For most people Christmas was a time for rejoicing, a time to swap presents with their loved ones and bask in the warm glow of togetherness. For me Christmas was a time to sneak into Moseley and see if I could find a lead on the missing Jade Chopsticks without falling foul of Willie and his mob or the local cops. To be honest, the latter wasn’t my foremost concern as there are only ever two cops on duty in the tri-state area and they are stuffing themselves full of kebabs and doughnuts from four thirty onwards. Willies mob were another matter. You never knew who was working for him until you got close enough to smell the cheap cider – and by then it was too late. What I needed was a disguise. I got a cab from Kings Heath high street and got him to park right outside Fly Vintage Clothing. I waited until there was a gap in the meandering hippies and scutters milling around outside Kwik-Save and then gave the cabbie a buck to go and buy a Big Issue from the supermarket doorway guy. The Big Issue seller was one of the Cider Gang; everybody knew that. What they didn’t know was that he was also the lookout for the illegal gambling den in back of the store. I had to hope that the grease I’d laid on the cab guy would keep his tongue still while I made my dash into Fly, trusting to a borrowed Stupid Peruvian Hat to hide me for the six foot sprint into the door. Made it. Once inside I kept my back to the window as the pale store clerk roused himself from the “musicians wanted” section of the NME. His body was so thin that he seemed to rattle as he came over and said, “Help you, man?” “I need some new duds, man,” I slurred, hamming it up. “Don’t, like, wrap ‘em or nothing, I’ll change here”. I bought an orange T-shirt with Che Guevara on the front of it, two sizes too small and about long enough for a midget – perfect. Next came a pretentious pork pie hat with a pink feather jauntily stuck in the hatband and a shiny, two-tone overcoat, purple shifting to blue in colour with an embroidered paisley pattern subtly woven into it. Black hipsters followed, skin-tight to the knee and then flaring out from there on down until, at floor level, they could have easily covered a bass drum. I adjusted them to show the requisite amount of pubic hair below the short t-shirt before picking my footwear – a pair of shockingly beige, suede loafers that belonged in an episode of Daktari. The “look” was rounded off nicely with a pair of blue, square lensed shades – the kind that actually make everything brighter to the point where it hurts to look. Total price one hundred and fifty two Mo-Dollars. I paid in cash. Beautiful. But not complete. This was the gamble. Turning to the between-bands-musician I flipped him another twenty and looked around knowingly as I leant closer. “Give me the good stuff”, I whispered. He looked startled at this but, after weighing it up in his head, he decided that I’d used all the right code words and sidled towards the counter with a whispered “Watch the window, man”. I made a show of doing so as he went down behind the counter, coming up seconds later with a velvet-wrapped bundle. “How long these good for?” I asked stroking the contents. “Eight hours a time if you don’t sweat much,” came the reply, “and there’s enough touch up glue included to do a complete reapply.” I put them on, feeling a thrill – a personal triumph – as I checked my look in the mirror. I’d a always suspected that this was the place where the stick-on sideburns found there way into Moseley, but until this very moment I’d had nothing to go on but a hunch. NME bloke was sweating a little now, obviously wanting me gone. “Th-That’s it, man. You look cooler than Cusworth, I swear,” he stammered, and looking in the mirror I had to agree, really. Except about the cool part. This was it then, No way would any of the Cider Gang recognise me now. I was more Moseley than Moseley. It was time to go and punch Willie’s clock. Maybe it really would be a good Christmas this year after all….
