by V E Rooney
Clubs are a religious ritual. Every weekend, strangers come together to forget about the dirty plates in the sink, the unopened bills on the coffee table, the bullshit, the 9 to 5, the deadening grind and the dull monotonous thoughts that hammer home just how futile our lives are in the great scheme of things, how little we really matter in the history of the world. We’re just specks of dust on a giant spinning rock in space, minute matter that will be extinguished and forgotten long before we have a chance to do anything to make our lives worth remembering.
They file to this place of worship, so that their sins can be hidden in the darkness. The first-timers looking around nervously, wide-eyed and coiled. The regulars surveying the fresh meat and smirking. The curious and the sated, the young and the old, the initiated and the virgins. They all congregate here to worship and to be redeemed on Saturday night and Sunday morning. Purge your sins here and begin the week with a clear conscience. And then do it all again next weekend.
Taylor’s has been open for a month and is jammed every night. As far as glamour and buzz go, it’s even challenging Cream, the massive superclub a stone’s throw away. Queues stretch all the way round the back of Eberle Street and punters are coming from as far away as Newcastle and Birmingham to sample its delights. Even had some of the club music magazine people from London coming up to rave over (and in) it. Ste has been promoted by Sean to be head bouncer, while I have handed over the managerial reins to a nice lad, Karl, who has run a few of Sean’s other places over the years. That was always the plan – to hand over as soon as it was open and to get back to the real business of dealing. But tonight, I’m here to get the gossip from Ste and see what’s happening at street level.
Alongside Ste is a team of five bouncers. Big bastards, the lot of them. But they’re hardly ever troubled to crack heads as the crowds are mostly well-behaved. The door queues are run under the watchful and discerning eye of Delilah. During the day, Delilah is a bricklayer called Paddy, but during the night, Paddy is transformed into a six-foot-six, chiffon-bedecked, platform-shoe-wearing drag queen who looks like Elizabeth Taylor in a funhouse mirror.
Every night Delilah is here to greet the punters and turn away likely troublemakers, and to make sure that the clientele fit in with the image that the club wants to project. No shell-suits or sportswear allowed in here. And if any punter thinks they can mouth off to her, she soon puts them in their place with a verbal onslaught of shame that will shut up the gobbiest of twats.
Don’t think you’re coming in here dressed like that, you fucking meff. It’s not a fucking dosshouse. Piss off.
What have you come as tonight, sweetheart? A cunt?
Who picked your outfit, love? Stevie Wonder?
Do you really think red PVC is a good look for a man of your girth?
You’re looking well tonight, love. For a corpse that’s just been fucking embalmed.
Oh my Christ, I think you’ve come to the wrong place, darling. Shouldn’t you be at Grab-a-Granny night at the Grafton?
Ste is having the time of his life. He is standing tall and proud outside the club, with an air of authority that grows day by day. He’s proving very popular with the ladies as well. As with any gay club, a lot of straight girls will flock there because they don’t want to be troubled by sleazy dickheads in the straight clubs, and he’s getting a lot of female attention. Some of the gay boys have taken a shine to him as well, much to his (secretly flattered) embarrassment. I do find it funny to see Ste squirming under the spotlight of male attention. Now he knows what we women have to put up with from men.
Give us a feel of your muscles, gorgeous!
Now that’s what I call a MAN!
Ooh, you can bounce me up and down as hard as you like, big boy. Mwah.
Needless to say, we have exclusive dealing rights in this place, and should any punter take it upon themselves to work independently of us, they will meet with dire consequences. I don’t know the ins and outs of the supply chain, all I know is that Sean is procuring sizable quantities of Ecstasy for distribution within the club. As to where he gets it from, I don’t know that either. A couple of his crew – a pair of scally clubheads - are the go-to men inside the club for product, and if they should meet with any trouble, Ste and his bouncers will be on hand to provide back-up. But so far, there have been no reported instances of incursions or infiltrations by rival crews. We already know which infamous local faces to look out for, but as yet, rivals are keeping a quite respectful distance from the place.
24. NETWORKING
I’m at the Wood Street flat, chilling out in front of the telly, when my mobile buzzes.
“How goes it, my northern friend?” Simon is back from his travels in the Far East. This should be an interesting conversation.
“Alright mate? How was your holiday?”
“Oh, it was wonderful. Such a beautiful place. The food, oh my God…I was in culinary heaven out there.” Trust my middle class boy to wax lyrical on the cultural delights of Thailand, when everyone else is banging on about the weed and the ping-pong girls. Not my sophisticated friend.
Business between Simon and I continues interrupted despite the fact that I’m now reporting to Sean. The only thing that’s changed is that I’m now handing over half of what I make to Sean. Well, there’s no point volunteering information that isn’t asked for. As far as Simon is concerned, he’s still getting his weed uninterrupted.
We’ve only seen each other in person a couple of times since our original deal. Usually, he will come up in a car and take delivery of the product from Ste or John. We maintain occasional phone contact, and he’s even invited us down south for parties or raves he puts on, although I usually decline these invitations and leave the boys to make the trip. They’re convinced Simon fancies me. “Oh, he was gutted when you didn’t come. Thought the soppy fuck would start crying,” said a bleary-eyed John when he returned to Liverpool after an intense weekend in Oxford. Simon holds no interest for me in that regard. When it comes to relationships, in this regard I never mix business with pleasure. However, this time, I’m about to extend an invitation to Simon that I need him to accept.
He waffles on about Thailand – trips to Buddhist temples, elephant treks through the jungle, dancing his bonce off at the Full Moon parties on Koh Phangan (“my spiritual home,” he tells me), and the various beach resorts and Bangkok dives he frequented. We’re always careful not to divulge business details over the phone, using our own phrases for that side of things. I like doing business with Simon and that’s why our arrangement works so well. We’re both cautious and suspicious – necessary attributes in our line of work.
“…and so Loz wakes up the next morning…fuck knows how he made it back to our beach hut…and he turns over to find out that, miracle of miracles, he’s actually scored with this gorgeous, stunning Thai girl who’s fast asleep beside him. So Loz thinks, wey-hey, I got lucky last night, can’t wait to tell the boys about this. So he goes outside for a slash and he sees the owner of the beach huts, this mad little Thai guy, laughing hysterically and pointing at him. So Loz is like, what’s so fucking funny, mate? And the guy points at him and shouts: ‘Haaaaa! You like ladyboy! Haaa!’ So Loz is like, what the fuck? He goes back into the beach hut, pulls off the bed sheet and sees that the gorgeous Thai girl is in fact a gorgeous Thai ladyboy. With full noodle and two dumplings. So Loz runs outside, throws up and runs off. I nearly gave myself a hernia, I was laughing so much.”
“Wow. What a way to discover you can swing both ways,” I say.
“I know, right?,” he says, laughing. “We slaughtered him for the rest of the holiday about that, it was so fucking funny.” I have to stifle a giggle – it’s always funny listening to posh southern people swearing. It just doesn’t sound right…you facking cont.
“So,” I say in a tentative manner, “I was wondering if you could come up here in the near future. I may have a proposition for you.”
“Really?” he says, in a drawn-out, leer
y way, like he’s in a fucking Carry On film.
“A business proposition.”
“Oh…”
“I think it could be well worth your while,” I say.
Simon pauses for a few seconds before answering. “Yeah, yeah…that should be cool. When were you thinking?”
“As soon as, really.”
“Mmmmm….I could do beginning of next week? Would that be convenient?”
“Yeah, that should be sound. Let me check and then I’ll buzz you to confirm.”
“Cool, cool. Yeah. It’d be good to catch up, it’s been a while.”
“Yep, it certainly would. Cheers for that, Si. Appreciate it.”
After finishing the call with Simon, I get on to Sean to check if he’s around, then I buzz Simon to confirm the date and time. After hanging up the phone, I sit back and breathe deeply. I don’t know what Sean wants with him, and that worries me.
On the following Monday morning, I’m sat in the car with Ste at Lime Street Station, waiting for Simon’s arrival. He spots our car and gives us a small wave before he gets into the rear. Ste starts up the car and we set off in the direction of the Philharmonic pub on Hope Street with its world-famous gents’ toilets. Fuck knows why they’re world-famous, I’ve never been in there. Are the urinals made out of solid gold or something?
We get a round of drinks in while we wait for Sean to arrive, and Simon repeats the tale of Loz and the ladyboy to an incredulous Ste. “Full noodle and two dumplings. Oh, mate. Fucking hell,” Ste says in between spluttering his pint everywhere. Just then, I see Sean, Paul and Lee enter the pub. I give Sean a brief nod as the trio make their way over to our table. I make the introductions. Sean and Simon exchange a hearty handshake and then Sean sits down facing him.
“Simon. Good to meet you. Thanks for coming up at short notice,” Sean says. His manner is friendly and welcoming.
“No, not at all. I always enjoy coming to Liverpool. Such a friendly place. And I gather the toilets here are world-renowned,” Simon says, scanning the pub.
“Yeah, shame most people are too pissed to notice,” Sean says. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve booked us a table at the L’Orielle restaurant nearby. Thought we could have a chinwag in more discreet surroundings, if you get the gist,” Sean says, leaning in to Simon.
“Yeah, yeah, fantastic,” says Simon enthusiastically.
We drain our drinks and set off in a two-car convoy down to Victoria Street, parking round the corner from the restaurant. We all get out but just as we approach the restaurant, Sean stops walking and turns to Ste, Paul and Lee.
“Sorry lads, need you lot to stay outside, make sure no scallies come in and disturb us,” he says in a manner that suggests he’s not sorry at all. Paul and Lee roll their eyes like this isn’t unusual for them, but from the corner of my eye I see Ste give a slight frown but he says nothing, instead returning to Paul’s car with Paul and Lee. Sean turns back to Simon and I, gesturing towards the restaurant. “Shall we? Ladies first.”
I’ve never been to L’Orielle. All I know is that it’s a fancy French bistro place tucked in a basement beneath the ornate offices on Victoria Street. As we descend the steps and go through the doorway in the restaurant, I see instantly why Sean has selected this location. It’s warm and plush, with flattering dimmed lighting and modern décor but still in a classic style. The tables are far enough apart, lending themselves to discussing deals, but it’s still cosy in here. I can see that Simon is rather impressed. We take our seats at a corner table tucked away from the smattering of lunchtime diners, all business people doing deals of their own.
“So, Simon. Ali tells me you’re one of her best customers,” Sean says as he flattens his napkin on his lap.
“The best,” I say, nodding to Simon. I swear, he’s blushing.
“Well, I know quality cannabis when I see it, smell it and smoke it,” Simon says, saluting me with his forefinger.
“Oh, this one’s got green-fingered magic, no doubt about it,” Sean says, smiling at me. “Ali tells me that you can also get your hands on Ecstasy from time to time, is that right?”
Simon pauses. He looks at me briefly. For a second I think he’s disgruntled with me, that I divulged too much information to Sean. But then his face relaxes. “From time to time, yes. May I enquire as to whether this is what your proposition relates to?”
Sean smiles at him. “Got it in one. The thing is,” Sean says as he shifts his seat closer to Simon, “I have something of a supply problem at the moment.”
“Mmm,” utters Simon, nodding along.
“You know how hard the busies – sorry, the Police – are coming down on this right now,” Sean says. “It’s their top priority, and because of that, people have been frightened off and gone out of business. And it’s getting more and more difficult to meet demand, if you get my gist.”
“I certainly do. It’s happening all over the country,” Simon says. “I know of three or four people who have packed it in because it’s just not worth the hassle for them.”
“Well, that’s basically why I asked Ali to get you up here,” Sean says, giving me a brief nod. Simon glances at me and then back to Sean. “But let’s have lunch first and then we can discuss details later. That OK with you?”
“No problem at all.”
We enjoy the poshest steak and chips I’ve ever had, while our conversations drift between topics as diverse as the club and party scene down south, the effects of the Police crackdown on illegal raves, property prices, student life in Oxford and for the third time in as many days, the tale of Loz and the ladyboy.
Simon even opens up about his family history. Turns out he’s something of a blue-blood with a proverbial silver spoon wedged in his gob. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had another one up his arse, forcing all those plummy vowels out of his mouth. He’s not bigging himself up, not trying to impress us with his lofty origins. It’s more like he wants us to understand how someone as privileged as him would turn his back on it all to become a major supplier to the students down south.
“My mother’s side of the family is related to the Duke of Marlborough. My paternal grandfather was stationed in India with the British Army, he was a lieutenant colonel over there. My father was born in India and stayed there until he was 19, then the family came back to England. Then my father became a stockbroker in the City of London. I was expected to follow him into that, but when I got to uni, I realised I wanted a bit more freedom, if you know what I mean.”
“Alright for some, eh?” says Sean with a smile on his face, looking at me.
“I know. And look at him now, slumming it with us common plebs,” I reply, winking at Simon, who is now the colour of crimson.
“So did you do the whole boarding school thing?” Sean asks Simon in-between munching on a chip. He appears genuinely curious.
“No. I mean, I did go to a private boarding school but only as a day pupil,” says Simon. “After that, I went up to Oxford to do a degree in applied chemistry, and soon found I could make money by doing a bit of alchemy of my own, if you get my drift,” he says, smiling. “I started supplying a bit of speed, some uppers and downers…got together with some of the party people down there and we started putting on raves in farmers’ fields near to Oxford. Pretty soon we had hundreds of people turning up just through word of mouth going around. We were making more money from the raves than the drugs by this point, so it seemed natural to take it to the next level with Ecstasy.”
“Of course. Prime business opportunity,” says Sean as he chews on a mouthful of cow’s arse.
“So once I graduated, my pals and I decided to do it full-time. We put on raves all over the southeast, only announcing the locations a couple of hours beforehand so that the Police couldn’t track us. Got a bit hairy a few times. Local residents would complain about the noise and the cars churning up all the fields so we’d have to scarper mid-rave when the Police eventually found us. We’d also been going to places like Glastonb
ury for ages, which is where I met madam here,” Simon says, smiling at me.
“Oh aye?” Sean says, cocking an eyebrow at me.
“So now we’ve come full circle,” I say, smiling back at Simon.
After lunch, we head back to the cars. The convoy heads to the Albert Dock. Inside’s Sean’s place, Ste and I lounge on one sofa while Paul and Lee fetch beers from the kitchen and take their seats on the neighbouring sofa. The atmosphere is friendly, casual and light-hearted. Sean and Simon are stood by the lounge room window. Sean is playing the gracious host, pointing out the riverside locations of interest to an impressed Simon. “Wow, what a spectacular view. Woah, is that the infamous ferry across the Mersey?”
“Don’t fucking sing it, fucking sick of that song,” Sean pleads, half-joking, half-serious.
On the sofas, Paul and Lee are childishly mimicking Simon’s cut-glass speech while Ste and I exchange brief glances. I can tell he’s not happy about something. Pissed off that he wasn’t invited for lunch? Diddums. Before I can get to the bottom of his sour demeanour, Sean and Simon join us on the sofas, Simon next to me and Sean next to Paul and Lee.
Sean sits forward facing Simon and clasps his hands together in his let’s-talk-business manner. “I’m interested to know where you get your stock, if you don’t mind me asking, of course.”
Simon exhales slowly. “Well…me and my buddies tried to manufacture it at home but it was so bloody difficult and expensive, to be quite honest with you. The chemicals, actually making the stuff…it was a lot more cumbersome than we’d originally envisaged.”
“Yeah, it’s a pain in the arse,” Sean concurs.
“So…” Simon says, giving me a brief glance, “we usually source it directly from another manufacturer. In Holland.”
“That would be the place to get it from at the moment,” Sean says, nodding. “Again, tell me if I’m being too nosy, but how do you bring it back here? Mules?”
“Sometimes. There are a few people who are, erm, experts in bringing pills back secreted on or within their person, shall we say. But as you can imagine, it’s not ideal for all sorts of reasons, not least of which is that they can only bring in a few hundred pills at a time. And they can’t go over to Holland that often in case the authorities become suspicious. We’ve already had a few close calls at the UK ports coming back. The border and Customs people are making extra searches of people coming back from Holland for obvious reasons.”
