We were hours
late when we pulled in to a parking space as near as possible to the
venue. We were supposed to have been there for a meet up with Dennis and
the boys who had travelled down from the gig in Cardiff, the night
before, at least a couple of hours before the gig started. I could
hardly move but managed to slide open the passengers door and get out.
Phil had awoken from his suspension and looked like he'd had a really
good kip.
As we walked the stairs of the gig I could hear the band on stage
already, well into the set. Inside the foyer I felt the first warm air
that I had felt for countless hours. I felt like sitting down on my
haunches and just staying put. It all seemed a bit unreal and
irrelevant. The normal excitement and electric anticipation that I
always felt when I got to the gig was replaced with a genuine gratitude
that I was out of that freezing fucking van.
We decided to go up to the circle bar and get our shit together. It was
then that reality kicked in, as it always does. The bar was deserted. No
punters and no barman in sight. As I walked slowly across the room, I
was aware of a crunching sound. I was waking across a carpeted area that
was literally covered in shattered glass. The atmosphere was electric, I
could feel the tension.
What we didn't know at that moment was that less than half an hour
earlier, the circle bar had been a battleground. The place had played
host to rival local Welsh gangs who had chosen the Stranglers gig as the
perfect venue to settle their old scores. There was no doubt that they'd
had some fun. Towards the main bar, I saw a small pool of fresh blood,
mixed with smashed glass. We decided to get downstairs and find out what
the fuck was going on.
The battle upstairs had only been a spot of jousting. These tough old
welsh boyo's were going to show these Finchley Boys how they were going
to finish the job properly. When we reached the dance floor of the hall,
another massive brawl started. Boots and fists seemed to explode from
every direction, circles opening and closing around skirmishes in the
large crowd, sending shock waves and rippling people in an involuntary
Mexican wave.
The Stranglers were aware of the happenings in the hall; I remember John
giving back some verbal to a section of the crowd with his usual
sneering "Fuck You" attitude. That was the way it had to be
dealt with. No quarter asked and certainly none given.
"Believe this, anyone who ever suggests to you (and there have
been some) that John and Hugh, or for that matter, the whole band, hid
behind the punk image or that it was all an elaborate act; college boys
and teachers on the road, playing the part of proletarian punk rockers,
dishing out the verbal and mixing it with the deranged elements of
society, all for show, know absolutely jack shit about the reality of
those days. I had some very hairy scary moments being around them and
believe me they had many, many more of those moments than I did. This
interaction, live, between band and audience had a life force of it's
own. Add to that a real violent gang agenda and you have got aggro with
a capital A. John and Hugh had plenty of bottle, fucking plenty, and
certainly, a lot more than I ever did."
We moved around the perimeter of the dance floor trying to make our way
backstage and hopefully, to get onstage. We normally watched the gigs
from the side of the stage partly so that we could see the crowd and
react to any situation quickly; partly to check out the nubiles and in
the early days, to get onstage to jump about to "Go Buddy Go."
I eventually found myself backstage. The gig was now over. There had
been a couple of attempts to storm the front of the stage. Dennis and a
few of the boys had managed to remove the teeth of at least one
Welshman, whilst trying to persuade him against any further attacks.
Although these attacks had been repelled, the Welsh gangs had decided to
stick around and sort out a few more of their personal issues, which now
involved new ones with the guys who had fought them off at the stage
front.
The crowd was still large and very, very hostile. Large groups of punks
were still milling around stage front but were now beginning to gather
outside the entrance to the backstage area. A very threatening
atmosphere hung heavy over the hall. Backstage, there was the usual après
gig tension and the band went into their normal wind-down routine.
Various visitors, local press, and whoever else could blag their way
backstage were all adding to the tension. I found Dennis sitting on the
floor with a Holstein Pills in his hand; he had the look, the one that I
always recognised in him the one that says "That was fucking
close". |
The Stranglers with Finchley
Boys on stage. Photograph Ray Stevenson
In
the second picture 'on stage' you are looking at Phil Rawlings (With some chick
trying to rip his nads off) at stage front. If you look right in the centre of
the pic you can see me right at the back . On the extreme left you have half of
a Surrey Hells Angel. I cannot remember where this gig was, but it was pretty
much like that every gig
"Dennis was our leader, no one would ever argue
about that. Whether we ever sat down together and elected him or whether we ever
actually acknowledged that to each other is irrelevant. We were a group of
strong-minded individuals but he stood out amongst us even when we were little
kids in opposing council estate gangs (which is where I met him), he was our
leader and he was a good leader. He was a Rucker, a scrapper and I can assure
you that you would not have wanted to take him on. But as with a lot of the
boys, he had a quick wit and a very sharp brain (Still has) and was generous in
victory. He never suffered fools gladly but more importantly for me was that he
never bottled out. He always had that air of invincibility that is essential in
all good leaders. I never ever felt that all was completely lost when he was
around. He had guts and would fight his way out of the toughest situation and
get you out too.
One occasion that demonstrates these qualities was when the two of us were
having a quiet drink in a pub in North Finchley. Dennis had a reputation even
before the Finchley Boys and was a 'face' around any scene. All of a sudden this
guy was standing directly in front of us, towering above us as we sat drinking
our beer. I looked up at him and asked him what the fuck he wanted, he just gave
us both a mad stare and said that he'd heard all about Dennis fucking Marks and
what a hard cunt he (Dennis) thought he was. He decided to challenge Den there
and then for no apparent reason but possibly to impress the local girls or
simply to gain kudos with his own mates, who were lurking in the background.
Whatever the reason, he must have fancied his chances as a scrapper or else he
was plain and simply fucking mad. There were about six or seven of these dim
looking droogs hanging around the bar. Den looked this guy up and down but said
nothing. I asked him what the fuck that was all about and how had he managed to
upset this guy. Den told me that he'd never met him in his life before now. The
guy made his threats and walked back to his smiling mates under the mistaken
impression that he had achieved exactly what he had set out to do in a bloodless
coup. We both finished our beer and went for a piss. We were standing in the
toilet when four or five of this guy's mates came in. I was getting jumpy and
whispered to Den that I thought we should take them on right there in the
toilets and fight our way out. Den looked straight at me and slowly shook his
head as if to say no. We pushed passed these guys and were back in the bar. Den
went straight to the guy who had made the threats and in a characteristic
display of bravery 'offered' him out side.
There was plenty of dialogue between us all, but in a classic moment of
military strategy Den got this guy to agree, before battle commenced, that no
other party was to get involved. He called upon the primeval instincts of this
guy's character and turned his own reasoned logic back on him. Den suggested
that only a 'one to one' could be considered honourable enough to satisfy honour
and that as the challenge had been directly made it must be deemed impossible
for him to turn these conditions down. A straight fight to the finish with no
interference from his mates or me, no putting the boot in.
So here we were 'all' in the car park of the pub. Dennis and I, this guy and
his mates. Coats were literally taken off in the surreal atmosphere of a
traditional 'duel'. Neither of the two gladiators had ever met before and yet
they were about to fight. The stakes were high; the prize for this unknown
duellist was only really known to him but was perhaps simple primeval glory?
Kudos, but there was also the distinct possibility of failure in his attempt to
wrest a reputation from Dennis and create one for himself, and he knew it.
I never trusted for one minute, the honourable intentions of this guys mates
and felt uneasy in this Mexican standoff. I managed to work myself slowly around
to an area of the car park where I could see some loose building materials and
where, perhaps, there would be a chance of finding a weapon, any kind of weapon,
should all these honourable promises be broken once this guy started to get the
shit kicked out of him, as I surely believed he would. At the end of the day it
was still seven to two so I needed to even things up a little should it turn out
that way.
So, under the sepia coloured glow of a low powered orangey brown Victorian
street light and watched only by official 'seconds' and empty beer barrels and
crates of bottles, they set about their work. Wheeling and turning for an
advantageous position to strike from, watching each other for that important
first move. Then at last a clash, a break and then another clash. Fists feet
arms, full contact, no going back now. I was trying to keep one eye on the fight
and the other on his mates who were more animated than I was. A few minutes of
combat seemed to take hours then all of a sudden, the guy was down on the floor,
Dennis pinning him to the floor in a classic pose. Immediately to his right and
within arms reach was an empty orange milk crate. A panting Dennis raised it
above his head and demanded that this guy concede or have his face turned into
crinkle cut chips. He did. He panted out his surrender so I took the crate from
Den's still upraised hand and got him off the guy, never for one second taking
my eyes from his supporters...
The loser stood up and gasped something about "A good fight" we
just watched them until they all turned and walked out of the car park and out
of site.
It takes a special person to do what was done on that night. Dennis had
worked out our chances of taking them all on in an instant and had selflessly
realised that the odds were not in our favour. Even though the challenge was a
direct one, few people would have had the bottle and clarity of mind to work it
all out under those intense circumstances. He had saved us both a potential good
kicking and more importantly, had made this guy look the total cunt that he
obviously was. I never saw him again.
"Where are
all the others" I asked Den
"There all over the place, we've had a right battle with these
local nutters" Den replied
"We had to knock the crap out of some of them to keep them from
totally invading the stage"
"I can see that, there's hundreds of them building up out the
front"
With that, we decided to have a round up and get our shit together to
escape. There was no way that we could fight our way through the front
and no way that these crazy fuckers were going to just let us walk away.
We had to come up with a plan and fast. I suggested that a couple of us,
who had not been involved in the fighting at the front of the stage, try
and slip through the crowd and get the vans around to the back of the
venue and try and make a quick exit with as little defending to do as
possible. One of the Stranglers management at the time was a guy called
Dai Davies; he volunteered to go so I felt I'd better go too. Dai was a
tough old Welshman himself, but he wasn't crazy either. Neither of us
could be directly identified as having dished out any violence so we had
a beer, plucked up a bit of courage and headed toward the bolted doors
that had protected us from the baying mob, that led out to the
auditorium. This side of the doors and just holding on to his sanity was
a big burly, local Welsh security guard.
" Your not going out there are you boyo's," he sang in his
delightful accent.
"They'll fucking murder you out there"
Dai looked at me and I looked at Dai
"Open the door as quietly and as slowly as you can," said Dai
" It's not opening it that worries me," chirped the security
guard
"It's getting the bloody thing closed again that's going to be the
problem" his face was a picture of honest terror.
"I'd better get a few more boys down here to get behind it and
shove it closed, I don't fancy you luck" he said
The guard got on his radio and five or six reinforcements arrived.
Standing altogether by the front stage door they looked like the front
row of a rugby team. I felt small, weedy and insignificant in their
midst (and I'm 6ft) and wished like fuck that they were all coming with
us. We prepared ourselves and the door was duly opened. It was like
crashing stone cold sober into the maddest party that you have ever been
to, unwanted and uninvited we found ourselves in the seething midst of a
stinking drunken baying mob who wanted to know who was coming out of the
doors. There were screams and shouts and general abuse as we tried to
push our way through the sweating bodies. Dai was ahead of me and he
manfully kept moving, doing a couple of rugby 'hand offs' of his own. Me
being younger and looking less like management and more like a Finchley
Boy received a few kicks and a few slaps just in case I was. It felt
like hours passed wading through to the back of this sordid crowd, but
all of a sudden Dai and I were outside into that freezing cold air once
again. Dai had to go in the opposite direction to get his van so we said
good luck, agreed where to meet up again and split. I felt a little bit
more anonymous now I was outside the venue and every yard that took me
away from it lessened the chance of getting 'jumped.'
Then there it was, Steve's wonderful blue Bedford van, the one that got
us here more dead than alive and the little beauty that was going to
freeze our bollocks off all the way home.
I put the key into the drivers door lock and attempted to slide the door
open. The considerable condensation that we had created on the way up
seemed to have contributed to the fact that the door had frozen stiff.
"Fuck it" I remember saying as I went round to the passenger
door
"Fuck you, you pox ridden cunt" I mouthed quietly
"Open you bastard" I screamed.
In my temper I managed to rip the door open, jump across to the drivers
seat and offer a warning to the van
"Start first time you cunt or I'll kick the shit out of you" I
pulled out the choke and turned the ignition key. The engine turned over
with a dreaded wur wur wur that denoted that the battery was almost flat
"I fucking knew it," I screamed inside the van
I quickly switched off the ignition and waited for a few seconds then
tried again. I turned the key so hard in a futile subconscious attempt
to force the engine to explode into life that I almost snapped it off. I
willed the thing to start. That dreaded sound of the flat battery was
back, but even slower now. I smashed my foot down hard on the
accelerator, nearly shoving my foot through the rotten rusted, pox
ridden floor and when I'd nearly given up all hope, the bastard caught
on what must have been the very last ounce of battery. I revved the
engine, trying to keep it alive, I nursed that peddle gently encouraging
the revs to settle, but it was cold and the missing cylinders made it
choke and chortle cough and splutter but it didn't die on me. I sat
there for ages shitting myself in case the engine died. This was my only
chance and I had to get it right. It was then that I noticed that I was
sweating. Beads of perspiration on my brow and on my nose. I laughed out
loud. I was freezing fucking cold and I was sweating trying to keep this
shit heap of a van alive. Finally, I felt the engine was sufficiently
warmed up to attempt to drive it. I had no idea what was going on back
at the gig or whether Dai had got there yet. I put the blue beast in
reverse and backed out of the parking space and headed toward the gig.
There were still plenty of gangs around but things had thinned out a
lot. As I swung round to the rear stage door I could see the tour van
pulling away. Dai had obviously made it with out too much bother. I
screamed up and parked in the place Dai had just vacated and was
immediately surrounded by punters. I blasted the horn two or three
times, the doors opened and out they came piling through the crowd. The
back doors were not even closed as I roared away from the gig with no
intention of stopping should any brave boyo get in my way. I'd had
enough of this shit and I wanted to leave it behind. Someone closed the
doors as I asked if they were all there.
"Yea, were all here" came the reply. I looked in the rear view
mirror and smiled
"Were all fucking mad, we are," I said
"What else would you be doing right now," said Graham with a
relieved smile
"Fuck knows" was my weary reply.
Whilst waiting for me to turn up, the others had arranged to meet the
band and all other Finchley Boys who were in other transport, at the
first services out of town.
We pulled into the services and were glad to get out of the van. We all
got something to eat (paid for by the band) and chatted about the night.
That was a great feeling. Warm, fed safe and happy to have got out of it
all with no more than a kick up the arse and a few bruises to the old
ego. I was feeling fine, until it was time to go. The idea of the
journey back filled me with dread, but we had no choice but to suffer
it.
When I finally got home, I can't remember what time it was. My brain was
so numb and my head was exploding with the early morning cold. It took
me hours to get warm. I shivered, laying in my bed still in my clothes
my teeth chattered and although I was tired as a dog, I couldn't sleep.
Eventually at around 7 am, I felt a warm glow finally spread throughout
my body. I felt myself float off to sleep, only to return in my dreams
to the journey and the chaos of the Top Rank Swansea. |
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