SWANSEA
October 24th 1977
Cold..Freezing..Fucking..Cold..
Just want to curl up and die, kind of cold
Shut your eyes and let the clouds of icy breath billow upwards and
take your frozen soul with it, kind of cold.
SWANSEA.
I won't forget it.
It still makes me shiver.
We knew, well, I always knew, when there was
going be trouble. I 'always' knew. Like some frickin Doris Stokes, I
always had a gut feeling when things were going to go bad. So I used
to shut these feelings away inside and just get the fuck on with it.
It was my way of dealing with it and doing it had become second nature
to me.
I envied all those who were blissfully
unaware of impending doom. Me, I just hid it really well. Maybe they
did too, who knows. But no one displayed any emotion when we discussed
the Swansea gig.
By now the Finchley Boys were well known.
Most of the early Strangler interviews mentioned our 'role' in the
'psyche' of the band. The way the press had decided to portray us as a
"proletarian street army," spearheading the assault on the
rest of a sleepy society who were only just emerging from the lethargy
of the 'swinging sixties,' had created an aura and a reputation that
had already spread far and wide.
Articles with references to our antics (often
exaggerated) appeared weekly. Our notoriety was no longer confined to
London. Our reputation preceded us and we were now considered
'legitimate targets for any group of nutters who fancied having a go.'
The whole country knew who we were. The Stranglers were gigging like
men possessed, up and down the country, night after night, town after
town. We tried to get to as many as possible, which is why some are no
more than a blur. One gig becoming a bit like the one before.
Not this one..........
The band had 'Finchley Boy' T shirts produced
and distributed (still got one, the other was, lets just say, swapped,
with a hells angel. But that's another story).
THE STRANGLERS
Finchley Boys
ORIGINALS
We were 'issued' two each. We wore them with
pride, the band was a class live act, hurtling along on a roller
coaster ride and well on their way to the top of the tree and we were
the Fucking Finchley Boys, and we were there. We were always there.
Now, we were there dressed in our 'official' Finchley Boys T Shirts.
We might just as well have painted the
roundels of targets on our backs.
I heard a voice
"Finchley Boy"! Stay in tight
formation my son, or just like that stray Dornier flying lost and low
over war torn London or that reckless animal who wanders too far from
the safety of the herd, there will always be a chance of a lucky
kill."
Our usual form of transport was a van owned by Dennis Marks. The van
was called ROD. ROD was a dirty old grey Ford Transit van, a troop
carrier par excellence. Trouble was, Rod's engine was knackered and we
were waiting for a brand new one to arrive direct from Fords. Dennis's
two brothers Mick and Billy were both foreman mechanics so the
installation was a formality.
My brother Steve was working for a fruit firm
at the time and managed to borrow a blue Bedford van as a last resort.
I remember him driving it down our road parking it outside our house
with the engine running, jumping out through the sliding front drivers
door and asking:
"Well... what do you think of that"
I couldn't believe the sound of the engine, blowing like fuck, missing
at least one cylinder possibly two; add to that the rattle of a
knackered old exhaust and it sounded just like a like a fucking
printing press clattering out the morning edition.
I laughed my bollocks off. I took a good look
at it and realised that apart from the state of the mechanics, this
shit heap had no front grill and to make matters worse had a whacking
great hole right through into the drivers cab where some prat had
probably smashed a well aimed Doc Martin.
"Your not serious" I said
"Fuckin am, got any better ideas," said Steve
I opened the back doors and got the whiff of rotting fruit. Bits of
every conceivable vegetable were either stuck hard to the sides or
clung limpet like, frozen to the battered, buckled, rusted, freezing
steel floor.
"Fuck that Steve, can't you give it a wash out?" I asked.
Steve turned and smiled
"It's all we got Al, you want it washed out, you fuckin do
it"
Slamming the sliding front door of the van he smiled and quietly
remarked "Cheeky cunt"
So there it was. This riddled, stinking, frozen pile of shite was
going to take us all to Swansea the next day. God help us.
THE ROUND UP
This October was the coldest I can ever remember. Arctic winds and
snow from the East had already hit town. It was snowing in London and
cold enough to settle on the ground. But it was the freezing wind that
cut you in half. The roundup involved the collection of the boys that
were going to make the gig. Steve and I dived into the van. Then we
shot straight down the East End Rd, hung a right into Elmshurst Cres,
where we were to collect, Graham Hayhoe, Leigh Bull, and last but
certainly not least Philip Rawlings. Phil had a quiet spirituality
that unnerved some, scared others and a smile as engaging as it was
menacing. Jack Nicholson meets Pinocchio. Dennis Marks, who lived on
the Elmshurst Estate and the owner and driver of ROD, was already down
in Swansea, having been at the Cardiff gig the night before. We had
arranged to meet up when we got there
We pulled up outside the flats and Steve hit the horn.
Then, there they were..... Piling down the stairs of the flats, out
into the road, Graham first, literally covered in clothes, combat
trousers, and flying jacket, anything to try and beat out the cold.
Then the rest of them, in various bits of camouflage gear hats,
scarves, mufflers, anything, just standing there smiling, like a
platoon of fucking scruffy GI's
Easy company eat your heart out.
Then, Phil emerged from his block. Walking slowly towards me in this
darkening, freezing, grey, desolate afternoon. He was a vision. A
short muscley little gargoyle of a man wearing nothing but a cap
sleeve T-shirt jeans, boots and of course, his normal wicked grin.
"Your fuckin mad Phil, where's your gear man" I asked
" I don't need a coat today, It's not cold" He replied in
his soft quiet, smiley voice
"Fuckin crazy"said a voice from somewhere else
"Lets go, lets go," screamed the ever-impatient Steve.
So we all piled in. After a bit of a scrap for the remaining front
seat, we screeched up East End Rd took a left at the lights with the
junction of High Rd and Fortis Green Rd (The Stag Pub) and pulled up
outside the Wimpy Bar. We picked up Leigh Brown and steamed back down
the high rd to pick up the North Circ. Already, the temperature inside
the van had dropped to below zero. Most of us were visibly shaking. As
we made our way around Chiswick Roundabout and up the entry slip rd to
the M4, I was already frozen.
We had begun our journey to Swansea, proper.
Spluttering and blustering down the M4.
No heaters, no blankets, and to make matters much, much worse, a
freezing arctic icy wind was funnelled through that gaping hole and
was acting like a refrigeration unit. Nice for keeping your frozen
food or even chilling down your beer, but not for sitting motionless
for hours on end
The frozen wind ripping through the van was relentless, blowing
through that frozen steel panelled shit heap, reducing the temperature
ever more, mile, after miserable mile. We were a sorry looking bunch.
That is....all except Phil
While those in the back shuffled and tried to get some blood moving
about their bodies, Phil, now laying on the uncovered steel floor of
the van in just his T-shirt, produced two of the biggest knives I have
ever seen. They looked a bit like the kind of weapons that the
Ghurkhas use, big blades big handles, fucking dangerous looking.
"What the fuck you doing with them Phil" I asked
Phil laid back on that frozen floor in his fucking crazy little capped
sleeved T-Shirt and holding one of those awesome knives in each hand
proceeded to cross his arms, like an Egyptian mummy, left hand, arm,
and knife resting on right shoulder and then the same with the other
side.
"When we get to Swansea, don't forget to wake me....will
you" he said He then shut his eyes.
We all stared at Phil for hours. Trying to catch him out. Trying to
catch a glimpse of the tiniest of movements. Waiting for this stupid
game to come to an end. Waiting for him to crack, give up, jump up and
grab a coat or anything to cover that frozen body. Watching,
relentlessly for a twitch or the faintest sign of a shudder, or a
blink, anything to show that this was a game that had gone too far.
But he didn't crack.
To our amazement Phil appeared to have put himself into a state of
suspended animation. The temperature in the van was well below zero
and we were all still shaking and moaning, but there he was, hour
after frozen hour silently asleep in a T-Shirt with crossed knives,
not moving an inch, not a twitch, not a flicker.
"He's fucking dead," said Leigh
"Check his breathing Arth," (Leigh's nickname was Arthur) I
asked
So Leigh bent down and put his ear to Phils mouth
"Yea, he's alive, but he's fucking cold and he aint moving"
"Leave him," I said
"Lets just wake him when we get there"
The hours rolled by, the van was a dog and even on the slightest
gradient it almost ground to a halt. Up those inclines I think I
suffered most. This journey had sapped my very soul as it went on and
on. I can't remember how many hours it took; I just remember that when
I saw the sign for Swansea Town centre, I wished that I were dead. All
talking had long since ceased; movement was non-existent. The van felt
like it was driving itself, on it's own mission to deliver its frozen
cargo, dead or alive.
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