So as usual, Miss Millachip saved Neil’s arse with her incomprehensible arguments. By the time she’d worn down the head and the deputy head, Neil just had detention for a month, which was fine by him because it gave him a chance to get his homework done quicker. What’s more, because it was an act of wanton destruction as opposed to plain weirdness, Neil became pretty cool in school after that, for about five minutes. Not that he seemed to care either way. I think he did a bit, though, and little did he know it, but that time, very early spring, that little window when people didn’t all think that Neil was a total monger, was probably another golden age in itself. The golden age of Neil. It hardly lasted any time at all.
In fact, it was a great time for all of us. Why? Well, the first thing was, we nearly all had girlfriends. Neil didn’t obviously, and Ben didn’t either, much to his frustration, but Thomas already had Jenny, and a load of the other boys in the gang had girls too. Including me and Jase. We all paired off pretty much simultaneously. I mean, not with each other, with girls. What happened was the youth club closed. That was pretty tragic, but also quite funny. Some of the older kids from sixth-form college were turning up pissed and stoned and just going crazy on church property, uprooting flowers from the garden and stuff, eating them, standing on the bench that was in memory of a dead old lady and jumping off, really crazy shit. Anyway, the church caretaker saw them and got in a right strop. Consequently the young Christians were told they had to close down their little youth club. When they rounded us all up and told us, with stony, defeated expressions on their faces, it felt like a kick in the gut, but at the same time, you really had to try hard not to laugh. They were just so wimpy. If they’d had any guts they would have come down on the troublemakers and stood up to the church people. They just needed some faith in what they were doing. Real faith, I mean. Not the airy-fairy kind where you believe in angels, but the type of faith that gets things done because you know that’s how things have to be. But they didn’t have it, so it all fell in a heap and they just had to tell us that they’d been bollocked and it was all over. So we were kind of laughing about it afterwards in the last hour of the very last night of the youth club, but on the other hand we were gutted because the youth club was the centre of everything. What were we going to do without it? We’d have nowhere to meet, and we’d actually have to phone each other up and organise stuff for ourselves now just to see girls, and that was going to be a fucking hassle.
And I think it was that realisation which caused the mass pairing that occurred that night. All of us had various crushes but without the youth club, there was no way we could bide our time, knowing that there’d always be another week to make our move. Because now there wasn’t. It was now or never. Some of us, like Ben, and no doubt all the mongers, realised this but didn’t have the guts to do anything about it, so their desires went unfulfilled. As to some of the others, well, the Horned Gods had actually stopped going some weeks previously, as they had decided the youth club was ‘lame’, but more likely because they refused to stop being metallers and lost all their girls to us born-again grungers and indie-kids like Damien. Yes, I’m afraid I had a lumberjack shirt too by this time. And Neil, God knows what was going through Neil’s mind about girls. All I know is he didn’t make a move on anybody back then. Maybe he didn’t know how to. Actually, he probably could have done at that point and no one would have found it weird, because despite Jenny’s efforts, thanks to the work-experience incident he was pretty popular. I just don’t think he knew that. As for the rest of us, in that hour, that last hour, well, we all moved in on our targets. Some girls even had to deal with more than one boy, and so needed to decide which one was closer to the mongers in the social hierarchy and then go out with the other one. But I got mine.
Her name was Hannah. She was pretty, nice doll features. Short, straight, nearly black hair. People used to think it was dyed but it wasn’t. Big tits actually. I think I liked her. More than all the grls before, certainly. I definitely enjoyed her company, a little bit. But more than that, I knew I had to lose my virginity quite soon, and I thought it ought to be with her as she actually gave me the horn. I was looking forward to it, pretty much. But there wasn’t too much of a hurry as I didn’t turn sixteen until June.
For Jase things were a bit more urgent. He’d been sixteen since November. He definitely needed to be doing it in a hurry. And boy, did he pick a good bet. Kate was, well, horny, in a word. She was a sixth-form girl, which was very impressive in itself, but you just had to look at her and the way she moved and talked, and see the slightly crazy look in her eyes, to know that she loved to do it and she’d done it loads. Several of the sixth-form boys said they’d shagged her, either when they went out with her for a week or just when they popped round her house in the afternoon in a free period. Oh yeah, she’d relieve Jase of his burden, all right. Only problem was, everyone figured she’d break his heart in the process. He really liked her, I mean, really liked her, but she never seemed to go out with anyone for very long. But in the meantime, at the end of that hour, we all watched them skip down the street together hand in hand, her in her high-heeled boots and denims, red hair blowing behind her, him in his lumberjack shirt and townie trainers, and we figured she’d be doing him a favour soon enough.
We were right. Next day, at band practice Jase told us all that they’d gone down by the lock-up garages, where he’d fingered her and she’d sucked his dick. He said it was pretty bloody lovely, and kept on licking his fingers. This was momentous. One of us had done it, more or less. The first crack in the castle walls of our collective virginity had appeared. It was now much more exciting than it had ever been, what with the multiple pairings of the previous night. But for those without an outlet, it was all a lot more scary. That they’d be left behind. ‘How long did it take – three seconds?’ said Ben, very, very grumpily.
‘No, half an hour, easy,’ said Jase, blissfully not caring about taunts from such an obvious virgin.
Thomas said nothing. He just picked up my guitar and started strumming a chord sequence. ‘Neil,’ he said, finally, ‘I’ve got these chords. Do you want to write some words for them?’
‘Uh, yeah, sure,’ said Neil. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Anything at all,’ said Thomas. ‘Just don’t make them too gay like Morrissey or any of that homosexual stuff you listen to.’
‘OK,’ said Neil. ‘I’ll try and only use words known to be heterosexual in character.’
‘That’s my boy,’ said Thomas, at a stroke neatly depriving Jase of his newly earned phallic power, at least within the band.
In life outside, there was little he could do about it. Jase had had his dick sucked; he hadn’t. Simple as that. And he had always let Jase get away with stuff no one else could. But as for the rest of us in the gang, I don’t know how he did it, but somehow, by some strange subliminal signal or maybe even mind control, it was made very clear that none of us would be getting even a handjob, let alone losing our virginity, until Thomas had. And seeing as Jenny was planning to hold out until at least August, that was a very depressing thought indeed. But, nevertheless, we all went along with it. We all had our hot new girlfriends, and our balls were the size of grapefruits, but we just wouldn’t cross that line. We would honour Thomas’s authority by staying pure. Not that we were saying that to each other out loud, but we all knew it was true. Somehow, he meant more to us than our girlfriends. We wanted to be true to him, we really did. But how long could anyone hold out?
Mind you, I was taking things slowly with Hannah. Way I liked it, to be honest. Just went round her house after school. Or she’d come round mine. We’d meet each other’s parents. Watch Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves on video. All very sweet, all very innocent. Then afterwards I’d wank myself off like crazy.
The next week, at the practice session, after Jase had finally finished telling us how much sex he’d been having with Kate, and all the mysterious acts and positions he was now intimately familiar
with, Neil got out a neatly folded sheet of lined paper and handed it to Thomas. ‘I’ve written some words for you,’ said Neil. ‘I hope they’re sufficiently heterosexual. It’s called “Town to Town”.’
‘Let’s have a shufti,’ said Thomas, scanning them with his beady eyes through his jam jars.
He mouthed the words as he read. Then he was silent. And looked up. He pinned Neil with his gaze. A smile broke out on his lips. ‘These are absolutely fucking brilliant,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ said Neil.
‘Can I see?’ said Jase, reaching his hand out for the sheet. ‘Oh my God, these are fucking amazing!’ he said loudly, over and over, as he read them.
‘Yeah, they’re pretty good,’ said Ben, grudgingly, once they were passed to him.
Finally, they made their way to me. This is what they said.
It crossed the Atlantic in an aeroplane
It’s driven all of New York and Boston insane
It’s half a disease
And half a dance craze
It’s been around for ever
It’s the latest phase
And it’s moving from
Town to town
Town
To
Town
And it takes you
On a magical trip
And it shakes you
When you’re in its grip
Then it breaks you
And it gives you the slip
But it’s taken you over
It’s from the Earth’s core but also from Mars
When it speaks to your soul you can speak to the stars
It’s your own best enemy
Your very worst friend
And if it’s yours to keep
Then it’s yours to lend
And it’s moving from
Town to town
Town
To
Town
I mean, they are pretty good, aren’t they? For a fifteen-year-old, anyway. Actually, he would have been sixteen by then because Neil was one of those weird people who have their birthdays on Christmas Day. Anyway, those lyrics have stuck in my mind all these years, so they must have something to them. ‘Yeah, these are good,’ I said, finally saying that about something Neil had done and meaning it.
We were all happy, in that moment. I have to admit, it was a lot more fun with Neil in the band, even though we didn’t have a clue what was going on most of the time. Sometimes I wonder: even now, in their quieter moments, do the rest of them look back on that time and realise how good it was? I like to think so. And as I unravel the threads, I can see now that was when all our golden ages met. Ours, the band’s, Neil’s, mine. And by the same time the following week – although it would take Neil a painfully long time to realise it, and maybe even longer for the rest of us, far, far too long – it would be over. The golden ages would begin to die, and no others would take their place.
19
‘Oi! Hurry,’ Thomas shouted to me from the grass verge. Morning break, Wednesday.
‘All right, Thomas,’ I said. ‘What’s up?’
‘We’ve got a gig.’
‘Fuck me!’
‘Well, thanks for the offer, but no. I’m not that way inclined, unlike you.’
‘Where?’
‘Just in the social club my dad goes to. Said we could play twenty minutes if we brought loads of our friends.’
‘Well, we can do that. When is it, anyway?’
‘Uh, August the first.’
‘Cool.’
‘Only thing is, they need a name to put on the entertainment list. Our band doesn’t have a name.’
He was right. We didn’t. And up until that point it had never occurred to us to think of one. At least not to admit to thinking of one out loud.
‘Right,’ said Thomas. ‘So we’re going to have a band meeting in the bike shed to decide a name. We need one by tonight, my dad said. If you see Neil, tell him, yeah?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘OK, twelve forty in the bike shed, then. And don’t try and feel me up!’
I found Neil in the art room, talking about Andy Warhol to some swot who’d just done an overly intricate drawing of a church for his GCSE coursework. Neil was going on about democratic art and photocopying or something, while the swot, smug expression on his face, started making a dickhead motion from his forehead, copyright Jasper Carrott. I took that as the moment to get Neil’s attention.
‘Neil,’ I said, ‘two things, both of them quite exciting. Firstly, we’ve got a gig.’
‘Excellent,’ he said, his eyes lighting up.
‘I’ll tell you about that in a minute, but also we’ve got to think up a band name. We need to do it quickly, so there’s going to be a band meeting in the bike shed this lunchtime. You’re going to be there, yeah?’
‘Of course,’ said Neil. ‘Do you want me to bring some suggestions?’
‘It would be an idea,’ I said.
‘I’ve got quite a few,’ he said, ‘but I’m particularly fond of just one. It’s—’
‘Right. Well, save it for the band meeting, yeah? Then we can hear everybody’s ideas and decide on the best one.’
Of course, I knew that the best one would be Neil’s.
I gave Neil the details and left him to it. Naturally, he was already waiting in the bike sheds when we all got there about five minutes late.
‘I’ve made a list,’ he said, before any greetings could be exchanged. He had in his hand another of his neatly folded pieces of lined paper.
‘Yeah, well, I’ve got some ideas too,’ said Ben. ‘One, anyway.’
‘What’s that, then?’ said Thomas.
‘I’m not going to tell you if you’re going to take the piss.’
‘We won’t take the piss. Actually, we might do if it’s crap,’ said Thomas. ‘But spit it out anyway. Or don’t. I don’t care really.’
‘All right then, I’ll tell you. Well, it’s … Motörhead II.’
‘What?’ said Thomas.
‘Like Motörhead, but we’re a new version of them, like a sequel. So, we’re Motörhead II.’
‘That’s so fucking shit, it’s unbelievable,’ said Thomas.
‘It’s not shit, you know,’ said Ben. ‘It’s fucking good.’
‘No, Ben, it really isn’t,’ I had to say.
‘Fucking well is,’ he said, under his breath.
‘What about you, Hurry, you got any ideas?’ said Thomas.
‘No, sorry,’ I said.
‘Jason?’
‘Yes I do, actually.’
‘What’s that, then?’
‘Guns N’ Roses II.’
‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding.’
‘Yeah, I am.’
‘Thank fuck for that.’
‘Fucking hilarious,’ grumbled Ben.
‘Right, what have you got then, Neil?’
‘I’ve got a list.’
‘Yes, we know that, but what’s on it?’
‘Well, first one I’ve got is … the Garden Party.’
‘Sounds fucking queer. No.’
‘OK, how about … Unlimited Dream Company.’
‘No.’
‘The Corridor People.’
‘That sounds queer too.’
‘Why?’
‘Just does. Next.’
‘All That’s Solid Melts into Air.’
‘You what?’
‘It’s a quote from Karl Marx.’
‘Fuck off. What’s next?’
‘Piss Christ.’
‘I like it,’ said Ben.
‘I don’t,’ said Thomas. ‘Next.’
‘Well,’ said Neil, ‘I’ve only got one more. I just put it down as an afterthought, really. It’s not very good.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s … well, it’s really not very good.’
‘We’ll be the judge of that,’ said Thomas, ‘or I will, anyway. What is it?’
‘It’s �
�’ said Neil in a low, nearly mumbled voice, ‘Animal Magnets.’
‘Say again?’
‘It’s, ah, Animal Magnets. You know, like animal magnetism. If you can have animal magnetism, then you should be able to have … animal magnets. I said it wasn’t very good.’
‘I like it!’ said Thomas.
‘Me too!’ said Jase.
‘Yeah, it’s … good,’ I piped up, having no idea whether it was good or not, truth be told.
‘It’s all right, I s’pose,’ muttered Ben.
‘Yeah, well, it’s better than fucking Motörhead II, eh, Ben?’ said Thomas.
‘Fuck off,’ said Ben.
‘Ah, fuck yourself, you moany old fucker. Right, Animal Magnets it is, then!’
As usual, we agreed to meet at Neil’s for our weekly practice on Saturday. How or why his neighbours put up with it, I’ll never know. I mean, we were fucking loud, especially Neil with his synthesiser distorting through that bass amp.
And sure enough, that Saturday, there we were, playing away at our first practice as a band with a name. Not only that, as a band with a gig. We were working on ‘Town to Town’, Neil and Thomas’s song. It was coming on pretty well. I’d just about got the hang of the chords, and Ben had written the beginnings of a lead part. Jase was being suspiciously slow coming up with a decent drum pattern, but even so, one was emerging. We’d been through it about seven times, including a couple of false starts, when, during the inescapable and painfully long clatter that marked the end of every song we ever played, the result of Jase making his way round his kit umpteen times, Thomas’s raised voice could be heard.
‘Shut! Up!’ he shouted at Jase, which he finally did once Thomas started to make his way over to the drum kit, punching his palm.
‘Listen,’ Thomas said.
Flying Saucer Rock & Roll Page 12
