The Ninja Bastard from Jersey

8am, St Malo, France. My girlfriend, an old friend from university and I desperately needed coffee and a place to zone out in peace. We had two hours to kill before we were to board a ferry back to the dump that is Portsmouth. Rising early to catch a bus into town, I was feeling childish and stupid on a lack of sleep. However, spirits were soaring. We had just spent the weekend camping at La Route Du Rock, a slapdash music festival in Brittany which boasted a superb line-up including Aphex Twin, Fleet Foxes, Mogwai, the remainder of Battles and a few new surprises like Blonde Redhead, Sebadoh and Electrelane. The music was flawless. With regards to the festival organisation however there was much to complain about, in true English fashion. It seemed the whole thing had been set up to squeeze as much cash from us as possible. Typically confusing and complex, there was only one admittance allowed into the main arena and we puzzled over the methodology behind buying ‘jetons’ (tokens) in which to procure drinks. Help was extracted with great difficulty but far easier then it would have been with my friend James’ ability with the language. One drunken Frenchman put it sarcastically:
“You are English, no? This should be simple for you.”
Huh. Quite.

Anyway, victorious over the French shrug, rain and some ridiculous rules, we unloaded our backpacks and tents we settled down at the back of a café in the ferry terminal. We passed two gentlemen occupying a table, each with a pint of piss coloured larger. They looked in a far worse state then we were. One was leaning over his drink, nursing a sore eye and the other, wearing a denim jacket, a studded belt and his left arm in a sling, peered out from behind his aviator shades scoping James out. You could sense that something was going to happen.
“I’ll bet I fucked more girls this weekend than you mate”.
I thought, “Who is this abrasive hipster?” getting myself ready in case something kicked off.
“I’m not surprised with a ‘tache like that.” James quipped back and he wasn’t wrong. It was a magnificent moustache, bushy and curling at the tips as well as being an excellent beer-foam sieve. This exchange had finished even before my brain even had the chance to grasp what was happening. It is precisely why I have James around. You can always rely on Londoners for some quick fire banter when needed. The West Country grass has obviously dulled my mind these last few years.
Having judged the sort of people we were, the guy eased back in his seat with a broad grin and soon we were all rattling away in a conversation embellished with his repeated requests for ‘ciggies’ despite the fact we’d already smoked everything we had and had to keep reminding him. When he staggered back inside in search for some, we asked his accomplice if he was always like this.
“Yeah.” He sighed. “He’s from Jersey. They’re all like that.”
The guy then revealed the story behind his bruised eye. Apparently, a few pay-by-day security guards at the festival took this poor guy aside to search him. Out of sight from the crowd, they happily proceeded to beat the shit of him and take his money. Mr. Moustache, once he returned from harassing the lady running the bar, had his own story to tell. While attempting to breach backstage, he punctured his bicep on the spike of one of those vicious looking metal fences. Hanging by his arm, it took several grown men to unhook him and bring him back to earth. I figured that having my only pair of trousers soaked wet during the downpour of the previous day was an easy ride in comparison.
Two French dockworkers joined us and the Jersey man slurred out some broken French with them. A couple seagulls swooped in and set all of our teeth on edge with their evil cawing. Their appearance sent him into a display of rage and he lashed out at them.
“Fuckin’ seagulls! Fuckin’ dinosaurs, man! Je déteste! Je déteste!”
It was justified anger but the dockworkers, assessing the intensity and possible danger of the early morning situation, quickened the enjoyment of their lattés and went out where they came in.
This encounter produced more than just a moment of rougish entertainment. Turns out this shambling loony was a singer in a band a few years back. Its name? Robot Ninja Dinosaur Bastards. I checked their MySpace page on my return to England, listening to their mental music and watching a video of them pissing about the National Museum. Each track, only about a minute in length, is a sharp slap in the face that leaves you blinking like a twat. Mixing 8 bit video game sounds and thrash guitar, they make a kind of bleep-core that our man in question screams poetically coupled words like “Mush Puke Kill Kid” over the top. It’s hard to describe but I’d say it all sounds like something the Minutemen would play on amphetamines, space invaders and post traumatic stress.
On the back deck of the ferry, we sat on a few plastic chairs, drank the last of our beer and watched him chain-smoke his way through a pack of cigarettes he was thrilled to have acquired. It was then we learned of the sad news: his band recently split due to the guitarist picking up sticks and moving to Japan (the mind boggles). I sensed bitterness and a feeling of betrayal but also hope. This here Jersey man had blagged his way into a signed band as a drummer and was being flown out to meet them. As long as they don’t find out he can’t play drums, its clear sailing.
So, a tip of the hat to another of the chosen among us. As I gaze out my window, wistful and high, it gives me comfort to know that he’s out there somewhere, frightening good society and causing much needed grievance. Thank Christ that even in this fragmenting, boredom ridden reality we live in now, the weight of the world isn’t enough to hold some of us down.

(© Copyright 2011 Brendan Morgan)