37. Paulie Drowns His Kittens (And Gets a Shock)

Meanwhile, there was still no sign of Paulie. Not a hair or a sexed-up meow. Already he’d missed a sound-check and the Kittens were frantic. Admittedly the cub reporter was famous for erratic behaviour and late appearances. Nobody had been able to get in touch with him during the day, either at home or work. Obviously he was out of touch during the night. They didn’t want to guess his intentions because his mind was like the Bermuda Triangle.

Then, the clock ticking, just when his group was beginning to mutiny, Wellington amazed everybody by showing. They were huddled in an emergency conference, deciding how to continue, slagging him off, when he put his head around the door. He breezed in as if he was doing them and the whole music business a massive favour. Oddly, at this moment, he had his work suit jacket hooked over his shoulder, as if merely calling by. In a charming and matey mood, those blue eyes gleaming with cheer, he greeted his hired musicians, as if wristwatches and promises had never been invented.

Dennis noticed him first. ‘Hey everybody, it’s dat Paulie boy. Wha’ppen wi you Paulie? We didn’ expect you so late? Where you been hangin’ out, man?’

‘Paulie’s here!’ Herb declared.

‘What the fuck time do you call this?’ Anna-kissed shouted at him.

‘Knock me down with feather,’ Dennis remarked, on his feet.

‘We’ve had the sound check. We’ve gone through your songs, trying to make sense of them. I wasn’t going to sing that rubbish... unless you did, mate!’ Anna confronted him.

‘Phew, calm down lads, what’s up with you lot? What’s the big deal, eh? I’m here now, aren’t I? Where do you think I was?’ Wellington wondered, with an ironic chuckle.

‘Fucking Shetland Islands,’ Herb objected.

‘Yeah, maybe, so just give us a bit of notice, Paulie man,’ Dennis suggested.

‘You already got permission to leave work early. To get our gear...to change... to go through the sound check,’ Anna-kissed reminded him. ‘Don’t give us any more fucking stories.’

‘Okay Anna, but some of us have got a real job to do,’ Paulie commented.

‘You got this band final scheduled, weeks ago,’ Herb said.

‘Paulie man, we already been and done a sound check. You wasn’t anywhere, man! You’re just wastin’ dis band’s time!’ The sticks magician had changed into a string vest and sweat bands.

As if inspired by this observation, Wellington protested. ‘Come on Dennis mate, keep your bloody shirt on. I’ve been slaving away in the bloody newspaper office all day, if you must know.’

‘Seen, Paulie man, bu’ you knew we had the big gig tonight!’ Dennis said, glaring. ‘Y’want to get here on time, boy! Why yer messin us about for?’

‘Okay, phoo, don’t get into a heavy atmosphere, Dennis mate. Here I am now. I’m still bloody vocalist and songwriter, aren’t I? So I got here as soon as I humanly could,’ Paulie argued. He was stunned by their unreasonable insensitivity.

‘You didn’t rehearse or practice this week,’ said the Kittens guitarist.

‘Come on, Anna, you don’t need me for last minute practice. You got the tunes by now. They’re all my bloody songs, aren’t they? I took ages over those tracks. Anyway, I know how to sing... and I know my own songs, don’t I. So help me out on this.’ He had a hurt expression.

‘Incredible you ever jumped into bed with this idiot,’ Herb remarked.

‘Right, phew, so you want to be a sexist now as well, do you Herb?’ Paulie challenged.

‘Right so where’s your gear Paulie?’ Anna-kissed asked. She noticed him standing about, pink faced, yet empty handed.

‘I got here from the bloody office,’ he told her numbly.

‘So what are you telling us?’ Herb told him, furiously.

‘Get you, Paulie. Do you think we’re all fucking dimwits?’ she yelled.

‘What yer up to, Paulie man?’

‘Phoo, relax. I only popped by to see how you were doing. Thanks a lot for the support. Now I’ve got to nip back home to change... to find my instrument and stuff.’

‘Not those ludicrous bongos,’ Herb despaired.

‘Oh my god!’

‘And don’t think I’m wearing that stupid blouse you came up with.’

‘What do you mean? Those are our stage costumes,’ Paulie reminded him. ‘What’s bloody wrong with the costumes, all of a sudden?’

‘Wipe your arse with them,’ Herb suggested.

‘Phew, that’s a really dodgy comment!’

‘I’m this town’s Brian Ferry. Tell him, Anna. I’m not wearing those smocks. I love fashion.’

‘Those are Egyptian suns, like bloody Sun Ra mate,’ Wellington rebuked him.

‘Suns? Or giant egg stains? You want to come over like Joni Mitchell or what’s the idea?’

‘Okay, I hear you. So keep your cool, Herb mate... you should mind that bloody ego of yours, mate,’ Paulie suggested, with an ironic laugh. ‘It’s getting out of control.’

‘There’s no time for return ‘ome trip now, Paulie man,’ Dennis warned.

‘What if we’re first on? How can you get home and back again... in time to play our slot?’

‘All right, Anna, I’ll get back as soon as I humanly can, all right. I just dropped in to say hello to you lads. Why did I bloody bother?’ Wellington said, huffing in disappointment, loosening his tie a jot.

‘That’s great isn’t it? You expect us to hang around, in the remote hope that you may join us on time.’

‘Come on Herb, don’t get your knickers in a twist, mate. You’re not on that stage yet,’ Paulie protested, with a sarcastic noise.

‘Are you committed to this group or not?’ Anna challenged.

‘Phoo, it’s my group, isn’t it? I invited you to join, didn’t I?’

‘He’s a waste of space.’

‘Phew, a really dodgy attitude. There’s no need to be aggressive. Who pulled your nose?’ Wellington wanted to know.

‘Okay, Paulie, don’t yer hang around man. If ya late, I’m t’rowin down me sticks an callin’ the whole gig off. D’ya get me, Paulie man?’ McDonald warned. ‘I didn’ join ya band to be mucked about like this.’

‘Come on Dennis, bloody hell, who’s mucking who around?’ Paulie told him, blowing air. The lead Kitten looked hurt and surprised by unjustified criticisms. He was a genius surrounded by these unfeeling dullards.

Apart from the sex, you had to say, his life was a complete shambles.

***

Roy Smith came along later. He wasn’t in any group, so he wasn’t under any pressure, not even to recruit new SWP members. In his case he really was doing us a favour. Finishing his hours at the tax office, he’d changed into his after-work proletarian-wear.

Roy and I intended to sell copies of Ob-scene fanzine. In addition he wanted to flog a whole alternative bookshop of radical publications. All that stuff had to go under the counter. In Roy’s opinion, if the punks kicked up an insurrection, it might be the trigger for a worldwide revolution.

‘Away, Bottle, you’re not lookin’ in such fine fettle tonight, man. So what the bloody hell happened to yer, marra?’ Roy wondered. He noticed all the cuts and bruises.

‘Another close shave with those NF boys,’ I explained.

‘Oh nawh! Norragen, comrade! When did this happen mind?’

‘In the changing room. Before the band sound-checked. What’s worse, we reckon they nicked Stan’s guitar.’

He wrung his lank fringe in anguish. The eyes glittered with indignation. ‘Away man, what’s he going to do now?’

‘Well, he borrowed Anna-kissed’s guitar. No, it doesn’t sound too bad. Better than nothing... Snot isn’t happy though.’

‘M’be we’ll find them fascist bast’ads and gerrit back off ‘em, mind!’

‘I’m not sure if that magic guitar’s in one piece... even if we got time to negotiate,’ I remarked.

Then, afraid that Paulie would let down his Kittens, we went to have a warning word with him. Maybe he was already losing enthusiasm for punk music. That was likely because he was easily distracted from one cultural style to another. Paulie’s hairstyle had changed even more regularly than youth fashions. He’d sold his record collection several times in recent memory. That was a first warning sign. How to stop him selling-out his punk rock collection too?

We caught up with him.

‘Come on Roy mate. You can’t expect me to perform those songs on an empty stomach.’

‘What are you tawkin’ aboot, marra? Away Paulie, there’s a good Chinese takeaway just down the road,’ Smith suggested. ‘Just go there and buy something quick and ge’ back here, comrade.’

‘No, I can’t survive on take-aways, Roy.’

This was an ironic reference to the Trotskyite’s notoriously unhealthy diet. Boiled-in-the-can steak and kidney pies definitely had revolutionary effects on the lower orders.

‘Ai Paulie, get some fish ‘n’ chips in, man!’ he suggested. He was working his way through the entire SWP cookbook. Certainly fish ‘n’ chips always tasted best during an SWP camp at Skeggy - wrapped in back copies of the paper no doubt.

‘Come on, Roy mate, I’ve just got to pop home, to pick up my bongos and change clothes,’ the reporter said. ‘I’ll get a bite to eat at the Mansion, won’t I?’

The big hearted Trotskyite was struggling with his breath. ‘Away Paulie, so mek sure you’re back here at the Hall... in good time for the band contest, comrade.’

‘All right, Roy mate, what’re you getting excited about? I know all that. There’s no need to remind me.’ He watched his friend’s agitation with amusement.

‘Ai, just so long as you do, comrade. There’s no pint qualifying for the final, marra, if you don’t... if you doon’t take it seriously mind. You’ve already missed the sound check!’ Smith reminded him, starting to fume.

‘Okay, Roy, what are you upset about? I can join them later on, mate, when it all gets going. They can’t do without me, Roy.’

‘Away, Paulie, is that the case, mind? Just mek sure you get yourself back on time, or them Kittens is gonna kick yar arse. Don’t say I haven’t warned you, comrade!’

‘Phew, that’s really dodgy, Roy mate,’ he puffed. ‘That came over as a bit bloody aggressive... if I’m being honest with you.’

Roy was trying to knock some sense that wasn’t there, like trying to put in a brick after the house has been built.

‘Come on, Roy mate, get off my bloody back, will you?’

‘Off your back, man? This is the final Paulie, so no second chances, comrade.’

‘Don’t hassle me, Roy. You think I’d let my own band down?’

‘Ai, I do. That’s exactly what I’m thinking, man.’

‘All right, so I’m just going home to get a quick bite to eat... pick up my bongos... and I’ll be back here in a bloody flash, Roy mate,’ he pledged.

‘Away Paulie, make sure you don’t have any dis’ractions.’

Rarely, if only to avoid Roy’s criticisms, the reporter turned his attention to me. ‘So you think I can win tonight, Bottle?’

I backed up Roy. ‘They have no chance if you don’t turn up.’

‘That’s what I thought. This group of mine’s roots and radical,’ Paulie play-acted. ‘Crucial! We’ve got this peace and love vibe going on.’

‘Paulie, don’t be such a buff-oon man! Just get hoom an’ pick up those bongos!’

***

Mick Dove was in the foyer with Dildo band-mates and supporters. These lads gave us a look of hatred as instant as powdered potato. Hatred was the drug they were thinking of. But, with my background, I wasn’t afraid of Dove’s fists, or any other part of him. Typically his type relied on dark nights, the element of surprise and greater numbers.

He hissed at me. ‘What the fuck you doing here, Bottle? Didn’t you get our writing on the wall?’

You had to strain your ears to get his sinister voice.

‘Completely lost on me, that was,’ I told him.

‘You can’t read?’

‘Away, you fascist bast’ads, Bottle’s here to review all the groops tonight. Ai, he’s a regular cont-rib-utor to Music Mail mind... one of the biggest sellin weekly music peepers.’

Even Roy had swallowed Gorran’s tide of hype about my rock writing.

‘No sweat Roy, I’ll settle this one,’ I said. As if they hadn’t spoiled my funny looks.

Anyway Dove wasn’t impressed. As yet there were only a few people around the foyer; waiters stocking up the bars, students unstacking chairs, a few roadies taking early refreshments, council officials and probably the EMI A&R man. I couldn’t pick out Starry - I didn’t have the Mortal manager’s instincts.

‘Mortal needs to retire,’ Dove scoffed.

‘They’re not leaving this building without a record contract,’ I said.

‘Fuck off home, commie wankers.’

‘Phew, did you hear what he just said to us, Roy. Phew, that was really dodgy,’ the cub reporter observed.

‘Ai, well said comrade. These Nazi lads have no place upsettin’ the working class in these late capitalist times,’ Roy reposted.

‘Get back to Mexico, Trotsky,’ Dove told him.

‘This isn’t one of your Hitler youth rallies,’ I said.

‘Watch your mouth, you geeky faced wanker.’

Paulie stared in open-mouthed astonishment at this abuse from real-life fascists.

‘I’m almost scared,’ I bragged.

‘You don’t understand youth music,’ Dove argued - adenoidal, through his teeth. ‘You don’t get Steel Dildo.’

‘I get you.’ They wouldn’t be featuring in Smash Hits this side of the beer hall putsch.

Dove further narrowed his eyes at me. ‘You don’t understand the music of the native people,’ he argued.

‘You don’t intimidate us,’ I insisted - though his mates were having a very good try.

‘Away man, cos the working class’s gonna start the fight back... the fight back against the fascist scum,’ Roy began to rage. ‘We’re gonna take back the streets, until our communities are safe mind. Seef for all races and creeds in a post capitalist sorci-ety!’ At the end of his breath, Roy was beginning to spit - like a police water cannon threatening to turn on.

‘Fuck off Trot.’

‘Away, cos all yas fascists do is exploit the demoralisation of the working class... faced with mass unemployment... the lack of a real socialist alternative in this cun-ree mind,’ he spluttered. Roy was pumping himself up towards an SWP clenched fist.

‘Who’s this little Trot, Mick?’ wondered the Dildo drummer. This sidekick was a lad off the Tech college metalwork course; a beefy skin with huge red ears, in a ‘patriotic’ tee and regulation steam-pressed drainpipes. Smithy was changed into his Marxist slogan tee and heroically ripped and scuffed jeans. He’d shrugged out of the Inland Revenue gear.

‘Don’t you get our youth policy?’ Dove hissed.

‘Your policy isn’t working on us,’ I said.

‘Native youth’s waking up. They don’t want the agenda of socialist punks.’

Frozen with shock, expelling air, Paulie said, ‘Phew, that’s really dodgy!’

‘Ai, Paulie marra, doon’t worry man. It’s dis-gustin’ propa-ganda. I heard exac-ly what he said. Fascist scum, take your fucking Nazi shite back down the sewer... where it belongs, will yer!’

‘Native youth doesn’t want commie crap,’ Dove informed us.

‘Ai, the only way’s to fight ‘em on the streets!’

There were at least a dozen of this scum fronting up. In my view you had to choose your battles. Otherwise our bruises would get bruises.

‘We ain’t going to tolerate lefty bands,’ Dove smirked.

‘Did you hear what he just said, Roy? It’s really dodgy stuff, isn’t it.’

Dove finally turned his attention to the distraught cub reporter. ‘Who asked your view? You’re that idiot... with all those girls hanging off you,’ he mocked. Another of the ‘Jealous Minds’.

‘Phew, I reckon this lad’s really sexist as well... really dodgy in his political views, Roy mate.’ Pinking, Paulie made a disapproving noise and flipped his eyes up in horror.

‘An’ that fucking awful reggae noise! Grass skirts and coc’anuts.’

There was startlingly loose and unrestrained laughter. ‘Where’s your dress tonight, Paulie?’ wondered the Dildo drummer.

‘Phew, that’s really out of order, mate. You can’t say that kind of stuff. It’s really sexist.’

‘Ai, there’s no place in this coun’ry for right-wing idiots, Dove man,’ Roy fulminated.

‘You fucking Trots,’ Dove snarled, raising his fist towards us.

The very next moment, without warning, Paulie shot out of the venue. He fled through the revolving doors. In a split-second he had vanished. There was barely a single frame ‘after image’. He was off into the high-street. This was not to show solidarity with the working class and to fight the young Nazis. No, it was to hide out in the shopping centre.

Wellington was gone; as if he’d identified a long lost identical twin unexpectedly flown back to the UK from Australia, after a tragic separation at birth. I only got the most fleeting glimpse of the flaps of his jacket. For a few seconds the revolving doors were still turning, without any occupant.

‘Tell Snot and his band that the gig is off,’ Dove was saying.

‘Mortal won’t listen to any threats,’ I said.

‘British youth are sick of socialists.’

‘You want another kickin’?’ their drummer asked.

‘May the best punks win,’ I suggested. I was beginning to stammer. That happened. It made me sound frightened. Which I wasn’t. Anyway, I wasn’t frightened of Dove. Thermo-nuclear war maybe. The scrapheap, certainly.

The NF boys shifted on steel-capped boots.

‘Away man, any more fightin’ and intimidation... the socialist movement’ll be weetin to fight you during tonight’s gig,’ Roy warned.

‘Make it a date, Trot.’

‘Stan wants his guitar back,’ I said. ‘That’s right, don’t be surprised... I know you nicked it from their dressing room... That’s a special guitar. His uncle gave it to him.’

‘What guitar?’ Dove jeered.

‘Not anybody can play that instrument. Be warned. It could fight back, if you plug it in.’

‘What you talking about? Shit, Bottle.’

‘Give it back!’

‘Fuck off. I’ve got my guitar.’

‘Away man, that doesn’t belong to you... you fascist bas’tad.’

Dove scoffed. ‘So property isn’t theft any more, Trot?’

‘Stan needs his guitar back.’

‘Let the British people judge.’

‘Another fool, Roy. He doesn’t get it. Stan’s the only lad who can handle that guitar,’ I warned again.

‘What’s so fucking special about it? Just a bit of wood with metal strings, isn’t it.’

‘Away Bottle, what’s happened to our Paulie mind?’ Roy exclaimed, looking desperately from side to side.