A trip to Number 10 (AKA A day in the life of a Cycle Courier #2)

I’d been riding the obscene streets of Soho (and surrounding environs) for around 5 months and Christmas was approaching like a Routemaster in a cycle lane. The good offices of the National Magazine Company were spreading vast amounts of Christmas cheer and it was an excellent time to be working out of Broadwick Street. A torrent of work, delivering numerous Christmas cards, chichi tat and well wrapped (and securely Sellotaped) bottles of Le Plonk du Jour from early morning to early evening. 

By now I was suitably ride-fit to be able to cover 60-90 miles a day and still stop off at the John Snow Pub* to demolish a couple of pints of Stella Artois before meandering via Piccadilly, Trafalgar Sq, Whitehall, Westminster (complete with the Westminster Bridge sprint), Albert Embankment, Vauxhall, The Oval, Brixton, Shower, Kitchen, Fridge, Lager…. Sleep. Repeat ad nauseam… 

 

As the day-by-day calendar pages tore towards Christmas Day, a number of couriers decided that they had made their money for the month and started to pick & choose which days to work. I wasn’t in that space, in fact, the more pink dockets, the more likely I’d be able to make it down to Eastbourne for Christmas with at least a couple of presents. 

 

So, whilst others started to embrace the festive season, I was splashing through oil covered puddles, jumping onto/off of pavements, sliding round Hyde Park Corner, hopping on the Circle Line (you could take bikes then), hacking my way up to Hampstead Garden Suburb and generally skidding round inner London. The major problem was the tourists who hadn’t worked out which way traffic came from and the part-time drinkers who hadn’t worked out how not to step into the road. 

 

Everyone finally made it to Christmas Eve and I was all set to clock off around 4:30pm when the Slim Controllerä popped his head through the courier room hatch and said “Andy, 3 jobs for you in Westminster… all on your way home”. Fantastic, other than getting a delivery to my own home, this was the next best thing. 

 

I popped the envelopes into my fluorescent Guardian Bag, bade farewell and Merry Christmas to the assorted post-room characters (inc. Chris the Slim Controllerä, Eddie Schwindling & Crazy Dave (who used to ride the Wheel of Death down at Southend wearing a white tuxedo and holding a red rose between his teeth - allegedly)). 

 

With the sound of ring pulls being pulled and general guffaws echoing down the stairs. I slipped into reception and out into Soho. My bike was (as always) locked onto a parking zone sign. No flats, lights on and soon rolling through the pedestrians only (NO BIKES) epicentre of faux-Mod culture – Carnaby Street (#NOTwhatitusedtotbe). The ride down was suitably uneventful, nearly took out a pensioner stepping off the pavement outside the Café Royal, avoided a Financial Times liveried London Taxi and swore at a white van (with a St Georges Cross – even then a tell-tale sign) who got a little too close to the kerb (let alone me).

 

However, once I’d nipped over Trafalgar Square, memories of the mass CND march that culminated in The Pop Group playing ‘Jerusalem’ underneath Nelson’s malignant gaze filling my head, I was on Whitehall and heading to 10 Downing Street.

 

10 Downing Street, the real seat of power. 10 Downing Street, the head of the British Government. 10 Downing Street, where there be monsters. 10 Downing Street, Thatcher’s Den! 

 

The Cenotaph twinkled in the damp night, illuminated by small spotlights, traffic reflections and the dull tangerine low glow of GLC street lighting. A couple of London life-stained bouquets of by now black paper poppies clung to the base of the memorial of those who served (and died). I swooped in front of a couple of red (Khaki under this light) buses and mounted the pavement. 

 

As per my earlier journey to Buck House, I fully expected to be redirected to a postal out-house, where they could examine the contents of my incendiary Christmas cards (at least that’s what I always assumed they were). But no! A cursory glance from Constable Bootboy (at least that’s what I had always assumed that Met PC’s were called) and I was told to leave my bike against a wall near the gate** and to simply walk up and knock on the door.

 

Knowing not to bother to ask him to keep an eye on my bike (see Tea at the Palace), all would be well under the alert gaze of Inspector Bastard and his trusted crew of belligerent psychopaths. So, I set off down the street, my by now rather squelchy and knackered old black 10-hole DM’s*** making barely a sound. 

 

I had expected a policeman at the door of no. 10 but no. So, I reached out but before I had had time to tap out ‘The Red Flag’ on the door, it swung open. I was greeted by a suited chap, in a rather ill-fitting suit.

 

“I’ve got a delivery for the Prime Minister”

“Thank you. I’m authorised to take that”

“Can you sign my docket please?”

“Ok”

“Do you also take deliveries for Number 11?”

“Yes”

 

And with that I stepped forward half in/half out, one foot on the doormat and saw the black and white chequered floor… I handed over the two envelopes. 

One was marked for the attention of: The Right Honourable Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and Northern Ireland Mrs Margaret Thatcher, 10 Downing Street. The other marked for the attention of: Mrs Geoffrey Howe, 11 Downing Street, London INNIT!

 

The chap in the ill-fitting suit, signed and handed back the dockets. I thanked him and glanced back into the hallway. Bodies were flying everywhere, trying desperately hard to look double busy, lest a member of the voting public (i.e. me) questioned their diligence. And to think that, if I’d been doing the job some 30 years later during lockdown, I’d be met with a chink of glasses and a prat in a party hat! 

 

I stepped back and the door closed effortlessly behind me… 2 down and only one more delivery to go before. I checked it was still safe and it was. The neat calligraphy, the expensive vellum envelope and the hackle raising name… the Rt Hon. Edwina Currie, all still in place. 

 

Confession time – I cannot deny that the temptation to meddle with all three of the envelopes, once they’d been handed to me, was immense. However, the desire to get the job done and get home was even greater. Also, I wasn’t entirely sure that a homemade Sarin attack was really practical, sensible or even ‘fair’. Whilst the moral dilemma rattled round and round inside my head (like ‘Crazy Dave’ on the Kursaal Wheel of Death). 

 

I crossed Whitehall and slipped into the Parliament Grounds. I was directed to Incoming Goods’. PC Jobsworth greeted me with unconcealed distain – at last a copper one could take an immediate dislike to. We were both back on familiar territory. I proffered the envelope and he took a step back. “We can’t take any deliveries unless it has been scanned”. He explained. “and…. scanning is only open Monday to Friday 10am-4pm”. He smirked.

 

“Well, what should I do?”. I asked rather meekly.

“I dunno. Take it to the Post Office?”

I looked at the clock on the wall behind the very slappable face of PC Jobsworth. No self-respecting Post Office would be open at 6:40pm, at Christmas Time, on a Friday, with rainclouds gathering overhead, under this administration, at the height of Old Ma Thatch’s evil regime… I thought to myself.

 

“Oh well, fuck it”. I responded with all the maturity I could muster. I slung the envelope back in my bag, slung the bag over my shoulder, slung my bike back around, slung myself on the saddle and slung my hook… Back to Broadwick St, all locked up. Apart from a very miserable security guard. 

The guard (Charlie? Charlie something… Himmler? Maybe not) reluctantly opened up and I asked him to sign for the envelope. He looked and pointed out that he wasn’t farkin’ Edwina farkin’ Currie. You couldn’t fault his logic – unlike his dress sense, haircut, body odour and extreme politics, all of which were grotesque and could be very harshly questioned. But his logic, in this instance was spot on. He would never be mistaken for being farkin’ Edwina farkin’ Currie!

 

Anyway, after 2 minutes of one-way (the wrong way) banter, Charlie (Chuckles? Von Bismark? Bormann? – it’ll come to me) finally signed the chit and I headed back out of the building.

 

I stood under the Carnabition Lights and wondered if the girl from Cosmo was still in the pub with the rest of the fashion desk. I went to tuck the pink slip away and only then noticed the signature ‘Edwina farkin’ Currie’!

 

I smiled to myself, at the same time as vowing revenge… the West End lights flickered again in the Soho rain puddles, the lost voice of Malcolm Owen echoed in my head…

 

“Lights are burning red and white
Lost on an island in the night
Rescue me or here I'll stay
A traffic island castaway…
…Out in the dark and on my own (shine on me)
I'm stranded here with no way home (shine on me)”.****

 

Back on my bike, my legs push again… Merry farkin’ Christmas!

 

 

Ends

 

 

*The John Snow was named after the renowned English Physician who made the link between a particular public water pump and a Cholera outbreak in that there trendy Soho. The particular pump was in Broad Street (latterly Broadwick Street) and the John Snow pub was located on the self-same corner.  

 

I was initially drawn to the John Snow because I had hoped it was in honour of the finest fast bowler Sussex & England has ever seen (Ok, maybe The Burnley Lara, aka Mr Jimmy Anderson, aka Timmy Banderson - #tailendersoftheworlduniteandtakeover) has a decent claim to be above him. Nobody else though, nobody else.). 

 

Anyway, it was my pub of choice for the first couple of years working in that there trendy Soho. Until Samuel Smith brewers took it over and shattered the lugubrious/down at heel ambience that we revelled in. The appearance of their rather ghastly Alpine Lager very swiftly led to a migration to The Old Coffee House (and that is a whole different story/history/blog/podcast/TV Series/Netflix Special).

 

** The gate at the opening to Downing St was a relatively new thing. Because I distinctly remember previously strolling back (well, speeding off my tits to be honest) from the Jazz Rooms at the Wag Club to get the Milk Train, via Whitehall and finding ourselves halfway down Downing St before Constable GBH asked us to turn around and toddle off home. 

 

*** When I first became a courier, I was determined to not allow the job to compromise my style choices. So, first few weeks involved black only cycle gear with occasional band T-shirts slung over the top and Adidas Samba (when they were stylish and not worn by numpty PM’s). However, as nights drew in and rain accompanied the shrinking of daylight, I embraced a more practical dress-code and after a while my DM’s became perfectly adapted to the rough ‘n tumble tarmac action – especially when my breaks stopped working and I rode without brakes for 3 months and only braked by slamming my right foot down. 

 

**** West One (Shine on me) – The Ruts

An ode to Soho (both beautiful and sinister). A top, top tune from a sadly short-lived band, due to the Heroin induced demise of singer Malcom Owen. The rest of the band were Paul Fox (guitar), Segs (Bass) and the incomparable Dave Ruffy (Drums). Gary Barnacle is featured on Sax too. 

 

 

Tea at The Palace (AKA A day in the life of a Cycle Courier)

When I moved up to London in 1988, the whole Acid house scene was moving like a Womble* and as such things were starting to look a little brighter and more alive. I initially moved into a squat just off the Walworth Road. I’d taken an adidas holdall full of clothes (all very Dexy’s), a rusty 40-year-old camp bed and a relatively new Peugeot mountain bike. 

The mountain bike was to be my sole means of income for the first six months. I’d signed up to work for Olympic Couriers (based in Wimbledon) but I was working out of Broadwick Street Soho from the National Magazine Co. offices. The aim was simple - to try and work there until a role in the post room became available. In the meantime, I would be battling against the London traffic, English weather, errant pedestrians and unrealistic expectations. 

NB: At that time being a cycle courier in London had the second shortest life expectancy (out of wartime) of any UK job occupation. North Sea divers being the only ones who were more likely to be rushing through the pearly gates quicker than a sideswiped courier being bounced down Commercial Road.

 

Some days I’d simply be cycling round the West End, dropping various treats to Soho ad agencies, on others I’d be going from Holland Park to Limehouse then up to Hampstead Heath, all for the sake of a pink docket that equated to a still to be determined value. 

 

It was a fantastic way to immerse myself in the city. From Lincoln’s Inn Fields to the wrong end of the Fulham Palace Road, from the foot of Brixton Hill to Suicide Bridge at Archway. My jobs took me all over the place. 

 

Like most workplaces, there was a hierarchy amongst the couriers. Top of the heap were those ‘serious cyclists’ who rode proper Road Bikes (think WIggo on MDMA), they were by far and away the quickest and were ideally suited for work outside of the rabbit warren of West One – especially the long legs out to Canary Wharf or Blackheath or Hammersmith or North Finchley etc. 

 

The next down the pyramid were the Muddy Fox crew, gnarled old/young/indeterminate mountain bikers (invariably White Rastas) attached to ad agencies who never knowingly went the right way up a wrong way street, never stopped at a red light and who could spin their Fox on a Stella bottle top – they knew short cuts that still have yet to be invented. 

 

I was in the third group, accomplished bike riders, unafraid of traffic, relatively fit, working out of a dedicated media company, could read an A-Z and negotiate Oxford Street in the last shopping days before Christmas rush hour. I cycled round, in, and indeed out of the capital for over half a year and survived with barely a scratch. Unlike some of those in strata 4-8… who found the pace of A-Z life somewhat harrowing. 

 

In fact, I was sent on five occasions to pick up a package from a fallen associate, including taking the package from a bloodstained courier bag as the hapless courier was being wheeled into the back of an ambulance in front of Marble Arch. Her sit up and beg shopping bike mangled into the shape of a rather brutalist Jean Tinguely tribute, propped up against a post box.

 

Nearing the end of my time (that job in the post room had actually materialised) I arrived in the office (just off Carnaby Street, pop pickers!) having collected the Red Star parcels from Kings Cross (just like every other morning). Chris, the slim controller asked me matter of factly if I wanted to go to ‘Buck House’. I shrugged my shoulders. He repeated ‘Buck House, you know on The Mall’. I wracked my brain but for the life of me I couldn’t think of a single pub on The Mall, let alone one called Buck House!

 

Chris stared in disbelief; “Buckingham Palace!”.

“Oh, of course”…

 

It was a wait & return job (the holy grail in the courier universe at that time). I’d picked up a fair bit of experience and was comfortable taking the most direct routes (wrong way up one-way streets, pavement riding, step gliding and general rule bending). Anyway, I got the wait & return docket and headed to the heart of the British Empire, resplendent in my relatively new ‘I am Kurious Oranj’ t-shirt, battered black cycling leggings and new batteries in my Sony Walkman. 

 

Down through Golden Square, by the back of the Café Royal, Piccadilly, Haymarket, Charles II St, across Pall Mall, Waterloo Place, Duke of York monument, down the steps, between the ICA and The Royal Society and swing right up The Mall and heading towards Buckingham Fucking Palace (BFP) – all soundtracked by the JTQ (James Taylor Quartet). Full speed ahead, swung round the Victoria Memorial and straight to the front gate. 

 

I’ll be honest and fully confess that I was expecting to be sent round the back to the tradesman’s entrance. Much to my complete surprise the rather ruddy faced ‘Bobby’ at the front gates (straight out of Ealing Comedy Central Casting) pointed at a door at the right end (as the hoi polloi look) of the main façade. “Just go to that door over there, sonny”. The Jim was left off, shame.

 

Somewhat in disbelief, I got back on my bike and cycled directly over to the door, some 10 metres from where an Irish Guard in full bearskin and red tunic etc stood. I managed to throw in a small skid, sending a little gravel across the red footway – no reaction! I looked for a bike rack – no bike rack! I looked round and decided to simply prop my bike against the front of the Palace. I thought about locking it and then asked the guard if he wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on it for me instead – no response! 

 

Before taking that fateful first step into BFP, I looked back and noticed quite a large posse of Japanese tourists (I recognised the ubiquitous JAL shoulder bag), loitering in front of the black & gold railings. 

 

To be honest, in my teenage dreams*** I had imagined my first step into the Palace would have been proceeded by weeks of armed insurrection, volleys of rifle fire and a close brush or two with HMQ’s finest. I certainly didn’t expect after my second step to be greeted by a rather effete equerry in a grey coat welcoming me into the inner sanctum (5 times removed). 

 

I handed over the envelope, FAO Princess Margaret (wait & return). I was then ushered into a plush room (all gold, white, beige & fawn) and offered a cup of tea. To which of course the appropriate response was, “Yes please”. The follow up question I didn’t expect. “Would you prefer Assam, Earl Grey, Darjeeling, Lapsang Souchong or English Breakfast?”. I went with the first one offered. 

 

It arrived in the finest bone China cup & saucer with a small plate of biscuits too. I was living like a prince (without the attendant paparazzi civil list salary and impending sexual scandals). I checked the three clocks in the room, they all told the same time (tick). 10 minutes passed, the longer this lasted the better, the joy of wait and return (tick). 

 

I scanned the paintings on the walls, some rather drab Scottish landscapes, dull washed-out skylines and rather angular looking horses parading before the gallops at some 19^th Century point to point. Odd vases and ashtrays covered the numerous wooden tables around the edge of the room. The various soft chairs scattered around the room were not quite pristine but… hey, for a couriers waiting room they were good enough. 

 

After 20 more minutes, I asked if I could use (and this is where I hesitated) the… er um WC? Toilet? Lavatory? Khazi? Bog? Shit-house? Loo?... I settled on Rest Room. Equerry no.4 (there had been a steady stream of virtually identical ‘chaps’), directed me to the Royal “Facility”. I was reminded of The Beatles sneaking a joint in one of the Palace bathrooms before receiving their OBE’s. Could this be the same? Most probably not but then again… the courier never knows… Cue unnecessary Beatles toilet puns**

 

Once I’d finished my ablutions, I returned to the waiting room, only to be informed by Eq.#3 that it shouldn’t be much longer to wait and to be asked if I needed anything? No, thank you. Sure enough 15 minutes later, Eq #2 flounced into the room and presented a fresh gold embossed envelope atop a silver tray, addressed for the attention of ‘Editor of Good Housekeeping’ magazine. I pouched the envelope, took a final look around the waiting room, said thank you to the Eq’s 1,2 ,3 & 4 and headed for the door. 

 

The sun had broken through the, by now, ragged clouds. My bike was exactly where I’d left it. I hopped on, thanked the Irish Guard – no response! And pushed off the wall, heading back to where I’d come in. It was only then that I noticed a phalanx of Sony video cameras capturing my exit. What on earth would those flocking outside BFP have made of: 

a) an unattended mountain bike propped up against the front of the palace? 

b) A cycle courier in a The Fall t-shirt, sprinting away from an Irish Guard on what must only be ‘The Royal Mountain Bike’****

 

I naturally took the opportunity to ride no-handed***** and still wonder if the Japanese travellers look back at their old shaky video footage in their old people’s home in Osaka and chuckle at the Crazy Gaijin on the “Royal Mountain Bike”, all those years ago. I suspect not. 

 

 

Ends

 

 

Sidebar Notes

 

*  - Underground > Overground if you really needed to ask. 

 

**  - Beatles Puns - Happiness is a warm bum, Being for the benefit of Mr Shite, Day Crapper, Drippy, drippy shake! I want to wash my hands, Norwegian Log (This turd has flown))…. Etc etc. Any complaints, please send to Private Eye Magazine.

 

***  - The more revolutionary rather than obvious teenage dreams (#sohardtobeat).

 

****  - The first Royal Mountain bike was originally designed by the Duke of Wellington during his final few years when he lived in Walmer Castle in Kent. The iron design was sadly not completed before his death. 

 

However, the design was bequeathed to Queen Victoria and she arranged for it to be built in the Iron Duke’s honour by Royal Jack-of-all-Trades Sir Humbert Raleigh (illegitimate descendent of Sir Walter). Sir Humbert’s first working model was built 1:3 and as such the Queen could not fit on the bike. She was not amused. 

 

Sir Humbert was banished to Nottingham and not welcomed back to court until he had manufactured a 1:1 version – with a ludicrously wide seat to accommodate a broader rider. He painted the bike a traditional Nottingham Green, unfortunately due to a chemical reaction upon contact with the iron frame, the light green turned a match darker hue. The final effect was quite striking and is widely thought to be the inspiration for British Racing Green. 

 

No contemporary record survives of how often Victoria rode the Duke’s contraption. However, the original bike is still on display in the Royal Cycling Squadron’s Archive, which is round the back of The Wheatsheaf, Cuckfield Sussex. (Open Bank Holidays Only – Knock three ties and ask for Cedric the Polisher). 

 

Sir Humbert has often been accused of stealing the design for his own benefit but this, like so much of this sidebar is open to debate. 

****  - My record no-handed ride was from Broadwick Street Soho to The Oval. A tidal wave of green lights and exceptionally light traffic aided this remarkable feat. The Guinness Book of Records were not contacted. 

 

Ends

Their club house was in a tiny yard off D’Arblay Street...

 THE SOHO RIFLEMEN

Est. 1984

I

Their club house was in a tiny yard off D’Arblay Street. They took it over from the recently disbanded facilities team of a local magazine company that had, up until then, used it to either; a) store re-purposed (i.e. stolen) gear from local shops, b) conduct midday card schools or c) conduct drunken midnight manoeuvres with Lilibet from accounts on a rather rotten looking mattress.

The Soho Riflemen were an odd bunch. A disparate group of stylish outsiders, creative collaborators and hard-living innovators. They predated the current bunch of self-obsessed influencers by a good three decades. Soho phone boxes were decorated (daily) with polaroids depicting the latest clothes the Riflemen were wearing. Typewritten poems were left pinned to pub noticeboards and startling new music filtered out from numerous speakers that were seemingly linked (or synchronised) to play the length and breadth of Soho. 

In addition, collection boxes were sent round various West-End pubs every Friday night. In those days, the implication of any collection taken up in a London pub with ‘4 the boys’ on the side was obvious. However, instead of the money wending its way back across the Irish Sea to support the families of those ‘on the blanket’. It found its way to “Riflemen’s Yard”, as it became known. 

By 1987, activity had reached warp speed. Paper aeroplane poems were literally being flung out of the barely open windows of Gt Windmill St knocking shops and from the top deck of tour buses. Cycle couriers were posting them through rogue letterboxes and traffic wardens were placing them on numerous windscreens. 

One such paper aeroplane poem was recently discovered tucked down behind an unopened bottle of Koskenkorva Salmiakki in the back bar of The Finland House (a home from home for left-wing dissident Finns and the latest group of freelance Dadaists plotting the overthrow of international capitalism using photocollage and explicit sexual images). The poem reads as follows:

Transmission will commence in 5,4,3,2,1…

The sun, trapped. Behind glass. A heart, imprisoned. The soul, fired. From a stolen gun. A thousand bullets rain down from heaven. A million tears, fall to earth. A hush descends, across London tonight. The lovers have been rounded up and shipped down river. The Thames, awash with blood…  

Making love is a revolutionary act.

Other activity involved subverting street signs, billboards and other prominent advertisements. Notably, one of the Riflemen offered to look after the sandwich board of the famous Oxford St ‘End of the world is Nigh’ man – Gregory Pinnock. When Mr Pinnock returned after a brief visit to the staff toilet in the Pantheon Marks & Spencer at 173 Oxford Street, he took back the Sandwich Board and carried about his business of reminding the infidels and holidaymakers of the perils of protein. It was only some three hours later, when yet another group of awayday Scallies (down for the Everton v West Ham game) gave him a massive thumbs up did he stop to check his sandwich board again. It read, quite simply:

‘The End of the world is High’

Mr Pinnock never let anyone, even a kindly looking Vicar from Bexhill-on-Sea, get hold of his sandwich board again. However, that didn’t stop the Riflemen from trying! They even went as far as dressing up like a kindly looking Vicar from Bexhill-on-Sea. 

The Riflemen’s musical output was equally inventive and omnipresent. At 6:00am on a bright June morning, a brisk martial tune struck up from a vast array speakers that stretched from Regent St, to Charing X Road and Shaftesbury Avenue to Oxford St. After a triumphal opening, the NEW Soho anthem bellowed out:

Arise, arise, Soho wake & rise. 
True to these sacred streets

we shall remain until death.
People of Soho, free and fearless.
My Drink and Drugs, are my shield, on You I rely.
On You I will build; never leave me,
So that I may remain pious, your servant at all moments,
Dispelling the tyranny that wounds my heart.

Arise, arise, Soho wake & rise!

And then silence returned to the streets. Shopkeepers, discombobulated nightclubbers wending their way home, early rising office workers, blitzed media executives sweating night excesses out and Soho’s slip sliding slew of homeless and dispossessed stared at each other in degrees of bemusement and pride. From that day forth until the First Banishment, the Soho anthem blared out every morning at 6:00am, a veritable call to arms for the People’s Republic of Soho. 

Other musical interruptions included the 24-hour Summer Solstice rave. Even now, gnarled old washed out ex-cycle couriers still talk in wonder of the low almost subterranean throb of tribal drums and super-funky wah-wah guitar that accompanied the ebb & flow of the traffic, that clogged the arteries of the heart of London. 

These aural assaults were not appreciated by everyone by any stretch of the imagination. The resident squares (Ad agency hacks) were forever up in arms about The Riflemen’s activities – not least because it shamed their own turgid creativity and general piss-weak plagiarism. Complaints and representations were made to the much-despised SPF (Soho Police Force). 

The leader of the SPF Commander Serena Perry went on television urging anyone with connections to the Soho Riflemen, to come forward in strictest confidence. She was quoted as saying “The Soho Riflemen are nothing but anarchists and socialists threatening the very fabric of society”. The Riflemen responded with a series of posters directly quoting Commander Perry’s obvious endorsement of their ideology. ‘CMDR Perry speaks the truth’. 

The Soho Riflemen - Communiqué #1

 

The Soho Rifelmen have been re-activated

Communiqué #1

Conspiracy theories - #22

Meet the Methodists...

I grew up on Burgh Island in Devon in the 1960’s. My parents were itinerant hippies and I mistrusted them from my earliest years. The final straw was when they left me at the first Glastonbury Festival in 1970. It took me 4 days to hitch home (aged 13) and them 6 days to realize that I had been missing and made it back. I was grateful when the school holidays ended and I was back as a boarder at St Cyprian’s whereupon I passed my exams and moved to ‘College’ and thence to ‘University’.

It didn’t take the service long to recognise that I was endowed with the right sort of temperament to undertake undercover work. So, back to the Hippy Underground it was. By now punk had blown through and hippies were figures of fun, that didn’t bother me – I just wanted revenge. I took up with a commune in St Pancras. It was all brown rice, sandals and anarcho-hippies. Scritti Politti were in the squat over the road, Skrewdriver (the white power neo-nazi band) were down the street and the ultimate DIY free jazz/punk/dub combo The State Agents were on the corner of the block. 

I took on a nom-de-squat ‘Zed’ and started to ingratiate myself in the Dope ‘n Dole world. I even ended up as a roadie for a couple of the bands. Strewth, they were bad! The Scrits made some steady headway (Peel sessions, touring with Gang of Four and The Mekons) and other bands tried to surf on their coat-tails.

Anyway, I ended up going out on tour with a couple of alright bands ‘The Forgotten Trees’ & ‘The Red Haunt’. Ostensibly to run the merch stand but really to keep tabs on a group of their mutual followers who called themselves ‘Methodists’. They were a hard-core, group of anarcho punks who had no obvious means of financial support but drove from venue to venue in a convoy of 3 Rolls-Royce Camargue’s (called Daisy, Lucy and Stan) and they always stayed at the nearest 5-star hotel to the venue. Meanwhile, the bands and us crew would kip on floors of the kindly local punters. 

After a couple of weeks the tour rolled into Plymouth – the tour was basically 9 days on, 3 days off (in order to allow everyone to get back to the Camden DHSS, sign on, hang around for a couple of days, cash the giro and then head back out to entertain the unwashed masses). This was the one town I wasn’t looking forward to. I was concerned that my parents Larry & Wanda might just rock up to take in the experimental new wave new age dub sounds of the The Haunt (as they were known) – it was just their cup of tea. 

After we’d got the band, the PA, the drums, the amps, the smoke machine (hippies alright!) and the lights on stage. I left the others to it, I mooched off to set up the merch stand. It didn’t take long, as every venue was contractually obligated to provide a trestle table, a chair, some gaffa tape and a bottle of Remy Martin (apparently, I was the only merchman ever to get drinks included on the rider – very undemocratic and decidedly rock ‘n roll – it upset the rest of the crew, but I didn’t care). I laid out the 3 different versions of t-shirt, stuck up some badly produced posters, flung a few badges around, scribbled prices on to bits of paper and then sat down to read this week’s NME and sip some of my richly deserved Brandy.

I was halfway through a genuinely hysterical letter on the letters page from Sam K. Ampong in response to a caustic review of the Tom Robinson Band by Paul Morley in the previous week’s edition. When I realised that it was nearly time the venue opened. No sooner had the front of house manager given the announcement via the FOH PA than the doors opened and a surge of beer, sweat, cigarettes and patchouli permeated the foyer and the punters surged in a second later. 

A few obviously underage fans headed in my direction to buy The Haunt’s most popular t-shirt “Where did I leave my revolver?”. Other older fans preferred to get their hands on the logo crest version. Unsurprisingly nobody was interested in The Forgotten Trees rather limp “Shape-shifter” offering, featuring as it did a rather dull graphic image of a triangle, a square, a circle and an X. What was that all about? Anyway, a steady stream of sales, a few swigs of Remy and before I knew it the 5-minute bell. The FOH manager came by and signalled time to shut up shop until the interval. 

I was just about to hide the cashbox under the table when Wanda strode up to me. She didn’t recognise me (it had been 7/8 years) and the skinny brown haired foppish prep-school boy I had been had turned into a 6ft 2in dude with rather a severe bleached flattop, wearing a bikers jacket, 501’s and a white Bundeswher vest. Annoyingly, just the sort of look Kirk bloody Brandon would borrow a few months later.

Wanda looked the same as ever, long red & purple dreads, a loose fitting, boob revealing top and flared crimson cords that had seen better days. Her battered moccasins surely couldn’t have been the same ones she had had when she had left me on Worthy Farm – although I suspected they must be. 

“How much for a revolver t-shirt?”. She asked.

I pointed at the very prominent price list. “15 Quid”. I snapped, my by now ingrained Cockney accent betraying no hint of my Devonian heritage. Not a glimmer from Wanda.

“What a rip-off!”. She offered, “Made in an Indian sweat-shop no doubt. I thought The Haunt had values!”

“Actually it’s made in Bolton by a local artisans collective”, I lied, having no idea where they’d come from. 

“Oh”, she took a half-step back and purposefully bent forward to open her bag. It was a move I’d seen a hundred times on this tour already. The flash of nipple for a discount move.

“Any chance of a discount?”

“No Wanda”.

Her head jolted. “What did you say?”

“No wonder artisan collectives are going under”. I replied deadpan.

She de-flustered as quick as a flash and handed three fivers over.

“Large?” I asked, spitefully.

She flushed, “Medium actually, I like things loose but not that loose”.

No reply from me. I gave her the t-shirt, pocketed the money and carried on closing down. She stared at me for a while and then headed over to a small group of much older anarcho-punks. 

I recognised the man she put her arms around. It was Paddy Neat, a nasty piece of work. Paddy Neat, a career criminal. Paddy Neat, who remarkably had never once spent a day in jail. Paddy Neat, the head of The Methodists. Paddy Neat, the man my ex-mother was obviously now sleeping with. Paddy Fuckin Neat!

 

Taken from: "Notes from a rather unconvincing source" - John Zéro - 

To be published sometime in 2023

 

Did I ever mention...

...That I host a radio show every Wednesday evening on Sydney's 2RRR Station on 88.5FM 

(link to Live Player)

You can catch it live on the previous link or simply by heading over to Mixcloud by clicking on this link here...

London Calling Mixcloud!

Memories of The Dirt Box and UK Clubbing in the 1980's

I had the pleasure to chat with Rob Milton (The co-founder and original DJ) of The Dirt Box on Wednesday 25th Novemberon my weekly radio show London Calling on Sydney station 2RRR (88.5FM and www.2rrr.org.au). If you'd like to hear some fine music and funny memories. Why not click the link below.

The Dirt Box meets London Calling Uptown

Day in the life...

 Daisy
 
-- In an out 
the Soundsytems
heaven bound
spirals of smoke
curried goat and Sensi
 
The 10 o’clock
from the coast
to the shadow
of the Westway
-- Red Stripe
and Daisy.
 
The long fringe,
flowers, sinuous.

Good days, 

sad days.

 
-- Gin, Bitter lemon
and Daisy.

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #6

"My partner 'n my sadness, my story, my wantoness
My wish, my despair, my erasure, my plantation
My white chocolate, my thoughtlessness, my gracelessness
My courage and my crying, my pockets 'n my mistakes

My body and my sex, my gaze and my helplessness..."

It is 2:35pm and the post-lunchtime lull is precious in the perfect pub. She's gone back to work and 'Lions after Slumber' by Scritti Politti invades the airspace. A song that heralds a slideshow of the past... late nights in Meads... daybreak at Birling Gap... a bottle of vodka and white chocolate on a balcony in Brighton. 

Serendipity swings through the door, sunshine trailing in it's wake...

The cricket is going well. Time for me to do some serious watching, accompanied by a cheeky Sancerre (the other half of Tattinger had seemingly gone the way of the first) and The Guardian's sports quiz of the year (held over from December for the purpose of fictional construct). Joined by Slim, breezing in all Hawaian 40's shirt and dangerous wit. He sits at the table and a pint appears (they know him here). We dash through the hundred questions and score a very passable 92 (we were never going to get the equestrian sports but I should have remembered that David Wilkie won the 200m breastroke, not 100m). 

Another flurry of Aussie wickets means we'll be batting before tea! Not quite Trent Bridge but certainly reminiscent of Melbourne 2010. The Sancerre evaporates, as does Slim's Stella Artois. We cover off key topics: the new book about Samuel Beckett, the potential British Lions starting XV against RSA and uncovering the truth behind what happened to the girl we used to go to school with who became a stripper and glamour model. 

I get more drinks and manage to place a bet with David Jenkins & Sons "traditional bookmakers to gentlemen of a literary persuasion". Fingers crossed for 'Bottle of Smoke'... 

A nice 10 minute interview with Michael Holding fills the break between innings. I remember, in the nick of time, that we (Slim & I) always have Cheesy Wotsits when watching England bat together (it's a luck thing). Thankfully the barman was two steps ahead of me. 

A bowl appears along with an ashtray, a selection of Gitanes, Gauloises, Marlboro (soft-pack), Camel and Lucky Strike, as well as a 1965 Zippo that had seen action at La Drang. They know Slim here...

Day in the life...

View from the roof garden

 -- A glass of champagne nestles 

into the V of the right hand. 

The burnt out sun 

slides into the night.

We can see the

Post Office Tower

revolving through

the traffic's haze.

--- Kaleidoscope.

The lost

sound 

of 1977

rushes

through 

the 

wires.

She looks at him

and he looks down

at the askew

world below.

"No way down from here,

at least not as I can see..."

 

Day in the life... (September 2020)

Return of the English Ghost

-- Battersea Power Station

midnight, Autumn.

The coast train 

pulls in to the 

empty station 

(Southbound platform).

Four carriages. 

Late night final

scattered across

the blue seats.

Nothing to eat

Whisky to drink.

-- Underneath the tracks

night buses evaporate 

in the mist of remorse--

A glance at the moon

------- The apparition 

stares down from 

the brick cathedral.

Silence empties the night.

--- Dark days herald 

the return of the 

English Ghost.

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #5

"Sunshine music, Funtime do it, in Brazilia..."

Time speeds up when she's around. Conversation flits from fact to fiction, present to past and from now until when. 

Elsewhere in the pub, a couple of regulars assume their position in front of the TV. Play has resumed in the cricket and another Aussie wicket has already fallen. In the library a first edition PG Wodehouse is being heartily enjoyed by 'that bloke from the Ad Agency' - the wonderful thing about this pub is that discretion is assured. Therefore, the fact that he should actually be knee deep in a pile of Japanese Anime publications instead of 'The Salvation of George Mackintosh' will go unnoticed back in the carbon and chrome interior of 'SNIDE Inc'. 

The Tattinger eases itself below the half-way mark and another double (although it was only meant to be a single) Vodka comes as she glows. 'Brazilia' by A Certain Ratio fills the pub and smiles break out almost everywhere. Even the barman (more of whom later) manages to contrive a passable samba step on his way to serve Alan Hudson (former Chelsea, Stoke & England player) at the other end of the bar. 

The chess match, on the round table under the stairs, between the Cuban diplomat and the Olympic Couriers dispatch rider is entering its second hour. Another clatter of stumps and the Australian collapse is in full flow. 

An hour has gone and she must return to her office but she will be back, as will the barman with another bottle of Tattinger (where did the last half go?). He takes the empty glasses but not before sharing a tip.

"Fistful of Smoke in the 3:40 at Kempton...". Lenny, the pub bookie looks over. A nod passes between the pair of us.

She rises, smiles, shares a kiss and heads out of the door. 

Looking back at the chess match and 'that bloke from the Ad Agency', a quote from Raymond Chandler slipps into my mind, uninvited like an Arsenal fan in The Rising Son. 

“Chess is as elaborate a waste of human intelligence as you can find outside an advertising agency.” 

That Chandler certainly had a rare and precious view of the world. But not as precious as the one I'd had at our table for the last hour.

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #4

"...folded back shirt sleeves, as the sun streams down from the sky"

The fact that there is a slew of London's finest record stores within 2 minutes walk of this particular 'Moon Under Water', reinforces the reason why this is the best day in the best pub. The fish-finger sandwich, gorgeous. The second Guinness, finished. At the Cricket, it is still lunchtime. Outside, the Soho streets fizz with life. 

Leaving my paper and phone on the table. Nobody will steal my phone or my table. We just don't do that here. I climb the three stories to the roof terrace - empty. I'll come back up around 3:40 (tea-time at the cricket). 

Time to pop into Soul Jazz or one of the other record shops in Berwick Street, Murphy might still be around. Skim through the racks and boxes. Pick up a mint condition copy of Weekend's wonderful La Varieté. Put a deposit down on a pristine copy of 'Ascenseur pour l'echafaud' by Miles Davis. Then back in the pub before she glides through the door at 1:30.

My table has been tidied, a bottle of Tattinger is in one of the pubs rare ice buckets (made from a WW1 German helmet picked up at Ypres). My phone has been recharged, newspapers folded and a printed scorecard of the morning's play placed on a silver tray for my perusal.

The hubbub of Soho seeps in a couple of seconds before she does. Despite the fact that the pub is quite quiet (oh the bliss), a palpable silence accompanies her first step through the side door. She knows where I'll be, same table, same seat. 'The view from her room' by Weekend drifts from the jukebox in perfect time. She is wearing a summer dress, her hair short, two degrees south of ebony. She is beautiful, not least because she doesn't know or care whether she is or she isn't. 

She slides into 'her' seat. A double vodka and lemonade (ice, no slice) appears. 

They know her here.

It is 1:35pm.

Day in the life of a Poet (September 2020)

Russell Square Tuesday

-- Still hiding behind 
cigarette smoke
after all these years.

On the top deck, 
the metallic
click in the back clack
of the throat.
--- shouldn't be drinking 
on the way to work really
but who is going to stop me.
I'll get off at the stop 
after the office
and sit in the park 
awhile. 

---- Birdsong
traffic hum
diesel fog
vodka fumes.

The Russell Square
Cabmen's shelter
---- one oasis amidst 
the madness.

Before the inevitable. 
-- revolving glass doors
cold design, hot desks.
I'm sure nobody suspects.
Staff protocols/free coffee.
------ Well, maybe they do
but if they do
they sure as hell don't care.

-- It seems like everyone 
has got their own world 
to worry about these days.

And I mean everyone...

Day in the life of a Poet (September 2020)

Noonglow

-- Midday sunshine
hits Soho directly 
between the eyes.

The swiftest 
of Cappucinos.
--- And then we plunge
down the Dive Bar steps.
-- Sounds of 
Detroit Soul
Jamaican Ska
revving up 
from the depths.

----A rainbow appears 
in our underground.
Ivy League
 Spezzato
  Sprezzatura
   Su misura
     Sartoriale
       Schmutter

A taste of honey 
on the lips of angels.
-- we are all in paradise now.

Welcome to Noonglow!

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #3

"The Place I love is a million miles away..."

Lunchtime at the cricket, lunchtime in the perfect pub and a distant dream time on the jukebox. The Jam's 'The Place I love'* is playing. One of my favourite Weller songs, it always reminds of George Orwell's 'Coming up for Air'. 

In which, the main character George Bowling decides to revisit the places of his childhood, in particular he plans to revisit a specific pond with a large fish in that he had tried to capture over 30 years ago. When Bowling returns, he finds the whole place unrecognisable. He eventually locates the old pub where he is due to stay but finds it much changed. His old family home has become a tea-shop. Only the church and the vicar appear unchanged. 

The saddest part is when Bowling sees his ex-girlfriend. She has been so ravaged by time that she is almost unrecognisable and utterly devoid of the qualities he once adored. She in turn, fails to recognise him at all.

Thankfully, 'The Place I love' lingers in utopian days of sanctuary despite the fact that: 

"... the place I love is overgrown now
with beautiful moss and colourful flowers
and goldfish that swim in a pool, there's a small brick wall
with neon lighting, controlled by lightning"

As my mind reaches out for the opening salvo of Rick Buckler's drums on A-bomb in Wardour Street that never arrives, a fish finger sandwich drenched in Heinz Salad Cream, Vinegar and Tabasco does. The barman knows to leave bottles of all three condiments on the table too. The thick cut chips were brought here directly from Mount Olympus and melt on contact with my tongue. A second pint of Guinness has also appeared in a blur of efficiency and gratitude. 

The good news from the cricket is that Jimmy Anderson has already bagged three early Aussie wickets. Meanwhile, Internazionale are interested in buying a decent goalkeeper from Genoa and an amateur British cyclist has been tipped as an outside hope for this year's tour. 

All this and it is only ten past one! 

*I know that 'The Place I love' was never released on 7" 

but this is a perfect day in a perfect pub....