Tim Thornton

by The Alternative Hero (v5)

  “Yeah!”

  “Shit. We were in the wrong pub,” I explained. “It was his fault.”

  This heralded another volley of mirth. (“Oh noo, it was his fault!”) Alan looked like he was ready to punch someone, probably me.

  “It’s all right,” laughed Mega City Four bloke. “They weren’t proper narked off, just taking the piss, y’know.”

  “You can apologise to them at the gig if you like,” suggested the girl.

  “Ah …” I began. “The problem is, we’re not actually going, um, to the gig …”

  “Why not? Come on, it’s only three quid.”

  I turned to Alan again. If I’d spent much of the evening feeling relatively grown-up, I now felt about twelve.

  “I haven’t enough cash … have you?”

  “Um, yeah … but …”

  “We’re on the guest list,” the girl continued. “We could try sneaking you in too if you like?”

  Once again, all faces seemed to be on us. Alan was clearly finding the situation very tricky to deal with.

  “Um … I think we need a private meeting for a moment, man.”

  “Okay,” I nodded, and followed him to the door.

  “I can’t go,” he hissed into my ear.

  “Why not?”

  “I promised my mum I’d be back by ten. I’ve got a mock tomorrow.”

  “A mock?”

  “Mock A-level, dumbo.”

  Blimey. First the wrong pub, and now this. The famous Alan Potter was seriously starting to ruin my week. I suddenly caught a mental image of Billy Flushing, grinning stupidly as he always did—but also leading me to the correct pub and then on to the gig, chuckling like a lunatic, arm in arm with the mad blonde girl. I shook my head and he vanished.

  “Sorry,” Alan murmured. “I’ll make it up to you. We don’t have to leave just yet anyway. I’ll buy you another pint.”

  The Carter guest list crowd had finished their drinks and were now gathering by the door to leave.

  “What’s the verdict, then?” beamed the girl. “Are you there, or are you square? Hahahaha!”

  The final nail in Alan’s coffin of credibility was still to come. After we’d made our excuses to the group I sat back in one of the pub’s well-worn seats, contemplating this impressive start to my career as a music journalist while Alan went to buy another round. A minute later he was back.

  “Cunts wouldn’t serve me,” he announced, flopping down on the seat opposite.

  We stared at each other for a moment, swirling the incalculable futility of the evening around our heads like a vintage cider. But I had a plan.

  “Shall I have a go?”

  “No,” Alan stated firmly.

  “No, really. It might be all right for me. You’re taller, but I’ve got an older face.”

  “That’s utter bollocks.”

  “Just give me the money. What have we got to lose?”

  I didn’t tell him I’d suddenly remembered I had a dog-eared photocopy of Billy Flushing’s brother’s driving licence lurking in one of the pockets of my bag. Billy had made one for each of us (with little thought for what would happen if we presented both at the same time). He used his regularly to buy certain extreme items of literature; I had never tried using mine. It put me, if memory served, just a few days shy of nineteen, but was worth a go.

  “Two pints of cider and black, please.”

  This particular girl behind the bar had a permanent frown, a fierce-looking nose ring and a GBH T-shirt, none of which assisted my acting skills.

  “Got any ID?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, scrabbling around in my bag and hoping the thing was in one piece. Just about. I presented it to the barmaid.

  “You’re almost nineteen,” she noted, scrutinising the threadbare document.

  “Yup.”

  She shrugged and handed it back.

  “Okay, whatever.”

  The thrill of having trounced Alan Potter at the booze-buying game sent a flood of confidence through me. I looked over at him (he was flicking through the jukebox selection) and winked. He mouthed “Fuck off” and turned away.

  “Did you put something on?” I asked, as I returned with the drinks and a packet of Quavers.

  “Yeah.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see,” he grumbled, taking a gulp, as the intro to something I didn’t recognise started up. We sat and listened in silence. “Did I get any change?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, handing him a few coppers.

  “Fuck’s sake.”

  More silence.

  “Fucking hate not getting served, man.”

  “That’s okay, I did!”

  “That’s not the point,” he glared.

  I was starting to get the distinct impression Alan was slipping back into school mode. The guy on the record seemed to be singing “Why can’t I get just one fuck,” but I was sure I’d misheard.

  “So who is this, then?”

  “Violent Femmes.”

  “Ah.”

  I pulled open the bag of Quavers and grabbed a handful.

  “So I was wondering,” I began, between crunches, “whether I should just go ahead and pretend we actually met them, for the purposes of the fanzine.”

  “Could do.”

  “I could make up a few answers, y’know … what I think they would say, study a few of their interviews, that sort of thing. It wouldn’t be too naughty really. This first edition’s gonna be too small to really get noticed anyway.”

  Silence.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Sorry, man. I’m just in a wig. Hate not getting served. Hate the fact that we fucked it up this evening [I decided not to suggest he change the “we” to “I” at this juncture]. Hate being at school. Hate the fact that people in my year are all wankers. Hate having to work at bloody Sainsbury’s. Hate looking seventeen. Hate being seventeen. No one ever told you it was this shit. They say going through puberty and stuff is bad, but that was a fucking breeze. I didn’t even notice it happening.”

  I kept quiet for a moment, considering his points.

  “Right,” I finally said encouragingly. “Anything else?”

  He looked up.

  “Failed my fucking driving test yesterday.”

  “Sorry. That’s a pain.”

  “Yep.”

  (“Don’t shoot, shoot, shoot that thing at me, you know you’ve got my sympathy, but don’t shoot, shoot, shoot that thing at me …”)

  “I thought a few people in your year were all right, though? Simon Goodfellow? Eric Bastow? He’s a good bloke, isn’t he?”

  Alan looked at me like I’d just suggested he eat the contents of the ashtray.

  “What gave you that impression, man?”

  “What about some of the girls? They seem human. Claire Batey?”

  “Slapper.”

  “Joanna Clerk?”

  “Rich bitch.”

  “Gemma Holdingford? I see you hanging out with her a bit.”

  “Only so I can copy her biology.”

  (“… oh my my, my my mother, I would love to love you lover…”)

  “Nicola Cartwright?”

  Alan said nothing and sipped his drink. I let the Violent Femmes complete their strange rant and waited for the next song to kick in. Another unfamiliar introduction, but different this time, less quirky, a one-note guitar riff backed by some jangling, midtempo pop. Then the words started and I almost spat out my drink with mirth.

  “I don’t know why I love you…”

  “Ah, I see,” I chuckled. “Nicola Cartwright.”

  “Fuck off, man.”

  “No, that’s fine … I mean, she’s nice! I would.”

  “Don’t fucking tell anyone.”

  “I promise,” I smiled.

  (“How can I get close to you, when you got no mercy, no you got no mercy…”)

  “Has anything happened so far, then?”

  Alan frowned and took a Quaver.


  “Almost, Sunday night before last. We were at the Three Crowns with some others.”

  “And?”

  “I chickened out.”

  He looked so genuinely heartbroken that I decided to stop taking the piss.

  “How long have you liked her?”

  “Fucking ages, man. I mean, you know, she’s always been pretty and stuff, but there was this nice warm day in September, I bumped into her in the park … she was sitting by herself, wearing … Fuck, man, you’d better promise not to tell anyone this shit!”

  “Honestly, I won’t.”

  “She was wearing this summer dress and she had her hair in pigtails, totally different to how she looks in school, and some eye makeup, almost … gothic, you could say. But she hadn’t overdone it. So I said hello and she took off her headphones, asked me to join her … She showed me this compilation tape she was listening to, and man … I just had no idea. You know what I mean? Some of the stuff on there …”

  He sipped his drink, overcome with the romance of it all. He nodded up to the speakers.

  “There was these guys …”

  “Sorry, who are these guys?”

  “House of Love, man … and The Cure … and I’m not talking about the pop shit, she had ‘Fascination Street’ and ‘A Night Like This’ on there … ‘Birthday’ by The Sugarcubes … ‘Shelter from the Rain’ by All About Eve … some Pixies and that Violent Femmes one … some Smiths, I think … April Skies’ by the Mary Chain … even that Primal Scream one, ‘Please Stop Crying,’ or whatever it’s called …”

  The House of Love finished their ditty and another, more abrasive track started up.

  “This one wasn’t on there. I just stuck it on ’cos I like it.”

  I shook my head ignorantly Shit. Third song in a row I didn’t know. I may have won the getting-served match, but Alan had won the music game hands down. That was probably the idea.

  “‘Wedding Present,’” he obliged. “So anyway, she offered me one of the earphones, and we just sat there listening while the sun went down … I know, man, it’s corny as fuck, but … by the end we were holding hands.”

  “Why didn’t you just go for it there and then?” I asked (like I’d have had the guts to do such a thing).

  “I was just about to … but then she stood up and said she had to get home.”

  “Damn!”

  “Yeah. Since then I’ve kind of been in limbo. She says hello briefly at school, smiles occasionally, but … it’s like I discovered a different person that day.”

  “Maybe you did. Maybe she has a twin.”

  “Anyway, I had this plan to invite her to see All About Eve, but that got fucked up ’cos of my mocks.”

  I pondered Alan’s predicament for a moment.

  “So … would you say all this has made you a little … er … preoccupied around school?”

  “Yeah, course.”

  “So is that why you’ve been bloody blanking me all over the place?”

  Alan looked up, frowning. “Nah, man, there’s other reasons for that.”

  “Which are?”

  “Well, you know how it is, with the whole different-year thing, for a start …”

  “Bloody hell. Isn’t that a little bit childish?”

  “Well, yeah, but it still makes a difference, man. Girls have a memory for that sort of thing.”

  “What, they won’t talk to you ’cos you’re friends with a lower-sixth former? Bullshit.”

  “Some wouldn’t.”

  “Not the ones worth knowing,” I countered, enjoying myself again. “I bet you Nicola wouldn’t mind.”

  “Well, she doesn’t talk to me anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

  “So is this really all about girls?”

  Alan looked down sheepishly. I swigged my pint, looking away with calculated indignation.

  “It’s also about that cock you hang out with, man,” Alan admitted suddenly.

  “Billy?”

  “Yeah. He’s a total loser.”

  I found myself jumping to my much maligned acquaintance’s defence.

  “He’s a lot more intelligent and fun than you might imagine, actually.”

  “Don’t care, man. He’s off the scale. You want me to talk to you when we’re at school, ditch the dweeb.”

  Ditch the dweeb.

  This phrase has festered in my head and formed a little guilt-edged frame around my conscience ever since that night, over seventeen years ago. Alan and I debated this topic until the end of our drinks and part of the way home, but that was essentially what we agreed: I ditched the dweeb, and Alan became my friend.

  Although obviously, school being school, I couldn’t completely cut Billy off just like that. I still sat next to him during history, where we enjoyed a muted form of our previous capery, and I still oh-so-graciously allowed him to help with the first issue of the Peanut, but he only once again accompanied me to a gig (the less said about that episode, the better), and I kept contact with him outside the confines of a classroom to a minimum. After a month or two he got the message and, quite understandably, stopped bothering with me altogether. The only reminder of our former bond came from my mum (who, incidentally, disliked Alan from the moment she first heard his name) when she occasionally returned from a Conservative Party do and asked why Billy never came round anymore.

  Ho-hum. There’s still a part of me that wants to go back in time and give the sixteen-year-old me a good kicking, tell the seventeen-year-old Alan Potter to piss off and stop being so ridiculous, and politely suggest to Billy Flushing that he simply get a decent haircut and perhaps some contact lenses. But what can I say? Other than: I have always had a vague feeling that my actions of winter 1989 will catch up with me one day.

  Alan never did get hold of Nicola, by the way. A week or two later we beheld the sight of the delectable Miss Cartwright strolling arm in arm with one of the biggest, meanest rugby players our school possessed, with whom she was also seen dancing at the Christmas ball to—among other things—a Jive Bunny record. Whether she privately exposed this chap to the delights of The House of Love, All About Eve or the Violent Femmes was never clear, but we certainly never saw that side of her again.

  Not that it mattered much to Alan, however. For within a month, he (and I, whenever the chance presented itself) was happily shagging anything in a tie-dyed skirt that drew breath.

  SUGGESTED LISTENING: Dinosaur Jr., “Freak Scene” (SST, 1988 Single)

  You’re completely

  mental

  Come on—you know how tricky life can be.

  It’s a Friday. You’ve had a bloody hard week at work. Hard in the sense that it’s been hard to maintain your enthusiasm for something as monotonous as arranging insurance for nine hours each day. A minor stab of variety has invaded the tedium today as the firm has spent the whole day packing for the office move tomorrow. For reasons you’ve not bothered to contemplate—though cost-cutting must be somewhere fairly close to the centre—the bosses have put you in charge of picking up a hire van the next morning, entrusting you with their driving licences and appropriate hard currency. You plough through the afternoon, shifting boxes of lever-arch files, finding to your surprise that something approaching physical labour feels oddly pleasant after months, nay years, of sitting on your arse making phone calls, drinking too much coffee, eating endless packets of sandwiches and downloading crap off the Internet.

  Evening arrives. At seven the phones and computers are switched off and, unusually, everyone hits the pub together. Something about the camaraderie of the day has made the collection of motleys who’ve ended up working for this small but perfectly dysfunctional organisation behave, for once, in a normal, even wholesome manner.

  Someone fires in the first round and you nail your pint quickly, partly because you’re damn thirsty but also it’s your favourite little trick: neck the first and immediately buy the second round, so it’s only you and that fat dude from accounts who need a refill. Six
quid, and your round-reputation is still spotless. Needs must when Satan vomits into your bank account. You kick back, quite content for the moment to play the part of the Friday-night office drinker in the rowdy Friday-night pub. Some show-off from customer service decides to get everyone a shot of sambuca. Well, why not? That boring girl who sits next to the shredder doesn’t want hers, but would you like it? Of course you would. Coffee bean and all.

  Third pint, and by now it’s all getting nicely merry and the banter flows. You remember you’ve got Ron’s and Michael’s driving licences in your bag. You dig them out and hold a small contest with everyone: who can guess their year of birth? Everyone aims too low for Michael, but too high for Ron, miserable git that he is. Then you pass round the licences so everyone can laugh at the photographs.

  Remember that, Clive? Shall we say it again?

  You pass round the licences so everyone can laugh at the photographs.

  Got it.

  You’re fully aware that you have to be up at the crack of arse tomorrow morning and off to some fucking cheapo van-hire place near the Holloway Road, but hell, it’s only eight thirty, most of the crew are still out and that fourth pint is sorting you right out.

  Right out.

  Right … out.

  Finally you’re on the bus. Going home at what must be a nice sensible time. You even manage to read a bit of your book. Strange how most of the books you’ve read have entire chapters you don’t recall, characters that materialise without adequate explanation as to who they are, plot points that are somehow missing. Bizarre, because you’re certainly taking everything in right now. A text message bleeps. Who could it be? Polly, of course. “Fancy lasties?” Well, why not? “Wot u having, the bar’s about to close.” The bar’s about to close? It can’t be midnight already. But it is. Where did those hours go? Shit. Well … you’ll be okay. It’s not like you have to do real work tomorrow, just, erm … driving.

  You barge into the pub. Polly laughs heartily at your predicament. She’s obviously been swigging red wine all night, as her teeth are black. You listen to her latest disastrous date encounter—“a surgeon from Durham, for God’s sake”—with wavering attention, your lubricated mind now beginning to float back towards a certain ex-alternative rock star you’ve been trying to meet. Let’s be brutally frank: it’s not going terribly well, is it? Three weeks and all you’ve had is a two-minute exchange in a vet’s waiting room about hormones that stop cats pissing on the bed. You’ve soundly failed to pinpoint any of the man’s other haunts, and any other sparks of genius are sadly unforthcoming. Alan’s scrapbook remains on top of your record player, unbothered by any of its central players, still wrapped in its industrial-plastic legal sheath. Sod it. You have to do something. This is fast turning into one of those painfully unsurprising Ideas of Clive’s that amount to absolutely fuck all.