Decanting Claret

The forbidden joys of a certain type of female eroticism are explored through the fire breathing showmanship of Rainmaker Drummond - Master of Flames, Leader of Gangs and Spire of Steeples. And also, especially for the ladies, a quick stab at palmistry:

This line here, the long one, means you will live to be seven hundred and forty two years old and dark strangers will rap at your door – today, yes – and money, I see money, oh, you’ve a beautiful line there, a long line, money will come too, through the door with the dark stranger, a man, a good-looking, kind and wonderful man with his bountiful gifts to you wrapped in – yes, a very long life with many, many children and grandchildren, yes, and travel – gifts and money and silver and gold wrapped in ermine and, and, and you will be happy and very rich and very happy, a blessing, you will be very blessed, very blessed.

In Drummond’s work the intermingling of the classical and the commonplace is often mistaken for _______. Except on those occasions when he forces _____ to meet _____ head on. It is then that Drummond’s ‘artistry’ can be correctly described - as it often has been – as a “metaphorical battle for the senses.”

But wait. Drummond’s theatre of carnival is surely best experienced at weekends in pub and shopping centre car parks? Such as his recent appearance in Lowestoft, where his shamanistic antics attracted the attention of local law enforcement officers.

Master of Flames: Like Johnny Storm, Jim Hammond or Toro? Not a hope. There are no sparks from his flint. No fire from his fire. No orange in his claw.
Leader of Gangs: In a way, yes. Through intimidation and fear. All that Manson, Jim Jones bullshit and all those girlies, falling to him one by one. Absolutely delicious.
Spire of Steeples: Yes. Rolled into one.

Rainmaker Drummond was so named to signify – in the clearest possible terms – what a nauseating hippy he truly was. In many ways his name was a blessing for those faced with the task of having to describe him. It saved time. Because scratching a hippy reveals all manner of terrible, although perfectly obvious, things.

A Crown Court Judge said to Rainmaker: “You are a self-centred, insensitive person and you do not care for other people.” But look how nice I am, Rainmaker replied. Look at the nice things I do and the nice things I say. I am a nice person. Everybody says so. Ergo everything I say and do must be good and true. My niceness, such as it is, should be the cloak that protects me from analysis. The wall of flame that protects me from criticism.

A twirling staff of flame flies around Rainmaker’s body as he staggers violently, lurches forward, into the crowd of screechers making up the crowd of spectators who -

- who are standing there because they want to see a nauseating hippy juggling sticks of fire. Possibly there are a few who are here to see this long-haired berk set fire to himself. But most are there because they’re actually interested in that kind of thing. Who are these people?

But Rainmaker lurches forward into the crowd that screeches and scatters as he swings his staff, threatening his audience with death by fire and death by cancer. I am Shaman! he shouts, flee from me! So they do. Later, having had four of his lighters confiscated by the police, he sets fire to the toilet roll in his cell, using a fifth, and carefully hidden, lighter. Thankfully, the police brutalise him into meek submission.

Outside, earlier, Rainmaker was a ritual of power and dance. He didn’t call himself Rainmaker for nothing. One dance: rain within eight weeks. Guaranteed or your money back. (Hippies and money, yes.) And then, having conquered the heavens, a new concept of wetness as explored through the liberating power of fire. You’ll burn, baby, burn, as he put it, and feel yourself anew. Hold out your hand:

I see a journey and a passionate, oh, a passionate love affair with a man, no, yes, maybe a man, but also maybe a woman. Thrilling and exciting and your life will change, you’ll never – no – you’ll never look back. And you’re doing, I can see, things you never dreamt you’d do, travel, yes, and love but sex, sex also, you’re a very passionate, yes, and you, you, this line says you will find a new you, yes, like being reborn, yes, exactly like being reborn, reborn by love, passion and sex.

So to the forbidden joys of a certain type of female eroticism. Lesbianism, obviously. With vampires, heavy red curtains and a touch of the mystic. The Rasputin effect, the eyes, the beard, the heavy breathing, the comedy accent, the staff, the flames, the sole source of light. The shadows flicker, or dance, on the walls. A music, a pulse, a tip tap as the heat rises. Rainmaker, incandescent, pisses his pants and bursts into flames.

And soon after attacks passing shoppers. Casts spells upon the police. Sets fire to his cell. In court his lawyer explains his terrible childhood – a shocking catalogue of rapes, beatings and psychological humiliation from the age of eight to thirteen. Which is why he became a lawyer. As for Rainmaker, it’s revealed that his childhood was strikingly similar. And all at the hands of nuns. (We’re really saving time here.) But the Judge is having none of it. He says, as previously reported: “You are a self-centred, insensitive person and you do not care for other people.” To which Rainmaker trots out all the crap about him being a nice person etc. As if being a pathetic, ingratiating simp would be enough to excuse him. The very idea.

Twelve months he got. “Eroticise this you twat!” shouted the Judge as Rainmaker was dragged from the court room and tossed into the fire retardant bowels of _____.