Dead Before They Met

By Steven Micklethwaite

If there's one thing Michaels likes as much as Rock Music its a punch up at the footie.
From Tottenham supporting schoolboy prankster to Tottenham supporting gangland boss. Ably abetted by a loyal band of lifelong friends and co-conspirators. They deal in drugs, they deal in girls and they deal with anyone who gets in their way.
Thirty years on and Michaels has gone from making mischief to making vast amounts of money and making quite a few enemies disappear along the way. He has no interest in being a family man, having that special someone to share the spoils with...until he meets Lee that is.
....but what happens when two people conspire to double cross you...do you track them down and make them both disappear?...or do you kill one and not the other...the one that you're in love with? "Irreverent, funny and violent...death, drugs and David Bowie"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven Micklethwaite
• Release date: Sep 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9780993364518

Book preview

PART ONE

1970-1973

CHAPTER ONE

Whipsnade Zoo, Bedfordshire, England. 26th of July 1970.

Just get this over with, mused Winstanley, sighing not so much with relief but with the anticipation of it. It was the fucking headmasters idea to take the little and the not-so-little buggers on an end of year trip to Whipsnade Zoo. Only the head wasn’t the one doing the bloody taking was he?

As Deputy Head and a man of some influence, or so he liked to think, he’d put up a reasonable argument, they’d been nothing but trouble all year, nothing too violent, nothing worth expulsion but an endless stream of practical jokes, petty bullying and general fucking about, why reward them with a trip to the bloody zoo? Not that he thought that many of them would even regard it as a reward anyway, like him he was sure they’d rather just have put an arrow in its heart and let the school year die the quick death it deserved.

However here he was counting them on to the Hargreaves Of Enfield! Coach at 8:30AM on this fine Friday morning, the last day of term (he wondered why they felt the need to add an exclamation mark after Enfield, was it as surprise to anyone that Enfield had a Coach Company? Or were they just taking liberties with the English language…fucking philistines). To fill the bus up they’d been joined by another class from the same year and their long-haired hippie of a teacher Mr Dobbin. He’d have to watch that his lot didn’t try and feed any of Dobbin’s class to the Lions. Literally.

Dobbins class while being in the same age year were academically a slot above his motley crew, having impressed in their first two years and then been streamlined into the A class for the start of their 3rd year. All of this was a complete irrelevance of course, the job in hand today had nothing to do with academia, it was simply a case of survival. Get them on the bus, into the zoo, round in four hours-ish, three if he could manage it, back on the bus, no casualties, no fatalities, no one left behind, drop them back off at school, job done, six weeks off, a bit of marking to do but nothing too strenuous. Bliss.

He would have to keep a particularly keen eye on Michaels. No one called Michaels by his first name, it was easy for teachers, they called everyone by their surname but in the yard, on the streets, in one-to-one conversations Winstanley had noticed that his first name Timothy was never, EVER used. His peers probably knew what was good for them. He was a big bastard that was for sure, what on earth were his parents thinking calling him fucking Timothy?.

Michaels was the instigator of most of the pranks. Nothing as mundane or boorish as simply beating kids up from other classes (or other years…almost uniquely his size even making him feared and respected by the kids in the older years). No, the jokes and pranks had simply got more elaborate and bizarre as the year went on. On Monday mornings entire classrooms were found devoid of any furniture whatsoever, every desk and chair transported to the school playing fields, I mean why? What a bloody waste of time and effort, if they put in as much effort into their lessons they’d be in the A class, although not for one moment did he consider that Michaels or any of his gang were remotely interested or influenced by the possibilities of being in the A class.

He was much more interested in making his classmates and co-conspirators laugh so in school work terms just did the minimum required. Most of them just didn’t have the necessary application…or putting it as he thought Michaels probably would they just didn’t give a fuck.

When he inherited the class from their previous form master he had been given a quick profile on each of them, who to look out for, who would need looking after. He’d been told that nothing happened in the class without Michaels say-so. Certainly not an out and out bully, to be honest I’ve never seen him start a fight…but I’ve certainly seen him finish a few said the out-going incumbent.

He had been urged to get him on your side and you’ll have an easier year. Winstanley was absolutely horrified that he be asked to do such a thing. He was the teacher, Michaels was the pupil and there should be no need for any other fraternisation or bonding for fuck’s sake. Even if he had wanted to the two of them were generations apart with no common ground, Michaels like most of the boys was all Pop Music, Football and girls…and he was only 14 for Christ’s sake! Winstanley himself was all Classical Music, Rugby Union and a wife of 30 years so what exactly in Gods name would he find to bond with him about?

Michaels was here already, stood with a couple of his cronies including chief partner in crime Greg Foreman, talking to Mr Dobbin about long-haired music no doubt. Michaels stood eye to eye with the other teacher despite being almost exactly half his age…and was considerably broader.

Right come on shouted Winstanley, lets get on the bus and do the register. Michaels almost immediately cut short his conversation with Dobbin and did as he was asked. On boarding the bus he bid good morning to Winstanley and asked that as they had not been permitted to come in civvies would they be allowed to take their blazers off? Winstanley answered in the affirmative but then found himself about to apologise for not being able to persuade the Head to let them come in day clothes but stopped short saying simply yes I think that will be OK as long as everyone behaves and then wondered why on earth he was on the brink of actually sucking up to a 14 year old kid?? He had to admit though that there was something strangely undefinable about Michaels personality and demeanour (apart from his size that is), something that simply made you want to be on his side or at the very least him think that you were OK. It really was quite odd.

Michaels, Greg and three or four others strode down the bus, towards the hallowed back seat. It was of course already occupied, this time by some of the braver, or more likely just misguided boys of the A class that were accompanying them. Michaels stood, looming over them. None of Michaels class would have even bothered to sit on the back seat but this A class lot, well, honestly…weren’t they supposed to be the clever ones? God help them.

You can have it on the way there and we’ll have it on the way back…deal? said Michaels very good naturedly but also in a tone that said that there was really no scope for negotiation. The A class boys quickly recognising their mistake readily agreed with an almost embarrassing amount of enthusiasm.

Michaels then very quietly addressed the back of the bus, the twenty or so, mainly from his class, that would be the potential trouble-causers. Look I’ve had a word with Winstanley and if no one fucks about we’ll at least be able to take our blazers off and I don’t want to wear mine all day just because someone tried to stick chewing gum in a Monkeys barnet (up until recently Mint flavoured Beech Nut chewing gum had been the bane of the School janitors life but now Bazooka Joe Bubble Gum was the craze, hence Pink blobs of the stuff were everywhere. They’d tried banning it of course, which just made it all the more fun to have it on School premises. A lot of backsides had felt the cane recently because of Joe).

Earlier and more privately Michaels had asked (which meant ordered) his gang not to indulge in any general low-level fuckin’ about and end up with Winstanley breathing down their necks all day. Lets be good boys he said with heavy sarcasm lets get some distance from the teachers and if we’re going to get up to something that will end up getting us caned at least lets make it worth it, I don’t want the cane for nothing.

In reality though Michaels never actually got the cane because he never actually got caught doing anything, he was the plotter, the planner, the instigator…if it was a TV show they would have called him brains, however add to this his huge physique and even at 14 you had a very serious adversary indeed (or ally depending on where your allegiances lay). It wasn’t that he regarded all teachers as adversaries, just some of them, but he got bored very easily and really loved that warm feeling when a joke or prank found its audience and that audience roared its approval. Now that was a job worth doing. Time well spent. Not learning fucking Latin.

Registers completed, the bus rolled out of the School Yard. The conversation as usual did indeed revolve around the three interests that Winstanley had correctly labelled Michaels and the others with; Music, Football and Girls: Spurs chances next season were touched upon (the school was very much Tottenham Hotspur orientated, as opposed to the fairly equidistant but pretty much reviled Arsenal) but sadly the football banter was largely concerned with England’s demise in the recent World Cup in Mexico. Defeat to West Germany and the relinquishing of the Jules Rimet trophy so famously won just four years ago had been met with great national despair, Peter Bonetti the Chelsea goalie taking much of the blame (being the Chelsea goalie not helping his cause much here of course). How much longer In The Summertime by Mungo bloody Jerry was going to be at No’ 1? while Michaels extolled the virtues of a new LP he had bought called Deep Purple in Rock and how it was even better than Led Zeppelin 2 much to the bewilderment of most of the other boys who listened politely but really didn’t know what he was going on about and finally the size of breasts of any women or girl that had the misfortune to be within eyesight of the coach.

When the laughter got too raucous, it initiated Winstanley turning round in his seat right at the front to observe the noisy culprits towards the back, it was however Michaels unnerving stare and presence that would quiet them down, but if Winstanley thought it was his attentive observations then that was OK…all part of the bigger plan.

Other than this the journey was largely uneventful and Winstanley mentally ticked off one of the three stages, the journey there, officially completed with no problems…however now for the really testing bit…actually being there.

Into the Zoo and Winstanley asked that they all follow the route that was clearly outlined so that no one missed anything and meant you didn’t have to keep doubling back all the time. Casually the boys spread out, some spending more time at some cages and enclosures than others, Dobbin at the front, Winstanley at the back. At one point Michaels leant on the barrier next to Winstanley and engaged him in conversation about what countries he had visited, had he been to South America where the animal in this particular cage was from? Which was his favourite City outside of London? Had he been to the USA?. Winstanley answered all of Michaels questions with a certain amount of relish, it was good to talk of things other than Latin, Medieval History and the like. Winstanley knew that some people thought him as a bit of a Dinosaur, and maybe they were right, just a tad, but if he was compared to him the Head and one or two others should be on a plinth in the Natural History Museum!. He knew the way the world was going, pretty soon no one would give much of a shit about Latin, the Reformation or the fuckin’ Renaissance. At least the ten minutes he’d just spent talking with Michaels was about the real world, poverty, natural resources, the great distances involved. As Michaels walked away, being called over to another cage by one of his gang, he casually turned back and asked if they could take their blazers off. Yes replied the teacher but you can’t take them back to the bus, you’ll just have to sling it over your shoulder

Thanks Sir Michaels shouted back…

Some had brought packed lunches, some money to buy crisps & pop. As they all settled on the sparsely populated picnic tables, (chips and a can of Top Deck Shandy seemed to be the main dish of choice) Winstanley began to relax slightly. He’d re-evaluated and decided that the day was actually split into 4; 1) Journey there, 2) Zoo up to Lunch, 3) Zoo after lunch and finally 4) Journey home. So in stages they were half way through the ordeal but in real time actually a good deal more than that. A thought which cheered him up no end. So far so good. No major problems and as they had been virtually all the way round already he was going to give them another hour and then they were off.

Fucking Hell it’s hot he thought and mentally chided himself for the profanity of his thoughts, he never swore out loud, no matter what the conversation or situation, even at the Rugby but he chuckled inside at the ripeness of his mental vocabulary. He took off his jacket to the sound of boys feigning shock & horror, none of them had ever seen Winstanley without his tweed jacket before. This is actually turning into not too-bad a day he mused again to himself and tucked into the last of his Cheese & Pickle Sandwiches.

Lunch finished, mouth wiped and crumbs dusted off he stood up, right we’ll have one more hour and looking at his watch for synchronisation shouted its 2:15 now, can we have everyone at the gates ready to get on the bus by 3:15 please. No stragglers before adding its a long walk back! to no laughter at all. If you need to go to the toilet, do it before you come back to the gates. So if you want to re-visit anything off you go now, but make sure you’re there for 3:15…and don’t lose your blazers! (by this time every boy had taken their jackets off, some slung over shoulders, some tied round waists, others rolled under arm a la towel and trunks on the way to the swimming baths).

Mr Dobbin and myself will be around, amongst you, so don’t get up to anything silly.

Michaels sat, looking over at Winstanley and Dobbin, the germ of an idea beginning to grow, fleshing out. First part of the plan, albeit the easy part was to get the two teachers, particularly Winstanley to relax so they didn’t have to fuckin’ hold hands all the way round. If Winstanley was going to attach himself to anyone Michaels knew it would have been him but instead now they were virtually free to roam for an hour. Bingo.

With only barely ten minutes to go to the rendezvous time, Michaels collared Greg and a couple of others, in particular Tony Earnshaw who was as spectacularly short-arsed as Michaels was large (you would not have bet anyone else’s money that they were actually in the same class when in fact only five weeks separated their birthdays) but they had to move fast, the last thing Michaels wanted to do was attract the suspicion of Winstanley before the coup de grace could be delivered so he quickly explained his plan to the conscripts.

Both teachers stood at bottom of the bus steps, this time instead of doing the register on board they were ticking the names off as the boys alighted. Nearly finished and here was Michaels and six or seven of his mates (Winstanley had subconsciously changed. the term from gang to the much less sinister mates…five years ago it would have been chums).

Hurriedly they all piled on virtually together, no need for the register, Winstanley could make out their faces perfectly well, he bloody should, he’d seen them staring back at him, mostly blankly, for a whole year. The Head on the other hand who preferred to dish out the cane was far more familiar with their arse’s thought Winstanley, and then scolded himself again for not applying the word backsides instead of arse’s.

Michaels and his mates made their way to the as-per-agreed vacant back seat with a certain amount of repressed giggling that thankfully didn’t carry all the way to the front (but Winstanley and Dobbin were deep in conversation with the driver anyway about the return route and what time they’d be getting back. There was some end of term pints waiting to be supped).

Forty five minutes later and with nothing more than outbursts of giggling from assorted places around the coach, some boys nodding off and risking have penises drawn on their foreheads, Winstanley genuinely began to wind down. He stretched out his stick insect legs, put his hands behind his head and sighed, almost (but not quite fully) content.

It was a this point that the Penguin began its waddle-walk down the aisle.

The bus exploded in a frenzy of shrill hysterical laughter of such intensity that it was surprising the windows didn’t shatter. Screaming, some boys leapt on to their seats to avoid the little creature as if it was a child-eating monster while others tried to grab it. Inside the confines of the bus the noise was deafeningly LOUD. The racket followed the progress of the Penguin like a supersonic noise wave, some boys, dozing, were at a loss to understand what was happening until the creature waddled past them, they too then joining in the mass hysteria.

Winstanley leapt from his dozing as if a large electrical charge had been passed through his seat, Dobbin also leapt up but as the driver swerved shocked by the sudden noise explosion he fell down into the well where the steps lead up into the coach, somehow managing to wedge himself in.

As if making for freedom and despite the commotion the penguin did not deter from its straight-down-the aisle quest, maybe the wide, bright light through the drivers front window was its goal or maybe it just wanted to put some distance between itself and its captors…but on and on it went.

Winstanley stood in the aisle at the front of the bus, going a very funny colour. The shrieking noise-wave continued for as long as the penguin continued its progress until it finally came up against Winstanley’s legs, stopped and just looked up at him, bewildered. The same teacher who that very day had congratulated himself at least twice for not swearing out loud, bellowed WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? the answer was, of course, glaringly obvious however him posing the question did give the opportunity for some more mirth, because a very familiar loud voice from the back boomed well, I’m not sure Sir but I think its a Rockhopper! which triggered another gale of hysterical laughter, boys holding their little crotches for fear of wetting themselves, tears rolling down cheeks, asthmatics crimson faced fighting for breath.

It was clearly all too much for the penguin, who having had its progress to the front windows halted by this shouting, purple faced giant, looked up nervously and then defecated loudly in a long splattering volley that could be seen and heard all the way to the back of the bus. I think you’re scaring him Sir came the same loud voice once again re-igniting the ear splitting pandemonium that was only just about beginning to subside.

The idea had come to him when they were leaning on the wall that surrounded the penguin enclosure, it had to be said…the little critters were very close. Some seemed to be sleeping in the sun after a dip in the pool and at the far side of the pen he noticed that there were no other visitors, most just had a look from the main route and didn’t bother walking all the way round the elliptical enclosure. They’d plonked Tony into it just as they’d dropped two coats tied together over one of the snoozing penguins, Tony had grabbed it up (unfortunately together with one or two dollops of penguin shit). Michaels then reached in and grabbed Tony’s other arm and hauled him back up, together with their little captive. They’d shoved the Penguin’s head up one of the sleeves of the jacket and just bundled the rest of it up in a blazer and carried it underarm looking no different to most of the other boys. The little chap was thankfully and very surprisingly quite docile and Michaels wondered if it was like how a Budgie goes quiet when you chucked a tea-towel over its cage. Don’t suffocate the little fucker was the only other instructions he gave before boarding the bus but not before he and his gang who could barely contain the knowing smirks and giggles had to have a serious minute to compose themselves before turning and approaching the bus with their prisoner.

On the bus the chaos continued, not being able to get past Winstanley, it ducked under a seat but not before treading through the pile of its own shit and Dobbin finally emerged from the steps looking very sheepish. (Now normally a teacher falling down the steps of a bus would have been a rich comedic mine indeed, haunting him throughout his days at the school but given the circumstances here, thankfully for him, no one had even noticed). Winstanley now ordered the boys at the front to catch the bird so the braver one’s dove under seats, while others shied away, exclaiming its covered in shit sir!.

Two boys eventually grabbed it then pulled it in different directions causing it to squeal and bite one of them, so was subsequently dropped and off it went again. It took another ten minutes to recapture and subdue it in another couple of blazers, pinching my bloody idea thought Michaels from his vantage point at the very back of the bus.

We’ll have to go back with it said Winstanley to the driver.

The driver who was not as aversed to swearing in public as the teacher replied not fuckin’ likely, this coach is going to Walthamstow Dogs at 6’ 0’ Clock before adding anyway the Zoo’ll be shut by the time we’d got back.

Seething but also with no option but to delay retribution until the matter in hand had been sorted the teacher then ordered the driver to stop at the next services, cafe or whatever. Warning the two boys holding the bird not to let it go and with Dobbin detailed to sit next to them Winstanley stomped off the bus. After a few minutes he came back with a large cardboard box and began to punch holes through it with his pen, a very, very angry look on his crimson face, (imagining of course it was Michaels who was on the receiving end of his pen frenzy). The Penguin was then carefully deposited in the box however the humour level was maintained by the bird shuffling about making the box very unstable and difficult to hold while poking its long beak through the holes, eliciting more laughter from the boys lucky enough to be sat near the front.

When the bus eventually arrived back at the school Winstanley concluded he had little option but to take the bird home and then drive it back to the Zoo the next morning and just hoped the little fucker didn’t die on him during the night, Christ what was Miriam going to say? He wished now that he’d read the information board attached to their enclosure. What did they eat? Fish he supposed…but doubted very much if a portion of Cod & Chips were its natural diet. He’d considered making Dobbin look after the bloody thing but it was blatantly obvious it wasn’t his classes doing and it would definitely be taking his Deputy Head privileges a bit too far. It was however just as glaringly and blatantly obvious who’s doing it really was. He gave the box to Dobbin just take this for five minutes before adding don’t worry I’ll come back for it in response to Dobbin’s very nervous and suspicious look.

Michaels was already walking away towards one of the school gates with some of his cronies who lived the in the same direction, Michaels, wait, come back here he commanded with as much authority in his voice as he could muster.

Need to get home sir, tea’ll be ready shouted Michaels over his shoulder.

Not just yet, you don’t the deputy head and newly appointed Penguin carer commanded.

(Now of course this was in a time when teachers could beat the living daylights out of kids for the slightest misdemeanour (and sometimes nothing at all) without fear of prosecution or enraged parents coming to School to have it out with them for belting their little Johnny. If kids got physically punished by teachers and parents then found out about it the poor mite would also be highly likely to get the same again when they got home for the same misbehaviour. It was almost an unwritten rule of parenting 1970’s style that if your child had been naughty enough to invoke a beating from a teacher then you were almost duty bound to give them a second helping).

Once within range Winstanley grabbed Michaels by his blazer lapels and pulled him forwards.

The head will hear about this, you’ll not evade punishment this time.

You don’t know it was me, I mean it could have just hopped on the bus and hid while we were in the Zoo adding Sir almost as an afterthought. One thing Michaels would never do was to blame anyone else, even something as broad as one of the A class, it just wasn’t right. Everyone knew who did it anyway, thought of it, actioned it, but nobody would grass him up and nobody could prove it. That was enough for him cane or no cane at the beginning of next year. This had been a beauty. It was like watching his hero Spurs legend Jimmy Greaves (now very sadly playing at West Ham…a source of great pain to Michaels), it had been a truly, truly excellent prank. An absolute gem. Legendary. What school was all about. Fuck learning Latin…oh and fuck West Ham as well.

Now suddenly looking nervous and deflated Winstanley let go of Michaels, silently turned and trooped away, not a beaten man but one who was realistic to know that it was a pointless task so best not to waste any more energy on it. After all he had a Penguin to look after. He had given them the benefit of the doubt, a bit of freedom, a bit of respect and they had pissed on it.

Over the forthcoming decades people would tell this story countless times, those who were there and those who weren’t. If everyone who said they were there actually had been, the day the Penguin walked down the aisle, there would have been hundreds, possibly thousands on the bus. The story would be told in pubs, around dinner tables, in foreign climes and in prison cells.

Occasionally, though only very occasionally, because life moves on, Michaels, Greg and Tony would laugh about it over a pint, it was one of those exquisite moments worth cherishing and dusting down for an outing every so often. Without doubt one of the many building bricks of alliance, allegiance and friendship that would last almost a lifetime.

CHAPTER TWO

Free Concert. The Lyceum Theatre, London. 3rd March 1971.

Not Free as in Free-of-charge but Free the legendary but sadly short-lived English Blues/Rock band of the early 70’s.

He’d gone on his own to this gig. Although his gang of friends did, to varying degrees, share his love of English Rock music they did so with not always quite the same fanaticism.

His parents, because of his size and (on the outside) his level-headedness had at last been persuaded to allow him to a rock concert at night only a month ago when Deep Purple raised the roof at the Royal Albert Hall (old people and that obviously includes parents were of the misconception that bad things only happened at night…they should see the streets around White Hart Lane on a Saturday afternoon thought Michaels). The concert had left him amazed, awe-struck and everything else in between and he was now determined to go to has many gigs as possible. His devotion to Spurs wasn’t waning but his fairly generous pocket money meant that he could follow both his passions…just about…but for the first time in his life he was actually looking forward to the summer, with no footie to spend money on he could significantly increase his concert-going ratio.

His beloved Spurs had won the League Cup the previous week, toiling to beat 3rd Division Aston Villa with their new hero Martin Chivers eventually coming to the rescue with two late goals. This was another reason why he was on his own tonight, most of his mates were skint following their Wembley trip to see Spurs capture the first silverware of the season. However disaster loomed in the shape of Arsenal, if they didn’t watch out they would end up doing the Double, winning both the League Championship and FA Cup in the same season, an humiliation too much to contemplate and wresting glory away from Spurs who up to now were the only club this century to achieve the feat. Nobody barely remembered who won the League Cup from one season to the next but the legendary Double, that was a seriously different matter.

Tonight’s gig had been sensational. Despite Free’s All Right Now storming the singles chart last year even Greg hadn’t bothered to come along which was a pity because they could have tried out the new side-line that had occurred to him whilst watching fans entering and leaving the theatre tonight. He’d look forward to showing him soon to see if it was workable, if it was, it could be a new little money-earner while at the same time getting them into more gigs, which would be a nice double of their own…and fuck Arsenal.

While most of his mates had cried off citing poverty some thought Free’s music a bit too laid back, not heavy enough was the common diagnosis. True they could be a bit soulful, a bit ballad-y but live they were bluesy and hard. Michaels hated soul music with a passion as fervent as his love for Spurs. It was a complete mystery to him how hard bastards from the terraces, seriously big names from down the Lane could fight pitch battles with away fans then after the match prance around on the dance floor like big soft girls with their fannies on fire to Diana bloody Ross or Smokey fuckin’ Robinson.

In the pubs and clubs around the Lane that would have Soul or Pop nights on Saturdays after the match Michaels made no secret of his contempt, bordering on disgust for this strange and embarrassingly girly practice which naturally didn’t exactly endear him to the soul boys of which there were many. Music divided and antagonised teenagers almost as much as Football did. Even if it was a pop night the DJ would end up playing all the bloody Motown crap that was in the charts; Four Tops, Drifters and the like, including and always without fail What Becomes of The Broken Hearted by Jimmy Ruffin, it’d be What Becomes Of The Broken Nose’d the fucking kicking he’d like to give him.

Through intense negotiation he’d eventually reached an agreement with his parents that he be home at a reasonable time after the match. This of course left quite a lot open to interpretation but as it was only a fifteen minute walk Michaels and his gang could hang around the Lane with its drinking dens and takeaways for a couple of hours or more after the final whistle, picking fights with away gangs, brawling along the Seven Sisters Road, even occasionally chasing away fans back by train for confrontations at Liverpool St Station…and still be home by 9:30. More often than not though it was asking the DJ if he had any heavy?…which usually meant another airing of either the aforementioned All Right Now, Paranoid by Black Sabbath or Black Night by the mighty Deep Purple, although he knew at some point inevitably Band Of Gold by Freda can’t-get-shagged Payne would get played, the song which last year had sadly kept Black Night off the Number One slot. Cue loads of girly dancing which was usually his call to head home for Fish & Chips and Match Of The Day with his dad. He was thinking he may have to watch it with the anti-soul verbals though, particularly laughing at the dancers. A couple of veiled threats had been made in the loos and at the bar (as well as being a very big lad he had inherited his mothers slightly Italian complexion and was very hirsute for a teenager, shaving twice a week and given a few days could have managed a pretty serious moustache, therefore he was always the one to get served while his smaller, less mature looking mates lurked in the shadows). Given the growing amount of trouble around the Lane on Saturdays and pissed off soul boys he never had more than one or two pints of Best, kept his wits about him and sucked Polo Mints all the way home.

He’d been tempted to buy a Poster on the way in to the Lyceum tonight but thought it would get crushed and asked if they would be on sale after, the bloke said yes they would if he had any left adding that this was the last gig of the tour so they all had to go tonight.

Michaels stood on a chair near the back for the last half hour, the crowd went bonkers as I’m A Mover, All Right Now and The Hunter brought the show to a thunderous close. The poster indeed would have been well and truly fucked.

So completely blown away by the great show he decided he’d definitely have to get one and stepped out into the cold night air looking for the bloke he’d spoken to earlier. The poster seller was indeed down to his last few by the looks of it as Michaels pushed his way through the throng, money in hand. However getting up closer the bloke seemed to be having words with two burly (fat) blokes who were selling unofficial posters, he’d had a look at these on the way in and rightly decided they were crap.

He needed to get a tube pretty quickly and get home, so the poster transaction needed doing pronto but the disagreement between the opposing poster sellers was clearly escalating. One of the crap poster-mongers pushed the official poster seller, and leave him alone popped out of Michaels mouth before he could think to reign it in. The pusher turned on Michaels, a quick look round revealed no police and no obvious reinforcements in the form of official poster sellers back-up/mates/roadies or fellow band members…Oh dear.

Listen sonny, this is a private discussion so why don’t you fuck off…the pushing hand now coming towards Michaels chest and do your homewo… BANG, Michaels landed a punch on his nose that came complete with all his weight, strength and hard-headed indignation all of which were pretty formidable. The man went down like a sack of spuds, a big bloke, overweight, getting by on size and intimidation but slow of both thought and movement. He crashed to the ground, however almost immediately and rather unnervingly given how hard Michaels had thumped him he very groggily started to get back up, like a heavyweight boxer who’s only remaining thought process is to get off the canvass…without really knowing why.

If this had been a scrap near the Lane Michaels would have stuck the boot in three or four times to make sure he didn’t get back up, not for a bit anyway, not too much, didn’t want doing for bloody manslaughter did he? Anyway Michaels now had his mate to contend with, who after standing open mouthed for what would have been a fatal three or four seconds in which Michaels would have battered him as well he finally turned on Michaels and threw a woefully slow fist that Michaels dodged easily. He considered trying to reason with the second bloke along the lines of your mate started it, he pushed me then decided against it and kicked him hard in the bollocks instead, he doubled over and Michaels brought his right boot up to connect with the man’s face. As second bloke went down the official poster seller uttered something like fuck me, then grabbing Michaels shoulder said come on. They raced back into the hall, selling the last few posters now clearly of no importance, the poster seller was recognised and let through by a couple of burly blokes, along a corridor and then pausing to breathlessly explain what had happened to another rather more important looking bloke. Before he knew it Michaels found himself backstage with the band along with various nubile young ladies, roadies, other fans and assorted hangers-on.

The poster seller explained why he had brought this tall, broad and slightly bemused young man backstage. People shook Michaels hand, slapped him on the back while singer Paul Rodgers came over, thanked him and gave him a beer.

This being the last gig of a triumphant tour the after-show party was of considerable proportions and moved on to a nearby hotel, Michaels was invited but declined, his parents would have his bollocks if he didn’t roll in until the early morning and his new found concert freedom wasn’t about to be relinquished so early into the game. A cab was organised from the backstage door to take him home, so clutching a poster and programme both signed by the band along with drumsticks and various other bits and bobs off he went.

Meanwhile across the road from the main entrance, on a quietening Sunday night on The Strand chest-pusher and second-bloke leant on a wall, licking their wounds and wondered what the fuck to tell The Brothers, if indeed they told them anything at all.

Unfortunately for them though Guy Hendrie, a business acquaintance of The Brothers had escorted an up and coming young model to the gig. She had been desperate to see the band and Guy was now in the process of escorting her across to the Grosvenor Hotel where she would show her thanks and fortunately (or unfortunately) had witnessed the whole fracas. He would look forward to telling The Brothers how he had seen two of their men get beaten up by a Schoolboy (albeit a very fucking big one).

CHAPTER THREE

The Park, Cress & The Weeley Pop Festival, Clacton-On-Sea. July/August 1971.

They used to get along with the old man that ran the off-licence. Long before supermarkets, petrol stations and even vending machines all dispensed alcohol with little or no impunity if you wanted beer (wine?…in 1971…it was more likely to be Babycham) either you had to go to a Pub outsales or the offi’. Being relatively well lit and close to home they would often congregate outside the off license, careful to cause no damage, not even littering, Michaels was a great believer in not shitting on your own doorstep. The owner who had fought in Germany & Italy in the war and when not behind the counter would lean on the door frame, chain-smoke and tell them stories of fighting for his life, country and then the King (in that order).

As well as various members of Michaels gang many of the local girls would turn up, smoke, talk music, flirt and cop-off. Michaels would always turn up late. By this time (provided there were no concerts or footie), he had joined both the Boxing (Mondays) and Karate Clubs (Thursdays) at the Local Youth Club. It wouldn’t be long before and in response to the mind-numbing boredom of English Sunday afternoon’s in the 70’s he also joined the new Sunday afternoon Judo Club. Greg accompanied him to the Boxing but baulked at the more exotic disciplines on the grounds that you had to wear pyjama’s.

On a warm Tuesday night just after his fifteenth birthday he’d wandered down, surprised to see only two local girls there and none of his gang but then remembered he was actually early for once. After a bit of strange eye contact and sign language between the girls one them said she had to nip home but would be back in an hour, thus leaving only Anne and himself.

Do you like girls? Anne immediately asked as soon as her friend had disappeared round the corner.

Er…yes came the slightly suspicious reply from Michaels.

Now up to this point Michaels experience with girls had been no more than the average 14/15 year old boy would have been: A bit of groping, under the jumper if you were lucky, hands roughly thrust up skirts, the length of time it took the girl to protest, either pulling away or forcibly removing your hand being a barometer for if she actually liked you or not. Stocking tops (or the much less erotic but far more common gussets of tights) would be probed, prodded and even sometimes caressed (if you had time). A bit of heavy kissing on settee’s at parties, in full view of everyone so not much danger of it going any further…and that was about your lot.

"Do you like to kiss girls?" she pressed on.

Er…yes again came the same bemused reply.

He had seen her about, couple of school years older than him, she’d left by now, a bit plain, but dressed well albeit in soul-girl attire, pencil skirt and high heels, big tits, very forward and assertive in communal conversations about Music, School or the amount of Blacks that lived in the area.

Well, I’m a girl, would you like to kiss me?…he was struggling to come up with something other than er…yes for the third time. Michaels wasn’t usually as phonetically challenged as this. In fact he could be described as being relatively eloquent for his age and possessing a sharp wit but now he’d seemed to have lost the ability to communicate in anything other than utterances that would shame a village idiot. The way her friend had been spirited away though just by Anne’s glare and how confident she was in making the running triggered a sense in him that this may be more than just the usual fondle & grope. He managed a nod.

Well come on then, come and kiss me said Anne, taking his hand and leading him into the nearby park. She leant against the wall in one of the darker recesses, removed her chewing gum and pulled him towards her, tongue in and moving around his mouth as soon as they combined. The obvious thing to do was to run his hands up her skirt, so he did, which he had to sort of bend his knees to do given the disparity in their height. Both hands moved up her legs, stockings and suspenders, surprisingly no knickers and thankfully no resistance. She caressed the bulge in his jeans, then unzipped him, squeezing and tugging. Skirt quickly pulled up around her waist. A couple of futile attempts at penetration were thwarted by the height difference. Anne was breathing very heavily now, must be doing something right he thought, her ample chest rising and falling in time with her gasps but Anne was nothing if not resourceful girl. She turned and positioned herself, back to him, hands on the wall, legs apart as if about to be frisked for illegal substances and bent over, instinctively he closed in, to the warmth, the softness. She twisted her arm back, grabbing his erection and guided him into her, stifling a squeal.

He didn’t really know what to do but had seen people miming it, so he just went with the flow, went with what felt good. Moving back & forth he twice retracted too far and slipped from her much to their mutual frustration but without too much panic he thankfully resumed his place. His orgasm came quickly making his head swim and legs buckle, trying to not cry out in the far from deserted park, hidden from view by bushes but within easy earshot of other courting couples, numerous dog-walkers and some old twats kicking a ball about.

Its OK…I’m on the Pill she said when her breathing had relaxed. Ah! on the pill…those magical words every young male lover wanted to hear, no messing about with johnnies, doing it au natural. Anne then added and its a bloody good job isn’t it?! He stood there not really knowing what to do next when thankfully, again taking charge she said I’ve got some tidying up to do, you go back to the offi’ and I’ll see you in five minutes.

So off he went, everything ship shape, zipped up and tucked in. No one else had turned up yet but Anne soon wandered back and realising they were still alone dropped the nonchalant swagger she had for some reason adopted. She looked exactly as she had when she first took his hand, apart from a glow in her cheeks so rosy that they would surely hiss and scald if touched.

I babysit on Wednesdays and Sundays. It wasn’t a request or invitation, just a statement of fact. She told him the address. He knew the street and said he would find the number. Ten minutes from my house, he commented for no real reason other than making conversation.

Yes I know she said, five minutes from mine, come just after 8 o’clock on Sunday, not before, they’re usually gone for half past seven but just to be sure.

OK he confirmed, then taking the initiative for once just as other people were beginning to turn up, wear stockings he said.

OK Anne replied and you have a shave.

So that was that. Virginity lost (he seriously doubted if it had been a first for Anne) and with nothing more needed to be said and as others joined them the conversation returned to the usual subjects with Michaels and his crew discussing the upcoming jaunt to the Weeley Pop Festival down Clacton.

Posh Twat turned up, he’d just moved into the area from Reading and had a slight plummy accent that earned him his nickname. He was a fairly big lad but not in Michaels league and on his first day at school (naturally in the A class) had sought out Michaels and asked him if he was going to beat him up and if so could they get it over with. Michaels enquired why he thought he might beat him up and Posh Twat said that’s what usually happened when he moved schools, suggesting that this was a fairly common occurrence. Michaels asked why he moved schools so much and Posh Twat just said because of my father without elaborating on what exactly his dad did to necessitate such a transient lifestyle to which Michaels replied oh, do they keep making him move prisons?. Posh Twat laughed nervously and Michaels assured him he wasn’t going to beat him up just because he was new, he may beat him up for other things, like supporting Arsenal…or West Ham…or Chelsea…or even Leyton Orient for that matter or even worse liking the fuckin’ Drifters but no, not just because he was new, and anyway Michaels concluded with your dad doing 15 years for kiddie-fiddling you’ve got enough on your plate.

Posh Twat who we shall now call Allan, it being his name, muscled in on the Weeley Pop Festival trip and also told them that his parents went away quite a bit leaving him on his own.

Well yes, your mam will be away visiting your dad won’t she? said Tony joining the dad in prison theme that showed no sign of running out of steam I bet if we come round to your house we always see your mam but strangely never yer dad he continued "and if your mam wants some company while