The pogoing had stopped: the crowd had parted like the Red Sea to let Stuart and his mob through. They ruled the roost there, it was as simple as that. With no other option, I moved away from the stage area and was immediately surrounded by Stuart’s little gang, other fascists quickly moving over as they saw what was going on. Soon I was in the middle of a bunch of fifteen or so, being elbowed and jostled, and I prepared myself for more of what I had got at Skunx - only worse, since I knew Stuart’s reputation and this time I was well and truly on my own. But to my astonishment, he beckoned them to leave me alone. ‘I want to talk to you’, he said.
I gathered my wits together and for the next ten minutes or so I stood with him in the middle of the 100 Club, surrounded by a circle of his acolytes, arguing about politics, with Black Flag playing in the background. Ian Stuart put the standard case for Strasser-style fascism (the ‘proletarian’ variant of Nazism favoured by the Brownshirts and wiped out by Hitler in the Night of the Long Knives) as an ideology for white working class people. I told him that fascist leaders will always eventually side with the rich, as the Night of the Long Knives proved, and that people like him would end up eliminated, as happened to Brownshirts like Ernst Rohm or Gregor Strasser. Furthermore, since the main fascist ‘fuhrer’ of the time, John Tyndall, famously viewed rock ‘n’ roll as ‘jungle music’, Skrewdriver wouldn’t have much chance on Nazi Top Of The Pops.
We argued for a bit: I didn’t get anywhere, but he didn’t try and intimidate me, which again astonished me. By this time Black Flag had finished their set, and the club was closing. Right, I thought, now I get a kicking. But no: he gestured toward the door. ‘See ya’ he said. As I moved away, a few of his hangers-on started having a go at me, but, once again, he called them off. One young kid followed me out. ‘Power to the people’ he said. ‘The white people’.
Ian Stuart, full name Ian Stuart Donaldson, who was killed in a car crash in Derbyshire in 1993, had a horrible reputation for violence and as lead singer of Skrewdriver is responsible for some of the most evil fascist songs ever written – I have heard some of them, and what makes them especially dangerous is the fact that he could write a reasonable tune. He is an icon of the far Right, especially in mainland Europe, where his recordings still sell in their thousands.
To this day, I have no idea why I didn’t end up in hospital that night.
Soon afterwards, media pressure forced the 100 Club owners to kick the fascists out. I’ve been back a few times since: it’s a world famous venue, and a great place to do a gig. I wonder what the hell the people running it at that time thought they were doing, turning it into a Nazi drinking den? Especially since from what I heard the owner at that time was a Jew….
Once again, there are probably a few people surprised by all this. One-time associate of Garry Bushell, attacked by boneheads, arguing with Ian Stuart, writing appreciatively about ‘street punk’ bands which ‘intellectual’ rock critics have always looked down their noses at from a very great height. But I have always done every conceivable kind of gig, from the Oxford Union and the Women’s Institute at one extreme to Skunx at the other, and long may it be so.
And, as I said before, I love punk rock: always have, always will. The attitude, the ideas, the music. That’s why I’m a punk poet and, these days, the leader of a punk band. I enjoy all kinds of music and have a very varied record collection but, if I’m honest, you can’t beat a powerful, driving punk rock song with maybe a tinge of ska and some good lyrics. I have a beautiful, talented, classically trained wife who is a bit sad about this, but as you know only too well, darling, it’s true. Blame Joe Strummer at the Rainbow in ’77.
Incidentally, for those readers who are going ‘too bloody right, I know just what you mean’: have you heard Rancid? If not, check ‘em out. Best band since the Clash! Oh, and have a listen to Barnstormer, too. Don’t worry if you’ve never heard of them. You will soon enough…
The following poem is, I suppose, my definitive statement on the bad old days of fascist violence at gigs. To today’s younger UK music fan it will probably seem a world away, but not to anyone who remembers the early Eighties – and though the scene in the UK is very different now, the problems we encountered here are now being replicated in many countries abroad, especially in Germany and eastern Europe where the fascist bonehead cult is strong, even more so in Russia where there is a ghastly level of nazi violence these days. I recorded this poem over a dub version of the Newtown Neurotics’ classic ‘Mindless Violence’ and it was included on an LP where it was very much needed at the time - the fifth ‘Oi’ compilation album ‘Son of Oi’, released in 1983.
Remember what I said about not always preaching to the converted? It really does make sense. On quite a few occasions over the years someone has come up to me at a gig and told me that they had once been a 16 year old wannabe fascist and that poem helped to show them exactly how the far Right was conning and using them. When I hear that, I am very, very happy: that is exactly why I wrote it, and exactly why I put it on an ‘Oi’ record. It got me into quite a few scrapes with nazi boneheads after the album came out of course, but as I said in ‘My Poetic Licence’, ‘When a fascist hits a poet, the poet’s doing something right!’ It is dedicated to anti-fascists everywhere.
Especially anti-fascist skinheads.
Especially Dagenham Pete.
ANDY IS A CORPORATIST
Andy is a corporatist
He is corpulent, often pissed
And he is friends with Flemish nazis
Goes to Hitler’s birthday parties
(Seven times a year….)
I met him at the 100 Club
He was there on business
But he couldn’t start a riot
So he stayed kinda quiet
And the Business didn’t play
So Andy went away
I met him in Birmingham
The day the shit really hit the fan
The fan was me and the shit was Andy –
Upstarts concert, really handy
Broken nose is really dandy
Andy thinks it’s such a laugh
To sing Horst Wessel in the bath
Smash up other people’s fun
Make page 20 of the Sun
But I knew his time would come…
Andy’s mate came up today
Told me he’d been put away
‘Stupid nutter, anyway!’
That’s all he said, then turned away.
A year of life went down the drain
Then they let Andy out again
The guys inside had changed his mind -
He’d left his fascist past behind
One day I met him in the pub
He’d finished with the killing club
He said he had to watch his face
‘Cos you don’t leave the master race…
Now Andy and his local crew
Stand firm against the chosen few
He’s playing in a rebel band
To spread the word across the land
And sometimes, in a pissed–up haze,
He talks about the bad old days
And here’s his message, loud and clear:
‘WE’LL NEVER LET IT HAPPEN HERE!
You Nazi boneheads ought to know
That you would be the first to go
‘Cos what they want is serried ranks
Unsmiling clones in Chieftain tanks
No room for music, punk or skin –
They’ll bring the goosestep marchers in
And take our football and our bands
Smash our guitars and break our hands
So no more crap about colour of skin
‘Cos unity’s the way to win!’
And what our Andy says is true:
Stand firm – don’t let them hoodwink you!
Don’t let them.
Ever.
FOUR
THIS YEAR’S THING/LAST YEAR’S THING
As the
spring of 1982 turned to summer, and especially after the battle at Skunx, the music press interest in ‘ranting poetry’ in general, and me in particular, intensified to a point that was almost ridiculous. Attendances at gigs rocketed. Of course I was pleased, but in many ways I was also a bit worried. I was now rapidly becoming ‘this year’s thing’ in media terms, and all the weeklies and associated publications were going for it simultaneously. Having read the music press for years, not to mention recently becoming a budding writer myself, I knew very well that ‘this year’s thing’ more or less automatically became ‘last year’s thing’ before too long and if I wasn’t careful I ran the risk of being ‘old hat’ before I’d even really got started. But, to be honest, I didn’t worry about it too much – it was great to get the coverage, and I thought I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. As it turned out, it only took Andy Warhol’s famous fifteen minutes for the bridge to loom into view…
Although I was based in Harlow and was very proud to be associated with the local scene, when Melody Maker approached me asking to do a feature I was determined that my Brighton roots would be brought well and truly to the fore as well. So I asked the journalist, Lyndon Barber, to interview me in Brighton and a long time associate and friend of myself and the Newtown Neurotics, Harlow-based rock photographer Tony Mottram, did some excellent snaps of me around my home town’s most famous landmark, the Palace Pier. The photos went down very well with the paper’s editor, and in mid June 1982 I found myself on the front cover of Britain’s oldest music paper… now defunct, of course.
I’d done one EP and a bunch of punk rock gigs and had some plays on Peel and there I was, front cover of Melody Maker, standing on the Palace Pier in Brighton, smiling out of the racks in the newsagents! Bloody hell, I thought: what next? Well, the answer is that one of my absolute lifelong dreams came true. If John Peel playing my first EP on his show made me feel as though I’d scored the winning goal for Brighton in the European Cup Final, then I literally cannot describe my emotions when, one evening, I picked up the telephone in Harlow to hear his unmistakable tones on the one other end of the line, inviting me in to the BBC to meet him and record my very own Peel Session.
Peelie was just as I imagined he’d be, just as he sounded on the radio - friendly and approachable, a lovely bloke. We talked about football, of course (famously, he was a Liverpool fan) and as I mentioned earlier, he was very interested to hear that I was involved in the Brussels gig at which Misty’s ‘Live At The Counter-Eurovision’ was recorded, since it was his favourite album. As for the session, the best thing of all was that it gave me the chance to select the material to be aired on the show.
Ensconced in the BBC studio at Maida Vale, I recorded the first two Russians poems printed earlier, plus a third, ‘Russians In McDonalds’ and ‘Death In Bromley’ (see below), ‘A Bang & A Wimpy’, ‘The Night I Slept With Seething Wells’, a new song called ‘Cocktails’ and a long-time live favourite, ‘Nigel Wants To Go To C&A’s’ - a surreal poem based on a snippet of conversation between some passers-by I’d overheard in an Oxford shopping centre. Yes, I know it should be ‘C&A’ not ‘C&A’s’. But that’s what was said – and this is what I thought…
NIGEL WANTS TO GO TO C&A’S
Nigel wants to go to C&A’s
but it’s been taken over by the Viet Cong
and Nigel doesn’t like the Viet Cong
Nigel wants to go to C&A’s
but a chapter of Hell’s Angels are playing Scrabble
with the Viet Cong
and Nigel doesn’t like Hell’s Angels
Nigel wants to go to C&A’s
but the toilets are full of Crass fans
and Nigel doesn’t like Crass fans
Nigel wants to go to C&A’s
but the Women’s Institute have organised an orgy
in the bedding department
and Nigel doesn’t like orgies
Nigel wants to go to C&A’s
but the lifts are full of Albanian footballers
and Nigel doesn’t like Albanian footballers
Nigel wants to go to C&A’s
but the menswear department is full of existentialists
and Nigel doesn’t like existentialists
not even part-time ones
Nigel wants to go to C&A’s
But I don’t understand why
‘cos they don’t sell nerve gas in C&A’s
- not even to SDP members in cashmere sweaters…
This poem was featured on one of my earliest TV appearances, which was on the seminal early 80s Tyne Tees programme ‘The Tube’ on Channel Four. More than ten years later, as part of the performance poetry/music series which I ran between 1993 and 2001 at the Barn Theatre in my native Southwick, I finally fulfilled my ambition to organise a gig featuring Birkenhead’s extraordinary surrealist beat combo Half Man Half Biscuit (still very much going and bringing out brilliant albums to this day – I’m a lifelong fan). Main man Nigel Blackwell recalled how he had been watching the programme with his brother when my poem came on, and described the hilarity that ensued. I was very honoured. That particular Nigel is an absolute bloody genius.
As for the third poem in the ‘Russians’ series, also featured on that Peel session – well, not content with running the DHSS, they’d taken over one of the greatest bastions of American civilisation:
RUSSIANS IN McDONALDS
Startled shoppers stand and stare
In the burger joint in Leicester Square
A cold Siberian close encounter
Muscovites behind the counter
And Georgian ladies with massive hips
Serve Breshnevburger and double chips
This is the Kremlin’s latest ploy
A difference at McDonald’s you’ll really enjoy!
The hammer and sickle above the door
Says Yanks not welcome any more
No more piped musak oh so dire –
Now they’ve a full Red Army choir
The KGB are eating in
They’re kicking up a fearful din
The door guard bellows ‘Shut that noise!’
The Commissar says ‘Purge him, boys!’
The Stars & Stripes hang upside down
The Queen is green and wears a frown
But Lenin hangs there high and proud
Staring at the burger crowd
The American Secretary of State
An object of especial hate
Is minced and served with garlic cheese
‘Cos Casper Weinburgers really please!
The Pentagon’s in disarray
The news has filtered through today
And Alex Haig looks really vexed –
‘The Reds’ll have the Wimpys next!’
And here’s more news that’s really hot –
J.R. Ewing is a Trot!
Neil Diamond’s played Angola –
And Marx invented Coca-Cola!
Western values fade and die
As Red successes multiply
Arthur Miller isn’t dead
He’s writing radio plays instead
And as the bastions crash and fall
Here comes the greatest blow of all
It took a long time to deduce
But Reagan’s really… Lenny Bruce!
The ‘Russians’ series ended up as a six-poem saga: they turned into a load of drunken Dynamo Kiev football hooligans for the final three. ‘Russians at the Henley Regatta’, ‘Russians on the Centre Court’ and ‘Russians versus the Tetley Bittermen’ (the latter inspired by Swells’ celebrated poem about the Yorkshire beer-swillers). Up until the mid-Eighties the ‘Russians’ were the backbone of my set, and I continued doing the poems sporadically until the collapse of the Soviet Union and Yeltsin’s tank stunt, after which, of course, nobody was scared of them any more (though they seem to be getting scarier again now, for all the wrong reasons). By then the right wing media had new demons – Iranians, Libyans, I
raqis - and I, of course, had some new poems satirising their attitudes, as I always will.
The other Peel Session piece I want to include here was the last one to draw its inspiration from my time in the stockbroking job, though this one was not about the job itself, but the journey to and from work, which was just as horrendous. It’s about dead commuters – or, to be more precise, about the very small difference between dead commuters and live ones…
DEATH IN BROMLEY
Deep in the dingy dirty dog shit-dripping dungeon of a graffiti-graced southern region train compartment stuffed full of bad-breath-breathing halibut-eyed computer commuters with boring suits and boring habits the state of play is giving cause for concern the middle-aged middle-class middle-management middle-everything puke-suited slack-jawed suet-pudding-faced powell-worshipping willie whitelaw clone by the window is slumped rigidly over his daily telegraph in a posture indicating his sudden demise this alarms the prim po-faced-clean tablecloth-every-night sex-in-the-dark-once-a-week daily-mail-female secretary by his side who asks him politely if he recently died receiving no reply she turns to the lard-arsed times-reading tory-voting pinstriped wimp sitting opposite and demands an opinion in company with the three paul eddington clones also occupying the compartment he lowers his eyes and stares fixedly at his newspaper in the time honoured fashion of the don’t-pinch-my-seat-don’t-invade-my-world-I’m-alright-jack-leave-me-alone English suburban commuter husbands club she turns to me and confidently I tell her that most commuters are dead it’s their natural state and anyway dead executives can’t possibly be any less interesting than live ones although I can see that they might smell a bit more and that’s why they always get aftershave for christmas and anyway I’m never going to Bromley again unless I become an undertaker or join the SDP which is roughly the same thing…
Note the references to the SDP, the ‘middle ground’ party formed in 1981 by four renegade ex-Labour ministers (Roy Jenkins, David Owen, Shirley Williams and Bill Rogers) who claimed that the Labour Party had moved too far to the Left (!) The NME journalist Don Watson, who did a spectacular hatchet job on my first album ‘Ranting At the Nation’ when it was released in 1983, claimed that my swipes at them were ‘at the easiest of easy targets – as if they were any threat to anything’. Well, Mr Watson, you are an idiot. They managed to divide the anti-Tory opposition so effectively that the most brutal right wing government in British political history stayed in power for three terms with around 43% of the vote. They certainly were a threat, and deserve all the vilification and abuse they got, and more!
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