A Belfast Child

by John Chambers

  ‘C’mon – ye know what I’m sayin’. How long have we been asking you to join us? Now here’s your moment.’

  I thought about it. I wasn’t interested in planting bombs or shooting anyone, that was for sure. It was almost inevitable that I’d join the UDA one day, and I had a half-romantic notion about taking the war to the IRA and fighting for my people, plus lots of my school friends had already joined the UDA or UVF. That said, the UDA weren’t just paramilitaries. They ran schemes for kids like me on the estate and they genuinely looked after people. And if anyone was to ever beat the hell out of me again, they’d get it back twice as brutally.

  ‘All right,’ I said, ‘consider me in.’

  ‘Good man,’ said my relative, looking pleased. The senior UDA guys would be delighted to have reeled in another one for the cause. As I mentioned, the UDA was still legal, although I had no intention of getting involved in the paramilitary side of things.

  A few days later I went down to the Shankill and met a man I knew was a senior member of the Shankill UDA. He took me down to the bottom of the Shankill overlooking Peters Hill, produced a Bible, and told me he would swear me in, there and then. I suppressed a giggle, thinking this was more like the Boy Scouts. The man saw me about to laugh and clipped me round the ear.

  ‘I think you should take this very seriously,’ he said, pointing to the Bible. ‘This is not a game, so it isn’t.’

  Immediately I straightened up and did as I was told. With bible in one hand, I repeated the words whispered furtively to me as the man looked round for anyone coming. They went something like this:

  ‘I, John Chambers, am a Protestant by birth, do swear to defend my comrades and my country by any and all means against Republicanism.

  ‘I further swear that I will never divulge any information about my comrades to anyone and I am fully aware that the penalty for such an act of treason is death. I willingly take this oath on the Holy Bible witnessed by my peers.’

  Within seconds I was a part of Ulster’s largest paramilitary force.

  ‘I, John Chambers, am a Protestant by birth . . .’ True, I guess. Except for one small technical detail – my Catholic mother, whose name and religion I never dared speak, especially to the hard man of the UDA standing right in front of me . . .

  CHAPTER 11

  M

  OD! The very word sent a thrilling shiver up my spine. I was already wearing some of the clothing that eighties Mods were fond of – boating blazers, Fred Perry shirts, Lonsdale T-shirts, badger shoes (so-called because they were striped black and white), Union Jack T-shirts and the iconic parka – a proper one – which I got in the army surplus shop in the Shankill.

  As I developed as a Mod, I started wearing sixties’ style clothes and we often visited the charity shops as they always had loads of original Mod clothes for sale. Also, my taste in music evolved and I started getting into soul and Northern Soul, spending ages trying to learn to do the soul step. I remember once trying to do this while on acid at the Delta club. It wasn’t my greatest moment, I have to say, and my cool image took a hit that night.

  I could hardly wait for the day I turned eighteen, because that was when my compensation money would arrive and I had my eye on a Vespa scooter that would turn every head on Glencairn.

  In a way, being a Mod suited my conflict of identity. My life had always been full of contradictions. I was part-Catholic, although that religion had never played a part in my life, yet I’d signed up for a Loyalist paramilitary organisation. I was a fierce Loyalist, yet a pacifist. I couldn’t envisage killing anyone. If Gerry Adams himself had walked into my line of fire I couldn’t have pulled the trigger. That kind of thing wasn’t me at all.

  Just like Jimmy, the central character in Quadrophenia, the best film about Mods ever made and the soundtrack to my Mod lifestyle, I was pulled in all directions. Who was ‘The Real Me’? Like many youngsters, then and now, I was trying on all sorts of guises to see which would fit best, but in the heated political situation of Northern Ireland in the early 1980s you needed to decide pretty damn quick whose side you were on.

  Mod gave me an identity. I loved looking cool and sharp, which did me no harm at all when it came to the girls. I found I could walk the walk and talk the talk, and I had no problem turning female heads on Glencairn and up the Shankill – anywhere pretty girls hung out. I started to spend time in the Ballysillan area, just above the Shankill, and met fellow Loyalist Mods, many of whom were also signed up to or had family in the UDA or UVF. The paramilitaries were quick to spot the growing trend and started to put on Mod nights in their clubs and shebeens. We’d turn up in our parkas, loafers, Ben Sherman shirts and Sta-Prest trousers, looking the dog’s bollocks and ready to party. We went to Friday night paramilitary-run discos in the Silverstream community centre and Ballysillan leisure centre. This is where I met Sonya, my first serious girlfriend and a fellow Mod. While most of my mates and the male population fantasised about big-boobed blondes I had always been more attracted to mixed-race girls and use to fancy the Indian squaws in the old cowboy films. Sonya was mixed-race on her dad’s side and I thought she was beautiful. We went out on and off for a while and moved in the same Mod circles for many years after we split up.

  I sneered at the mainstream fashions of the time, like heavy metal and New Romantic groups like the Human League – although secretly I liked some of their tunes. All these soppy wee boys wearing horrible sports casual gear and desperately trying to grow moustaches. And the Catholics were even worse – Jesus, which teenager in their right mind would wear a jumper and a tweed jacket? Seemingly, lots of Catholic boys did, using Martin McGuinness as some kind of style icon.

  As ever, violence was a constant companion. There were frequent running battles with skinhead gangs from Glencairn and the Shankill. They’d attend the same discos and parties as we did in the Shankill leisure centre and it would be a poor night indeed if we didn’t all have a big punch-up to round it off. Among these skinheads was a tough little character called Johnny Adair. He wasn’t big, but he made up for his lack of stature with a fearsome reputation as a fighter. He was in a band too, and was a leading light in the youth wing of the UDA. Years later he would become perhaps the most notorious Loyalist paramilitary of them all – but he has his own tales to tell of those times, so let’s leave him to his street battles and return to music, girls and clothes.

  Once there was a rumour going about for days that there would be a big battle between the Mods and skinheads taking place in Woodvale Park on the following Saturday. Everyone was talking about it and on the day me and Billy had a sniff of glue before heading up to the Woodvale Park in anticipation of the fight to come. When we got there, we couldn’t see any other Mods, but there seemed to be hundreds of skinheads. When they spotted the two of us they chased us out of the park and halfway down the Shankill. I was terrified, as if they had caught us they would have beaten us to a pulp.

  Then there were drugs. Despite the paramilitaries’ fear and loathing of anything more mood-altering than Harp or Guinness, and despite the threat of kneecapping or worse for taking them, we young Northern Irish mods took to a whole range of uppers, downers and psychedelics with the same enthusiasm as our counterparts on the mainland. And perhaps with even more enthusiasm, because if everyday life was bad in Thatcher’s England, Wales or Scotland, believe me it was five times worse in Northern Ireland. We had more to escape from than everyone else put together and if we had the chance to get out of our heads, we took it. Well, I certainly did.

  Glue was my gateway into drugs and of course I’d started sniffing with my mates while at school. Timebond was my adhesive of choice, though I didn’t mind Evo-Stik and would even resort to Bridgeport – used to fix punctures to bicycle tyres – if I was desperate. Us sniffers couldn’t get enough of the stuff and with limited funds we’d shoplift it where we could. I was once waiting for a friend outside a builder’s yard off the Shankill when I noticed a truck pull up. To my delight, I watch
ed as the delivery driver unloaded box after box of my beloved Timebond and stacked them against a warehouse wall.

  It was too good an opportunity to miss. I persuaded my cousin Pickle, who didn’t sniff glue, to help me and that night we nipped down to the builder’s yard and removed box after box of the stuff, which we took up to Glencairn and hid at Davey’s, a friend of mine who also enjoyed a good sniff. Naturally, I got high on my own supply and went off to the local park, where I lay on the grass and watched the stars drift across the heavens in their timeless dance.

  A few days of glue-bingeing and I was soon after getting hold of more solvent. I went up to Davey’s to help myself to my stash and was surprised to see a queue of kids outside his house. I joined the line and when I got to the front I was amazed to see Big Barbara, Davey’s ma, taking orders.

  ‘Hi, John,’ she said breezily, ‘how aboutcha? How many tins are ye after?’

  I couldn’t believe her cheek and demanded to see Davey right away.

  ‘What the fuck’s goin’ on here?’ I said, when he finally came down from his bedroom.

  ‘It’s her,’ he said, nodding towards his mum. ‘She’s been trying this stuff and has got right into it. She’s been dancing in the street in her knickers, and saying all sorts of bad shite to people.’

  I looked at Big Barbara. Her eyes were red and she had that glazed, hang-dog expression that goes hand-in-hand with the happy sniffer. I figured that she’d tried it, liked it and had decided to turn the rest of Glencairn on to it – at a price, of course. Cutting my losses I grabbed a few more tins of Timebond and headed off to my favourite spot to lose my mind again.

  Next came marijuana. There was a suspicion cannabis, hashish – whatever you want to call it – was only for hippies, but as this particular peace-loving subculture was rarely spotted in Belfast, we Mods thought we’d have some of it for ourselves. Philip, a Mod acquaintance from Ballysillan, had a Jack Russell terrier he’d thoughtfully named ‘Paul Weller’ and we always found it hilarious that a couple of Belfast kids like us had ‘Paul Weller’ trailing behind us wherever we went. Phil also had a sister known locally as Mad Maggie, who worked in a local butcher’s. I was round one afternoon when Maggie came home from her shift with a bag of off-cuts, mainly pig’s trotters, that her boss had given her.

  She was away on a date and ordered us to keep an eye on the trotters, which she’d put to boil on the cooker. The smell of these things was diabolical, but she was Mad Maggie and no one dared mess with her. So we did as we were told, and decided we’d get stoned in the process. We smoked joint after joint, giggling at stupid stuff in the way only stoned teenage boys can, while Paul Weller looked at us from the floor in disgust. Finally, an attack of the munchies overtook us but, as ever on Glencairn, the cupboard was bare.

  There was only one thing for it. We turned off the pan, drained the trotters and scoffed the lot – meat, marrow, hair, toenails and God knows what else. Now and then we’d throw a bit to the disgruntled Paul Weller, who hid his small share behind the bin in disgust. Obviously, he was hoping to save them for later, but when he settled down for a nap we tip-toed over him and nicked the lot. Soon after Phil and I fell into our own dreamy sleep, which I’d have enjoyed immensely had I not been awakened a few minutes later by a dog trying to lick the face off me. I shook Paul Weller off, stumbled up, washed my face of slobber and put the kettle on.

  Just then, Mad Maggie came in with her date. She took one look at me, then saw the two greasy plates on the kitchen table and the empty pan on the stove.

  ‘Jesus, Chambers,’ she said, ‘you’re looking a bit rough. Ruff-ruff . . . geddit?’

  I was still in a very hazy state and had no idea what she was getting at. ‘What’s so feckin’ funny?’ I said, watching the pair of them cracking up.

  ‘It’s youse two,’ said the boyfriend. ‘Youse’ve had the dog’s dinner, haven’t you?’

  I stared at Paul Weller, now trying to claw his way up Mad Maggie’s legs, mad with hunger. My stomach turned queasily and I thought I was going to boke.

  ‘Those have been lying about the butcher’s these last two weeks,’ Maggie said. ‘They’re only fit for himself, Paul Weller, to eat. Now youse have had them. And by the looks of it, you’re gonna be looking at yer dinner again pretty soon.’

  I needed no further warnings. Grabbing my parka I pushed past them and out of the front, staggering home via a series of discreet alleyways. I vowed it would be the last time I’d get stoned with Paul Weller.

  Then there was acid. I knew about this stuff from my deepening love of the Small Faces, who’d started out as a tight little Mod band in the mid-1960s and had gone all psychedelic towards the end of that decade. If it was good enough for them, I reckoned, it was good enough for me. And so, after a while spent trying to source LSD (not an easy task on Glencairn) I finally manage to obtain a few tabs and in my own crazy way, decided to take three at once during a snowstorm.

  I sat in Ballysillan park and watched, fascinated, as the snowflakes drifting earthwards changed from white to a wild variety of colours. It reminded me of the Rainbow River incident a few years previously. I must have been gabbling away ten to the dozen because my mates were looking at me as though I’d gone bananas. ‘Enjoy the trip,’ one of them said, ‘we’ll see you later.’

  Little did I know that this was only the beginning and I would be locked in a psychedelic world of wonder for the next ten hours. As the night wore on and the acid took hold of me, I began to get paranoid and was seeing things that couldn’t possibly be real. The moon had now turned into a giant purple and blue ball of fire and was playing pinball with a million different-coloured stars. I watched in amazement as they bounced off each other and flew across the universe, to suddenly reappear right in front of my nose.

  This was weird, and I was getting the sense that I wasn’t enjoying it. In an effort to come down, I decided to jog round the park and see if that brought me back to reality. As I trudged through the snow and slid all over the place I gradually started to feel more in control and coming to a shed at the back of some shops I sat down to catch my breath.

  Suddenly I heard the familiar driving electronic theme tune of the TV series Doctor Who and it seemed to fill every part of my being and soul. Right in front of me I watched gobsmacked as the Tardis materialised from thin air and the blue doors swung opened invitingly. Reality had been suspended and looking around I could see that there was no one or nothing in the universe but me and the Tardis. Taking a few steps forward I entered and the door slammed closed behind me.

  I stepped up to the console and fiddling with the time rotor I spun the dials and suddenly the engine started to rev up and the Tardis vibrated violently. The display automatically spun backwards through the years – 1984, 1972, 1960, 1920, 1901, 1876, 1848 and stopped on 1841.

  Nervously I pushed the door open and stepped outside – straight into a scene from Victorian England. I was in a busy London street, the sun was shining and people dressed in Victorian clothes were going about their daily business. There were horses and carts everywhere; the smell was appalling and I stood in wonder as I took in the incredible scenes before me.

  Although my eyes and ears were telling me I was in Victorian England, somewhere at the back of my acid-infused consciousness I knew I couldn’t really have travelled back through time – could I ? Then I panicked – how the hell was I going to get back to Ballysillan and the 1980s?

  In my altered state I really did believe that I was now stuck in Victorian England. I didn’t consider the sheer ridiculousness of the situation I found myself in; my only concern was getting back to the future and I started to freak out and run up and down the streets, dodging horses and begging people to help me, but they didn’t seem to know I was there and this just freaked me out more.

  Eventually, I came across the Tardis again and this time it opened from the top and I hurriedly climbed in and closed the door above me. Peace descended as I closed my eyes and tried to block
out the nightmare I’d found myself in. I must have fallen asleep and was awoken suddenly as the Tardis started to vibrate again. Opening my eyes I braced myself for another journey through time and space.

  By now, I was getting the sense that I’d taken something out of this world. There were moments of clarity when I realised I’d had far too much LSD. Then suddenly, the trip would kick in again and I’d be flying through space and time, destination unknown. Suddenly, the top door of the Tardis opened and light flooded in. To my amazement a man was staring down at me. I was also relieved to see that he was dressed in clothes that were definitely 1980s and not 1800s.

  ‘What the fuckin’ Jaysus are you doing in there?’ he said. ‘Are ye a tramp or somethin’? That’s a wild bad place for anyone to sleep, so it is.’

  I clambered out and taking in the scene I realised that my Tardis had been an industrial wheelie bin and the guy had come to drop off some rubbish. I had spent the night covered in shit and waste and smelt like a bad weekend.

  Holding his nose, the guy offered me a hand and dragged me to my feet. He asked me again what I’d been doing lying in a bin all night. It was a very good question.

  ‘I dunno,’ I said, ‘but it’s been a fuckin’ weird night all right. I dunno how to describe it, really – so I won’t. Thanks for helping me out.’

  The guy looked as though he had seen a ghost. He nodded and made his way back to his van. I made off down the hill and home for a long soothing bath, during which I had a good long talk with myself about the dangers of acid. But me being me, with my addictive personality, it wasn’t long before I was taking another trip, though on a far lower dose. I’d never make that mistake again.

  The days ticked down until my eighteenth birthday and soon after it happened I received the long-awaited eight thousand pounds in compensation for my busted leg. Quite rightly, my sister Margaret suggested that I invest it into a property, and back in mid-eighties Belfast I could’ve got something pretty decent for that kind of money. She always had a good business head on her and she could see that having a house of my own would be a great investment for the future. Realistically, of course, that was never going to happen. An eighteen-year- old like me with eight grand in his back pocket doesn’t think logically or sensibly about anything. There were too many clothes to buy, too many records to collect, too many drugs to take, too many girls to charm. And there was also the crowning glory: a Vespa scooter of my very own.