Human Punk

by John King

  Fuck them.

  Luke’s gone and that’s the end of Smiles. I push it away and look on the bright side, the sun shining along the tracks, catching broken glass, the sparkle of diamonds and the smell of tea cooking in the kiosk. I walk up to the bus station. It’s the best sort of day, spring getting ready to turn into summer, something to look forward to, running through the music I’ll play next week, a big night in Slough, just me playing punk. I go into the back of the station and there’s a Yellow Pages advert up on the wall, a twenty-foot-high frog with green skin and a red trim, massive eyes popping from his prehistoric head. The railings are the same ones where I got mugged as a kid, the felt-pen graffiti long gone and painted red, emulsion flaking, and this dark corner brings back memories. Lessons in swimming pool learning the breaststroke, told to move our legs same as a frog. Me and Dave standing against these railings early evening getting robbed by older boys. They took our money and that was it, end of story. Must’ve been thirteen. There were no punches or kicks, just a simple handover of coins. Stairs lead to the car park where a woman was raped, and I remember when it was brand new and we went in with our spraycans. There’s the bog I ran in one day after a bad curry the night before, washed through by the snakebite we used to drink. And the bins are on rollers these days, the same old squashed chewing gum, spit and smell of sweat in this little corner of my life, never mind the flashy advert, the magic of a computer design. And I let my legs do the walking. Piss off into the precinct and come out the other side.

  There’s always something stirring in your head, and it’s as if you always think best when the moment’s gone. But it’s not too late. It’s never too late.

  Billy Clement runs a shop back off the high street, where there’s a few older houses, everything on a lower level behind the concrete slabs and sheets of glass, tiny pubs forgotten except by a handful of men who keep them going, the old twang lingering over pumps that serve Director’s, everything pushed on by expansion, progress, competition. Clem operates down these streets, coins it as well, hundreds of lone rangers coming to him for their spares, the self-employed men driving around in their vans, the plumbers, carpenters, electricians, couriers, rat killers, mini-cab drivers working hard for a better life, men who want to get ahead and do their own repairs. Clem is the supplier for these people. Everything from pliers and fuses to starter motors and heavy-duty batteries.

  I go inside and Clem’s behind the counter watching the news, another righteous man in a suit going on about transport, drugs, crime, fuck knows what. It doesn’t mean anything right now, it’s just sound, static, fuzzy feedback spat up and spewed back out under a different label.

  –Alright Joe? Clem asks. What are you doing in here?

  He turns the telly off and leans on the counter. I’m looking for a photo and ask him if he remembers when we went and stayed in Dave’s caravan that time.

  –Yeah, I remember. It was a good laugh, wasn’t it? What made you think of that?

  Clem had some pictures. Maybe he’s still got them.

  –I suppose so. There’s a box upstairs in the cupboard. I could dig them out. What do you want them for?

  Doesn’t have to be a reason, just something that comes into your head and you have to sort it out, and it would be good if they were there, if I could look in the box and get some copies made.

  –What, now?

  He’s an easygoing bloke old Clem. Real gentleman. And I’ve been there with coppers giving him grief, and when he deals with officials there’s always an edge, like they expect his fist to connect any second. It’s a shame. He’s a diamond. Honest as they come. He can handle himself, but is a gent, isn’t interested in bullying people. He’ll do anything for you, and most of the time won’t ask why. So I go upstairs into his flat and he pulls out a big box of photos, makes me a cup of tea.

  –You okay?

  I’m fine. Clem nods. Goes downstairs, back to work. Leaves me to get on with it. Clem’s life is in this box, his family and friends, Clem as a baby with his mum, dad, gran, grandad, uncles and aunties. He’s got lots of uncles and aunties, old-time gypsy characters in gumboots, and there’s Clem as a boy, a youth, Clem on holiday with his mates, in Bournemouth. And there we are standing next to Dave’s caravan, grinning, whizzing, laughing our heads off, and all these years later it looks more like a tin shack than a caravan. Clem’s at the end of the row wearing a dodgy-looking tash. Then there’s Dave, decked out in a shirt with a label I can’t make out, really beaming like this is the happiest day of his life, and Smiles is next, a straight shot that catches him fine but gives nothing away, and last is muggins, a real scruffy bastard with a can in my hand. There’s another picture, but it’s more or less the same. I wonder who took the photo. I take the first one and show Clem.

  –Fucking hell, he says. What a bunch of mangy-looking herberts. Least we are anyway. Dave looks smart enough. What do I look like? And you, you cunt. Fuck me. Talk about drug-crazed. Look at your eyes.

  My eyes are blazing away. Must be the light.

  –Don’t lose it, Clem says, as I leave and head for the photo shop.

  I pay extra for the one-hour service, sit outside on a bench with three old gits chewing their gums. There’s nothing for them to do except sit and watch the world pass by, and now I’m with them, watching the girl in the shop move around, working this big white machine. I talk to the man next to me, and he’s alright, served in Malaysia, in the jungle, fighting in the tropical heat, and now he’s stuck on a bench in a new town, concrete taking over from forest. Coca-Cola rules the world. Coca-Cola, Kentucky Fried Chicken, McDonald’s, Levi Strauss, Sky TV, Disney. The bin next to us is overflowing with polystyrene cups and cartons, chocolate milkshake dripping through a Pizza Hut straw, a small pool of brown muck on the pavement, packet wrappers and frozen chips, another run of Coke, McDonald’s, KFC.

  –Nice arse on that, the old boy says.

  I follow his eyes and he’s right. Very nice. The spirit lives on.

  –I could fuck that all day long. If I was young, like you.

  When the photo’s ready I take the original back to Clem, borrow an envelope and write out Luke’s address. Clem’s looking at me a bit funny, trying to work out what’s going on. I tell him not to worry, it’s a surprise for someone. I tell him he’s a good bloke. One of the best.

  –What’s the matter with you? Something’s up. You been on the piss?

  I walk to the post office and stand in line, buy a stamp and put the envelope in the box. Luke will be chuffed with the photo. It was sitting there in my head all the time. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I go home, stop and buy some chips and a couple of pickled onions. When I get in I lock the front door, heat up a tin of beans and dump them on a plate with the chips and onions, go in the living room and put the food on the carpet for a minute. When the M4 is busy the windows rattle, the non-stop throb of traffic piling through, crossing the big banks of the motorway, metal flecks on the flyover, the smell of petrol heavy in the air during the busy times. I flick through the past and pick out the Sex Pistols single ‘God Save The Queen’, ease it out of the picture sleeve, protected by a plastic cover, place this 7-inch classic on the mat and drop the Rega needle into position, adjust the amp, let the words come steaming through the B&W speakers. I love it. If this stereo was a woman I’d marry it tomorrow. A dream come true.

  I eat my food, wonder where Luke is now, ease back as everything comes crashing in, glad the door’s shut and I’m indoors. The record runs through and nobody cares about the lyrics today. The press that made such a song and dance about ‘God Save The Queen’ is the same press that routinely slags the royal family off today. The press that put the Tories in power backs New Labour. Everything has changed, and nothing has changed. Not really. And Luke is getting further away, into Paddington and around to Victoria, a fast train to Brighton and a life by the sea. The letter will be sorted, stamped and follow him down. He’ll be pleased. I know he will.

 
; I turn the telly on and the volume down low, don’t bother with another record, there’s nothing left to say, eat my beans and chips, crunch into the onions, fill my fork up, wash it down with a can of lager from the fridge, the same old faces pushing into the screen, coming back to haunt me, self-appointed moral guardians lurking in the circuits, microchip men and women with lots of opinions and zero knowledge, so many versions of the same song, and the way we look at time is a con, it goes in circles, everything is always there, dipping in and out of focus, the basics never change, and the man filling the screen has this big boiled head that turns gold as I watch, the needle clicking on the back of the turntable, and the news shows bright explosions and figures in grey suits, the picture flickering as the face of the man inside the television set takes control, interviewing guests, lobbyists and professional opinion-formers spouting the same old lies, the familiar beat of their voices right here in my head, I know it all off by heart, shifting to urban decay and mindless violence, the steady whine of SINGLE PARENTS, SINGLE PARENTS in the background, the so-called immorality of single mums raising their kids best they can, and it’s this scum that forces people to make decisions, aborting kids they’d like to keep, putting them in orphanages, making the benefits nice and low, that same old law-and-order mentality that keeps banging away in the background, the same trendy hypocrites who never get tired, just keep going, year in, year out, mutating into another group, the same faces, different clothes, rosettes, we get it all the time, see the headlines, hear the speeches, and I don’t care about the crime wave filling the cells, the mindless hooligans, the white boys smashing up pubs, the black boys raiding shops—the scroungers and do-gooders—the muggers, pimps, drug dealers—the decent majority of law-abiding citizens—the rule of law—the social order—the best police force in world—the best legal system, medicine, education, army, democracy—best of everything—best sounds, pubs, curries, girls, football hooligans, drugs—specially the drugs—epidemic proportions—the call for hanging, flogging, stocks—the death penalty for child molesters—terrorists—young offenders taking the piss—life far too easy inside—far too hard for our rulers—it isn’t like the old days—the good old days—Blue Peter and Gary Glitter—eco-warriors and anarchists threaten the very fabric of society—ravers, ecstasy, repetitive beats—sound systems—everyone taking drugs, taking the piss—road protesters and neo-Nazis—too much sex, too many skivers, too much freedom—too young, too old—unmarried mothers, unwanted babies—socialism tried and failed—the kids today—never had it so good—never had it so tough—and on it goes—on and on.

  •

  They say home is where the heart is, and I suppose it’s true. I hope Luke settles down, finds a place he can really call his own. Maybe he’ll end up serving lager in Hong Kong or pizzas in New York. Sounds romantic, but it would be a lonely way to spend the rest of his life. He’s a good boy and doesn’t deserve what’s happened. You can’t escape your roots, whether it’s the place you grow up in, the music you listen to, the pubs you drink in, the girls you love, everything that happens along the way. It’s not hard to work out, and at least he’s got a chance. You try and do your best in life, treat people how you want to be treated yourself, show respect and expect it in return. Most people learn this as they grow up, so it doesn’t matter if they talk to themselves or go out on night patrol, get abducted by aliens or believe in miracle births, just as long as they don’t strut around thinking they’re the only person who matters. It’s something the wahs never learn, and that’s why they’re so arrogant and everyone hates them. They’ve got no manners. No humility. If everyone understood what the other person was thinking, felt what they’re feeling, life would be easy. It’s a truth, more important than the state’s endless laws and regulations, passed by the rich for the rich. Thatcher said there was no such thing as society, but she was wrong. It’s just looser and more easygoing than she thought, doesn’t run on snobbery and political correctness. Most people get on with things. Make mistakes and try to learn from the experience. Do unto others …

  –Come on, you tight cunt, it’s your fucking round, Dave shouts, a foot away from me.

  My right eardrum’s ringing so I give the bloke a hug to shut him up, pucker my lips so he backs off mumbling about gay boys taking over the world, never mind the government and media. I stare at his Stone Island logo, take out a tenner and lean over the bar, hold the note at an angle, sharp crease slicing though Her Majesty’s face. The barman knows the pecking order, everyone taking their turn, polite and friendly, getting on. Tricky’s grumbling away in the background, going on about standing in government lines again, his voice filling every corner, merging with the laughter, the deep thud of life away from the glossy advertising posters, free from the sugary lies of those party-political soundbites. The lager’s off, so the barman’s mate goes off to change the barrel. He does me three pints of Guinness and a bottle of Mule, as the bloke he’s serving decides to hang on for the lager. Chris and Clem are fine with Guinness, and Dave is struggling anyway, so the Mule will give him a kickstart without the same volume as a pint. I let my drink settle, the thick white cream backing up the glass, black base rising, turning solid. Beautiful.

  –So Alfonso’s on the job, Dave says, going back to his story. He’s almost there, with Lizzy spread out under him, legs up in the air, knees pressing into his chest, groaning like a trouper, sweat covering her body and soaking the sheets, gasping for more, when the dog starts barking his fucking head off. The mutt’s going mental, scratching at the door and digging in the carpet, needs to get out of the room sharpish.

  Dave pauses for breath, the Mule filling the gap. Talk about gay boys. He should forget the drama and get on with his story. He stares at me and Clem butts in.

  –What’s the dog doing locked in with Alfonso and Lizzy when they’re on the job?

  It’s a fair point and needs to be answered. Dave frowns. Sucks at his bottle. Lowers it to his waist as he weighs up his reply.

  –I don’t fucking know, do I? I wasn’t in there as well. What do you think? Alfonso’s servicing Lizzy on the bed while I’m entertaining Mutley over in the corner. Do us a favour. Do you think I was rimming the dog or something?

  –Fuck off, will you, Clem says.

  The picture of Dave servicing Mutley gets stuck in Clem’s head. He looks like he’s going to flush his drink back up. It’s not nice, not nice at all.

  –It’s Augustus, Chris says.

  –What?

  –The dog’s not called Mutley. It’s called Augustus.

  –Augustus?

  –Alfonso’s dog is called Augustus. After some Jamaican geezer.

  Dave sighs. Hangs his head. He’s showing us he wants to give up, can’t be bothered wasting his breath when we keep on interrupting him, putting him off his stride and breaking the rhythm. I tell Chris it must be Augustus Pablo. Melodica player. Alfonso was going on about him the other day, lent me an album he produced, King Tubby Meets Rockers Uptown. Lots of it sounds familiar, and we probably heard it enough times when we were kids, just never knew the name.

  –He gave me Rockers Meet King Tubby In A Firehouse, says Charlie Parish, arriving on the scene. It’s too slow for me. I prefer speed. No fucking about. No fucking words and no slowing down.

  –You’ll learn, says Chris, sipping his pint.

  –So this fat bloke meets the rockers uptown and they meet again in a firehouse? Dave asks. Why don’t they go down the pub like any normal cunt instead of hanging around with the fire brigade?

  –Because they live in Jamaica, Chris says, laughing into his drink.

  –You telling me they don’t drink in Jamaica? What about the Red Stripe? The rum? Nice bit of Navy warms you up nicely.

  –I’m not saying they don’t drink, it’s just a different way of doing things, and it’s where they mixed their music. It wasn’t a social.

  Dave nods. Tries to remember what he’s talking about.

  –He probably wanted to go for
a walk, Clem says. Needed a shit or a piss. He’s not going to do it in the room while his master’s banging the mistress. Animals have standards. They’re a lot better behaved than humans most of the time.

  Dave looks at Clem. Looks at Chris. Looks at me. Finally looks at Micky Todd who’s squeezing past with a grin on his face, charlie in his pocket. Dave watches him disappear into the bogs and knows he’s going straight in the cubicle. Thinks about something, then shakes his head slowly. Makes the effort.

  –So, Dave continues, Alfonso’s busy with Lizzy and the dog won’t stop barking and then she says maybe someone’s trying to break in, tenses up so he thinks his knob is stuck in a vice. You know what she’s like.

  –What do you mean? Clem asks, licking the froth off his lip. Lizzy seems alright to me.

  –She is. Lovely girl. But she gets nervous. Highly strung. Anyway, the dog keeps barking and Lizzy’s going on at him, so Alfonso pulls out and fucks off downstairs to have a look. He pads through the house and into the kitchen, and hears voices outside. He peeps out the window and there’s these two toe-rags trying to undo the locks on his garage.

  People don’t like having their property nicked. Specially when it’s something that’s cost them hours of hard work. Alfonso built the speakers himself, and it takes time to get the balance right.

  –So what happened? Clem asks.

  –He goes in the kitchen, grabs a carving knife and steams out of the house. Soon as they see him they’re off, shitting it. They’re just kids and don’t expect to see a six-foot-six black man flashing a knife and a hard-on. It’s their worst nightmare come true, thought they were going to get stabbed twice over. They do a runner and Alfonso’s left standing in the road stark-bollock naked when a car comes round the corner and lights him up like a Christmas tree. It screeches to a halt, does a U-turn, and shoots off the other way.