Chapter 4

(A sample Chapter)

The mad carnival and a gig to remember Living with three girls and six guys, total disorder reigned. In this dwelling on Cambridge Road, there were never fewer than ten people and often as many as sixty crammed into our commune. Our neighbors were very conservative people. In front of their homes were Mercedes, BMWs and Jaguars, while in front of ours were motorcycles, sidecars, old wrecks, bicycles, and beat up trucks, which overflowed haphazardly throughout the street. Our house attracted anyone who had escaped the norm of everyday life; bikers, punks, hippies, junkies, skinheads, and others without category. 

Periodic police visits indicated our neighbor’s outrage. It was as though their housing block had been dropped in the middle of a mad carnival. In contrast, no matter how filthy or disgraced a punk or biker friend of mine was, my father always welcomed them into his home. The first thing he’d always ask was if we’d eaten or not and whatever the reply, he’d bring back a plate of munches and a pack of beer. Every once in a while he’d come down to the Cliff, our local pub. He’d buy beers for my friends and I but would leave soon after. Knowing that I’d never accept cash from him myself, he’d put a ten pound note in a friend’s hand to give to me after he’d left the bar. How kind and considerate, he never ceased to amaze me. 

I really wish he would have stayed longer at times though but I think he always felt a little self conscious. In late October of 85, there was a biker festival in Belgium. I had my obligatory motorcycle boots and crash helmet, but I felt an outcast amongst these long haired symbols of ‘too fast to live, too young to die,’ because I was the only spike-haired punk. But I’ll tell you now I’ve never experienced such unison with people whom I didn’t know, as I did when I went through the town of Oostende in Belgium that time. On the ferry ride over we boozed it up pretty hard; and once on foreign soil we headed toward the town of this great gathering. Motorcycles, three abreast, in the thousands were the only vehicles on the streets. 

The roar of their engines and the sight of the riders could be seen and heard for miles on end. It seemed incessant. It was an unbelievable sight and one that can’t fully be put into words. Somewhere in the town, large tents had been set up on an unused, overgrown bicycle track so that twenty-four hour drinking and partying could go on for these animals with big beer bellies and obnoxious habits. Arriving at a site of thousands of colored portable sleeping quarters we searched for a place to set up our own tents. We continued to drink and socialize for a few hours before going over to the huge pavilion itself. 

Inside, bikers of both sexes got naked and danced around while guzzling beer down like there was no tomorrow. Numerous fights broke out but they mainly seemed to be short and amongst friends. I saw many bodies sprawled out all over the grounds covered with vomit. This was the life of the biker and I was glad to be there. Finally I came out of the beer tent later that night and I was staggering back to our sleeping area, which was hard enough to find in a sober state; let alone after a good night of drinking. As I stumbled along, I accidentally kicked up a stone. It flew through the air and smashed a pint of beer held by a big, greasy Hell’s Angel. He growled and began to run towards me, probably with the intention of killing me. Due to my state of intoxication I was totally unaware of the commotion but when he got within a few feet I was rescued by two other Hell’s Angel’s who put themselves on the line by bringing him down. 

I didn’t know them, but they must have witnessed the soaring stone and recognized the innocent nature of its flight. Of course most of the drinkers here didn’t get up until late into the following afternoon. This was when the same ritual started all over again. Everything about the place was just crazy but it was certainly an amazing thing to experience at the age of eighteen. It was a great weekend and I’m so glad that I went. 

When we left a few days later there were thousands of bikes, three wheelers and motorcycles with sidecars attached, going off in all directions. It was a sight not seen too many times in life. This had been my existence for nearly two years and I never thought it would end. The various gigs, the madness, the Cliff pub and the clubs had been the ongoing fuel that drove me to live. To put it bluntly it was all that I knew. 

They say cherish the good moments in life and how true that is. Little did I know it then, but my world would take quite a turn after the last Saturday in 1985. On the evening of Saturday, December 28th, 1985 one hundred and twenty hardcore punks filled the room above the Cliff pub to capacity. 

We had organized a punk evening at which a couple of bands were scheduled to play. Had there been seats, they wouldn’t have been used because everyone was pogoing frantically anyway. An unreal atmosphere of togetherness prevailed that night. My friends The Armless Teddies played first and then my own band Close Down, played to the grappling, moshing audience. 

Blaine our drummer couldn’t make it to the event so the Armless Teddies drummer filled in. Pigeon, God rest his soul, thrashed his drum kit to its limits and his soaped-up spikes of black hair gradually lost all its previous form from sweat. Tony’s voice bounced off the walls as he ripped into each song. I fed off of this and with raw energy yelled out the chorus. It was one of those precious few times in life when I felt like I was really caught up in the moment. For some fun I came up with the idea of the band dressing up in women’s clothing for the encore. 

The vocalist, Pat the Hat, was too drunk to get beyond the first two lines of a song that I’d written the week before. But it was all part of a smashin’ time! What a night and what a perfect epilogue to my punk career. I was surrounded by a hundred or so friends, my father was there and the energy was just electric! It was a fantastic combination of everything and one of those rare moments that you want to seal up inside a bottle. Later in life you can let out some of its essence once in a while to remind you of what a great time it really was. 

To this day, I still think back to that evening and can put myself in that place and with that great audience, who were also my friends. However it didn’t end well. After the gig the landlord complained that someone had made a mess of the bathrooms with the help of a fire extinguisher. That was the dark side of anarchy, I guess. A couple of days later a sign appeared on the pre-war wooden doors forbidding us; “No punks or leathers.” The unity that connected us slowly began to weaken after that night. 

Our crazy scene was gradually burning itself out and sadly it had been apparent for quite a while. Divisions began to form as people in our mob started to frequent competing pubs, as the vegans became more cliquish, as couples withdrew into their own romances, and as others began to disperse geographically. I moved out of the house just two days after the magical punk extravaganza. 

To be honest, I was beginning to lose it. I’d become really paranoid and felt way off-center and I knew that I had to be on my own again. So with the help of my landlord I moved four miles west to the old fishing town of Leigh-on-sea. It was here that he owned a quaint old building that overlooked the estuary some half-mile below.