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The Woe of Aftermath	By : Nexus Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Led Zeppelin Views: 4373 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Led Zeppelin. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
Chapter VII
**********

Back at the Horses, the natives were getting hammered on a particularly heady brew of household ale.

“Oh,” they all chorused in time. “A 31 bus broke down, in the middle of Camden Town, the lights went ‘Go!’ the driver went ‘Oh!’, and the bloomin’ ole bus went oomph-pa-pa, oomph-pa-pa, oomph-pa, oomph-pa, oomph-pa-pa!”

Glasses were chinked. At a nearby table, a couple of middle-aged banker types sporting bowler hats and grey suits shook their heads.

“I say,” said the older-looking suit. “Would you mind keeping it down?”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” giggled Ian.

“This is a respectable establishment, you know,” huffed his stocky companion.

“Then we really should be goin’ lads,” sniggered Bonzo to the others.

“Listen here,” scolded older-looking-suit. “This my local, I have been coming here long before you scallywags—“

“Scallywags?” exclaimed Ritchie. The others burst into laughter.

“Don’t mind them, Norman,” said stocky-companion to older-looking-suit. “If they cause any trouble, I shall see to it that they are barred.”

“What on earth have we done to you?” spat Bonzo.

“I don’t like the look of you,” snorted Norman. “I have no intention of breaking bread with a mob of long-haired, filthily obscene drug addicts.”

“Slanderous,” said Ian indignantly. “I wash behind me ears!”

Bonzo winked at Ian and started shaking violently. Ian stifled a laugh, and a look of mock concern adorned his face. “John, Johnny?” he said.

Bonzo shook like a spastic on crack. Ritchie and Jonesy were in stitches.

“Do you need a fix? Shall I call Trevor for ya?”

“Y—yes, please…mate,” slurred Bonzo.

Norman shook his oblong head at stocky-companion, who looked around nervously, lest other people were witnessing the undignified scene. “Come on, Roald, lets—“

“Roald?” snapped Bonzo out of his crazed-spastic-dude character. “What kind of a stupid name is that, eh?” The others roared with laughter.

“Robert!” Ian shouted gleefully. “Get your arse over here.”

Robert smiled and waved at the gang from the bar, indicating that he’ll be right over. Jimmy was engaged in a conversation with the bartender, his back to the others.

Ritchie tensed in his seat. All the beer in Britain wouldn’t blot out Jimmy’s usual frosty administrations, and he was getting pretty tired of it. He polished off the last of his drink in one hefty gulp and lit a cigarette. Two could play this game.

“Jimbo, we were gettin’ worried man,” said Bonzo as Jimmy and Robert finally joined them at the table, each clutching a pint and a packet of crisps.

“Call me Jimbo again and I’ll give you a reason to be worried, Bonham,” Jimmy said. “Ian, Ritchie,” he nodded at the Deep Purple members.

“Hello Jimmy, good to see you mate,” said Ian cheerfully and raised his pint.

“Is it?” Jimmy raised a dark brow.

Robert rolled his eyes. “Don’t pay any attention, Ian, he’s pissed off that ‘Black Night’ has knocked ‘Immigrant Song’ off the French charts.”

Ritchie chuckled.

“Don’t give a toss about the French charts,” Jimmy snorted and took a swig of his ale.

“Quel dommage,” said Ritchie. “You should.”

Jimmy exhaled a long trail of smoke and glared at Ritchie.

“Now now, boys,” said Bonzo. “Behave.”

“Hey Jimmy,” smiled Ian brightly. “I would love to catch you live at the NEC next month, any chance of getting us some tickets? I realise they were all sold out, but—“

“Sure, Ian,” grinned Jimmy. “I hear there are still some available on the black market, going for £30 a piece. You can get ‘em there.”

“Oh,” Ian murmured. “Yeah, I’ll have a look.”

“He’s only kidding, mate,” Jonesy sighed. “I’ll get you some tickets tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” chuckled Jimmy. “We’ll invoice your record company.”

Bonzo muffled a laugh. Robert gave Jimmy a little kick under the table.

“Tell me something, Page, why are you such a fucking arsehole?” spat Ritchie.

“Ritchie, leave it,” Ian whispered. “It’s not worth it.”

“No,” Ritchie raised his voice angrily. “I’d really like to know actually, what the fuck do you have against me?”

“Gotta week, Blackmore?” Jimmy muttered and stubbed out his cigarette.

Bonzo took a deep breath. “Guys—“

“Nah, nah,” Ritchie sneered. “I wanna hear this. The mighty Jimmy Page is gonna tell me what his fucking problem is. The moment should be immortalised.”

“That was a four syllable word, Blackmore,” Jimmy leered. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Right,” Ritchie stood up with a thump, his fists clenched, his face twisted into a snarl. “You wanna finish this outside, you fucking dickwad?”

Jimmy laughed. “I wouldn’t touch you with a beanpole.”

“Cause you’re a fuckin’ coward!” shouted Ritchie. “It’s all well and cosy putting on airs and giving me shit here in front of your mates, but lets see how tough you are on your own, huh?”

“All right, gentlemen,” said Robert firmly. “Can we depart with the show of strength and fistful of attitude? We are all decent, civilised young men, and there’s no n—“

“Pha!” snorted Norman from the adjacent table. “Civilised, indeed.”

“Do you wanna fuck off to wherever the fuck your live your fucking little life or do I need to fuck you off there myself?!” Ritchie growled at him.

“Budapest is a city of two halves, did you know?” blurted Ian, and took a jumpy swig of his beer.

“Eh?” Bonzo frowned.

“Uh huh,” Ian continued. “I’ve never been myself, but apparently there’s a hill-top Buda and downtown Pest, split by the famous River Danube.”

“That so?” commented Jonesy, winked at Bonzo and took a drag from his cigarette. Robert smiled and eased back in his seat, motioning Ritchie to follow suit.

“Yeah,” enthused Ian. “I’d love to visit Hungary, you know. Actually, the thing I’d like to do now more than anything is to kick back and enjoy an al fresco dinner on the shores of Lake Geneva.”

“Dream on,” mumbled Ritchie and sat down. “We have a tight schedule until after the new year.”

“Yes, master,” Ian rolled his eyes.

“I think one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been to is Bologna,” said Jimmy.

“Spain?” asked Bonzo.

“No, you idiot,” groaned Jimmy. “It’s in Italy. We were there in April, remember? It’s renowned as one of the most beautiful cities in Europe.”

“Especially the great central square of Piazza Maggiore,” said Ritchie, almost to himself.

Jimmy arched a brow at that. “You been there?"

“Yep,” replied Ritchie. “Purple were on tour there with the Faces in ’69.”

“I see,” nodded Jimmy.

“Right, I’m outta beer, anyone?” asked Ritchie and stood up.

“Yes please, Ritch, I could use a refill,” Ian said.

“Thanks mate,” Jonesy smiled.

“I’m good, ta,” Bonzo said.

Robert shook his head.

Ritchie nodded. “And you two?” he looked at Norman and Roald, who was still sitting there, gawking at them from the other table. The pair mumbled something under their breath and looked in the other direction. The lads chuckled and Ritchie walked off to the bar.

“Thanks, Ian,” Jimmy said after a moment’s silence.

“For what?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” sniffed Jimmy and lit up another cigarette. “You got us out of an unpleasant situation. And we’ll get you those damned tickets, okay.”

“Cheers,” Ian grinned. “You are a kind soul.”

“You kinda owe Ritchie an apology, Jimmy,” Robert smiled.

“Who died and made you Chief Adjudicator?” said Jimmy. Then he rolled his eyes and got up. “Okay, I guess someone oughta help Blackmore with the drinks.”

“That’s the spirit,” Robert beamed at Jimmy as he stalked off to the bar.

“Well, aren’t you a radiant little bugger this evening,” observed Jonesy. “Where the fuck were you and Jimmy all evening anyway?”

“Yeah,” slurred Bonzo, peering into the depths of his empty beer glass.

Robert smiled coyly. “Nothing much,” he murmured. “Just had a listen to some of today’s recordings.”

“Did you really? Cheeky buggers,” Jonesy smiled. “Any good?”

“Oh yeah,” grinned Robert. “It’ll knock you out.”

“I hope it’s not too good, Plant,” Ian said with a wink.

“What’s too good?” inquired Jimmy who returned to the table with Ritchie.

They handed Ian and Jonesy their beers and sat down, exchanging smiles. They had obviously sorted out their differences at the bar, the others observed in relief, and the conversation flowed on in consummate ease.

Forty minutes later, after having discussed music, Jimi Hendrix’s recent demise, and the war in Vietnam, the topic of conversation gradually progressed to their shoddy love lives.

“Chicks, seriously,” Ian sighed. “Sometimes I wonder why I fucking bother.”

“Don’t be so glum,” chuckled Robert. “But it is hard, I’ll give it to ya.”

“Fuck yeah,” shuddered Ritchie, remembering the crazed fan from Ally Pally. “What about your wife, Robert, do you still love her?”

“I'll always love her, she gave me Karac, but I'm not in love with her anymore.”

“Met anyone new?” Ian asked.

“No,” replied Robert and finished his beer. “No one new.”

Jimmy smiled timidly. “And you, Ritchie?” he inquired.

“I kinda fancy Ian, actually,” replied Ritchie plainly.

Ian regurgitated on his beer and Bonzo smacked his back, making it worse, while the others howled drunkenly in unison.

“Agh, Ritchie,” Ian finally said when he stopped choking. “No offense, man, but I think you’re bloody ugly.”

Ritchie pouted. “You’re sacked, Gillan, off you go.”

“I knew that’s why you took me on," sniffed Ian.

“Well, it wasn’t for your singing abilities,” chortled Ritchie. “I’ll tell ya that much.”

“Is it true, Ian,” chuckled Jonesy. “That you were a fucking model before you joined Deep Purple?”

“Who do you take me for, Dave Gilmore?” retorted Ian, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with the overtones. “I advertised a cologne is all.”

Jonesy and Ritchie looked at eachother. “Fucking model!” they howled.

"Well I’m not gonna apologise for being good looking,” Ian sneered. “Dickheads.”

“Awww,” Ritchie lilted. “Don’t worry, luv, as long as you’re making money.”

“What the fuck’s that suppose to mean, Ritchie?” yelled Ian. “I don’t find your crooked innuendos very funny. Just because you’re a fucking shirt-lifting queer doesn’t mean the rest of us are.”

Jimmy sneaked a quick look at Robert and fiddled with his lighter.

“Damn,” exclaimed Ritchie. “Is this Pick-on-Blackers night, or have I struck a nerve there, Ian?”

“FUCK YOU!” Ian growled and stormed out of the pub.

To be continued…
- 6
- 7
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The Woe of Aftermath