Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening?
Welcome to Lager Time. Welcome back to Lager Time, it’s a Friday. Back to Friday. Let’s hope it remains that way. So it’s all been a bit wonky these last few weeks, mainly due to just been pretty busy, with work and life. I’ve also been concentrating on trying to get this EP finished. Finishing things, is not exactly a strong point of mine, let alone finishing things, with efficiency. Something I’m working on, which sounds like an empty platitude, it might be. I don’t think it is, but time will tell. There’s work to be done, I’m trying to do it, which all sounds a bit cryptic, but I don’t wonna bore you with the details.
So I did a little promo rap verse, for this EP I’ve got coming out, Toast In The Machine. I made the beat, wrote the bars, recorded, and filmed it and stuck it up online, not really thinking about it, beyond the usual worries about being rubbish. It’s been viewed on Instagram over 600 times, mate which, for what I do, is loads. It’s a tiny amount for any sort of creative with a big online presence but whenever I put anything up, this, You Tube, Instagram, whatever, it’s rare anything ever goes beyond three digits, so I was chuffed about that. I’ll stick a link in the podcast description for anyone that wants to see. Big thanks to everyone that watched and shared.
And speaking of numbers, Lager Time is now one years old. Large up all the Lager-Lites. Didn’t really know what I was doing when I started it. Just wanted a place to share some stuff, as I was a bit lost with everything I was doing, but I was still writing stuff, like I always have. One year on, feel like I’ve learned a lot, particularly with the producing side of things, still a bit lost but I’ve really been enjoying ding these Satellite Stories. A few years back, I thought I was done with writing these loosely autobiographical stories from my childhood, but clearly not, because there’s loads more I want to do, plus a whole series of being in London in my twenties. And more I’d like to learn in terms of the production of it. However, the stories are getting more and more elaborate, and I need more time to write them and put it all together. This current one, has been on my laptop for almost a month and it still aint finished. So it’s half done, like many things I do, frustratingly.
Normally, at this point, with podcasters and the like, that are more efficient with this kind of thing, they’ll normally go ‘for the price of a pint or whatever, you can donate to my artist fund thing’ - well, I’ve tried to set up a Ko-Fi account but I’m currently locked out of my own Stripe Payment system account, that I use on my website and don’t know what the email is that I used to set it up. Which is typical of me. But if you did want to help me out in anyway, what would be really good, is you could subscribe on Substack, or just tell anyone that you know, who might just like this little niche thing that I’m doing, to start listening, that would really helpful. And maybe one day, if there was enough of us, we could all go and get lagered-up somewhere and have a laugh. Though not right now, because I’m skint and off the booze for the foreseeable.
Anyway, that’s enough for now, let’s get down to business.
And you make sure you have a banging weekend
Peas and taters
Paul
Year nine; awkwardly stepping into those big boy shoes, with all the grace of a first-time ice-skater, at the Guildford Spectrum trying not to fall over in front of his mates. Or worse, females that you might be attracted to, which by this age, was probably all of them. Lingo’s getting sharper, more gel on the head, extra sprays of the Lynx, maybe saving up to buy a pir of designer boxers so you can have the brand name showing on the waistband.
Couple of lads in my year were already about it; might’ve got some feel-ups, might’ve even lost the V-plates; maybe chinned a couple of bods. Boys like Shane O ‘Connell and Ronnie Wader. Rising up the ranks of named Crawley faces. In my jagged circle, apart from maybe Gareth, Brendon and Kells, most of us were no-where near any of it; not even Mo. We’d boshed a few special brew’s and smoked a couple of fags, maybe even a bit of draw, but that was about it. When it come to girls, me, Rich, Veejay and Pidge, were walking cliches; redundant garden space-hoppers, bulging with spoof.
With the exception of Rich, we couldn’t even claim to be good at football; Football, fighting and females, made up the holy trinity; the triple F key to life. Ideally, you wanted to be good at least one of those three. None, and you were just making up the numbers, like one of those random WWF Wresters with a normal name, like John Whitfield, with no costume, who’d get drafted in just to get slapped-about, all for the kiddies holding up cardboard sings in honour of their spandex-roid-head heros. Even if you could, like me, occasionally pick a pass, or get someone in the headlock, it weren’t sufficient. Awkward, unconfident and immature, the triangular tragedy, the triple T key to a life of misery; Yet we were frizzing with testosterone, like buying a load of cheap gear at a Maplins closing down sale; none of which you know what to do with.
Through some rouge cousin of Vejay, who’s uncle had a corner-shop, our little firm had a nice supply of jazz-mags on rotation, like a pubescent book club for teenage wankers. Business was booming. The C-Block toilets was where the contraband was exchanged with kids from other years, for cash, tapes, trainers, watches, sweeties etc. We never quite knew exactly how Veejay got his hands on the jazz mags, and never stopped to consider exactly how many hands had been on the jazz mags, but we were happy to be in business; ecstatic even. About as close as any of us was gonna get to getting off with any chicks, let alone anything else.
Despite some of Rich’s best efforts, we got little to no attention, of the flirting sort, from chicks in our year, though to be fair, there were a few we got on alright with. We wanted to talk to them, all the time, just in my case, didn’t quite know how, so anytime I did, I squeezed those funny feelings into a cartoon suitcase and just about squashed it down; thinking, hoping, they might just think, that I might be cool: thoughtful, yet considerate, tragic, yet funny, yet, deep; pussy.
There was a crew of girls from Horsham, who were cool enough but weren’t the perceived popular girls in the year, probably a bit too middle-class, but their near futures would no doubt see them taking that crown, when the likes of the above dropped-out after GCSE’s. Most of them containing that healthy balance of being in the higher sets, with brains and ambitions, as well as good looks, which put them firmly out of any of our leagues. I resented them a bit, for appearing to be stuck-up, though they were actually alright, once you got chatting to them.
Me, Rich, Veejay and Pidge, sat next to three of them in art class; Natalie, Helen and Lauren. They were alright. I fancied Lauren, though I didn’t tell anyone about it, I was playing it cool, hoping a suitable moment would arise, through my coolness, to let them, any one of them, I didn’t mind, let me know that Laruen fancied me, like playing hide and seek, by hiding in plain sight, ironically, no one ever found me. Veejay and Pidge both fancied Helen and Rich fancied Natalie. Rich was the alpha of our group (he was good at football), without being an alpha, like a class with a teacher on the sick, being taught long-term by the TA; we lacked leadership.
Rich had potential, though, he would engage the girls in conversations during art lessons, sometimes making them laugh and we’d join in, off the back of his advances, also trying to make them laugh, hungry for scraps, each one of us boys probably getting pissed off with the other for not acting cool enough, or for taking perceived ground from the other. Rich had balls though, and belief, just lacked the finishing touch. Fair play to him, I don’t know how he did it, but he managed to convince Helen and Catherine and Lauren to come bowling on Saturday, with us boys. Four boys, all as clueless as each other, and three girls, smarter yet surprisingly game, or most likely; just being nice, or worse, mischievous.
The other three concocted a plan, where they were each one gonna ask out the girl they fancied. By attempting to play it cool, without being in anyway cool, I could see this probably wasn’t gonna end well. Yet, by the pure power in the lure, of even the remotest possibility that one of these chicks might get off with us, it was enough to propel even me along, with the sheer excitement (and nervousness), of going bowling with some females; even when I didn’t fancy two of them; I still fancied them, they were female. I was stamping on that suitcase, squeezing everything in, even if that meant damaging things.
So donned up, I jumped on the train to Crawley. Us boys had arranged to meet outside C&A at 1pm, then meet the chicks at half 1. Possibly the only time any sort of strategy was ever considered and actually implemented, into some sort of plan. I was an hour and a half early to meet the lads, and two hours early to meet the girls. I had no idea why. Killing time, however, on my Jack Jones, was nothing for me. I was well used to wondering around on my own, absorbed in my own thoughts and fantasies, like a docile Labrador, wondering around an art gallery, not knowing it was at an art gallery. I just prayed no one saw me in town, on my ones. No one wanted to be a loner; even though, a lot of the time, I was, a loner.
‘Lon-er’
I’d walked into Primark, thinking I could get myself some faux-designer boxers, that said something like ‘Athletic’ on the waistband, and could pass as designer, when I tuned round and saw Kells, with his younger brother and a couple of other larey kids in tracksuits that I didn’t know.
ah no
‘What you down in town bruv?’
I played it down, as I didn’t want him gate-crashing the gig, said I was meeting Pidge, which was true. Pidge was low enough down the social hierarchy to not warrant any sort of jealousy on Kell’s part.
‘Yea? That’s good to know because I was going to see his mum, I left some pubes round there, know what I mean, hope you gay boys have a nice time’
At that, fortunately, Kells bowled off, somewhere in the direction of the mall with his little squad laughing at his tired mum jokes routine. Those pricks didn’t know Pidge, so why were they laughing? I was happy he was gone, though. Last time I’d spent a Saturday afternoon with Kells, we got kicked out of Gatwick Airport, because he kept booting the 10p machines in the South Terminal Serendipity arcade and setting the alarms off, alerting the bored, but machine-gun-carrying Old Bill to send us packing back to Horley.
I purchased a pair of blue, faux-designer tight-fitting boxers, and stuffed them in my pocket and casually bowled up The Bartletts. Rolled round at the top, passed the enhance to the Mall and towards C&A. The rendezvous wasn’t the best, as it was right next to McDonalds, Big Kaseem and his boys were often seen outside there and if you weren’t careful you’d be buying all him and his crew Big Mac’s.
I spied Rich and Veejay, already waiting. I got closer and clocked that one of them stunk heavily of Brut. Rich saw me and rubbed his hands
‘It’s gonna be a good day boys, I can feel it.’
He had on cream jeans, with an Umbro polo top, tucked in. Veejay had on a Ralph shirt and his dark black hair was slicked back but for some reason had a back-pack with him. He noticed me looking at it
‘bought a bit of cat boys’
Me and Rich looked at each other
‘Cat?!
‘Cat?’
‘Yea, cat, as in pussy... Bought a couple more titles for the collection boys.’
Rich looked at me
‘No-one calls it cat’
Vee-Jay wasn’t listening. He was unzipping the bag and there was at least four jazz mags in it.
‘There’s a Christmas special, with Cindy Cooper and Jo Guest.’
In our sordid top-shelf, back-of-the-draw worlds, Cindy Cooper and Jo Guest, were top draw, top shelf-top-draw.
Me and Rich were a bit miffed as to why he’d bought them along, but also not complaining.
‘One each to take away boys’
Couldn’t argue with that, a bonus for me and a safety-net, as the actual chance of getting close to any of these chicks was so remote, they may as well have been a brass-house on Pluto. Maybe Veejay was a realest.
‘Get us in the mood, boys’
Veejay was wiggling his eyebrows as he said it, though I wasn’t quite sure what he meant, or was expecting for that matter. Just then Pidge slowly waddled up. He was called Pidge for a reason. Because he waddled, like a pigeon and was plump like a pigeon and Pidgeon’s weren’t very cool, etc etc. He hated the name. Pidge loved music and always had his headhones on, something we bonded over, though he was more into Heavy metal than I was. He had his headphones on as he waddled over, looking very pleased with himself, for some reason. He was wearing stonewash double denim, with a far-too-big pair of Converse Tar Max, looking like a pigeon with tractors on its feet, with a white visor on top of his head to finish off the look; or so we thought. He tried hard Pidge, he really did
‘What the fuck are you wearing Pidge?’
‘What? I look good’
Veejay looked pleased. He just went one-nil up in the race for Helen’s attention. It was soon to be two, as the calls came in from a distance.
‘PIDGE YOU FAT WANKER, LOOK AT THE STATE OF YA!’
We all looked up, to see over the road, running away from The Mall was Kells with his little crew in toe, all pointing and making wanker signs at Pidge, they appeared to be in hysterics, whilst making the odd look over their shoulders, back at the mall. My eyes quickly darted to the entrance doors to the Mall where I saw three security guards watching them run off into the distance, one brining a walkie-talkie to his mouth. As they shouted, Pidge had to turn round to see them, turning his back to us, revealing the piece de resistance to his outfit. The abuse all made sense. On the back of his stone-wash denim jacket, covering the entirety of his back, in blue-biro, doing his best-worst bubble writing, Pidge had written ‘FUCK YOU’ and in between the FUCK and the YOU, at the top and the bottom respectively, was a giant fist flipping the middle finger. He tried Pidge, he really did. Problem was, Pidge had drawn five knuckles, making the middle finger the sixth, which kinda said it all.
‘Pidge, what have you done?’
‘I know, cool innit.’
Rich was smiling.
‘Sick’
Vee-jay looked at me
‘No, no Pidge, it really isn’t’
Two- Nil veejay.
I stayed schtumn.
We then stood there waiting around for another twenty minutes or so and after a couple true Crawley custodians had cussed off Pidge for his jacket, he decided to turn his back to the window of C&A, which then caused a mum to come out from inside with her two young boys in tow, to have a full blown go, at all of us, about Pidge’s offensive jacket.
It was at this point Rich took up the mantle and displayed a little bit of leadership, dolling out some wise words.
‘Whatever you do Pidge, don’t turn your back on those chicks today, can’t have you messing things up.’
‘but they’re gonna love it though’
The girls were already twenty five minutes late, no of us daring to air the fear of humiliation hanging in the air, when Pidge and Vee-Jay decided to go in to MacDonalds next door and get something to eat, comfort food. I’d decided to save off from eating, and save my money, Rich, being the acting alpha, had ordered Pidge to get him some fries. They came back out, fifteen or so minutes later, empty handed, having not eaten. Not only had they run into Big Kass in there, who’d mugged them into buying hm a Big Mac meal, Shane O Connel had appeared, who was now apparently rolling with Big Kass, which was terrible news for every teenage boy in probably a ten mile radius. Apparently when Pidge turned around to get in the que, to buy Kass’s food, Shane had seen Pidge’s jacket and taken the FUCK YOU as a personal pop at him and then ordered Vee Jay to also buy him a Big Mac meal, as well as taking Rich’s chips as compensation, or tax, as Shane would call it.
‘We got taxed’
They come out, hungry, humiliated and with only enough money left for one game of bowling. We were supposed to be showing these chicks a good time; how were they gonna respect us now?! Even with Rich’s £5 crises loan, it was looking worse than before…
Satellite Stories: EP 5 - A Date With Mates - Part 1