Birthdays and Young Love

My mum was born on the 29th December. So was her older sister and her younger brother. She had a younger sister too but she was born in July. Mum was born in 1930, Auntie J was born in 1928 and Uncle J was born in 1934. Auntie J#2 was born in 1936. After 1934, the 29th December must have been a pretty big occasion in Mum’s family. Sadly, Auntie J#2 died in 1948 at the age of 11 and Uncle J followed the next year at the age of 14.

However, Mum liked to keep the 29th December a big occasion and when I was little, it was a big occasion. It turned out that Auntie A, my dad’s sister-in-law, had also been born on the 29th December and years later, my big sister’s mother-in-law also shared the birthday. Anyway, we’d be tidying, dusting, polishing, cleaning, cooking and preparing for hours, no days, in advance for the multiple birthday party she would throw every year on that date.

Mum used to like telling the story of the time she set me the task of arranging biscuits on a plate. I was pretty young at the time and I have no recollection of the incident at all. I can, however, state with absolute certainty that I love biscuits. She told me to eat the broken ones and left me to it. The next time she saw me, I was breaking biscuits and eating them. I can’t imagine I got off lightly but she laughed about it afterwards.

One year, my older sister and I made quiches for the party. We thought that quiches were pretty boring (and, to be honest, I haven’t changed my opinion since), so we added our favourite ingredient to them to make them more interesting – food colouring. One was blue and the other was green. Nobody ate them except us.

Mum used to invite loads of people to the parties. Aunties J and A, of course, were invited; the party was for them as well. All the other aunties and uncles and cousins were invited and so were loads of family friends. What was more, they would all turn up. She also invited colleagues and clients from work (she was a probation officer). One of her colleagues brought her son, Jason, one year. He was a similar age to me and my sister.

He was also into punk, like us and, also like us, was a punk and dressed the part. My sister and I had a great rivalry about him. He seemed to like me at first but later seemed to switch his attention to her. He was never really interested in a relationship (at least I think he wasn’t) but liked to hang around with us and discuss music and politics (his two biggest interests). He was also very artistic and did a beautiful picture of Siouxsie Sioux in pencil, which we had in our room for years.

The following year, he brought a friend, Dave. Dave was also a punk and had a punk name, like me, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was. Dave was 11 months younger than me and therefore two school years below Jason. He was also amazingly mature for a 15 year old.

So we got talking and hit it off immediately. The party was in full swing when we went upstairs to my parents’ bedroom and got to know each other better. I’ve never really given it much thought until just now, when I was writing this down, but I’m all of a sudden gobsmacked that nobody walked in. Well, when we went back downstairs again, we were boyfriend and girlfriend.

I went out with Dave for 11 months. He was an intelligent and mature lad and even though he was nearly a year younger than me, at an age where a chronological year can equal 5 years in maturity, I never even noticed it or gave it a thought. We had a really good time together and, to use a phrase I really like, presented a united front.

We went to see the UK Subs together. This was when I saw the Straps for the first time. While we were there, some lads asked him if I was his girlfriend or if I was single. Dave was really chuffed about that and took it as a compliment about me. He made sure he passed it on to me as well.

He took me home to meet his dad, who made us dinner – sausalatas, mash and peas. Dave was a vegetarian. He was also a pacifist. Once, when his dad was away, he had a party. There were some skinheads there, who had been invited (the significance of this will emerge shortly). I impressed them mightily by playing Swan Lake à la Madness on the piano. Later on, some other skinheads gatecrashed the party, made an utter nuisance of themselves and smashed a pane in the back door as a parting gift.

One of Dave’s friends tried to sort it out and ended up cutting a deep gash in his arm. We tried to staunch the bleeding and then made the rather stupid decision to drive him to hospital. The person who drove had been drinking all night. Our cut friend got patched up in A & E and we left the hospital. Unfortunately, our driver turned on to the wrong side of a dual carriageway (he was drunk, after all) right in front of the watchful eyes of the Metropolitan Police. They stopped the car and breathalysed the driver and then took us all back to the police station. After they had gone through whatever they had to do (I’m particularly vague about this because we waited in some waiting room or other), they suggested we should go back home. One of the girls who was with us (we had gone to hospital mob-handed) asked if they could drive us home and a humorous policeman asked, “Where? Battersea Dogs Home?” I was not amused but I have since realised that you have to expect this sort of thing if you are going to wear a dog collar.

Our relationship started to fizzle out in the end. Dave never actually tried to end it but I realised that he was treating me more like a friend and less like a girlfriend and I wanted more than that, so I finished with him. He didn’t seem upset and took it very well. I determined to stay friends with him but nothing ever works out like you intend and I lost touch with him.

My sister didn’t, well, not for some time, anyway and the last I heard of him, he was out in New Zealand and working as a nurse. Which, to me, seems absolutely typical of him.

Taking in a Show

I went back to the Winter Gardens in Blackpool for the first time since Rebellion today and I can state with complete sincerity that it was a really weird experience for me. The last time I was there, the scene looked a bit like this:

Tonight, it looked more like:

but obviously with more people in it. In other words, an audience:

Well, okay, this is one of the pictures Google brought up when I did an image search for theatre audiences but I think you know what I mean: not punks and skinheads.

I was amongst “normal” people and we had all come to see Chicago. Now, I wouldn’t normally think of myself as the sort of person who likes musicals but a group of people goes regularly from work and some of them had suggested I give it a go. My daughter, Bobbie, quite likes musicals so I suggested that I take her along and she agreed, so I agreed to go.

That’s how I ended up going to the Opera House in the Winter Gardens in Blackpool tonight to watch a musical. It was good too and I really enjoyed it. I like Jazz, well Trad Jazz (did I ever mention I like Jazz? Sorry, I should have.) and there is plenty of Jazz in Chicago. More than enough to keep an old punk happy, anyway. What is more, the cast can belt out numbers like there’s no tomorrow. By the way, that’s the cast I saw tonight there on the left.

It took me a little while to work out what it was about (I was almost completely ignorant of what it was about before I went) but that didn’t really spoil my enjoyment of the show. It was very slick and very well done indeed. Highpoints included All that Jazz, Ian Kelsey singing Razzle Dazzle, Dale Meeks’ rendition of Mr Cellophane and the final duet where Roxy and Velma finally get to do the double act. Great fun.

So, in case you didn’t know, Chicago is set in a women’s prison, where all the inmates (or the ones in the show anyway) have committed murder. If you want to know the full story, have a look at this. It’s too complicated for me to explain.

The Adventures of Rennie and Sammy the Shark

In October 2006, I wrote a short story, which I posted as a blog on a popular website. I rather liked the story at the time and now, because the hero of the story has left our shores to go trekking in Nepal, I thought I’d revive it on this site in his honour. It is based on a real incident but I can assure you, nobody got hurt in the making of this blog. Please read and enjoy.

A couple of weekends ago I went out with my bezzie mate, Sammy the Shark. I’m a bit old to have a bezzie mate and we haven’t known each other long but things just clicked when we met and we’ve been best of friends since. Anyway, back to the story. There I was with Sammy and her young man, Foxy, in the pub waiting for Fiddler and his young lady, Stella. We suddenly realised there was a problem: Rennie was going to be a double gooseberry for the evening because Mr R had not been able to attend, being tied up at home, and our preferred consort for me had suddenly realised it was his birthday and had a night out planned which he could not miss.

Well, being a few beers to the good (and a couple of whiskies in my case), Sammy and I hatched a super plan. We decided to kidnap a man for me so that I would be accompanied for the night. We were in a pub and there were lots of men around but, as with all good stories, some were too tall and some were too short. Some were too fat and some were too thin. Some were too ugly (yeuch!) and some were too handsome (yack!). Some were too dark and some were too fair. Some were too taken and some were too single. Some were too old and one was too young (he was with his Mum and Dad and was playing with his Action Man). However, that left a residue of about 6 or 7 reasonable men so we set to work on them.

We used our usual pincer movement on them so that they could not get away (this had worked with Foxy on a previous night out and now he and Sammy are inseparable, frequently literally inseparable). The first man was not my usual type but in these situations, you cannot be too fussy. He was about my height and looked a little like a cross between an orang utan with dyed black hair and Sam the Eagle from the Muppets. Well, maybe I’m being a little uncharitable. He had dark hair (and plenty of it on his arms, less of it on his head) and had a large hooked nose. No Adonis but passable.

Hello,” I said. “Hello” said Sammy. We have a way with words. He looked at us and said hello back. “I’m Rennie,” I said. “I’m Sammy” said Sammy. He smiled at us and said “I’m Steve”. We could tell he was already falling for our charm. “We’re going for a curry tonight,” said Sammy. Always to the point, that’s what I love about her. “I need somebody to accompany me,” I said, being direct myself. “I’m sorry, I’ve already eaten,” said Steve. Not quite the result I was hoping for but after a little reflection I think we may have had a narrow escape. He did seem, should I say, a touch boring.

We tried the same tack on all of the reasonable looking men with indifferent success and decided that we would have to try another tack and another pub.

By this time, Fiddler and Stella had arrived. Fiddler is a very practical man and immediately saw where we were going wrong and fortunately for us, had the solution:

A bottle of chloroform:

A cotton pad:

Duct Tape:

Electric Flex:

Thus equipped we moved onto the next pub.

Using the same criteria as before, we identified a few likely heroes of this tale. We made our way over to Likely Hero #1. He was a little taller than me and bore a passing resemblance to Dave Grohl, the lead singer of the Foo Fighters (and the hero of my dreams).

The new technique was very effective and we only needed to use it once:

“Hi, I’m Rennie.” “Hi, I’m Sammy.” “Hi, I’m Patrick. What’s tha….? Zzzzzzz”.

We bundled him into a quiet corner with the help of Foxy, Fiddler and Stella, bound him hand and foot and put the duct tape over his mouth so he couldn’t make a noise when he came to. We then sat down with him and I bought him a vodka as a gesture of goodwill. We were a very jolly party with Fiddler and I swapping jokes, Sammy and Foxy holding hands and looking very romantic, Stella giggling at our jokes and chatting with Sammy and Foxy and last but not least Patrick snoring away gently in the middle of us all. I put my arm around him and laid his head against my shoulder to make him more comfortable and sat there drinking my Fosters in enjoyable company.

As the chloroform began to wear off and Patrick started coming to, he appeared to be quite agitated. I couldn’t make out what he was saying because his speech was quite muffled, no doubt due to the effects of the chloroform. I understood why he may feel somewhat nervous and therefore tried to reassure him that he hadn’t fallen into the hands of a gang of psychos. This seemed to calm him a little.

I realised that Pat would be unable to drink his vodka or even eat his curry with duct tape over his mouth and his hands tied so I offered to remove the tape and bonds if he didn’t call for help. Pat shook his head enthusiastically. He motioned to me that he would not make a noise and I decided to take him at his word and patted his leg encouragingly.

Sammy and I then removed the tape and electrical flex and Pat was true to his word. He sat there wide eyed and gulping down his vodka. I hadn’t realised just how thirsty chloroform can make you.

When he had finished, it was time to go to the Indian Restaurant and I had no choice but to untie his feet. I did not want to tempt fate so we tied his hands back up and put some more duct tape over his mouth. Thus prepared, we made our way down the street to a rather swish Indian Restaurant called The Walden and went in.

We had already reserved a table and we sat Pat between Sammy and me. We helped him choose his dinner from the menu and then I again tied his legs together and we released his hands and removed the tape from his mouth. I decided to buy him a nice Indian beer to show our appreciation that he had agreed to accompany us. Pat gulped it down thirstily. I had not realised just how dry chloroform can make you.

I was beginning to believe that we had made a superb choice in kidnapping Pat. He didn’t speak much and his speech was slightly slurred but he seemed to appreciate the company. Sammy and I kept giving him reassuring pats on his leg so that he would know that we didn’t mean any harm. This seemed to encourage him and he kept smiling, a little manically, at us both.

The food arrived and we all started eating with gusto, especially Pat. We had ordered him a Chicken Phal, which the waiter had assured us was a nice mild curry. Part way through the meal I noticed Pat was making strange noises. Sweat was running down his forehead and he had turned a little red. If I had not known better I would have said that steam was coming out of his ears. He had made good headway with his curry, though, and seemed to be enjoying it.

After the meal, the waiter brought some hot towels. Pat was a little wild-eyed, gibbering and not really making much sense. I noticed that he had started drooling down his chin. Possibly, he had found his curry a little spicy, even for such a mild one, so I mopped him up tenderly. I was beginning to quite like him and mentioned that I hoped that we would be able to enjoy another meal together, maybe an Italian next time. Pat nodded enthusiastically and I realised that perhaps he was not as big a curry fan as me.

We decided to untie Pat’s legs to enable him to walk back to the pub with us. However, after a little prompting from Pat, we tied his hands up again and put more tape over his mouth. Sammy, Foxy and I decided to have another drink and Fiddler and Stella went home. Pat accompanied us to the pub. He was a little unsteady on his feet and I had to support him. I assumed he had had a little bit too much to drink. Certainly that would explain his manic gibbering as well. Sammy and Foxy bought him another drink when we got to the pub as a sort of thank you for being my consort for the evening.

We all sat down together and, yet again, we removed the tape from Pat’s mouth and the bonds from his hands. We re-tied Pat’s legs when he asked us to (he now seemed to be enjoying this). He even offered to buy a round because he had not paid for a thing since we had kidnapped him. Of course, we could not allow that. He was our guest for the evening.

And so we spent the rest of the evening until it was time to go home. I was staying at Sammy’s so that I would not have to leave early to get the last train home and it turned out that Pat had missed his too so we offered to put him up for the night. He agreed to that readily and we made our way back rather unsteadily together.

Foxy made sure that we all had a beer and got the sofa bed out for his guests. Then we all sat chatting (except Pat, who was gagged again, by his own request) and eventually Foxy and Sammy went up to bed leaving me with Pat, a sofa bed, some handcuffs, a ball-gag, some natural yoghurt and a banana.

And, as they say in all good fairy tales, they all lived happily ever after.

Enjoy Nepal, Pat, you deserve it!

A Sad Loss

When I logged into Yahoo to send an e-mail just before, I read a news item that really made me sad. Now, I might give the impression in this blog that I’m a mad punk Morris Dancer, who is interested only in Punk and Folk and, if at all possible, a combination of both (especially Blood or Whiskey). Not so! I have other interests, even though I don’t talk about them quite as much.

Well, today’s new item brought one of them back with a jolt. You see, Luciano Pavarotti has died from Pancreatic Cancer at the age of 71. What can I say about him that hasn’t already been said. Obviously, tributes have been pouring in from all quarters but I’ll have a go.

First thing, I always used to say I prefer Placido Domingo. He’s a bit shouty but he’s a great actor (and a great singer, I shouldn’t omit that) and he has such sex appeal – he really does. But (yes, I know I shouldn’t start a sentence with a “but”) Pavarotti’s voice was like honey and very expensive and good honey at that. Placido could make me hoarse, just listening to him (and quite turned on, just looking at him!), Luciano would sooth my throat and take away the pain.

You just need to shut your eyes and let his voice in. It fills you with its beauty. It takes your breath away. It produces a lump in your throat and gives you butterflies. I always got a physical reaction deep in my guts when I heard him sing. For the full Pavarotti/Punky Rennie experience I would recommend the following two arias: Che Gelida Manina from Puccini’s La Boheme and the love duet at the end of the first act of Verdi’s Otello. Marvellous.

Here he is singing Celeste Aida from Verdi’s Aida:

The Straps, an under-rated punk band

Sometimes, I think too much. Usually when I’m on my own for more than five minutes and my mind starts racing. Then I can get through thoughts faster than an average Texan can get through hamburgers. When I’m in my car, usually on the way home from work when I’m working a late, I listen to music; usually punk music and I think. I think about the songs and the bands and I think about why I like them and why some of them are so special to me. 

That’s why I’ve decided to write a few blogs about some of my favourite bands. I’ve listened to them and thought about them. I’ve seen them; chatted to them; hugged some members of some of them; got up on stage with one of them. 

The next few blogs are going to be about bands that are special to me and I’m going to start with the one that is most special to me, horribly under-rated and virtually unknown outside the South East of England, the Straps. 

I’m not absolutely sure how old I was when I first saw the Straps; I was either 16 or 17 but I know I saw them in 1980 at the Music Machine in Camden supporting the UK Subs. It was one of the first gigs I ever went to. I went with my boyfriend Dave, who was 11 months younger than me. It was a good venue and you could go up and look down from a raised bit at the side of the stage (a useful vantage point when the second support, a band we hated, came on). We stood at the front and the first support came on, the Straps. 

I don’t remember at what point I decided I liked the band but I do remember looking at the guitarist and being convinced I knew him. He had dark hair, presumably dyed black. I also noticed the bass player and, at the moment I realised I didn’t know the guitarist, I realised I did know him. He came from the town where I had been to school and was called Andy Stammers, although he was usually known as Stan Stammers. The lead singer, Jock Strap, was raw and the music was fantastic. I loved them. 

After the Straps was the second support band, Martian Dance (now seemingly consigned to the dustbin of obscurity). We hated them. They were probably a forerunner of New Romantics and they really were out of place in the line up. By this time, we had been joined by some other punks who lived near me and we all went up to the side of the stage where we hurled abuse at the poor saps on stage. 

Shortly after the last tube train left Camden Underground Station, the Subs came on. This could have been a complete disaster but fortunately, our new friends had come in an Escort Van and said they would take us home, so we stayed to watch the main band. 

The Subs, as always, were brilliant and I had a great time. Now, I’m not sure but I have to assume that the Straps had come out front with the rest of the punters because I definitely got to know them and I definitely got to know where Jock worked. I also was able to confirm that Stan Stammers was the Andy Stammers I knew of old and I found out that the guitarist was called Dave and the drummer was called Cliff and was ancient (he was in his late twenties, early thirties). 

We went home that night in the back of the Escort Van and our “taxi driver” changed out of his punk clothes into normal clothes because his parents didn’t like him being a punk. By the time I got home, I was a confirmed fan of the Straps. 

I saw the Straps twice more. Once, I’m pretty certain, they headlined at a small venue and the third time, they supported Stiff Little Fingers at the Hammersmith Odeon.  

I spent as many Saturdays down the Kings Road in London as I could and I was frequently in Boy, the punk boutique where Jock worked. I also remember having a drink with them in a pub on the Kings Road after the second gig when they were saying how badly they had played. I wouldn’t have any of it. They were my heroes and were incapable of playing badly. They even got their oldest fan to tell me they’d played badly but I refused to believe him too. 

They sacked Cliff, the drummer during this time. He was a glue sniffer and probably a hopeless case. The band had bought him new cymbals for the drum kit and he sold them and bought himself 40 pots of glue, so he had to go. After my initial reservations about his age and after I had finished with Dave, I developed a major crush on Cliff. When we were all in the pub together arguing about whether they’d played badly or well, I made sure I was sat next to him. I also made sure I ended up kissing him. Sad, really, because now I cringe at the thought. 

So, what was it about the Straps that made me idolise them? The music was fast and raw and that was essential for me. Jock sang songs about things that all young punks should be passionate about – the police, VD, television, Brixton (the promised land for me). Jock’s lyrics are intelligent too, although I wasn’t too bothered about that at the time. He could have sung any old rubbish and I would have been happy. More recently, though, I’ve really been able to appreciate them. 

Take Pox Kid, for instance. This is still my favourite Straps song. It’s a really simple song with an intro comprising a three note riff descending and then ascending with the guitar following the bass. It grabs your attention straight away. The intro is over pretty quickly and Jock starts singing “Look into the mirror; I can see something’s changed. Oh my God, I don’t know what it is but I’m in a helluva pain…” The music is pretty low key at that point but as the narrator’s anxiety builds, so does the music until Jock breaks into the chorus, which has always made me smile “You’ve got the pox, kid. You’ve got the pox, kid…” There’s another verse, another chorus, a middle eight, half a verse and the final chorus. So a fairly conventionally structured song and very sing-along-able. It’s the one I remembered all along. 

The other songs were also intelligently written and had the same raw quality that Pox Kid had. The other song that stuck in my mind from that era was What’s on the Box, a song about television, a subject close to my heart. 

Fast forward 25 years. I’m now a (fairly) respectable working woman with three nearly grown up children, living in a semi-detached with two cars and a computer. We had just gone online and I had discovered the delights of Google searches. After watching Badger, Badger, Badger repeatedly and laughing hysterically at Weebl and Bob, I one day decided to do a Google Search on the Straps. I found their website and found to my amazement that they had reformed and were playing again. 

I contacted Jock and Dave, the two surviving members from my era, using the e-mail addresses on the website. They both replied to my e-mails. Neither remembered me so I e-mailed an old photo to them both in an attempt to job their memories. I also reminded Dave that he had grabbed my leg at a Splodgenessabounds gig at The Star pub in Croydon. This incident seemed to jog his memory, which is not really surprising because I had removed my trousers moments before he grabbed my leg and grabbing bare flesh made him jump higher than me. 

The Straps were also on MySpace and I added the band and Jock very early on. Dave later got his own profile and I added him too. They were going to play Wasted punk festival in Blackpool in August so I decided I would go and got myself a ticket.  

I travelled to Blackpool on the train with Dave (I met him and some others at Preston Station) and I held his guitar for him while he got his wristband at the Winter Gardens. I felt quite honoured to do that. I saw them play on the Friday night and they played a large number of their classic songs with a few new ones. I was right at the front singing along at the top of my voice and feeling like I was 17 again. Jock came down off the stage at one point and greeted various fans at the front. He included me, which was brilliant. 

Jock has put various new songs on the player on MySpace and I was able to listen to some of the new stuff. The new songs were a revelation to me. Jock’s voice has changed over the years. It’s not as young and raw anymore; I suppose you could say it has mellowed. Jock’s lyrics are even more intelligent than before and much more mature and so is the music. 

My favourites from the new songs are Freakshow and The Church Is In. Now, I may be wrong but I get the impression that Freakshow, although it mentions bearded ladies amongst others, may be about being different – not “normal”. Something most punks have to go through. I was in Blackpool this summer and spotted two fat, and to be brutally honest, ugly, sunburnt, women with fat oozing over their shorts’ waistlines, cast a look of utter contempt at a couple of bright haired, mohicanned punks. This summed up Freakshow for me. The punks were infinitely more attractive but, because they were different, they were an object of scorn to the two holiday makers. 

The Church Is In is a great song musically. I am not too sure about the lyrics; I have never listened to them properly, although I suspect they’re anti- rather than pro-organised religion. I’m sure Jock will put me right on this, if necessary. It’s the music that I really rate here. It’s not really a punk song but it’s sung by a punk band, so it’s in my Punk and Oi! Playlist on my MP3 player. The music is really sophisticated fare. A lot of work has gone into it (or Jock’s a genius, I’m not sure which). It’s something I can listen to over and over and I can’t analyse it, like I did Pox Kid, because it is too complicated for me. 

I saw the Straps again at Rebellion this year. As always, I thought they were brilliant, although they were not particularly happy with their set. They played a couple of older, classic Straps songs and concentrated on the new ones, which are one their new CD (which I bought for a tenner – I do believe in supporting my favourite bands). This time I had back up for my opinion because Jock and Dave had introduced me to another old Straps fan in the bar before their set and he agreed with me that they were not bad but superb. The Pavilion, where they played, was scandalously empty and I texted a couple of friends who were there to try and get them to come along. One texted back to say he and his friends were too wasted to move. The other didn’t answer. The room should have been full. Maybe the band would have had a better feeling about the gig if it had been. 

The Straps are my band and I feel almost proprietorial about them. I feel almost threatened if I’m introduced to a fan who might have known them longer than I have and I hate not being able to see them because I’m in Preston and they play mainly in the South of England. I tell people about them all the time, usually people who have absolutely no interest in punk at all. Last weekend, I went to visit my older sister. While I was there, I gave my 13 year old niece a Straps badge. She promised to wear it on her school bag and to tell all her friends what a great band they are. 

That’s the thing, you see, she’s an intelligent girl.

Young Rennie in Bedfordshire

I went to visit my sister in Bedford last weekend. I know I’d only just got back from Rebellion but I already needed a break and she offered me one. It was a good weekend. My nieces are lovely girls and I get on well with my brother-in-law. My sister suggested I try a different route from the one I usually use (which is to come down the M6, go onto the M1 and then get hopelessly lost somewhere between the M1 and Bedford). I tried it and it worked and I made the journey from Preston to Bedford in 3 hours and 25 minutes.

On the final leg of the journey, I went through Milton Ernest, which got me thinking about a week or so I spent there when I was 11 or thereabouts. My Mum and Dad both worked and I therefore had a childminder, who came to our house to mind me. She was a lovely lady called Eddie and she was old enough to be my grandmother.

She had a daughter who lived in Milton Ernest, well, just outside actually. She had two sons by her first marriage and a much younger one by her second. The two older boys were either side of me in age. The older one, Mark was 12 and the younger, Paul was 10. At least, I think they were. The younger son was about 18 months old.

Eddie suggested that I could go and stay with her daughter during the school holidays and my Mum and Dad agreed, so they drove me down to Milton Ernest and I met Mark, Paul, their Mum, Stepdad and younger brother.

I think the two boys enjoyed my visit. They could show off to me because I was a townie (not a chav but somebody who lived in a town and was not conversant with country ways). They did show off too. They had an air rifle and had me shooting at pigeons. I missed every single one but that’s not really surprising. I think they probably had as little success as me but they had access to a gun.

They had a den. It was a piece of corrugated iron leaning up against a wall and they had put straw over the top, which provided decent camouflage. They had also made a small makeshift garden in front, which stood out a mile but there you are. We went there and sat inside on makeshift furniture and it was a perfectly pleasant place to be.

They also encouraged me to smoke. They told me that by the time I got cancer there would be a cure for it. I haven’t actually developed cancer (touch wood) but there is still no cure and I smoked for 29 years (I started properly at 13, 2 years after this foundation course) until I gave up on 26th September 2004.

They had an old bike. I think it belonged to their Stepdad. They used to freewheel down a hill (nowhere near as steep as I remember) on it. I rode down the hill and wore the brakes out completely. Nowadays I would be far less of a wuss.

Then there was the younger brother. He was a really sweet toddler and I thought the world of him. I loved playing with him and I remember his babygros drying over the radiators in the house. On one occasion we all went shopping in Bedford but I have no idea what was bought.

The visit came to a close all too quickly and my Mum and sister came to collect me. Mum had been shopping too and my sister had a brand new trouser suit on (it was revolting!) and new shoes, which accentuated the length of her feet. My Mum had got me a trouser suit too but in a different colour. I think I must have changed into it before we went home.

Not long after my visit, the baby brother died. Apparently, his death was a cot death. I was genuinely upset about it and would have done anything to have been able to prevent it. I remember bursting into tears at school and my teacher asking me what was wrong. When I told her, she said I should remember that he would now be in heaven. I was young enough and silly enough then to accept that. I wouldn’t nowadays. That’s why I didn’t mention the baby’s name, though. There is a tiny possibility his brothers or possibly even nieces or nephews might read this and I would like to afford him and them a little privacy.

Now for the hell of it here’s a picture of my sister and me in those dreadful trouser suits.

Rebellion and a few more photos

On Sunday, I had breakfast. A fry up in a cafe. I still hadn’t woken up early enough to have breakfast in my B & B. I met up with Chris, who was also out and about (we had sensibly swapped telephone numbers the night before) and we went down to the Prom.

We went down onto the beach as the tide was out and I took this picture of the Tower and the new sea defences. I rather like the clouds too; they make the photo look reasonable. After snapping each other on the beach, we went back up to the Prom and I suggested we visit the Dr Who exhibition. We went in and had a good look round and I held forth on the various incarnations of the Doctor and the enemies he had had to face. I’m a bit of a Dr Who fan on the quiet, you see.

By the time we had been round the exhibition, it was lunch time and we knew that there would be bands on at the Winter Gardens, so we headed back there. We saw a ska band called The Splitters first. I liked the Splitters; they were an unlikely looking ska band because the lead singer had a colourful mohican and the guitarist/backing singer had a more sombre coloured mohican. They were also very good.

After that, we wandered around a bit and I bought 2 leopard skin, single row studded wristbands; one for myself and another for a colleague at work. I’d promised to buy him a souvenir from Rebellion and I wanted it to be suitably tacky. We also had a look at the punk art collection, which was really, rather good, especially the photos. There was a painting of Jock Strap, which was sold (we later saw him leaving The Winter Gardens with it under his arm).

Then we went to see Riot Squad and after them, the UK Subs. Charlie Harper is an inspiration. He’s 64 (at least, I think he is) and maybe not as sprightly as he was in 1980 but he still manages to leap about on stage and the songs have the same energy they had when I first saw the band. The other musicians are considerably younger than him (I’m sorry, Charlie, if you read this and are offended) and I don’t think they were even born when I first saw the band. I know the drummer, Jamie, wasn’t. They played my favourites, Stranglehold, Warhead and various others. I’ve heard that the original line-up, including Paul Slack who signed my jeans all those years ago (see my previous blog, Tight Jeans, Romance and Sid Vicious), are getting back together in December for a gig supported by my old friends, the Straps. I will definitely have to be there.

I wanted to see Penetration but I missed them because I was otherwise engaged (this was beginning to become a bit of a habit) but I did see the Wall. Various incarnations of the band played during the set so there were a few changes of personnel while we watched. They were very good indeed. Unfortunately, I am unable to remember what they played.

After The Wall, we went to see The Adicts. I didn’t get a decent picture of them because I was too far away from the stage so I nicked the one on the left (I do apologise). What can I say about them? They completely blew me away. I’ve never seen a punk band which has a light show before a gig (or set) and I’ve never seen an audience mesmerised quite as much as we were. Monkey is a charismatic frontman and had the entire contents of the Empress Ballroom (a seething mass of punks and skins) completely under his spell. They played, amongst others, Ode to Joy (of course), Joker in the Pack, Chinese Takeaway, Bad Boy and You’ll Never Walk Alone. It takes a band of amazing calibre to make me sing along to You’ll Never Walk Alone (I may have hinted on occasion that I like Chelsea FC) but The Adicts did it. They provided an amazing finale to a brilliant weekend. I didn’t want them to finish although I was knackered (I’m really not up to this sort of thing at 44) and wanted my bed.

At the end of the set, we all left the Winter Gardens for the last time and I took my last few photographs. Here is one of them. I don’t think it’s great (I keep going on about what a rubbish photographer I am but then, to quote The Duel, “I’m my own worst critic”) but I like it. I took it as my body started to metabolise the adrenaline I’d been producing in such massive quantities but before the massive come down I had on Monday and Tuesday.

Finally, for those of you, like me, who have suffered Adicts withdrawal symptoms, here is the Punky Rennie equivalent of a Nicotine Patch. This was their appearance on Cheggers Plays Pop and is a classic. Please feel free to enjoy.

More Rebellion and a few more photos

Saturday was a very good day for me. I got up late yet again but this time there was no alarm call from the rambler. I texted one of the Doncaster punks to find out where they were and he replied pretty quickly by saying that they were going to the Pleasure Beach to go on the Big One. I’m a big fan of Punk and Oi but I’m also a huge fan of Roller Coasters, the bigger the better, so I asked them to count me in. At first, they were going to go straight there but I assume they were sidetracked into a pub, Churchills, so I met them there. I had a pint of Spitfire and then we went to the Pleasure Beach.

We didn’t bother with a wristband. We had come for the Big One only so we went straight in and made straight for the Big One and bought tickets in a nearby kiosk. We queued for ages and then finally it was our turn. This was the fourth time I’ve been on this ride and I can honestly say, it is every bit as enjoyable as the first time. I love it when you reach the top and I like to look down the track just before we tip over the edge. I also love looking down when we’re at the peaks of the ride and I don’t scream; I shout with exhiliration. I have this unfortunate problem, though; everytime my photo is taken on one of these rides, I tend to be grimacing and it’s not a pleasant sight.

After that, and as is often the case when you get a bunch of people out enjoying themselves and determined to act their shoe size, we took each other’s photos in a variety of amusing settings, including the one on the right, where Pete (or is he Dave? I never did work it out) and I groped a couple of plastic people. I hate acting my age and was completely in my element. After that, we must have headed back to the pub because the first band I saw that day were Sick 56 at 2.45pm.

I first met Sick 56 and their greatest fan, Louie, when I went to Amsterdam with my great friend Sammy the Shark (see Tulips from Amsterdam – Friday, Saturday and Sunday). I had determined after meeting them that I would see them play. This was my first opportunity so I made sure I didn’t miss them. I was right not to. I really enjoyed their set. They were followed by The East End Badoes, another band I had not seen before and again I was highly impressed. I loved Terry Hayes, the lead singer. A good word to describe him is charismatic. I tried to capture his charisma when I took this photograph. I think I managed to get about half of it. I’m sorry about the eyes, Terry, but you had a bad case of red eye and my computer replaced it with white eye. Not good.

After East End Badoes, there was a short break and then I went to watch 999. 999 is one of my favourite bands, although I only have 999 and Separates by them. They played some old favourites like Emergency, Titanic Reaction, Homicide, Nasty Nasty and one I really love, Feelin Alright with the Crew. Brilliant. Somebody pointed out to me later on that Nick Cash is beginning to look more and more like Bob Hoskins as he gets older. I can’t really disagree. I wasn’t close enough to the stage to get a decent picture of the band and I’ve cropped this one because it may give an idea of what my friend meant. I think you will have to decide for yourselves. What I can say is the band is still great, the songs sound fantastic live and it’s heartening to see that the band still has 3 of the original members still playing. 

After 999, I went to Sammy’s house for tea. Sammy had suggested I take a break from the boozing and the self-inflicted deterioration in my hearing and go and have something to eat with her, our great friend, Foxy and her lovely son, Max. I decided it would be a good idea, so I caught the bus to St Annes and she sent Max to collect me when I got off. When I got to her flat, I removed my Docs, which were giving me major gip. Sammy poured me a glass of wine, which mixed nicely with the beers I had consumed that day, and a little later brought some garlic bread in. I tucked in heartily because Max was tucking in and I thought he needed some company. I also tucked into Olives and various other nibbles until Sammy brought in the main course. It was chicken schnitzel, rice and something with mushrooms. It was very good indeed. Then Sammy very kindly ran me back to Blackpool so I wouldn’t miss the Beat.

I didn’t really enjoy the Beat, which was a shame because I really liked them first time round. Never mind, it was probably the effects of beer, wine and a square meal. I decided to return to the bar. I had a drink with Jock and Dave from the Straps and Jock’s wife, Kate. Jock had lost his voice, which was looking like being a disaster, although I later saw Dave looking for Jock carrying a jar of honey. 

The rambling man was there too and also a very pleasant young Sid Vicious lookalike, called James. While we were all chatting, Jock and Dave introduced me to another Straps fan (I very amusingly refer to him as the other Straps fan). He has the distinction of being on the front cover of their Punk Collection CD, although I wouldn’t know it was him, seeing as I can’t see all his face and he was about 18 at the time (and a little older now). It’s a bit like knowing someone famous.

The Straps were on at 12.10 and the rambler, Chris (the other Straps fan) and I all made our way to the Pavilion, where they were playing. The crowd was reprehensibly small and I texted some friends suggesting that they come along. They didn’t (says she through gritted teeth). The Straps played well. Well, Chris and I thought they did but the Straps themselves were not happy with the performance. Fortunately, Jock didn’t sound too much like Bonnie Tyler; maybe the honey had worked. They played a lot of their new songs, which are on the new CD (soon to be available from their MySpace profile or Website) and a couple of old ones, including my favourite, Pox Kid.

After that and moaning some more about the disgraceful behaviour of people who come to punk festivals and then don’t watch the bands, Chris and I made our way over to the Empress Ballroom to watch the Cockney Rejects. The Rejects were brilliant, as always. I really don’t remember too well what they played now. I was pretty drunk by then and very tired. I do know they didn’t play Someone Like You, probably my favourite song by them, but I know they did play East End, which I love.

After that, I had another drink with Chris and then off to bed. All in all a very good day.

More Rebellion, Fewer Photos

The rambling man woke me up with a telephone call on Friday morning at about 10am. Not a good start, I’d missed breakfast. He said he was in the pub and I said I wouldn’t be long. A shower later,  I joined him and the Doncaster punks in Churchills, which I have just found out is a gay bar. One of my nicknames for the rambler is Gay Boy because he likes gay bars. He’s not gay though, although he frequently claims to be.

But I digress. Actually, they were outside Churchills having a drink and it looked very continental to me. They quickly decided to move onto another pub so I didn’t bother buying a drink. We went to the Cedar Tavern, just round the corner and I had a drink of some fizzy, slightly alcoholic beverage. Really, nothing compares to proper cask ale.

I’m actually not really sure of what I did all morning but I know I went to meet my great friend, Sammy the Shark for a coffee; she was concerned about my alcohol consumption and suggested I meet her for a coffee in the afternoon. I obliged and gave my liver some respite. After the coffee, I persuaded Sammy to take me back to my hotel room (a fair walk from where we were) and I gave her two presents – a gecko fridge magnet (she loves geckoes) and a bottle of Skinners Betty Stogs ale. The latter was me trying to educate her in the path of righteousness, she usually drinks Becks.

After that, she kindly took me in the direction of the Winter Gardens, where I was to meet yet another friend, Greg. I found him in the bar and we had a chat. We then went to watch Outlaw, hold on there, Rennie, spell it properly, I mean Outl4w.

I saw Outl4w for the first time last year at Wasted and I was blown away. They’re a group consisting of 3 teenage brothers and a slightly older drummer. Hardened, grizzled old punks have “OUTL4W” written on the backs of their leather jackets and Dave, a member of the Straps, a band dating from the late 70s, appeared almost starstruck when we bumped into them in Blackpool last year. They’re good. They’re also very young. I’m old enough to be the grandmother of the two youngest members. So last year I my emotions were ranging from “Wow! They’re brilliant!” to “Ooooh, they’re soooo cuuuute!!!!” in a cycle of about 2 seconds.

This year, they’re a year older and my grandmotherly feelings were slightly in abeyance. The music was great and I really enjoyed the set.

After Outl4w, I committed a cardinal sin. I missed both Goldblade and Argy Bargy. Now, my readers may have received the impression from earlier blogs that I rather like the two bands. It is not an incorrect impression. I think they’re great. Unfortunately, the organisers of Rebellion had failed to take into account that I like both bands a great deal and had put them on at the same time. My original intention was to see half of Argy Bargy and then move onto Goldblade and hopefully get up on stage with them, like I did last time. I didn’t. I spent the time in the bar drinking fizzy lager. What a waste!

Fortunately, I didn’t miss Chas and Dave, who were excellent. I was so impressed by them I kept texting my Long Suffering Husband and Harry, my eldest, telling them just how good the band were. I was particularly impressed with Chas’s keyboard playing. The man is a genius. They played all the old favourites, Rabbit, The Sideboard Song, Ain’t No Pleasin You, amongst others, and to my delight, Snooker Loopy. I think, with hindsight, that they were the best act I saw that weekend. I know others enjoyed it and it was a surreal sight seeing punks and skinheads dancing, pogoing and moshing to them.

Next we saw Blood or Whiskey, who also played a blinder. I particularly love this band because, much like the Pogues and the Dropkick Murphys, they combine two kinds of music that I particularly love: Punk and Celtic Folk. There’s something about a punk band that has an accordion player and banjo player. The music is fast, raucous and, most importantly to me, obnoxious. I love obnoxious music.

Then we went to watch Slade, who unfortunately, were a disappointment to me. Probably because Noddy Holder wasn’t singing. We stayed for 1½ songs and I then suggested we move on. I’d met up with Greg again to see Chas & Dave and I’d arranged to meet Sammy for a drink. Rather than have her come to the front of the Winter Gardens and brave the punks and skins (not a problem for me but possibly one for my diminutive friend), we went and met her nearby and went back to the Blue Room for a drink.

So I missed The Anti Nowhere League. This was really becoming a shameful day for me. There should be a law against Punky Rennies missing their favourite bands. I should have been sentenced to 3 days non-stop RnB. Fortunately, there isn’t and I wasn’t.

We did get back for the Damned, though. Last year I was struck by how well Dave Vanian looks. He is a little bit padded round the waist but it’s remarkable how much, in his mid to late forties, he looks like his twenty something self. Well, he did from my vantage point, anyway. This year was no different, he still looks great. Captain Sensible looked very fetching in what looked like a Naval Uniform too. He must have been hot.

They played all the old favourites, including: New Rose, Smash It Up, Love Song, Neat, Neat, Neat, Jet Boy, Jet Girl (a Sensible song) and for the encore Eloise. Captain Sensible at first refused to play without his hat for the encore but Dave from the Straps obligingly brought it to the stage. They were brilliant and I had a great time. I even went into the crowd to do one of my strange dances when they played Smash It Up. I don’t normally do that sort of thing when I’m with relatively new friends but I couldn’t help myself. I haven’t known Greg that long so I’m still trying to be relatively normal when he’s around.

Afterwards, I went for a drink with a friend at his hotel (he was wasted and probably didn’t need one). It was like a gathering of the great and good. The Anti Nowhere League were there, as were Blood or Whiskey. I actually held the door open for the banjo player and complimented him on his banjo playing – I always like to give credit where it’s due. After the drink, I made my way, a little unsteadily, back to my B & B, where I crashed out for the night, expecting to be woken at 10am by a bright and breezy rambling man.

Because I enjoyed The Damned so much (okay, I know I shouldn’t start a sentence with the word “because” but this is my blog and I’ll do what I like), here’s a nice video of them singing Love Song, one of my favourite Damned songs.

Rebellion

I find blogging about gigs difficult at the best of times because I don’t make notes while I’m there. Rebellion was spread over four days and I was drunk for much of the time but it needs writing up so here goes. Sorry if it’s a bit disjointed but that just reflects my memories.

Last year, I didn’t really dress up for Wasted. I wore my favourite band t-shirts for three of the days but wore normal jeans and trainers and looked pretty normal. This year, I really fancied going a bit more punky so I went to Afflecks Palace in Manchester on Thursday morning and became the proud owner of a pair of black and white tartan bondage pants. These are not the exact ones but I’m sure you get the picture.

After taking the girls (Bobbie and Charlie, who had helped me choose the trousers and had also made some necessary purchases themselves) home and having a quick lunch, I set off for Blackpool. I booked into my hotel (after a lengthy wait for Mine Host to appear) and while I was waiting, I rang my very good friend, the rambling man, who was already there and asked him where I could find him. He told me he was in a pub called the Blue Room so I said I’d go there after I’d got my wrist band.

So having dumped my stuff in my room and donned my new trousers, black t-shirt and braces, I set off for the Winter Gardens and got myself wrist-banded up. On my way there, I saw a gentleman with green hair, whom I recognised as German Mike. I tapped him on the shoulder and greeted him warmly, giving him a big hug. I then got my wrist band and went off to find The Blue Room, a rather pleasant hostelry in Blackpool, which serves a reasonable selection of cask ale. The rambling man got me a pint in and I sat down with him and his mates, a group of punks from Doncaster. More on them later.

After a while, I dragged the rambling man off to see the first band I wanted to see, Middle Finger Salute. These young gentlemen from Blackburn play a fast, raw punk and I think they’re great (they also read my blogs so I like them even more for that). We encountered German Mike in the Winter Gardens on our way and I took the obligatory shot of him and the rambling man together.

We then went off to see Middle Finger Salute, who did not disappoint (and more importantly, impressed the rambler). I just think they’re great and I get this sort of avuncular feeling everytime they play. Well, maybe I should say av-auntie-ular feeling – I make a better auntie than uncle, after all.

A little later, after a few more pints (not quite as nice as those available at the Blue Room), I saw 3CR. 3CR are again a good raw punk band and their repertoire includes the thoughtful and tender love song I fell in love with a Minger. The lead singer and bass player, Boggy, has a magnificent red Mohican and was sporting what looked like dog collars just below his knees which made him look a bit like a demented Morris Dancer. I’ve had a dream of forming a punk Morris Team for some time now and I think Boggy would look great in it. I made a mental note to tackle him about it if I saw him later.

A drink or two later and we went to see The Duel. The rambling man introduced me to the Duel; well, not literally, he gave me a CD. I think they’re great and Tara Rez has a great voice. I am happy to report that they are equally good live. There was a slight problem with one of Tara’s shoes coming apart while she was on stage but, apart from that, the set went without a hitch. I stood right at the front (my favourite place at a gig) and soaked it all in.

After that, it was back to the bar but I spotted John Robb and went and had a chat. He remembered me! I also had my photo taken with him (this was the first of a few I had taken with lead singers of bands I like). I have to admit, I look a bit of a loon in the picture but it’s not everyday I get a kiss off one of my heroes. So here it is. I may have mentioned in previous blogs that it is my considered opinion that John Robb’s sweat has magical properties. Well, so do his kisses. He turned my knees to jelly and my feet to ice-cream.

In the bar, I saw Jock, the lead singer of the Straps. I first saw the Straps in 1979 or 1980, when I was 16 and I thought they were great. I spent the next few months stalking Jock, who worked at Boy, a punk boutique on the Kings Road and hob-nobbing with the band at every opportunity. Jock is now married with kids (a bit like me) and he was accompanied by his wife, Kate, who I liked immediately. At one point, I bought the Straps’ new CD from Jock. We were joined a little later by the guitarist (and sole original band member), Dave and I took this picture of Jock and Dave in conference with Charlie Harper of the UK Subs.

Sometime later, I spotted Boggy from 3CR and went over to him to confront him about his Morris Dancing Accessories. He told me that they were dog collars but that didn’t wash with me. I know lots of Morris Dancers who fasten dog collars just below the knee. The only difference is they attach bells to them first. I suggested to Boggy that he might want to join my punk Morris Team (still to be formed). He did not seem too receptive at first but I persisted and eventually, he agreed, although I think he was simply trying to get me to shut up and go away. I obliged but not before I had my photo taken with him. 3CR might not be the best known punk band out there but I think they’re great and that makes Boggy punk royalty. So I have to have my photo taken with him. As you can see, I’m proudly clutching my new Straps CD.

I also found another lead singer to have my photo taken with – Animal from The Anti Nowhere League. Being a shy, retiring sort of person, I asked Jock to take me over and introduce me. Jock obliged, Animal obliged and I had my photo taken with him by (I think) Shady. I actually managed to maintain a relatively normal facial expression too. Not bad really.

The last two bands I saw were Splodgenessabounds and The Last Resort. I was tired during the Last Resort’s set so I retired to bed before it finished. You see, I may be a punk, but I’m an old punk and I like to be tucked up in bed with my cocoa by 10pm most nights. Not getting to bed before 2am really takes it out of me so I retired relatively early.

As it would say in one of my favourite magazines, “That’s enough for now – Ed”. Don’t worry, though, this will be continued.