Episode 2 The star that fell

And the crowd stirred restlessly in the market place. A piece of debris from the television universe had fallen in our midst, bathing the precinct in an eerie showbiz glow....It was Patrick Cargill of sitcoms, sideburns and large sheepdog renown - come to shoot a commercial. But Patrick's televisual sourcery would not prosper today. I won't believe that anywhere other than Rottenbrough, Parick's turn wouldn't have proceeded successfully, but as he paraded before the great ape gathering, there was an ominous rumble and a few minutes later, the longest drought in British history came definitively to an end. Patrick marked everything we were fashion disaster-wise at the time; all things wide and pseudo-Dickensian. Bright colours and pop art were generally more of the Sixties. Only Seventies jet-setters and rock singers really dressed Glam. From Patrick on down, everything was reined in colour-wise to beige, grey, crotch-stain and Bisto. In tandem, the unnecessary expanded and grew. Big cufflinks, bigger sideburns and wristwatches like gongs. Just over the horizon lay Patrick's descent into afternoon nostalgia programmes and panto, but as we scrambled for shelter amidst the downpour, for a moment at least, we were spared the truth of our fates.

Rot Follies

How did Shrapnel fashion us? What were its designs? Seamus saw merry, slamming his chair into Suzie Chewitt's desk in simulated sexual intercourse. Kane interrupted his 'C'mon then!! and 'Skiiilllllll!' blatherings to comment. 'Weisman's the only one of youse 'ard enough to 'ave a go at me....coz e's a maaaaaan!  Kane was somebody I loathed instinctively. I know most people didn't like him much, but on a personal level it really went deep. His ignorance, cunt-like nature and lack of need to do anything about it really rankled. He was kept in check only by the even more pyschotic figure of Shane King, and for the sake of our sanities he should really have have been excused academic duties from the start. Inspired by the burgeoning Punk movement, I penned my first pubescent protest number.

(To the tune of 'Gary Gilmoure's Eyes' by The Adverts)

We hate the National Party

And we hate the National Front

We hate the Labour Party

and we hate the Liberal cunts

We hate the Tory party

And we wish Maggie was dead

I think I'll put my DMs on

And kick her in the head...

Not the most articulate statement, I know, but politics was in a pitiful state by the mid-Seventies. Skinheads came out of nowhere and quickly dominated the streets. Looking back, it's hard to pinpoint a precise moment. The Queen's Silver Jubilee perhaps? But some boys always had crops. Borstal was probably the biggest influence: Violence was always in. The National Front came as part of a trilogy with the New Wave and skateboarding during the first eighteen months at Shrapnel, but Anti-Nazi rallies were a long way from our playground ordeals. In the natural instinct that always made me mistrust Socialist Worker types, the biggest factor was their complete failure to do anything about the fascist elements in our midst, leaving it up to a few brave or crazy boys to speak out, at immense personal risk. The extent to which these zeros were prepared to put themselves on the line was mirrored in the mob-like violence of the miners in the mid-eighties and the mindless anti-American prejudice of NME writers today.

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