Colin clapped his hand on Dave’s shoulder. “Yeah, well done mate. We’ll just shift the table away from the gate and leave it out here, it’s not as if we’ll be needing it tonight.”
When Colin and Dave returned to the lounge, Louise was swinging her arms around to The Exploited’s Never Sell Out. Colin joined her, Dave sat down in his armchair.
* * *
Thumps and bangs could be heard on the lounge door during the two-second gap between songs. Nobody took any notice. Not even Fiona Scott, who must have been able to feel the vibrations through the back of her armchair. The whole lounge buzzed with geriatric excitement. Thatcher was back on her feet and being punched from all directions. I Still Fucking Hate Thatcher balloons sailed through the air, batted from one side of the room to the other. Everyone laughed, having a good time. Even Frank Sterner had given up complaining about the rowdy 80s and 90s music not being as good as music used to be in the 1970s, and joined in with the festivities.
Colin sat in his armchair, tapping his foot rapidly to the music. On his lap lay Greg Lomax’s entoPAD, Louise having handed it to him earlier. He had the entoMAIL app open, and waited for a message. He smiled when it came. He turned to Dave Turner and shook him awake.
“Beer’s here,” Colin said when Dave looked at him.
Colin grabbed his walking stick and pushed himself upright. He slipped Greg’s EntoPAD into his back pocket and looked down at Dave, who had remained seated.
“Well come on then, you lazy fucker. It’s beer o’clock, what are you waiting for?”
Dave nodded and rubbed his eyes before rising. Colin opened the French doors and stepped out, walked up to the gate with Dave following close behind. Dave crouched down and slid the bottom bolt back. He straightened up and pulled open the gate. Rusted hinges screeched in complaint. Colin peered out at a young man with long, scraggly brown hair.
“Greg Lomax?” the man asked. Colin nodded. “Delivery for you.”
The delivery man held out an entoPAD with its screen facing Colin. Colin glanced at the screen and prodded a button marked Accept Delivery. Greg’s entoPAD chimed and Colin took it from his back pocket. He looked at the screen, it asked him to confirm a payment to Boozy Suzy, 16 Glencose Avenue, Shefferham. Colin confirmed the payment and the delivery driver’s entoPAD chimed in response.
The delivery man looked at his screen and nodded. “Right then, I’ll just get it unloaded from the van. Where do you want it?”
Colin pointed through the French doors, into the lounge. “Just in there, mate.”
The delivery man opened the back of his van and climbed inside. He let down a metal ramp and wheeled out a trolley containing a shrink-wrapped pallet of thirty-six two-litre plastic bottles of Yorkshire Bitter. He slid the ramp back into the van, closed and locked the van door, and pushed the trolley through the gate.
“Oi, you with the hair, what’s going on down there?” the retirement home manager shouted from the upstairs window. “Is that alcohol? There’s no alcohol allowed on these premises, you’ll need to take it back.”
The delivery man looked up and shrugged. “Nothing to do with me, I just do what I’m told. You’ll need to take it up with whoever ordered it.”
“So who ordered it then? Because I can assure you it wasn’t me, and nobody else has that kind of authority.”
The delivery man smiled at Colin and winked. “No idea. Like I said, I just do what I’m told.”
“Well I’m telling you to take it back.”
“Yeah well, you just said you didn’t place the order, so it’s not your decision.”
“Wait there, I’m coming down.” The manager disappeared for a few seconds, then returned. “Why won’t this door open? You there, Baxter, go and tell the assistant there’s something wrong with my door.”
“Yeah, in a minute,” Colin said, “I’ll just sort this guy out first, see if I can find out what’s going on for you.”
The delivery man pushed the trolley into the lounge and unloaded the pallet of beer. He took out a Stanley Knife and slashed at the plastic wrap, tore it off and dropped it on the trolley. “Right then,” he said to Colin, “that’s me done.” He looked at the Happy Thatcher Day banner draped across the lounge wall, the black balloons flying through the air, the spasmodic jerks of the dancing residents. He smiled. “Have a good one, yeah?”
Colin nodded. “Thanks mate, you too. Happy Thatcher Day.” He pointed at Thatcher lying on her back in the centre of the lounge. “If you want to give her a bit of a kicking before you go, feel free.”
The delivery man smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Don’t mind if I do.” He walked over and kicked Thatcher in the ribs, sent her flying across the room. “That’s for my granddad, you fucking bitch.”
* * *
Biffo Ratbastard heard a crash of cymbals and a chorus of expletives from the back of the van when he drove over a speed bump.
“You lot all right back there?” he asked. He grinned at Mike Hock in the passenger seat.
“No we’re fucking not,” Fungal Matters said. “Fucking slow down, you cunt, this is valuable equipment and I don’t want it fucking wrecked.”
“Next fucking right, you cunt,” the GPS said. Biffo swerved into a side-street, causing another round of tumbling drums and swearing from the back.
“Are we nearly there yet?” Brenda asked. “Only I’m desperate for a piss.”
“Oh that’s just fucking great,” Fungal said, “now I’m going to get soaked in fucking piss. Remind me again why I’m doing this?”
“Same reason as the rest of us,” Biffo said. “Because you fucking love it. Brings it all back, doesn’t it? I remember in the old days, when we was on tour we’d be living in a van like this together for months on end. I doubt any of your bands were any different.”
Fungal grunted. “Yeah well, when I was in Society’s Rejects we had a fucking massive motorhome, not a shitty little transit van. Being signed to a big label had its fucking perks, you know.”
“Yeah, and they bled you dry for it. At least we kept our independence, no fucker in a suit to suck all our money away and tell us what we couldn’t put on our records.”
“Too fucking right,” Mike agreed, nodding. “Remember that song about what’s-his-face, the politician who fucked all those little kids?”
“That were just the one song,” Fungal said. “How were we supposed to know the cunt would be found innocent? Everyone knew he just fucking bribed his way out of it. Anyway, we put that song out as a bonus track on our Worst Of compilation ten years later, so it’s not like they squashed it forever.”
Biffo laughed. “Yeah, after the cunt died so there was no fucker to sue you.”
“Next fucking right, you cunt,” the GPS said.
“Aye up,” Mike Hock said. He leaned forward and pointed through the windscreen. “I reckon that looks like the right place there.”
It was another miserable-looking building surrounded by a high wall, just like the one Biffo had picked up Steve Snitch and the old couple from. The GPS confirmed it as Biffo pulled up at the main gate.
“You’re fucking here, all right? Now fuck off and leave me alone.”
“Well that’s the right place, all right,” Biffo said, looking out of the side window. “But the guy said we need to go round the back.”
“Try a bit further down the road,” Mike said, “maybe there’s a back alley or something.”
Biffo cruised down the road. The high wall surrounding the retirement home gave way to a row of boarded up terraced houses. From one of the houses a baby cried, and someone yelled at it to shut up. Outside another sat a bedraggled-looking young man who stared at Biffo through vacant eyes as the van drove by.
“There!” Mike shouted, pointing.
Biffo spun the steering wheel and the van lurched to one side. He braked at the opening to a narrow alleyway and reversed to line up the van before swinging into it. He drove slowly past the backs of the terraced houses, until
he came to a high wall topped with barbed wire. He parked near a large wooden gate built into the wall and switched off the van’s motor. He pulled the keys from the ignition and spun them around his finger before pocketing them. Mike opened the passenger door and climbed out.
Biffo took an entoPAD from the van’s glove compartment and composed a message to Punk76, the organiser of the gig, to let him know they had arrived. He put the entoPAD back in the glove compartment without waiting for a reply. He got out and opened the back door. Steve Snitch stumbled out, complaining about his legs. Brenda followed him and walked further into the alley, out of sight behind the van. Biffo heard the sound of urine hitting pavement, accompanied by a long sigh from Brenda.
Fungal Matters eased himself out of the van with his arms outstretched. His dog trotted after him and took up a position by his left side. Fungal reached down and patted the dog, then picked up its reigns. Brian shuffled to the edge of the van and sat there while he waited for Brenda to return and help him down.
Biffo heard a bolt slide open on the other side of the gate and turned toward it. The gate creaked open a few inches and an old man with short white spikes on one side of his otherwise bald head peered out.
“Punk76?” Biffo asked.
The man nodded, and pulled open the gate. “Yeah, mate. The name’s Colin though. Thanks for coming, we really appreciate it. Happy Thatcher Day.”
Biffo smiled. “Happy Thatcher Day.”
“It’s just through here,” Colin said, and turned away, “but don’t take too long getting your stuff out of the van, we need to get this gate locked so nobody else can get in.”
“You going to give us a hand?” Biffo asked, but the man had already gone. He sighed. “I guess not.”
Another old man appeared at the gate. “All right, Biffo?” he said. He wore a thick pair of spectacles, which slid down his nose when he nodded his head at Biffo. He pushed them back into position with a bony index finger. “Old Colin there’s a right lazy cunt, but I’ll give you a hand with your stuff if you like. I’m Dave.”
“Cheers, Dave,” Biffo said, “I really appreciate it.”
Mike Hock and Steve Snitch had their guitars slung over their shoulders and stood by the side of the van, watching while Fungal felt inside for parts of his scattered drum kit. Brian and Brenda stood nearby. They both shivered in their thin night clothes.
“Watch out mate,” Biffo said to Fungal, “I’ll get your drums for you, you just make your way inside. The gate’s just there.” He pointed at the gate, then felt foolish for doing so.
“Cheers,” Fungal said. “Be careful with my drums, though.”
“Yeah, I will.”
Biffo climbed into the back of the van and rounded up Fungal’s drum kit. He held a pair of snare drums out to Dave. Dave took them and carried them through the gate cradled in his arms. Biffo climbed out of the van with a large bass drum held between both hands.
“I’ll take this, you two grab some of them other bits and bobs and follow me inside,” he said to Brian and Brenda.
Brian frowned and rattled his walking frame. “What, and balance them on this, you mean?”
Biffo looked at the walking frame and nodded. “Yeah, fair point. You wait here and make sure no fucker pinches anything then. How about you, darling, you okay to carry some shit for us?”
“Yeah, okay,” Brenda said. She picked up a cymbal stand.
Biffo turned away and carried the bass drum through the gate.
“Who the fuck are you lot?” a voice called out from above.
Biffo looked up at a young man in his mid-thirties leaning out of an upstairs window. “Sick Bastard,” he called out.
“You fucking what?”
“Sick Bastard.”
“You cheeky old cunt, I’ll have you for that.”
Biffo laughed. “I’d like to see you fucking try.”
Biffo walked through a set of French doors into a large, open-plan lounge. Anti Nowhere League’s So What blared out of a pair of large speakers either side of the room. Biffo counted thirty people in the lounge, all sitting in armchairs, most tapping their feet and jerking their shoulders to the music. Black balloons lay everywhere. A woman with spiked up blue hair waved at Biffo before lifting a two-litre bottle of beer to her mouth. Biffo smiled and nodded to her.
Fungal and Dave were assembling the snare drums by the far wall, between the two speakers. Biffo carried the bass drum over and put it down next to Fungal’s dog. He tapped Dave on the shoulder to get his attention.
“Who’s that geezer upstairs?” Biffo shouted into Dave’s hearing aid.
Dave shrugged. “Just some cunt. Ignore him.” He pointed to a corner of the room. “There’s some beer over there, help yourself.”
Biffo smiled and nodded. “Cheers, don’t mind if I do.”
Mike Hock and Steve Snitch stood by a pallet of plastic beer bottles, talking to Colin, the gig’s organiser. They had already downed half a bottle each. Steve took a swig from his bottle and held it out to Biffo.
“Fucking great beer this, Ratty. Here, get some down your neck.”
Biffo wiped the bottle’s top with his shirt and took a long drink. He sighed, then belched and handed the bottle back to Steve.
“You seen who’s here?” Steve asked, grinning. He gestured across the room with the beer bottle.
Biffo followed his gaze. His eyes widened. “Fuck me, it’s Thatcher.”
“Yeah, she’s mine,” Colin said. “I got her for my fiftieth birthday, I’ve kept her ever since. Fucking great for Thatcher Day parties.”
“You’re not fucking kidding,” Biffo said. “You mind if I have a play with her?”
Colin smiled. “Be my guest.”
Biffo walked over to Thatcher. He picked her up and set her on her feet, then swung his arm back and smacked her in the face. Thatcher flew backwards and landed on her back a few feet away. Biffo strolled up to her and kicked her between the legs, sent her skidding across the carpet toward one of the armchairs. The occupant of the armchair, an old woman, raised her walking stick and brought it crashing down into Thatcher’s face.
“Fucking smart,” Biffo said when he returned to Colin. “How much are you wanting for her? I’ll give you a good price.”
Colin shook his head. “The lady’s not for selling.”
Brenda carried in some more equipment from the van and put it down next to the drum kit. She bent down and patted Fungal’s dog. The dog wagged its tail.
“Oi Brenda, is that the last of the stuff?” Biffo shouted. Brenda looked around and shook her head. She said something, but Biffo couldn’t hear her over the music. Biffo turned back to Steve and Mike. “You going to stand here all night or are you going to help me get the rest of the stuff from the van?”
Mike shrugged. “Yeah, go on then. Catch you later, Colin. Don’t drink all that beer without us.”
They left the lounge and returned to the van. The man in the upstairs window shouted down at them, but they ignored him. Brian sat on the edge of the van tapping his fingers on the top of his walking frame. He looked up as they approached, and nodded. He pushed himself upright and shuffled to one side. Biffo leaned into the van and slid out a box of cables. He handed it to Mike and told him to take it inside. He gave Steve a tom-tom and hi-hat stand, and took out a box of merchandise for himself. He placed it on the ground and slammed the van door.
“That’s the last of it, mate,” he said to Brian. “Cheers for looking after the van for us.”
“No worries.”
Biffo carried the merchandise into the lounge and placed it on top of an electronic games table. He walked over to the box of cables Mike had put down near the drum kit and took out his mixing board. He looked around for something to stand it on.
Brian inched his way through the French doors and peered in. Brenda took up a position by his side and looped her arm through his. Brian’s face cracked into a wide grin.
“Colin, you cunt,” he shouted. “I
t’s been a fucking long time since I saw that ugly mug of yours.”
* * *
Colin turned to the French doors when he heard someone shout his name. An old man in striped pyjamas grinned in at him from the doorway, bent over a walking frame covered in multi-coloured blobs. An old woman in a yellow nightie stood by his side. Colin took another sip of beer and put the bottle down. He hobbled closer for a better look, and peered at the man as he came into focus. The multi-coloured blobs on the walking frame turned into band logos. A flash of recognition registered when Colin took in the anarchy tattoo on the side of the man’s bald head, but it was the jagged scar on his neck that clinched it. Colin smiled and shook his head. He reached out and clasped the man on the shoulder.
“Fuck me,” Colin said. He grinned like a lunatic. “Is that you, Bri?”
Brian smiled back and nodded. Colin stared at Brian’s face, taking in the ravages of time that had taken their toll since the last time they had seen each other, some forty years ago at a Punks Reunited gathering in a pub in Cleethorpes. Brian had moved away fifteen years prior to that night, in search of work, and despite promises to stay in touch their friendship had soon degenerated to the occasional letter and an annual exchange of Christmas cards.
“Good to see you, mate,” Brian said.
“Fucking hell, yeah,” Colin said. “So how you been then? Any regrets?”
“Fucking loads, mate, how about you?”
Colin laughed. “Yeah, same here. Not that I’d want to change anything, mind. Except maybe not go to that fucking picket at Orgreave. My leg’s never been the same since that fucking copper twatted me one.”
“Yeah?” Brian said. He glanced down at Colin’s knee. “Did you get any compensation for it when the truth about Orgreave finally came out?”
“Nah mate,” Colin said, shaking his head. “I did apply, same as everyone else the bastards attacked that day, but they wouldn’t pay up. The fuckers said because there was no record of me being employed as a miner at the time I must have been one of those anarchist infiltrators and it was my own fault for getting in the way.”
Punk and Skinhead Novels Box Set Page 32