Sometimes you just want to do something a little different with your life. Something that makes you feel good or makes a difference to other people. Over the next few weeks/months, you can read about a group of young men who decided in the early 1980’s to try and make an impact…and for one night only…you can follow the lives of: The Sultans of Soul.

by Ravi Mangat
Writer

Having left his father to look after Mrs Watson at the shop, Raj had got into the family Ford Cortina and was making his way to the theatre. He was going through Hounslow – east, central and west. A town so big they had to name it three times. The fact that the family Cortina also doubled as the transport for the groceries from the Cash and Carry, probably explained why Raj was frantically trying to prop up a couple of boxes on the passenger seat while negotiating a particularly tight corner. He was desperately trying to avoid spilling anything on his Elvis costume, which he had worn in an attempt to save time.

He stopped at the lights. He was still twenty minutes away and was due on stage in fifteen. A red Capri pulled up beside him and the driver glared at him. Raj knew what the glare meant. It was the Hounslow glare, which meant, ‘when the lights turn green, you’ll only see the rubber on my tyres’. Raj was in no mood to race. The last thing that he needed was either to be caught in a speed trap or to find himself wrapped around a lamppost. With his Elvis gear on, he could just imagine what the police and journalists would make of him.

The driver of the red Capri smiled sadistically and sped away the instant the lights turned yellow. The Ford Cortina moved off slowly and then gathered pace, only to be halted at the next set of lights. The red Capri was nowhere to be seen, but in his mirror, Raj saw a cyclist approaching…and then passing him, with no apparent regard for the traffic lights. Raj sighed heavily and waited.

Ramesh, was lying back on the sofa in Jas’s flat. Now, in normal circumstances, to find himself in this position in a girl’s flat would be promising. Unfortunately, he was dressed as a chicken and his nose was bloody from the punch that Jas had delivered – almost Ali like, to his beak.

“I’m so sorry”, Jas said for the fifth time, “I wasn’t really punching you, I was punching Sanjay”.

“Well”, Ramesh began, “wherever he is, I hope he felt it”. Ramesh picked himself up slowly and walked to the window. “Oh great”, he sighed, “Harish didn’t wait for me”.

“Who’s Harish?” enquired Jas.

“He was supposed to drive me to the theatre”. Ramesh watched the street and saw a red Capri racing down the road, followed almost pathetically by a Ford Cortina.

“I’m really sorry”, Jas repeated. “I can’t believe Sanjay dumped me…especially like this. Do you do this sort of thing often?”

“‘Fraid so. You wouldn’t believe the market for dump-o-grams is almost as big as it is for strippers. Mind you, I’d much prefer to be dressed like this or as a cowboy, than be naked in front of middle-aged nymphomaniacs”.

“So are you going to the theatre to deliver another dumping?”

“No. I’m meant to be in a look-alike contest”.

“As a chicken?” Jas sounded confused.

“Well, no actually, I’m meant to be Mohammed Rafi…my kurta’s under my chicken outfit”.

Jas shook her head trying to clear it of the million and one questions that had suddenly appeared in her head. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll take you there. It’s the least I can do after…well you know”.

“Don’t worry, you’re not the first person to hit me. It’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it. Otherwise, there would be thousands of people in relationships that were going nowhere”.

“Thanks a lot”, Jas said sarcastically, “that really makes me feel better”.

Ashok had twenty minutes to get five miles across town. The meeting with ‘The Man’ had gone better than expected and all he had to do now was deliver the remaining ninety-nine briefcases and the money would be as good as in his wallet. Having met ‘The Man’, Ashok now realised why he had such a reputation. No guns, no drugs, no violence – ‘The Man’ was just interested in designer products. From Calvin Klein suits to Hugo Boss briefcases, if it was stolen, then ‘The Man’ was the best fence in the area.

While he was driving his uncle’s ice cream van, Ashok was groping around in his sports bag looking for his dreadlock wig and dark glasses. He was only entering the contest as a dare. His friends said that he wouldn’t have the bottle to do it, but to Ashok this was a challenge that had to be faced. What harm could it do? Three minutes in front of people he probably didn’t know and he would continue his reign as the supreme dare artist. After successfully running the police gauntlet on numerous occasions, a stint on stage as a Stevie Wonder look-alike was going to be easy money.

He stopped suddenly at the traffic lights and the ice cream tune started to play – loudly. It always did that when the van braked suddenly. Ashok tapped his hands on the dashboard and looked across at the red Capri next to him and its driver who was grinning like a bad Bollywood villain. All he needed was the hideous laugh and he would be perfect.

Ashok looked at his rear view mirror and saw a Ford Cortina slowly pull up behind them. He squinted closer and then closer still. Was that really Elvis driving a Cortina?

Thirteen minutes later, a Ford Cortina, an ice cream van and a Volkswagen Beetle with the remains of a chicken outfit were parked in the grounds of the theatre. Ramesh had just finished thanking Jas for the lift, when he turned round and saw Elvis and what looked like a bad impression of Stevie Wonder walking into the foyer. He hurried up the stairs after them. Once inside, the three of them were stopped at the door by two hefty bouncers who seemed to be just itching for a fight.

Raj was arguing with them, “How can we be late?”

The shaven-headed bouncer stared at him with bulging eyes, “Like I said…doors closed”.

“But I’m meant to be on stage”, Ashok was peering around Raj.

From inside the theatre, the voice of the M.C. bellowed out, “And the winners of this years contest…the three guys from Hayes…as The Bee Gees”. There was a crescendo of cheers followed by music and then the song ‘Tragedy’.

The hairy bouncer sparkled a sinister smile, “Well I guess you really are too late”.

Elvis, Mohammed Rafi and Stevie Wonder looked at each other. They listened to the song and shook their heads.

——————-
The third installment of this story will be published next week. This serial is fictional and any similarity with existing groups or individuals is unintentional.

Part 1 of the story.
Ravi Mangat is contactable on: rav38man@yahoo.co.uk