Punk Story

by Neil Rowland

  ‘Point taken,’ I said, while beginning to tidy the office.

  ‘Straight up, I reckon this must have been an inside job somewhere down the blinkin line,’ Gorran argued. ‘There’s no sign of a break-in here far as I can see.’

  ‘It wasn’t us. We proved that.’

  ‘Right, so we’ve got our bloomin suspicions. Only we still want to be careful about making any big fucking accusations against Dave Crock and family.’

  ‘So he had a key to your safe box? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘No bullshit, our lives have got to be more bloomin valuable than you think. Straight up, your life’s more precious than five hundred blinkin quid, if you understand me,’ Marty warned, grimacing. ‘Less you want to wake up in the middle of the night with some blinkin ugly mug putting double barrels up your fucking nostrils.’

  ‘You don’t have to be Kojak to work that one out,’ I said.

  ‘Right, definitely, not even Starsky and blinkin Hutch,’ Marty admitted.

  ‘Your bands depend on that money. That’s their entrance fees for the contest, isn’t it? We’ve got to pay printing costs for our fanzine,’ I thought out loud. ‘I don’t want to waste my words.’

  ***

  After tidying up, as best we could, Marty and I returned to the saloon bar. I needed a vodka and coke to calm my nerves and Marty more addictive substances.

  Dave Crock had taken up his central position for extra time; spraying saliva at the faces of his cronies. It was just as if Graham Gross, a legend out on the wing for Athletic, had never even pulled on the shirt.

  Marty and I got within inches of the purple cauliflower nose, silvery grey ringlets and bleary eyes. Gorran told him what had happened in our office. Talk of robbery close to home almost sobered him.

  ‘If I find art oo did it, Marty boy, I’ll kick the shit art of im,’ the publican promised.

  ‘Right, definitely Dave mate, glad you’re in the picture, cos we’d blinkin appreciate a clue about who pulled this off,’ Marty informed him.

  The ex-footballer shuffled closer, to dampen the DJ’s ear. ‘Wot you sayin, Marty boy?’

  ‘Straight up, the only people that knew anything about our blinkin money was us,’ he explained, leering amiably, holding his hands up. ‘Right, definitely, leaving out your good self, Dave mate, and anybody you might bloomin know about.’

  ‘Ain’t got no sus-picts?’ Crock leaned in further, red eyes narrowed, struggling to keep steady. ‘Fair’s fair, Marty boy, you’re the fuckin moosic man... I ain’t got nuffin to do wiv any fuckin stolen money.’

  ‘Right, definitely, Dave mate, it’s just about five hundred bloomin quid altogether down there.’

  ‘No, no, I dunt go abart rippin’ off me own fuckin gaff, do I?’

  ‘Why don’t we just call in the cops?’ I suggested, eagerly.

  The former central defender leant back uproariously. He noticed me again and took in the ridiculous sight. ‘Ha, ha, son! Call in the fuckin cops! Ha, ha. Get yer lugs over this lad.’

  I didn’t get it. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Ha, ha, young fella. Call in the fuckin cops!’ He banged my shoulders appreciatively. ‘What a fuckin laugh, you is. Where you get this funny little fuck, Marty boy? Kinter-garden?’

  I was puzzled by his merriment.

  Gorran began to look alarmed at this interchange. ‘Right definitely, well spotted Dave mate. No bullshit, Bottle’s got a dry sense of fucking humour. Fair play, and he’s just been appointed as a new fucking staff writer for Music Maker magazine no less, down there in the bloomin smoke, Dave mate. No bullshit, you need a good sense of fucking humour, along with a blinkin sharp ear for new music, to write for a top fucking rock organ like that.’

  Crock tried to focus and get a second look. ‘Congratulations, son. You knows yer moosic.’

  Dave gave a bit of a shimmy, a surprisingly nimble move, to sink another pint. He achieved a result with a single dilation of his throat muscles. Quicker than an elephant seal sucking down a tossed fish. A barmaid banged down another pint of ale, the moment the defender’s empty pot hit the counter.

  ‘Cheers everybody!’

  ‘Right, definitely, and we want some expert inside blinkin knowledge of the fucking criminal world, Dave mate... to find out who got into the office and cracked open my bloomin deposit box.’

  ‘Dunt go an’ stress yerself art, Marty boy. I’ll get to the bottom of this fuckin nasty little bus’ness,’ the landlord predicted.

  ‘Right, definitely Dave, we appreciate any blinkin help,’ Gorran said, unusually stressed.

  ‘Did these fucks nick anyfin else?’ The ex-footballer had a corrective hand on Marty’s shoulder.

  ‘Right, definitely, now you mention it, there was a set of my best blinkin artist’s pens and brushes taken,’ Gorran explained.

  ‘It’d set a dangerous president, to let these fuckin little feeves in me club.’

  ‘No bullshit Dave, that’s what I blinkin thought and...’

  ‘Marty knows is moosic. You done good, boy! You ain’t no fuckin trouble. No fuckin fancy stuff neither. No fuckin megs.’

  ‘Fair play Dave, if we lose that money we might as well jump down the bloomin crap chute and pull the blinkin cord behind us,’ Marty agonised. His facial muscles snapped like a Bootsy Collins bass line.

  Crock was impressed by the suffering. ‘Don’t lose art, Marty boy. Leave it wi me,’ he suggested. The club owner gestured at the barmaid again, pulling on an imaginary tap, sticking out his tongue and tilting backwards.

  ‘No bullshit, my lads in Turbo just put out their first blinkin single and we an’t paid off all the fucking promotion costs,’ Marty admitted.

  ‘No fucker breaks inta me gaff. We’ll find ‘oo steals dosh from the Atter. We’ll see ow the fucker likes is legs broke.’ Crock drained and downed the next one.

  ‘Cos, straight up, I didn’t spot any signs of a blinkin break-in down there,’ Marty said, dragging deeply and squinting through the cloud.

  ‘No signs of a fuckin break in?’

  ‘Right, definitely, that’s what I noticed when I blinkin looked. Fair play, I reckon this must have been an inside job, Dave mate.’

  ‘Inside job? Never!’ Crock barked. He was scandalised.

  ‘Straight up, that’s what it bloomin well looks like to me,’ Gorran argued, giving an apprehensive wince.

  ‘Nah, nah, ‘inside job’, impossible, Marty boy. Fair’s fair, don’t give yerself a fuckin ‘eart attack over this box. I’ll find the fucker and break is legs,’ Crock repeated, drinking up.

  ‘Right, definitely Dave mate, but...’

  ‘No buts, Marty boy. The only lads wot knew abart your box was... me, your lot an... my boy Troy.’

  ‘Right, straight up, so you went and told your bloomin Troy about this blinkin strong box?’

  ‘Yeah, e’s the one what fuckin bought it! He’s gotta know bout sec-urity matters in me club, Marty boy,’ the publican grinned, licking foam from his moustaches.

  ‘Gord ‘elp us, Dave mate, why did you want to go and tell blinkin Troy for?’ Marty wanted to know. He was grinning with cautious outrage.

  For a threatening moment, the landlord sobered. ‘Nah, nah. If you got some notes stashed, Troy as to know abart it. E’s me Security Man’ger. You got a problem wiv it, Marty boy?’

  ‘Right, definitely, that’s a big bloomin weight off my blinkin mind,’ Gorran said ironically.

  ‘Troy’s a fuckin profesh’nal. He’ll smash their fuckin faces in for yer,’ Crock reassured us.

  ‘Right, definitely, Dave mate, if we can get our money back I’d be interested to hear his blinkin side of the story,’ Marty replied, unable to resist a sardonic scoff.

  ‘My boy Troy’ll sort it art. Everyfin nice, clean and
p’fesh’nal.’

  27. Paulie Turns Out to Have a Heart of Glass

  Stan was disgusted by the Pistols when they mimed on Top of the Pops (‘Holidays in the Sun’). This sell out or self-destruct (take your pick) was even pointing the way for other punk groups, and that might include Mortal Wound. Snot spent hours, days and nights, shut up in his room doodling on that strange guitar. Band rehearsals were ‘crap’ and put him into a foul mood. So he’d come back and lock himself away with a new riff: Just waiting for John Peel to come on between ten and midnight.

  Something completely out of the Blues happened. By habit the three of us would stay up late (teenagers suddenly without parents or guardians) drinking and smoking, talking and watching late movies. I had got back from my journalism night school. Roy had been redistributing wealth at the tax office. He came back to the Mansion with ‘bevies’ for us all, from the ‘Offy’. That was the real ‘trickle-down effect’. During this period - while his band was unhealthy - Stan smoked away like an express train, as if trying to buckle his chest completely. Hectares of marijuana and tobacco went up in flames.

  It was roundabout midnight, and Paulie was still out. Either he was on the pull, or very late back from the office. Wellington didn’t keep us up to date with the swings or the roundabouts. We got the idea that his indenture as a newspaper reporter wasn’t going well. Beer Belly and Back Slapper were on his case. The editors would shout, reprimand and order him to search Nulton for ‘exclusive stories’. That was a thankless and futile task. Not surprisingly Paulie would gravitate towards the record shop instead. I’d bumped into him a few times in the Record Shack. Rather than getting any story for the Chronicle, Paulie was hunting down the latest punk releases (hoping to take Stan by surprise), as well as the classic Al Green and James Brown funk-soul recordings that were his true taste. He’d take his new records home (he had bought himself an impressive turntable) and, inspired, practiced his bongos along to them, as well as trying to write new songs.

  ‘We don’t pay you to sit around on your arse all day,’ Beer Belly told him. ‘Get out and prove yourself as a reporter. Find some stories!’

  In response Paulie’s skin condition deteriorated, with rashes spreading up his forearms.

  Despite that, his love life roared away like Aryton Senna taking a wrong turn and going down a ski jump. His conquests were as spectacularly varied as ever. He even picked somebody up during a stuffy Nulton Chronicle staff social evening. It was the most unpromising erotic situation you’d ever think up. At first Paulie was stood in a group of male hacks, draining the beer, trying to firm up relationships. The cub reporter soon forgot to network with them, as his attention was captivated by a Mod girl stood feeding ten pences into the jukebox. First contact achieved the two of them were leaving together. That huddle of newspaper staff, laughing too loudly, telling jokes and anecdotes, hardly noticed Paulie move. The Chronicle might have run the incident as a mysterious disappearance story. If only Wellington had such an eye for a story.

  Roy hadn’t been present for that Chronicle killing. Generally he turned communist red at Paulie’s antics - despite egalitarian principles. He’d be fuming on the sofa and working those asthmatic lungs like ripped airbeds. Stan (who wasn’t exactly Alan Bennett material either) ran cynical advance bets on the likely colour of the girl’s hair, in the event that Wellington brought her back to the Mansion. ‘Who’s brave enough to risk a crisp fiver on a blonde?’ he taunted. After a while I couldn’t resist the challenge. These ‘wagers’ would be exchanged before the BBC played the national anthem of the ‘fascist regime’.

  Roy and I were obvious virgins: we could have formed a secret society of the chaste. We were both lonely and inexperienced lads, even if we barely referred to the fact. We were so revved up with hormones and frustration, with no direction to take them. Some nights we might have looked twice at a dirty mop.

  Paulie Wellington was on a different planet. Obviously Planet Sex. He had no idea about our situation vis-a-vis the opposite sex. If he was a James Brown type sex machine it was generally on the quiet. His appeal was an unconscious gift and he had no need to brag. Well, fine, but Paulie would usually forget her name, or even the girl’s face (yeah, really) by the very next day. You could describe him as a sexual amnesiac. All of this, don’t forget, while he claimed to be a ‘radical feminist’. If/when a girl confronted him about this, Paulie - with the forgotten experience of their amorous night - would stare back, completely mystified, chaste as a besmirched choir boy.

  ‘Phoo, dodgy. She was a bit hostile. Bloody hell, what got into her?’

  Smithy and I would recognise the girl without any problem. Unfortunately that didn’t give us any satisfaction.

  The ultimate nightmare came true one evening. It was when Paulie returned home with Gina Watson. Really. You might imagine my shock and horror when she stumbled into the flat after him. Roy choked in mid-gulp of his Newcastle Brown and his specs practically shattered on first sight.

  ‘Away, Paulie, what’s goin’ on?’ he startled.

  As usual Wellington attempted to sneak around the side of the living room (it was a large space) with the girl, expecting us to either to not notice or not to be bothered.

  Gina was shocked to find us there, arranged about that tawdry living room, almost as if waiting. The punk rock circle of Nulton was paddling pool sized, yet Wellington hadn’t mentioned these living arrangements. Amazingly he failed to recall that Gina had been involved with Stan’s band, or more. Even worse he failed to identify her, apart from her mysterious attractions. That was all too ridiculous and typical of his amorous routine. For Wellington this was just another girl who mistook him for her long-lost soul mate.

  Nobody knew what to say or how to react in this situation. Only Paulie, with a theatrical type of bemusement, didn’t see the problem. He was pretending to be offended, as if we were a bunch of Mary Whitehouses who had a moral gripe with Gina’s natural desires.

  ‘This is your place Paulie?’ Gina stuttered.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ he told her.

  ‘With Stan and Paul here?’

  ‘Gina!’ I mouthed.

  ‘Away Paulie, what’s the big i-dea, man? What the fuckin’ hell are you doin’, bringin’ her back hoom here, mind!’ Indignant, Roy was up on his feet to challenge the hapless roving reporter.

  Stan hadn’t moved a muscle meanwhile. He just focussed on the film and said coolly, ‘Welcome to our rock star pad.’

  ‘Paulie asked me back for a... a night cap... Only one more, that’s all,’ she insisted, colouring through the pancake. ‘You know, one more for the road. Why didn’t you tell me about them, Paulie?’

  For once she was just merry, not pissed; as if the prospect of sex didn’t make her nervous at all.

  ‘So what’s keeping you? Get on up and get down,’ said Snot.

  ‘What you doing back here, Gina?’ I wondered.

  ‘We were chatting about music and stuff... and so Paulie suggested we, you know... go back to his place and, you know... listen to his Cat Stevens albums.’

  ‘Cat Stevens? Are you sick?’ Snot demanded.

  ‘Come on, Stan. You’re so narrow-minded,’ she told him.

  ‘I’ve got a delicate fucking stomach,’ he agreed.

  ‘This comes as a surprise. Even a shock,’ I insisted.

  Gina offered me a quick look. ‘I didn’t expect to find you punks.’

  Afraid that he was becoming marginal to the gathering, Paulie put in: ‘Okay, so you lads know each other, right? Or am I getting the wrong signals here?’ He laughed dryly and nodded ironically around at us.

  ‘Paulie man!’ Smithy began to rage, hands on hips.

  ‘Where d’you drag up this daffy wanker?’ Snot wondered.

  ‘Phew, Stan, that’s really dodgy! No need to play the macho man, is there mate,’ he sai
d, starting to huff and puff.

  ‘Did you bump into each other? This evening, did you?’ I asked.

  ‘I was at the Looking Glass,’ Gina explained. ‘You have a problem with that? I have a life away from your band. There’s more to me than punk music!’

  ‘Come on, you lads, lighten up, will you? We met each other at the disco tonight,’ the reporter insisted. ‘Got anything against having a good bloody dance?’

  ‘You can’t censor my social life,’ Gina objected, ‘or tell me who to dance with!’

  She was dressed in an outrageous style; lots of bare flesh, great for the disco, showing she was a musical maverick. If I’d false teeth I would have swallowed them.

  ‘He picked you up?’ Snot remarked.

  ‘Maybe I picked him up. We didn’t want to end the night there.’

  ‘Okay, are you boys gonna explain what’s going on here?’ Wellington demanded. He decided to keep a high moral tone with us.

  ‘Away Paulie, when are ya ever gonna learn, comrade?’ Roy demanded, boggle eyed behind the specs, and shaking his mop in bafflement.

  A numb look spread over the pop idol’s face and froze his angelic mug. ‘Phew, Roy, what you getting so wound up about? What’s the big pickle, mate? Who I bring home?’ he wondered.

  The Trotskyite began to shake and tremble. ‘What’s the ‘big pickle’? Ai, you really want to nooo, comrade? This lass is a friend of theirs, man. Gina’s a member of their band,’ Roy informed him. ‘Of course you knew about it, comrade. Mortal Wooond, man! What yer tryin’ to pull here, Paulie? What yer doin bringin’ her back hoom here mind, yer daft bas’tad? Ai, at this time of night, man.’

  ‘She’s guitarist, keyboardist and vocalist for Mortal Wound,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Not any more, I’m not,’ Gina she told me.

  It was bloody hurtful. My heart was in my Doc. Marten’s.

  ‘Right Paulie, anybody else in this fucking band, past or present, you fancy?’ Snot wondered.

  ‘Why should I fancy them? You’re bloody out of line, Stan mate.’