introduction to Bowlhead and The Lockjaw Squaw

To say that Bowlhead and The Lockjaw Squaw were friends would be to underestimate the sheer parasitic nature of their connection. They were crutches for crutches. One held the other, who held the first, and in that way they were precarious all the days of their lives.

It was Bowlhead, so named for an unfortunate haircut, that made the first move to extend the hand of companionship. She'd seen Lockjaw emerge from behind the bus shelter rubbing her jowls painfully. A few seconds later a frustrated lad came out and burst off at speed. Exactly what Jockjaw had been up to was held as a mystery until detailed accounts of her activity, previously reserved only for her diary, were shared with Bowlhead in the hope to elicit the similar confessions from her. Bowlhead however, had no such tales to tell.

So began their relationship, a friendship that went from strength-to-strength, as they learnt how best to band together to userp the hoy palloy of High School and onward until, as 20‑somethings, they met out abuse to the characters who'd shout abuse at them or were odd looking and therefore also were deserving of abuse.

Lockjaw and Bowlhead moved in together in fall of 1997. Their flat stradded a corner shop in the area sypathetically known as the 'artistic quarter'. It wasn't much more than a run down town that had been swallowed by a run down city. At night the trains rattled by on the rails they ran down. Occasionally a young child might be run down, a tragedy but not too much of a loss really. The whole place was a miniaturised model of the state of a run down land.

Bowlhead and Lockjaw had similar taste, they decorated their flat with trinkets, souveners from all over the world that they'd been sent by their friends and family. Garish looking woodern totems and a tiki god or two. Framed artworks from Chili and Sheffield. Numerous figurines of donkeys, scarabs and primitively carved animals made by the mentally ill in hospitals as far away as the pasific islands. There was even an Inuet representation of the Britsh Saint, the late, Diana Princess of Wales. Most of the figures were carved from single trees. Specially picked out due to their sheltered upbringing, coddled by their mothers and then unable to cement lasting relationships in the forests from which they hailed. Too much sci-fi and other nonsense, the loggers supposed. Then again, the loggers had bought their wives and had them delivered on the empty trucks that were then filled to export the stacks of single trees. Trees don’t have the same customs, you see.

Most weekends held the promise of nights of debachery and days in recovery for Bowlhead and Lockjaw. However the weekdays were given over the the drugery of working life. The 9‑5 that brings with it just about enough to pay rent, bills and eat. This being back in 1997 and long before The Re-Reformation, whereupon money became redundant. (Not to mention, though I will, rent and bills also.)

It was almost too much for Bowlhead, who’d aspired to become a bee-keeper. Something which her mother and mother’s mother had done. Though each with limited success, for there is only so long you can go on stealing honey before they are likely to grow wise to the practice and relocate to less thieving places. For Lockjaw, there lingered within her the passion to be a singer, though she could not sing, and dancer, though she could not move a musically motivated foot forward without falling on her face. (Remembering also now that 1997 means that X-Factor and the like were a long way off. So there were few outlets for people talented to Lockjaw’s extent.) Each armed with their impossible dreams, Lockjaw and Bowlhead tried their damned-able best to struggle on through the mire of pre-post-modern life.

It was also in 1997 that they met with The Cosmos Kid. Quite by chance they were wandering along the canal in the evening of the 12th of October and there, jauntily strolling toward them, was The Kid himself. They’d known it was him due to the clothes. A leather waistcoat and checkered shirt below. Spurs on his boots. A formidable revolver in his gun holster belt. The famous hat, bullet-hole in the crown allowing a tuft of his hair to poke through. They were each overwrought by the vision of manliness breezing toward them.

The Kid too had noticed them, though tried not to. He knew the next stage was disbelief, followed by a sort of dawning realisation that brought with it the need to sign his signature. To save this, he sped up. He passed by and said ‘Howdy.’ In that way he was known for. And they hadn’t the time to get to the stage of coming to their senses. Our two girls are far too sharp to be kept at bay in such a way for long and they stopped short of a meter after passing him. Then, much to his chagrin, took to running back toward him. Caught foul of his own fame he had to stand there for more than a few moments to sign his name, write a message of best wishes and make mono-syllabtic small-talk before he was allowed to shoot on by.

There was something in that meeting that will forever remain significant, for it was this fleeting moment that turned the the two girls into life-long admirers of The Cosmos Kid and his brand of creation. Even the previous incarnation of admiration, Captain Wilco, couldn’t size up to this new magnitudinal colossus of cool.

So 1997 met not just with the dimming of stars, but with the ignition of a few as well and further made inseparable our little Bowlhead and the infinitely frustrating Lockjaw Squaw.