Gordy had never seen anything like it from Trevor before, indeed, he couldn’t even remember him being interested in girls before, but there he was, acting like love’s young dream.
Nyota (Marjorie), was tall and blonde with plaits that were pinned up in buns a la Princess Leiah. She wore boyish clothes; shapeless jeans, scruffy Converse and loose-fitting T-shirts (usually with some comic book or sci-fi based slogan on them which only true nerds would recognise - Gordy got most but Trevor, of course, new them all). Nevertheless, underneath all this baggy attire, Gordy could tell that Nyota (Marjorie) had a rather impressive figure.
What is more, Trevor was completely and utterly smitten and so, too, was Marjorie - Gordy just couldn’t bring himself to call her ‘Nyota’ and, as such, avoided situations where he might have to refer to her by name. However, this was trickier than he had first anticipated, especially when Trevor floated the idea of changing his own name to Hikaru Sulu as a misguided homage to the Helmsman of the Starship Enterprise and also so that he and Marjorie were in complete accord. After all, who would suspect that two people with the names ‘Sulu’ and ‘Uhura’ were anything other than a couple.
Fortunately, Gordy tactfully managed to talk Trevor out of it - and in an act of solidarity, Nyota, wishing to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the love of her life (not counting Mr. Spock), reverted to her given name of Marjorie, which was something of a relief.
Nonetheless, within a month, Trevor and Marjorie (or the Savoury-Sidebottoms as Gordy liked to think of them - a name which reminded him of a vol-au-vent one might be offered at an Anne Summers party) were setting up home together.
And suddenly Gordy felt like a third wheel.
All his friends were settling down and moving on; first Frazer and now Trevor (with Siouxsie Sioux and Lieutenant Uhura respectively). Only he, Gordy, remained unattached and uncertain about what the future might hold and he didn’t like it one little bit.
But then the letter from DelFont Records arrived and suddenly everything changed again.
***
DelFont Records of Wardour Street, London, was what the address read on the thick woven stock of the luxury letter headed paper the job offer was typed on.
Wardour Street as in the title of The Jam song, ‘A-Bomb in Wardour Street’ - how bloody cool was that? Gordy thought.
And London. The Smoke, The Big City, Auld Reekie - or was that Edinburgh? he couldn’t remember - nevertheless, it was bye bye Bradley because Gordy Brewer was heading for the big time!
After a brief telephone conversation with none other than the ‘President of DelFont Records’ himself, Gordy was officially offered the job and he couldn’t have been more chuffed.
The job was for a ‘Runner’ which was a ‘vital role within the organisation’ apparently - not that Gordy had any idea about what it entailed but he didn’t care, the position could have been for ‘Tea Boy’ and it wouldn’t have made any difference to his decision to accept it as he was still caught up in the whole ‘working in London’ whirl.
The following day he waltzed into the Planning Office of Bradley Town Council and happily handed his notice in.
A week later, he was standing on the corner of Wardour Street in London, suitcase in hand (lovingly packed by a tearful Barb who was dreadfully sad that her ‘little soldier’ was leaving home).
On Alan Brewer’s advice, who apparently knew about these things (even though he’d not been to London since doing his National Service), Gordy had secreted the meagre remains of his last wage packet in various hiding places around his body in case of pickpockets which, his father had warned him, were ‘rife in the city’.
So, terrified of being robbed - thanks to his dad - Gordy had some money in his trousers, some in his jacket, some stuffed in his socks and some down his pants (which chaffed a bit). He also had a few coins hidden in his shoes, which in retrospect maybe wasn’t such a good idea as a particularly uncomfortable fifty-pence piece was causing him to limp a little and he was getting the beginnings of a blister.
However, as Alan had told him whilst wearing one of his most serious expressions (which made a pleasant change from his ‘disappointed’ one), Gordy couldn’t be ‘too careful’ - not in London and especially not in Soho, where Wardour Street was located, as it was a ‘den of iniquity’ apparently.
Nevertheless, in fear for his life, Gordy had gone to Wardour Street straight from St. Pancras (by taxi not the tube as that looked somewhat daunting, particularly for his first day - and he didn’t want to get robbed or even killed before he’d at least worked one full day in the Big City).
Gordy hadn’t even had time to check out his new bedsit yet - which he’d hastily arranged a few days earlier by phone, having spoken to a rather raspy voiced woman who apparently lived in the flat below the one she had rented to him.
She was to be his new landlady and he would have the pleasure of meeting her later, after work, when he would also settle into his so far unseen digs.
But first, Gordy had to report for his first day at work in Soho; seedy, sexy, slightly scary but very trendy and incredibly cool.
When he was fourteen, Gordy had fantasised about having a cool job, but never in his wildest dreams back then did he ever think he’d one day be in ‘the music business’ - which was right up there with secret agent, astronaut and stuntman - in fact it was the best job ever.
There was no doubt about it, he’d finally made it - he’d just been given the coolest job in the world and he couldn’t wait to start.
So, wearing his best, boxy, red tartan suit with the sleeves rolled up (thinking he looked a little bit like Andrew Ridgely from Wham - who had worn one similar when Gordy had seen them at Wembley the previous year on their Make It Big tour), and with his gelled mullet flicked and flowing around his shoulders, Gordy picked up his suitcase and strutted, John Travolta-like, down Wardour Street, singing ‘Stayin’ Alive’ to himself and imagining that his suitcase was a can of paint as he searched for the gleaming tower block that surely would be the impressive headquarters of DelFont Records.
But no such building seemed to exist.
Gordy walked from one end to the other, passed the famous Marquee Club at number 90, passed numerous film industry distribution offices which all looked very impressive, but no DelFont Records.
Starting to worry that he’d got the wrong address, Gordy dug the DelFont letter out of his pocket and scanned it again. Nope, there was definitely no mistake, it was there in black and white; Wardour Street, Soho, London, England. So where the hell was it?
Out of desperation, Gordy called in at a newsagent and asked the turbaned man behind the counter where he might find this mystical place of legend.
To which the man replied, “Oh, you mean Del’s place! That’s up the road, mate, above the naughty knicker shop.”
“Naughty knicker shop?” Gordy stammered.
“Yeah, there’s a shop up the road, sells sexy undies - peep hole bras and crotchless knickers, that kind of thing. It’s called Racy Lacys, I think. Well next to that there’s a little doorway with a bell - should have Del’s name on it somewhere. Give it a buzz and he’ll let you in.”
Gordy was stunned. A bell? Racy Lacys? Surely that couldn’t be right?
Nevertheless, he trudged up the street in his bright tartan suit, looking like a ridiculously overdressed reject from Top of the Pops, to the little doorway as described by the newsagent - not even daring to look at the extremely risqué underwear on display in the shop window next door.
Yet, sure enough, on a scratched post beside a tatty, battered looking door, sat a grubby intercom with a doorbell. Underneath the bell, behind a misted up Perspex plaque, in hand-written scrawl, it read;
DelFont Records Limited, Derrick Fontaine, Proprietor.
Gordy’s heart sank. Was this really what he’d left his nice, safe, secure job in Bradley for?
/> Against his better judgement, he warily pressed the buzzer, then rubbed his finger on his jacket to wipe off any germs he may have caught from the bacteria blighted button.
After a few moments, a tinny voice that sounded like a female version of Metal Mickey (Metal Michaela, perhaps), said, “Yes?”
“Er, yes, um, hello. This is Gordon - Gordy - I’ve, er, come about the job.”
“Who?”
“Gordy. Gordy Brewer - I’m the new Runner,” said Gordy, suddenly feeling like doing a runner himself - far away from this god-awful sleaze pit of a place. This was not the auspicious start to his glittering new career that he’d previously envisaged.
“Oh, right,” said the slightly confused voice on the other end of the intercom. “Spose you’d better come up then.”
A second later, the door buzzed and clicked open.
And, with a heavy heart and a sense of bitter disappointment, Gordy entered his new place of work.
***
After climbing a narrow set of wooden, uncarpeted stairs, Gordy was met by Shaz - Metal Michaela from the intercom. But she wasn’t metal at all and looked quite human in a detached, rather aloof kind of way. Indeed, she looked effortlessly cool like a lot of the London trendies that Gordy had seen on the streets around Soho - making him, in his bright red tartan suit, feel a bit like a small town wannabe on his first trip to the big city (which, of course, it was - at least by himself).
Shaz looked like Dee C. Lee from The Style Council with dusky skin and straightened black hair that was held off her modelesque face by a wide, white head band. She was wearing a white cropped jumper, high-waisted leggings, biker boots and a look that told Gordy that she was way out of his league (as if he didn’t know it already).
“Sit down,” she said, “Del’s on the phone at the minute.”
Gordy duly did as instructed and proceeded to wait for another hour and twenty minutes in the outer office. He tried to engage Shaz in conversation whilst she busily polished her fingernails but she seemed disinterested in anything he had to say and possibly a little wary of his garish tartan suit which now appeared to be screaming ‘Trying too hard!
Gordy now wished he’d gone with just a simple T-shirt and jeans ensemble instead of trying to be the hippest hipster in London. He should have known better than to try and beat the trendies at their own game and he felt seriously outclassed.
Nonetheless, after a tortuous wait, Shaz eventually noticed the light go off on her phone. She picked up the receiver and dialled her boss’s extension. “Jordy Brewster to see you, Del,” she said.
Gordy died a little inside.
“I dunno,” continued Shaz. “It’s nuffink to do wiv me - he says he’s the new runner or sumfink.”
Gordy squirmed uncomfortably. They weren’t even expecting him!
“Well make your mind up!” Said Shaz, sounding a bit too confrontational for Gordy’s liking. “He’s been here an hour, what you want me to tell him?”
This wasn’t going well.
“Okay. Alright, I’ll send him in then,” said a bored sounding Shaz before finally putting the phone down, as if sitting behind a desk in a sleazy Soho office was all too much of an effort.
“Go in,” she said to Gordy, stifling a yawn. “He’s through there.” She pointed to a glass-panelled door to the side of her desk with the words ‘Derrick Fontaine’ painted on the frosted glass in chipped black letters.
“Can I leave this here for a minute?” Gordy said, pointing to his suitcase as he stood up.
“Spose,” Shaz said with a shrug. “Makes no difference to me.”
“Thanks,” whispered Gordy guiltily, not wishing to put the clearly very prickly Shaz out any more than absolutely necessary. Then he crept past her desk cautiously and opened the door, uncertain of what manner of creature he might find laying in wait behind it.
Silently praying that this day would not get any worse.
***
Upon entering the dark, smoke filled room that stunk strongly of cheap cigars, Gordy immediately saw a heavy-set, nattily dressed middle aged yuppie character, complete with stripy shirt and thick red braces, chomping on a Slim Panatella and waving him in.
“Come in, come in. Don’t be shy,” said the smiling man from behind his mahogany desk that was littered with mounds of paper, stacks of lever-arch files and at least two very full ashtrays.
Behind him the red flock wallpaper was partially concealed by an assorted array of framed gig posters and show bills, as well as various photos - all featuring Del with a selection of famous luminaries from the music industry - which led Gordy to believe that perhaps he had got the right place after all.
“Hello, Jordy, I’m Derrick Fontaine—” Del began.
“Er, sorry, it’s Gordy,” Gordy corrected.
“Yeah, course. Isn’t that what I said?”
“No, I don’t think it—”
“Anyway, hi, welcome to DelFont Records - pleased to have you aboard.”
“Er, thanks.”
“Pleasure. Now listen, I know you’ve got loads of questions but I’m a bit busy at the moment. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off and come back tomorrow, eh?” said Del. “We’ll have a good chat then and I’ll show you the ropes - get you settled in and sorted out, okay?”
“Erm, yeah, okay, if that’s—”
“Great,” said Del, picking up his phone again, dismissing Gordy. “Any questions, Shaz’ll sort you out.”
Yeah, some hope of that, Gordy thought. “Um, righto then,” he said.
“Fab. See you tomorrow then - bright and early. Great suit by the way!”
“Thanks,” said Gordy backing out of the room, but Del was too busy punching numbers into his phone to notice.
And that was it.
Gordy’s first day in London at his brand new job in the music business was already done and it wasn’t yet eleven o’clock.
‘I wonder if every day’s going to be like this?’ Gordy mused as he lugged his suitcase back through Soho feeling decidedly underwhelmed by life in The City.
However, at least he now knew why The Jam sung about there being an ‘A-Bomb in Wardour Street’ - someone had obviously put it there to blow up DelFont bloody Records.
***
Against his father’s best advice, and to save wasting unnecessary money, Gordy decided to dice with death and give the tube a try, which was an experience to say the very least.
Nonetheless, after three rather scary underground journeys - one which took him the completely wrong way - he found himself outside the three-storey terrace in Tooting that was to be his new home.
Mrs. Makenzie, his not so charming landlady, answered the door to him in her quilted pink housecoat, baggy tights and fluffy slippers. Her hair was in curlers and she had a king-sized Lambert & Butler dangling from her lip, which Gordy would soon discover was an almost permanent fixture. In short, she was a skinnier, more hunched, Southern version of Nora Batty.
Indeed, this woman who would be relieving him of a large amount of his wages every month had rather an unpleasant demeanour and seemed like she couldn’t be less pleased to see him, especially as he’d turned up a good six hours earlier than expected.
Nevertheless, with a constant cloud of cigarette smoke circling her curlered mahogany-dyed coif, Mrs. Makenzie reluctantly led Gordy up to the top floor of her scruffy, unloved B&B and showed him his new bedsit.
Gordy was not really sure what he had been expecting to see as his mind had been so preoccupied with his new job, but upon opening the door, he knew, without doubt, that it certainly wasn’t the small, damp, dark space he was looking at.
A single brass bed of ancient origin sat under a grubby window which had curtains that harked back to The Blitz. The floor was blue lino, the furniture - or what passed for it - was made up of an old chest of draw
ers and a battered cupboard which both appeared to have suffered water-damage at some point in the past and there was a small, grubby kitchen area with a gas oven and sink which clearly hadn’t been used in years.
“There you go, luv.” Said Mrs. Makenzie, “It’s two months in advance like I told you. I’ll let you get settled in then come back for the rent after I’ve watched Pebble Mill at One (which Gordy would soon find out was ‘must-see’ TV for Mrs. Makenzie - and causing her to miss it was tantamount to committing murder, which went someway to explain her current grumpiness).
Once Mrs. Makenzie was gone, Gordy sat on the dingy sheets of his lumpy new bed (which was actually very old) and evaluated the first few hours of his new life.
One word seemed to sum up his experience so far and that word was ‘shit.’
Gordy could have cried. What he wanted to do was get back on the train and go straight home to Bradley - back to his mum and dad, to Trevor and Frazer, to his old humdrum existence at Bradley Town Council.
But he couldn’t, his pride wouldn’t let him. He had to stick it out, at least for a bit.
He was tired, hungry and feeling slightly traumatised.
Maybe things would be different tomorrow.
***
Things did, indeed, look different the next day - they looked even shittier.
But in the days and weeks that followed, Gordy slowly settled into his crap new bedsit and his crap new job, concluding that he was just going to have to grin and bear it until he could find something better. Besides, apart from the flat, the job, his landlady, Shaz the sulky secretary and his new boss, London in general was absolutely great.
In the first few days of his employment Gordy discovered that Derrick Fontaine, the eponymous Del Font of dubious renown, was of Eastern European extraction and that his real name was actually ‘Doglan Turdolksi’ but as a company name DelFont Records was infinitely more preferable than DogTurd Records, which frankly, sounded a bit shit - even though, to Gordy, it seemed to sum it up exactly.
Jam Tops, the Fonz and the Pursuit of Cool Page 29