Coda: The Descent Into the Maelstrom... Part One

The lights are up, the curtain – proverbially, at least – is down, and the tour is at an end. I join the band in the Prince Albert’s exclusive VIP smoking yard round the back by the dustbins. Lloyd is slumped on a seat in triumph, head lolling back victoriously. An empty bottle of High Commissioner slips slowly, languidly from his slackening grip. His work here is done, and it’s time to relax.

Chippington sits at a table, quietly smoking. A small group of acolytes sit spellbound at his feet. They are waiting, ever waiting for some word, some thought, some observation which they may carry with them throughout the rest of their troubled, ultimately futile lives. Yet Chippington’s enigmatic silence, his refusal to offer them easy solutions, is perhaps the greatest gift he can give them this evening, for in his very silence lies the opportunity to find their own voices. The silence proves too much for one young gunslinger, and with voice a-quiver he manages to speak: “Tell us a joke, Ted.” Chippington takes a long, thoughtful drag on his cigarette, and when he eventually speaks, his voice is calm, serious, almost a whisper: “Sorry, mate. I don’t do jokes.” It is a masterclass in understatement, and it is surely one that these young followers will remember for the rest of their lives. As, indeed, will I.

Apperley and Squires sit at a table with Big Dave who, ever the seeker after truth, is still trying to complete the day’s crossword. “Cartoon character in The Beano comic (5,5)". Squires looks puzzled. “The Beano? Never heard of it,” says Squires, disarmingly. “What kind of super-power did this ‘Beano’ have?” Apperley informs Squires that it wasn’t that kind of comic and that ‘The Beano’ was it’s name, and not the name of a character that appeared in it. He then turns to Big Dave. “Biffo’s got five letters. Did he have a surname?” Squires is still puzzled. “Biffo? What kind of a name is that for a superhero? What kind of super-powers did he have, then?” “He was a bear, mate,” replies Apperley. “Biffo the Bear.” Squires looks incredulous. “What? His super-power was that he was a bear? That’s insane!” Big Dave interrupts this exchange: “Got it! It’s Billy Whizz.” Squires is bewildered. “Billy Whizz? Was he a bear, too?” Big Dave and Apperley look at each other in exasperation. With infinite patience, Apperley turns to Squires. “No, Paul. He’s a kid and he does have a super-power. Kind of. He can run really fast.” Squires looks at Apperley in frank disbelief. “What? That’s it? He can run really fast? That's his super-power? How lame is that...”

“And this is Randy. You know, the guy who’s been blogging our tour?” Fliss ‘Sticks’ Kitson grabs my arm and, wheeling me about, tears me away from the intellectual cut-and-thrust of Big Dave's crossword table. Kitson is standing with two people – a man and a woman, dressed identically in combat jackets, black jeans and Dr Marten boots. “Randy’s lovely. And German, too. Lovely and German. Oh listen to me! It’s coming out all wrong! Anyway, Randy, meet Id and Margi. They’re the ‘gales Number One Fans. They're really lovely.”

Kitson’s disappears into the throng and I shake hands with these two smiling, eager people. My journalistic instincts immediately recognise an opportunity to get to the heart of what it means to be a Nightingales fan. “Margi... and... Id? Did I hear that correctly? Id?” Margi answers on Id’s behalf. “Yes. His parents were both Freudian psychoanalysts and they...” Seemlessly, Id takes up the narrative: “... named me Id after one of the three parts of Freud’s model of the...” And just as seemlessly, the narrative passes back again to Margi: “... human psyche. Id has two brothers. Unfortunately, he was...” Id, again: “... the youngest of the three.”

I’m intrigued by this couple’s habit of finishing each other’s sentences. It’s as though their minds are linked by some powerful telepathic connection. “Forgive me for interrupting,” I say. “But are you brother and sister? Twins, maybe?” Their laughter at my question is not mocking; I’m obviously not the first to have made this mistake. “Goodness, no!” Margi, this time. “No no no. We’re married. Have been for nearly...” Id takes up the sentence: “... nine years. Nine years this September.” This last word is chimed in unison, and causes more laughter. This level of closeness is rare indeed, and I find myself more than a little envious of their instinctive knowledge of each other’s thought-processes.

But charming as this couple is, I remember why it is that I’m talking to them in this place and on this night. “So, you’re the band’s number one fans, are you?” At which they both throw open their combat jackets to reveal identical T-shirts on which is scrawled – in a passable imitation of the official Nightingales font – the legend: I’m a Gailette For Fuck’s Sake. “We made them...” says Margi. “... ourselves” says Id.

Over the next half-an-hour I learn a lot more about this intriguing couple and their quite extraordinary devotion to the maverick misfits whose end-of-tour gig we’ve all just witnessed. I learn of the summer house which they built in the grounds of their Brighton-based home, and which houses their archive of Nightingales paraphernalia. They have made it their mission unofficially to curate the band’s legacy, and to this end they have trawled the record shops and second-hand stalls of the world – whether in person or via the web – to ensure that their collection of discs, posters, T-shirts, kazoos, badges and other merchandise is the most complete in the world. “There’s a guy in Wisconsin who claims...” says Id. Over to Margi: “... that his collection is more complete than...” Back to Id: “... ours. But he refuses to...” Margi, once more: “... produce a catalogue, so we just...” Id again: “... don’t believe him. And anyway...” At this point, the pair look at each other with conspiratorial eyes, then Margi takes up the sentence: “... he doesn’t have a Nightingales Vajazzle Kit!” “No,” says Id. “And we know this for sure, because there were only six of them ever made... “ Back to Margi: “... and we can account for all of them. We’ve spoken to the owners of the other five...”

The call for last orders brings our fascinating conversation to an abrupt end, and Id and Margi disappear inside. “I’m going to finish with a pint of Trubshaw’s Lament,” says Id as they make their way into the pub. “Which, if I remember correctly, has an ABV of 4.3%.” Margi’s voice drifts back through the open door: “I think you’ll find it’s 4.4% my darling.” An extraordinary couple indeed.