THE BLACK VELVET HUMPBACK WHALE
I loved my Bentley Continental. It had the look, the speed, the comfort and holy-fucking-shit acceleration. I swore it was all I ever needed.
But my good friend and snake charmer Monty Patterson, the Orlando Rolls and Bentley dealer, had other ideas. He rang me.
“Ah, Brian. I hope I find you in good favor?” I smelled a rat. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”
“It is a lovely day, Monty,” I said. “What’s afoot?”
“How long have you had your Bentley?” he asked. Oh no, here it comes.
“Three years, Monty, and I’ve only got fourteen thousand miles on it. Why?”
“Oh, a magnificent motor carriage has just arrived at the dealership,” Monty replied.
“Mmmmm,” I said.
“Would you like to know what it is?”
“No, Monty, I wouldn’t.”
“Good! Well, it’s a Rolls-Royce Phantom with only eight hundred miles on it, barely a year old. I sold it to a lady in Palm Beach just under a year ago and it hasn’t even been farted in.”
“How do you know?” I asked him.
“I’ve met the woman. It’s too big for her. I could do a deal with the Bentley and this beautiful black velvet David of motorcars could be yours.” I could feel the hook going in.
“Listen, oh rock-’n’-rolling one,” Monty went on. “Why don’t I send it down on the trailer and you can test-drive it?”
“No, no, Monty. Don’t do that. Monty! Monty!” The bugger had hung up. I rang back.
Receptionist: “Hello, this is Orlando Bentley, Rolls-Royce. How may I direct your call?”
Me: “Monty Patterson, please.”
Receptionist: “Oh, are you Mr. Johnson?”
Me: “Yes, I am.”
Receptionist: “Well, he says to tell you that he’s not in. Bye.” Bugger. I knew the thing was already on its way. Forty-five minutes later, the doorbell rang.
“Hi, Chuck from Rolls-Royce.” Now, I know it’s a three-hour drive from Orlando. That meant the car had already been on the road for two hours when Monty called me. I went out to the front drive. Chuck was already opening the back door of the trailer. All I could see was this black shadowy thing the size of a humpback whale. He let it out slowly into the sunshine. It wasn’t black, it was black velvet. It was stunning. I was floored. Everything started to go north on me. Nipples, willy, corners of mouth, hair . . . while the jaw went south. It was a proper Rolls-Royce. Not the 1970s–2000 ones. It was just like the ones I saw as a kid. Huge buggers.
“Here are the keys, Mr. Johnson. Take it for a spin.” I got in. It was the tits. It was perfect. Lalique interior lights, suicide back doors. It was posh as fuck. My arse was going like a squirrel eating nuts. I pressed the starter button, and 2.5 tons of hand-built sex, with a 7.2 BMW engine with twelve funnels of fun took off and got me to 60 mph in about five and a bit seconds. Mine, all mine. I slobbered. I got back to my house.
“Well, Mr. Johnson, whaddya think?”
“Mine, all mine.” I picked up the phone.
Receptionist: “Hello, Orlando . . .”
Me: “Get me that bugger Patterson!”
Receptionist: “Of course, sir!”
Monty: “Hey, Brian, my friend . . .”
Me: “Monty, you sneaky rotten bastard. You camel-humping four-flusher, you—”
Monty: “So you want it, don’t you?”
Me: “ ’Course I want it.” The deal was done over the phone. Chuck loaded the Bentley up. There was a tear in my eye and in my wallet when he left. But there in the driveway was my Rolls. So I wasn’t going to be lying on my deathbed saying, “I wish I’d bought a Rolls.” Even the great God of motorcars, Top Gear’s Jeremy Clarkson, said it was fab. So there you go.
I had only had the car a week when the phone call came in: “Hey, Brian, we’ll need you for rehearsals in Philly next week.” Bollocks! Since then I’ve only driven it once, and it was early 2008, and—shit!—the Black Ice tour didn’t finish until August 2010. Fate can be a bit of a bastard at times.