Punk Story

by Neil Rowland

  ‘Don’t let Troy Boy bother you. We’ll find that ape and put him back in his cage,’ Steve said.

  ‘Right, definitely, mind how you handle him.’

  We hung about on a gallery overlooking squash courts, following all the thwacking and grunting. It wasn’t the best place to do our thinking. Despite his anxieties (which resembled free jazz at this point) Marty refused to give up the treasure hunt, certainly not without a fair shot at making it big in the record business.

  That posse of honed trainers crashed through double-doors in pursuit. Fortunately, as these body fascists slowed and smirked at us ready for the kill, Steve located Troy Boy. The local fear figure was to be found relaxing and spreading out in his bar area. Why didn’t we think of that? We shot off down the gallery to join him.

  The flabby bulk of the ‘Leisure Centre Director’ was squeezed into a plastic sofa. This was a bloke who once pulled a steam engine up a hill, by a strap between his teeth. That was an awesome feat and you had to respect it. Even if he’d gone completely to hay seed by then, he used to be a magnificent animal. By this time he was simply an animal. You just wanted to stick a rosette on his neck - if you could find his neck. He’d done it all live on TV and even been interviewed by Sue Lawley on Nationwide afterwards.

  Junior Crock wasn’t thrilled to be reunited with us punk herberts. For him we were as appetising as a stale hamburger tarted up with spicy pickle. Even so he couldn’t avoid the rock glitterati of Nulton for long. He couldn’t overlook a music industry giant like Marty Gorran. The punk genius brought a glittering cloud of charisma and pizzazz with him. You couldn’t turn away Marty, any more than tax payers (or local businesses or construction workers) could afford to ignore Dave Crock.

  Troy was immersed in his own private sauna of cigarette smoke. ‘Jesus wept, its Marty boy. What you fuckers doin ere, in my sports centre? You ain’t workin out, are you?’ The portly blubber was zipped into a XXL silk tracksuit. He threw some more hard liquor on to the hot coals. His Costa del Sol burn hadn’t yet started to calm into a tan.

  Marty had the big grin ready to work magic. As if bumping into that zippered gorilla was the biggest pleasure and surprise of his week. ‘Hello, hello there, if it an’t our good mate Troy. How’re you been blinkin keeping? What a fucking pleasant surprise. Straight up, we just popped by on the fucking off chance, to see how well you’re doing. No bullshit Troy, I was just telling these lads here, how we ought to keep you updated about all our investigations into that blinkin theft in our HQ,’ Gorran explained, offering his challenging dental work.

  ‘Yer chicken shit robbery agen?’ Making an impatient noise Troy peered off into the distance, through the billows of a drag.

  ‘What you hiding?’ Fenton challenged.

  ‘Ah, if it ain’t you again dick ed? You obnoxious fuck. Marty got you on a bit of fuckin string or what? When I finish with you, son, your own muvver wont want yer,’ Troy fumed. He pulled down the neck of his tracksuit. The top of his head was flat as a Kent cliff, or a melon sliced clean by a cutlass. ‘If you ain’t fuckin careful dick ed...’ he muttered.

  ‘Right, definitely, your theories are always blinkin welcome in these quarters. Fair play, I’ve got a blinkin international music company to run, Troy mate. Straight up, that and all these bloomin promising new bands of mine, wanting to win the contest, keen as fucking Flying Boot.’

  ‘Fuckin get on wi’ it!’

  ‘No bullshit Troy, and they all wanna make it blinkin huge in the fucking charts this year and make all of Nulton bloomin proud of ‘em. So fair play, they want me as their manager, promoter and adviser, Troy. So now our mate Steve here is just fucking very anxious about our stolen bloomin money and all the blinkin good fortunes of all our talented young Nulton artists. Straight up, same as you are, Troy mate.’

  ‘And who’s this dopey goop? This one ‘ere.’

  It seemed that Troy was referring to me. It gave me a jump to be recognised at the wrong moment.

  ‘Right, definitely Troy, glad you noticed our blinkin star reporter and fucking editor-in-chief at Ob-scene fanzine,’ Marty said.

  ‘Fanzine? What’s that? Fuckin’ Bay City Rollers? E’s writin’ somepink? What with?’

  ‘Yeah, straight up Troy, didn’t you hear something how our Paul Bottle’s got himself a big fucking name in the world of rock journalism? So, no bullshit, he’s got himself a regular weekly column for fucking Music Mail down there in blinkin London, Troy, on the national bloomin music press in Holborn,’ Gorran gloated. He was nodding at the thug knowingly, with an arm around my shoulder.

  Crock gave his peeling pug nose a vigorous rub. He was no more a music fan than he was a pacifist. For a split second his squinty eyes got me into focus and back out again. ‘What do I care about yer fuckin music papers? D’you fink I read that fuckin shite in the press?’

  ‘Right, definitely Troy, but even if you don’t take a close fucking interest in the punk rock scene, blinkin Music Mail is one of the biggest selling weekly papers both sides of the fucking pond. Straight up, with a couple of sentences Bottle can make or break any blinkin new group,’ Gorran argued. Much to my discomfort.

  The thug sucked back snot. ‘I ain’t int’rested, Marty boy. You wanna speak to me dad.’

  ‘Straight up Troy, cos as a leading blinkin journalist and editor in chief Bottle can fill you in about our crime investigations,’ Gorran said, with a flinch.

  Suddenly my Adam’s apple shot up and down, as if Troy had struck my button with a hammer. ‘Crime investigations? Me?’

  ‘I dunt give a flyin fart in a jam jar about your fuckin money.’

  ‘Well mister Crock, you know, it’s like this... it’s a lot of money for Marty and his artists to lose, given that...’ I began to stammer a response.

  ‘Wot the fuck you on abart, gimp face?’

  Troy gestured to the bar. Even if he couldn’t play football like dad, he could drink like him.

  Somehow I had to spit out the story, in true punk fashion.

  ‘Never mind the fuckin sob story, gimp. Do you lot fink its right to break into somebody’s ‘ouse?’ Crock said, in retaliation.

  ‘Yeah but on the other hand, mister Crock, it’s worth considering that...’

  Gorran frowned deeply and signalled with the glowing end of his ciggie that I should end my contribution. Now it was his turn to add some gloss, a bit of pathos, and even a hidden threat.

  ***

  Although Troy had turned to flab, he still knew how to throw it around. What’s more, he employed a full squad of hard men who had twenty-four hours access to weight machines and a subsidised bar.

  ‘Bottle didn’t mention a break in at your house,’ Fenton pointed out.

  ‘Watch your marf.’

  ‘But we did get those videos.’

  ‘You left your fuckin boot marks over my wife’s fuckin shag pile, dick ed.’

  ‘What about it?’

  Crock tipped forward in his sofa, taking it with him. ‘What abart it, dick ed? I’ll tell yer What abart it? You broke in and went rarnd my fuckin arse. You went up into the fuckin master bedroom and broke into me safe,’ Troy accused, stabbing his meaty forefinger at the bassist.

  ‘Straight up, Gord elp us Troy mate, try to be blinkin calmer, before all your bloomin hair grows out. No bullshit, like Elton John under a blinking Hoover,’ Gorran said, grinning with sympathy.

  ‘An’ what you do to my fuckin dog? E wouldn come back into the fuckin arse agen. E sleeps in the fuckin garden. What you do to my kids’ pet? Was it you, you fuckin dick ed?’ the villain accused, fuming red.

  ‘Right, definitely, fair play Troy mate, but what in all the blinkin monkeys in a cage were you doing cavorting around with all those little fascists on your own bloomin bed?’ the punk maestro wanted to know.

  The former Iron
Man flushed and went rigid. His purse mouth spluttered, as he said, ‘Mind your own businesses, Marty boy.’

  ‘Straight up, Troy, your own blinkin private life an’t no interest of mine, only what the fart in Marks were you doing prancing around on that bloomin mattress? No bullshit, giving those fuckin little extremists some pocket money?’ Gorran asked, with a marvelling expression of incredulity. He drew a shape with a fresh cigarette, much as a gymnast might twirl a ribbon.

  ‘Keep to yer moosic, Marty boy. Nobody tells me what to do wiv money.’

  ‘No bullshit Troy, I’m more concerned what you did with our fucking money. Straight up, not who you’re pokin’ up the blimmin bum in the comfort of your own bloomin home,’ the pop mogul argued. He gave a wince at the distinction.

  ‘It’s payback time,’ Steve flatly explained.

  ‘Pay back? What’s that mean, Dick ed?’

  I began to wonder if Fenton had watched the Death Wish series: personally I’d walked out while I still had the chance.

  ‘Right, definitely, pay back our blinkin money, Troy mate.’

  There was a lot of snuffling, menacing, breathing. ‘Your money, dick ed?’

  ‘Right, definitely, Troy mate, it would be our money,’ Marty confirmed, exposing his large teeth encouragingly. ‘Last time I blinkin checked it was.’

  ‘What’d I want with a poxy five hundred quid?’

  ‘We’ve got a full set of your video nasties,’ Fenton said, staring coldly.

  ‘Leave it out wanker, or I’ll flatten your fuckin ed, ‘til your fuckin ears stick together,’ Troy warned. ‘I’ll twist your ugly face ‘til you’re looking at your own fuckin arsehole.’ He revealed his sharp little fangs, giving a demonstration of the action with his hands.

  ‘Any time after closing,’ Fenton insisted.

  ‘Any more shite from you, dick ed, and you’ll be blowing bubbles in a block of fuckin concrete,’ Junior Crock warned.

  ‘Right definitely, Troy mate, we don’t want to get under your bloomin feet or anything. Only, straight up, but did you tell your missus about these other blinkin hobbies of yours?’ Gorran asked. He grinned amiably as he enjoyed his smoke.

  ‘Leave my missus art of this, Marty boy.’

  ‘Straight up, what’s she gonna say, if she blinkin discovers you’ve been making all these fucking blue movies on her own bloomin Slumperland? Fair play, Troy mate, while her blinkin back’s turned and she’s orf down the fucking shopping centre, sipping those blinkin cold spritzers, with all those bloomin pricey girlfriends of hers?’ Marty suggested. He hunched up his narrow shoulders in the fluffy orange jumper.

  ‘She ain’t interested in the movie business,’ Crock insisted.

  ‘She’s interested in your credits,’ Fenton suggested.

  I gave an uneasy shuffle. ‘How long have you been involved with local fascists?’ I asked.

  ‘What’s that? Fuck off, gimp face,’ Troy told me. He threw some more spirit on to the flames.

  ‘Right, definitely Troy, we just popped by to say hello and get some fucking advice. Fair play, then we’ll be out of your leisure centre faster than your best greyhound with a fucking bazooka up its blinkin arse,’ Marty promised. The wide smile betrayed some insecurity.

  ‘Just sign us a cheque. For the full amount,’ Fenton told him. ‘Make sure it don’t bounce neither.’

  ‘You’ll bounce dick ed. I’ll shove your ed through one of my fuckin fruit machines. Then I’ll pull art your fuckin tongue and pick the change out of your fuckin marth.’ Troy Boy jerked a forefinger towards Fenton.

  ‘How do you know Mick Dove?’ I asked, shuffling.

  ‘Where’d you get this streak a piss, Marty? Outa fuckin Bernardo’s?’ He leered with malice. ‘Or was it Battersea?’

  ‘You want to take this outside?’ Steve suggested, straightening up.

  ‘I’ll put you in a fuckin skip, dick ed.’

  ‘Right, definitely, let’s leave out the blinkin handbags, how did you get bloomin mixed up with that dodgy fucking suede head in the first place, Troy?’ Marty asked. He tried to arrange his mouth into a more comfortable shape.

  But overall Gorran relaxed into a friendlier body language. The clink of glasses, sociable chatter and aroma of tobacco always softened the edges.

  ‘They does well all over Europe, my sexy vids.’ Any revenue stream cheered him up.

  ‘Right, definitely, but what’s the blinkin world coming to, Troy mate. No bullshit, and you film everything on blinkin super eight and put the dirty movies into the safe above your other half’s blinkin head?’ the pop mogul said.

  ‘What you doin messin wiv my private life, Marty boy?’ He desperately tried to loosen his tracksuit top.

  ‘Straight up Troy mate, why d’you get blinkin involved with this horrible Mick Dove character. No bullshit, and let him fucking blackmail you into the bargain?’ Gorran said.

  He wasn’t called Hercules Poirot for nothing.

  ‘Like I said, Marty boy, we all make mistakes,’ Troy regretted. ‘Ask me dad.’

  ‘Right, definitely Troy mate, but what the pig in a fucking tutu were you up to nosing about in our bloomin office and nicking the money from your own strong box?’

  The thug seemed regretful. ‘Dove boy got your five hundred quid now. It’s moved on, Marty boy.’

  ‘Dove got new equipment for his band,’ I pointed out.

  Marty’s diplomatic grin was under severe pressure.

  Troy Boy removed a pressing crick from his neck. ‘I told yer. Nuffin to do wiv me. Dove’s got yer loot.’

  At this point Fenton went to make a move on the leisure centre boss.

  ‘I wouldn’t advise that dick ed. My lads’ll tread over your face ‘til it’s just a bit of fuckin coc’nut mattin. Dunt even think abart it. Unless you want a buncha little girls in fuckin leotards treadin all over your ugly fuckin mug.’

  ‘Right, definitely Troy mate, but you’ve gone and left me out of blinkin pocket now,’ Gorran objected. ‘Straight up, what are we going to do about these bloomin bands of mine that need to enter the Battle of the Bands competition?’

  ‘Now, if you lads dunt mind,’ Crock suggested. Hands flat on the table before him, Troy eased his buttocks from the sofa. With sweat breaking out, he hauled himself back to a vertical, cushioned by pricey sneakers. ‘Yeah lads, I’ve got me treadmills to shift. Some of us as got businesses to run,’ he implied. He slunk off, arms and legs stuck out at big angles. There was just a contemptuous backward glance.

  We faced a difficult situation - not only from the fitness fascists. Blackmailing Troy could have been an option, except that such dirty tactics was not Marty’s style. His taste in music was more likely to get middle of the road.

  We never did get to the bottom of it, so to speak.

  33. Preparations for Battle

  Official ‘Battle’ posters and leaflets began to appear around town, produced by order of a sub-sub-committee of the council’s Leisure team. Like jelly hurled at a kids’ party, the council was chucking rate payers’ money at the youth vote.

  Marty Gorran’s printing machines were punching away like the Royal Mint. Using flat bed and screen printing methods Marty experimented with typesets, hand lettering, combinations of colours, patterns and production techniques. There was no doubting his craft.

  I always loved the atmosphere of Gorran’s bare bricked workshop; the thick, sharp smells of paints, inks, glues, paper and spirits; the packed-full higgledy piggledy cupboards and shelves.

  ‘Gord elp us Bottle, just keep your blinkin fingers still while I pour out this bloomin paint, will you?’ he scalded.

  I was assisting him at the wonderful, yet simple mechanics of a wooden screen-print machine. Of the S&M crowd I was the most interested and, usually, had enough patience with the proces
s.

  That particular evening, I recall, an unrelated controversy developed between us. This was a result of Nulton & Duncehead FM inviting Marty on to Barry Dazzle’s popular evening Traffic Jam Show. They wanted him to chat to about the forthcoming Battle of the Bands competition and the chances of his S&M groups. Gorran had accepted the invitation, even though he hated the show and derided the choice of music, which was MOR as cats’ eyes.

  ‘Aren’t you worried about selling out?’ I wondered.

  ‘Right, definitely Bottle, before you get on your blinkin music critic’s high horse again. Fair play, just you concentrate on getting some interesting quotes from these bloomin local bands of ours,’ he advised. ‘Most of em can’t remember their own blinkin address.’

  Dismissing my quibbles, Marty concentrated on the mechanics of printing. He’d got patches of colour into the squiggles of his puffy hair.

  ‘Yeah, right, Marty, but Barry Dazzle? What interest does he have in punk or Mortal Wound?’

  ‘Straight up, Motown wasn’t built in a day and Sun Studio didn’t get a blinkin reputation inside a week. Sam and Johnny had to iron out a few bloomin molehills before they could walk the blinkin line.’

  ‘It’s all publicity,’ I agreed.

  ‘Hold that bloomin paper still while I’m pouring. All blinkin smudged like Gina’s makeup,’ he complained drolly.

  I improved my concentration, steadied my grip. ‘All the same, Marty, I don’t see where the money’s coming from, after the five hundred was stolen. How can you get around that?’ I argued.

  ‘Right, definitely Bottle, and who put all those fucking ants in your blinkin trousers tonight?’ he objected.

  ‘What’s the point doing all this work... if we don’t have money to enter the bands?’

  ‘Fair play, even Harvey blinkin Goldsmith had a few money troubles along the way to mega success,’ Gorran argued.

  ‘I still don’t get you,’ I admitted.

  ‘Because, fair play, I already went and solved the problem with our stolen five hundred quid,’ Gorran said. He gave a celebratory smile as he let this slip.