by Suggs
Basking in the glow of a job well done, and sparking up a well-deserved fag, I leant on the mower and looked up the hill admiringly. A beautifully mown lawn, dotted intermittently with dog turds balanced on tufts of grass. A field of turd flowers, swaying gently in the breeze.
As I say we were no experts but we were mostly pretty conscientious and enjoyed the job. One morning we turned up, slightly late as always, to be told we’d been promoted to planting. There were too many jobs on and all the trained gardeners were busy. We’d never planted anything in our lives, except our arses in the café.
It wasn’t a complicated job, we were told. We just had to plant a row of pine trees at the front of a mansion block in St John’s Wood. Pete, the boss, duly explained the process, which consisted of digging a hole, big enough to fit the roots of the tree in, obviously, covering the roots, stamping the earth down, and not forgetting to give them plenty of water.
There were six trees and they were about ten feet tall. We tied them to the roof with some rope, chucked some picks and shovels in the back, and headed for the café. It was a lovely warm day and by the time we got to St John’s Wood, it was baking. The commissionaire came out with a little map the owner had drawn him. The trees were to go right along the front of the garden, to give the flats some shelter from the noisy road. Together we paced it out, and one every six yards or so would evenly distribute them right along the front. We untied the trees, got the shovels out and set to digging, but the ground was baked hard and full of rocks, we were getting nowhere. We got out the pickaxe and set to again.
The commissionaire kindly offered us a cup of tea, which we gratefully accepted. Then it was shirts off and back on the chain gang. We spent about an hour and a half picking and shovelling and trying to jam the roots into the hole. No matter how much effort we put in, every time we offered up the roots the hole never seemed quite big enough, so we cracked on again. It was an hour before we got the hole big enough and the roots finally went in. We covered them and stamped the earth down and I was cream-crackered. Jesus Christ, five more to go. I looked at Mike, Mike looked at me, and we broke for an early lunch.
When we came back it became apparent that at this rate we’d be lucky to get the rest planted by nightfall, and we had things to do at nightfall. Big things. We decided to help the process along a touch by trimming a little bit off the roots of the next tree. Just a bit, just enough to hopefully not need to dig such a gigantic hole. We set to with the secateurs, carefully trimming the straggly extremities of the roots. The roots would grow back – there’s enough of them. Mike wasn’t too sure about the whole process.
Even with the trimmed roots, we only managed to trim half an hour off the digging time. Tree number three had almost all of its roots cut off. Mike wasn’t sure, but with number four I took the executive decision and sawed off the entire root ball. I then jammed the trunk down a small hole between two carefully laid bricks. We filled it in and I stood back to admire my work. It looked fine, as good as the others, slightly shorter, but straight as a die.
The new system meant that by half past four we were all done. It looked great, all lovely and watered – a perfectly straight row of trees. We shared a real feeling of achievement. We waved goodbye to the commissionaire and jumped in the van, job done.
Some weeks later I found myself riding past the mansion block on my scooter. I slowed down to see the progress of our handiwork. Our gift to the world, planted with our own hands, our bit for global warming, etc. The first tree was healthy, green and straight, the next two mostly green but slightly wonky and the other three brown and leaning about in all directions. I rode on.
LET’S GO!
Painted the soles of your Dr. Martens white,
Bowling up Hampstead High Street on a Saturday night,
Black bombers, blues and a packet of cigs,
The Saturday nights of them early gigs,
Bazooka Joe, Deaf School and Sha-na-na,
Kilburn & the High Roads, Dr. Feelgood, Daddy’s car,
Past proto-punks, hooligans and Teddy boys,
Pumping the funfair, rockin’ reggae, fairground noise.
Let’s Go!
We flew from Camden Palace like a rocket,
Didn’t know where the car was going, but couldn’t stop it,
Following the girls in the lovely red Cortina,
Laughing like a cartoon hyena.
You were driving, I was satnav,
Morris 1000 smelt like a portable lav,
The engine smoking, screaming, fifty mile an hour,
Across Blackfriars Bridge and past the Oxo tower.
Let’s Go!
Working all week with Mike driving the van,
Filled with old lawnmowers and petrol cans,
By day just a working machine,
But by night our electric, boogie limousine.
Let’s Go!
The reason me and Mike were hurrying more than usual to get the tree-planting out the way that afternoon was because there was a big night in store. The band had our regular weekly slot at the Dublin Castle in Camden, the first pub that really gave us a break, but we’d also got a phone call from Rick Rogers, manager of The Specials, asking if we’d like to support them at the Nashville Rooms, the old Three Kings, in Hammersmith.
What an opportunity! I loved what I saw of The Specials at the Hope and Anchor. I’d never seen a band I felt more akin with. How many chances would we get to play with a band who were so up our street?
But we couldn’t blow out our gig at the Dublin. We’d been playing our Friday night residency there for a month, and things were really starting to happen. Like-minded souls were turning up from all over London. The thing was really catching on.
Arriving at our mini-Friday night spectaculars we were starting to find queues of smart-looking boys and girls, all dressed the part, snaking round the block. But we couldn’t do both gigs. Hammersmith was on the other side of London, miles away. John Hasler, who was now our manager, thought it was too good a chance to miss. ‘Fuck it, I’ll hold the fort at the Dublin. Youse lot get over to Hammersmith and show ’em what you’re made of. I’ll entertain the baying mob till you get back.’
I went back home to get out of my smelly gardening clobber, freshen up and get me gear on. White Ben Sherman, aquamarine tonic suit, Bass Weejun loafers and my beloved grey Crombie with a black velvet collar, spot on.
We all met at Mike’s mum’s house in Crouch End, there was a real feeling of excitement in the air. Playing on the same bill and ultimately competing with a band like The Specials was new territory for us. We’d been used to running our own little fiefdom down at the Dublin. How would we go down with an audience that had primarily come to see The Specials?
Lee was already there with his yellow Morris 1000 van, loaded up with half of our gear. Mike was swapping the gardening equipment we’d been using that afternoon for the rest of the amps and musical equipment we’d be using that evening.
Vans loaded, it was two in the front and the rest in the back. We drew straws as to who would sit where. Top was shotgun, up front with the driver. Second choice was in the back of Lee’s van. Bottom, by some way, the back of Mike’s van, which stank of petrol fumes from the recently removed lawnmowers. If you didn’t die of asphyxiation, you certainly came out stinking of the stuff. Not the smell a would-be rock star on the pull necessarily wants hanging round him like a cloud. I drew the short straw.
Van doors shut and our little convoy was heading up the Euston Road and onto the Westway, the vans zigzagging in front of each other and parping their horns. The Westway wasn’t too bad and we got there in good time. When we walked in the place was buzzing, the whole gaff rammed with kids our age, all dressed to the nines, dancing away to some hot Jamaican biscuits being spun by the DJ. What a sight, all these kids, on the other side of town, diggin’ the scene with gasoline. Well, I was anyway!
All subtly eyeing up each other’s threads. Although there’s always a certain
wariness when a gang of characters come in your pub from the other side of town, there was a very strong feeling of mutual respect and camaraderie. This was our thing, we were part of it. We were doing it ourselves, and the establishment couldn’t get a look in. The clothes and the music were hard to come by. There was a lot of effort going into this shit from all concerned. It was a feeling I’d only really witnessed as a kid when punk started, but this time we didn’t want to tear our clothes up and leap about. We wanted to look smart and dance. I was one of the players. And it felt unbelievable. Apparently the previous night Johnny Rotten had seen this queue of smart-looking rude boys and rude girls waiting to get in The Nashville and had stopped his car and jumped out. He walked the line staring intently in their faces, shouting at every fifth one, ‘Are you for real?’ We were.
The gig went in a blur of pumping arms and legs, the odd pork-pie hat floating in a choppy sea of cropped heads bobbing up and down. We went down great. We saw Jerry briefly after, who said he’d really enjoyed it, but there was no time for back-slapping, as we had to get north and sharpish. It was gear away, and all back in the vans in our now sweaty suits, as Mike and Lee raced each other back across the Westway. The old diesel engines screamed as they hit warp factor 65 mph.
When the vans pulled up on the pavement, Chalky and Toks were there to meet us. We all grabbed a bit of gear each and pushed our way through the crowded bar to the function room at the back. It was pandemonium in there. John was on the mike shouting: ‘Calm down, the band are on their way!’ Every table had three or four people standing on it and beer was flying in all directions. John was soaked, another pint went over him and he’d had enough. He was just about to launch himself into the heaving crowd when he spotted Woody, bass drum over his head, fighting his way to the stage. As soon as Chas’s rallying call ‘Hey you, don’t watch that, watch this …’ went up, the place went ballistic. Unbeknownst to us a journalist from the Melody Maker was there and we got our first-ever review: ‘By the third encore half the audience were on the table waving their clenched fists, while the other half were reeling round the glass-strewn floor, jolly pissed.’
Also there was John Curd, a local promoter who had a company called Straight Music and would later book us to play at The Electric Ballroom supporting Echo and the Bunnymen, which was an extraordinary clash of haircuts. He then booked us on the March of the Mods Tour which included Secret Affair, The Lambrettas, The Merton Parkers and a lot of other bods.
We were supposed to go second on the bill but when we turned up at The Lyceum we saw that on the posters we were fourth on the bill. I shall never forget leaning over the balcony to see John striding in the direction of the manager of the March on the Mods Tour, and to see John raise a huge rubber torch and accidentally drop it on his head. The March of the Mods manager fell to his knees and the next thing we were back second on the bill.
And much later John got us a gig supporting The Pretenders at The Lyceum, and that’s when we really knew we were getting somewhere beyond the world of our mates. We went down extraordinarily well, and proceeded to do a nutty train across the stage while The Pretenders played their set. We also took it upon ourselves to announce our victorious entry into the wider world of pop music by spray-painting our names up and down the corridor outside our dressing room. We got a phone call from John ordering us to come back the following day and paint it over. We did.
MORE CRAP JOBS
As winter descended it turned out gardening wasn’t the fun it seemed in the summer. Indoors work. I got a job with a pal of my mum’s painting a big house in Camden for a famous actor. There were six of us on the job, most of whom were proper painters. I, of course, was given the menial tasks. Sanding the skirting board up the stairs, five floors of stairs, it was hot and hard. ‘It’s all in the preparation’ came the constant reply to my exhausted sighing. I went in the kitchen for a glass of water, as it was nearly lunchtime. One of the younger chaps was in there painting. ‘Here, come and have a look at this.’ He opened the fridge door, and got out a small unmarked bottle. ‘D’ya know what this is?’
‘Er, no.’
He looked round, shut the door and took off the lid. He put it to his nose and took a big sniff. Jesus, it stank, even from where I was standing. Like the sweatiest socks. He tilted his head back, grinning wildly, and then started laughing. ‘Here, go on … Have a bang on that. Honest, it won’t do you no harm, it’s just amyl. Go on.’ He stuck the bottle under my nose. I took a small sniff and, Jesus, it went straight to the roof of my cranium. My heart started beating like a drum and I felt like I was flying.
‘Great, eh!’ He took another long sniff and put the bottle back in the fridge. He was gurning as the boss put his head round the corner. ‘Here, what’s that pong? Do you ever have a bath, you slags? Come on, let’s get a bit of lunch.’
I was still buzzing when we went in the pub. They were all drinking Directors, a strong bitter they called Death. Go on then, I didn’t want to seem like a wimp. It took four pints to wash down the giant cheese and onion sandwiches made from huge slices of white bread (that was the extent of gastro pub food in them days). The beer barely touched the sides of these hardy individuals, but I was away with the fairies. I was ready to take on the world. Briefly.
After lunch I didn’t get off to the greatest start – I was told to size the toilet under the stairs. I asked for a tape measure, much to the hilarity of all concerned. I was then sent for six-inch holes and tartan paint. Having eventually established ‘size’ was something you painted on walls, I set to in the tiny toilet. With the door shut and pipes hot it wasn’t long before heat, lack of oxygen and the beer had me semi-unconscious. I came to with the door banging repeatedly on my head.
With this experience under my belt, it was with a certain assurance that I accepted Thommo’s offer of some work alongside him in his Morris Minor van. He was painting and decorating for the council, the holy grail of work because any job for the council meant all you had to do was turn up on time to get paid at the end of the week. But to be frank, he told me, although the council allowed free time, the money wasn’t sensational, and the real money was to be earned out in the free market. On top of that Thommo had ascertained his painting career might have run its course. Plastering was the thing. Plastering could bring in about £200 a week.
‘You got some decorating experience, ain’t ya?’
‘Well, yeah, er, I’ve half-sized a toilet.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said, ‘I’ll get us some proper tools. All you gotta do is hold the bucket and don’t say nothing, leave that to me. It’ll look good if I’ve got a mate. All pros got a mate, to mix up the plaster.’ Plaster, I thought we were painting!
Once again I was sitting in the front of an ex-GPO van, with my feet on the dashboard, but this time it was an unearthly hour and barely light. We had to report on site at 7.30 a.m. Lee swung the van round a muddy driveway to a new-build block of flats in Willesden. I followed instructions and stayed two paces behind him as he strode confidently towards the site office. I waited outside while he went in to get instructions.
‘Right, we’re gonna start on the second floor. We’re expected to do a room a day. Mind, they’re only small rooms.’
Mixing the plaster wasn’t too hard as it was a simple equation of plaster powder and water. I piled out a decent amount of the pink powder on to the hod and mixed it with the required water. Satisfied with its consistency, I handed it to Thommo. He got going with the trowel but it wasn’t looking too good. For every couple of trowelfuls that stuck on the wall, one fell off. After a couple of hours, he said: ‘Here, you’re gonna have to give us a hand. We’re gonna run out of time at this rate.’ The site was run like a military operation, and the painters would be on their way as soon as we were supposed to have finished and the plaster dried.
I started on another wall, if Thommo was a bit wasteful with the plaster, at my rate we were in danger of running out altogether. Every now and then I
’d get a trowelful to stick, but it wasn’t long before I was almost up to my knees in the stuff that hadn’t. By the time we got to the ceiling it was getting ridiculous. We were covered in the stuff, and laughing, ‘It’s impossible,’ trying to get a semi-liquid substance to stick upside down on a ceiling. We collapsed in hysterics. ‘Fuck this, we’ll finish the ceiling in the morning.’
We packed up the tools and surveyed our handiwork. It looked like someone had let off a bomb in a bucket of plaster, it was all over the gaff. If we’d been asked to plaster the floor we’d have got ten out of ten, but unfortunately you couldn’t say that about the walls and ceiling.
The following morning we turned up on site at 7.30 a.m. and I waited once again outside the site office, bucket in hand, for Thommo to reappear. He was in there for some time.
I didn’t hear from him for a couple of days. ‘Here, I’ve got it. We weren’t far off with the plastering, honestly, the site manager was just a knob. But something else has come up.’ Thommo, you may have some plastering potential, but I do not.
‘Trust me, I’ll get hold of some tools, and be round in the morning, same form, let me do the talking, you just look thick and hold the bucket.’
It was a role I was getting used to, and about the only thing I seemed to be any good at. We pulled up at the muddy entrance of site number two, an office renovation.
‘What’s going on, Thommo?’
