Punk and Skinhead Novels Box Set Read online

  “Oh?”

  Trog reached into his flight jacket and pulled out a leather wallet. He peeled off a five pound note and handed it to Mandy. “Don’t worry about it, just a rough day that’s all. Here, get yourself a drink on me.”

  Mandy poured herself a pint of lager and blackcurrant, handed Trog his change, and leaned her elbows on the bar. She cradled her face and smiled at him. “You want to tell me about it?”

  “Nah, not really. Just a bust up with me bird, she’ll get over it.”

  Mandy winked. “Well if she doesn’t, it’s her loss.”

  Trog laughed and nodded. “Yeah, too fucking right.”

  Trog knew Mandy was an ex-skinbyrd from the 1970s, an original. That was probably why she didn’t mind the skinheads moving into The Black Bull, even after they chased out all the regulars. They didn’t know this at the time; she was just a normal-looking older bird by then, the skinhead look being long gone. But Mandy always had a friendly smile for the young skinheads, and the more they got to know her the more she revealed of her own youth. The Shefferham gang she ran with, the fights she got into on the terraces, her tussles with bikers and the law. Everyone was enthralled with her. Even more so when she re-donned a feather-cut hairstyle and said she’d had enough of living in disguise. Trog had a lot of respect for that. Most women her age had settled down into a life of mediocrity long ago.

  “I think she might have dumped me for good this time though,” Trog said. He took a sip of lager and eyed Mandy over the rim.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. We were on our way to the cinema to watch Death Wish II when she kicked off. I waved to this bird I knew from school and Barbara had a fucking fit about it. Said I were screwing her behind her back.”

  “And are you?” Mandy asked, the faint trace of a smile on her face.

  “No, am I fuck. I don’t screw around like that, it’s not right is it? Like I said, it were just some bird I knew from school. Trendy bird as well. And she were with some bloke, some fucking yeti, so she obviously likes them hairy. But Barbara weren’t having none of it, she said it were obvious I’d been fucking this bird from the way she looked at me.”

  “So what did you say?”

  “I didn’t get the chance to say anything. She got all fucking hysterical right there in the street, and then lunged at me and tried to scratch me face. So I gave her a slap, just to calm her down like. Then she just stamped off, calling me all sorts, so I went into the nearest boozer for a drink just to calm meself down a bit.”

  Mandy shook her head, still smiling. “Didn’t work though, did it?”

  “Yeah well, it probably would’ve worked if it weren’t for some fucking student giving it the big gob. That just wound me up even more. Called me a fucking rotter, would you believe?” Mandy laughed. “Anyway, I think it’s definitely over with Barbara this time. It’s not really been right between us for quite a while now; I think she were just looking for an excuse, really.”

  “Never mind, plenty more fish, eh?”

  Trog looked into Mandy’s deep blue eyes and held her stare. He smiled, and picked up his lager, turned to leave. “Yeah, I guess. Anyway, I’ll see you later.”

  “Trog, you fat bastard,” one of the skinheads yelled as he approached.

  Trog grinned. “Aye up Stew, you skinny cunt, how’s it hanging?”

  Stew, a cigarette bobbing in his mouth as he nodded, hooked his thumbs under his braces and stretched them out. “Hanging well, Trog. How’s it with yours?”

  “Yeah, not bad.” Trog squeezed himself between Stew and an older skinhead, Don, and sat down on a long padded bench.

  “Oi Trog, you going down to Shefferham for the Cockney Upstarts gig on Saturday then?” Don asked.

  “Too fucking right I am,” Trog said. “Wouldn’t miss it for the fucking world.”

  * * *

  Trog slammed an empty pint glass down on the table. “You up for another drink then, Don?”

  Don shook his head. “Nah mate, I’m skint. Giro doesn’t come until next week.”

  “No worries, I’ll get you one. You can pay me back at the Cockney Upstarts gig. Anyone else want one?” Trog added, looking at the other faces sitting around the table. He was inundated with requests for drinks, and pulled out his wallet. “Here’s a tenner, get a pint for everyone. I got a good bonus this week, might as well share the wealth.”

  Don took the ten pound note and rose to his feet. “Cheers Trog, you’re a star.”

  “No worries, mate. Money’s for spending, innit? Get one for Mandy as well.”

  Don smiled. “You want me to give Mandy one? No fucking problem, mate.”

  Trog watched Don swagger to the bar and place his order. Mandy laughed and looked in Trog’s direction. He raised a hand and smiled back. Don returned with the drinks on a round metal tray and placed it down in the centre of the table. Trog scooped up his change from the edge of the tray and put it in his flight jacket pocket.

  “I told Mandy you said to give her one from you,” Don said, “but she said she’d rather you give her one yourself. I reckon you’re in there, mate.”

  Trog laughed. “Yeah, right. Chance would be a fine thing.”

  “No, straight up. But if you’re not interested I don’t mind slipping her a length for you.”

  Trog looked across at Mandy. She smiled and waved, then opened the bar flap.

  “Aye up,” Don said, “she’s coming over. I hope you’ve got your clean undies on.”

  “Piss off,” Trog said, smiling, “you’re just fucking jealous.”

  “Who fucking wouldn’t be, fit old bird like that?”

  Mandy walked up to the jukebox and put a coin in the slot, pressed buttons on the front. An old ska record started playing and Mandy’s arms and hips swayed to it as she mouthed the words to the song.

  “Go on then Trog,” Ian said, grinning. He winked at Don. “Now’s your chance, mate. Get in there and show her some of your fancy footwork.”

  Trog took a gulp of lager and shook his head. “What, and have you cunts take the piss? Anyway I don’t like that fucking ska stuff, never have.”

  “Yeah, it’s a right fucking horrible noise,” Don said with a scowl. “What’s she doing dancing to that fucking shite?”

  “Shows what you know,” Ian said. “It’s better than that fucking Oi bollocks you listen to. Can’t even fucking play, most of them.”

  “What, and these can? They all sound the same these fucking bongo bands.”

  “Fuck off bongo bands. This is proper skinhead music, this is. And they’re not fucking bongos anyway. Sounds nothing like bongos.”

  “Is it fuck proper skinhead music. They’re not even fucking white, never mind skinheads. Bunch of fucking wogs, half of them.”

  “I don’t like it either,” Stew said, “but they didn’t have no Skrewdriver in the olden days, so it stands to reason old birds like Mandy over there would be into it.”

  “Great, another fucking commie,” Don said, shaking his head.

  “Fuck off, I ain’t no fucking commie. I’m just saying it were different in the old days, that’s all.”

  “Oh, give it a fucking rest,” Trog said. “Who gives a fuck about any of that bollocks?”

  “Yeah well,” Don said, reaching into his flight jacket for a pack of cigarettes, “I’m only saying skinhead bands should be white or there’s no fucking point to them.”

  “Crash the ash then, Adolf,” Ian said. Don took out a cigarette and tossed the pack across the table. Ian smiled as he picked it up. “Redistribution of wealth in action. So who’s the fucking commie now then?”

  Trog sighed and shook his head. He turned back to watch Mandy dance.

  * * *

  The White Swan was packed with trendies, standing room only. An old Slade song played on the jukebox, and somewhere behind the crush around the bar a group of youths shouted along tunelessly with it. Colin would know those voices anywhere. He nodded to Brian.

  “The g
ang’s all here.”

  A young couple stood before the jukebox, arguing about what songs they should spend their money on. The girl, in a pink and yellow spotted summer dress, wanted Adam and the Ants. The boy, sporting a denim jacket, wanted Thin Lizzy.

  “Scuse us, darling,” Brian said, and barged past the couple.

  “Hey, watch it, you–” the girl began, then took in the Exploited skull painted on the back of Brian’s leather jacket. She turned to her boyfriend and frowned. “Bloody yobs,” she said when Brian was out of earshot.

  “Fucking trendies,” Colin said, glaring at her.

  The girl gaped at Colin and sniffed. She wrinkled her nose and stepped back, closer to the jukebox. “Did you see that?” Colin heard her say as he walked away.

  Brian was talking to Twiglet, a gangly half-caste youth with blotches of darker-coloured skin covering his face, when Colin reached the far side of the pub. He was telling him about what had happened in The Queen’s Head. Twiglet’s massive afro hairstyle bobbed as he nodded his head in sympathy. Mike Thornton, in faded denim jeans and a plain black sweatshirt, looked on, frowning. Stiggy swayed by Brian’s side, holding a pint of cider. Even from a distance Colin could smell the solvents wafting off him.

  “Colin, you cunt,” Mike shouted when he saw Colin. “I hear you got twatted by a midget. Fucking show up or what?”

  Colin gave him a scowl and a quick V-sign before slinking into the gents to see if he could rescue what was left of his hair spikes. When he returned he expected more snide comments, but everyone seemed genuinely concerned about what had happened to him.

  “Fucking skinheads,” Stiggy said. “We should do one of them, see how they fucking like it.”

  “Yeah,” Mike agreed, nodding. He took a gulp of his beer.

  “There was a bunch of skinheads at the back of the bus the other day making fucking monkey noises at me,” Twiglet said.

  Mike shook his head. “Mate, that’s fucking bang out of order. What did you do?”

  “Well what do you think I did? I’m not fucking daft, I just ignored them and made a run for it as soon as I got off.”

  Mike nodded. “Yeah, you probably did right, mate. We should still do something about it though. Can’t let the bastards get away with something like that.”

  Twiglet shook his head. “Nah, not really worth it. Anyway, skinheads all look the same to me. We’d only end up battering the wrong ones.”

  “Would that matter?” Mike said with a sly grin. He drained the last of his beer and set off for the bar. Brian followed him.

  “Oi Bri,” Colin shouted, “get me one while you’re there, I’ll give you the money when you get back.” Brian turned and gave him a thumbs up. “And get me a straw as well.”

  “What do you reckon then, Col,” Stiggy said, “find a skinhead and do the cunt, or what?”

  Colin was about to tell Stiggy he’d rather leave it when the opening bars of a Bruce Springsteen song, Born To Run, drowned him out. Mike cheered its arrival from the bar.

  “Not this fucking shite again,” Twiglet said, covering his ears.

  Colin groaned, it was the worst song he’d ever heard and seemed to be playing on the jukebox in The White Swan every ten minutes or so. He was just as sick of hearing it as Twiglet. He could hear Mike shouting along to it from the bar, and wished he would shut up. He didn’t understand what Mike saw in that type of music. Mike wasn’t a punk, he was just someone Twiglet was at school with, but he did like Sham 69 and Cockney Upstarts. As well as Slade, Garry Glitter, and boring old fart music like Bruce fucking Springsteen – there was just no logic in it.

  When the song reached its chorus, Twiglet made up his own words and shouted them over the music.

  “Scum like us, maybe we don’t give a fu-uck!”

  Colin smiled and joined in at the next chorus. A group of trendies at a nearby table glared at them, then stood up to leave. Colin, Stiggy and Twiglet pushed past them to claim the table before anyone else had the same idea. They made space for Mike when he arrived.

  Brian returned with two pints of bitter and put one down in front of Colin with a pink, curly plastic straw floating in it. Shaped like a helter-skelter, it had a love-heart shaped handle near the top with the words I love Babycham printed on it.

  “What the fuck’s this?” Colin asked with a scowl.

  “It’s all they had mate,” Brian said, grinning.

  Colin put the straw to the corner of his mouth and sucked. The beer slowly twirled its way up the straw and into his mouth. Mike and Twiglet both laughed as they watched.

  “Fuck off, you’re only jealous,” Colin said. He cradled his beer in one hand and toyed with the straw with the other, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger.

  “You and Brian going down to Shefferham on Saturday for the Cockney Upstarts gig?” Twiglet asked.

  Colin looked up and nodded. “Yeah, of course. Can’t miss something like that, can we? It’s not like they come this far north often, and it’d cost a fucking bomb to see them in that London of theirs.”

  Stiggy scowled. “Fucking skinhead band aren’t they?”

  “Are they fuck,” Brian said. “They were a punk band years before all them baldy cunts latched onto them. Anyway, I heard Manny doesn’t like skinheads either. One time at this open air gig he picked up this fucking metal spike and chased loads of skinheads across a field with it. That’s what I heard, anyway.”

  “That would have been funny to watch,” Stiggy said. “I heard he throws a pig’s head into the audience at the end of their show as well. It’d be fucking brilliant if he twatted some skinhead in the face with it.”

  “Where’d you hear that bollocks?” Twiglet asked.

  “No, it’s true,” Stiggy said, “it were in me dad’s paper ages ago.”

  “What paper were that then?”

  “Dunno, the one me dad gets. There was a photo of it and everything.”

  “It must be fucking true then, if it were in your dad’s paper,” Brian said, smiling and shaking his head. “Funny they never mentioned it in Sounds or the NME.”

  “Well we’ll find out on Saturday then, won’t we?” Stiggy said. “I bet you a quid he does.”

  “You’re fucking on,” Brian said. “Easiest money I’ll ever make.” He looked at Twiglet. “So who else is going then?”

  “Spazzo’s deffo going,” Twiglet said. “Not sure about anyone else yet. There’s a few more that said they might go if they can scrounge enough money together. We’re meeting up at the train station buffet at six, probably see you there.”

  “Six?” Colin said. “I’ll be at home having me tea then. What time’s the train?”

  “Half past. But the next one’s not until eight so if you miss it we won’t be waiting for you.”

  “Fuck your tea,” Brian said. “We’ll get some chips or something when we get to Shefferham.”

  * * *

  When the bell rang for last orders, Colin still had over half a pint left. Drinking through a straw, he just couldn’t compete with the others, and they were already two pints ahead of him. He knew there was no point going to the bar himself, he had already tried that and the barman had refused to serve him. So he gave Brian two pound notes and told him to get a can of beer to go and a pack of cigarettes. Mike, Stiggy and Twiglet then decided they didn’t see the point all of them joining the scrum around the bar, so they too gave Brian their orders.

  Brian returned a few minutes later with the drinks cradled precariously in his hands and plonked them down on the table. He reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a can of Colt 45, then rolled it across the table to Colin. Colin placed his hand on top of the can to stop it rolling onto the floor.

  “Where’s me fags?” Colin asked. He picked up the beer can and studied it. “Fucking lager?”

  Brian tossed him a pack of cigarettes and shrugged. “They didn’t have no bitter in cans,” he said. “Anyway, the bloke behind the bar said it were strong stuff, and that’
s what counts, right? If you don’t want it, I’ll have it.”

  “I never said I didn’t want it. Just that it’s fucking lager.” Colin put the can down and opened the cigarette pack. He took one out and lit it.

  “No fucking way,” Mike said, staring at the beer can.

  “What?” Twiglet asked.

  Mike pointed. “There’s a picture of a deformed punk with a massive cock on the side of it.”

  “Yeah, right.” Twiglet leaned across the table and peered at the can. “Fucking hell, it has too! It must be beer for fucking nob-heads.”

  “Or birds that like deformed punks,” Mike said, grinning. “There’s hope for you yet, Col. As long as you’ve got a massive cock like that, anyway.”

  “It’s a fucking stonker, but it’s not as big as mine,” Twiglet said.

  “What, you’ve compared cocks with Mr Pink Straw over there? You dirty fucker.”

  “What? No, fuck off. I mean the one on the can’s a fucking stonker.”

  Colin picked up the can and spun it around in his hand but couldn’t focus his eyes on it well enough to make out any detail. “Where’s this cock then?”

  “There!” Twiglet pointed at a small red blob printed on the side of the can. Colin squinted at it and put a hand over one eye, but he still couldn’t bring it into focus.

  “Let’s have a look then,” Brian said, snatching the can from Colin’s hand.

  “Oi, get off you cunt.” Colin made a grab for the can, but Brian was too quick for him. He spun around on his stool and turned his back on Colin.

  “It’s a fucking horse, you daft bastards.”

  Mike stood up and bent over to look at the can in Brian’s hand. “Is it fuck. It looks nothing like a fucking horse. What’s that sticking out of its head then?” He tapped the top of the picture with his finger.

  “That’s not its head, that’s its arse. And it’s a leg that’s sticking out of it.”

  “What, and it’s got a mohican growing out of its arse?”

  “That’s its tail. It’s a fucking horse.”

  “Is it fuck, it’s a bloke.” Mike pointed at the picture to emphasise his points. “Look, there’s two eyes and a nose under the mohican. And some pubes between his legs, look … and if it were a horse its cock would be at the other end, up there.”