Partners in Crime

A boys’ own adventure, in blank verse.

Another one for Elfish Mover

Whilst walking on the promenade at Hythe –

it’s 6.15 a.m., the middle of

the summer break, and I’m determined

to beat the sunrise every day we’re here –

arrives upon my phone a message from

my dear old friend and former sparring partner

(guitars), who must remain anonymous

for legal reasons soon to be revealed,

proclaiming that he’s crashing for the night

at Johnny Marr’s, and is there anything

that I would like for him to photograph

(in secret) while he’s there. I laugh out loud.

He isn’t being serious (I hope).

“Unlikely as it seems...” his text had started.

“Unlikely as it seems...” I start with my

reply, and then a madness grips my soul.

Without a thought for any consequence,

ignoring all the danger which I’m just

about to put my friend in (wait and see) –

please bear in mind that I’ve bought each record

or compact disc that Johnny Marr has ever

graced with his presence (Girls Aloud excepted);

and thus it is that I convince myself

that I am quite entitled to at least

a teaspoon (a teaspoon? At least a teaspoon) –

I send a text requesting that he take

(in absent-mindedness, of course) a teaspoon.

The text which next he sends informs me that

the custom-built guitar that Johnny has

designed with Fender has arrived. “What  colour?

I hope it’s white like my new strat” I text.

“I wouldn’t know – it’s in its box” he says.

I get on with my walk and wonder what

our teenage selves would think: it’s thirty years

since we first met, and yet we’re still in touch;

we’re both still mad about guitars; and, oddly,

my manic-like obsession when it comes

to Johnny Marr – is still intact! Far out!

(the pseudo-hippy teenage self would say).

A few days later, back at home, a package

arrives. Inside the bubble-wrap, a note

instructs me how to use the thing enclosed

(a teaspoon, property of Johnny Marr):

“First, make a pot of tea, then pour from pot

to cup and stir with this ‘ere magic spoon.

Whilst drinking tea bestirred by magic spoon,

pick up your strat and write some magic tunes,

then put them on a tape and send to me.”

The hand that wrote this note once strummed some chords

to which I added teenage words, and bonds

like that? They never break (I guess, ‘though sometimes

they get mislaid for several years). I laugh

out loud. I dance around the room. I laugh

out loud again. I laugh so hard that tears

start running down my cheeks. I shriek and dance

and shout, “I’ve got a magic teaspoon – look!

A teaspoon, property of Johnny Marr!”

My children start to laugh as well, and I

explain the story. So it is that they

discover that their dad’s great friend is now

a burglar (at their father’s instigation),

and Dad is now apparently quite cool

about receiving stolen goods (as long

as it’s a teaspoon, formerly belonging

to England’s finest songsmith: Johnny Marr).