Christmas '78 meant cold and an uncommon amount of time spent at a family friends' house. The Immaculates, as they were ironically named, considering the youngest boy had no feet, were a brash configuration. The boy blunder was a habitual escapist and liar. His elder brother Alan was an overgrown braggart, cocky because of his size and needlessly cruel to his sibling. He in turn, was at the mercy of his appalling father Dennis. Decency prevents me from listing the depths of crassness he descended into, but suffice it to say, death was too kind for him. His wife Jean was by some margin, the nicest member of the family: blonde, pretty and just about in her 30s, she was the only "Aunt" I had who could vaguely be called young. Extrovert in manner, she had a pearly queen glamour that was just the right side of tacky.
Den's speech was full of phrases like "You're the only one 'ere not working!!" and "I've got the 'ump wiv youse!" Rather in the way that cockneys seem genetically incapable of understanding their own double standards, this frequent four-letter word user instructed us to "...Cover yer ears if they start swearing!" when we watched The London Weekend Punk documentary. He kept giving me presents up to my sixteenth birthday, and expected kisses for them in return. In Dennis's world, money could always buy you love. Personally, I preferred taking my swimming trunks off in front of Jean while she pretended to scold me and that didn't cost a thing! She was a true enlightened South Londoner. Passion was in the air that December.
"If there was a girl in here now" said Alan, "I'd show her any part of my anatomy she'd care to see..."
Soon he showed me what I'd been waiting for. Delving into the corner of his bedroom, he emerged with his pornographic magazine collection. I read it and was horrified to find descriptions of "white hot spunk" and 'searing climaxes' I took it all completely literally and feared burning myself once I'd learned how to masturbate. Then there was about three pages describing a woman doing stuff to her vagina. It read like a description of open-heart surgery. Revolting.
The attractions of spending an evening at The Immaculates were basically material. There were bowls of Mini Bounties and Mars Bars; 'afters;' a heated outdoor swimming pool and a house-sized teddy bear called 'Bulky.' Nowadays we'd be strangers from opposing planets, but most of Christmas '78 belonged to them. It was from the Immaculates that I set out to buy my first Punk 45', reckoning they were too liberal (or ignorant) to recognise it as anything other than just a good rock and roll record. I was also introduced by Alan to the delights of Yes's 'Tormato' album. He played it incessantly during our table tennis tournaments, probably to put me off, but the delights of the LP followed me well into the new year, the strange synthesizers and Nordic imagery evoking a cheap mystery and matching the romantic confusion stewing in my brain.
Exposure
After two years with the New Wave effectively banned from the house, I was now venturing regularly into Rottenbrough. Each trip was a fear-filled affair. The bus would take you haltingly into hell. The boneheads and their bootboy associates were everywhere and nobody it seemed could stop them. The only hope was to pass yourself off as a non-target. It was a game of bluff. The keys were a Harrington and a pair of steel-capped DMs. I invested in some 10-hole 'Blackburns', fibbing my parents they'd be useful in the snow. That winter, I'd trudge to the bus-stop, jeans hiked up for full Martens exposure. The rubber soles adding another inch to my already hairstyle-boosted height. One Saturday, with the snow scuppering the transport schedule, I fell into conversation with a similarly stranded youth. Despite being somewhat older and considerably more streetwise, he let slip he went to 'Raffles', the only private school in the area. This was immediately to my advantage. Shrapnel had recently 'run' Raffles (he kindly informed me) and the DMs seemed to confirm his view that at base, I was Shrapnel, and due at least some deference. Finding out what school someone went to was usually the next question after asking their name. Assessments were swiftly made and a strange, stupid aura became attached to the answer. Danelaw and Swarfega had acquired psychotic reputations, St Bartholomew's, Buttercup Row and the Cleric Green schools were generally regarded as wimp territory, and everybody's else's standings was open to negotiation. This was possibly all in my head more than anyone else's but I remember once when Martin went to a Swarfega school disco, being surprised in the extreme when he hadn't been in some way attacked...
Skating on thin ice.
I am not one of them. I accept merely to feel a little truant glamour rub off. Beverley must have badgered me into accompanying her. Best do as she says. She possesses knowledge that could be to my advantage. Also present are Solomon, Seamus, Dean (a harmless clown who lies compulsively) and Beverley's friend, an unstable girl with a full-time criminal father.
Ice-skating seems an awful prospect, but we must get it out of the way, with any luck, with several pauses to look at record shops. People crawl out from all places as we approach London. Every minute is measured personally in T-minus go home. Solomon collars some Punks as we walk into Rough Trade and I hear The Pop Group album playing. The music is wild and strange though later I don't like the 12". Beverley gazes at a poster of Bowie in pegs and a sailor top. The laughing gnomes's "A right little orgasm!" The Punks drone on as Solomon adjusts his dog collar.
"Steps back in amazement...!"
Two Essex pricks pass. I'm sure the Punks could have them, but they saunter on. Heard it all before.
And onward via constantly changing buses towards the ice-rink. Where is Queensway anyway? Such is my lack of knowledge of surrounding areas that we hadn't left Rottenbrough and I thought we were in Dragnam. By the time we got to Sicklow, we could have been on the other side of London. Abandon me now and I'd never see home again. Arriving at the rink, everybody zooms up and down on the ice. After an hour, I still haven't learned how to corner properly. Is everyone having a good time? This is our day off. Tomorrow means homework and the god-damned Saxon Hornets. Was it all worth the effort? Beverley gets confused and buys "Headlights" by Driver 67 instead of 'Car 67', then goes into one. She took me to the market to get her 'best of breed' guinea pig gold medal engraved. I skirt around the centre usually, but Solomon's stall might yield something on a Saturday-with his delicious 30-something manageress. Lots of Kate Bush mums round here at the moment. His own included. Trouble with a Scottish Genesis fan wanting 'Sooty Bendabar!' Solomon gives him 'Spot The Pigeon'. These Jocks can take over an entire shopping centre when lathered. Courage forged of granite or tins of McEwans. OK individually, only menacing if you're part of the English mass. Caught here by the child-nabber last month. He took me to his stall and gave me a pound to screw together a series of rods so he could trade. I couldn't follow the process at all. He had to do most of it himself. The bonus of missing the first couple of lessons wasn't worth the stress. I steer clear of the market as a rule. You can lose yourself in those Saturday shopper expeditions. A couple of girls at Solomon's stall invited me to meet them in Debenhams in ten minutes time....But that dirty mush of fruit and vegetables and bitter cold air as the light drains out of the sky. The shouts. The inhuman trader bartering noises. Autumn burnt into your pale English cheeks; the water soaking through your improperly tied boots. Better here at tea time. Less risk of a confrontation in the five o' clock exodus..
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