Milky White and his All-Stars

The week after Yuletide was not the best time to try to darken Milky White's name. Bloated with gifts and proof of his worth, he was immune to us. He was at the height of his powers, sqwarking on his Junior Hendrix electro guitar, Wormhole on the biscuit tins, rehearsing for the Scouts Yuletide Party on the 29 th December.
All we 'aff to do, right, Daz said when we met up The Cow's Gate that morning, is sneak round the back and pull the plug out.

Pull the plug out what ? Thin said.

I dunno, yer cory, out the wall I suspect.

Be on the stage though, won' it, the plugs, I claimed.

Well that's's that then innit, thin said. I aint goon in there simply to get jamoboreed by a loada knock-kneed Scouts.

Norm I, Dodge expounded.

You are just scared, Daz said.

What of, Milky White And his All-Stars ?

Yeah, Daz announced, as an important point you are.

I could git 'im, don't gnaw worry.

Oh yeah ? 'Ow then ? You might always run up on the stage and kick 'im up the ass while e's playin. 'E will not be ready to run after yer, will 'e ?

Why don't we ambush 'im and cut 'is strings, thin said.

We hid in the laurel bushes down Copt Hall Avenue, outside the Methodist Hall where they were having the party at 3 o'clock. Only to see Milky White drive up in a chauffer driven Mini truck. His old man was the roadie too. Wormhole got out the back. We heard Milky say : thanks pardner. To his old man, for Christ's sake, who said back : you sock it to 'em eh, Six-String.

We hid our heads in shame as the enormous green doors swallowed him up.

Now what, you lot ? Thin expounded.

Round the back, get in through the kitchens, I announced. I wanna hear 'im an' Wormhole do two young boys 'ad two little Toys.

Old Ma Pimple's gonna be in the kitchen doin' the cream buns or something, Dodge said.

Mrs spot was the battleaxe who did our school dinners, cheeks like the mashed spuds she dolloped on our plates, neck like the blanc mange we threw at each other round the tables. Today, when she was never putting cream buns and Wagon Wheels on the Scout's paper plates, she was dragging on a Kensitas in the kitchen doorway. We were unable to get close to the place. We could hear all the Scouts guffawing at old Cripps the wizard who ran the Chemist's shop and did the Interflora. We might had him at the Sun. school Party too where he'd tied his shoelaces together then done the splits and the shoelaces were normal again without him touching them. We laughed because he'd ripped his trousers. I doubt he was doing that again. Then the laughter stopped and there had been the common handclapping and hooping.

They're gonna stuff their faces now, thin recounted.

Daz legged it across the cinders to look in the kitchen doorway. Pimple couldn't've been there as he went in without a second peek.

'E bedder git me a cream bun, Dodge asserted.

No sooner expounded than Daz came flying out like he'd hit a rubber wall, haring across the cinders and crashing into the bushes.

'Ere you lot, guess what ? You won't believe it.

No cream buns, I claimed.

There's 'undreds of Jamboree bags int there.

Well why did not yer grab some Daz, yer cory, thin asserted.

No listen dimbo, they are all like ordinary Jamboree bags like what Pullins does, but one of 'em's not. It's bin done special. It's got this git on it with a guitar and it says : Milky White and his All-Stars.

Flippin aida, thin said. D'you fink 'e truly is going to be on Toppa the Pops then ?

You prongo Skin, Daz announced, 'is Dad or somebody 'ad it done that is's all. It aint nuffing, not with them photostat thingys.

Oo's got a pen on 'em ? I claimed.

No one did. I revealed we required a black felt tip fast so Daz set off at a lick up Copt Hall Avenue to work out if Cudlipp was in to borrow a felt pen off. He was the closest. None of us had time to get home and back before the music and the Jamboree bags were given out. The pen came back in record time. Now it was up to me.
I found the box of Jamboree bags and carried it out to the bushes.

What yer going to write Sedge ? Thin said. Milky and the Wombles ?

Hah, that's not bad, Skin, Daz claimed.

Nah, I said, look.

I looked at Milky's All-Star bag long and hard.

Urry up, Dodge announced, I will 'ear 'em tunin' up.

Got it, I announced.

Blacking out the letters and adding a few I turned Milky and his All-Stars into Milky ate his Ball-s. On as many other bags as could manage I wrote THE COW'S GATE GANG above Jamboree Bag.

We pinched one each, put the box back in the kitchen then scarpered just as Milky was twanging his way through something, none of us could tell. Could've been Wings but it was doubtless the school hymn.

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