Soap The Stamps, Jump The Tube

By Gail Thibert

Nineteen years old with freshly dyed blue hair, punk rocker Gail places an advert in a music paper for ‘likeminded friends and weirdos’. Soap the Stamps, Jump the Tube follows her autobiographical journey through the 80s underground music and squatting scene in London

Wednesday, 5 July 2017

Welcome on board!

Hello everyone and a huge welcome and Thank You for supporting me. A massive thank you goes to Sharon Brown who was my first friend to make a pledge and help me get started. In fact it was Sharon who found Unbound for me and thought it might be the right place for me.

Today the page went live at 10am. I'm writing this at almost midnight and I already have 11% funding and 20 backers. Not bad for a first day. Lets see where we are in a week's time!

This is my first venuture into the world of publishing and I'm, scared, nervous and excited all at the same time. 


Gail x

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Gail Thibert
 Gail Thibert says:

Thanks for everyones support, Soap the Stamps has reached 25% funding- that's a quarter of the target and over £1000! Wow, it's only day 5!

As a treat and thank you, here is a snippet from Chapter 2- South Kensington...

In the morning, Flick was up super early, still searching through the two wardrobes she’d already destroyed the night before in search of her stupid sodding camera. I had paid for the shopping the week before and she owed me money for that, so with the deductions made for the invisible camera I had apparently lost, I was indebted to her for one whole pound, and unbelievably Flick wanted it there and then. I didn’t have it, I told her, although in truth, I actually had a £5 note, but I didn’t want her to know that. After her behaviour over the last 12 hours, I thought fuck her, she can wait. Luckily it was a Friday, which meant it was band rehearsal time at my friend’s house in Ladbroke Grove. In other words, I had a good reason to get out of Flick’s way for a few hours.

My hair was short and neon pink around this time with blonde streaks. I wore it crimped and backcombed. I applied large quantities of dramatic eighties make-up, which consisted of heavy black geometric eye shadow and blusher applied in wide strokes and not blended. Subtle was not a word I would have used to describe my look.

I got ready quickly and left home early, inexplicably eager not be in Flick’s presence, and breathing a sigh of absolute relief as I stepped out onto the street. On the way to the station, I went to the post office to buy a stamp for a letter I needed to post. I was just throwing the letter in the letterbox when Flick appeared like a crazed banshee and bellowed:


I spun round to see an enraged Flick who had stalked me from the bedsit to the post office, like a proper nutter, for the sake of one pound. “A stamp is twenty-six pence. You want twenty-six pence? No problem!” I said.

“GIVE ME MY FUCKING MONEY!” she screamed as she grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled me to the ground. She was like a crazy Staffordshire Bull Terrier and I was like a meaty bone. Flick had my hair in an unremitting grip and was refusing to let go. I dug my nails into her forearms until my nails bent back, leaving deep crimson marks in her skin. Still she wouldn’t let go. I had a perspex tambourine in a carrier bag in my hand that I tried to hit her with, but the bag split and the tambourine disappeared musically down the high street. She still didn’t let go. I tried to kick her away but my shoe flew off. It would have been funny if I wasn’t so scared. Still Flick wouldn’t let go. Surely the police would come along any minute now and pull this possessed woman off

posted 10th July 2017

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