Then came one of the happiest moments of my life.
I grew up by the sea, and ever since I was a small child, I’ve loved to go fishing: at many ‘secret’ spots round our local area but mostly off the Southwick Arm of Shoreham Harbour. I spend most of my time surrounded by people and really enjoy it, but sometimes it’s great to get away, and some of my best poems and songs have come to me gazing out across the sea, listening to music on the radio, waiting for an unsuspecting flounder or bass to chomp the red ragworm on the end of my hook.
Most species of fish feed best at night, and therefore one of my constant companions through the Seventies and Eighties on the Southwick Arm was the John Peel Show on Radio One. Standing there, gazing across the sea at the lights of Brighton in the distance, thinking my own thoughts and taking in whatever eclectic mixture the great man decided to feed through my radio.
So it was that night in March 1982. I was miles away, half listening to Peelie. A record came to an end. I heard him talking. ‘I’m sure some of you read the feature on new towns in the NME recently’ he said. My ears pricked up. ‘Now for something from the man who wrote it. Here’s Attila the Stockbroker.’
I nearly dropped my rod in the sea.
I stood on the harbour arm, transfixed, trembling in disbelief, while John Peel played ‘Russians in the DHSS’ from our EP. I felt like I’d just scored the winning goal for Brighton in the Cup Final. A few minutes later, before I’d really taken it in, he played ‘A Bang & A Wimpy.’ I felt like I’d just scored the winning goal for us in the European Cup Final. Sitting here, writing this, that feeling has come back. It’s a feeling I can’t describe. A feeling that, literally, thousands of musicians and writers have had over the years.
That first play on the John Peel Show. The stuff of dreams.
Nobody, anywhere in the history of UK popular culture, has done so much for people trying to realise their ambitions and get their words and music across to the world. He died too young, at the height of his powers.
On behalf of us all -
Thanks Peelie.
THREE
STARING AT THE RUDE BOYS
J ohn Peel played our EP a hell of a lot in the next few weeks – Swells’ poems as well as mine – and, despite poor distribution, it made the lower reaches of the independent singles charts. The next thing I knew I’d had a letter from Mike Alway at West London independent label Cherry Red Records, asking me to come in and discuss a possible deal.
I’d already heard good things about Cherry Red (named after a riff-laden song by the Groundhogs) and I knew that they were exactly the kind of eclectic bunch I’d love to make records with. A quick meeting with Mike and football-mad label boss Iain McNay and I’d signed a two-album contract, with a single due out as soon as possible: in addition, ‘A Bang & A Wimpy’ from the ‘Rough, Raw & Ranting’ EP was earmarked for the groundbreaking ‘Pillows and Prayers’ compilation I mentioned earlier. They hooked me up with a London booking agent, which held the promise of gigs all over the country and, in particular, in the universities: up until then I’d mostly just played punk gigs and political benefits, based in rock venues and pubs. Cherry Red really helped me get going: as well as those early two albums and three EPs they have released many of my tracks on compilations in the past three decades, and I was proud to play at their 30th anniversary party on Oct 8, 2008, two years before my own. It is truly poetic that they welcomed the idea of publishing this book, closing the circle 33 years later. Cheers, Iain and Richard!
About the same time as that first EP came out, radical actor Roland Muldoon (an old colleague of Red Saunders from the CAST theatre group) started the London ‘New Variety’ alternative cabaret circuit with a grant from the Greater London Council. It was a brilliant idea. The first venue was The Old White Horse in Brixton (now ‘Bar Lorca’ - bleurgggh! Leave our pubs alone) and from there it expanded to Wood Green Labour Club, the Cricklewood Hotel in north-west London and several other venues, eventually eight in all. I was one of their earliest performers, alongside the likes of the absolute pioneer, anarchist comic Tony Allen (who had started putting on gigs under the ‘alternative cabaret’ banner in West London a year or so before) Mark Steel, the late, great Linda Smith, Jeremy Hardy, John Hegley, Jenny Eclair, Paul Merton, Jenny Lecoat, Julian Clary (then known as the Joan Collins Fan Club: nice bloke, we shared loads of gigs and the back of a van on a journey back from the Edinburgh Festival once) and many others who are now household names in the world of comedy, as well as poets Swells, Ben Zephaniah, Joolz Denby, Little Brother, political songwriter Leon Rosselson and the great socialist magician Ian Saville, who, among other things, made capitalism disappear!
It was called ‘new variety’, and if you turned up to one of the shows, that is exactly what you got: an eclectic mixture of poetry, music, stand-up, juggling, sketches, mime… you name it, and whatever it was, it mostly had a radical edge, or at least a radical veneer. The format suited my sets of energetically performed poems and songs down to the ground, and I have some very happy memories of those days. After a number of years things changed, and the ‘comedy’ aspect came increasingly to the fore: New Variety was indeed one of the precursors of the modern London comedy circuit. The more this happened the less I fitted in, most obviously because although there has always been a lot of humour in my set, I have never been a comedian – i.e. someone whose principal or only objective is to make people laugh. That wasn’t the only reason, though. In the early 80s I could happily share a bill with an ‘alternative comedian’ - but I most certainly couldn’t now. Like football, ‘comedy’ in 2015 is so bloody corporate. There are honourable exceptions of course - hi Jeremy Hardy, Mark Thomas, Mark Steel, Robin Ince, Steve Gribbin – but in the main it seems to me to be about as radical, threatening and thought provoking as a decomposing squid. How did things come to this? Allow me to explain…
COMIC IN A BASKET
This is the tale of my times, the place where I started from
The friends and contemporaries I’ve now parted from
A story of belief and pride, of how it has to be
For Attila MC
It’s all about perspective, compromise, choices
Paths going different ways, different voices
Those who gave up and those who still attack
And want to talk back
It’s all about England in these dull old days
Where everyone obeys
And hacks say it’s ‘old hat’ to shout the odds and seethe
And say what you believe
It’s the battle of ideas and the fight for proper beers
And it’s going to go on for years and years and years
I stand for my words and for decent beer too
If you advertise chemical piss, this rap’s for you -
I’d rather sniff glue.
Talking cutting edge gone blunt, blunt, blunt
Talking saboteurs now riding with the hunt
Talking cutting edge gone blunt, blunt, blunt
Talking saboteurs now riding with the hunt
Right in your face and I’m not gonna mask it -
MC Attila on the case
Of the comic in a basket.
I’ve earned my living as a poet since 1982
Didn’t know it was that long? Well, now you do.
In fact I started out a couple of years before
Blagged spots at punk gigs: they wanted more!
Peel sessions, album, gigs in the rock scene
Going to places most poets had never been
But then a whole new scene began
It was a good plan
Sure, from time to time it could get a bit tame
But it was a fine game.
London circuit – they called it New Variety
Some kind of underground cultural society
A new breed got the chance to spread the word
And get our voices heard.
For three or four years we all stood to
gether
- Poets, musicians, comedians, whatever -
As long as you were sharp and had something to say
The people were with you: it was OK…..
Then defeat on defeat on defeat on defeat
Put the whole of our culture on the retreat
And a radical attack was no longer hip.
All the rats left the sinking ship.
New Variety became ‘alternative comedy’
Losing all its cultural diversity.
Alternative comedy became ‘new comedy’
Losing its political suss and energy.
New comedy became simply ‘comedy’
Corporate mainstream TV commodity.
‘Got a new ad for Aims of Industry?
I’m a comedian – give it to me!’
Now comedy’s so dull and safe and bland
It’s time to make a stand
No bite, no attitude, it’s not even funny -
And it’s all about money.
Gag every ten seconds or you’re history
Scriptwriting gag team; comedy factory.
Roll on, roll off:
Are you with the agency?
‘Too controversial; no good for TV!’
Comedy to go.
Careers in comedy.
Comic in a basket.
Comedy package.
Corporate hospitality.
Comic in a basket.
Seventies TV, adverts, shopping:
Routine routine.
Seventies TV, old people, shopping:
Routine routine.
‘Very funny’ (Daily Express)
Comic in a basket.
‘Hilarious’ (Daily Mail)
Comic in a basket.
Get your dicks out for the banks
And give your sponsors grateful thanks.
Perrier? Piss. Perrier? Piss. Perrier? Piss.
I ain’t new to this…
Edinburgh Fringe?
Comedy trade fair.
Miss it if you dare.
Movers and shakers.
Radio and TV.
Me! Me! Me! Me!
Talking cutting edge gone blunt, blunt, blunt
Talking saboteurs now riding with the hunt
Talking cutting edge gone blunt, blunt, blunt
Talking saboteurs now riding with the hunt…
Punter in a basket comedy club –
Braying student Sun reader fun pub
‘Tell us a joke or we’ll get rough
And lay off that political poetry stuff!’
But politics is people’s lives, not fashion
And I burn with passion
My culture and beliefs run very deep
And I’m no sheep
So one fine day I handed in my cards
Didn’t find it hard…..
Bollocks to comedy – I’ve got my own scene
Rock ‘n’ roll poet, Sydney to Aberdeen
Life is humour, music, politics, rage:
I want them all on stage!
But I keep in touch with my old friends
And I’m hip to the trends
I watch the scene from time to time and curse:
It’s getting worse…
The Browbeaten Broadcasting Corporation
Cowed by years of intimidation
Is putting out pap that’s reached a brand new low:
Bass – how low can you go?
Throwaway garbage game show lobotomese.
Mad Cower Disease!
‘Wanna be the star of ‘Tacky Tabloid Tease?”
‘Ooh ooh yes please!’
Comic in a basket’s radio TV game show
About game shows in history.
‘What’s that advert from ’73?
Who was in that situation comedy?’
Crap TV about crap TV.
Radio in need of radiotherapy.
Recycled sheep in a bovine society.
Audiovisual BSE.
Gland in hand in the land of the bland: no stand
- Comic in a basket.
‘Keep to the script as planned or you’ll get banned!’
- Comic in a basket.
Some of you were mates, I don’t want to offend ya
But I’m rapping for a brand new agenda…..
Talking cutting edge gone blunt, blunt, blunt
Talking saboteurs now riding with the hunt
Talking cutting edge gone blunt, blunt, blunt
Talking saboteurs now riding with the HUNT!
I wrote that rap after my last ever comedy gig – one I’ll never forget. It was at the Bound and Gagged Comedy Club in Green Lanes, North London, one Saturday evening in the early nineties. I’d just seen one of the worst ever Brighton teams lose to non league Kingstonian in the FA Cup First Round, and to say I wasn’t happy was an understatement. I hadn’t done a gig on the comedy circuit for a while, having long come to the conclusion that it was about as radical or relevant to my life as Saturday night TV, but thought I’d give it one last go.
My worst fears were confirmed, and then some: the first two rows of the audience consisted of the Metropolitan Police on a stag night. Five minutes into my set the heckles started. ‘Lay off the politics! That’s not funny! Call yourself a comedian?’ No, I said, I’m a poet. A Red poet with black tinges, and if you don’t like it, fuck off! Fortunately there were some fans in attendance behind the constabulary, and civil war broke out in the audience. The police left the building, along with other fans of consumer service industry ‘comedy’, and I stormed a half empty room full of my supporters. I will never, ever play a ‘comedy club’ again. Not if they beg me. Which they never will.
Back in 1982, however, things were very different. Well done to Roland and Claire Muldoon and the indefatigable Andy Daglish: they gave a platform to all kinds of people who needed one, and the fact that they eventually took over the grand old Hackney Empire theatre and restored it to its former glory is testament to their success. I’ve done quite a few gigs there, the biggest a full-on production of ‘Cheryl – A Rock Opera’ the ‘everyday tale of Satanism, trainspotting, drug abuse and unrequited love’ which I co-wrote with John Otway. But that was much later…
In April 1982, Argentina invaded the Falkland Islands, and the Falklands War began.
For a short while I was a bit confused. Argentine dictator General Galtieri was a disgusting fascist who had murdered countless Leftists in his own country. Anti-fascist crusade, anyone? But when I saw the wave of brainless xenophobia which engulfed this country – nothing to do with anti-fascism, and stoked up by Tories and the far Right – I nailed my colours firmly to the mast and started doing gigs for the anti-war movement. On May 2nd, 1982, while peace proposals were being discussed with every chance of a positive outcome, Thatcher ordered the sinking of the Argentine cruiser General Belgrano while it was outside the British exclusion zone and sailing away from the Falkland Islands. She didn’t want resolution, she wanted war, which meant she could wrap herself in the flag and increase her chances of re-election the following year, and the deaths of 400 young Argentine sailor conscripts meant nothing to her.
To The Sun ‘newspaper’ the sinking was a source of celebration. ‘Gotcha!’ yelled the front page - along with the Daily Mail’s ‘Hooray for the Blackshirts’ in 1936, a good candidate for the most disgusting press headline of all time. It was amazing how many people supported that war, and I got into some massive arguments, even with people who claimed to be on the Left. I remember an anti-war demonstration in London where people held up placards at us: ‘The Traitors’ Gate’s the other way!’ But, like many others, I was unmoved: after the sinking of the Belgrano it seemed absolutely clear to us that a lot of people were dying for the sake of Margaret Thatcher’s political career, and history has proved us right. Not long after the end of the war I wrote this song, which would eventually become the title track of my second album, two years later, on Cherry Red’s sister label Anagram Records.
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SAWDUST AND EMPIRE
On the waterfront they’re gathered for the feast
To pay homage to the priestess of the waves
Wider and wider the voices ring out loud
In the celebrating crowd of Albion’s braves
But someone told me something that I just don’t want to hear
Ancestral words that fooled us for the last six hundred years
But they don’t ring true any more
Chorus:
Sawdust and empire - the nectar of the few
So give the devil his due and break away
Sawdust and empire with a hint of royal blue
But I won’t drink with you on Empire Day
Dreams of old India, the Bible and the Host
To calm the ghost that won’t be laid to rest
A distant island becomes the Holy Grail
In the spirit that revived King Arthur’s quest
And you may wear her heraldry in tattoos on your arms
But it takes more than bravado now to soothe old England’s qualms
‘Cos it don’t ring true any more
Chorus:
Sawdust and empire - the nectar of the few
So give the devil his due and break away
Sawdust and empire in the pub and in the pew
But I won’t drink with you on empire day
The territories and governors are all gone now
But the bloodlust and the cliches linger on…
And in the theatre the fading actor stands
Our destiny a button in his hand
And in the Stock Exchange they fly the Union Flag
Though faceless bankers know no motherland
And as I love my country, the harbours and the sea
ARGUMENTS YARD Page 9
