An Entertainment, by Jerry Cornelius

What really happened there? We only have this excerpt…

Jerry Cornelius walked purposefully through the drizzle towards the Sun Pavilion. He’d arrived early at the Kensington Roof Gardens by the airship that was now tethered to a large Chusan Palm tree. The art deco styled building occupied a prime spot amidst an acre and a half of mature English, Spanish and Tudor gardens on top of the old Derry & Tom’s department store. It was about 100 feet above what had once been Kensington High Street and gave panoramic views of London. Nothing much was left apart from a few concrete stumps and islands of rubble sinking into the flood waters.

He wondered whether the programme he’d organised for the evening was worth the effort. Billed as An Entertainment, pulling it together had tired him to the point of exhaustion. He looked pale and fragile and was, in these latter days, dressed in a black shirt and black jeans along with the customary black leather car coat.

Still, he mused, it was worth going out with a bang rather than a simper. Entering the Pavilion, he looked out through streaked windows. The rain intensified. Jerry turned on the lights, heating and stereo. He heard Joe above the drumming of the rain:

‘The ice age is coming, the sun is zooming in
Engines stopped running, the wheat is growing thin
A nuclear error, but I have no fear
London is drowning and I - live by the river’

Jerry wasn’t expecting any trouble on this night of all nights, but he checked his vibragun anyway - it had always paid to be cautious. Sitting down, he went through the guest list again. He’d invited all the usual suspects – Una Persson, Sebastian Auchinek, Miss Brunner, Colonel Pyat, Bishop Beesley and his daughter Mitzi, Major Nye and Professor Hira – they were all expected together shortly. Spiro Koutrouboussis, the Greek tycoon, had also accepted. His ratfink brother Frank would doubtless show up in an attempt to spoil things for everyone. Jerry tried to banish the thought that, had she lived, his sister Catherine would have enjoyed their reunion too.

There were many more guests due – Rudolph Steiner, Eric Blair, Vivienne Westwood, Robert Hughes, Patti Smith, Gianfranco Zola, Michael Moorcock, Friedrich Nietzsche and Oswald Bastaple were all names that he had scribbled haphazardly on the crumpled list kept in his back pocket. To his relief, Jean Baudrillard had sent belated apologies.

Jerry surveyed the room. Shakey Mo Collier had carefully laid it out in a retro-futurist style for 100 or so guests. It looked splendid; the tables covered in crisp white linen and laid out with sparkling lead crystal glasses.

Just then a rather bedraggled pink Flamingo caught his attention. It circled outside, looking for somewhere to land. Flamingos had lived for many years at the Roof Gardens but recently they had decamped to a new lake that now occupied most of what was formerly SW6. A football stadium two miles to the south had taken a direct hit from an American Minuteman III missile a few months previously. Ground Zero had been filled quickly by the turbid waters of the river Thames.

Jerry turned his attention to the pinging elevator at the far side of the room. Someone was coming up.

Brian Eno emerged from the lift, the first guest to arrive, shaking raindrops from his overcoat.

‘Hello, Jerry, I thought you were dead.’
‘I’ll probably die, I almost always do.’
‘A lot depends on tonight.’
‘I suppose so. Still, it gets boring sometimes.’

Eno sat down quietly at the front of the room. He toyed with a small deck of cards while waiting for the evening to begin.

Mercifully it stopped raining. Guests began to arrive two by two, having made the journey by amphibious vehicle or boat. Sodden coats were left in heap in the adjoining room. Dr. Karen von Krupp was in her usual bottle green dress and purple boots. She was accompanied by Marcel Duchamp. William S. Burroughs escorted Susan Dallion-Ballion, her extravagant eye make-up accentuated by a large number of striking butterfly brooches. Grace Kelly, dressed by Edith Head, was on the arm of Bryan Ferry. There was never a more beautiful couple. Everyone smiled and waved in Jerry’s direction.

Jerry turned the music off as more guests took up their allotted places at the tables. Now an assortment of Nobel Prize winners, philosophers and people who had seen God arrived. Conversations, at first stilted and polite, became longer and raucous as old friends or adversaries were recognised.

Darkness fell on the damp gardens. Inside, the Sun Pavilion was now warm and brightly lit by ornate chandeliers. There was a palpable air of expectation and excitement. Jerry took his coat off.

‘Much smaller than your previous parties’, said Frank Cornelius, the last to arrive. Jerry winced and made a rare effort to control himself before turning to face his brother.
‘There are so few of us left’, he replied.
‘I suppose you’ll be treating us to that awful band of yours. What are they called? The Deep Fix? I can’t remember any of your songs’.
‘We were never a singles band. Anyway there’s no time to play tonight. Now go and sit down at the back next to mum and behave yourself.’

At last everyone was seated. Standing self-consciously at the front of the room, Jerry banged a table with his gavel. Suddenly he felt stronger and able to carry on.

‘Evening one and all - and welcome to our little soirée. I do hope you enjoy yourselves. In any case I’ve brought along six rather unusual wines.’
‘How long’s this gonna last?’ shouted Mitzi Beesley, impatient as ever.
‘Between two hours and an eternity, something like that’, said Miss Brunner, icily.
‘Six wines, where from?’
‘A personal stash. Wait and see.’

Jerry checked the watches he always wore on each wrist (a Breitling on the left and a Casio on the right). ‘Let’s get on with it’, he said.

The first wine was poured, a Louis Roederer Cristal Champagne, 1900. Still in the distinctive clear lead crystal bottle, the label said that Cristal Champagne had been created especially for Tsar Alexander III in 1876, his full title being, “By the grace of God, Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russia’s, of Moscow, Kiev, Vladimir, Novgorod, Tsar of Kazan, Tsar of Astrakhan, Tsar of Poland, Tsar of Siberia, Tsar of Tauric Chersonesos, Tsar of Georgia, Lord of Pskov, and Grand Duke of Smolensk, Lithuania, Volhynia, Podolia, and Finland, Prince of Estonia, Livonia, Courland and Semigalia, Samogitia, Belostok, Karelia, Tver, Yugra, Perm, Vyatka, Bulgaria, and other territories; Lord and Grand Duke of Nizhni Novgorod, Sovereign of Chernigov, Ryazan, Polotsk, Rostov, Yaroslavl, Beloozero, Udoria, Obdoria, Kondia, Vitebsk, Msislavl, and all northern territories; Sovereign of Iveria, Kartalinia, and the Kabardinian lands and Armenian territories - hereditary Lord and Ruler of the Circassians and Mountain Princes and others; Lord of Turkestan, Heir of Norway, Duke of Schleiswig, Holstein, Stormarn, Dithmarschen, Oldenburg, and so forth, and so forth, and so forth.”

‘That’s a mouthful.’
‘Certainly is, golden yellow, beautiful bubbles and simply exquisite.’
‘Too good for all those Rappers, apart from maybe that new guy - JayCee. How did you get this?’
‘After the 1917 revolution and the execution of the Romanov family a lot of their wines were moved from the Imperial palaces in St. Petersburg to cellars at Massandra on the Black sea coast. Did you know that Massandra once had 21 cellars, each 150 feet long, stacked with over a million bottles of wine?’
‘You’re being evasive, Mr. Cornelius, surely’ interrupted Professor Hira.
Jerry shrugged, ‘Well the Cristal was given to me as payment some years later for a little job I did in Mexico…’
‘Not on Trotsky, that was someone else surely?’ spluttered Spiro Koutroboussis.
‘Oh, Ramón took the blame, I took the wine…’

Feeling that he might have revealed too much in front of his guests at this early stage, Jerry decided to move on quickly.

‘Next up is a Riesling from the Antarctic Peninsula, Chronos Cuvée Adélie 2089. See what you make of this, it’s around 20 years old.’

The label showed a small black and white Penguin, now extinct, as the central motif on a ying-yang background. Underneath it said Chronos - Jherek Carnelian’s boutique organic winery at Exasperation Inlet.

Global warming melted the south polar icecap even more rapidly than had been predicted. The climate of the Antarctic Peninsula had become remarkably mild and was colonised by refugees fleeing rising sea levels. Previously upland sites had been planted with vines, in particular by those New Zealanders that had left the submerged region of Hawkes Bay behind them. Antarctic Riesling developed a cult following amongst the oil riggers in the boom-town bars of Port Stanley during the early 22nd Century.

‘This is marvellous’, exclaimed the Bishop, quickly pouring himself another glass.
‘Wouldn’t have thought it was sweet enough for you, Bishop, though I love the kerosene’, said Major Nye. ‘Do leave some for the others, there’s a good chap’.
‘I thought Port Stanley had been completely destroyed by Sonic Attack?
‘Yes, it was – all the refineries and most of the town got it in 2107, it was never the same after’, said Jerry, ‘I had a very close shave’.
‘You were there?’ How did you -?’
‘Escape? I thought only of myself’

*        *        *

A third wine appeared, to the joy of those waiting for the reds.

‘Now what’s this coming round?’ asked Una Persson.
‘Victory Red Wine, vintage 1984’
‘Are you sure -?’
‘There are no certainties in this business, Miss P, but look at the bottle.’

A picture of a Stalinesque face stared out from the bottle - Big Brother himself. A bushy moustache and eyes that seemed to follow you from wherever the bottle stood. The back label meanwhile repeated the mantra of Ingsoc:

War is Peace
Freedom is Slavery
Ignorance is Strength

‘I found this deep in the bowels of the Ministry of Plenty’, said Jerry. ‘It had been liberated by victorious Oceanic troops from the enemy in Eurasia. I stole it right from under the noses of the highest Party echelon; they’d turned their telescreens off. Of course, that was never reported.’
He paused. ‘Or was it Eastasia? Anyway, it hardly matters.’

‘’ere, Jerry, this drop’s bleedin’ revoltin’’ exclaimed Mrs. Cornelius. Jerry’s mum banged her glass back down on the table with a plump hand. There were mutterings of agreement around the room.
A small blond man rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. ‘Doubleplusungood is, I believe, the correct description’, interjected Winston Smith, who was sitting near the front.

Certainly the high acidity, rasping tannins and an overpowering smell of burnt rubber was highly offensive.

‘Such asperity - probably Pinotage,’ announced Jerry.
‘I thought you were bringing great wines along, not this rubbish’, exclaimed Miss Brunner.
‘You’re missing the point’, interjected Winston, ‘what makes drinking this a truly delightful experience is committing the act of criticism.’
‘You mean Crimethink?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Well, this would certainly be in my Room 101.’
‘That’s not funny’, retorted Winston, becoming increasingly agitated.
‘Time for a short comfort break’, interrupted Jerry.

In the Gents, Jerry struck up a conversation with Rudolph Steiner whilst they were washing their hands.

‘I never took you for a wine buff’, enquired Steiner.
‘Nor you’, retorted Jerry.
Jerry moved to dry his hands on a towel and continued. ‘I’m no expert. But the concept of balance, whether it’s between acidity and tannin in a wine or between Law and Chaos – it’s all the same in the end.’
‘We have much in common’, smiled Steiner. In my own field I seek a path of knowledge, to guide the spiritual in the human being to the spiritual in the universe. I experience, as an essential need of life, certain questions on the nature of the human being and the universe, just as one experiences hunger and thirst. A pity we never met at the Goetheanum.’
‘We will, Rudolph, we will. Time to crack on.’

*        *        *

‘Our fourth wine. Ladies and Gentlemen, is Château L 2055, a claret from the Mèdoc. The Chateau was classed under the famous 1855 Classification as a Second Growth. In 2050 they became the last winery left in Bordeaux so they promoted themselves up to First Growth.’
‘Isn’t that a bit underhand?’
‘Well, there was no-one left to argue with them, but it was certainly a bit pretentious’.

Château L held on against the mounting heat and encroaching desert because they had their own desalination plant, bought second hand from Saudi Arabia. The precious water it provided was used for the irrigation of genetically modified Cabernet and Merlot vines engineered for drought resistance.

The wine was a mellow experience that produced a hazy feeling of wellbeing and reflection in all the guests. After a lengthy interval Jerry explained that a not unwelcome by-product from the genetically modified grapes was the presence of a very high level of Prozac in the wine. Indeed, the inclusion of antidepressants had been written into the French Appellation rules at the behest of the pharmaceutical industry in 2025.

‘I approve wholeheartedly,’ said William Burroughs, ‘Is that the reason why this wine scored 100 points?’
‘Absolutely,’ confirmed Jerry.
‘So what happened to them?’ asked Mr. Smiles.
‘I blew it all to Kingdom Come’ said Jerry. ‘Ask Miss Brunner about it, she was there.’

*        *        *

‘I bought this, our fifth wine, from John Chaucer in 1347. John was, indeed is, a wealthy wine merchant in the part of London down by the Thames known as The Vintry. You may not know him but you may have heard of his son Geoffrey.’

The wine poured was a Cot from Cahors, pure Malbec, bible black and big boned. Silky, medicinal and warming, appreciative noises could be heard around the room. Jerry continued:

‘This stuff was an absolute steal, though I don’t know the exact year it was made, my guess is that it’s at least 5 or 6 years old.’
‘Why so cheap’, enquired Bryan Ferry.
‘Well, here’s the story - the Chaucer’s had boarded up their Inn and were heading off to the country in an attempt to avoid the outbreak of plague. John was more than happy to exchange his last barrel of Cot for a few handfuls of my tetracycline tablets. In addition, as most of his customers were on the way to becoming corpses, the bottom had dropped out of the market. John told me that while this wine is good against all manner of ills and distempers it's not remotely useful as a prevention of pestilence.’

‘Interfering again’, snorted Frank in disapproval.
‘I’ve never thought that about it’, snapped Jerry.

 

By the time the final wine appeared it was getting late. The amber fluid in everyone’s glass was 20 years old, very sweet and highly alcoholic. Jerry diluted his with water before announcing it to the audience as that finest of Roman wines, Falernian.

‘Perhaps not the best vintage, but certainly the most memorable one.’

In 79 AD Jerry paid a visit to his close relative, Publius Cornelius Tacitus, at his villa in Pompeii and bought several amphorae of Falernian from him. Jerry and Publius had sat on the xystus one warm August afternoon drinking Falernian and getting pleasantly sloshed. They had hardly noticed the constant rain of red hot Vesuvian ash that had been falling since midday because the covered portico of the villa offered temporary protection. Now this ash was waist-high in the Villa’s lower garden. Neither man appeared to show any alarm, though Publius was irritated that they would not be able to stroll there and admire his ornamental shrubs.

By late afternoon the sun was blotted out by clouds of choking ash. The diabolical scene was lit only by flames from nearby buildings that had begun to burn. Nearby someone screamed, the noise of panicking crowds was becoming intrusive. ‘Mmm, time to go’, said Jerry, emptying his glass. With torches to light the way, both men walked to the nearby Via Stabiae. Here Jerry had parked his Soviet T-34 Tank, as he told Publius, ‘I do like to have plenty of armour plating when I drive.’ Taking the road south they narrowly avoided the nuée ardente that was rushing down the slopes of Vesuvius towards the city. Inside the Tank, neither man was inclined to look back.

‘A health warning’, said Jerry. ‘Falernian is made with defrutum, apreservative which unfortunatelycontains lead. So by drinking this you risk developing gout or brain damage – or both.’
‘Not that there’s time for anyone to worry about that now.’
‘Quite’.

The evening suddenly came to a conclusion. Jerry Cornelius pulled on his car coat and then, in a rare fit of sentimentality, he decided to thank everyone for coming. Handshakes and back-slaps were exchanged. Air kisses were accompanied by ‘mwah’ sounds. Others preferred high-fives. Some bowed, while one or two genuflected. Shakey Mo began to clear the empty glasses away.

Una Persson called out ‘Hey, JC’. She walked over to him and they embraced. He felt the reassuring weight of the vibragun in his coat pocket as he held her slim body to him. She whispered in his ear a few lines of Dylan:

‘Oh, what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?’

‘Oh, damn, I forgot to invite him! Never mind, maybe next time, eh?’
Laughing together and holding hands, they turned towards the guests and sang at the tops of their voices:

I'm a-going back out 'fore the rain starts a-falling,
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the colour, where none is the number,
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.’

They hugged one last time. When she released him they gazed at one another for a few seconds. Then the spell was broken and Una turned away. Jerry calmed himself, took a deep breath and then walked quickly past the remaining guests, through the Pavilion doors out into the Spanish Garden towards the airship.

Overhead, one by one, the stars were going out.