Needles & Pins: A Punk Novel

Kevin Snopes came from Milton Keynes, which wasn't a particularly interesting place to come from. It was especially uninteresting for Kevin since he was a teenager and it was Britain in the middle of the nineteen seventies, an era when nothing was particularly interesting at all. Tiresome prog rock bands like Yes, Gong, Genesis and Emerson, Lake and Palmer ruled the airwaves, playing turgid, overblown concept albums that lasted for what seemed like weeks, and sometimes probably did. They appeared on Top of the Pops alongside tedious pop acts like Showaddywaddy and David Cassidy, while the television spewed out such unalloyed delights as Follyfoot Farm, Bonanza, and Pebble Mill. Fray Bentos pies in tins were considered the height of haute cuisine and dinner parties would not be complete without celery sticks or tinfoil-coated cheese and pineapple hedgehogs. Three Day Weeks meant regular power cuts that followed wildcat strikes called by disgruntled miners, and an increasing lack of coal. On top of this was the added pleasure of huge heaps of rubbish sprawled across the streets as the bins hadn't been emptied for weeks due to striking bin men. Perhaps it was just that miners and refuse collectors at the time were also prog rock enthusiasts, waiting for the latest Yes epic to conclude? Or perhaps they were nothing but griping refuse-niks? Who could really say? It was not an especially enthralling situation for Kevin to be in, in any case.

It probably didn't help living in Milton Keynes either. Milton Keynes was a New Town, developed as an offshoot to the expanding London suburbs, placed equidistantly between Leicester, Birmingham, Oxford and Cambridge, and equidistantly dreary.

Kevin lived above a small laundrette with his mum and dad, Irene and Bert. It was a humble abode, bedecked in swirling purple wallpaper with a tangy orange carpet, tasteful chocolate brown paisley sofa and other delectable upholstery. Kevin spent a lot of time peering glumly out of his bedroom window at the roundabout outside. He watched the various box-like, faded matte-painted cars going round and round and round and wondered just where it was that everyone was going. He also spent a lot of time gazing into the washing machine drums of the laundrette where his mum worked as their soapy contents swirled around, the dirty clothes inside getting clean only so that they could get dirty again. When he hung upside down on the cycle barriers on the overgrown cut-through path behind where he lived, he looked at the world from a slightly different angle (upside-down, to be precise). The flies attracted by the white dog poo zipped and swerved by in the stale, sickly air while Kevin wondered why his life was so boring.

Sometimes Kevin would wander down to the park where they would later install the Concrete Cows that Milton Keynes would become renowned for, but weren't ready for yet, and sit in the playground kicking up dust with his scuffed, brown sandals. In a very real sense, life for Kevin was all just swings and roundabouts.

Some light relief came from rock music, such as in the ghoulish form of Alice Cooper, an American pantomime villain, who sang foot-stomping songs about nasty, thrilling subjects, and sometimes carried a snake on stage or brought out a guillotine that he used to decapitate toy dolls. Alice's real name was Vincent Damon Furnier, so why he changed it, nobody was sure, as it was spooky enough, but it was said that it was taken from a Ouija board experience, and somehow it worked.

Closer to home were the glittery David Bowie, Marc Bolan and T. Rex, Roxy Music, Sweet, Slade, Wizzard, Mud and the rest of the Glam Rock gang, but some of these guys seemed, well, a bit suspicious to say the least, and slightly out of touch with the less than glamorous mood of the times (a few of them perhaps too in touch). Kevin figured that some people liked to associate with these crazy characters as they helped them to escape from their dull reality, but for Kevin, it was only a temporary fix, and then *CLUNK!* back to the humdrum, everyday world.

If his mum let him stay up later than usual, he was allowed to watch funny comedy programmes such as Porridge, The Benny Hill Show, Monty Python's Flying Circus, Steptoe and Son or Rising Damp on the large, black and white telly. Some early evening shows like On The Buses, Are You Being Served? and Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em weren't that bad either, but a bit naff, even though in the last one the man did all his own stunts, as his mother mentioned every time it was on. Kevin watched the people on the T.V. and wondered why their lives were so dreary, like his, and pondered why it was so funny that they injured themselves, insulted and hated each other all the time. To Kevin, it was more tragic than anything else. His own mum and dad didn't treat him or each other like that, but instead seemed to have had all of the passion for life sucked out of them at some unspecified point. Perhaps they never even had it in the first place, Kevin wasn't sure. It meant that their lives were... comfortable... but Kevin itched, and occasionally twitched, for more.

When he wasn't twiddling his thumbs at school, Kevin spent most of the early part of 1975 kicking discarded bottles and beer cans around the alley behind his house. He'd sometimes sift through all of the discarded bin bags left out on the street with a poky stick to see what was inside them. This was about as exciting as it got for Kevin. He often found rats, and once discovered a human leg. He told his parents about it, but they wouldn't believe him, and when he went back to get the proof, it had gone - probably carried off by an urban fox or some other possibility.

Kevin liked building robots, dinosaurs and monsters out of the old, discarded bits and pieces that he found, but not the leg, that would've been weird, and he didn't know where that had gone. His parents were a little unsettled by this, but put it down to his age and natural curiosity. Kevin didn't really hang around with anyone else or in a gang at school. He was an only child, and mostly kept himself to himself, enjoying his own company, most of the time. His mother had bought him a goldfish to keep him occupied, which he had christened Wilbur, and kept on his windowsill. Wilbur just gawped, a bit like Kevin, but more fishlike. Kevin did have one friend, Malik, who used to call around and tag along sometimes to see what he was up to. Malik was a small, bespectacled boy who was born in Britain, but of Indian origin on his dad's side, had a permanent cold and a hand-knitted tank top. He was good at maths, while Kevin was more of a creative sort. They got on well though, meandering around Milton Keynes on their space-hoppers avoiding the white dog poo and talking about Alice Cooper, horror movies, T.V. shows and the like.

There were sporadic trips to the local swimming baths and cinema. Kevin was enthralled by the recent film Jaws, which he and Malik had managed to sneak into even though they were underage, but they didn't venture to the swimming baths much after that.

Mostly, boredom prevailed.

However, one cause for celebration was a visit to see Kevin's relatives down in London in the last week of the Easter holidays for a family gathering. Kevin was quite excited by the prospect, but had no idea of the dazzling new world that he was about to encounter.

* * *

MInE's a lArgE oNe lAnDloRd

Kevin, his mum and dad arrived in their diarrhoea-brown coloured Cortina at his aunt and uncle's recently revamped pub in Putney. It had been worth the petrol rations, these being another offshoot of the O.P.E.C. oil embargo imposed on the country. The family car rolled into the small car park full of shingle, which swished aside like a miniature crashing wave as Kev's dad swung neatly into position in the parking bay. The newly-painted pub sign heralded The Partridge and Pheasant, which cheerily featured a dead partridge lying awkwardly next to a deceased pheasant on a large wooden chopping board, meat cleaver lurking ominously next to them. The sign swayed and creaked lazily in the breeze, while a cracked drainpipe leaked crazily with unease.

Kevin wore his best shirt, trousers, underpants, socks and bow tie, all scientifically selected by his mum to make him look as uncool as possible, and ironed to a crisp rigidity (even the socks). Kev felt completely uncomfortable, moving stiffly like a rusty robot, but was nevertheless looking forward to the family get-together, which was always an uproarious event. Uncle Myron, Irene's brother, welcomed them enthusiastically at the newly-painted teak door with inset frosted-glass panels, as all good seventies pubs possessed.

Hey heydy hey there! How are we all?! he chirped, some might think over-jovially, teeth all a-gleam, along with his lime green party shirt, resembling some kind of human cocktail.

Come inside and join the fun! Come on, come on! he whistled, shooing them in.

The family entered The Partridge and Pheasant with expectant expressions on their faces. What they were met with didn't quite live up to their expectations; it was all quite gaudy and lurid. Walnut panels adorned the walls and a sputum green spiralling carpet spilled over the floor, ready, in turn, for drinks to be spilled over it. A fog of cigarette smoke hung sluggishly in the air, and each doily-covered table sported a sprightly purple plastic ashtray. The bar area itself was a fairly traditional affair, wooden beams stretched along the edgings, with a flat, matte black Formica top and row of sturdy metal pumps from where the frothy drinks were served.

Auntie Nora sidled over in her slinky leopard-skin lamé evening gown, looking like a dolled-up, chubbier version of Barbara Windsor. She was fairly glamorous, in a cut-price kind of way.

We got a full buffee spread, wiv celery sticks an' a tinfoil-coated cheese an' pineapple 'edge'og an' everyfink! she clucked.

Oh, Nora, you've really gone to town! trilled Irene.

Oh, not at aww!

That's a lovely handbag you have there too!

D'ya fink so? It were a gift from my Myron, it's dead expensiff! Only the best from dahn the Kings Road.

Uncle Myron interposed, There are some funky musicians on later too, so we can have a bit of a boogie woogie! I'm not quite sure what they'll be like, young Barry's organised that side of things. I'm not entirely certain that I should've left him in charge, but they were cheap, at least, so we'll have a looksee at what he's rustled up! Some grisly ne'er-do-wells no doubt! Where's the grotty little urchin, anyway? Barry? Barry!

Cousin Barry scuttled up to the table. He was a swaggering eighteen year old, bristling with the self-confidence of youth, and the beginnings of a bristly moustache.

Alright Auntie I, Uncle B?! Wotcha Kev! 'Ow's it goin' mate?!

He gave Kevin an affectionate dead arm and then messed his hair up so that it pointed everywhere.

Nice look! Not sure about the bow tie though. I'd take that off if I was you. Cor, I got some ace bands lined up for ya later! It's gonna be killer!

Really? Wow! whispered Kevin, in awe of the shining mass of exuberance that was Barry. Killer!

You should come an' meet 'em! Some of 'em've done their sound check already.

That was the sound check?! reeled Myron. I thought they were tuning up!

Nah, warmin' up! C'mon an' meet the bands, Kev!

Barry led Kevin to a hunched up huddle of characters snuggled tightly round a table in a dark corner of the bar not far away from the stage. They all looked stroppy about something or other. Kevin had never met any musicians before, let alone a full band's worth. There was his music teacher, Mr Dunnock, at school who sometimes played guitar in assemblies and sung about loving trees and plants, but he didn't really count. These guys were mean-looking. They had dirty, scuffed suits on, and slick, greased-back hair.

Heya fellas. This is me cousin, Kev. This, Kev my man, is Kilburn and The High Roads! Introducing, Mr Ian Dury...

It's a pleasure to meet ya, but I wouldn't wanna eat ya.

Mr Dury rhymes a lot, explained Barry.

Well bless my hat, you could say that. I like to rhyme a lot of the time. I'm a fella wiv an umbrella.

Mr Dury cut an impressive, imposing figure in his snappily made suit, white flower drooping from his open black lapel. He was fairly short and bent over following a childhood brush with polio, and sported a black and white striped T-shirt, a razor-blade earring and had a terrifying glint in his eye that foretold of foreboding secrets. The polio had left him with a pronounced limp that made him extremely self-conscious and snappy at times, but also resilient against the buffets of the world, including the current buffet by the bar.

'E's an artist too.

Well, I dabble, but we're a bit of a rabble. I'm in Putney, 'cause I like to eat chutney.

Oooh, 'ave you tried the buffet?

No I've not, what ya got?

Celery sticks… cheese an' pineapple on a tinfoil-coated 'edgehog… sausage rolls…

Sticks and hogs and sausage rolls… I like that…

Very nice indeed! Ya might wanna change the words a bit though?

Right, yeah, ya might 'ave sumfing there.

Yep - looks like scabies!

Nah, 'e's over there.

Ian pointed his leather glove in the direction of a small cluster of scabby lads at another table.

What? enquired Kevin.

Scabies! Real name Chris Millar. 'E's an absolute nutter. 'Is mate Brian's in a band too, called Bastard! Good name, eh?! enthused Barry.

Yeah, a bit mad. Probably won't get 'em on Top of the Pops any time soon though. Do they get many gigs with a name like that?

Not really, apart from in Belgium. There aren't that many other bands over there. Or gigs, as it 'appens, which is why 'e's back over 'ere. I didn't fink dad'd be too 'appy wiv 'em bein' on, but they came down to 'ave a gander anyway. Rat's pal Ray who cleans out the bogs 'ere's in a band as well - Johnny Moped.

Doesn't sound like much to get revved up about.

Well, the singer wanted to be called Johnny Harley, but 'is band said that was too American, so 'e opted for Moped instead. They're totally off their rockers! It's a shame Ducks Deluxe couldn't make it… they said something about an outstanding bill.

That's quackers.

The mallardy lingers on.

Don't plover do it!

Eider thought better of you.

Well, exgoose me.

If you've finished clucking about, we'd best get ready!

Assorted guests arrived and sauntered around, inspecting the refurbished establishment, perusing the delightful décor and plush new panelling. Auntie Nora helped the older customers coquettishly to their seats. There were some fierce looking blokes who were previous regulars, checking out the new joint. They appeared to be largely suspicious of everything, but that could just have been their general demeanour. They sniffed like grumpy bulldogs as one probed the cheese and pineapple tinfoil-coated hedgehog with a stodgy finger. Another investigated the beer-mats, neat bar towels and purple ashtrays, as if half-expecting to find something dangerous lurking beneath.

A few drinks later, and the opening band was ready to appear. A slightly gawky lad with a slick quiff sprinted purposefully on to the stage, sprang up to the microphone and spoke with a voice as gravelly as the shingle in the car-park outside.

Alright?! We're the 101'ers an' you must be... the audience! he japed.

The band struck up a song that, as far as Kevin could make out, was something to do with a dog that had rabies, and for some reason was in love. Not the usual Radio 1 fodder that he was used to, that was for sure. Kevin's interest was immediately piqued. He sat upright in his chair, transfixed. His parents and the other adults, however, looked none too satisfied. In fact, some of them appeared downright sceptical. A division had emerged, a silent schism, possibly even a riff rift, if you wanted to be flippant about it. Uncle Myron squinted with disdain at the frisky revellers onstage, as they jerked about and enjoyed themselves with abandon. This sort of thing just would not do at his establishment. Some of the younger people in the audience began to copy them and get into the mood, jiving about.

The tunes rattled along at an astonishing pace, expertly thrashed out by Evil Clive Timperley on guitar, adeptly assisted by ace drummer Snakehips Dudanski, howling horn blowers Simon Big John Cassell and Alvaro Peña-Rojas, along with Tymon Dogg playing amazing fiddle and bass marvel The Mole jabbing away at his frets. A heated, upbeat version of Chuck Berry's 'Maybellene' tore through the room. It was one that most of the crowd knew, so a few more got up to dance.

'Ere, Kev! 'Ave a swig o' this!

Barry waved a small green bottle at Kevin, alluringly.

Erm, what's that?

You've 'ad beer before, ain't ya?

Yeah, course! lied Kev, unconvincingly.

Well, I'm puttin' the 'pub' into 'puberty'! grinned Barry.

This song's dedicated to all those people out there who are getting their own groups together. I say FUCK THE DINOSAURS' DISCOS! roared the singer.

The audience whooped; some in shock, some in approval. Kevin wasn't used to such explicit language being used in public, but played it cool and nodded with assent. His mother tutted and looked at Nora in disgust, who just shrugged and rolled her eyes. That sort of language would not have been deemed acceptable in Milton Keynes, but in London was more commonplace. Uncle Myron, the Disco King, was fuming. Kev's dad was talking to an old man about snooker and how it was tricky to work out what colour the balls were on a black and white television.

That's John Mellor, who calls 'imself 'Woody', explained Barry, after Guthrie, not Woodpecker, but now wants to go by the name of 'Joe Strummer', after 'is frantic strumming.

I'll bet.

Not 'Woody Strummer', that'd be inappropriate.

Agreed.

More songs blared out of the neatly stacked amps, such as an exceptionally excellent one about having keys to someone's heart, with a very catchy chorus. It was about the singer's girlfriend who was sitting in the audience, whose nickname, for some reason, was Palmolive, which was also a type of soap. She was probably called this because it sounded similar to her name, Paloma Romero. There was a brief break in between songs where Clive the guitarist had whacked his instrument so hard he'd broken one of his strings and needed to replace it. The front man, Joe, addressed the gathered throng.

Woss the point in getting a mobile disco at yer party just 'cause it's cheaper? Then it's not really worth throwin' a party at all, is it? AM I RIGHT?! he ranted.

The audience hollered in response. Some jeered, some cheered. Uncle Myron had had enough and tried desperately to shoo the group offstage. He flashed the house lights and yelped, You're out of time, lads! Get off with you now!

For their last song, the band ripped into the classic Chris Farlow track 'Out Of Time', screeching it out like a rusty shopping trolley hurtling down a hill.

You're all out of time! Yeah! C'mown! Time runs out on us all, just like my last love!

By this time Kevin and Barry were grooving away solidly on the dancefloor, really getting down with their bad selves. The crowd who were into it swung round the room, although that may have been the effects of the beer kicking in for Kevin. Some of the grimacing geezers at the bar sneered into their beers, none too impressed, but the group managed to shriek to the end of their set. They dripped with perspiration as they left the stage, as did many of the party-goers. Auntie Nora had also been getting into it, nodding her head in a jaunty manner, but Uncle Myron glared at her disapprovingly until she noticed, stopped, and began preening her hair nonchalantly. The bar takings didn't seem to be too bad though, so this perked Myron up a little and he reluctantly let things carry on. While he had a moment's peace, he collared Barry.

What do you think you're doing booking that godawful mob?

Aww, dad! They're the hottest sound around! Can't you take the pace, daddyo? They always rip it at the Charlie Pigdog Club!

Codswallop!

I've never 'eard of that place, is it somewhere up Portobello Road?

Listen my lad. I know what sort of pace I want my customers to take, and this isn't it! They want steady, regular rhythms, like those nice Bay City Rollers. Why couldn't you have booked them?

Move with the times! They're straight from Dullsville!

I thought they were from Edinburgh?

Barry was dismayed, but persevered with his choices. Next up on stage after the break came a scowling, leather-clad clan who announced themselves as The Guildford Stranglers. Myron looked disgusted at the title alone. Barry and Kevin, however, looked enthralled.

Bit of a creepy name, murmured Kevin to Barry.

I expect they'll be playing at full throttle, eh Kev? chirped Barry.

You must be choking, Baz! chimed Kevin.

A dark, sunken-eyed, wild-haired figure grasped the microphone purposefully.

We're gunna play a few songs for you. We hope you like them.

This wasn't an appeal, more than a thinly veiled threat. The band looked even more intimidating than the sneering blokes at the bar, apart from their keyboard player, who looked like a cheeky wizard who had just happened to have strolled in and joined them, and the rest of the band were too confused as to enquire why, or perhaps had cast a spell over them to cause them not to ask too many questions. He truly was a keyboard wizard, anyway, going by the name of Dave Greenfield. The drummer, Brian Jet Black Duffy, was a bear of a man, pounding his drums as if he was summoning a tribe to war. Apparently he used also sold ice creams - in his case the sign 'Beware Children' was probably not so much for the benefit of passing motorists, but for the kids themselves not to provoke him. The van was also handy for getting the band to gigs, but you didn't want them to stop and sell ice creams on the way. Lead singer Hugh Cornwell was a gaunt, haunted-looking guy with distant eyes (that is, the look in them was distant, not that they were placed far apart like some kind of bug creature). Finally Jean Jacques Burnel was their cosmopolitan bass player, son of French parents now living in London, all continental scowls and lackadaisical slouches. Their tunes ripped along, with intriguing lyrics about sewers, rats and peaches, but not all at the same time. That would've been weird. It was electrifying to watch and listen to.

Hey, Kev, see them two blokes perched in the corner there? Yeah, them wiv the terrible 'aircuts, worse than yours, yeah? That's Malcolm an' Bernie. Malcolm's got a shop on the Kings Road where 'e sells… ahem... shall we say, interesting articles...

Interesting articles? Like what? Foreign trinkets, spears, shields, that sort of thing? said Kev, slurping his beer, wincing at the unusually bitter taste.

Mmm, yeah, that sort of thing, Well, sort of. Clothing, mostly, but not like nuffink you'd get at C&A. Nah. This is more… exclusive wear.

Right, said Kevin, as if he knew what Barry was talking about, even though he had no idea whatsoever.

You get some right freaks in there, I can tell ya! You should check it out!

Yeah, er, maybe. Is that where your dad got his shirt from?

Hahaha, cheeky bleeder! Nah, 'e must be visually or mentally impaired. Probably both, wearin' somefink like that! Look at 'im!

Uncle Myron was waving his arms around, pulling pints to the dozen. The seated man called Malcolm was also gesticulating theatrically, like some kind of Victorian freak show barker. He squawked something about bands being far better in New York, where he'd just been. He declaimed a lot, mostly about himself, squawking like a gnarled crow.

It's the future! he wittered, But it's here! But not here... YET! We need to make it happen here!

He was like a man possessed with a vision that nobody but he could quite see yet.

There's no future, pined Bernie, altogether more pessimistically.

Really? I vouch that I can form a merrie band of miscreants from right 'ere in Old London Town and shape them into rabblerousing rogues with an artistic flair - but strictly no flares! All that hippy shit is right out! Right? I grant you, you should do the same, my boy, and we shall see what emerges! If anything, it'll be something to keep us amused.

He spat into his hand and extended it purposefully towards Bernie, who hesitated, then spat into his own hand and shook it.

You're on! Bernie grumbled. It's better than measuring suits at Let It Rock, anyway.

Suits me!

At the next table along sat a group of scruffy ruffians, a scraggy-haired bloke named Mick, a waifish character named Tony, a chiselled-looking (or at least carrying) lad named Matt, a large chap with a Rod Stewart-esque mop haircut who went under the soubriquet of Rat Scabies, and his friend Brian, the Bastard. Barry shouted to them, wandering over.

Alright Mick, Tone, Matt, Rat, Bri?

Alright Baz?

Yeah, not bad, not bad. This is me cousin, Kev, 'e's down from Milton Keynes wiv 'is folks for the do.

Ooh, exotic!

We're gunna show 'im a good old Cockney knees up muvverfacker, ain't we?!

Oi oi! Love a duck and all that bollocks!

Mick, Tone, Matt and the boys are starting their own band called, what was it again Mick?

London S.S., gurgled Mick, wryly.

Bit of a mad name, eh Kev?

Are they really allowed to be called that? wheezed Kevin.

Yeah! Provocative, innit? leered Mick.

Ummm, yeah, a bit, you know, near the knuckle though…

Exactly! Innit great! agreed Barry, You done any gigs?

Errr, well, we're still lookin' for members…

You always 'ad trouble findin' your member! joked Matt.

People come, people go, muttered Tony, sliding back in his chair.

What did you think to the 101'ers?

Not bad! Lead singer's alright, anyway, Mick confessed.

Oh, that was Joe. I should introduce ya!

Maybe.

Rat went off to help himself to the buffet in considerably large quantities. He guzzled the food down greedily, crumbs spraying everywhere.

Get it while you can, lad! piped Barry.

Sod off! shouted Rat, hoiking a sausage roll in Barry's direction, splatting him square in the forehead.

You gunna 'ave a beer, Kev? enquired Tony.

Yeah, go on Kev, 'ave a beer, urged Barry.

Errrrr... okay. Go on then. Barry slipped behind the bar then rushed back carrying a handful of large beer cans.

CHEERS! roared Barry, cracking the tins together, then yanking them open, foam spraying everywhere.

Oi! cried Uncle Myron, spotting the tomfoolery. Watch it! You'll get it all over the new upholstery!

Nobody'll notice! So? You got a girlfriend in Milton Keynes, Kev?

Nah. I'm just playing the field at the moment, you know? Keeping my options open.

I'm seeing someone. Janie. Off and on. We get off and on quite a bit! Eh? EH?!

Haha. Yeah. Kev had no idea what Barry meant, Sex Education lessons in schools at the time consisted mainly of natural history programmes and unfathomable diagrams, which probably said something about the teachers' sex lives more than anything. Put Section A into Slot C and slide finger under flap, and so on.

Woah, who's that dollface over there? croaked Kevin, huskily.

There was a girl loitering around the table near the bands. As Kevin gazed over at her, she seemed to radiate light, although that could just have been because Uncle Myron had switched on his shiny new glitterball.

That's Julie. She's… a bit of an 'andful, y'know?

The lads erupted with jeers and jibes.

Don't even fink about it, Kev. She's not worth it. You wanna keep well away from 'er. Trust me.

Kevin stood, transfixed.

The scrawny lad who Kevin had noticed earlier who was there to clean the toilets ambled by, but stopped when he heard the music. He leant on his mop and listened intently.

'Ow's it goin', Ray? hollered Barry, above the sound of one of The Guildford Stranglers' winding keyboard solos during a song about getting a firm grip on yourself, so to speak. Kev surmised that this might possibly involve a double meaning somewhere.

Not bad, matey! These geezers can play alright, can't they? jabbered Ray.

Yeah, they're not bad. Fink you could do better? mused Barry.

Oh, yeah! No fear! Ah, 'ullo Rat me old matey! 'Ow's it going?

Not bad, Ray, just 'ere to 'ear the bands.

'Ere 'ere! 'Avin' a good gobble, are ya?!

Yeah, why not? A Rat's gotta scavenge, ain't 'e?

The Guildford Stranglers steamrollered through another impressive piston-powered pile-driver of a song, this time for some reason about Toulouse-Lautrec, then clattered to a chaotic close.

That's all you're getting from us! Bye!

Whoops went up from the crowd, then there was a break for people to recharge their glasses and have a pee, but not at the same time. Uncle Myron quickly put some disco tunes on the jukebox, and looked visibly relieved when they began. He strutted up to where Kevin and Barry nestled.

So, are you having a good time boys?

Yeah, brilliant! raved Kev.

Well, I'm glad that some people are, he scrunched his eyes a little, Kevin! Are you swaying?

Ummm, no, Uncle Myron.

Well, let me get you a sneaky little drink then! Can't hurt, can it? It's a celebration, after all!

Uncle Myron skipped off and returned with another glass of foaming brown liquid.

It'll put hairs on your chest!

I don't want hairs on my chest. I'm no gorilla...

Hohoho! You young 'uns! What are you like!

I knew I should've invited The 'ammersmith Gorillas.

Now, Barry, I think the groups that you've chosen are, well, 'quirky', but they are making a bit of a racket, and perhaps putting off some of the regulars from before. We could really do with their business, you know? So if you wouldn't mind asking the next band to keep it down a bit, that'd be very much appreciated.

Erm, I'll see what I can do, dad, but I'm not promising nuffink.

Great! Who's next, anyway?

Kilburn and The High Roads.

Oh, they should be streets ahead!

You betcha, they're certainly on the right track!

Barry bounced up to the area by the stage, where a tall bloke with an impressive conk and even more impressive tattoos named Spider was plugging leads into various pieces of equipment. Barry leant over and had a word in his ear, to which Spider apparently acquiesced.

The band shuffled into position, playing a funky intro to welcome their lead singer, Mr Ian Dury, to the small stage. Ian limped on from the polio injury he had in his childhood. He presented himself like a compelling combination of gangster and Shakespearean villain.

Good eve-erning, his voice rolled with a lugubrious leer, I hail from Havering, and that's exahactly where I'm going to sing about!

The band struck up with their song 'Upminster Kid', a wild swell of driving beats and juicy tones. It was infectious; you couldn't help but be picked up and spun around by the energy. Most of the crowd, Auntie Nora and some of the other band members danced along. Even Uncle Myron was impressed, and started to tap his foot a little. Barry grabbed Kevin and hurled him onto the dance floor. Kevin was a little wobbly, but managed to steady himself instead of almost falling face first, which saved him not a small bit of embarrassment. He felt unusually dizzy though, and the room seemed to swirl in a confused blur.

Well, it certainly is a pleasure to be amongst an auspicious audience, said Ian, But you weren't it.

GET ON WITH IT! yelled the expectant crowd.

Irene, Bert and the barflies gazed on, balefully, but Uncle Myron was getting more and more animated.

Well, at least young Kevin's having a good time, chimed his mother, Another cheese and pineapple, dear?

Go on then, replied Myron, You're twisting my arm!

Auntie Nora leant over towards Myron, Fancy a dance?

Ohhhh, why not?

Uncle Myron's moves resembled a gibbon having a fit. The band proceeded to play songs about suffering from nerves, the quirks of being a locomotive train, then administering a dose of cheery patriotism in the form of 'England's Glory', followed by one about somebody called Pam and her irritable moods, and last of all a poignant ode to the dispossessed called 'What A Waste'.

As Kevin wiggled and gyrated in a way that he was previously unaware was possible, he got looser and more natural, but wasn't expecting to bump into the girl he had spotted before, literally.

Oi! Watch where you're going, you flippin' pillock! she shrieked. She had soft eyes and a shock of bleached blonde hair.

Oh, er, sorry, er, didn't mean to, apologised Kevin. I was dancing.

You dopey wanker! You're a proper flippin' liability you are! Even when she was chastising him, she had a demure smile creeping across her face.

I'm Kevin, actually, quipped Kevin, quirkily.

Well, Kevin, you can sod off! You spilt my drink!

Oh, I'm sorry, can I get you another one?

Well, I think it's only fair, since you wasted the one that I had!

Completely inexpertly, Kevin had just managed to ask a girl that he didn't know if she wanted a drink. This was something of a minor triumph for an inexperienced out-of-towner from Milton Keynes. The only problem now was how he was going to be able to buy it. He couldn't exactly go over to the bar, since the people serving knew precisely how old and who he was. It was then that Cousin Barry swept to his aid.

Can I assist you, mate?

I need someone to get a drink for this lovely lady somehow!

Ah, I get ya lad! Well, you just come along with me!

Right!

They swooped to the bar, Kevin in hot pursuit of Barry, wondering what he had in mind.

Barry scooped up a few drinks, giving Kev the big wink, and then passed them over. Kevin took one to where the girl was perched, mopping herself dry with a bar towel.

Here's your drink.

Ah, fanks. I'm Julie.

Hello Julie.

Enjoyin' the bands?

Yeah, they're great! Something else! You into this kind of thing then?

Am I?!

Cool.

Kevin had the feeling that he'd just agreed to something that he hadn't completely meant to agree to, but it seemed to be what Julie wanted to hear, so he was happy to continue.

So what brings you to these parts? he enquired.

I'm investigating these bands, seeing what they're all about.

Barry clambered onto stage to introduce the headline act.

Now, as your very special guest headliners, we have none other than the fantastic... DOCTOR FEELGOOD!

The band swaggered out to the front of the stage. They acted as if they owned the place, their exuberance filling the room right up to the edges.

So, do you like to go to watch live music then?

Why else do you think I'm here?

I dunno, for the slick décor?

Harr harr, she mock-laughed. Kevin wasn't sure if they were getting on well or not, but he persevered.

What do you do when you're not here?

I'm a waitress, and studying for a chemistry course. Open University. Wot abaht you?

Nothing, really. I'm not sure what to do.

Oh.

The band ripped into a rowdy number about a woman called Roxette, called 'Roxette'. It was so sharp you could've cut a cucumber with it. This was a band on fire, which didn't bode well for the pub's fire regulations. Nevertheless, they blazed through their set, mixing old standards like 'Cell Block Number Nine' and 'Shotgun Blues' with their own searing self-penned numbers like 'She Does It Right', 'I Don't Mind' and 'All Through The City'. The guitarist, Wilco Johnson, looked like he was fresh out of Wormwood Scrubs, exuding a menacing allure, snarling as he roamed about the stage like a hunted fugitive with a manhunt hot on his heels. John B. Sparks, otherwise known as 'Sparko', grooved away on his bass. Drummer John 'The Big Figure' Martin pummelled and paradiddled away on his drums, while the singer, Lee Brilleaux, immaculately presented in crisp, white suit, throbbed with the raw danger of a hardened mobster, but with the voice of a seasoned bluesman, and impressive harmonica solos to boot, not to mention his neat boots. The band played on, while Barry, Julie and Kevin gawped with untarnished admiration.

Well, it was nice getting to know you, lilted Julie, I'm gunna watch the band now. Fancy a dance?

Err, okay.

They were winding away, when all of a sudden, Kev felt a bit queasy. He went greener than Uncle Myron's shirt. He managed to wheel away to the side of the dance floor, but couldn't find anywhere appropriate to spew, so just reached for any handy receptacle nearby. After coughing and spluttering, he realised it was Auntie Nora's handbag. Strangely, the design on the outside looked uncannily similar to the mess on the inside. It was almost as if it was meant to be.

Hahaha! mocked Barry, You're a puking ferret!

Hehe, that should be the name of the pub! slurred Kevin, wiping specks of sick and sliced carrots from his chin.

Aw cripes, that looks like my mum's expensive new handbag that she was showing off!

Urk! I know! I'm a goner!

When Kevin returned to the dance floor, the girl he'd been talking to had gone too. He looked around, but couldn't find her anywhere. The night blurred into a haze, the band wrapped up with a scorching rendition of 'Milk and Alcohol'. The crowd were intensely satisfied, and began spilling out of the pub. The evening faded as Kevin passed out in the back of his parents' car on their return to Milton Keynes.

* * *

SiCk oF bEIng siCk

The next day Kevin woke up with a mouth that tasted like a rancid septic tank, a variety of unspecified bruises and a hangover the size of Quebec.

That was the best night of my life… ever! he thought, slowly.

Then he moved, and the room spun in a different direction to the one that he was expecting it to. He fell out of bed with a *CLUMP!*, which did nothing to improve the state of his headache. After lying there for a bit, he picked himself up, then went back to huddle under his duvet, shuddering. Gradually, images began to swim past his eyes.

...a swinging pub sign... Uncle Myron's zany dancing... malicious musicians making menacing music... a beautiful, illuminated lady... some strange liquor... a handbag full of vomit......

Oh cripes! thought Kevin, I may come a bit of a cropper here!

Kevin finally managed to untangle himself from his bed, tossing off the brinylon sheets and wrenched himself to his feet. He looked over at Wilbur the Goldfish. Wilbur returned his gaze, dolefully.

What am I going to do, Wilbur? asked Kevin.

Wilbur didn't reply, mainly because he was a goldfish, and didn't have the relevant vocal abilities or requirements.

Well, Wilbur, I think things are going to get a bit more exciting from now on.

Wilbur gulped silently in agreement.

Kevin took off his mauve paisley pyjamas, put on his normal clothes and stumbled downstairs as carefully as he could muster. He was met by the tempting smell of sizzling bacon.

You alright son? parped Bert, Had a bit of a rough night, did we?

Ummm… I was a little iffy, yep. Must've been a dodgy sausage roll or something…

Yes, your Auntie Nora must have had one of those too. She can't remember very much, but thinks that she may have been ill in her new handbag!

Yes? Ohhh! Oh dear! said Kevin, his stomach untangling with relief at the mistaken mishap. "Phewww! I might've got off this time!" he thought.

His dad proffered him a plate of bacon sandwiches, gristly and greasy, sauce spilling out the sides of the thick bread. To Kevin, this was a thing of much splendour.

Thanks dad, beamed Kevin sincerely, then continued, ... Dad, I was thinking...

Kevin, we were thinking...

Oh, you first...

No, you.

No, you go on dad.

Well Kevin, me and your mum were talking and we wondered if you might like to go down to London to stay with your Uncle Myron, Aunt Nora and Cousin Barry for a while?

His mum piped up, To bring you out of your shell, so to speak.

Alright, Irene. We know that you enjoy your creative pursuits, you've got artistic leanings, and, well, we think that we could probably get you enrolled in an Art College down there with a lecturer that Myron knows, so you wouldn't need to worry about the entry requirements that much, they take all sorts. I know that Myron, Nora and Barry would be happy to have you around too. Anyway, what were you thinking, Kev?

Um, nothing dad.

What he wanted to say was that he would like to go to London to experience more of what was going on there, but this way made it easier for him not to have to explain what he wanted to get away from.

Oh, right. Well, just think it over, won't you?

Yes dad. Will do. Thanks dad. Thanks mum.

Kevin went back upstairs to his room, jumped on his bed silently cheering for a bit, then lay down when he got out of breath and played through the numerous possibilities that were buzzing around in his head.

I could go to London, study and develop brand new theories in art, and go to see brilliant live music like we saw and meet gorgeous girls, and who knows, maybe romance might emerge, perhaps, as well as my creations taking the world by storm, and I'll come back to Milton Keynes carried on the crowd's shoulders and I'll say, Oh, hello. I used to come from this place, but I got out, and my art opened people's minds and made their lives better and more interesting, and people will say, Oooh, look at him! Local boy makes good. Etc. And I might even meet that dreamy girl again…

Kevin had caught a glimpse of a Promised Land, and he knew that he wanted to see more. This was his chance. He grabbed it in both of his grubby fists.

* * *

BOyS dOn'T CRy

The days passed before he left, but not half as quickly for Kevin as he would have liked. He was working on a farewell sculpture to give to his parents as a leaving present. In a sense, it was a gesture of appreciation for bringing him up without too much to be peeved about. In another sense, it was a symbol of him breaking away from his past, the past that had anchored him down and held him back all this time. In yet another sense, it was a dirty great pile of junk he'd hastily nailed together.

Kevin unveiled it at a Grand Opening at teatime on the night before he was set to leave. They stood together in their orange-carpeted front room, and Kev revealed his handiwork from under a novelty tea towel that depicted various types of cheeses of the U.K. (one of his mum's prized possessions). The statue stood there; sharp, futuristic, pointy.

Oh, errr, that's very… his dad searched desperately for the correct word, Modernistic.

Yes, followed his mum, Quite, ummm, Avant-garden.

It looked like an upset racoon with a broken umbrella on its head. Kevin asked the dreaded Rolf Harris question.

Can you tell what it is yet?

Not to say that Rolf Harris was dreaded, just that the question was, although Rolf was slightly fearful, with his heavy breathing huffing and puffing ways. Kev's mum and dad shuffled uneasily.

Yeeerrr, of course we can! It's… ahhh… a symbol, isn't it?

Yes, that's right!

They drooped in relief.

What of?

They tightened up slightly again.

Ummm……… there was a big pause, Milton Keynes? his mum ventured.

You got it!

They visibly drooped with relief.

Yes, I could sort of tell by all of the, er, square blocks.

It's a regular abstract cubist sculpture.

Yes. Very, er, rectangular.

You really think so?

Oh, yes?

Thanks mum! You're the best!

Kevin stood back and smiled at his familial benefactors, almost feeling a small sense of connection with them. It was something of a milestone. He was slightly sad to be going away now.

* * *

Do aNytHInG yOU WaNna DO

So, the days rolled by for young Kevin until that fateful moment came that he had to fly the roost. He'd packed all of his things into boxes and suitcases, his mum helping him to squeeze his things in so that he didn't know where anything was. His dad loaded them neatly into the back of the car, somehow fitting them into a space that they shouldn't have been able to fit into. This took a while, and occupied the gaping void where emotional goodbyes should have been, except in Milton Keynes. Lower middle class people put something of a stopper on that sort of thing by filling the time up with trivialities instead. Kevin's dad wore his flat cap and pleated grey driving gloves, his mother a sensible hat to cover her sensible hair. There was some affection swilling around, of sorts. His mum gave Kevin a big box of Cream Crackers, and his dad gave him a pair of nasal tweezers.

Very practical, Kevin, especially once you start courting the girls!

Dad, I was meaning to ask you about that...

Kevin left the comment hanging in the air like some damp pants on a linen line.

Ahh, err, yes, well... you'd best ask your Cousin Barry. He's a one for the ladies, or so I'm led to believe, so I'm sure he could tell you a thing or two! Just, umm, make sure you double-bag it.

Kevin looked puzzled. His eyebrows knitted and his brain began ticking over. He had heard things in school, of course. There was always talk in the playground, along with a lot of sniggering. He and Malik would sit at the back of the class sometimes looking for rude words in the dictionary, itself almost a rude word, or scour for nude diagrams in biology textbooks, often amusingly defaced by some of the rougher boys like Rick Prendergast and his unsavoury crew. Mr Dunnock never mentioned anything, which was probably for the best, when all's said and done, as the thought of Mr Dunnock getting up to any sort of carnal activity would've frightened most of them off it for life.

Aside from the nature documentaries and nude diagrams that they showed in biology lessons at school, Kevin's Sex Education mainly consisted of catching a glimpse of a vice girl's boobs on The Sweeney or having a sneaky peek at the lingerie section of his mum's clothes catalogue, and imagining what he could do given half the chance with any of the pretty ladies therein. He knew that he would have to remove the said lingerie somehow, which seemed in itself something of an impenetrable task, like some kind of impossible Chinese finger trap puzzle that was designed specifically for teenage