TWO SEVENS CLASH

The memory is razor sharp. I was standing by the bar at a Friday-night dance in the West London satellite town of Slough, aged sixteen, sipping at a can of bitter-tasting lager. This was no Travolta-like disco, nor was it an up-market club full of coke-snorting celebrities, just a scruffy British affair flavoured with beer, perfume and some Jam-style Doctor Martens leather—‘blended in by the weather’. The records played by the DJ saw chart hits backed up by some rock and plastic soul, and then out of nowhere came ‘Sheena Is A Punk Rocker’ by the Ramones. It singed the air, changed the atmosphere in seconds, my skin tingling same as it did when I heard ‘Liquidator’ by Harry J & The All Starts at my first football match. Life had changed.

In those popular chart songs, with their music-hall delivery and vaudeville humour and singalong football-terrace choruses, lay the roots of our version of punk. Slade, Sweet and Cockney Rebel … T. Rex, Mott The Hoople, Roxy Music … Alvin Stardust, Gary Glitter, Wizard … Punk was the next step on from what is now labelled ‘glam’—via Dr Feelgood, those speeding rhythm-n-blues merchants from Canvey Island to the east of London. Older kids knew about Detroit’s Stooges and the New York Dolls, but not us. Our music was the sound of the English suburbs.

Other records had already made their mark, the biggest influence being David Bowie and a series of LPs that include Aladdin Sane, Ziggy Stardust and Diamond Dogs. Bowie sang in an English accent, didn’t try to mimic the American greats, which was unusual at the time. Punk would do the same. The Rolling Stones and the Who were going strong, as were Elton John and Rod Stewart. There was plenty of rock ’n’ roll about and Elvis Presley still ruled the working man’s clubs. The girls wore pencil skirts and stockings and danced to Motown and Hot Chocolate. The lads brooded at the bar in cap-sleeve T-shirts and DMs, doing their best to look tough. We were boot boys. Hated hippies and soulboys. Disco was the enemy. The year was 1977.

The media had a different take on punk. For them it meant the fashionable and expensive King’s Road in Chelsea, a wealthy area of Central London, the pose of entrepreneurs Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood, a collection of art-school students and older hippy chancers. The clothes these self-promoters pushed belonged on a catwalk in Milan. For us, it was a load of bollocks. We hated that side of things with a vengeance. Punk was supposed to be anti-fashion, that was part of the attraction, and so a split was there from the start.

What really mattered was the music and without four proper herberts in Johnny Rotten, Steve Jones, Glen Matlock and Paul Cook punk might never have existed. The Pistols were the guvnors, seemed to come out of Slade and Sweet, though in reality it was more like the Stooges. Everything changed when the Sex Pistols exploded onto vinyl. Four massive singles—‘Anarchy In The UK’, ‘God Save The Queen’, ‘Pretty Vacant’ and ‘Holidays In The Sun’—set a standard that has never been bettered. Steve Jones’s guitar is definitive. The B-sides were also excellent. Their one and only album—Never Mind The Bollocks Here’s The Sex Pistols—was perfect. Then suddenly they were gone, ruined by the publicity-seeking of McLaren.

The Clash were the other big band. They were all about their albums and live shows, brilliant 45s such as ‘White Riot’, ‘Complete Control’ and ‘White Man In Hammersmith Palais’ never seriously damaging the charts. They lasted into the 1980s and produced five LPs with their normal line-up—one of those a double, another a magnificent triple. Sixteen slabs of 12-inch vinyl. The Clash stuck together, overflowed with ideas, changed and mutated, could be seen on tour again and again. Each show was a spectacle. I saw them three times in a week at the Lyceum, two nights running at the Electric Ballroom. Life didn’t get much better. Joe Strummer delivered the lyrics and vocals while another Jones—guitarist Mick—pushed the sound in different directions. Reggae and dub were two Clash loves, the popularity of the music generally clear in the bass of so many punk bands. And then there was X-Ray Spex. Like the Pistols, they released a single LP, but Germfree Adolescents was also perfect.

The vocals of their lead singer Poly Styrene freeze the skin, cut across a room the same as those Ramones guitars. Poly was a punk rocker, Sheena in the flesh. When she talked about diamond dogs in ‘The Day The World Turned Dayglo’ the Bowie connection was fixed. Swimming pools and dirty canals—the emotions that filled our homes, schools, churches, workplaces was tapped. Bowie’s Major Tom roamed the streets of Slough under another name. And it is here that Human Punk is based. Some see Slough as grim and grey, a flatland of petrol-soaked aggravation, but Joe Martin knows it is exciting and alive and thick with an inner colour. It is the people who are important.

Slough could be a rough old place in the 1970s. It still can be. The town has been insulted and dismissed by snobs of all persuasions. It has never been fashionable and will never be trendy, and while it is far from alone, its name has become synonymous with the notion of a new sort of concrete jungle. But there is an honesty about the place. It is direct and diverse, part of the surrounding area. There are fields and woods on the margins, big homes and housing estates. A series of arteries run through it, goods moved by rail and road, but there is also an arm of the Grand Union Canal—overgrown and dirty and full of rubbish in 1977, symbolic of the decay of post-war Britain, raging industrial strife and an escalating clash between labour and the bosses, a conflict that would see the emergence of Margaret Thatcher. Punk is a child of the seventies.

Four miles away is Uxbridge, where the sprawl of Greater London ends, home to punk legends the Ruts and the Lurkers. The Clash and the Sex Pistols operated at the far end of the road running out of Uxbridge to Shepherd’s Bush in Inner London. In the other direction from Slough is Windsor with its castle and army garrison and the most notorious Hell’s Angel chapter in the country. Next to Windsor is Eton, where the ruling class is educated. The difference with nearby Slough could not be more dramatic. Heathrow Airport is also close. This is part of the larger area surrounding London, a swath of land where city meets country, past and present easing into each other. Today, a circular motorway acts as a symbolic wall. Welcome to London Country.

This is Joe Martin’s world. In his name he is part Strummer and part Doctor Martens, but really he is shaped by family and place. Punk is not separated off but comes out of everyday life, the bands acting as funnels, expressing feelings he carries but hasn’t bothered to articulate. He is an individual and can stand outside the group, but that doesn’t make him an outsider. But perhaps everyone is an outsider? There is a way of doing things here, but an open-mindedness also. This doesn’t extend to appearance. Attention-seeking is not appreciated. If a male walked the streets in a Westwood costume he would not last long. Wearing the wrong badge can also be dangerous.

Slough may be dismissed for its lack of grand architecture, for its warehouses and factories, for its ranks of functional homes, but the reality is jobs and housing. The trading estate’s post-war need for labour means it has always had a mixed population—in the 1970s long-term local families, a big overflow from London, people from the Wessex counties to the west, Welsh and Irish migrants, wartime Poles, Pakistanis and Bangladeshis and Indians. There are settled gypsies in both houses and caravans. More recently, immigration from Eastern Europe has added to the mix. Today, it is one of the most ethnically diverse places in the country. There is a powerful sense of Britishness here. The worker’s dream survives.

Joe roams the streets of his older Slough with friends Smiles, Dave and Chris. In the summer of 1977 they are off school and enjoying their freedom. Normal teenagers with the usual urges, Joe finds work picking fruit with the gypsies in an orchard. One night he steals a car with the other lads and drives into Camden in North London to see a band. They joke and laugh and are protective of Smiles who has had things hard. Joe and Dave argue and their love-hate relationship drifts through the story. Human Punk looks at the nature of friendship and how it can last the decades, how it is expressed through the good and bad times. Allowances are made, but disagreements can fester.

Punk is a big part of Joe’s education. School holds little interest and so like the majority his learning is informal, comes through family and culture. Music is everywhere, a form of expression that hasn’t been stifled by those who censor literature, film and theatre. Punk coincides with his core teenage years. It is personal. Previous generations had similar obsessions—Teds, mods, skinheads … rock ’n’ roll, beat and blues and soul, ska and rocksteady. But punk is different. While the Ramones may have drawn his attention with their chainsaw guitars, lyrically they have little to offer, which is at odds with the storytelling he finds in the lyrics of Rotten, Strummer and Poly Styrene. He wants songs that reflect his life and feelings and the state of the nation. This is Joe’s literature. It is what sets punk apart.

The title Human Punk pays tribute to the Ruts, a local band for me growing up. Best-known for their ‘Babylon’s Burning’ 45, they were another outfit that only produced one album, but The Crack is a masterpiece. It includes a live of version of ‘Human Punk’, a favourite with Ruts followers of the day. At the end of a show, lead singer Malcolm Owen would stick the microphone into the crowd and those nearest grabbed it and chanted ‘human punk, human punk, human punk’. A charismatic, much-loved character, Malcolm tragically died in 1980 from a drugs overdose, two months after Joy Division’s Ian Curtis committed suicide. There is no romance in Bowie’s Rock ’N’ Roll Suicide, as Smiles well knows.

Soon after the publication of this novel I become friendly with the remaining Ruts—Paul Fox, Dave Ruffy and John ‘Segs’ Jennings. Paul lived in a houseboat on the Grand Union Canal in Uxbridge, a few minutes from the General Elliott pub, and we would drink in there sometimes before his own sad death from cancer in 2007. Others from the area might include Manic Esso, drummer with the Lurkers and God’s Lonely Men; Leigh Heggarty, guitarist with the Price and now Ruts DC; Geno Blue, skinhead-reggae DJ and Club Ska bossman. The original punks are still busy. A couple of miles back along the water towards London the Slough Arm cuts off from the main route. It is towards the end of this spur that an incident occurs that changes the lives of Joe and Smiles. It was odd standing in the General Elliot, next to the same canal I had written about, talking with Paul, sitting on his houseboat after the pub closed. Life repeats. Fact and fiction blur.

In 1986, I went off travelling. Excitement replaced disillusionment. My own restlessness comes out in Joe. He has to get away and leaves England, the second section of the novel focusing on his journey back to England on the Trans-Siberian Express. The year is 1988 and his memories flow, the motion of the train and the miles of grassland and forest giving him the peace and time to consider the recent past. The speed of punk and Joe’s youth is slowed down as he is pulled back to 1977 and the intervening years. He wonders what he will find when he gets home. There is a letter in his pocket, horror scratched into the paper.

Travel changes a person, but not always in the ways you expect. As well as the brilliant sights and sounds, the people and their philosophies, it made me appreciate my own culture even more than I already did. I had long been told about the failings of the British as if they were unique, as if those in power translated as the masses, but everywhere I went I saw unfairness—from the race-based caste system of India to the mass prostitution of Thailand to the treatment of the non-Han and non-Communist in China and Tibet to the Spanish suppression of native populations in Central America to the racial splits in American cities. Everywhere I went people were dirt poor. I was rich in comparison. Neither did they have our welfare state, a wonder that had been fought for and was now increasingly under threat, a selfishness infecting the Westworld, two figureheads established in Thatcher and Ronald Reagan. This shift in values has continued across the following decades.

Human Punk was first published in 2000, the same time as the third section of the book is set, but I wish I had written it this year. Punk has reemerged in new forms and is full of life, much of the credit belonging to US bands such as Rancid and Green Day. In Britain it was forced to the margins. Too many of the first wave of bands disappeared up their own backsides, so it was left to their fans—the real punks—to strip the music back and live the life. Labelled Oi! in the UK and street punk in the US, these bands refused to bow down to any political doctrine and so they were destroyed. Their influence on Black Flag and Nirvana is clear, and a great deal of recognition has been given to Cock Sparrer, the Cockney Rejects, the Business, the Last Resort in recent years by the Americans. This mirrors the Clash’s promotion of local musicians such as Bo Diddley and Lee Dorsey when they toured the States in the late seventies and early eighties. This is the real Special Relationship.

At the same time a self-reliant anarchist scene kept growing and prospering in Britain, pushing animal rights among a series of genuinely held, brave beliefs. Some would later leave the cities behind and taken to the open road as travellers, and while the connection to hippy is clear, this was real hippy, not the slumming, tight-fisted rich kids who would end up running so much of society, as we always knew they would. On the surface the two strands may appear very different, but there is a shared localism and a refusal to be told what to think or how to behave. These are just two of the many types of punk, what makes it unique. When we are young we cling to our own version, but over time people mellow and it becomes clear there is a plenty of common ground.

Fast-paced and lyric-heavy, a lot of the younger bands have taken their songs away from the rock ’n’ roll format. It’s as if music hall and hip-hop have merged with the Sex Pistols and the Clash. This is fresh and exciting. To a great extent, the internal splits of the 1970s and 1980s have faded—at least in the UK. People are contradictory and don’t follow party lines in their thinking, and that’s what makes us human. This sense of reinvention as originality can be found in Human Punk’s storyline, the idea of time as a circle, the long-term connections that only have to be realised.

The 1990s were a surreal time if you came of age in the late seventies. Especially if in your heart you were a punk. In Britain, John Major took over from Thatcher, and the Labour Party was gentrified and remixed as New Labour, with Tony Blair and Smiley sharing the same yellow grin. The theft and rebranding of our culture was neatly disguised as the sixties were replayed. A lot of money was being made. The selfishness that accelerated through the eighties had become more mainstream, albeit cleverly disguised. Music was sanitised, reverted to the supposed rebellion of drug use. We were handed New Labour, New Football, New Men.

Oasis and Blur worried each other in the charts, for those of a certain age sounding like the New Beatles and New Stones. Acid house had young people raving and flapping their arms, loved up on a version of Aldous Huxley’s fictional soma in a New Summer Of Love. Techno, drum-n-bass, jungle offered links to punk with its speed and hard-edged sound, but the lyrics weren’t there. Cool Britannia was neatly packaged and sold to the world. I preferred Carter USM and Fugazi and Spiral Tribe, then the trip-hop of Tricky and DJ Shadow’s Endtroducing. The dub/reggae of the Clash and the Ruts led punk into other fields, producers King Tubby and Scientist revered by youngsters, eventually moving towards dubstep and beyond. This felt like a slowed-down punk, there in ‘Bank Robber’ and ‘The Equaliser’ by the Clash, the toasting and production of Mikey Dread. It was there in the heartbreaking ‘Love In Vain’ by the Ruts and their connections to Misty In Roots and Mad Professor. And Johnny Rotten had long since gone back to John Lydon, his Public Image Ltd taking dub and weaving fresh patterns. Truth be told, though, by 2000 disco had won the war.

Luke, who appears in the final part of Human Punk, is a young man interested in sounds rather than words, and as such taps into the prevailing millennium mood, his connection to the past strong in another way. Joe is a positive character, sees the good in people, but are they as inherently decent as he believes? Does everybody change with time? Does anybody? Circles break and loop and reform. Closed books are opened and reread, songs sampled and fresh ones crafted. When a ghost steps out of the mist it is enough to stop anyone in their tracks. A familiar face means the past has to be confronted. Bowie’s astronaut stands near the canal. He sees everything that happens. The tension between Joe and Dave carries through, but when it comes to the crunch you hope your best mate is going to step forward. These two men are still boys, but scarred by violence. ‘Sheena Is A Punk Rocker’ makes their skin tingle. So does ‘The Day The World Turned Dayglo’. The volume is turned up high as they head into the future. I wonder what they are doing now.

John King

London, 2015

SATELLITE

Slough, England Summer 1977

BOOTS AND BRACES

It doesn’t seem right somehow, seeing that kid run across the football pitch with his head sprayed gold, turned into a robot, knowing he has to get home and scrape the paint off before his brain boils and head explodes. He reaches the fence and climbs over, hurries towards the high street. It’s not nice, not nice at all, Delaney shaking the can while the others hold him down, covering his face and neck, big blobs in his hair. He’ll probably laugh about it later, when he’s scrubbed clean and having his tea, safe and sound. And it’s a good life when you’re not on the receiving end, us lot in our own little corner, sitting in the sun on the last day of term, Johnny Rotten banging out of the cassette player, six weeks of summer holidays drifting into the future. I lean my head into the bricks and stare up at the sky, a pure blue dome with no clouds in sight, the only smudge the thin white trail of a single Heathrow jet, hot and cold air clashing, leaving a long line of fizzing crystals behind. The Pistols chop through ‘God Save The Queen’ as the flakes slowly melt, and I come back to earth when police bells ring in the 45-version of the Clash’s ‘White Riot’.

I’m showing off a new pair of DMs today, turning the right boot one on its side so it catches the sun, a warm patch of white light, and they’re ten-eye, two over the eight worn by most kids round our way, and the fact I’ve got them and Dave hasn’t is doing his head in. He likes to be one step in front when it comes to clothes, but I worked hard for these boots, stacking shelves at night after school, pricing baked beans and peas while everyone else was at home watching the telly, listening to the radio waiting for John Peel to come on and play some decent music, wanking off over Debbie Harry and Gaye Advert. Soon as I got these Martens home I went out back and rubbed them up with a brick, added big dollops of cherry-red wax then polished the leather till my arm hurt. So I’m getting my money’s worth, specially when it comes to this prize tosser Dave Barrows, who’s doing his best to ignore the new boots, keeps telling his story.

–So Ali’s standing there with Wells holding this knife against his belly and he’s shitting it, and all the time there’s this little wanker running a bike in his legs. There’s four of them, and they’re fresh off the train, back from the races, and I suppose they’ve seen Ali and thought, right, we’ll have a laugh and do some Paki-bashing. Ali doesn’t know what to do, if he should leg it or wait and see whether he gets let off. The knife makes this some serious aggro and he’s got tears in his eyes, but doesn’t want to show himself up and start crying. He’s handing over the two quid he’s got in his pocket when Alfonso comes strolling round the corner.

Chris laughs and Dave stops for a second, gives himself away. He kicks at my right foot, but I’m too quick, stick out my jaw, tell him to come and have a go if he thinks he’s hard enough. He sucks deep down in his throat and fills his mouth, gobs at the same boot. Again I’m too quick for him and this massive greeny hits the concrete. I feel sick just looking at it, move over and take my chips with me.

–You should’ve got steel toecaps, he says. That’s what I’m saving up for. A proper industrial pair off a building site.

I shrug and tell him to go ahead and buy steel toecaps if he wants. Doesn’t bother me what he does. Can never work out why he takes these things so serious, and anyway, the coppers will have the laces off him soon enough, when he goes to football. Offensive weapons.

–You going to eat those chips? Chris asks. I’m fucking starving.

I say I don’t know yet. I’m still thinking about it.

–So what happened next? Smiles asks. Did Ali get his head kicked in or what?

Dave goes on, doing his best to ignore the ten-eye Doctor Martens staring him in the face, shining bright, out on parade.

–Alfonso doesn’t say a dicky bird, just goes over and nuts Wells between the eyes. Wells goes down, and the others don’t move. Now it’s their turn to brick it as the knife falls on the ground and Alfonso bends down, picks it up, admires the blade and tucks it in his dungarees. He pats the div with the bike on the head like he’s nothing, while Wells lays there spark out, spread all over the pavement. Alfonso takes the two quid and stuffs the notes in his pocket. He tells Ali to have a kick if he fancies it, but Ali says no thanks, thanks anyway, and Alfonso says to get off home. Ali reckons two pound’s a bargain to see Wells get done like that, but there was no point sticking the boot in, specially with the others watching. That would be asking for worse trouble later on.

–Makes sense, Chris says. Must’ve been tempting though. I’d have kicked the bloke in the head and worried about it later.

Ali made the right choice. There’s no point making problems for yourself.

Nobody says a word, not till Smiles pipes up.

–I thought Alfonso and Gary Wells were mates.

Chris nods and Dave grins.

–Not any more they’re not.

I think of Ali, trapped in a corner with no way out, mugged by Wells and his poxy bumper-boy mates, all baseball boots and striped T-shirts, wankers picking on an easy target. It’s just bullying, same as the kid getting his head sprayed gold. Wells is nineteen, four years older than Ali, and that’s a big difference at our age, plus it’s four on to one. Least Ali didn’t get a kicking.

–You shouldn’t waste those chips, Chris says, smiling.

This boy’s always eating, stuffing his face with crisps and chocolate, the cold pork pies and Scotch eggs he nicks down the shops, grabbing anything he can get his hands on. He always helps himself to two school dinners, three puddings. Doesn’t matter what’s on the menu. Could be roast, could be liver. He’s always tapping us for chips. He should be fat, but instead he’s tall and skinny. Maybe he’s got a tapeworm.

–Ali and his brother had to run from Alfonso and Wells when they were out Paki-bashing last year, Smiles says. Wonder what happened.

Fuck knows, but it’s a beautiful day and we’ve got six whole weeks away from this shithole. I tell the others to have a look at the sky, how it looks as if it goes on for ever. Time doesn’t matter. It’s good to be alive.

They all look at me. Dave laughs.

–You fucking bum boy.

But he can’t resist having a peek himself, even though he tries to do it on the sly. He’s like that. Always has to have one over on you.

–I hate this place, Chris says, turning angry. It does my fucking brain in. One more year …

The fifth form are leaving today, and the lucky ones will be fixed up already, off down the trading estate in the next few weeks, straight into the factories and warehouses, shop floor and offices, full-time jobs with proper full-time wages. We can’t wait till next summer when we’ll go the same way, maybe get an apprenticeship and learn a trade. There’ll be no more skiving when we start work, and we’ll have to clock-in on time, learn to do what we’re told by some manky old git with a clipboard, but it doesn’t matter. We want to earn decent money so we can afford all the records and go to the sort of places we’ve only read about in the NME and Sounds, London venues like the Vortex and the Roxy, treat the girls to a film and a drink instead of shinning up the Odeon drainpipe the whole time.

–I’ve got a surprise for tonight, Chris says, lighting a fag.

He blows a ring in the air, then pumps smoke out of his nose like he’s a Rastaman smoking the old ganja. All he needs is the dreadlocks.

–What’s that then? Dave asks.

–Wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, would it?

–Come on you wanker, what is it?

–Fuck off cunT, Chris laughs, spitting out the T.

It’s a game we play, doing what the teachers tell us, not dropping our Ts, taking the piss out of the same teachers who call us lazy, hooligans, thick. So we make the T stand out, but for one word only.

–Wait till tonight and you’ll find out then.

Smiles stretches over and takes one of my chips. They’re cold and hard, the fat turning solid, but he puts it in his mouth and starts chewing. Chris, who’s scoffed his portion in half a minute and been sitting around looking sad as the rest of us enjoy ours, has this look come over his face. He’s been waiting patiently, staring at the chips, imagining the taste, and now Smiles has strolled right in and helped himself. I laugh as Chris stubs his fag out on the concrete, puts it back in the pack, leans forward and grabs a big handful, stuffs them in his gob. He munches away, grinning, cheeks packed with chips, then suddenly frowns and almost spits them out again. It’s the salt. He’s forgot I covered them with salt. We’re pissing ourselves. Dave waits for Chris to stop choking and tries again.

–Come on, what’s the big surprise?

Chris shakes his head.

–He’s probably bringing Tracy Mercer round, Smiles says.

We all like Tracy.

–Dirty cow, Dave says, and looks across the playground, his face changing from pretend disgust to surprise.

We follow his eyes and there’s another kid running along with a gold-plated head, same as in the James Bond film Goldfinger, when 007 gets knocked out and comes round to find the girl he’s been shagging is dead, painted from head to toe so she suffocates. A real waste of decent fanny. But this kid’s alive, head glowing in the sun. Delaney and the boys have been busy.

–Who do you reckon it is? Chris asks.

The kid jogs across the playground, past the metalwork room with its mesh fence, off over the football pitch, all professional like. The grass is turning from dark green to a burnt-out yellow, and small clouds of dust kick up as he goes. When he gets to the fence he’s straight over, teacher’s pet lapping the field, lungs clean, no fag smoke slowing him down.

–Jennings.

Mark Jennings, the school’s top sprinter, long-jumper and football captain. Clever as well. Top of the class in all his subjects. Worse than that, he’s a big-head. Thinks he’s better than the rest of us, which I suppose he is really. Thing is, he shows it, so there’s always someone looking to punch him in the mouth.

–He won’t be able to breathe, Dave says. He’ll drown in his own sweat.

–Only if his whole body’s sprayed, Chris says, the expert on these things. They’ve only done the head.

Five minutes after Jennings disappears, a load of older boys walk across the playground and over the pitch, Delaney near the front. We get up and follow. I turn the cassette player off and jam it under my arm. Dad bought it off some bloke at work for my birthday, and there’s this microphone you plug in and prop up in front of the speakers of a record player or radio. That way you can record songs you can’t afford to go out and buy. We take turns buying. Share stuff around. The radio plays shit most of the time, and you never know if something decent’s going to come on, so records are your best bet.

–Have some of this, Chris says, pulling a small bottle of whisky out of his jacket pocket.

He’s been saving it and I feel bad not giving him my chips now. He still passes it over and I take a swig. It burns the back of my throat and I want to spit it back out, but swallow and make sure my face doesn’t move.

–Let’s have some. Come on, you fucking wally.

I pass the bottle to Dave.

–Not bad. Not bad at all.

I don’t want to take the cassette down the bus station, but I’ve got no choice. Other boys our age start coming over, and I suppose we’re a shadow really, trailing the older kids. By the time we reach the fence there’s about twenty of us, and Delaney and the others are waiting, hands in pockets, gobbing on the ground, screwing us, checking the faces, nobody smiling. It’s not a bad little crew now, and everyone turns and the fence gets a heavy-duty kicking, all these DMs smashing home, the wood cracking into long pink shards, two whole panels kicked to fuck in under a minute. This is the sort of aggro we like, where there’s no pain and no comeback, where you can stick the boot in hard as you want without hurting anyone.

–Wonder what the surprise is, Smiles says, as we march along, on our way to the high street.

I don’t know, the only thing I’m thinking about is my cassette player and if it’s going to get smashed up. I’ve got three tapes in the side pockets of my trousers, halfway between knee and waist, and make sure the buttons are done up so they don’t fall out. One day I’m going to buy a proper hi-fi system, with quality speakers, but it’s a long way off.

–Come on, what do you think Chris has got lined up?

Maybe he’s used some of that charm he’s always going on about and chatted up a prostitute, conned her into coming round to visit us at Smiles’s house, seeing it’s the last day. Maybe she’s going to give us a blow job each. Just so she can enjoy our company.

–Wonder if she spits or swallows, Dave asks, his voice rising as he tries to work out if I’m telling the truth, sticking close to Chris just in case, his brain racing.

I bagsy first go and the others think about it for a minute.

–I’m not going after you, Dave says. No fucking chance. Dirty fucking Arab.

We keep walking. Me and Chris snapping our hands so the fingers crack together. Dave starts laughing at us, joins in and drowns out the sound with the sort of cracks that mean he has to be double-jointed, same as Ian Hutchinson with his windmill throw-ins. I’ve got the Martens and Dave’s got the wrist action. Too much wanking, that’s his problem. When he leaves school he could be a professional tosser.

–Fuck off cunT, he laughs.

And we’re feeling good, looking forward to the summer, keeping up with the others, going with the flow, like you do.

The big boys are at the front as we trip down the steps leading into the subway, leaving the artificial glow of the precinct behind, some kid’s Blakeys echoing down this long dark tunnel with the prick of light at the far end, millions of miles away out of reach, the conversation dipping as our words are punched back from the sort of grimy walls you normally find in a train station bog, the reek of stale piss and sweat replacing the shopping arcade’s disinfectant. And because the blokes leading us are leaving school today we know it’s going to be a bigger bundle than usual, that they want to go out with a bang, that this is the day they sign on with the adult world and start following another set of rules, snotty-nosed juveniles shifting up a gear leaving childhood behind. And because leaving school opens things up there’s this party atmosphere rippling along the high street, through Queensmere and down into the subway where Charlie May’s trying to hold the family Alsatian back with a chunk of thick silver chain, we’ve picked the dog up on our way, Charlie’s mum looking out of her front window and spying us lot hanging around by her gate, gobbing all over the pavement as we boot her broken wall with our DMs. And Charlie’s fighting to control a dog who’s gagging for some aggro, snapping jagged teeth and bubbling white froth, pulling on his arm and a new tattoo that’s covered in brown crust, a thick scab hiding the colours of the Union Jack and army dagger. And we’ve walked into an echo chamber down here, with that coat of Gents slime smoothing the cracks, and because there’s nowhere for the sound to go our voices get distorted, turn all fuzzy like some smelly hippy’s been pissing about with his drugs and feedback, kaftan coats and cheese-cloth shirts, no punk chords, no edge, the flavour and colour rubbed right out, everything dead and forgotten. And it’s like we’re stuck in a sewer, floating along in the shit and blown-up rubbers as long-distance lorries rattle over our heads, HGVs driven by tired men who don’t know we exist, don’t give a toss, want to get home to their families, have a bath and some food, play with their kids, plug into the telly same as my dad. And I suppose we’re nothing special, nothing at all, just your everyday garden boot boys out on the prowl wondering if the Langley boys are going to turn up, us younger kids bouncing along feeling like nothing can touch us, floating on air, Doctor Marten’s special soles, and even though we don’t say it we know we’re safe at the back, acting hard, lots of mouth and not much muscle. And before we know it we’re turning left and going up the ramp leading into the bus station, and a few seconds later a brick comes flying and bangs into the wall where it cracks in three, quickly followed by a milk bottle that smashes into tiny silver nuggets, just missing Khan’s head, and we look up and see their front-row troops leaning over the railings giving us wanker signs as a second brick hits Butler square in the face, blood blowing down his clothes and specking the ground, and we don’t hang about, keep following our leaders, let them decide what’s best, the Alsatian barking his head off and flashing those razor teeth, gums pulled back same as grown men when they’re rowing, and the dog’s going mental, his bark roaring back down the ramp where it gets under the skin of china walls sprayed SLOUGH TOWN BOOT BOYS and CHELSEA NORTH STAND, washes into the tunnel where someone has gone to the bother of carrying a pot of tar through the streets of Slough at four in the morning just so he can splash IRA SCUM and TEDS KILL PUNKS in massive capital letters. And we’re not going to stand still waiting to get bricked to death, not with Butler down on his knees holding his face and trying to stop the blood, a surge flushing us into the open where we surface in the middle of the Langley boys, and it’s obvious they don’t fancy the look of the May family mutt, moving back but keeping an eye on the fangs, Charlie pulled forward by a dog who loves a punch-up and, seeing this, we pile in as they shift further down the walkway towards the cafe, some of their younger boys jumping over the railings to get away, dodging a bus as the driver hits his brakes and adds burnt rubber to the trapped diesel fumes, and the big boys are getting stuck in now, Delaney next to Charlie May, backed up by Mick Todd and Tommy Shannon, and this lot don’t give a fuck about anything, punches and kicks swapped till Todd pulls out the hammer he carries around with him and takes a swipe at this fat kid who’s already got the Alsatian digging its teeth in his arse, ripping the trousers, catching the boy on the funny bone so he screams like a disco dancer. And it’s the dog that makes the difference, the rest of the Langley boys climbing over the railings that box off the different bus stops, shoppers scattering but making sure they take their bags with them as a man in greasy overalls tells us to fuck off out of it, that we’re a bunch of bleeding yobs, our heads battered by the fumes and roaring engines, smoke rising till it can’t go any further and settles along the roof, the first clouds I’ve seen all day. And the fat kid goes down on the floor and curls up as the boot goes in, some kicks to the body and Todd and the others move on, job done, everyone except Khan who kicks the boy hard in the head with the stacked shoes he’s wearing, one of only two or three boys not wearing Martens, thick wood that makes a loud cracking sound against the skull. And the bang makes me feel sick, when I look at Smiles I know he’s thinking the same thing as Khan grins and goes to kick the boy again, least till Todd turns and shouts at him to pack it in, that’s enough, leave it out, the wooden handle of the hammer topped by a thick steel head, a rounded back to the flat front. And Khan goes to say something, stops, knows better than to muck Mick Todd about, knows that upsetting Todd means upsetting his three older brothers who are all well-known headcases, the oldest a Royal Marine serving in Germany who’s just done six months for beating up a GI, so instead Khan shrugs his shoulders as Langley open a sports bag and start lobbing bottles, must’ve brought them down on the train, and this kid comes running over at me and tries to grab the cassette so I punch him hard as I can in the face, and he’s bigger and older but spins back and gets booted up the arse by Tommy Shannon, thumped with the hammer by Micky Todd, punched by Delaney so he stumbles and almost goes down, tries to run, falls over and gets up, goes along the walkway as I tuck the cassette deeper under my arm. And I look at the fat kid who’s still on the ground and he’s been knocked clean out, but before we can go over and see if he’s alright everyone freezes, a police van bombing along the main road with its siren going, and the aggro’s forgotten as eighty or so boys leg it in different directions, nobody wants the coppers coming round your house causing trouble, and the van disappears, then comes barrelling into the station Sweeney-style, except Regan and Carter would be in a Jag, could be Kojak, except it’s a van so it must be Ironside, and even though it’s summer the van’s lights are on, full beam, spotlight eyes. And me, Smiles, Dave and Chris stick together, leave this pressure cooker behind and run into the scorching summer sun, sucking the fresh air down as we blink, getting used to the bright, keep going towards the front of the train station, the Langley boys ahead of us pegging into the ticket hall, the bloke I hit at the back, if one of them turns round now we’ll be in trouble, they’ll think we’re after them, but they keep going, disappear, and when we get to the station we turn left towards the bridge that crosses the tracks, where Delaney, Todd and some of the others are walking the opposite way as if they don’t have a care in the world, and when we get near enough I can see they’re eyeing us up like we’re little kids who are fine when they need the numbers but an embarrassment any other time. A panda pulls round the bend and they start whistling the Z Cars tune, till the driver puts his foot down and the light starts blinking, and they sprint back the way we’ve come while we run up to the bridge, cross over the