Let’s Stick Together

1982 (17 YEARS OLD)5 days ago

1982 - 17 Years Old

As I have mentioned in other entries, my friends and I made The Rain, a two-story cocktail bar just off of Banbury’s Market Square, our home away from home. The owner had allowed (encouraged?) it to become the hangout for the loosely connected groups of new romantics, post-punks, pre-goths, new-wavers, and futurists.

But it wasn’t London. It wasn’t a lifestyle. It was provincial Banbury, and most people only had the money or the balls to dress up for a night out.

I can’t imagine someone showing up at the chippy on Bretch Hill (our roughest neighbourhood) dressed as a New Romantic.

All that the police would have to go on would be a blood and vinegar soaked lone Tukka.

Tukkas were ankle-length suede boots.

Mine were black; Singhy’s were grey.

I bought mine for about 20 quid and was really happy with them until my mum took great delight in telling me that my Auntie Winnie also had a pair.

She wasn’t my real auntie. She was a close friend of my parents, and I had to use “auntie” or “uncle” for such people as a kid, and the habit carried over.

Auntie Winnie was really nice. Really, really nice.

But no teenage boy wanted to look like Auntie Winnie.

Cheers, mum.

Auntie Winnie’s Tukka’s were grey, so I “did a mum” and passed that on to Singhy to ruin his day.

It was a Saturday night. Smell was home from the army for the weekend, and he was joining us for our weekly lads’ night out.

We were sitting on the sofa chatting in Singhy’s living room, while Singhy was upstairs endlessly faffing about getting ready.

The radio was on, tuned into the oldies station (probably BBC Radio Two) as it always was by Mrs. Singh.

Then Georgie Fame came on, singing Get Away.

In the song (yes, you should listen to it for full effect), there is a horn note that sounds like a fart.

So Smell and I started to lift our legs every time the horn sounded.

Smell was shooting out his loud rat-a-tat laughter left, right, and centre.

Funny stuff. For 17-year-olds, at least.

But not for grumpy middle-aged Irish women, apparently.

Singhy’s mum came into the living room in her tight shiny disco pants, demanding to know what we were laughing at. I had had plenty of experience with Mrs. Singh, and I knew the best approach was just the truth.

The horn sounds like farts, Mrs. Singh.

She left the room, as close to a smile as I had ever seen. And she shouted to Singhy to hurry up.

We made it to the Rain at the fashionably uncool time of about 8:30. More time for drinking, and it allowed us to claim the best table, a booth in the corner.

I scanned the room. Mostly, as usual, the regulars, but there was also a table of “tourists” – 2 blokes standing, and a girl sitting. She looked about as enthused as I did during a 3-hour inorganic chemistry lecture.

She was somebody’s girlfriend/date, so I ignored her.

Instead, lubricated with gin and tonics (and Smell with scotch), we became the boisterous table that we were famous for. People shuffled around trying to get in on the act.

My default character is quiet and ironic. Lubricated, I become loud, boisterous and funny.

But not American loud, of course.

As always, the music was great, but the owner had started on a Roxy Music kick. So it seemed like every 4th song was either Roxy Music or Bryan Ferry.

No complaints. In my top-5 favourite singers/groups.

I needed a slash, so I made my way to the toilets.

The tourists were blocking the way.

I started out with a polite excuse me, please.

Nothing.

I tried again.

Nothing.

I tapped the tallest one on the shoulder and escalated to, move.

He turned around, and sneered, what do you want, ponce?

He definitely wasn’t Rain material. Nor Roxy music. He was the sort of cunt who probably listened to Tight Fit.

He was about 4 years older, but I didn’t care.

They don’t allow double-glazing salesmen here, I informed him.

He had only managed to get out What the fu… when Smell and Frank were in the middle of it.

Before things devolved into a bar brawl, the owner intervened with his weapon.

But it wasn’t with a baseball bat like we saw in American films.

Instead, it was a slightly less ominous cricket bat.

Which meant that part way through the beating, everybody would have to stop for a tea break (for Americans: cricket matches stop for a 20-minute tea break).

He had probably named his cricket bat Gladys.

But slamming that bat on the bar top and shouting (to the tourists) get the fuck out of here! did the trick.

The two blokes ambled up the stairs with their tails between their legs, shouting meaningless threats about never coming back to a bar they were obviously banned from.

The girl followed them, but she paused to stare at me with a look that seemed like either pure hatred or chronic constipation.

Maybe both.

I raised my eyebrows and shrugged.

It would be several months before I understood that that was what her version of love at first sight looked like…