16

A Sign from Above

Sefton Samuels / Popperfoto via Getty Images

Once my training was over, I got my very own Transit van with an orange light on top, and I was told that I would be on-call every other two nights. I also got my own walkie-talkie and, even better, my very own call signal – ‘Whisky Oscar, One-One-One’. Not the coolest of call signals, I’ll grant you that – and good luck saying it after a few beers – but I couldn’t have cared less, because I absolutely loved my new job.

It wasn’t just that I was finally free of Red Bus and all the bullshit of the music industry. And it wasn’t just relief that I was finally making a steady living. When I was out in my little van . . . I felt like I was performing an important service.

In those days, you’ve got to remember, if your windscreen broke when you were driving down the A1, you couldn’t just pick up your phone and call for help. You had to get out of the car and walk to the nearest emergency telephone. And if you were a long way between phones, or if it was dark and pissing it down – and as I may have already mentioned, it was often pissing it down – it could be a frightening, exhausting experience. You could end up freezing to death in winter if you weren’t careful. And this being 1970s Britain, often the first phone you tried didn’t even work. Which meant you had to walk to the next one. Then all the way back to your car.

Needless to say, by the time my van pulled up, most people were over the moon to see me – and I got a great sense of pleasure watching a family of four in their little Austin Maxi toddle off after I’d got them back on the road again. I even started to think about going into business on my own – that’s how much I’d accepted the fact that this was going to be my life from now on. It wasn’t that I’d given up on singing – I’d just convinced myself to treat it as a hobby now. Even if, deep down, a part of me still burned to prove that I could do more and hold my own with the best of them.

Like any job, of course, there were days when fitting windscreens could be a grind.

It was hard physical work, for a start – and you’d find yourself coming home with bits of glass and glue in your hair and your hands sticky and black from handling the windscreen rubber. And sometimes the customers could be difficult – or just weird.

One time, I got called out at about 11.30 p.m. to a huge articulated lorry with its front window out. This was at Scotch Corner, about fifty miles south of Newcastle. And, of course, it was lashing it down at the time, and there was a ferocious gale blowing.

Now, the glass for a lorry is huge and extremely heavy and the only way I could reach the opening was by standing on the roof of the van. I was terrified the wind would catch me – or the glass – so I said to the driver, ‘Is there any way that you can hold one end while I get it into place?’ He looked back at me, unscrewed the cap of his flask, poured himself a nice hot cup of tea, and went, ‘Not my job’.

That was a fun night.

Then there was the time I got called out to a Ford Cortina in the middle of nowhere, only to find the driver sitting in the boot, drinking from a pile of miniature whisky bottles, absolutely off his head. On closer inspection, both the front and the back windscreens were out.

I got the fright of my life when I saw that mess.

Whatever he’d hit had gone in one end at such speed that it had come out the other. I’d never seen that before. And he had all the booze in the boot because he was a whisky salesman from Edinburgh who was dropping off samples at all the hotels along the A1.

He was unintelligible.

‘B . . . Br . . .’ he couldn’t get the words out. ‘Fucking, Bri . . .’ I thought he said bird. It must have been a big bugger.

‘No, brick . . .’ he finally managed. Ah, that explained why it had gone straight through. No wonder the guy was paralytic. The brick had been trapped between the two rear tyres of a truck he was behind, worked itself loose, then been shot right through his car, missing his head by inches.

Then I looked back at him, wondering how on earth he’d ever get himself in a fit enough state to drive the hundred-odd miles back home. But those were different times. People did shit every day of their lives that you’d get locked up for today. But I’d done my best for him. And he did give me six bottles of whisky as a tip.

By the time Margaret Thatcher became Britain’s new prime minister in May 1979, I honestly don’t think you could have found a faster, harder-working windscreen fitter in the entire country than yours truly. I had that job down to a fine art. And I was making money. In fact, if it hadn’t been for what happened next, I might never have given it up . . .

It was about three or four o’clock in the afternoon – the beginnings of what passed for rush hour in those days – when my walkie-talkie crackled to life. ‘Brian?’ said the dispatcher. ‘Please, fast as you can, son, we’ve got a black Ford Cortina Mark IV just north of Scotch Corner. They’re in an awful hurry.’

Now, a brand-new Cortina Mark IV was a very nice ride in those days, and in black it would look the absolute business. So, when I jumped into the van and sped off towards the A1, I already knew that this was going to be a higher class of customer.

I wasn’t wrong.

From the moment I set eyes on the car, I could tell there’d be something different about this job. There were two guys in the back, one of them wearing a panama hat with dark glasses. Another two guys were outside, leaning on the bonnet, smoking, both dressed in black. They just had this sense of . . . freedom about them. Like they didn’t belong in the normal, nine-to-five world. It was something that I hadn’t been around for a long time. Something that I missed . . .

A lot.

‘What’s your name?’ asked one of the smokers in this very smooth, commanding voice.

‘Brian,’ I said.

‘Okay Brian,’ he said. ‘Here’s the situation. We’ve got a V.I.P. in the back and he’s due on stage at Hammersmith Odeon at 9 p.m. tonight. It’s 4.15 p.m. now – and it’s a five-hour drive to London . . . maybe a bit less if we put our foot down.’ He pointed to the Cortina’s smashed windscreen. ‘How quickly can you pop a new one of these in? There are 3,500 people relying on us to get to that venue on time.’

Holy shit, I thought.

‘Give me fifteen minutes,’ I said.

‘C’mon, son. Realistically . . . how long?’

‘Fifteen minutes.’

I worked so fast, it was like I was in a trance. I got the old windscreen out in two minutes, no problem. Then I dove into the cabin with the portable vacuum, resisting the urge to try and catch a glimpse of the V.I.P. in the back. Then I ran back to the van. Found the replacement glass. On went the new rubber. Then I wrapped the cord into the channel, carried the glass over to the car, placed it over the opening – bash-yank, bash-yank, bash-yank – until finally, it locked into place over the lip.

‘Done,’ I said, sweat pouring down my face.

‘That wasn’t fifteen minutes,’ the guy said. ‘It was more like twelve. What’s the damage?’

‘Twenty-five pounds.’

He pulled out his wallet, took out two crisp twenties, and pushed them into my hand.

‘Keep the change,’ he said.

Holy shit.

Then he jumped into the driver’s seat, fired up the engine and began to pull away . . . just as I realized that I’d forgotten to ask the V.I.P.’s name.

But I found out anyway, because the car jerked to a halt as the rear window drew up alongside me. Down rolled the glass. Then out came a pale, hairy arm, holding up a T-shirt.

‘Here you go,’ a voice said, in a Cockney accent that sent a shiver down my spine.

The voice was unmistakable. At that time, it was being played all over the radio, at all hours of the day, all over the world. I couldn’t believe it. I was being given a T-shirt, personally, by none other than Ian Dury . . . whose latest single, ‘Hit Me with Your Rhythm Stick’, was currently at No. 1 in the U.K. charts.

I took the T-shirt – dumbstruck – while staring at my reflection in Dury’s glasses.

The window rolled back up . . .

Then with a squeal of tyres, the Cortina roared away in the direction of Hammersmith Odeon.

I wish that was me, I thought.

I looked down at the T-shirt – which was black with ‘IAN DURY AND THE BLOCKHEADS’ written on it in white – while trying to catch my breath. Every nerve-ending in my body felt like it was on fire. It wasn’t just that I’d met a rock’n’roll star. Suddenly, I just knew that I could do it again – even in my thirties, even after trying and failing to make it once.

The truth was, of course, it wasn’t even really a choice.

That energy, that sense of freedom – I belonged around it.

It wasn’t just a part of me.

It was me.

I had to find a way to get back in the game.