Die Hard Mod (6 page)

‘Don’t be a philistine,
Belfast
boy. This stuff is
Sussex
nectar… I can’t take you on a night out in
Brighton
without you sampling some of the local ale.’

Steve took a sup while eyeing Bobby suspiciously.

‘Well, I guess its just about drinkable… cheers mate.’

At the table next to the jukebox, a trendy-looking young couple were beckoning Bobby to join them.

‘They’re okay, boss,’ Bobby whispered as they walked over. ‘… more acquaintances than friends but at least we’ve got a seat now.’

Bobby introduced the couple to Steve.

‘Alright there Josh, how’s it going? Nice to meet ye, Emily.’

Steve got a cold fish handshake from Josh and a faint, indifferent smile from Emily.

For the next couple of rounds, Steve found himself left out of the conversation as the pair prattled on to Bobby about their latest partying exploits and various Brighton scenesters that he’d never heard of while taking turns to go to the toilet more often than Steve thought was usually necessary.

‘Ah, I geddit,’ he thought. ‘They’re on the oul’ devil’s dandruff… instant arsehole powder.’

When it was his turn to get a round in, Steve quickly necked a double Jamesons at the bar before returning with pints for himself and Bobby and Tuacas for Josh and Emily, which were accepted without thanks.

Buoyed by booze and tired of being ignored, Steve decided that it was down to him to make the effort.

‘So how do you folk know Bobby, then?’

With eyes that seemed to be scanning the pub to see if there was anyone more cool to talk to, Josh replied in a bored monotone.

‘Just from being around clubs… I’ve DJ-ed at a couple of nights when Bobby’s band were doing a set.’

‘Nice one, mate. You DJ full-time then?’

Josh rolled his eyes.

‘You’ll find that DJ-ing in
Brighton
is usually a sideline except for the lucky few. I’ve got a day-job as a web designer. Work’s a bit scarce in
Brighton
so we’re both commuting to
London
. Means getting up at six every morning but the money’s good.’

‘Don’t know if I’d fancy that, Josh. Haulin’ yer arse up there every mornin’ with all them sour-faced gits on the train and I bet ye don’t get back til about nine at night. No harm to ye but I couldn’t be arsed with all that caper.’

The couple exchanged an embarrassed look. Emily piped up defensively.

‘Well it works for us. We’ve got a great flat in
Kemp
Town
with a sea view and the quality of life in
Brighton
is just fab. Really creative vibe here and everyone’s so chilled.’

Steve laughed.

‘I tell ye what love. If I was keepin’ up that commutin’ ballix I’d be chilled as fuck. I’d be walkin’ around like a zombie on valium.’

With the couple starting to look ill-at-ease having to converse with a slightly drunk and opinionated working-class Irishman, Bobby thought it was time to change the subject.

‘So Josh, been to any good gigs lately?’

‘Saw one of the best I’ve been to in years. Billy Bragg played the Dome and….’

Steve butted in.

‘Ach for fuck’s sake ye don’t like Billy Bragg do ye? All that batin’ ye over the head with a placard preachy shite. He’s just one of them fellas that gives it all of the man-of-the-people crack and ye can just tell that he’s a self-serving egotistical fucker. Boy I hate that big-nosed cunt.’

Emily clunked her glass down on the table.

‘I really would prefer it if you didn’t use that word. I find it really offensive.’

‘Not as offensive as some big-nosed, tone-deaf fucker singin’ one of his dirgey fuckin’ songs for a bunch o’ smug middle-class twats.’

Emily reached for their coats.

‘Let’s go Josh.’

Steve took another swig of his pint and waved the angry couple goodbye, affecting a grating Home Counties accent.

‘See ya guys. Have a lovely chilled-out evening, ya? Missing you already.’

As they watched the pair leave, Steve and Bobby got back to their pints and said nothing for the duration of Buffalo Springfield’s
For What it’s Worth
which had just come on the jukebox. As the tune faded, Bobby ended the conversational lull.

‘Don’t you think you were being a bit harsh there, boss?’

Steve grinned.

‘Well mate, back in
Belfast
before the ceasefire, we’d have identified snattery wankers like them as bein’ legitimate targets. I think I let them off lightly there. On another night I’d have been tempted to get the oul’ Kalashnikov out and go for their kneecaps.’

Bobby shook Steve’s hand and laughed.

‘Indeed. Nice work, boss. Now let’s quit this crazy scene, daddio. It’s time for the main event… I’ll call a taxi.’

15

As the taxi made its way through Kemp Town, Steve surveyed the goings-on under the street lights…butch-looking gays snogging passionately outside The Bulldog pub, a transvestite attempting to look feminine as he tottered along drunkenly in high heels, a wired-looking junkie hassling a young couple at a cash machine… it all held a seedy glamour in his newcomer’s eyes. He turned his gaze back to the road ahead and could tell that the driver was intrigued by his passengers’ appearance. He looked old enough to remember their 60s clothes from the first time around and had an impressive Elvis quiff streaked with grey.

‘So is there a bit of a Mod do on tonight lads?’

‘You guessed it, boss,’ said Bobby. ‘I take it you’re of the Rocker fraternity?’

‘Don’t worry about that, lads. I’m a bit past scrapping on the beach. Anyway, you Mods have the edge in
Brighton
these days, dontcha? That psycho Cubitt is one of your lot aint he?’

‘Don’t think he’s much of a team-player to be honest, boss. Anyway, I’m pleased to report that this particular Mod disapproves of that head-case as much as you evidently do.’

The driver laughed darkly.

‘I doubt that.’

‘How come, boss?’

‘You remember a few years back when an Italian restaurant in Shoreham got burnt to a crisp after Cubitt had been having a dispute with the management about owing him back-rent?’

Bobby nodded.

‘I remember, boss. Three died in the fire, yeah?’

‘That’s right. And one of them was my brother’s boy, trainee chef he was. Nineteen years old. A great lad he was too. Used to take him to the
Albion
every home game from when he was about eight. Death’s too good for that scumbag Cubitt, I’m tellin’ ya. He was behind the fire… everybody’s knows it. If I had my way…’

The driver was making his grim pronouncement just as they approached the Hanbury Ballroom.

‘Excuse me boss, this is us.’

The driver quickly pulled over as Bobby gave Steve a knowing look.

‘Sorry lads. Thinkin’ about that Cubitt bastard just gets me riled.’

‘We understand boss… was telling Steve here all about that nutter the other day. Look, I’ve got six quid of shrapnel here… keep the change. And I’m really sorry to hear about what happened to your nephew.’

As the taxi drove off, Steve stood for a while to admire the venue’s Indian-influenced architecture.

‘Pretty impressive, eh?’ said Bobby. ‘Was originally a mausoleum for some Regency toffs.’

‘Well I hope it’s a bit more lively now, mate. Not many punters queuing up, are there?’

‘Don’t worry boss, it’ll be packed inside. Let’s get in there.’

16

At the entrance, where a thick-set Turkish bouncer stood with his shoulders thrust back purposefully as if he had mile-long queue to deal with, Steve could hear one his favourite tunes,
All About My Girl
by Jimmy McGriff, filtering through the doors.

‘Check that, Bobby. Sounds like the DJs know their onions in this place.’

‘You know you can rely on me to introduce you to the best nightspots, boss.’

The bouncer waved them through.

Once inside the club, Steve was impressed with its art-deco style, which was every bit as elegant as the exterior. Less impressive was the atmosphere. An aging couple in tight 60s clothes ill-suited to their middle-aged girth were behind the decks trying to exude cool but failing to do so. On the dancefloor, there were about six Mods nonchalantly shuffling around and checking out each other’s moves. Judging by their non-Mod attire, the rest of the clientele looked liked they’d stumbled into the club by chance rather than design.

‘Fuckin’ hell Bobby, are ye sure this place aint still a mausoleum? Deadsville
Arizona
or wha’?’

‘Patience, boss. It’s bound to fill up soon so lets just get some beverages in and make the most of it, eh?’

Bobby went up to the bar and brought back a couple of pints. They took a seat close to where the DJs were gamely trying to build up some sort of momentum and watched the Mods’ limp attempts at recreating the glory days of 1964. Then
Mississippi Delta
by Bobbie Gentry came on.

‘C’mon boss, let’s show ‘em how it’s done.’

Steve and Bobby flung themselves onto the dance-floor and joyously jumped around. The fun they were having made the other Mods’ stiff posturing looked all the more lame. Gradually, the place got busier and Steve noticed that a trio of girls were making a point of dancing close to them.

None of the girls were particularly his type but one of them, a long-legged red-head in a tight-fitting blue dress, kept glancing his way. Flattered, Steve smiled at her and she responded with a saucy wink. For a while she danced with her back to him but the flirtation seemed to intensify when she began backing towards him, swinging her hips to the tune. An erection began stirring in his jeans and he pondered what his next move should be.

Then the DJ put on
I Can’t Explain
by The Who and a tall, shaven-headed guy in a short-sleeved checked Ben Sherman shirt pushed his way through the crowd until he was dancing around the three girls. He then wrapped his arms around the red-head’s waist. She turned round and kissed him passionately. Meanwhile, one of the other girls was whispering in Bobby’s ear and stroking his arm. Bobby smirked at Steve as he moved his hand onto the girl’s waist and drew her closer to him as they danced. Steve suddenly wasn’t in the mood for dancing any more and sauntered off for another beer.

At the bar, a few rugger-bugger types were waving twenties to try to get the attention the bar staff but Steve’s more under-stated approach got him served first and he ordered a pint of Becks.

‘Only have that in bottles, is that okay?’ said the barmaid.

‘Aye, that’ll do rightly, put a couple of them in a pint glass, thanks.’

She brought back the pint of beer and charged him seven pounds. Steve handed her the cash with a grimace and walked back towards the dance-floor muttering ‘fuckin’ rip-off’ under his breath.

The supposed big night out in what was still an alien environment to Steve hadn’t lived up to the build-up and as Bobby looked like he was getting lucky with the girl on the dance-floor, Steve felt a self-pitying sense of loneliness creep over him. The atmosphere hadn’t improved much and he decided that his options were to either cut his losses and split, or stay and get more drunk. He decided on the latter and lined up a double Jack Daniels for when he’d finished his pint.

Out on the dance-floor, the rugger buggers were jumping around and spilling drinks over each other to the strains of
You Really Got Me
while about a dozen new arrivals were weaving their way towards the bar. One of them looked familiar.

‘Sal!’

The girl who Steve had met on his first night in
Brighton
was sporting a polka-dot dress and had arranged her hair into a 60s beehive. She looked great. She came over and greeted him with a hug.

‘Hey Steve, should have guessed you’d have turned up for a Mod night.’

Steve’s heart sunk when he saw that a tall, sullen-looking rock ‘n roller in skinny jeans with a trilby hat perched on the back of his head was lingering alongside her. He looked a little familiar and Steve realised that he’d noticed him when he’d explored the
North Laine
area the day after his arrival in
Brighton
. At first glance he thought he’d spotted Pete Doherty hanging around at the entrance of a tattoo parlour with his bohemian chums, smoking a fag. Up close, Steve noticed the crow’s feet and flecks of grey hair. He may have been clad in teenage indie kid clothes but the guy had to be in his late thirties.

‘Steve, this is Rich. Remember I told you he used to be in a band with Bobby?’