The idea of the Saxon Hornets hatched back in the summer of '75. Today, half a dozen teams compete in their black and gold strip and their reputation in Rottenbrough league football is formidable. But in my day, things were tougher. The Hornets formed out of the worst half of the Turrets Juniors team, the nicer boys being almost by definition, sporting liabilities. I persuaded them to come training and with much hassling of my helpful father, put together a team in time for the 1975-6 season. A hammering was a regular feature of the Hornets enterprise. As time went by I developed a phobia of Sundays when the massacres would take place. Still, for most of the season, I led the Hornets' quest for tragedy. I was nominated Player of the Year by my father-manager and threw in the towel finally after four and a half years of fear and despondency. But Hornets' buzz lives on.....
Something else that made secondary school weekends unique was the Scottish Sunday Post. I don't know what claim this tartan tabloid had to our living room, maybe a sop to daddy's highland ancestry, but I knew that buttered scone and hot Tetleys hits throat thrill of Sundays stretched out of the fire lapping up stories of sectarian violence on the Clyde. I became obsessed with the idea of the Scottish hard man. It was the Post that alerted me to the TV premier of 'Just a boy's game,' the Monday Play blueprint for my nightmare north of the border vision, and rarely was there a more drizzlingly depressing portrayal of a culture in thrall to the feud. If you want to know how Simple Minds created 'Reel to Real Cacophony' or what lent The Skids their grandeur, or alternatively, why Vinnie Jones, Guy Ritchie and the whole Brit gangster shtick just won't do, see this programme and salute the musical clans that made such fear and adrenaline resound.
Solomon and Seamus
The giving, as opposed to the taking, as in giving money to perfume and clothes manufacturers, and taking stuff back when your relatives weren't completely satisfied, remains my abiding memory of Christmas shopping with Seamus. We gave over our entire Saturdays to the task, scouring Rottenbrough for knockdown versions of whatever we'd been asked for, and hitting the department stores where I watched Seamus swap labels on perfume bottles, literally saving himself pounds....I always associated Seamus with the market, although Solomon worked there more often. He was the original artful dodger, though the one time he did a full Saturday, he was paid in change, which was desperately short of the 50ps he'd expected to discover...Saturdays revolved around Solomon's second-hand stall. Collecting the singles I'd missed over the past couple of years was a jumble of thrills. Even though remembered from a couple of years back, seen on Top of the Pops or occasionally heard on the radio, the full power of the tracks really hit me when played at volume. Solomon was crucial in this respect, already visiting Rough Trade at 12. his fascination for New Wave and the independent labels at this stage eclipsed even mine. The Police's debut single, only 500 made, he let me have free because he hated it and I thought it was brilliant. Of course, it rocketed in value once they'd become famous. Solomon won out in the end though, swapping the Jam's debut with me in order to re-obtain his freebie. Two weeks later, my rarity was rendered worthless by a reprint. You couldn't hold it against him though. Solomon was always there first: With the Rezillos wraparound shades, the biggest marbles in the school, and a willingness to walk on the wild side, or at least, scurry nervously, and in Rottenbrough, this was sometimes the only safe form of locomotion.
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