by Neil Rowland
‘No comrades, we pay our rent on time to avoid any hassle,’ Roy argued.
‘What’s your flatmate think about it?’
‘Paulie you mean? Paulie gets into a mess with his wages. He doesn’t always want to pay his share on time. Only because he can’t organise his budget like,’ Roy explained.
‘This Paulie sounds like a right fucking tosser,’ Snot observed.
‘Oh, Paulie’s a good lad really. Always does his best, mind.’
‘So how long have you lived here together?’ I asked.
‘I’ll fill the kettle and make us all a cuppa,’ Smith pledged. At this he shot off into the kitchen, which I didn’t have the guts to inspect.
When Smithy returned with steaming mugs, he caught Stan gloating yet again over the Mortal gig. He was bragging about all the trouble, not about the actual music.
‘Ai that was a really brilliant gig, man!’ Roy agreed.
‘You were there?’
‘Away Stan man, ‘course I was there. It was amazin’.’
‘Did you get into any fights?’ I wondered.
‘Only fightbacks, comrade.’
‘Delighted you had fun at our little concert,’ Snot said - like he was the farmer at Glastonbury.
‘Fair’s fair, there was a lot of fascist violence that night,’ Roy recalled, infuriated again. ‘Good jab somebody gave ‘em a good hidin’ mind.’
‘The band noticed something goin’ on,’ Snot said.
‘Away man, the music was out of this world!’
‘We don’t play music,’ Stan informed him.
‘Right comrade, whatever you say... but are ya gonna play another gig soon?’
‘Not on purpose.’
‘They’ve got a gig at the Mad Hatter club, next Saturday night.’
‘Bloody great, man, I’ll get meself doon there to see.’
‘A fiver on the door. Even to socialist revolutionaries. But as you’re a Doctor Who fan, I’ll put you on the guest list.’
‘Cheers, marra!’
Stan was enjoying the couch, even when the springs got caught between his cheeks.
‘We’ve got some new tunes. More terrible than ever,’ he pledged.
‘Great man, right then... so I look forward to hearing the band again.’
Smithy’s eyes gleamed with enthusiastic fish-eye energy, through smudged twin-tubes of NHS specs.
‘Don’t take any notice a’him. Mortal’s getting better, with practice.’
‘The band’s improving, but we can put a stop to it.’
‘The SWP’s in favour of punk,’ Roy informed us, passionately.
‘The socialists like it?’
‘Anybody with bad taste’s welcome,’ Stan commented.
‘The party’s in favour of a youth movement, being radicalised. That’s standing up to oppression and exploit-ation. Working class kids making their oon music man... and not being spoon-fed this capitalist pop crap!’
‘Yeah true, and we’re going to bankrupt the big record companies.’
‘Fighting talk comrade!’
‘What happens if you win? I mean, if Mortal come first in this band competition, that’s coming up?’ I asked.
‘We take that recording contract and tear it up. Right in front of their eyes. Yeah, I’m serious. Get a million quid advance on a debut album, and then break up.’
‘No way,’ I said.
‘Wait and see, Bottle. Don’t be so cynical.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘All those fat capitalists exploitin’ the talent of working class kids,’ Smith fumed. ‘Then what happens, comrades? They sell the music back to us.’
‘They’ve sold a few to Snot,’ I agreed.
‘Shed loads.’
‘Ba’stads! But the whole late capitalist system is in crisis like. The whole fucking system is in decline and fallin’ apart, comrades,’ Roy predicted.
‘Better take our million and get out,’ Snot said.
‘Away man, read the editorial about punk in this week’s edition. Have you ever read the Socialist Worker newspeeper mind?’
‘I don’t want to crease it for you,’ Stan said.
‘Away man, I’ve got spare copies.’
‘We haven’t finished this week’s NME yet,’ I explained.
‘Away man, all well and good, but I’ll save a copy of next week’s peeper for yer. I’ll come to the next Mortal Wound gig too. Authentic youth protest music, Stan. I’m all in favour of it mind.’
‘We want all the political extremists we can get.’
Roy took Stan’s little jibe in good part. Unlike most of his party counterparts, he had a sense of humour and could take satire.
We enjoyed infusions of strong northern tea. Snot put up the collar of his leather jacket against the cold. He observed the rundown living conditions, as if a first protest song was brewing.
‘Doon’t forget to sup your tea, lads. Fill yer boots,’ Smith encouraged us. ‘Get that brew down your necks.’
Meanwhile he’d put a tape into the machine (a new one), proving he was really into the music, not just for political reasons.
‘Move in when you want, Paul marra,’ he told me. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘I’ll think on it.’
‘Bring your suitcase ter-morra.’
‘That could be a problem,’ I admitted. ‘Cos at present I can’t think of anyone to share with me.’
‘Don’t fret Bottle, we’ll make polite enquiries,’ Snot said. ‘There have to be a few more homeless punks in this town... as need a hole over their heads.’
‘Ai, let us know what you’ve decided marra. We can talk aboot it at the next Mortal gig mind.’
‘So there’s just you and Paulie at the moment?’
‘Ai, that’s it, just Paulie and me, marra.’
‘Fucking cosy.’
‘So what’s this lad like then?’ I speculated.
‘You already know. He’s that wanker who wrote a shit review of our gig,’ Snot reminded me.
‘You don’t want to pay too much attention to Paulie, mind. He always does his best now!’ Smithy sounded a bit defensive. But he couldn’t hide a nervous look.
‘Does this Paulie share your politics?’ Snot wondered.
‘Away, more or less he does, Stan. He’s generally on the left like. Keeps his political opinions morstly to himself. He’s afraid of losing his jab. He’s working for the local paper, so Paulie can’t attend party meet-ins. But he supports the party, and takes the SWP line on morst issues. The Nulton Chronicle sponsors him. So he’s afraid of getting the sack.’
We could sense Roy’s frustration with Paulie, despite these words of support.
‘Bottle here’s a bit of a writer too,’ Snot informed him.
Roy turned his glinting enthusiastic glance on me. ‘Oh right?’
‘We’ve started a fanzine, to cover local bands... and the contest.’
‘Oh, great man! Look forward to the first edition.’
‘Paulie couldn’t write his way out of a paper bag,’ Snot argued. ‘Not if he was kidnapped and needed a fucking ransom note.’
‘All right comrade, but he’s just tryin’ bloody hard to keep that jab on the peeper mind.’
‘Where’s Paulie tonight? Why isn’t he here to meet and greet?’
‘He must be out with one of his girlfriends, comrade.’
‘Girlfriends?’ The plural struck.
‘“One” of ‘em?”
‘Ai, I expect he’s seeing one of them or another.’
‘How many fucking girlfriends does he need?’ Snot said.
‘Your guess is as good as mine, comrade. He’s a bit of a lady killer mind.’
We stared ahead, not liking the sound of that.
‘I s’pose I’d better meet him, sometime... if I’m going to share.’
‘Paulie isn’t really competent to organise,’ Smith argued. ‘Better leave arrangements to me, marra. You’re welcome to meet Paulie some teem. He’d a good lad but you don’t want to rely on him,’ he advised. ‘Nawh man, you don’t want to make that mistake.’
Stan continued to smart at Paulie’s live review. It hadn’t exactly been ‘new journalism’, more like ‘old crap’. The style was definitely unmistakable:
LOCAL PUNKS MAKE A NOISE
Nulton Arts College staged a crucial live blow-out in the spacious hall tonight, when local rock band Mortal Wound appeared and blasted like a racing car on a clear day.
Punk rock has a dodgy reputation for senseless violence, up and down the nation. But this four-piece showed that good music has a positive vibe. Gut wrenching heroics burst out on the stage. The band blew us away and left a majority of punks breathless and tearful.
Lead vocalist Paul ‘nutcase’ Blumen, 24, married with two children, sang with despairing passion. It was an exciting night of essential music, with cool and vital local man, Jon ‘Snot’ Whitmore, 19, single, showing strongly, on guitar. The audience swayed with sincere compassion. There was a class for a more just world.
The idiotic antics of a few troublemakers did not spoil our enjoyment. Punk has arrived in Nulton and we need to listen, like a lion in the jungle. This incredible local band, planning more gigs, doesn’t want mindless gorillas wrecking the atmosphere for peaceful punks. This was a call for compassion, from a Nulton group that doesn’t invite dodgy idiots from the far right. Nothing can spoil a positive vibe for peace in this town.
This rock critic watches out for the next gig with emotion. The pleading voice of modern youth will be heard. No need to shout from the town hall, because this group speaks for a generation with feeling. They are a talented group of young musicians.
By Paulie Wellington.
12. Close Encounters with Paulie
We arranged another meeting, to meet the other flat mate or, to be accurate, for him to look me over.
We got a rapid idea about Paulie’s character because he was seriously late. Checking off his battered Timex through impact cracks, Smith was muttering bitterly into his third pint of socialist bitter. Roy was always in the vanguard of proletarian alcohol consumption.
The Trotskyite was more infuriated, when he noticed that Paulie was standing about in another section of the bar, trying to disguise his lateness. With a superbly innocent look on his cherubic mouth, the cub reporter was trying to con us into thinking he’d been there for ages, only we’d missed stupidly him. This was a clever trick - new on Stan and me - but it wasn’t fooling his sharp-eyed Trotskyite mate. Paulie even put on a look of impatience when we strolled over, as if we were messing him around. He must have tried to pull it on The Smith before.
‘Away, Paulie man! What yer doin’? Couldn’t yer see us? What are you talkin’ aboot man! You wasn’t early. We’ve been waitin’ here for yer, comrade!’
‘Phoo, Roy mate. No need to get bloody shirty about it,’ Paul told him. There was a hurt, bewildered expression, as we came into a new circle.
‘Right then, Paulie lad, then what the fuck kept you?’ he demanded.
‘Phoo, what’s up with you now Roy, mate? Calm down, will you, mate.’
‘Away man, I toold you we had to be here at seven thirty, to meet these lads!’
‘All right, Roy mate, no need to get in my face, is there. We’re all here now, aren’t we, so what’s the big problem?’
Paulie gave the whole pub the once over look, as if checking to see how many people had noticed Roy making an exhibition of himself.
The Trotskyist was not impressed with the excuses; he was frothing with frustration - almost literally frothing.
‘Well, Roy mate, some of us have a job to do,’ Paulie said. It was a pointed remark, delivered with an ironic smirk.
Wellington had joined us after the office. He was wearing his work suit and a tie, now loosened at the collar. That could have been a good excuse - stress and long hours - except that he’d visited the record shop on the way.
So what were my first impressions of Paulie? Apart from the pantomime, he came across as friendly and likeable. He was handsome in an angelic kind of way; with very blue eyes, a tall trim frame, silky blonde curls and a cherubic little nose. Like God had looked at me and said, ‘Right lads, now for something completely different!’
Paulie’s antics warned that his conduct was not up to the same ‘A’ Grade as his looks. I noticed he had an anxious skin rash, sore peeling blotches, across his hands and spreading up his arms. After finishing that journalism course at college he’d been indentured on the Nulton Chronicle. This first reporter’s job was beginning to rock in the negative sense of the word. He wanted to fill his journalistic contact book by meeting lads like Snot on the local music scene.
After that fracas at Nulton Arts, Wellington was keen to interview Stan all right. The cub reporter was quickly in awe of the little guitarist (which went to the art provocateur’s head). Paulie took an interest in me to begin with, until he learnt I wasn’t in a band or ever likely to be. After that it got even worse, when he understood that I was planning to write for a new fanzine. Despite being no rival on stage or in bed, I was regarded as a threat to his status as Nulton’s premier music writer.
Wellington tried to take mental notes on Stan’s absurdist statements as we chatted. Snot tossed out the typical mix of cryptic comments and curious infantile sarcasm, while Paulie gawped in hero worship. But this type of counter-culture adulation didn’t last long.
‘Okay, Stan mate, so what impact punk’s having on British youth politics?’
‘I don’t know, why don’t you go and ask him?’
‘What?’ Paulie said, looking baffled and colouring.
‘This supposed to be an interview? I don’t talk to the press. Only The Lady magazine. You writing for them?’
‘How do you mean?’ Paulie pushed up his round little glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘That’s a bit of a dodgy statement, isn’t it, mate? Why would I write for a reactionary magazine like that? I’m a radical feminist and my politics are progressive, mate.’
Snot smirked and squeezed up his roach. ‘Give those ladies guitars and that would be radical statement.’
‘Phew, I don’t see how you...’
‘In those twin sets and country checks of theirs. A couple of Pointer dogs chasing after them on stage.’
The cub reporter gave his face a rub. ‘Phoo, dodgy, how can that be radical?’ he objected.
‘Talentless punk morons like us aren’t proper ladies.’
Severely confused look. ‘What I mean to ask, Stan mate, is what’s the politics of punk? Are you really on the left, or you got reactionary sympathies?’
‘Politics is a bigger cliché than rock,’ Snot sneered.
‘Away man!’
‘D’you want to change the political system mate, or not?’
Stan peered around the public bar with disinterest. ‘Only if you’ll buy me another pint.’
‘What kind of socialism do you want?’
‘It’s a kebab.’
‘Yes, right, Stan mate, I’ll get you a kebab after... if you want... but what about the bloody late capitalist system? Can you give me a quote on the class struggle?’
‘A quote?’ Snot’s attention had definitely wandered. ‘Well, I don’t know, maybe if you put some punks in the cabinet... with a few Mods and some bikers in the civil service... just for political imbalance of mind.’
‘What’s your attitude to mindless moronic violence at gigs?’
Snot pulled on his cascade of black ringlets. ‘I tr
y to encourage it.’
‘Phew, Roy mate, did you hear what he just said? Really dodgy opinions,’ he noted, ironically.
In this way Stan’s outlaw punk charm was wearing thin for the cub reporter. But he attempted a few more lines of questioning, to get some printable quotes.
‘What’s your message to those hard right gorillas?’
‘I dunno. Get a haircut? Pull your fingernails out?’
‘That would be torture, wouldn’t it, mate?’
Straight faced, ‘You heard my band playing, didn’t you?’
Wellington’s neck burn cranked up. ‘All right, so what you going to say to the Met about their harassment of black youth, with the SUS law, down in south London?’
‘Come on, get your hand off my dick,’ Snot suggested.
At this I couldn’t suppress a raucous laugh. In some ways I was a bit of a hanger-on and sidekick. If you wanted to be any kind of journalist, isn’t that what you had to do?
Fortunately Roy intervened. ‘Away lads! Interview time’s over. Ai, so let’s all get in another round of bevies, shall we, before closing time?’ Fraternal feelings overcame his annoyance with Paulie and Stan. The radical socialist had a positive and optimistic view of human nature. ‘Come on Paulie man, get another bevvy down yer neck!’
‘It’s just a shandy, Roy mate. I have to get back early into the ‘paper tomorrow.’
‘Away man, don’t worry yer-self over work now. This is Paul Bottle, the lad I was telling you about, marra, who wants to rent the other room in the house like.’
Paulie gave me another split second once-over, without apparent interest.
‘You heard that Bottle’s a rock writer,’ Stan told him. ‘You two’ll have much to talk about, won’t you?’
‘Ai, we can discuss politics, punk, culture, lots of subjects, comrades!’
Roy memorised our orders and bounded over to the bar to get them. We watched as he tried to flag down a barmaid or barman. It must have been the radical tee-shirt in need of a change that put them off.
‘So where are you from Paulie?’ I asked - making conversation.
‘You asking me? You want to know where I come from?’
