Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening?
Welcome to Lager Time, episode number 37, imagine that!? 37, good bus that, The Putney to Peckham Express, as my mate Micky T once called it. When I first moved to London, that was my bus. Good, solid, reliable.
Todays offering, coincidentally, is another Satellite Story about going on a long bus journey, to the promised land of a Laser Quest in Kingston.
It’s not quite finished yet, so this is going to be a ‘part 1’ so to speak, which would suggest there is some kind of drama / cliff-hanger. There really isn’t. With these stories, for me, it’s not so much about the narrative, it’s about the characters, the environments, the language, and the little moments of adolescence.
Like the previous ones, it’s based on genuine experiences. There’s a fair amount of effing and jeffing, but that kind of casual, coarse profanity, was how I remembered it. Makes me sightly nervous but the truth prevails and all that.
Had a new video came out this week, on Muddy feet. It’s very short, it’s a verse from a song that I recorded a couple of years ago, called Watts and Pommerlers. I’ll put the link the in the podcast feed for those that would like to see.
I also got invited to join this social network site called Wisdom, I don’t quite know how it all works, but if you’re on there, come and say hello, maybe together we can figure the thing out.
Enjoy the cold, I like jumpers
Have a banging weekend
Paul
Satellite Stories Vol 3: The 405
Being a Horley boy and Catholic, meant that me and my siblings all went to school in neighbouring Crawley, so by the time I was old enough to get about on my own, outside of school, I was forever travelling back and forth between the two towns, passing Gatwick in between. But it did mean by the time I was about twelve, I could navigate public transport with the confidence of a daily commuter, trudging to their job in London, difference was, I enjoyed it; most of the time.
My mates rarely left Crawley, unless it was for a holiday or the odd kids party at the Croydon Water Palace. They had little reason too. For a sweaty pubescent teen, it had everything you needed: a mall, an arcade, girls, Woolworths and a whole bunch of newsagents where you could allegedly buy booze, fags and jazz mags; why else would they leave?
Horley, on the other hand, was smaller and had a town centre seemingly filled with estate-agents and charity shops; though to be fair it did have Pulse Records; but most of my mates weren’t quite at that age yet to appreciate an independent music seller that sold white-labels and 10p promo tapes that you could record over, with rips from the Danny Rampling and Tim Westwood shows on Radio 1.
As we got older, and everyone got that bit more independent, convincing my mates to step out of Crawley was hard. There needed to be a credible reason and ideally, the person calling it on, had to hold a bit of weight. I tried, many times. But when Mo said his cousin’s mate, had been to the Lazer Quest in Kingston, saying it was sick, and that we should go; it was on. Everyone liked Mo. From the rudeboys, to the wideboys, to the geeks, to the in-betweens like me. He was a connector, we were the spotty dots, trying not to collapse the Connect 4 and stay in the game.
Someone had figured out, that you could get the 405 bus from Crawley bus station, all the way to Kingston. This was uncharted territory, for all of us. I had a vague idea where we were going, I’d been to Kingston a few times but not even me, ofay with the buses and trains and a vague sense of Geography, knew that going from the South-eastern tip of the Surrey / Sussex border, to the outer South-West suburbs of London, on a stop-at-every-blade-of grass double-decker, was essentially a Tolkienesque journey across middle-earth; we were the fellowship and at least three of us had a sovereign ring.
There must’ve been a little mob of about twelve, gathered at the bus station, outside County Mall, Crawley’s; decadent retail palace. A splinter group quickly formed, including Kells, Gareth, Rich and Vejay who’d decided to bunk the train up there via Clapham Junction. It was half term, the risk of getting caught was high; I didn’t fancy it. Just getting passed the infamous Indian Robocop, who guarded the entrance to Platform 1, at Crawley Station was hard enough. He’d busted more bunkers than a bouncing-bomb. It was no surprise that the lareier lads in the group were leading the charge to the station; shoulders swinging; whilst the slightly more sensible ones were taking the bus. Mo leading the charge.
So the rest of us boarded the 405 like a bunch of young soldiers heading off to war, in our uniforms of Kappa trackies, Classics and Georgio jumpers. The bus driver was this big burley geezer with dark hair and wrap-around-black sun-glasses, looking like Craig Fairbrass ’Alright boys’ he greeted us, like we were men, and I liked it, but with all the subtext of a ‘don’t fuck about on my bus’ warning. ‘Alright’ we replied. Paid up and bowled to the back; feeling that ounce of mob power quietly surging through us.
Ten minutes in, us boys buzzing with banter at the back of the bus; mum jokes and scowling looks from older passengers and we’re rolling down the A23, underneath Gatwick’s South Terminal. Enjoying the dark tunnel vibes with the yellow lights, a little lift for a local lad. We get out the other side of the sprawling, concrete and green, of Gatwick, and I clock this bus is going through Horley. I’m both annoyed and excited at the same time. No one ever comes to where I live, yet there was no reason for me to have met them at Crawley bus station. I look like a mug.
Mo was the only one who’d ever been around my house; we’d been mates since primary school, my family liked him. Even at six years old, he was drawing people into his orbit of coolness. He was also polite and tended to do well at school; I think mum and dad naively hoped some of that would rub off on me. The only thing currently rubbing off was his over use of Lynx Africa. Maybe they thought hard work and academic competence was transmissible, like a virus, in that case, I was very much immune.
The bus slowly rolled into Horley town centre. It was my time. The roof figuratively came off the bus, I adjusted my headmike and breathed into it to check the levels, stood up, holding my clipboard, with all pride of museum volunteer giving a tour.
Here we have on the left the / Oi is this where you live yea, Paul? / Er yea it is / It’s a shithole bruv / It’s proper posh here / It looks shit / well shit /proper shit / fucking shit / basically shit /But there’s a record shop … / it’s shit
And by the time they’d polished their Lonely Planet entries, we’d passed through the town centre, the tour was over; as was my moment and my pride. I went silent, like Mo, throughout the whole feedback session.
The bus slowly trundled on, up through Salfords, passed East Surrey Hospital and into Redhill; my birthplace. Two older women had got on. One of them with an uncanny resemblance, both physically and sonically, to Pat Butcher. They sat together just in front of us, natting away about someone’s toe operation. Couple of stops on, this geezer gets on with long dreads and a couple of gold teeth, looking like Barrington from Maid Marion, heads right to us at the back and sits sideways, legs out in the aisle, facing right at me. His name was Donovan, Pat Butcher told us.
Alrigte Donovan? / Fuck off Carol.
Barrington didn’t even look at Pat Butcher. Just looked up at us, and grinned, gold tooth glimmering. Pat Butcher turned back to natter with her Irish accomplish, liked she’d just been blanked. Granger cracked up. Barrington turned his attention to us.
You alright boys, yea? What are you lot saying, yea? Oi, people chat a lot of shit boys, know what I mean? Know what I mean?!
Barrington was nodding his back towards Pat Butcher. At least we think he was. I was trying to keep up with Barrington and simultaneously work out what part of conversational formalities he’d skipped.
Yea, listen, which one of you boys smokes, yea? Oi, who’s got a lighter yea? Na, it’s alright I’ve got a lighter somewhere, fuck me there it is, yea. Oi, fucking lighters, bruv, I’m telling ya. Oi yea, so what like, are you boys drinking yea? Oi. Oi, na, like, boys see that bird back there? Bruv, she was banging boys, yea, oi, trust me, trusssst me, truuuuuuuust me, yea, na like, know what I’m saying, yea?
We did. Only to well. Well, all of us except Granger, who was clearly amused by this whole episode. His head was now arched back towards the top of the seat, holding his stomach, convulsing with laughter, holding a pack of pringles, which were spilling everywhere. Mouth open revealing the train tracks and rubber bands in his mouth, with mushy pringle shards glued to his moulers, looking like badly applied ply-filler. He was making me more nervous than Barringon was. Meanwhile Barrington didn’t yet have the answers he wanted from us, he continued…
Oi, fucking hell, yea, do you know what I mean, boys? Yea, fuck. People chat shit, I’m telling ya. Oi, see that Chloe, yea, she’s a bitch, mate. Know what I mean, yea? Oi, you boys know what I’m saying yea? Proper nut doer and that. Oi, so where you boys going yea? I’m telling ya, Chloe, boys. Oi, like, you know what I’m saying, oi, ‘e knows what I’m saying, ‘e knows what I’m saying?! innit?
Barringon was now pointing at me. All the boys were now pointing at me as well, laughing. This sent Granger over the edge. He just about managed the words
Yea, that’s Chloe right there, mate.
Barrington look at him for a sec, then started laughing himself, which made the boys laugh even more, he then looked back at me, I laughed.
Na, mate, I’m Paul.
This just provoked Granger, more.
Na, he’s Chloe, mate!
Pat Butcher turned round at this point, maybe she thought I was Chloe too. Maybe Chloe was the Irish accomplice. Barrington turned back to the boys, laughing, gold tooth glimmering,
He’s Chloe yea? / Yea, yea, he’s Chloe, he’s Chloe, mate
Now they were all chiming in, except for Mo. Barrington then turned back to me, still grinning, made a gun with his fingers, stopped grinning, and shot me, twice, with the accompanying sound affect coming from his mouth, then carried on laughing. Everyone stopped laughing, except Barrington, and Granger, but even Granger seemed to ease up on the tone of his laughter. Chloe was wounded. She;d been shot
Yea boys, I’m telling ya, fuck. Oi, who’s a ot a lighter for me then. Ah no, I’ve got a lighter, na like, fuck Chloe, bitch. Oi fuck this, I’m out of ere yea, oi, good to see you again boys, yea.
with the bus still moving Barringon stumbled towards the door without even holding onto to any of the polls and pressed the button, multiple times.
Yo come on driver, fuckin’ ‘ell I’m telling ya
Fat Craig Faribrass broke hard, and pulled the bus to an abrupt stop, sending us all into a Synchronised jolt. I could see the drivers big burley sunglassed face looking through the big rear view,
Bit earlier, next time, mate! / Yo fuck you driver, fucking pussy’ole, know what I mean? Shutup bruv. Dickhead
Barrington got off and immediately started walking up the road, as the bus pulled away. Meanwhile in the rear view, I could see the driver turning the wheel whilst mouthing something which involved the word ‘fucking’ multiple times.
I looked out the window as the bus pulled off, I could still see him talking to himself but he was back smoking again, gold tooth glimmering. Pat Butcher turned round to us, He’s alright, Donovan but he’ll turn on ya, he’ll turn on ya, mark my words boys, he’ll turn on ya. We were wondering exactly what that ‘turn’ looked like. Was what we just saw not a turn then? I think we could all agree that we were glad Barrington had got off the bus, as for Chloe though, who knew?
We must’ve been approaching the hour mark in our journey. The banter had died down, the group had sub-dived into smaller conversations, I was just looking out the window. We’d passed through Reigate and not even I knew where we were. Passing through a part of Surrey that was very leafy, and windy, with whopping big houses, with multiple motors in the drives. The bus had largely emptied out when we started to head back into civilisation. It pulled up into a layby and Fat Craig Fairbrass switched the engine off.
Ladies and gentlemen we’ll be stopping here for a few moments while we wait for a change of driver, won’t be long.
Our energy had taken a bit of a dip, the length of the journey had sucked the life out of us a bit, except Granger; who seemed to have an endless supply of Pringles and was still amused by our encounter with Barrington and Pat Butcher. Out the window I could see Fat Craig Fairbrass smoking a fag. Mo siddled up to me
You alright mate? / yea mate / safe yea / yea, safe
We never said all that much to each other but I guess we didn’t need to. I heard that hiss sound of the door, turned round and saw and Fat Craig Fairbrass manually open the exit doors, flick his cigarette, step aboard and come towards us.
So where you lads heading today then? / Kingston, mate
Oh yea? Good lads, loads of nice birds there. How old are you lot? / 14 mate/ 14? Good lads. Any of you got your fingers wet yet?
Granger pipes up, of course.
Yea with his mum
Pointing at Doyle. This made Fat Craigfrass smile.
Someone’s got to eh?! Wouldn’t touch her with yours though, mate
Aiming it back at Granger. He then turned to rest of us, thumb pointing at Granger
He thought he found a pube but piss came out of it
This made us all laugh, Granger included. He tired to banter back
Yea how do you know mate? / His mum told me
Pointing at Tony. We all cracked up. He then turned to Mo.
Bet you’ve had a few aint ya, mate?
Mo looked back. Shrugged his shoulders. We giggled a bit.
All your lot keep taking all our birds.
Even Granger stopped giggling. Fat Craig Fairbrass had a smile on his face, he was the only one. M just ked at him
Anyway, you boys have a good one today.
Fat Craig Fairbrass looked at Granger then to Tony.
Tell your mum I’ll be round later.
I felt a tension in my shoulders and a tickle in my tummy, it weren’t pleasant. I swear I could feel it in Mo’s. I dunno. Fat Craig Faribrass bounded off the bus, lit up another fag, shook hands with this old, decrypted looking guy in a white bus driver shirt, just as he got on to replace Craig.
The old boy got on and our conversations slowly started back up again, as if no one quite knew what to say. Mo seemed unphased. I was phased, though. Why that driver come over and talk to us? No one had asked him. I felt like I should something to Mo but I didn’t know what.
You alrite, mate? / Yea, bruv / yea? / Yea. Why wouldn’t I be?
Satellite Stories: EP 3 - The 405 Part 1