Wow! I just had a peep at the targets and the book is already up to 35% of it's funding- that is OVER the third of the way! So thrilled at everyone who has managed to make a pledge so far.. I'm going to reward you with another snippet.....
6th JANUARY 1983
Flick and I intended to see The Exploited tonight but when we got to Klub Foot the gig had been cancelled so we went to the 100 Club to see Combat 84. The door lady only charged us two quid as we said we wouldn’t have enough to get home if we paid the extra 50p.
Once inside, the place was packed with skinheads and I was scared we’d get beaten up, so didn’t dare talk to anyone. Normally, I’d chat someone up for a sip of their beer, but this time I didn’t dare – there wasn’t a punk in sight. However, I noticed the skinheads were linking arms and dancing together, very happy and friendly. Very different to the aggressive dancing and pogoing of punk gigs.
A decent looking skinhead stood right in front of me with two full pints but I was too shy to ask for a sip at first, but then thirst got the better of me and I plucked up the courage to ask.
To my total surprise, he gave me the whole pint! It was cider and blackcurrant, my old favourite tipple. He told me his mates called him Barney Rubble – like the character in the Flintstones cartoon. I forget his real name. He invited me out on a date the following night. I agreed. He wanted my phone number, but we couldn’t find a pen.
When Combat 84 finished, a smoke bomb was let off. I was choking, and ran to the ladies toilet where I chatted to some friendly skinhead girls who’d also taken refuge there. We were choking from the smoke and our makeup was ruined as tears streamed down our faces.
A few moments later, Barney Rubble came in looking for me. He was asking everyone for a pen, so he could get my phone number. I suggested we went outside as I wanted to find Flick. At the tube station, going home, Flick and I sat on an empty bench. A skinhead lad came over asking if we had change for 50p. He sat himself next to me and we started chatting. Some other skinheads came over and a girl sat on the lad’s lap. A good-looking tattooed skinhead bloke sat himself on Flick’s lap. “ Mind, my trousers are wet,” he told her.
We all boarded the tube. When me and Flick got off at South Kensington, they assumed we were dead posh. The skin who’d sat next to me gave Flick his phone number. She never rang him.
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