Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening
Welcome to Lager Time. My legions of LagerLites stand tall.
So I Didn’t get round to putting this out on Friday as hoped. We had visitors in the gaff, what with Christmas and all that. Frozen streets, frozen pipes (yep we had those) a world cup final and a four-and a-half-hour journey across Kent in the train strike, just to get to London, meant it didn’t happen. However, here it is, here I am. More about the story in a mo though.
So I had a little bit of good news this week. I finally have a gig to announce. Pretty chuffed with this one. Friday 27th January, I’ll be doing a spoken word set at one of the best nights in London, Poetry and Poppadums, supporting Michael Rosen, who if you don’t know, is a bit of a legend in the UK Literature world. Alongside that will be Celia Bax, me and the host himself, Paul Lyalls; who runs the gig. Paul’s a great guy, and a good poet who knows how to put on a decent event. He’s supported me a lot over the years so I’m rally grateful to get on his stage again.
It's a gig I’ve done a few times and it’s one that I feel I can actually invite my mates and family too, confident they’ll enjoy it. Paul knows what he’s doing, it’s a cabaret style set-up, decent bar and food and most of the people are just there to enjoy themselves and hear something a bit different. I’ll put the ticket links in here and in the podcast description for the non-Sub stackers. Gives me another good reason to do a Not-Quite-Edition of Lager Time, to get match-fit, maybe even that live-stream I was going on about a while back. Should be a good one though, hope to see you there
This might be the last Lager Time of the year, I hope not, but fear not if it is, I’ll most certainly be back in January, might be to give these satellite Stories a break for a bit though, getting the urge to write some poems again. So this story is the first part of a story about going to an Under 18’s event. Not gonna lie, I’ve struggled with this one a bit, hasn’t been as fluid as some of the others, either way hope you enjoy it.
As ever, if you fancy giving us a subscribe on Substack, or on Apple or Spotify, or where ever it is you listen, I’d be very grateful. And if you’ve got any mates that might like it, let them know. And if you feeling really generous, in these hard-up times, you can give us a little donation on the old Ko-Fi that;s it for the begging. H Wait, and yea, and stream my EP, TOAST IN THE MACHINE
One last thing before I duck-out, I thought as it’s my Christmas, I’d read my and only Christmas poem, which I forget to plug every year, as a little Brucie Bonus. It’s in my first collection, The Suburban, which of course you can purchase from my website just something that happened a few years back in Crawley.
So that’s it, if you don’t hear from me, I hope yous all have a banging festive period, full of food, family, friends, banter, boardgames, boredom, TV re-runs and loads of tea and lager. I can’t wait.
Peas and taters, quite Literally
Happy Christmas
Paul
One More
Round one, we arrive. Get a pint. Foster’s, cooking lager.
‘I wanna keep it light. Had a rough night last night, can’t stay out too long.’
‘What’s wrong with you?’ my mate says in jest, with an undertone that suggests, You’ve changed. You left, I stayed. I’m hard, you’re soft.
‘So be it,’ I say. We plot down, while he gets the round in. Back home, Christmas Eve. Me, my mate and my brother, sat round a beer-stained table, windows sprayed snow-white in the corners. Old cockneys and Irish crowd the bar like punters at a car auction; the taller patrons brush their heads against the tacky paper chain decorations; it’s warm. Don’t recognise many faces, but the place hasn’t changed.
Small talk begins, niceties are exchanged, ‘Good to see you back here’ and ‘It’s nice to be back,’ I say, they say, and we skip through, mortgages, kids, marriages, cars and careers, ‘What you doing now, how’s London?’ Property prices, transport and crime appear in the conversation like constituents waiting at an MP’s surgery, London provides the key and opinions rush the landlord.
Round two. ‘Fosters is crap, innit?’ I say, admitting my mistake. They laugh and I make that tactical upgrade to Kronenbourg, one that I’ve regretted in the past. Lug fast and it burns but it feels good.
Booze in the system, the Christmas season has seen me drinking like four nights in a row, hop-scotching from work dos and that, all shop talk, awkward exchanges and then to this, back home Christmas Eve, old mates, familiar place.
Smiles crack and we all begin to loosen. T’s and th’s start falling off, the first c-word gets dropped, as accents start slipping into them fitted cockney derivatives, treading paths parents and grandparents made to this place from London and beyond. ‘Faack off’ and ‘Shaat up, mate,’ we say, all spayed with affection.
Round three. I see an old mate who I stand up to talk to. Five minutes into the chat and I get a tap on the arm, turn round and it’s my brother and my mate and they’re like, ‘It’s your round, son,’ eyebrows up and down. I’m up to the bar and back again quick smart, a beer triangle in my hand, one I’m well practised in carrying. We sit down, we hear a bang and a few raised voices, door flies open and, on the pavement outside, we see two guys in each other’s faces. We look out the window, pints in hand like we’re sat in the grandstand at the races. Old Bill appear, they disappear, carted off in a meat wagon to the cages; a cheer goes up, it unites the pub and we laugh because nothing changes.
Round four and the talk is football and old computer games that we played, Streets of Rage and Street Fighter II, old holidays with mates and ‘We should do this again,’ we all say. But one by one we look at the time at ever-increasing intervals, something we never would’ve done. Until my mate finally breaks and says, ‘I should probably go,’ and I say, ‘Yeah, I need to get back,’ and my brother’s like, ‘Yeah, I gotta be up early,’ and suddenly everything’s changed.
It goes a bit quiet, as the last dregs get drunk and there’s that slight pause before the exit. We’re all thinking it. The Pogues come on the jukebox. At the bar I watch the landlord pour another pint and I turn round to the other two, shrug my shoulders, cheeky look on my face, and say, ‘One more?’
Sattellite Stories EP 8: Stand In Blend Out
Home time at school was always a joyous occasion. I bowled out on this day with a rare mix of what I think were positive emotions, mixed in with a few typical teenage concerns. There was this small crew of slick-looking wideboys and wide girls, early twenties types, protype Big Brother contestants; standing outside the school gates, in shiny puffa-jackets, by a parked-up Audi, in club branded t-shirts dishing out flyers, for an Under 18’s event, at Crawley’s premier-late-night-go-to, Ikon-Diva. It was a ruthless PR operation. Target audience marked and in sight. And it worked. Because I saw that flyer and couldn’t believe my eyes, it was happening. At last.
I’d heard the myths about these under 18 events, in places that were near-by but not-near enough, like Croydon and East Grinstead, where they ran these alleged events that were ram-packed with chicks, that apparently would get off with anyone, and they played banging Drum and Bass and Garage. Someone’s cousins mate or whatever had been to one on Hastings Pier, which had MC Dett and Kenny Ken. They were just names I knew from the Tapepacks, I didn’t even know what they looked like, let alone had the chance to hear them play. Who’s was gonna play at Ikon Diva?! They might get Shy FX?! Or Nicky Blackmarket?! Or Skibbadee?!
And now, it was happening, in Crawley, almost home turf. A nightclub, with loud banging music. I loved loud banging music but only got to play it on my tinny headphones or shitty Argos hifi (with inbuilt graphic equaliser); which often didn’t work, so it wasn’t really loud, or banging. And of course. Girls. There’d be girls. Loads of them. Bare girls. Not bare, but bare, as in loads. Probably. Maybe. And Music, hopefully not shit music, chart music, but Jungle, Garage and more Drum N Bass, and Hip Hop. Geezers, my mates and girls. And probably dickheads, which put the brakes on my thinking a bit, might get started- on, was fairly probable, who would back it? Would I know enough people? I knew people but was I safe with them? Like safe, enough. Safe enough to say ‘Safe Kass’ and Kass to ‘safe’ back. Maybe, maybe not.
There were good reasons why Ikon Diva had been featured, a few times, on Crime In The South East. Fly-on-the-wall camera crew follows coppers, as they nick larey lads, and often females, kicking off at kicking-out time. There was always the bit, where three or four copers struggle to pin-down and cuff some geezer in a ripped Ralph shirt, wriggling about like a trapped wasp.
‘we need you to calm down sir ’
‘I’m fucking calm, I’m fucking calm’
Often, that was someone’s older brother, or mate, or occasionally dad.
All the non-conforming-alternative-types: the skaters, the metalers, the indie kids, the stoners, of which I was a conflicted, inconsistent member of, would consistently slag the place off, and its regulars, with anecdotes that were probably justified, but with tones and remarks that all-to-often veered into that merkey grey-area of outright class-bashing. I always felt I was somewhere inbetween those two world-views. I wanted to stand out, because there was more to life than Crawley town centre and chart music, but I also wanted to blend in, I didn’t want my arse kicked and I liked (but could never afford) Air Max and of course, Jungle, Drum and Bass’ even though it had been relegated in the coolness stakes, due to UK Garage being the go-to sound, banged out of any souped up-moter doing doughnuts outside Halfords.
So I’m at Horley station doing my very best to blend in. Pinstripes, jeans, Ben Sherman and jacket, standard night-out-geezer-in-training look. I looked the part but lacked the pack, like a lone deer with low self-esteem, stood a few yards from a gigantic herd of does and horn-heads, all smoking Sovereign cigarettes, spitting on the floor and wearing better brands of clothes. Horley, being that smaller town-with-one-massive-secondary-school, meant that everyone knew each other who went to Oakwood school; which was all of them, with the exception of the few kids like me, who went to faith schools and the other odd few posh kids and scholarship kids who went to Reigate Grammer.
There must’ve been about thirty of them, all along platform two, in small groups, but all still communicating with each other, they knew each other, I didn’t really know anyone. All it took was for one mouthy prick to look in my direction and the game would be up before it had even started.
There were a few faces in amongst them that I recognised from my days playing football, for Horley Town under 9’s and 2nd Horley Cub scouts. Few wideboys I’d seen getting larey in the town centre. Some of the girls were fit, tiny, tight dresses, big earrings and loads of makeup and none of them had jackets on; it was cold. I wish I knew them. The 52 train rolled in and I sat as far away from them as possible.
We pile off the train at Crawley, me deliberately taking my time, with the aim of making as little noise as possible, I’d got good at that. I arranged to meet a few of the boys at the station. All the Horley lot pile off, I see them up ahead, along with loads of other kids, good mix of girls and boys. This massive crew that gets off at the opposite end as I’m walking towards the exit, they’re in a head on collision course with me, as we roll up the platform towards the exit. They’re done up to the nines in Moshino and Iceberg, and they look bigger and older, and ruder, all walking with a bop only reserved for the rudest of rudeboys round here. I’m guessing they’re from Croydon, they got that street air that just about gets filtered out down here, even in a satellite town full of attitude, like Crawley; if you bowled like these boys, you were either a pretender or you really were about it. There weren’t many that could pull it off. They’re talking loud, making random noises, shouting and laughing and one of them is MCing; there’s no girls, just guys. They got an energy about them, which is unpredictable, but like, draws you in, like you wanted to be in their company.
I slow my step enough, so that I wind up filling in behind them as they go into the station, bowling right passed the infamous Indian Robo Cop, who today must’ve stood down with the shake downs. I doubt any of these kids, Horley, Redhill or Croydon, had tickets, but even the infamous Indian Robocop was powerless to stop them in the sheer numbers they were streaming through; either that or he’d passed out under a cloud of Lynx and Impulse
I stood on the steps of the station, watching them all make their way to Ikon, which was conveniently stationed, next to the station. All in big groups. As I’d come over the footbridge, I was pretty sure I heard the likes of Ronnie Wader and Shane O Connel, and I’m pretty sure Brendon was with them, sometimes he got invited to roll with those boys, same with Gareth. They were dickheads but I was jealous. Whatever it was, they sounded rowdy, like they were doing shots or something, bottles were clanging and doing football chants.
I stood on the steps, watching the masses make their ways in, in varying states. I saw a few faces like Yusef, Ryan White and Big Kass, which was never a good sign that those three were together; felt like everyone was mobbing up and coming out in force. They could very easily have stopped and come up the steps and performed the Crawley shake-down routine; I certainly had a few pound coins on my person; maybe they could teach this local custom to them Croydon boys in a cultural exchange, in return for some updated London slang; we always got it eventually; Thatcher’s trickle-down for satellite town rude boys.
I was a bit gutted that Brendon and Gareth were with Shane and that, I was on my own and lacking weight but trying to look like I did’nt lack wight but I was on my own and I did lack wieght. There was always a loose cannon like Kells about, but you know he’d just turn up anyway, though we never invited him for anything. Mo was coming, everyone liked Mo, and Rich was coming too, he could swing if he needed to, but right now, I was on my own; until Vee-jay trotted up. He’d walked from Broadfield, which was a good half hour. He was a good kid Veejay, but like me he lacked he didn’t scan well in the hardness polls, but he was trustworthy. Two wonna be’s are better than one wonna be but the two combined still don’t make the weight of a regular geez with a bit about him. We were still exposed
Eventually Mo showed up, he’d lived near by but had to come over the bridge and had bumped in to Ronnie Wader and those boys, and saw Brendon and Gareth. I could smell the booze on his breath; they were all safe with Mo. Luckily for me he didn’t stray. He was loyal like that; he could’ve mugged me and Vee-jay off for them. Rich then arrived, his mum dropping him off in the carpark, giving her a bit of grief as he got out the car.
‘shutup man, don’t drop me off here next time’
So now there was four of us, that was something. We marched on over to the que, which snaked all the way round the side and back out into the station car park. It was a lot of people, and lot of bouncers, big mean looking bastard. We were bopping towards the back of the que, but all subetley looing to see who we knew, let all these pretty chicks and wideboys know that we were faces. Mo got a few nods but the rest of us got nothing; until.
‘Oi Rich, Rich, Paul, Paul yea boys, over here, yea, yea.’
Someone said my name. They said Rich’s first, but still, they said my name. I tried to look like it was nothing, like this kinda thing happens all the time. I slowly turned round, only to see Pidge, in the que, on his own. Pidge. I was a little bit disappointed but it meant we could sneak into the que and just hope no one called us out. Pidge had on a Tommy Hilfiger shirt that was way too big for him, to be fair though; he weren’t the only one in ill-fitting clothes.
Every wide boy in a 20 mile radius was in the line to get in, all the different parts of Crawley there, Pound Hill and Northgate to Broadfield and Bewbush. All the Horley boys, Horsham, Redhill, East Grinstead and those big crews from Croydon, all in the mix, all out for something. The energy of it all reminded me of watching one of those crusty science videos in school, where they would put a Bunsen burner under a substance and through the microscope, you could see all the particles getting lively; it was buzzing.
There’d already been a couple of casualties and we hadn’t even got in yet. One kid hauled out by security, who could barley even stand, spaghetti all down his shirt, two other lads had a punch up in the que, it was only just gone 7pm. There was gonna be a few pissed off parents later, and probably a few parents who didn’t give a shit what their kids were up to; some mess in front of us was clearly sweating and gurning his face off. We were Tony Blairs children; he’d be proud.
As we slowly moved towards the door, I could start to hear those muffled base sounds of pumping music inside. Butterflies fluttered in my belly. But wait, what if it was so banging my ears couldn’t take it? I’d never been to a club before. I’d heard older people say dance music could brainwash ravers, but then my older siblings all listen to it and they’re alright? In-fact my brother said the sound system was shit?! Clubs were way better in Brighton and London. Which was odd, because out here, it sounded pumping, every time that door opened we got a blast, getting louder the closer we got to the door.
‘oi, that sounds sick boys’
‘Na it’s shit. Clubs are way better in Brighton and London’
From the time I’d got to the platform at Horley station, to getting in this que, I’d fallen in love about 400 times and my head had already concocted a whole series of fantasies, involving each one of these girls being my girlfriend, every time my eyes locked on one, it was hard to know where to look! It was also, in a way, a bit intimidating, some of these girls weren’t wearing much but were fully confident with it, strutting about, like they knew what they were doing, like they had all this power and were in full control; any young geezer looking to step, needed some serious minerals to match it. Couple of these chicks looked like they swing it out too, one girl with curly hair and fists covered in sovereigns had threatened to knock out some guy for pushing in; she meant it and he knew, we all did; he backed down fast.
When we finally got to the door, it was only then I appreciated the sheer size of these bouncers, with their black suits on with white shirts and shoulders like American football pads. Butterflies in my belly panicking to get out, fizzing like that ADHD inducing popping candy in my mouth and I’m pretty sure I had to lean forward at one point, to attempt to contain it.
‘You alright mate?
‘yea, yea, yea sweet, boys’
We’d all gone quiet, I cleared my throat as we got to the doors, into the clock room area, where those big main doors were and every time they opened; I was blasted with pumping beats, mashed with the sounds of energetic young voices, like twisted bits of jewellery all forming this messy audio ball of madness which I couldn’t quite contextualise but my Lord, was it exciting, and scary.
‘alright’
My voice sudenly went up an octave and simultaneously my arms sprung out from my pockets into a straight position, like a spring-loaded bottle opener, without the bouncer even saying a word, just a split second of eye contact. How did he do that?! It was like magic!? And why did my voice go up like that?
He didn’t respond to my attempt at casual geezer niceties and when he was done, slightly shoved me in the back towards the area where the entrance was. I slightly tripped and my heart suddenly went up about a 100 BPMs thinking I was gonna stack it in front of all these kids in the que. Fortunately I managed to stye it out and smiled awkwardly, as I joined the boys at the till, paid my £4 cover fee, opened those almighty, towering double doors and just like that, we were in the club.
Satellite Stories: EP 6 - Stand In Blend Out - Part 1