There are no beaches.’

‘Yeah, I’d like to go there,’ I smile. ‘I’ve heard the Japanese

fish market is incredible and the nightlife is kicking.’

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‘Yes, we have many bars and clubs. São Paulo is very

multi-cultural, but traffic is very bad. There are too many

people and too many cars.’

‘It sounds like London.’

‘Yes, all big cities,’ Francisco nods, smearing suntan

lotion on his face. ‘So, you guys look forward to Carnival?’

‘Absolutely,’ I smile. ‘I can’t wait to dance through the

streets.’

‘It is your first time?’

‘Yes.’

‘It won’t be your last.’

‘Where will you celebrate Carnival, Francisco?’ Si asks.

‘I will be in São Paulo with my family. I go to Salvador

next year. For me Carnival is not only about the parties, it

is about spending time with family and friends.’

‘Hey, have you been in the sea yet?’

‘Yes, it is warm and perfect.’

‘Come on Chris, let’s go feed the sharks.’

I leap to my feet and quickly follow Si through the suntanned

crowd. The beer has gone to my head and I feel

incredibly happy and alive. The atmosphere on the beach

is truly amazing and everyone is buzzing and enjoying the

anticipation of seeing The Stones. We reach the beautiful

blue ocean and struggle to find a clear path into the water.

There are literally thousands of people on Copacabana

beach now, and it isn’t until I squeeze through and enter

the water that the full extent of the size of the crowd

becomes clear. I almost fall over when I see the huge mass

of brown bodies on the beach. It’s the most people I’ve ever

seen in one place. There must be over half a million people

stretching out into the distance as far as the eye can see.

Not one single area of sand is visible and with the lush

green mountains behind, the backdrop is fantastic. A

group of tough looking teenagers from the favela play

futevolei (keepy-uppy) in the sea nearby with a miniature

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football. A police helicopter swoops low overhead and

they leap into the air and shout at the top of their voices.

We see this as a good time to leave and quickly fight our

way back over to Francisco.

It’s sunset by the time the first band appears on the stage.

The police behind us dismantle their tent and disappear,

which is a little worrying, and the crowd goes wild and

everyone starts to push forward. Electric guitar fills the air

and I buy another beer from a passing drink seller, who

balances a heavy cool box on top of his head. Our

Brazilian friends smile and stand on tiptoe to see over the

heads of the people jumping up and down in front of us. I

don’t know the name of the band, but they sound pretty

good. It’s starting to get really busy now and the space we

had created earlier has been swallowed up. I throw my Tshirt

over my shoulder and prepare myself for one hell of

a night. A sudden surge of people knocks me to one side

and a group of guy’s rush past carrying an unconscious

man above their heads. He’s either drunk too much alcohol

or drowned. I look down at the can of Skol in my hand and

realise I’ve consumed about ten cans myself during the

day. This isn’t good, especially as the sun has been beating

down on my head.

It’s dark now, and I stand on tiptoe and look over my

shoulder. The beach is rammed with nearly twice the

number of people as during the day, and I swallow hard at

the thought of over a million people standing behind me.

Jagger, Charlie, Keith and Ronnie must be preparing themselves

to walk on stage, what a buzz! I begin to feel a little

claustrophobic. There’s no easy escape route out of here,

so I try not to panic and focus on enjoying the music. I

look down and see Si pissing into an empty water bottle.

He misses and sprays over a girl’s bare feet. They both

laugh and the girl appears to except the fact that popping

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to the toilet is completely out of the question. The atmosphere

is intense and my heart pounds inside my chest. All

around us there are smiling faces and I suddenly notice a

tall kid standing next to me with blonde hair. He looks

English. The pressure of a million people pushing from

behind begins to take its toll on my ribs, and I try to relax

and breathe slowly. Si looks in pain, but we manage to

laugh as we eat the hair of two longhaired dudes stood in

front of us. All of a sudden, there’s an enormous boom

from the speakers and an explosion of fireworks. Powerful

spotlights skim over our heads, and through the mist I see

The Rolling Stones standing in front of me. Wearing a

black T-shirt and a silver suit jacket, Jagger runs across the

stage to the opening chords of ‘Jumping Jack Flash’. The

crowd goes wild. I scan the stage for Keith Richards, but

waving arms keep hitting me in the face. Another powerful

surge from the crowd lifts me off my feet, and I try to keep

my balance and not fall to the ground. It’s absolutely terrifying

and I’m immediately distracted from what’s happening

on stage. There’s another huge push from behind that

knocks a girl to the sand. I quickly reach down into the

darkness and manage to pull her up. She looks scared. It’s

starting to feel dangerous, but I try to remain calm. I’m lifted

off my feet again, but I use all my strength in my arms and

the backs of my legs to hold myself down. I can’t imagine

what the girl beside me is thinking. If she loses her balance,

she’s fucked! Suddenly, a gang of black guys with

their tops off appear to my right. They’re drunk and aggressively

push people out of the way. The blonde haired kid

stupidly says something to one of them, and he responds

by grabbing him around the throat. He squeezes hard and

I can see the kid turning blue. These guys are dangerous

and are most probably from the favelas. He laughs and

squeezes his throat harder and harder. The other gang

members hit out at people nearby. The psychotic guy

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releases his grip around the blonde kid’s throat and looks

at me. I grab Si’s arm and pull him away.

‘Let’s get the fuck out of here!’ I cry.

Our Brazilian friends have the same idea. Francisco

waves us over and we follow close behind. I can hear

Jagger, but it’s impossible for me to turn around and look

at the stage. We all fight our way through the crowd. I keep

Si in view, but quickly realise we’ve lost Francisco. A muscular

guy in a white T-shirt stands in front of me and jabs

both hands into the pockets of my shorts. He looks at me

with a cheeky grin as he fishes around inside. He removes

his hands from my empty pockets, and after politely

thanking me for being such a patient victim he carries on

his way. I’m totally stunned. As we near the entrance a

swarm of people, including a man with a young boy on his

shoulders, barges into us as we try to get out. We finally

reach a police tower and laugh when I notice there isn’t a

single policeman in sight. I don’t blame them for not hanging

around; they’ve got absolutely no chance of controlling

this chaos. Reaching the street that runs past the

Copacabana Palace Hotel, we suddenly see the logic in

building a half-a-million-dollar bridge across the road.

Food stalls are rammed along the middle of the street selling

hot dogs, burgers and beer and an ocean of people fight for

space as they enter and exit the beach. I quickly buy a bottle

of water from an old woman and snap off the lid. The

water disappears down my throat in seconds. The woman

smiles and chews on a plastic straw. She looks so calm. I’ll

bet she’s raking it in. In fact, including Carnival, she probably

doesn’t have to work for the rest of the year.

Feeling more human and less dehydrated we remember

the gig and, tilting our heads at the correct angle, we can

just about see Jagger behind the trees skipping across the

stage with his mouth open. I look up at the hotel and see

people chilling out and dancing on their sea view bal-

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conies. I’m unbelievably jealous. In fact, I’m so jealous I

could pee in my pants. I’m even jealous of the people who

have risked their lives climbing to the top of a street lamp,

and the guy who is dancing half-naked on top of a road

sign. They’ve all got great views. I wish I could magic a

pair of wings, so I could hover above the stage like a bird

and get the best view in the house.

‘How the hell are we going to find freedom?’ Si yells,

trying hard to keep his balance.

‘I don’t know the answer,’ I sigh, looking out across a

million people. ‘I wish I did, but I don’t.’

Growing increasingly tired of the pushing and shoving,

we decide to break free of the seething mass – be individual

and go our own way.

‘Fuck The Rolling Stones!’ I cry, ‘We can’t see them, anyway.’

‘Yeah, let’s have our own private party!’ Si laughs.

Grabbing a few cans of Skol for the journey, we push

through the crowd in the opposite direction and fight our

way down a side street. We finally reach a big empty road

two streets from the beach. I’ve never felt so happy to see

an empty road in all of my life and I nearly drop to my

knees and kiss the tarmac. We both look a right state. Our

hair is drenched in sweat and our T-shirts are soaking wet

through.

‘I see a bar!’ Si cries.

We run across the road with huge smiles across our faces

and a sensation of freedom pulsing through our veins.

Claiming a table over looking the street, I order two beers

and glance over the top of Si’s sweaty head. There’s a small

black and white TV flickering in the background. I squint

and suddenly realise its The Rolling Stones playing live on

stage. It takes a few seconds and a sip of beer for my brain

to connect the two together. The sound is turned down,

but we can hear the music clearly as it blasts from the mas-

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sive speakers all the way down the beach.

‘Best seats in the house!’ I cry, raising my glass of ice cold

beer.

We watch Jagger prance around the stage up close and,

in between mouthfuls of carne del sol and French fries, we

laugh at the expression on Keith Richard’s face as he

reaches for those more difficult chords with a cigarette

hanging from the corner of his mouth.

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