Old, Fat, Punks

Chapter One: This is What You Get

The bullet dislodges itself from the wall and flies backwards, out of it. Fragments of shattered metal coalesce, becoming one again. The deformed, flattened shape repairs itself, whole, firmer, more conical. Ahead of it the hole in the wall heals. Pieces of brick and plaster implode back into a smooth whole. The bullet’s tumbling slows and stops. It travels backwards now, the indented arse-end of it moving in a straight-line trajectory.

Droplets of red spray combine, back, onto the bullet, coating it with a crimson sheen. Gobbets of flesh follow, traumatised, torn and ragged. A stray white tooth and fragments of scalp and hair join it along with fatty lumps of what must be brain tissue. The bullet moves backwards through shards of de-fragmenting bone and reverses, quickly into the rear of the skull. The flesh ripples like a liquid. The skin flexes across the surface of the head like the beat of a drum, recorded in slow motion. The bullet emerges, again, backwards, through a wall of smiling, smarmy, grinning, porcelain teeth.

The slug retreats from that self-satisfied, glossy face. It flies true now, unsullied, pristine, further and further. It starts to glow red with residual heat, lit by the explosion behind it that winds itself in and shrinks, dimming the room from its bright light. It sucks back, into the pipe of the gun and thrusts itself backwards into the cartridge, nesting itself snugly in place, lodging itself into the magazine and cuddling up, snugly, to its siblings, waiting to be called into life.

The gunman’s face is almost serene as his finger lifts from the trigger and he sits back down. Vanishing into a sea of shocked and amused looking faces. Just another one in the crowd.

Chapter Two: Banned From the Pubs

You’d think – and you’d be wrong – that a pub was a pub was a pub. Somewhere for a quiet drink and a microwaved Sunday roast with disappointingly flat Yorkshire puddings a couple of times a month. That was much more true these days than it used to be, what with your pretentious, restaurant gastro-pubs at one end and the endless parade of family-friendly pseudo-inns at the other. Even with all that dilution going on there were still more than a few pubs that fulfilled the role of a special retreat, a meeting place, a refuge for the people who drank there. They were just relics of a bygone age, harder and harder to find with every passing year.

The Crown was one of the misfits that lingered.

A pub could be an informal clubhouse, of sorts. Different pubs served as home-bases for different kinds of people. There were lawyer pubs and cricketer pubs. There were businessmen’s pubs and working men’s pubs, pubs for travellers and pubs for policemen. There were pubs where the ageing and decrepit hooligans of the old East-End gangs gathered together and reminisced about the good old days, trading stories of the times when they stabbed and shot each other, stepped out on the town with Lulu and were good to their mums. There were pubs where old Irishmen go to die, drowning themselves drink by drink at the end of the bar.

Still other pubs came to prominence when a particular pop culture movement is in its prime. They became the hang-outs for kids as they came to an age where they could drink and fuck (and usually got too drunk to fuck). A place they could be together, listen to their music, preen their feathers and strut their stuff. Kids met up in them before the clubs opened and reconvened there at stupid-o’clock after the clubs shut. If the place had a late licence.

The Crown was a pub for punks. It had had a lax attitude to licensing laws for decades. Like most pop-pubs, it had become a bubble in time. It froze the youth culture in stylistic amber. It kept the posters, accumulated the stories in layers like the graffiti. The clientèle got older, but they dressed the same and kept on coming, even if they didn’t go clubbing afterwards. The pub became a legend, synonymous with the movement that spawned it. A tourist site, a nostalgia factory.

Then the wannabes started turning up in droves, hoping to become a part of the legend, to have its aura rub off on them. Later still they came to gawk at the weirdos. They treated the place like a zoo. That just gave the old guard more of a sense of legitimacy in themselves, along with people to sneer at in a superior manner. Sneering at others, the fakers, the newbies, always made them feel better. They made the scene that others aped, the place that they wanted to be a part of. The gatekeepers of genuine cool. Some of these pubs were famous, like The Dev; others stayed a little more quiet, a little more exclusive.

The Crown was the latter.

There were something like fifty pubs around Greater London called ‘The Crown’. This particular Crown was a shabby, run-down place that stank of cigarette smoke even five years or more after the ban had been put into place. The walls inside were layered with old posters going right the way back to the heady days of the seventies. Layers of mystery-filth and the names of long-forgotten bands, preserved in geological strata of Sellotape, Blu-Tac, glue and paper made some corners look like a papier-mache wasp’s nest.

The Crown’s hard angles had been worn smooth by the intensity of its history. It was dark and dingy and legend had it that the words ‘Fuck you’ scribbled on the wall of the men’s toilets were put there by Sid Vicious. Nobody really knew if that was true or not, but the obscenity had been covered with perspex to preserve it for posterity – just in case. People braved the inch-deep piss and the cracked and fungal-blooming tiles just to see it. One of London’s hidden secret treasures. A dead man’s swearword.

The jukebox only played punk and these days that was mostly ‘best of’ collections. Even CDs wore out over time or get broken by one means or another. After an initial orgy of re-issuing, it’d gotten harder to get what they wanted stocked in that neon, plastic case. The vinyl had long since worn smooth and been thrown away, some of it nailed to the wall for decoration. It was a sad end for old classics and pressings nobody remembered.

A TV sat up against the back wall, but it was old and small – not even an LCD flat-screen. One of the colour guns was knackered. The sound was never turned up. Regardless of that, the screen retained its hypnotic effect and plenty of people couldn’t resist its flickering allure. They stared into it like moths drawn to a flame, sipping their drinks and gazing at programmes that they would never otherwise glance at.

Tonight it was flashing green-shifted images of police lines and protest. The little screen was swollen with pictures of shouting youth and baton charges, of kettling and thrown stones. It had become a sight so familiar that most people no longer gave a shit or paid much attention to it. Just another protest, just another riot. The news might have just as well been reporting on paint drying for all the attention people paid. It all played out so predictably. Inevitable images flickered past – the black-masked thug kicking in the window of a McDonald’s, the crying women with spray-coloured rainbow hair, pouring water in their eyes after a vicious pepper-spraying. Street violence and howls of protest had become a sad little stereotype, a drinking game, a bingo card.

It’s so fucking pointless. Derek stabbed a big, fat sausage finger at the screen, nearly knocking his pint over on the bar. Same fucking charade every fucking time. What does it accomplish? Nothing. Derek was a big guy, shaven headed except for a short, little curly mohawk. He was broad shouldered and built big. You’d call him obese but under the fat was a lot of muscle. When he got pissed off at something, you tended to notice. His face screwed up into a mass of dark wrinkles, like an angry baby.

What about the civil-rights movement? Tim was a weekend-warrior these days. Didn’t look too good to the PTA when they saw your tattoos or went looking you up on the internet. They might find out what you’d gotten up to in your youth and that was frequently embarrassing. He had to be respectable, careful, beyond reproach. Even as desperate as they were for anyone who still wanted to teach he’d get thrown under a bus in a moment if he did the wrong thing. It was hard for him. He was a smartarse with a mouth that got him into trouble. Every day was a triumph of restraint. He was thinner than the rest, save for a small pot belly, normal hair down to his ears, a scraggly beard. He was nobody special. Hidden away under the shirt and the blue jeans were a mess of tattoos, all small, no theme, nothing to bind them together except his whims and his fancies.

That’s fuckin’ America, you twat-waffle. You think just because I’m black I know about all that? What about here then? We’ve had protests and riots and what-have-you since forever, When has it ever really made a difference, huh? When? Derek was puffed up with indignation and anger and not about to back down that easily.

Poll Tax riots? Arguably they made a difference, took Thatcher down even. Tim sipped from his pint and turned his head a moment, hearing a disturbance at the bar, but it wasn’t really anything much worth worrying about. It was just raised voices.

Trol stuck his oar in then, the third man of this little knot of friends. Nah, mate, that was just opportunism. Her own party wanted shot of her. It was an excuse. That’s all. Just a convenient one for us. Not that anyone since has been much better.

Trol was another big guy, but not as big as Derek. Stockiness turning to fat, an arm-swinging pitbull of a man with a head shaven bald. He could almost pass for homeless, but he wasn’t. His tats looked cheaper but there was an air of authenticity to them as though he were a gypsy or an ex-prisoner. Trol was as close to the real deal as you could still get and that carried a certain amount of arrogance – justified or not – with it.

Christ’s sake, you lot. Janice, the barmaid, pierced and painted and sour as snorting a line of coke cut with washing powder. Dirty blonde turning to grey in streaks, and heavy-ringed fingers that clinked against the inside of the glass as she wiped it clean. How many years have you stupid bastards been coming here, having the same bloody conversation? At least those kids out there are doing something. Even if it’s pointless She hooked her bony thumb towards the flickering telly.

Yeah, getting their heads pounded in and accomplishing what exactly? Headlines calling them hooligans and rioters. Nobody shedding a tear when one of them gets brain-damaged or killed. Everyone’ll be blaming them for it in a day or two. I’ve seen it all before, too fuckin’ often. Derek looked over his shoulder. The fuss further down the bar was getting louder and more worthy of attention as time went on.

And I suppose sitting here drinking and bitching is going to accomplish something? Hold up, let me deal with this. Janice strutted down the bar like a raptor edging along its perch. Her piercing shriek cut over the jangling guitar of The Damned booming out of the Jukebox, a voice well used to making itself heard. Who the fuck do you think you are coming in my pub causing a stink? You’re under fucking age so you don’t get fucking served. I’ve got a tattoo on my arse older than you and a fucking manky Green Day T-shirt doesn’t make you one of us. Get the fuck out or I’ll have Terry throw you out on your ear! Her voice faded away as she moved further on down, a whirlwind of indignation.

Two inviolate rules of The Crown. You didn’t fuck with Janice and you didn’t fuck Janice.

The three men picked up their drinks and moved to a table further away from the fuss. It wouldn’t do to get in the way when Janice was going thermonuclear. It was quieter back here, enfolded in a womb of splintery wood and spilled beer. Derek slid into his seat, taking up one whole side while Tim and Trol shared the other.

Tim looked across the table. I guess you know better than most, Der. You’ve seen more of it, and more recently than we have. He took another pull on his pint and leaned back, staring up and out into empty space while he thought things over.

Next to him, Trol piped up. Riots, yeah. But protests? I reckon I’ve seen more of that. Not one-upping you guys or anything but a riot and a protest are different things. You two went respectable, not me. He gave them his big, amphetamine-scarred grin.

And you never let us forget it. Tim drove an elbow into Trol’s side.

Riots are different, he’s not wrong there. Derek slumped forward over the table and twined his fingers together. But they’re also the same thing at some level. When you get all the way down into it. A riot’s just a big, fuckin’ inarticulate protest and all they can think to do is smash shit, burn shit and steal shit like a bunch of cunt-biscuits.

Tim nodded. ‘Fucking inarticulate’ eh? Heh, there’s irony for you! But look, there’s no ideology any more, is there? I’m not saying it’s always a good thing to have an ideology. Look at religion, look at Cambodia, but we’re down to arguing over the fine details of a single option – neo-liberal capitalism. Like we were saying, nothing seems to make any real difference. So why even bother to try? Why take to the streets and risk getting brained if it’s for no good purpose? He shrugged again and gave a long breath out through his nostrils.

Trol arched a questioning eyebrow up his deep-lined forehead.All right, so, it doesn’t make any difference whether you do something or not, but hear me out. Isn’t that just as much of a reason to just bloody do it anyway? If nothing you do makes any fucking difference either way, doesn’t that free you up to do anything? Anything at all?

I suppose that’s one way to look at it. Bit nihilistic, though, isn’t it? Tim shook his head and hung it down low. I mean that sounds like another form of defeat to me. Admitting there’s no hope and giving up.

D’uh, punk. Anarchy and nihilism and no more of that ‘change the world’ crap the hippies were spewing. Burn it down and start again, yeah? Best we can hope for. Trol gave another laugh. Come on, guys, Janice is right, we’re just sitting here bitching and accomplishing fuck all. You two did go all respectable on me and that’s fair enough, you know? Every choice is valid and it’s not like my life is a bed of roses by any measure. Still, we’re all in our bloody fifties now – an age I never though I’d even get to. If we we’re ever going to actually do anything, make our mark, make a difference we ain’t got much time left to do it in. I might have stayed an activist but, honestly, I’ve made no more mark on the world than you two have.

Hey, I have made my mark. Derek stabbed a thumb at his chest. How many albums have I worked on? How many radio shows have I been involved in? My name’s on a lot of great stuff out there. I turned that shitty bass-playing of mine into a proper music career. That left a legacy.

And I’ve taught kids since I straightened myself out. Twenty or thirty year’s worth. That’s got to be worth something, hasn’t it? My mark on all those classes, making them think? Teaching them to look at the world? That has to have some significance.

Yeah, mate, it does. Think about it, though. Trol turned his head to look at Derek. Do kids even buy albums any more or do they just listen to any old crap on the internet, on a whim? When was the last time you heard a song that really, really meant something other than ‘I want money and bitches’ that actually made the big time? He switched to Tim then. Teaching? When did you last get to set the curriculum, teach what you wanted or teach what you thought they actually needed to know in life? When did you last get any fuckin’ respect or get to teach the things that you think are important rather than some fish-faced dip-shit who went to Eton? Trol shook his head again harder and pointed to Derek. What kind of music you working on now anyway?

Fuckin’ hip hop and R&B shit. Tits and arse and bling. Derek grimaced.

Tim, what about the teaching? Trol’s face softened a bit, Tim was a sensitive soul and really invested in what he did. It might be best to be a bit more gentle with him.

You’re right mate, it’s bollocks. Every fucking government treats us like a football and now they’ve handed the keys over to crazy religious nuts to start their own schools. I get less say every bloody year. They could give the job to a Teddy Ruxspin and nobody would notice the difference.

Was that, that cassette-playing bear thing? Trol frowned. Or was that a Furby?

Tim rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. The fucking bear. Look, it doesn’t matter. Point is, I don’t get to be a teacher, just a mouthpiece.

Trol brought the side of his fist down on his palm. So then, why aren’t we out there with those kids on the box, huh? Raising a fuss? Making some noise? If it makes no bloody difference either way I think I’d rather be honest about how I feel and I’d rather do something about it. Even if it’s pointless and stupid. Take a swing. You know?

Not like our heroes ever did though, really, is it? Tim sighed, looking more and more depressed. I mean, Jello Biafra, granted, but he’s a lot more noise than actual accomplishment. Strummer yeah, but small scale stuff, more of an inspiration than a doer. Then look at The Pistols...

Fuckin’ boy band. Trol stuck out his tongue, teasing as Tim frowned and carried on.

Comeback gigs whenever they run out of cash and Johnny Rotten’s selling fucking butter. Butter! On the telly. What’s all that about then, eh? I mean, he’s still a crazy sod for what that’s worth, but a sell-out nonetheless and shameless about it. No more heroes, right?

You’re not wrong. Derek echoed Tim’s sigh and drained the last of his pint. Even fuckin’ Bono’s done more and he’s a pretentious, stuck-up, cock-whistle. Politics and causes turn so many bands to shit though, not just punk. Look at Rage Against the Machine...

...or any Christian rock band, ever. Tim laughed bitterly and they all shared a moment of ageing hopelessness at the state of the world.

I dunno, the Beatles were better when they went all spiritual. Derek sucked at one cheek as he thought.

Nah mate, that was the drugs. Trol gave another snorting laugh. I should know, if anyone does.

Silence fell over the table then, interrupted only by the Green Day kid being slung out of the door bodily by Terry, his screaming and swearing girlfriend shouting about calling the police as she trailed in his trajectory like the mascara-streaked tail of a comet.

My round, I think. Tim stood up, edged his way around the table and shuffled over to the bar. It was going to be one of those nights, but it felt different. Something had shifted, changed, a fault line had jumped a couple of metres.

Chapter Three: Tricky Little Mind

The bell rang, the door squeaked as it opened and the new-mown smell of the gardens and verges outside was replaced by a dry, dusty and faintly meaty scent. Out of the sun it was suddenly cool and the floor, instead of a uniform grey, was abruptly a chequerboard of grimy yellow and black. Like someone had carefully skinned a giant bee, cut it into squares and stuck it to the floor with meticulous care.

Timothy clutched his mother’s hand as she lead him into the little corner shop. Stumpy legs toddled along as fast as they could to keep up with her, but she was in a bit of a hurry. She half-dragged him as she whizzed around the store and grabbed the things she needed, hastily snatching them off the shelves.

Tim tugged on her arm, wide eyes looking this way, that way, up at the towering shelves on all sides. He wanted to explore, to touch and smell and shake. The shelves were full of all sorts of interesting and brightly coloured things but every time he reached for them to try and work out what they were he was yanked away again, shoes squeaking on the linoleum.

Leave that alone! his mother snapped and gave him a sharp smack on the hip.

His face screwed up at the smack and he let his body drag even more on her arm as they made the last circuit of the shop and headed towards the counter. She could drag him if she wanted him to go anywhere. She set down her bag of groceries and offered a thin, tight and