He had to cut down on his fuel bills, wrapping himself up in thick clothes and blankets through the winter months instead of turning the heating on, and could only afford to drink Special Brew once a week by rationing the food he ate, but at least he hadn’t been forced to move into one of the State Retirement Homes like so many of his generation. Death Homes, Biffo called them. Somewhere the government puts you out of the way, while they wait for you to die so they can seize whatever assets you’ve got left.
Biffo looked down at his entoPAD screen when one of Oi Polloi’s Gaelic songs started playing. He prodded an icon in the corner of the screen and the lyrics were translated in real-time into Pidgin English that made no sense. Something about frogs dancing on a scientist’s experience and systematic destruction of intercourse. Biffo sighed and put the entoPAD down on the arm of his chair. He struggled to his feet and padded into the kitchen for another can of Special Brew. As he opened the fridge door Oi Polloi were cut off mid-song and replaced with a female robotic voice.
“You have new entoMAIL. You have new entoMAIL. You have new entoMAIL.”
Biffo pulled out a can of Special Brew and cracked it open. Oi Polloi resumed from where they had left off. From the kitchen he could hear someone upstairs yell “Turn that fucking shit down!” Biffo took a long drink of Special Brew and belched, then returned to his armchair. He put the can down on top of a speaker and picked up his entoPAD. The screen flashed a message, You have new entoMAIL. Biffo prodded the entoMAIL icon and Oi Polloi were cut off once again, replaced with a video advert informing Biffo of the miracles of plastic hip replacements and how affordable they were with low monthly payments.
“Apply now and receive a free pen,” a young woman in fishnet stockings and red suspender belt and bra said with a wink. “You know you want it.”
The advert ended and Oi Polloi resumed playing. A text message displayed on the entoPAD screen, sandwiched between advertising banners extolling the joys of Viagra and live entoSEX, read:
All right mate, saw you on Silver Punkers and was wondering if you might be wanting to do something for Thatcher Day this year? 30 fucking years, can’t believe it’s been that long since the old witch snuffed it. Anyway, what do you reckon about Sick Bastard coming to play here or something? We can’t afford to pay nothing, but there’d be free beer and stuff if you want?
The message was signed Punk76, and the sender used a red anarchy symbol as their avatar. Biffo Ratbastard shook his head and sighed. Why couldn’t people use their real names? He could think of at least twelve people he knew who could have sent that message, and ticked off in his mind the ones who had died in the last few years. That left five possibles. Three if he discounted the ones with severe dementia.
Biffo read the message again and nodded to himself. Whoever it was from, the more he thought about it the more he liked the idea of being in front of an audience again. One last gig before he shuffles off forever, just like the last surviving member of the Sex Pistols did. There’d be no golden handshake, no million pound payout from entoCORP for the rights to record the gig for posterity. But free beer? Who could refuse an offer like that?
Biffo saved the message so he could reply to it later, and quit the entoMAIL app. He lowered the music’s volume and heard a few thumps on the ceiling, followed by a cry of “About fucking time, you old bastard!”
“Fuck off,” Biffo yelled, and opened the entoFACE app. He scrolled through his contacts and tapped on a photo of Steve Snitch. Connecting, the screen informed him. Biffo waited. And waited.
“This is Steve Snitch, leave a message and I might get back to you if I can be bothered. If you’re just selling something, fuck off, I’m not interested.”
Biffo sighed. “Snitchy, I’m thinking of getting the band back together. Let me know what you think when you hear this.”
He returned to his contacts list and prodded Mike Hock’s photo. Mike answered within a few seconds, and grinned out from the screen.
“All right Biffo, how’s it fucking going?”
“Not bad mate, how’s life treating you?”
“Can’t complain. Well I can, but there’s no point is there? No fucker cares.”
“No, mate,” Biffo said. “Anyway listen, I got a message from someone putting on a gig for Thatcher Day. What do you reckon about getting your bass out of storage and giving it another thrash for old time’s sake?”
“Sounds good to me. Is Snitchy up for it?”
“Couldn’t get hold of him, but I’ve left him a message.”
“Yeah, he’ll be tucked up in bed by now. You know they moved him into a retirement home?”
“No I didn’t. Shit, when did that happen?”
“Fuck, it must be about six months ago now? He had to pay for emergency surgery and fell behind with his rent. They kicked him out and the rozzers picked him up sleeping rough and stuck him in a retirement home.”
Biffo shook his head slowly and sighed. “Man, that’s fucking bad news. I hope he’s okay.”
“Yeah he’s fine,” Mike said, nodding. “In fact he’s fucking loving it. Says there’s a few old Sick Bastard fans living there, he strums his guitar for them every night and they just lap it up.”
“Good to hear. You kept up your playing too? Only we probably won’t get much of a chance to practice before the gig.”
“When is it?”
“Thatcher Day.”
Mike laughed. “Just like old times, eh? It’s not on fucking Parliament Square again, is it? I’ve still got the scars from that one.”
“Yeah, me too. No, it’s at one of the Death Homes. Not sure which one, I haven’t confirmed it yet. Just wanted to sound you guys out first.”
“Well I’m definitely in, and I’d be surprised if Snitchy wasn’t too. You got a drummer lined up, or is it going to be an acoustic set? Old Vile would be a hard act to replace.”
“Fuck acoustic sets, they’re for dead hippies. I’d rather slit my fucking throat. We’re a punk band, not a bunch of fucking Morris Dancers. You just leave finding a drummer to me and get practicing on that bass of yours. I’ll send you the details when I’ve got them, and we’ll get together somewhere for a practice.”
“Look forward to it mate,” Mike said. “Laters, then.”
“Yeah. See you soon, Cocky.”
Biffo quit entoFACE and cranked up the volume on the Oi Polloi song. He reached for his Special Brew and took a swig before opening the Silver Punkers Community Forum. Mike was right, Peter Vile would be hard to replace. He wasn’t Sick Bastard’s original drummer, but he was their longest running one and the best they had ever had. When he died five years ago, after contracting an infection following open-heart surgery, it had effectively ended the band’s musical career. Drumming was a dying art, quite literally, with so many of the remaining punk bands having to resort to using electronic, computer-controlled drum machines instead.
Biffo composed a new message asking if anyone knew of any drummers in the Shefferham area who would be available to play on Thatcher Day. Own kit essential. Experience, don’t give a fuck either way.
He drained the rest of his Special Brew and threw the can at the waste-bin. This time he hit it dead-centre and the can dropped in with a clatter.
* * *
Colin Baxter leaned against a ten-foot high wooden gate built into an even higher, barbed-wire topped wall surrounding the retirement home’s concrete yard. He looked longingly at the French doors leading back into the communal lounge; but they weren’t due to be reopened for at least another twenty minutes, after the cleaning staff finished their weekly routine. He shivered and blew on his hands to warm them, then thrust them deep into his dressing gown pockets.
The retirement home manager looked down from an upstairs window. The thumping, screeching wail of trippy technobabble music drifted through the open window, grating on Colin’s nerves. Colin didn’t see the point of music like that. It was just noise as far as he was concerned. The singer wasn’t even shouting.
Dave Turner and Louise Brown were kicking a large inflatable beach-ball across the yard to each other. Frank Sterner hobbled between them, getting in the way. The ball bounced off Frank’s walking frame and veered off course toward Colin. Colin leaned on his walking stick and kicked it back to Louise once Frank was out of the way.
Other than Frank’s endless wanderings, Dave and Louise were the only people active in the back yard. Everyone else stood around like wrinkled zombies that had been left in the bath too long, just waiting until they could return to the warmth of the retirement home lounge. Several pairs of eyes peered through the window, watching the cleaning staff turn their world upside down in the pursuit of cleanliness. Chairs were up-ended, biscuit crumbs sucked from every crevice by droning deep-cleaners. Even all the posters and framed copies of old record sleeves and punk fanzines were taken down from the walls and polished to gleaming perfection.
“Oi Colin,” Dave shouted as he kicked the beach-ball to Louise. “You heard anything from that Biffo yet?”
Colin shook his head. “Nah, mate. Looks like you were right, he’s not interested.”
“That’s a shame,” Dave said.
“Yeah. Not to worry though, I’ll think of something else we can do to mark the occasion. Even if we have to set up the fucking karaoke machine and have a sing-song. There’s loads of Thatcher songs from the 80s we could do.”
Dave walked over and leaned against the gate by Colin’s side. “Yeah, that’d be good. We could get Old Frank to do Walk On By.” Colin laughed. “Stranglers version, of course. You know how he doesn’t like anything recorded after 1979.”
“Yeah, I never did understand that bollocks myself.”
“What bollocks is that then?” Louise asked, joining them.
“That fucking ‘punk died in 1979’ bollocks. I were still a kid at school back then, so it didn’t even start for me until the 1980s.”
Louise nodded. “Yeah, me too.”
“I were sixteen in 1976, just the right age,” Dave said with a smile. “I saw the Sex Pistols twice, you know. Once with Matlock, the other with Vicious. My brother, he were a few years older than me, like, he used to sneak me into the local punk nightclub. Saw fucking loads of bands there, I did. Vibrators, Lurkers, The Adverts, X-Ray Spex, even the fucking Clash played there once.”
“Jammy bastard,” Colin said. “I didn’t get to see the Sex Pistols until 1996 when they were all old and fat. Still fucking great though.”
“Yeah,” Dave agreed. “Shame about old Johnny Rotten though.” He laughed. “I remember one time after his Country Life butter thing, we went to see Public Image Ltd and there were these blokes throwing blocks of fucking butter at him. Took the wrappers off first, of course. Old Johnny had a right fit about it, said if they didn’t pack it in he was going home.”
“Never cared much for PIL,” Colin said. “The first single was okay, but everything else I heard by them I thought it were shite. The 80s bands were loads better. Exploited, Vice Squad, The Enemy, Abrasive Wheels, Mau Maus, Cockney Upstarts, Blitz, fucking loads of great bands came out in the 80s. That’s why Old Frank’s full of shit. Most of them were even on Top of the fucking Pops too, so how could punk be dead in 1979?”
“Don’t forget Crass,” Louise said.
“Yeah well,” Colin said, “I never really cared much for them either. There were a gang of Crass Punks used hang out on our council estate, they were always giving us stick about Wattie from The Exploited being an ex-soldier. As if that fucking mattered. Supposed to be all about anarchy and peace, but that didn’t stop them from sticking the boot into anyone wearing an Exploited T-shirt.”
“I just liked their music,” Louise said, “never got into the politics part myself. Except when this bunch of fucking Nazis turned up at one of their gigs and started pushing everyone around.” She spat on the ground. “Fucking Nazis.”
“Yeah,” Colin said. “Cockney Upstarts used to attract them too. My mate Bri got stabbed at one of their gigs, put me off seeing them again for life. I couldn’t even bring myself to play their records again for years after that.”
Colin looked across at the French doors when he heard them open. The residents shuffled back inside and slumped into their armchairs, picked up their entoPADs. Colin nodded at Louise, who shrugged at Dave, and the three of them made their way inside. Louise plugged the speakers back in and The Sex Pistols began playing mid-song, drowning out the manager’s trippy technobabble from upstairs.
Colin sat down and picked up his entoPAD. You have new entoMAIL, the screen informed him. The screen was smeared with waxy furniture polish, and Colin wiped it off with a corner of his dressing gown. He prodded the entoMAIL icon and sat through an advert for hair transplants while he waited for the message to display:
Re Thatcher Day. Yeah mate, sounds good. That fucking bitch destroyed my home town, so it deserves celebrating in style. Give us the venue and time and we’ll be there to rock your fucking heads off. Biffo Ratbastard.
Colin smiled. He turned to Dave to tell him the good news, but Dave had fallen asleep. Bursting to tell someone, Colin looked across the lounge at Louise Brown. She sat with her entoPAD on her lap, the palms of both hands drumming along with Paul Cook on the arms of her chair. Her head bobbed, and she sang along tunelessly to Bodies. Colin waved her over but she didn’t see him, lost in her own little world.
Still in entoMAIL, Colin composed a message to Louise asking her to meet him by the games table. He put down his entoPAD and sat back to watch her reaction. Louise stopped drumming and picked up her entoPAD. She frowned at whatever advert she was subjected to, then looked up at Colin and smiled. She raised a bony thumb in Colin’s direction and pushed herself upright using the arms of her chair. Colin struggled upright himself, and made his way to the games table. He took his entoPAD with him and placed it down on the table’s glass surface. He sat down on one of the padded stools placed around the table just as Louise arrived.
“What’s up?” she asked, sliding into a seat opposite Colin. She swiped her hand across the table’s surface, scrolling through the selection of games available.
“Do you remember Sick Bastard?”
“Yeah, of course I fucking do,” Louise said. “Do you remember how to play Tic-Tac-Toe?” she added, sarcastically. Colin nodded. “Right then, I’ll play you for a biscuit. Deal?”
Colin nodded. “Yeah, okay. But have a look at this first.”
Colin slid his entoPAD across the table. Louise looked down at it. Her lips moved as she read, and when she came to the end of the message she looked up at Colin. The wrinkles in her face turned into deep crevices as she cracked a wide smile.
“No fucking way,” she said. “Biffo Ratbastard? I didn’t even know he was still alive, I thought he had a heart attack a few years ago.”
“No, that was their drummer,” Colin said.
“And he’s coming here?”
Colin smiled. “Looks like it, yeah.”
“I fucked him once, you know,” Louise said with smile. She looked down at the games table and prodded the centre square of a Tic-Tac-Toe grid, planting an X in it. “Back in the day obviously, not recently. I would’ve been about seventeen, he wasn’t much older himself. It was before they were famous, they were just a local band back then. Me and my mate Tracey got chatting with them at the bar after a gig, then I ended up in the back of Biffo’s transit van in the car park. Tracey had a knee-trembler in the blokes’ bogs with the guitarist, can’t remember his name, but she said he were a right dirty cunt when I met up with her later. Biffo were sweet as fuck. He even gave me his phone number, but I never called it.”
“How come?” Colin asked. He prodded the middle-left square of the Tic-Tac-Toe board.
Louise shrugged and prodded the top-right. “Never really got round to it. Besides, he weren’t nothing back then, just your average bloke in a band playing back-street pubs and going nowhere. If I’d known back then he was going to be famous one day, maybe I would’ve calle
d him, kept in touch.”
“Maybe he’ll remember you?”
Louise laughed. “I doubt it. He’ll have had a girl in every town, probably a whole fucking queue of them after they started headlining. I’d be just one of thousands. So how are you planning to get Sick Bastard past The Gestapo then?”
“I don’t know yet,” Colin said. “I didn’t really think they’d come so I didn’t plan that far ahead. But I’ll think of something. I’ll need to get hold of some beer too, I said that’s what they’ll get paid with.”
Louise smiled. “Good luck with that one. Nobody’s managed to smuggle beer into this shit-hole since I’ve been here. But if you do somehow manage it, get me some too, yeah? I haven’t had a good piss up in donkeys’ years.”
“Yeah, no worries,” Colin said, nodding. “Have you, um, got any money you can chip in toward the cost? I’ve only got thirty quid and that won’t get us much.”
Louise sighed and shook her head slowly. “Well that’s twenty more than me, I’m fucking skint. I tell you who will have some money, though.”
“Who’s that?” Colin asked.
Louise turned and nodded at Greg Lomax. “Old Greg over there. He’s fucking loaded.”
Colin smiled. “Yeah, right,” he said, sarcastically.
“No, straight up. Before his stroke he used to be a fucking novelist, would you believe? Remember all those punk and skinhead books Hool-ePress brought out? He wrote some of those. Cracking reads they were, too. I was dead impressed when he told me, I used to love those books.”
Colin looked at Greg Lomax in wonder.
“Your move,” Louise said.
Colin looked down at the Tic-Tac-Toe board and prodded a vacant square. “So how come I never heard of him then? I read some of those books too, but I don’t remember his name being on any of them.”
“He used a fucking pseudonym, didn’t he? You know, for tax and shit, probably. Now what did he call himself?” Louise frowned, deep in concentration. “Shit, he did tell me the name, but I can’t fucking remember. Mark something, maybe? Or it could have been Blake, I don’t know. Anyway, entoCORP owns all the rights now, same as everything else, so they’ll be on entoBOOKS if you want to have a look at them. He gets a dollar for every ten pages someone reads, double that much if they respond to one of the adverts and buy something. He’s fucking minted, he showed me his entoBANK summary once and there was like thousands and thousands in it. Fuck knows why he moved in here, he could’ve easily afforded to live somewhere decent instead.”
Punk and Skinhead Novels Box Set Page 28