by Paolo Hewitt
‘Jacket like Sammy Davis’s in A Man Called Adam, no problemo.’
Davey Boy was an invaluable time box to the last thirty years, a man who could lead you like a child through a staggering array of styles and fashions and, what’s more, knew exactly what you were after just by the reference points you dropped.
What’s more, he was a hustler supremo whose every action was dictated by the colour of money and so, even though I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, the charm and cheek made him impossible to dislike.
On this particular occasion, as we strolled in, Davey Boy welcomed us both with numerous pins jutting out of his mouth In front of him stood a tall, blond haired, blue eyes specimen who stood as straight as Nelson’s column as Davey Boy pinned cloth against him.
Davey Boy motioned hello to us, unable to parlare until his work was finished and, on which occasion, he then greeted us with a boisterous, ‘Hello there, chaps,’ a definite touch of the upper class accent very discernible in his voice.
Brother P. and I cottoned on straight away as to the social standing of his customer as Davey continued his line.
‘Now then, sir, on the sleeve, how many buttons would sir like? One? Two? Or maybe we might want to think about going out on the limb somewhat and adding four buttons. What does sir think?’
‘Just the one will be fine,’ came the booming reply, the depth and command of the voice betraying army roots. In his hand he held a cloth version of the family crest which the toff had decided should be displayed on the jacket’s top pocket as pater and mater would undoubtedly be absolutely thrilled to see it shown off in public.
Trying to figure out why this upper class specimen from the realms of high society was not down at Hacketts with the rest of the braying bunch, Brother P. and I began examining the long rolls of cloth that Davey had stacked against the walls whilst a mix of envy and hatred began to surface in my stomach.
I know it’s uncool and everything to judge a man’s soul by his accent but from where I’ve been standing these past few years, whichever way you checked it, these people, the rich and privileged had been handed the sweetie jar the day they were born and they were not about to share out the goodies.
What’s more, it was their set up, from the playing fields of Eton to the company boardroom, that kept out anyone with infinite more imagination and intelligence from getting to where they wanted. No doubt about it, the higher you climbed in this society the stupider the people became, and that’s the truth, Ruth. Not only were they mostly a bunch of hypocrites, prattling on about morals and the like whilst they are robbing some company account blind and knocking off the gardener or the maid, but the codes of conduct and routine they had devised were like antiquated children’s games.
Next time you’re there check out the House Of Lords or Parliament and all that eyes to the right, eyes to the left, don’t walk in front of him and remember to bow routine that goes on, all put there so that they can go from public school to parliament, and never know the difference. If truth be known, such people, removed as they are from life’s edges, ups and downs, circles and squares, I sometimes feel a little sorry for because, face it, you’ve got to be half a robot to go through with it all in the first place, although please don’t get me wrong, I’d rather go forty days and nights without hearing a decent tune than ever feel total simpatico with the likes of Lord Haw Haw that Davey Boy was now attending to.
It was time, I decided, for some class warfare.
‘Oi, Davey Boy,’ I called across the shop in my best Cockney accent, ‘comin’ dawn the pub for a shandy later?’
The man of cloth, spotting the game that was afoot, quickly put me out of play by shooting me a glance of such withering contempt that in an instant, I felt like a kid caught pissing in the sink, and so I ended further communicado until Lord Haw Haw was up and finished and striding out of the shop.
‘Don’t wind up the punters,’ complained Davey Boy, wrapping away the cloth, ‘you’ll only put me out of pocket plus it ruins all my chances of breaking into the deb’s circuit and finding myself a little wild child who can keep me in a style that I am unaccustomed to, know what I mean?’
It was true that Davey Boy was on the lookout for a partner for he had recently left his wife of nine months standing, his explanation for this whirlwind marriage being based on the fact that he and his sweetheart had been longtime lovers but once the knot had been tied, the magic suddenly vanished and they drifted apart.
The other story doing the rounds told a different tale. This story had Davey Boy come home one night to find his beloved, drunk in bed, wearing a newly bought leather biker’s jacket. Davey Boy, who is allergic to all motorbike or rocker gear, demanded that either the jacket went or he did.
As no coat has yet been designed to stand up and transport itself when asked, and as the wife had just raided the holiday cashola to buy it, Davey Boy had no choice but to accept his wife’s stern refusal and leave the field of play, hence his current enthusiasm to resume action on the gal front and find someone caked up enough to help him out on the alimony deal now heading his way.
‘Anyway, I’m glad you’ve strolled in because I want a word in both your shell-likes, if you don’t mind.’
‘Sure, Davey Boy,’ I replied, ‘but only if you tell us what Lord Haw Haw was doing here. I mean it’s hardly his neck of the woods.’
‘Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Have you heard about this Acid House scene that’s starting up? I need to know if it’s a goer or not.’
‘That must be the club Dillon was about,’ I said to Brother P.
‘Why are you interested?’ asked my companion.
‘See, the other night I went out with my kid brother. I see a lot more of the kid now that I’m at home and he hates it because I’m always taking the piss out of him in front of his little girlfriends. I say little but you should see some of them. You’d get arrested if you didn’t know their age.
‘Anyway, one night I’m bored and that, so I tag along with him to this club round our way. I used to go there myself so that shows you how far I’ve come in life. Still, they say everything goes round in circles.
‘Now, I’m not kidding you but it was un-be-fucking-lievable down there. There’s all these young’uns, togged up like farmers in baggy jeans and dungarees, off their heads and going absolutely mad. They were all over the shop. You could tell. Their eyes were shot and they didn’t have a care in the world. Friendly as fuck, mind you, no bother whatsoever.
‘Anyways, the place is rammed and there’s dry ice everywhere and these bleedin’ strobe lights going off every five seconds. You remember them don’t you? Nah, course you don’t, you were just a twinkle in your dad’s bollocks then but you know the sort I mean. Ones that flash all the time and you get a fucking great headache watching them.
‘Anyways, it was manic down there so I pulled my kid brother aside and asked him, what the fuck is going on? You know what he does? He pulls out these three white pills and tells me that at least three quarters of the bods there have dropped one and that’s why everyone is going beserk. They’re called Ecstasy and apparently you don’t give a fuck once you’ve dropped it or as my kid brother says, got right on one.
‘Doesn’t sound right to me. I mean, in my day, it was blues that did the trick but this stuff is something else. I dunno, maybe I’m getting on but I told him if I saw him dropping one I’d make his life hell rather than ecstasy.’
‘So what had this got to do with Lord Haw Haw?’ I enquired.
Davey Boy put down the cloth and gave a knowing smile.
‘I’ve got a mate, see, who hires out equipment for weddings and knees up. Anyway, the other day he got a call from some toff who was in a right two and eight because all the gear he’d ordered for some end of term ball hadn’t turned up.
‘So my mate bells me and off we go down to Putney to this really posh college with huge lawns and a river. All the geezers are in penguin suits, the birds
have got the gowns on and by the time we’ve set everything up, everyone is on the champers and it’s roaring.
‘Me and my mate have got nothing to do now except make sure that nothing breaks down so we have a few shandies and the next thing I know I’m half pissed and telling Lord Haw Haw that that I could make him a jacket that would piss over any Savile Row job. I give him my card and then I don’t see him again.
‘I woke up the next day feeling like shit and I’m sitting in here drinking coffee, trying to recover when who should walk in but Lord Haw Haw there. Turns out he was one of the organisers of the do and they had run into a spot of bother because some little oik had strolled in there and took a load of happy snaps of them all completely off their nuts and groping each other. I was so pissed I didn’t see any of this going on but the happy snapper has only sold the photos to one of the dailies.
‘If the photos had been in the local rag you wouldn’t particularly give a fuck, would you? But if your mummy and daddies are the ones who are caked up to the eyeballs and running the show over at Westminster, it’s a different story, innit?
‘Anyway, old Lord Haw Haw has had a few irate pater and maters on the phone and the college head is right on his case. So now he’s figuring the best thing to do is get out while the going’s good and find something else to get into. I mean the guy maybe slow on the uptake but he knows one thing, money makes money. So while I’m decking him out, he starts picking my brains for some new angle.
‘That night I go out with my kid brother to that club and I’m sitting there amongst all this madness thinking of some way of getting in with the geezer and, suddenly, it hits me. There it is right, in front of me. Get in on this Acid House thing now. So what I need to know is whether you think this scene is going to last. I mean, look at punk. If you had got in there right at the start there’s no knowing where you’d be now.’
Throughout this speed spiel Brother P. and I exchanged bewildering glances as we were not too sure where Davey Boy was going but as his verbal jigsaw came together we had to tell truth that we were not particularly sure about this latest development on the teen scene but if we had any thoughts on the matter then Davey Boy would be the first to know.
‘By the way,’ I said, ‘have you had any luck with that original Dormeuil tonic material I was after?’
‘Can’t say I have as yet,’ Davey Boy replied, ‘but I’ve heard about a little warehouse I’m going to have a snoop around soon, so give me a shout next week. see if we can’t come up with something. Here, how’s the club doing? I might pass by soon and shake a leg, you never know. Mind you, the reports I’ve heard about your DJ’ing you’d be better off mixing in the kitchen than on a turntable. See ya next week, boys.’
Making our exit with Davey Boy slapping us on our shoulders, Brother P. and I ventured onto Oxford St., discussing Davey Boy’s proposal and trying to figure out whether he was onto something, which, to tell truth, we couldn’t really see.
‘Workways is bestways for me,’ Brother P. then announced, ‘I’ve got a few loose things to tie up,’ and, agreeing to parlare with each other before the day’s sun was down and out, we parted company.
‘Hey,’ shouted the man as I walked off, ‘take it easy now.
Things will be cool.’
I couldn’t share his optimism but I didn’t want him to check that so I signalled back my agreement with a raised hand and made tracks to Tottenham Court Tube leaving him to hustle up work and the old cashola.
I should add here that the Brother P. could not and would not let himself be defined by the nature of his job as most numbers are, if only because his work was so varied that no single title had yet been invented to encompass all his known activities.
The only connecting factor to all his various dealings was, I suppose, the music game. One week would find him running on errands for some record company, placing a tune of theirs with all the right people, whilst the next he would be handing out flyers for a one off club he would be setting up, always observing his golden rule by dropping off free tickets at the model agencies.
‘A club full of women is the only club both men and women want to go to,’ the Brother P, explained and, indeed, on the nights I had helped out as a warm up DJ I had seen his theory work beautifully in practice. People were always bugging about when the next event would be but Brother P. knew the value of not overloading and so his sporadic events were always something special.
He was as obsessed with music as I was and through this mutual love we had developed, over the years, our own little code. For the example, certain frames of mind were defined by the overall tone of a particular artist’s work.
If you were feeling Stevie (Wonder) then you were happy with the world and your place in it. If a Marvin (Gaye) was approaching then it was odds on that you were moving into a reflective spiritual state usually brought about by a gal, whilst a Nina (Simone) denoted a bad one, a time of darkness that only her pain filled voice could crack open and bring in the light. You certainly needed a Curtis (Mayfield) to help you recuperate or maybe a touch of Sly (Stone) would do the trick.
Such was the tone of our friendship whose roots stretched back to the same part of London that we inhabited although we were never as linked up in those times as we are now.
This was back in the days, when we were both based around Kentish Town and well before my P&M decided to cash in their chips and travel around the world as a lifetime reward for hard work (dad was a printer, mum, a nurse) and raising myself in times both happy and harsh.
Going about our separate runnings, many was the time that Brother P. and I would pass each other on the street, slyly checking out each other’s gears but never letting a word pass between us, such is our nature.
It was, of all people, a group of striking miners that brought us together and God bless them for doing so as well as giving Mrs. T. a real run for her money.
Now, in the matter of politics, I have to relate that I was raised on a steady and balanced diet of Socialism and although I am not au fait with all the ins and outs, the names and dates, I must state that when my father, a union rep, no less, parlared with me on the subject, I automatically thought it natural, as I do to this day, that some kind of equality amongst the people was a given necessary if you wanted a society to function in a cool and collected manner.
Furthermore, when you checked it, some of the top guys and gals to have walked amongst us, Jesus, Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X., and all the other brave souls who put their lives on the line, were basically of the same opinion, and I am certainly not about to argue with them on the subject.
I realise of course that in this day and age such views are held to be old fashioned, but there are some fundamentals, (and I can hear my father talking now) that you have to defend and live by.
For my parents, Margaret Thatcher was the last straw. ‘Look at her eyes,’ my father would exclaim when she came on TV, ‘they’re not only evil but they’re unbalanced. Mark my words. She’ll ransack this country and then walk away leaving us all in the shit.’
This, coupled with the feeling that he and mum could never shake off, namely that this country treated everyone like a child who had to be in bed by ten at the latest, forced their hand, and they fled to more civilised climates, places where you can get a coffee at two in the morning or walk the street late at night without being hassled by the cops.
I fully agreed with my parent’s decision to split but I have to say that everytime I pass Big Ben, I have to resist the urge to pop in and harangue the collected MPs for letting people as good as my parents just up and leave, for this country is so much poorer without the likes of them, and I won’t hear any different.
It took me a long time to suss out that every political team was simply there to maintain the status quo although I must just add that I would never waste my vote given the people down the ages who have fought for us to have that right. The least we can do is mark a piece of paper every four years, if only in me
mory of their indomitable spirit, although Brother P. had come to these conclusions a lot earlier than me and had decided to live, as most do now, by his own rules and regulations, come hell or high water.
Which is why, in 1985, we linked up by Kentish Town tube station. The miners’ strike was about halfway through and in an effort to keep them going, some miners had travelled south and set up stalls all over town to raise money, food and clothing for the fight.
On a bitterly cold day I had arisen at an early hour to go and lend some of my time to their cause and, on reaching their stall, found that the Brother P. had beaten me by a good five minutes and was busy handing over a bag full of sandwiches, cakes, fruit and plantain.
‘That’s really good of you,’ the young, fresh faced miner who was manning the stall, was telling him, ‘it’s not often you see your kind...’
‘Our kind,’ said the Brother P. automatically, ‘our kind.’
The miner looked at the man in front of him and recognised a new breed of Briton, different colour but British all the same. He extended his hand. ‘You’re right my friend, our kind it is.’
These were the early days of the strike, a testing lull before battle proper commenced and this country’s working class showed, once again, the way forward. The war might have been lost but in battle their sense of unity was a real and true testament to how easily people can come together and if that sounds naive, then so be it. Never let anyone tell you different, for that, such as making the poor feel guilty about having money, is just another ploy by the rich to keep their loot.
At the stall, I had no choice but to break the ice between us and say, ‘Alright, nice pair of strides you got on.’
The man didn’t even glance down at his blue and grey Prince of Wales check number, but simply replied, ‘Yeah?’ in that familiar questioning tone I have come to know so well. We left it at that.
Over the next few weeks we nodded to each other when we passed until it became crystal clear that the silence would have to be broken, which it was in a record shop where we bumped into each other whilst simultaneously reaching for a copy of The Isley Brothers album, ‘Black Berries.’
