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1982 (17 YEARS OLD)
Stick Around, We’ll Tell You More

Stick Around, We’ll Tell You More

1982 (17 YEARS OLD)2 weeks ago

Singhy was banging a greebos head against the bar counter. Julian Robinson smashed a pint glass over someone’s head. Frank had one on the floor, pummelling his face, and Ellis was kicking the shit out of another in the entryway to the bogs. And I, with my Kung Fu skills, was doling out round kicks to people’s heads left, right, and centre.

All to the tune of Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini.

And we simply walked out of the pub when the job was done.

At least that’s how the story ended when we’d be retelling the event in the sixth-form common room.

Like most British towns in the late 70s/early 80s, it seems like Banbury had pubs on every corner. Except for the centre, where there were even more. And while most pubs simply catered to their locals, some became the place to go for specific subcultures. There was a pub for the mods, one (at least) where the punks would hang out, and probably several that was the go-to place for Teddy Boys.

Our “pub” catered to the post-punk/new-wave/new romantic/artsy crowd. And it wasn’t even a pub. It was a wine bar. Called The Rain – perhaps the most British name ever.

So one Saturday evening, Singhy, Ellis, Julian Robinson, and I headed to the market square for a night on the piss at The Rain. But when we got there, it was closed. Just a note on the door with no explanation.

Bollocks.

We bumped into Frank, who was lurking around the entryway, looking for people to tag along with, his evening plans at The Rain also having fell through.

Gary Isham was his real name, but he had the nickname Frank because the person who started the nickname thought he looked like Frankenstein’s monster.

If I’d have started the nickname, it would have been Herman (as in Herman Munster), as that is who he really looked like. But, as I’ve mentioned elsewhere, once you had a nickname, that was it for the rest of your life.

Frank wasn’t really a regular part of our gang, although he tried to be. He was a nice enough guy, and, unlike the rest of my friends, he was quite good in a fight.

Also, he met Mr. Keegan’s, our crazy maths teacher, criteria for being successful with the opposite sex – always have an ugly friend.

So plan B was to find another pub (not so hard) that would be OK (more difficult). Definitely not The Bear with its Manchester United football yobbos. Definitely not a pub full of middle-aged people having a sing-along to Max Bygraves. We weren’t that ironic.

So we settled on a pub that catered, in the evening, to the Heavy Metal crowd. The greebos. As we walked towards the pub, we could hear music resonating on the windows of the shops we passed.

We’d never been there before, but it was how we imagined. Greasy, long-haired guys in leather jackets topped with denim vests, covered with metal studs and band patches: AC/DC, Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, Motorhead, Judas Priest, etc.

Just to set the Americans reading this straight: they were not Hell’s Angels. Most of them were probably studying for their chemistry A levels or worked at Rumbelows (an electronics store). I would also bet that none of them had a motorcycle or an ‘Old Lady.’

They were pretty harmless and didn’t pay attention to us, as we ordered our pints and sat at an empty table.

After a while, Julian was at the jukebox. If it were typical, the jukebox would have two genres of music – oldies for the lunchtime crowd – and another aimed at the evening crowd. In this case, headbanger music. Julian spent about 10 minutes there browsing and then rejoined the table.

After about 30 or so minutes, Brian Hyland came on:

We laughed, knowing that Robinson had selected it, but he didn’t let on.

Once the song had finished, it came on again. So we laughed harder.

The locals were starting to grumble and get restless.

And then after it had finished for the second time, it came on again. We were starting to almost cry with laughter.

If I remember correctly, each song was 10p, but you could select 7 for 50p.

Later, Julian would tell us that had put in two 50p coins (14 songs).

But the laughter stopped towards the end of the fourth time, as Cro-Magnon man grabbed Julian and threw him from his chair.

Before Julian had hit the floor, Frank had jumped up and kicked the greaser in the balls.

And it went downhill from there quite quickly.

This was also the point where what actually happened diverged from the story we’d later recount to our classmates.

Within seconds, the pub exploded into a chaotic scuffle, more wrestling and shoving than punching and kicking, as tables were overturned, glasses were broken, and angry muffled grunting was peppered with shouts of “take that, you greasy-haired cunt.”

There were too many of them, and after what seemed like a lifetime (but was probably only a few minutes), we were literally thrown out of the pub.

The landlord didn’t call the police. He was probably happy that his pub would get some sort of biker-bar street cred. Like he had seen at the cinema.

We sat on a wall just a bit down from the pub. Checking to see if anything was ripped, if there was blood anywhere, and if any teeth were wobbly.

Nobody spoke.

Finally, they got the jukebox in the pub sorted, and we could hear the muffled sound of Ozzy singing their victory song:

GLOSSARY

Some terms, words, things that might not be familiar to our non-British audience.

The bog – the toilet

Bollocks – literally testicles, but used as an expression of frustration.

Greebos – The term has evolved over the years to mean different things, but in the late 70s/early 80s, we used it to refer to heavy metal enthusiasts.

To be on the piss – a night of heavy drinking.

Yobbo – hooligan.