by Neil Rowland
‘Right, definitely, because Snot was telling me about all those fucking top rate blinkin articles you were writing for the college paper.’
‘My stuff for Chips and Chalk, do you mean?’
‘Straight up, whatever they fucking call that college rag, cos Stan was telling me how you’ve got a smart way with fucking words.’
‘Not sure about that,’ I replied.
Flattery had a limit. The grocery manager had an inborn suspicion of students, despite being forced to employ them. He strolled past us several times and shot long warning looks.
‘No bullshit, I’ve never been so impressed with any article I’ve read in that blinkin college paper. Straight up Bottle, your writing stood out like a wart on the nose of fucking Miss Universe,’ he claimed. ‘No bullshit, in a positive way, and how could you fucking miss it, Bottle mate?’
Marty hung on to see if I’d agree with this idea. So the Rolling Stone mug continued to stretch out towards breaking point.
‘Well, it was fun writing those pieces,’ I admitted. ‘I got a bit of a kick out of it.’
‘Right, definitely Bottle, because Star Materials needs a bloomin brilliant words person like you to boost circulation. Straight up why don’t you come and string together your bloomin brilliant fucking sentences for us instead? Fair play, now you’re out of blinkin education.’
‘What kind of stuff should I write?’ I was getting uneasy as the supermarket manager watched. I didn’t want to get sacked.
‘Right, so Turbo Overdrive have got their debut single released next blinkin month. My Rob’s had to sell his motor to pay for the first bloomin cut and so he doesn’t have a pair of blinkin wheels anymore! Fair play, there’s only so far the Star Materials artists’ budget will go. Now Rob’s hassling me to get some bloomin sleeve notes done for the record. Fair play Bottle, who has blinkin sleeve notes on the back of their fucking records these days?’ Marty objected.
I shuffled and cast uneasy looks. ‘You don’t want to fall out with Rob over that.’
‘Right, definitely, someone handy with a blinkin typewriter to shake up some fucking press releases for the Nulton Chronicle,’ Marty requested. ‘Straight up, what do you blinkin think about all that?’
‘I can have a go,’ I agreed. I couldn’t help myself.
The grin of pleasure was amplified. ‘Straight up, I’ll let Rob know, when I see him later. He’ll be chuffed to bits about those bloomin sleeve notes.’
‘That shouldn’t take me long,’ I said.
‘Right, and Stan said you ought to write the pieces for our bloomin fanzine as well. Fair play you can interview all the bands taking part in this ‘Battle of the Bands competition. No bullshit, you can take down the fucking interviews with all the groups and I’ll print it up in this new bloomin magazine. Fair play, then we’ll sell the fanzine in the record shops and to all those punks on final night,’ Gorran explained.
‘Sounds a great idea,’ I agreed.
Exuding positive energy, Marty observed me approvingly. I was snagged to his little finger, yo-yo fashion, like almost everybody on the scene.
‘I’m doing this all by myself?’ I wanted to know.
‘Fair play, my mate Steve Fenton will help out. Steve can string a few blinkin words together when he’s in the right fucking mood.’
It was exciting. ‘Right, you’re on,’ I said.
‘Steve’s a good fucking snapper, and he can take all the photos for the mag too. I’ll design the pages for you, set out the bloomin art work and layout and get some fucking advertising revenue coming in to pay for it all.’
The rock guru grinned and rubbed his dry inky hands together.
‘A lot of lads are starting fanzines,’ I reminded him.
‘Straight up Bottle, never mind the blinkin competition, cos even all those big name fucking music papers down in London better look over their bloomin shoulders now,’ Gorran confidently predicted.
‘Let’s see how the first edition goes.’
‘Right Bottle, you got the picture, so join us at the Dragon tonight, and we’ll have a longer chat about the fanzine and buy you a couple of drinks to calm your blinkin nerves.’
Marty twinkled and leered at me, the awesome ‘words person’. Then he was up and out of groceries, to his next appointment in a different department of the Co-op Superstore.
9. Stan and the Dove of War
Gorran got into the habit of introducing me to people as ‘Copy Writer in Chief’. Even before the photocopiers of his print empire had begun to overheat I was bigged up and it sent my immature imagination reeling.
That particular evening the Dragon was crammed with punks, Goths and bikers. It was the only venue for Alternative Nulton, between applying for a university grant or signing on.
Rival youth tribes had little to fear from rubbing leather jackets. It was because the threat came from the streets outside. The town’s straights and casuals were the most hostile to any individual or group different to them. That was true of my older brother too, Chuck, who ironed all of his clothes, down to his socks. Of course there was danger for the punks, when TV and newspapers turned us into pantomime villains. The local fascist chapter had started up - or whatever they called themselves - and gathered on Wednesdays and Fridays in their own public house, The Lion and Unicorn. The publican there was an ex-sociology lecturer, thin as a broomstick and bushy bearded, by the name of Lionel Mace. He was sacked by the Tech college after writing an article for the English bulldog and for shagging a sixteen year old Belgian hippie during an exchange trip. I don’t know what the article was about. I suppose I could guess.
Anyway, Stan arrived that evening at the Dragon wearing a new studded leather jacket (pocket money from mother), as well as wraparound black sun glasses. Even though he didn’t approve of rock star posing he did look very cool in those shades. The true reason for putting on that garb was his fear of being recognised and getting his head kicked in. That was an added risk in the weeks and months after the Nulton Arts gig. In the words of (one of) Gorran’s heroes, Gene Pitney, he knew what a town without pity can do. Then again, Marty knew that even better, as did every gay lad or girl growing up during those decades. Well, a sizeable minority meant him harm - or us, or them.
My only competition as a music correspondent, in our town and region at least, came from that cub reporter on the Nulton Chronicle. We hadn’t been introduced to this mysterious lad yet. We knew he was also a would-be music journalist, already writing gig reviews for the moronic local rag. That included a review of Mortal’s notorious bash at college, which had got right up Snot’s nose.
‘All right, you can interview us for this fanzine... if you want to,’ Stan told me.
Still, we got excited about Gorran’s publishing empire. Snot was tossing back the JD as well as dissecting the group’s last practice. When well lubricated he admitted that Gina was a truly glam girl and a proper punk. But he was still spooked by her classical music credentials. To say it was a threat was an understatement, like saying that Cruise missiles and Soviet SS missiles were a bit of a headache to planning your weekend.
It never occurred to Snot that he might be talented as well. His Mum ordered ‘Play Guitar in Six Weeks’ from the newsagent. Snot picked it up in under five I reckon. That’s how quick he was. Even during the brief period he kept those publications hidden under the bed like porn magazines. He was borrowing music books and scores from the local library. He furthered his musical education by closely watching other musicians and performers. We took in a lot of high profile punk bands that featured in the national music press. Stan would always go to the front of the stage, following finger placements and chord progressions very closely, when the gig got underway.
‘Gina’ll get us doing classical stuff. I don’t want Mortal sounding like a bunch of prog rockers in fucking cheesecloth
, trying out concept albums,’ Snot objected. ‘No, if we allow that, we have that big cheese Gorran entering us into fucking Stars in their Eyes.’
‘It’ll never happen,’ I insisted.
‘She never turns up for practice.’
There was something else on my mind too. ‘What about your apprenticeship, Stan? Did the company write to you yet?’
‘Not a peep out of them.’
Stan’s chance of working for Drew Spiro Design was a bigger lame duck than Gerald Ford was.
‘Anyway, Marty told me that Drew Spiro is a terrible employer.’
‘Oh yeah? But how about you Bottle? What you planning to do now... after graduation?’
‘Stuck with fruit and veg all my days?’ I didn’t know the store was going to get demolished a few years later. The town council was unlikely to commission any public sculptures from me. Life magazine hadn’t asked me to pose for its next cover.
In Nulton good jobs were rarer than pink pineapple trees. We were thinking about ‘what a waste’ even before Ian Dury sang about it.
‘Still getting shit off Pete?’ Snot enquired. I reckon he noticed my despondency, even running beneath my excitement about the fanzine.
‘Don’t ask,’ I said. ‘Now they’re threatening to throw me out.’
‘You fucking serious or what?’
‘As the state of the nation,’ I insisted.
After the closing time bell and extended ‘last orders’, we decided to save bus fares by walking home. ‘Home’ was still in the road where we’d grown up, at least for a while. We pursued our usual route. In general avoiding drawing attention to ourselves (more difficult as punks), with the general psychos, black-shirts and other thugs, that were lurking about in corners and underpasses. It was a game of hard-core ‘space invaders’ for real. There was hardly a sign of friendly life, as if the bomb had gone off. Certainly we had always half an eye towards the sky, fearing those nukes. We discussed the topic regularly and agreed there’d be no reasonable warning. Would you want one?
‘Don’t go winding yourself up, Bottle. Why give a fuck about jobs and stuff? Something’ll turn up.’
‘How can I get by without a job... and maybe nowhere to live?’ I moaned.
‘You’re a punk gentleman of leisure,’ Snot told me, shifting from side to side.
‘Oh yeah, like sure.’
‘Why throw a wobbly over fucking career opportunities? You’re meant for a life of the fine arts.’
Loping along, head down, hands in overcoat pockets, I made a dismissive and depressed noise.
‘There’s nobody who wants me sculptures.’
‘C’m on, Bottle. The nation’s a bunch of Philistines,’ Snot remarked, in his caustic way. ‘Let’s remind them about that fact.’
It sounded harsh, yet had frisson. I was hiding under the Oxfam coat collar, as if the Philistines might recognise me.
‘My dad and brother keep having a go at me!’ I reported.
‘Yeah, well, I’ve heard... all that shouting through those prison walls,’ he admitted.
‘At least it’s a prison with a comfy bed,’ I explained. Not to mention a roof above.
‘Don’t they appreciate your artistic gifts?’
‘Huh.’
‘You’ve got to stand up for your rights,’ Snot advised me.
Bob Marley was counted as an honorary punk, along with Jimi Hendrix, Sun era Presley and J Cash, et al. Snot wasn’t half as ignorant about music as he made out. He’d got the public library behind him.
Being out of condition, weak-chested and lazy, Stan had to concentrate his efforts and coordination on walking up hill. I had to be careful not to stride far ahead of him, heedless of safety. Physical disability and a weak chest didn’t prevent Stan from enjoying smoky atmospheres though.
‘My folks have gone off you, Stan... after you went punk and... got yourself expelled.’
‘Tell them. I’m really fucking... offended,’ he puffed.
‘You’re worse than a football hooligan.’
‘High praise,’ Snot jested.
‘If it goes on like this... I’ll have to pitch my tent.’
‘You’d be better off.’
I shot him a look of panic. ‘On the streets, d’you mean?’
***
Straggling back to our district, we bumped into Mick Dove. This lad spent all his evenings in the Lion and Unicorn. What did they have playing on the jukebox there?
Nobody was on the street, apart from us. It was so quiet you could hear some bloke snoring through a closed window. The three of us joined up on a corner, eyed each other, while chewing on raw matchsticks (this was a disgusting teen habit, most likely picked up from a movie).
Dove wouldn’t say what he was up to. Not stargazing. He’d left college amongst our cohort, so we had plenty of topics of teenage frustration and resentment to discuss. Dove hadn’t found any gainful employment either in that tanked economy. No shock there.
‘Not a fucking sausage,’ he said, with a scowl.
With that skunk’s brush of red and green hair of his; adorned with shin-high bovver boots, drainpipe jeans and a swastika tee-shirt; he’d never get a ticker-tape parade of job offers anyway. On the other hand, why was he hanging about under street lamps after midnight?
Snot thought that Mick was a fascinating character. Despite derogatory talk of ‘fascist regimes’ the Mortal guitarist refused to condemn those violent opinions or behaviour. To Snot’s way of thinking Mick’s far right views and physical aggression was just very punk. I remembered how Dove had spat at and insulted Stan directly, with shocking venom, at the college gig.
‘What do you expect from Dove?’ Stan had argued to me. ‘Bunches of flowers?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I said, ‘this was vitriol.’
‘Better than fucking Baby Bio.’
During a tense street encounter, Mick explained how he’d started his own band. He had called it Steel Dildo. Despite a quiet voice and shy demeanour, Dove wasn’t a likeable punk.
As I said, this extreme patter (not to mention fashion sense) impressed Snot no end. The little punk guitarist thought he’d found a fellow spirit. Steel Dildo was another punk band and Snot was excited by the competition and rivalry. For Snot this would create more gigs in town, more mayhem and more anarchy, allowing Mortal to get back into live action.
So who’d object to that?
***
Not many weeks after, my parents finally threw me out, as I’d anticipated. It was down to my failing to find a ‘proper’ job, as well as my dress sense and attitude (recently changed). To quote Rotten I was considered a ‘lazy sod’ and, as a failed sculptor and would-be fanzine writer, a lazy sod unlikely to join the working class any time soon, any more than I could join the aristocratic class.
Stan’s showed up in my bedroom. I was surprised my older brother had let him in. Snot was still wearing the studded leather jacket, as well as a ripped bondage tee-shirt, with big strap boots and black jeans - not the fear that Chuck admired. Stan could have been menacing or dangerous, if not for his diminutive stature and those ‘disabilities’.
Snot shambled closer, his big romantic eyes taking in the dramatic scene, within my bedroom or my former bedroom. He shuffled and shrugged, trying to regain his dent-chested nicotine breath.
‘What the fuck’s hit you, Bottle?’
Throwing my clothes in to a suitcase, shrugging, I attempted to seem hard and unfussed. No teenage lad wants to show weakness or emotion to a mate.
‘Where you going?’
‘Down the stairs and through the front door,’ I explained.
‘Then where?’
My head was still pulsating from the last blow; I felt broken, heart-racing, with ‘blood in my eyes’ as the ex
pression goes. My whole past was ready for the spiritual skip.
‘I reckon they’ve done you a favour.’
‘Come off it Stan.’
I was desperately trying to hide my hands from shaking, while I stuffed jeans, shirts and other togs into the case.
‘Throw away your latch key in protest.’
‘You could give me a hand with this stuff!’
‘So where are you going?’
‘Just away from here,’ I told him.
He attempted humour. ‘Butlins? Youth hostelling?’
‘Fuck off Stan,’ I suggested.
‘We’ve all got to leave home one day.’
‘Apart from you, that is. When do you leave?’
‘Yeah, right, apart from me,’ he agreed. ‘That wasn’t my decision!’
The punk musician watched my activities casually, as you’d watch those of a clever pavement artist.
‘Maybe you want to thank ‘em for chucking me out?’
‘You’re a real anarchist now,’ he argued.
Then the suitcase fell unhinged to the floor, spilling my hasty efforts, and I was sorely tempted to kick it out of the window in advance.
‘If you can’t give me a hand.?’ I pointed out.
Snot had fallen into a phlegmatic hunch at the foot of my bed. Snot’s bedroom was a far better place to be.
‘There’s nice fucking bed and breakfast in Colditz.’ He meant his place.
‘Belt up.’ That’s what I was trying to do. Like a kamikaze pilot looking for a new pair of trousers.
‘You’re the young gent I’m concerned about,’ Stan said, hamming it up.
‘Is that right?’
‘My word of fucking honour, Bottle.’
‘Your word of honour?’ I challenged.
‘Yes, speaking as a menace to decent people.’
‘This isn’t a good time for it, Stan.’
His sad brown eyes watched me, within that large olive face, with its dense shadow of stubble.
‘Come and stay at my house,’ he offered.
