“Fucking cunts,” Brian said. “You should’ve taken it to court.”
“Yeah well, couldn’t afford it, could I? So anyway, how the fuck did you get here, then?”
“I’m in the same retirement home as Steve Snitch. Couldn’t fucking believe it when Biffo Ratbastard turned up, I thought I must be fucking dreaming or something. Anyway, it turned out I wasn’t, so when Biffo said they were playing a gig here I hitched a ride over with them.” Brian gestured at the old woman by his side. “This is my bird, Brenda, by the way. She came too.”
Brenda smiled. “All right, Colin? Brian’s told me all about what you and him used to get up to when you was young.”
“Yeah,” Colin said, smiling at Brian, “they were fucking good times. Well come on in then, grab a seat and I’ll get you a beer. You look fucking knackered, mate.” Colin turned and gestured for Dave Turner to come over. “This is my mate Bri from the olden days,” he said when Dave joined them and asked what was up.
“All right,” Dave said. “So you’re the famous Bri then, yeah?”
“Dave,” Colin said, “can you check with Biffo if they’ve finished getting all their stuff in yet, and if they have can you go and lock the gate up?”
Dave nodded. “Yeah, will do.”
“Then shut these doors, it’s fucking freezing out tonight.”
Colin led Brian and Brenda into the lounge. Brenda nodded her head in time to a UK Subs song as she walked by Brian’s side. Colin saw Steve Snitch had set up a merchandise stall on the games table, and headed toward it. Louise Brown was already there, and swayed from side to side as she stared down at the merchandise. In her hand she held an almost-empty bottle of beer. She turned and lifted the bottle to her mouth just as Colin arrived.
“Colin, Colin, my old fucking mate, my old mucker,” Louise said. She swung an arm around Colin’s waist and stumbled. Colin reached out for the games table to steady himself when she lurched against him. “They brung some stuff with them, Colin, look. Look at all the stuff they brung.” She held up a hand and wiggled her fingers through a fingerless black studded glove with a blood-red Sick Bastard logo printed on the back. “Look what I got, aren’t they fucking great?”
Colin nodded. “Yeah, they look good.” He picked up a Sick Bastard thermal vest and showed it to Brian. “Fucking smart or what? Just the job for cold winters.”
Colin took out his entoPAD and bought the vest, then stuffed it down the back of his trousers, with Sick Bastard’s logo hanging down like a bum-flap. Brenda bought an Old Fuckers With Attitude red woollen hat and pulled it down over her ears. Brian eyed up a pair of Sick Bastard slippers and complained to Steve Snitch about how much he was asking for them. When Steve wouldn’t budge on price, Brenda paid for the slippers with her own entoPAD, then knelt down to help Brian put them on. She tossed his standard-issue retirement home plain brown slippers under the table.
Over by the drum kit, Biffo Ratbastard threaded audio cables along the back wall. He fixed them in place with a roll of gaffer tape from which he tore off strips with his teeth. The cables led to a small mixing board resting on the arm of Fiona Scott’s chair in front of the lounge door. Fiona was asleep, her head slumped to one side, oblivious to the thumps and bangs from the other side of the door. Fungal Matters sat behind his drum kit, and took a swig from a bottle of beer. His dog roamed the lounge, sniffing the legs of each resident in turn. Mike Hock stood by the pallet of beer with his bass guitar slung over his shoulder. He watched Biffo while he drank.
A Chaos UK song that had just started playing was silenced when Biffo pulled the speaker cable out of Dave’s entoPAD. There was a loud electrical pop when he plugged it into a coupler attached to another cable that led to the mixing board.
Someone outside the lounge thumped on the door and shouted “Open this door, it’s time for your medication.”
Colin sighed. “I’d best go and talk to him before he calls the fucking coppers.”
“You’re not going to let him in, are you?” Louise asked. Her voice slurred, and she stared at him with her head cocked to one side.
“Am I fuck.”
Biffo tapped his finger on the microphone’s wire-mesh head. The sound echoed through the speakers as a dull, metallic thud. “Oi,” he shouted into the microphone, “Snitchy and Cocky, get your arses over here.”
“Hello?” Colin shouted through the lounge door. “Is someone there?”
“Well it’s about time, I’ve been banging on this door for nearly an hour, why didn’t you answer before?”
“Didn’t hear you, we had the music on.”
“Why won’t this door open?”
“Are you new?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Sometimes the door sticks a bit, I’ll try it from this end.” Colin reached behind Fiona Scott’s armchair and rattled the door handle. “It won’t seem to turn, it must be broken inside.”
“Well what am I supposed to do then? It says on my job sheet you need to have your medication now, and I can’t find the manager anywhere.”
Steve Snitch’s de-tuned guitar blasted out of the speakers, soon followed by Mike Hock’s bass. Fungal Matters joined in on drums, all three seemingly playing a different song. Steve shouted “Oi, oi, oi, oi, oi,” repeatedly into the microphone.
“Sorry, I can’t hear you,” Colin shouted through the door. “Someone’s put the music back on.”
Biffo Ratbastard walked over to Fiona Scott’s armchair and twiddled sliders on the mixing board resting on one of the arms. He walked into the centre of the lounge and stood listening for a few seconds, then returned to the mixing board and made some more adjustments. Seemingly satisfied with the overall sound after another trip to the centre of the lounge, he walked up to the microphone and gently pushed Steve Snitch out of the way.
Steve and Mike Hock stopped playing, Fungal Matters continued thrashing his drums for a few more seconds, then stopped. Fungal felt around on the floor for a bottle of beer he had placed there, and took a long drink. Biffo fine-tuned the angle of the microphone and looked around the lounge with a sneer.
“Right then, you cunts, time to get out of those fucking armchairs. Let’s fucking have it. State Pension. One two three four.”
A blast of feedback howled from Steve’s guitar and mutated into a two-chord riff. Mike’s bass gave out a low, rumbling dum dum dum dum, the same note over and over again. Steve stood in a Ramones stance, his legs far apart, his dreadlocks flying in all directions as he nodded and shook his head to Fungal’s fast drum beat. Mike stood still, concentrating on his playing as the bass-line got more intricate. Biffo gripped the microphone stand in both hands and shouted the opening lyrics.
Colin felt a cold shiver down his spine, the music flowing through him and reminding him of good times. His shoulders twitched, his left hand thumped against the side of his leg. He leaned on his walking stick and tapped his foot, shouted along with Biffo at the chorus.
“State pension, state pension, state pension, give us back our, state pension, state pension, state pension.”
Louise twirled around slowly, her arms swinging. She shuffled out of her mohair cardigan and tossed it to one side. Brian inched his way across the lounge toward the band, his head bobbing, a wide grin on his face. Brenda walked by his side, keeping pace with him.
“Come on, you fuckers, you’re not dead yet,” Biffo shouted, “get up and fucking dance.”
Colin hobbled closer to the band. Brian stood a few feet away from Louise, just out of reach of her flailing arms. Brian pushed down on the top of his walking frame and stretched himself up onto his toes, then dropped down again, repeatedly bobbing up and down in an old man’s pogo. Brenda punched the air by his side.
A few other residents took their lead and climbed out of their armchairs. Sharon Baker stood up and bent over. She clasped her hands together and swung her shoulders, twitched her feet. Greg Lomax remained seated. His head nodded, his right hand thumped down on the arm of h
is chair in time to the music. Fiona Scott woke up mid-way through the song and rubbed her eyes. She looked around, gaped at the band, and pushed herself onto her feet to join the dancers.
Colin brushed shoulders with Brian, being careful not to unbalance him. Brian raised a shaking hand from his walking frame and prodded Colin in the chest with a bony finger. Everyone was smiling, even Frank Sterner, who usually clapped his hands over his ears every time he heard music recorded after 1979. The retirement home’s lounge buzzed with excitement the likes of which Colin hadn’t seen in all the time he had lived there.
The song ended with a screech from Steve Snitch’s guitar and a scream from Biffo Ratbastard. Everyone paused, took a panting breath while they rested. Biffo picked up a bottle and took a quick drink. He glared at the people still sitting in their armchairs.
“This is from our last album, Old Fuckers With Attitude,” Biffo said. “It’s called Not Dead Yet, and all you cunts who are still sitting down need to remember that. Come on, you lazy bastards, one two three four.”
* * *
Biffo Ratbastard glanced behind him at Fungal Matters while the band played a short instrumental between verses. The poor old sod’s face had turned purple keeping up with the machine-gun beat of the song, and Biffo feared for the man’s heart. Sick Bastard’s last drummer, Peter Vile, had suffered his first heart attack during a practice session, and it was only the quick intervention of Mike Hock that had kept him alive long enough for the ambulance to arrive. Biffo hoped history wasn’t about to repeat itself. He turned back to the microphone in time for the next verse.
“You’re all living in a fucking dream state,” Biffo shouted, “you need to fucking wake up before it’s too late. Beat the politicians at their own game, kill the bastards, it’s time to take aim. Pick a side, but make sure it’s the right one. That’s the only way this war will be won.”
Dozens of wrinkled, bony fists punched the air before him. The woman with the spiked up blue hair flailed her arms wildly and sang along with every word. Biffo ripped the microphone from its stand and clutched it in both hands. He bent over and screamed the chorus.
“War on poverty, war on hope. They take away our money so we just can’t cope. War on terror, just an excuse. War on poverty, it’s time to fucking choose.”
Steve Snitch and Mike Hock stopped playing and the drum beat slowed. Biffo’s repeat of the chorus slowed to a chant. Steve and Mike clapped their hands over their heads. Everyone in the audience, even those who still remained seated, clapped and chanted along.
“War on poverty. War on hope. They take away our money. So we just can’t cope. War on terror. Just an excuse. War on poverty. It’s time to fucking choose.”
“Thanks,” Biffo said to a smattering of applause. “Fucking true that, too,” he added. He turned to check on Fungal. The drummer lay slumped over his bass drum, his naked back slick with sweat. Biffo propped the microphone back on its stand and rushed over. He grabbed Fungal’s shoulder and shook him.
“What?” Fungal asked.
“Fucking hell mate, I thought you was dead for a minute there.”
“Nah, just fucking knackered.”
“You okay to carry on, or do you want to call it a night?”
“Give me a few minutes to get my breath back and I’ll carry on.”
“Good man,” Biffo said. He patted Fungal on the back. “You’re doing a fucking great job.”
Biffo turned back to the audience. They were getting restless at the long delay between songs, mumbling to each other. Someone shouted “Get on with it, you cunts.” Steve Snitch plucked out the opening notes to Ding Dong the Fucking Bitch is Dead and was met with a roar of approval. Biffo walked up to the microphone. He held out his hands, palms facing the audience. He smiled and nodded.
“All right, all right, we’ll do the fucking Thatcher song.” The audience cheered. “But it’ll need to be the fucking acoustic version while Fungal takes a rest. Feel free to join in if you know the words, yeah?”
They knew the words, all right. Every wrinkled face in the audience sang along, their angry shouts almost drowning out Steve’s wailing guitar. Fists were raised and punched the air, slippered feet pounded against the carpet. Loose floorboards bounced. Thatcher crowd-surfed toward Biffo, helped on her way with fists that tumbled her over and over. When she came close enough Biffo grabbed her and shook her. He closed his arm around her neck and held her in a headlock while he sang.
“Ding dong, you’re fucking dead, we’re all happy cause now you’re dead, ding dong you’re fucking dead at last. You’ve gone straight to fucking hell, so get down there and fucking yell, get down there and give the devil head.”
Phlegm flew through the air and splattered into Thatcher’s face. A sticky brown glob dripped from a blood-shot eye and crawled down her pointy nose like a squashed slug. Biffo caught a few splashes himself, but he didn’t care. This was what he had been missing all those years since the band split up. That unique surge of adrenalin you only ever get when you’re in front of an appreciative audience.
Biffo lifted Thatcher above his head and hurled her away from him. Fists rose up to meet her, batted her in all directions. Someone grabbed her leg and pulled her to the ground. Everyone surged around her, kicked out with slippered feet, bashed her in the face with walking sticks, stamped on her body with the legs of walking frames.
Biffo couldn’t resist joining them. He pushed his way through the crowd around Thatcher and kicked out at her. Steve Snitch took up the vocal duties in his absence, but screams of “Fucking bitch,” “You fucking evil cunt,” “Die you fucking bitch,” and similar war cries from everyone around Thatcher drowned him out.
Thatcher writhed and squirmed beneath their blows. She lurched up when she was stamped on. A kick to the face sent her back down. Someone raised a walking stick and jabbed down on her neck. Thatcher hissed like an angry lizard and turned her head to one side. Her outstretched arms drooped, her body became flaccid. Slippered feet dug into her with a whump, making her judder and shake as she shrivelled away.
Biffo squeezed his way out of the crowd and returned to the microphone. Fungal Matters seemed to have recovered, his face no longer the colour of beetroot. Biffo nodded to him, then realised it was a pointless thing to do. Biffo picked up a beer bottle and took a long drink. He poured beer onto the palm of his hand and rubbed it over his head and face, then lifted his shirt and wiped it off. He looked out at the audience. They were still huddled around Thatcher, kicking and stamping on her.
“Money-Grabbing Bastard Politicians,” Biffo shouted into the microphone.
Fungal took up the drum beat, a slow, thump thump thump on the bass drum, gradually speeding up when Mike’s bass guitar joined in, and turning into an all-out thrash from the first discordant wail from Steve’s lead guitar.
Thatcher was forgotten, stamped flat beneath the audience’s angry feet. They turned back to Biffo, their anger now directed at all those who had taken Thatcher’s place in the halls of power. Their greed, corruption and self serving that continued Thatcher’s legacy right up to the present day, pushing ordinary working class people further and further into poverty while the politicians lined their own pockets and secured their own gold-plated future.
Biffo screamed the words and beat his fists by his sides. Steve Snitch stood close by, thrashing his head from side to side as his fingers slid up and down the guitar’s fretboard. Steve’s flying dreadlocks slapped against Biffo’s face like rancid whips. Mike Hock circled around and took up a place to Biffo’s right. Both he and Steve leaned into the microphone together and shouted the chorus along with Biffo. Steve struck up a Pete Townshend pose as the song drew to a close. He raised a hand high in the air and brought it swinging down to thrash against the guitar strings.
“Thanks,” Biffo said to the cheers that greeted the song’s end. “We’re going to have to slow it down a bit now, we’re not as young as we used to be, and you fuckers look like you could do with a r
est too.”
“Oi Biffo,” the woman with the spiked up blue hair shouted, “remember these?”
She lifted up the front of her Vice Squad T-shirt, exposing flat, deflated breasts with a pair of Exploited skulls tattooed onto them. There was one on each breast, with the woman’s nipples poking through the eye-sockets of each skull. She pulled the shirt over her head and lifted her arms, spun the shirt around in one hand.
Biffo smiled and nodded, though he had no idea who the woman was. He had a vague recollection of tattoos like those bouncing in his face somewhere in the midst of time, but couldn’t remember where or when it was.
“Well I’ve got the Vaseline if you’ve got the Viagra,” the woman shouted, and tossed the T-shirt at Biffo.
Biffo caught the shirt and wiped his face with it. The woman took a nipple between thumb and forefinger of each hand and stretched out her breasts, lifted them from her chest. She flapped them up and down, like rubbery wings.
Biffo tossed the Vice Squad T-shirt to one side. “Suits and Ties Tell You Lies,” he shouted. The woman with the blue spikes whooped and raised her hands over her head. Her breasts dropped like a pair of lead-weighted balloons when she released them, and they flopped down against her chest with a slap. “One, two, three, four,” Biffo shouted.
* * *
Colin couldn’t tear his eyes away from Louise’s breasts as they swung from side to side with the flailing of her arms. He knew from her stories that she was wild in her youth, but he never expected her to do anything like that. Not for the first time, he wished he could have known her when they were both young. Back when punk meant more than just an advertising slogan for corporations selling products to the elderly. She would have eaten him alive, he knew that, but it would have been worth it just to absorb a little bit of her energy and general don’t-give-a-fuck attitude to life.
Colin inched his way toward her, leaning on his walking stick for support. Like most of the retirement home’s residents, Colin’s energy was flagging, and all he wanted to do was slump into his armchair and sit back to watch the rest of the show. Several residents had already done so, and sat exhausted but happy in their usual armchairs. Only a few remained standing, most of those content to stand still and watch the band. Brian and Brenda stood by the French doors, cooling down from a breeze blowing through them. Dave Turner stood to Louise’s right, getting a good eyeful for himself. His arms swung by his sides, but there was little energy left in them.
Punk and Skinhead Novels Box Set Page 33
