Marcus Blakeston's Blog, page 7

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 07

Mandy rang the bell hanging over the bar of The Black Bull for the third time. Nobody took any notice. She walked over to the jukebox and switched it off at the mains, silencing the new Blitz single mid-song. Don groaned and told her to put it back on again.

“Can you drink up now, please?” Mandy shouted. She returned to the bar and rang the bell again. “Hello? It’s time to go home.”

“All right Mandy, keep your knickers on,” Ian said. “We’ve not finished our beer yet.”

“Well hurry up then. I want to go home even if you don’t.” Mandy walked over to the skinheads and stood before them, hands on hips.

“Can’t we have a lock-in?” Don asked.

Mandy shook her head. “Not tonight, I’ve got other plans.” She looked at Trog and caught his eye. “Trog, can you give me a hand to close up?”

Trog drained the last of his lager and nodded. “Yeah, no worries, Mandy.” He put the empty glass down and rose to his feet. “Right, you cunts. You heard Mandy. It’s time to get fucked off home.”

A few grumbled about the lack of a proper ten minute drinking up time, but they all soon finished off their drinks and shuffled toward the door. Trog helped Mandy collect the empty glasses and put them down on the bar.

“Night then, Mandy,” he said, and turned to leave. Don was waiting for him by the door. The others were outside, larking about and taking the piss out of passing trendies.

“Wait a minute, Trog,” Mandy called out. “Give us a minute to lock up and you can walk me home if you like?”

Trog turned and looked at Mandy. She smiled and winked.

“Get in there, you jammy fucking bastard,” Don said, nudging Trog in the ribs.

Trog grinned at Mandy. “I’ll see you cunts on Saturday then.”

“Give her one for me,” Don said as he left. Mandy closed the door behind him and bolted it.

“I thought you wanted me to walk you home?” Trog asked.

Mandy smiled and ran her finger tips down Trog’s braces, then took one in each hand and pulled him closer. “You can do that later,” she said.

—

Continued next Friday.

Punk Faction by Marcus Blakeston is also available in paperback and ebook if you don’t want to wait that long.

Dan and the Magic Gloves

It took Dan almost a year to perfect his magic gloves. His friends scoffed at the idea, told him it would never work, but Dan was determined to prove them wrong. The idea came to him in a dream, and it was one of those eureka moments that make you leap out of bed in the middle of the night so you can write it down before you forget it.

It was the best idea Dan had ever had, but putting it into practice turned out to be a lot harder than he expected. A whole season came and went while he worked it all out in his head, sketched it out on paper, then finally came up with the blueprints in AutoCAD. A weekend was wasted in his father’s garage while he built a prototype out of an old pair of gardening gloves. When they didn’t work he threw them across the garage in a rage and tipped over his father’s workbench, sending tools clattering to the floor.

After a little research on the internet, Dan decided a pair of leather motorcycle gloves would be a better starting point. They were tough, long-lasting, waterproof, and more likely to withstand the pressures they would be subjected to both in construction and eventual use. And as an added bonus, you could buy them with a large patch of chamois leather sewn into the palms, which the man in the motorcycle shop enthused would be very useful for wiping rainwater and dead insects off your helmet’s visor. When the man asked why he was buying a pair that were several sizes too big for him, Dan shrugged and said he would probably need to wear something else underneath them when it was cold.

Back in his father’s garage, prising off the plastic knuckle-protectors proved harder than Dan expected. He gave up after a few attempts with a hammer and chisel, and eventually used a rotary grinder to flatten them, followed by a nibbler drill to cut the intricate shapes he needed into their surface. He blew away the plastic debris and smiled as he examined his handiwork. He was glad the hammer and chisel hadn’t worked, because this was going to be a lot better to hold the mechanisms in place.

He hummed a tune to himself as he cut slits into the tips of the fingers with a pair of leather cutters. He ignored his mother’s yells for him to come in and eat his dinner before it went cold. His new invention, the magic gloves that came to him in a dream, was almost complete. He knew they were going to work even before he slipped them onto his hands. He held them out before him and flexed his fingers slowly into a pair of fists.

He flicked the fingers of one hand open and Stanley knife blades shot out from the tips like spring-loaded claws. He clenched his fist rapidly and a set of four tungsten nails rose from the knuckles just as the blades retracted back into the fingers. Straightening his fingers returned the nails to their receptacles, making them look like normal motorcycle gloves again. Dan practiced wiping imaginary blood from the back of the gloves with the chamois leathers on the palms and nodded to himself. Shefferham United were playing Fulchester Rovers at the weekend, and it would be the perfect occasion to test them out properly. He couldn’t wait to see the look of pure envy on his friends’ faces as he ripped into the rival supporters.

 

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 06

When the bell rang for last orders, Colin still had over half a pint left. Drinking through a straw, he just couldn’t compete with the others, and they were already two pints ahead of him. He knew there was no point going to the bar himself, he had already tried that and the barman had refused to serve him. So he gave Brian two pound notes and told him to get a can of beer to go and a pack of cigarettes. Mike, Stiggy and Twiglet then decided they didn’t see the point all of them joining the scrum around the bar, so they too gave Brian their orders.

Brian returned a few minutes later with the drinks cradled precariously in his hands and plonked them down on the table. He reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a can of Colt 45, then rolled it across the table to Colin. Colin placed his hand on top of the can to stop it rolling onto the floor.

“Where’s me fags?” Colin asked. He picked up the beer can and studied it. “Fucking lager?”

Brian tossed him a pack of cigarettes and shrugged. “They didn’t have no bitter in cans,” he said. “Anyway, the bloke behind the bar said it were strong stuff, and that’s what counts, right? If you don’t want it, I’ll have it.”

“I never said I didn’t want it. Just that it’s fucking lager.” Colin put the can down and opened the cigarette pack. He took one out and lit it.

“No fucking way,” Mike said, staring at the beer can.

“What?” Twiglet asked.

Mike pointed. “There’s a picture of a deformed punk with a massive cock on the side of it.”

“Yeah, right.” Twiglet leaned across the table and peered at the can. “Fucking hell, it has too! It must be beer for fucking nob-heads.”

“Or birds that like deformed punks,” Mike said, grinning. “There’s hope for you yet, Col. As long as you’ve got a massive cock like that, anyway.”

“It’s a fucking stonker, but it’s not as big as mine,” Twiglet said.

“What, you’ve compared cocks with Mr Pink Straw over there? You dirty fucker.”

“What? No, fuck off. I mean the one on the can’s a fucking stonker.”

Colin picked up the can and spun it around in his hand but couldn’t focus his eyes on it well enough to make out any detail. “Where’s this cock then?”

“There!” Twiglet pointed at a small red blob printed on the side of the can. Colin squinted at it and put a hand over one eye, but he still couldn’t bring it into focus.

“Let’s have a look then,” Brian said, snatching the can from Colin’s hand.

“Oi, get off you cunt.” Colin made a grab for the can, but Brian was too quick for him. He spun around on his stool and turned his back on Colin.

“It’s a fucking horse, you daft bastards.”

Mike stood up and bent over to look at the can in Brian’s hand. “Is it fuck. It looks nothing like a fucking horse. What’s that sticking out of its head then?” He tapped the top of the picture with his finger.

“That’s not its head, that’s its arse. And it’s a leg that’s sticking out of it.”

“What, and it’s got a mohican growing out of its arse?”

“That’s its tail. It’s a fucking horse.”

“Is it fuck, it’s a bloke.” Mike pointed at the picture to emphasise his points. “Look, there’s two eyes and a nose under the mohican. And some pubes between his legs, look … and if it were a horse its cock would be at the other end, up there.”

Brian gave the can a quick shake before handing it back to Colin. “It’s still a fucking horse. That’s why it’s called Colt 45. Colt is another name for a horse.”

“Nah, a Colt 45 is a gun. Like a pistol. And a Sex Pistol is a cock as well, so it must be a punk with a big cock. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?”

Brian shook his head and sighed. “Yeah, whatever.”

“Crack it then, Col,” Twiglet said. “I want to see what this Cock 45 stuff tastes like.”

“Nah, I’m saving it for the bus. I’ve still got this to drink, yet.”

“Best hurry up then,” Brian said, picking up his beer. “Last bus goes in about twenty minutes.”

* * *

Continued next Friday.

Punk Faction by Marcus Blakeston is also available in paperback and ebook if you don’t want to wait that long.

 

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 05

The White Swan was packed with trendies, standing room only. An old Slade song played on the jukebox, and somewhere behind the crush around the bar a group of youths shouted along tunelessly with it. Colin would know those voices anywhere. He nodded to Brian.

“The gang’s all here.”

A young couple stood before the jukebox, arguing about what songs they should spend their money on. The girl, in a pink and yellow spotted summer dress, wanted Adam and the Ants. The boy, sporting a denim jacket, wanted Thin Lizzy.

“Scuse us, darling,” Brian said, and barged past the couple.

“Hey, watch it, you–” the girl began, then took in the Exploited skull painted on the back of Brian’s leather jacket. She turned to her boyfriend and frowned. “Bloody yobs,” she said when Brian was out of earshot.

“Fucking trendies,” Colin said, glaring at her.

The girl gaped at Colin and sniffed. She wrinkled her nose and stepped back, closer to the jukebox. “Did you see that?” Colin heard her say as he walked away.

Brian was talking to Twiglet, a gangly half-caste youth with blotches of darker-coloured skin covering his face, when Colin reached the far side of the pub. He was telling him about what had happened in The Queen’s Head. Twiglet’s massive afro hairstyle bobbed as he nodded his head in sympathy. Mike Thornton, in faded denim jeans and a plain black sweatshirt, looked on, frowning. Stiggy swayed by Brian’s side, holding a pint of cider. Even from a distance Colin could smell the solvents wafting off him.

“Colin, you cunt,” Mike shouted when he saw Colin. “I hear you got twatted by a midget. Fucking show up or what?”

Colin gave him a scowl and a quick V-sign before slinking into the gents to see if he could rescue what was left of his hair spikes. When he returned he expected more snide comments, but everyone seemed genuinely concerned about what had happened to him.

“Fucking skinheads,” Stiggy said. “We should do one of them, see how they fucking like it.”

“Yeah,” Mike agreed, nodding. He took a gulp of his beer.

“There was a bunch of skinheads at the back of the bus the other day making fucking monkey noises at me,” Twiglet said.

Mike shook his head. “Mate, that’s fucking bang out of order. What did you do?”

“Well what do you think I did? I’m not fucking daft, I just ignored them and made a run for it as soon as I got off.”

Mike nodded. “Yeah, you probably did right, mate. We should still do something about it though. Can’t let the bastards get away with something like that.”

Twiglet shook his head. “Nah, not really worth it. Anyway, skinheads all look the same to me. We’d only end up battering the wrong ones.”

“Would that matter?” Mike said with a sly grin. He drained the last of his beer and set off for the bar. Brian followed him.

“Oi Bri,” Colin shouted, “get me one while you’re there, I’ll give you the money when you get back.” Brian turned and gave him a thumbs up. “And get me a straw as well.”

“What do you reckon then, Col,” Stiggy said, “find a skinhead and do the cunt, or what?”

Colin was about to tell Stiggy he’d rather leave it when the opening bars of a Bruce Springsteen song, Born To Run, drowned him out. Mike cheered its arrival from the bar.

“Not this fucking shite again,” Twiglet said, covering his ears.

Colin groaned, it was the worst song he’d ever heard and seemed to be playing on the jukebox in The White Swan every ten minutes or so. He was just as sick of hearing it as Twiglet. He could hear Mike shouting along to it from the bar, and wished he would shut up. He didn’t understand what Mike saw in that type of music. Mike wasn’t a punk, he was just someone Twiglet was at school with, but he did like Sham 69 and Cockney Upstarts. As well as Slade, Garry Glitter, and boring old fart music like Bruce fucking Springsteen – there was just no logic in it.

When the song reached its chorus, Twiglet made up his own words and shouted them over the music.

“Scum like us, maybe we don’t give a fu-uck!”

Colin smiled and joined in at the next chorus. A group of trendies at a nearby table glared at them, then stood up to leave. Colin, Stiggy and Twiglet pushed past them to claim the table before anyone else had the same idea. They made space for Mike when he arrived.

Brian returned with two pints of bitter and put one down in front of Colin with a pink, curly plastic straw floating in it. Shaped like a helter-skelter, it had a love-heart shaped handle near the top with the words I love Babycham printed on it.

“What the fuck’s this?” Colin asked with a scowl.

“It’s all they had mate,” Brian said, grinning.

Colin put the straw to the corner of his mouth and sucked. The beer slowly twirled its way up the straw and into his mouth. Mike and Twiglet both laughed as they watched.

“Fuck off, you’re only jealous,” Colin said. He cradled his beer in one hand and toyed with the straw with the other, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger.

“You and Brian going down to Shefferham on Saturday for the Cockney Upstarts gig?” Twiglet asked.

Colin looked up and nodded. “Yeah, of course. Can’t miss something like that, can we? It’s not like they come this far north often, and it’d cost a fucking bomb to see them in that London of theirs.”

Stiggy scowled. “Fucking skinhead band aren’t they?”

“Are they fuck,” Brian said. “They were a punk band years before all them baldy cunts latched onto them. Anyway, I heard Manny doesn’t like skinheads either. One time at this open air gig he picked up this fucking metal spike and chased loads of skinheads across a field with it. That’s what I heard, anyway.”

“That would have been funny to watch,” Stiggy said. “I heard he throws a pig’s head into the audience at the end of their show as well. It’d be fucking brilliant if he twatted some skinhead in the face with it.”

“Where’d you hear that bollocks?” Twiglet asked.

“No, it’s true,” Stiggy said, “it were in me dad’s paper ages ago.”

“What paper were that then?”

“Dunno, the one me dad gets. There was a photo of it and everything.”

“It must be fucking true then, if it were in your dad’s paper,” Brian said, smiling and shaking his head. “Funny they never mentioned it in Sounds or the NME.”

“Well we’ll find out on Saturday then, won’t we?” Stiggy said. “I bet you a quid he does.”

“You’re fucking on,” Brian said. “Easiest money I’ll ever make.” He looked at Twiglet. “So who else is going then?”

“Spazzo’s deffo going,” Twiglet said. “Not sure about anyone else yet. There’s a few more that said they might go if they can scrounge enough money together. We’re meeting up at the train station buffet at six, probably see you there.”

“Six?” Colin said. “I’ll be at home having me tea then. What time’s the train?”

“Half past. But the next one’s not until eight so if you miss it we won’t be waiting for you.”

“Fuck your tea,” Brian said. “We’ll get some chips or something when we get to Shefferham.”

* * *

Continued next Friday.

Punk Faction by Marcus Blakeston is also available in paperback and ebook if you don’t want to wait that long.

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 04

Trog slammed an empty pint glass down on the table. “You up for another drink then, Don?”

Don shook his head. “Nah mate, I’m skint. Giro doesn’t come until next week.”

“No worries, I’ll get you one. You can pay me back at the Cockney Upstarts gig. Anyone else want one?” Trog added, looking at the other faces sitting around the table. He was inundated with requests for drinks, and pulled out his wallet. “Here’s a tenner, get a pint for everyone. I got a good bonus this week, might as well share the wealth.”

Don took the ten pound note and rose to his feet. “Cheers Trog, you’re a star.”

“No worries, mate. Money’s for spending, innit? Get one for Mandy as well.”

Don smiled. “You want me to give Mandy one? No fucking problem, mate.”

Trog watched Don swagger to the bar and place his order. Mandy laughed and looked in Trog’s direction. He raised a hand and smiled back. Don returned with the drinks on a round metal tray and placed it down in the centre of the table. Trog scooped up his change from the edge of the tray and put it in his flight jacket pocket.

“I told Mandy you said to give her one from you,” Don said, “but she said she’d rather you give her one yourself. I reckon you’re in there, mate.”

Trog laughed. “Yeah, right. Chance would be a fine thing.”

“No, straight up. But if you’re not interested I don’t mind slipping her a length for you.”

Trog looked across at Mandy. She smiled and waved, then opened the bar flap.

“Aye up,” Don said, “she’s coming over. I hope you’ve got your clean undies on.”

“Piss off,” Trog said, smiling, “you’re just fucking jealous.”

“Who fucking wouldn’t be, fit old bird like that?”

Mandy walked up to the jukebox and put a coin in the slot, pressed buttons on the front. An old ska record started playing and Mandy’s arms and hips swayed to it as she mouthed the words to the song.

“Go on then Trog,” Ian said, grinning. He winked at Don. “Now’s your chance, mate. Get in there and show her some of your fancy footwork.”

Trog took a gulp of lager and shook his head. “What, and have you cunts take the piss? Anyway I don’t like that fucking ska stuff, never have.”

“Yeah, it’s a right fucking horrible noise,” Don said with a scowl. “What’s she doing dancing to that fucking shite?”

“Shows what you know,” Ian said. “It’s better than that fucking Oi bollocks you listen to. Can’t even fucking play, most of them.”

“What, and these can? They all sound the same these fucking bongo bands.”

“Fuck off bongo bands. This is proper skinhead music, this is. And they’re not fucking bongos anyway. Sounds nothing like bongos.”

“Is it fuck proper skinhead music. They’re not even fucking white, never mind skinheads. Bunch of fucking wogs, half of them.”

“I don’t like it either,” Stew said, “but they didn’t have no Skrewdriver in the olden days, so it stands to reason old birds like Mandy over there would be into it.”

“Great, another fucking commie,” Don said, shaking his head.

“Fuck off, I ain’t no fucking commie. I’m just saying it were different in the old days, that’s all.”

“Oh, give it a fucking rest,” Trog said. “Who gives a fuck about any of that bollocks?”

“Yeah well,” Don said, reaching into his flight jacket for a pack of cigarettes, “I’m only saying skinhead bands should be white or there’s no fucking point to them.”

“Crash the ash then, Adolf,” Ian said. Don took out a cigarette and tossed the pack across the table. Ian smiled as he picked it up. “Redistribution of wealth in action. So who’s the fucking commie now then?”

Trog sighed and shook his head. He turned back to watch Mandy dance.

* * *

Continued next Friday.

Punk Faction by Marcus Blakeston is also available in paperback and ebook if you don’t want to wait that long.

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 03

Trog punched the door of The Black Bull, wishing it could be the gobby punk’s head. It was bad enough having his bird yelling and screaming at him for no reason, then stamping off in a sulk. But having someone call him a ‘fucking rotter’ just tipped him over the edge. Probably some sort of layabout student. Well that’s one student who won’t be giving him any lip next time.

Trog would have done his mate too if he had the chance. He’d waited for them outside the Queen’s Head, but neither of the useless pricks had come out. If someone from The Black Bull had been smacked like that the whole fucking pub would be out there looking for revenge. Because that’s what skins do. They look after their own.

The rowdy sounds of a Cockney Upstarts song playing on the jukebox blasted out when Trog pushed open the door and entered the smoke-filled lounge. He waved at a group of skinheads taking up the far corner, nodded at the old codger nursing a half by the door. Alf, his name was, but everyone called him ‘H’, short for Half Pint Alf because that half sitting before him would last all night. He was the last of the old time Black Bull regulars, from before the town’s skinheads moved in and turned it into their own regular hang-out. The stubborn old bastard just plain refused to move on, and had become part of the furniture.

“Lager, Trog?”

Trog leaned on the bar and nodded. “Yeah, cheers Mandy.”

Mandy pulled Trog a pint of lager and placed it on a bar towel before him. She smiled as she held out her hand. “Cheer up Trog, might never happen.”

Trog shrugged, staring at his pint. “It already has.”

“Oh?”

Trog reached into his flight jacket and pulled out a leather wallet. He peeled off a five pound note and handed it to Mandy. “Don’t worry about it, just a rough day that’s all. Here, get yourself a drink on me.”

Mandy poured herself a pint of lager and blackcurrant, handed Trog his change, and leaned her elbows on the bar. She cradled her face and smiled at him. “You want to tell me about it?”

“Nah, not really. Just a bust up with me bird, she’ll get over it.”

Mandy winked. “Well if she doesn’t, it’s her loss.”

Trog laughed and nodded. “Yeah, too fucking right.”

Trog knew Mandy was an ex-skinbyrd from the 1970s, an original. That was probably why she didn’t mind the skinheads moving into The Black Bull, even after they chased out all the regulars. They didn’t know this at the time; she was just a normal-looking older bird by then, the skinhead look being long gone. But Mandy always had a friendly smile for the young skinheads, and the more they got to know her the more she revealed of her own youth. The Shefferham gang she ran with, the fights she got into on the terraces, her tussles with bikers and the law. Everyone was enthralled with her. Even more so when she re-donned a feather-cut hairstyle and said she’d had enough of living in disguise. Trog had a lot of respect for that. Most women her age had settled down into a life of mediocrity long ago.

“I think she might have dumped me for good this time though,” Trog said. He took a sip of lager and eyed Mandy over the rim.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. We were on our way to the cinema to watch Death Wish II when she kicked off. I waved to this bird I knew from school and Barbara had a fucking fit about it. Said I were screwing her behind her back.”

“And are you?” Mandy asked, the faint trace of a smile on her face.

“No, am I fuck. I don’t screw around like that, it’s not right is it? Like I said, it were just some bird I knew from school. Trendy bird as well. And she were with some bloke, some fucking yeti, so she obviously likes them hairy. But Barbara weren’t having none of it, she said it were obvious I’d been fucking this bird from the way she looked at me.”

“So what did you say?”

“I didn’t get the chance to say anything. She got all fucking hysterical right there in the street, and then lunged at me and tried to scratch me face. So I gave her a slap, just to calm her down like. Then she just stamped off, calling me all sorts, so I went into the nearest boozer for a drink just to calm meself down a bit.”

Mandy shook her head, still smiling. “Didn’t work though, did it?”

“Yeah well, it probably would’ve worked if it weren’t for some fucking student giving it the big gob. That just wound me up even more. Called me a fucking rotter, would you believe?” Mandy laughed. “Anyway, I think it’s definitely over with Barbara this time. It’s not really been right between us for quite a while now; I think she were just looking for an excuse, really.”

“Never mind, plenty more fish, eh?”

Trog looked into Mandy’s deep blue eyes and held her stare. He smiled, and picked up his lager, turned to leave. “Yeah, I guess. Anyway, I’ll see you later.”

“Trog, you fat bastard,” one of the skinheads yelled as he approached.

Trog grinned.  “Aye up Stew, you skinny cunt, how’s it hanging?”

Stew, a cigarette bobbing in his mouth as he nodded, hooked his thumbs under his braces and stretched them out. “Hanging well, Trog. How’s it with yours?”

“Yeah, not bad.” Trog squeezed himself between Stew and an older skinhead, Don, and sat down on a long padded bench.

“Oi Trog, you going down to Shefferham for the Cockney Upstarts gig on Saturday then?” Don asked.

“Too fucking right I am,” Trog said. “Wouldn’t miss it for the fucking world.”

* * *

Continued next Friday.

Punk Faction by Marcus Blakeston is also available in paperback and ebook if you don’t want to wait that long.

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 02

Colin opened his eyes and groaned. His head throbbed, his stomach and mouth hurt, and he was soaking wet. He lay in the urinal a few seconds while he figured out where he was, then sat up and looked around. Bubbly, foul-smelling liquid dripped down his face. He wiped it away and felt a sharp stabbing pain in his forehead when his hand brushed against it. He explored the area with his fingertips and winced when he touched a tender, round lump.

The toilet door opened. Colin startled, fearing it might be the skinhead returning to finish him off. But as the figure loomed closer, Colin relaxed. It was just one of the domino players from the bar.

The old man leaned over him and smiled. “The sit down bogs is over there, lad,” he said, pointing at a cubicle door. He laughed raspingly, then stepped up to the urinal a few feet from where Colin sat.

Colin leaned forward onto his hands and knees and crawled out of the urinal just as a fresh torrent of urine made its way toward him. He stumbled to his feet and spat a glob of blood onto the tiled floor. He realised he still had his penis out, and pushed it back in and zipped up.

The old man looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Is that the new fashion then?” he asked.

Colin staggered to the sink to look at his battered face in the mirror. His bottom lip was split and oozing blood. There was a red lump the size of a golf ball on the left side of his forehead, and the beginnings of a bruise just above his right ear. The spikes he had spent so long twisting his hair into were all wilted and bent out of shape, frothy with soap bubbles. A wave of nausea hit him. He leaned over the sink and retched. Blood, beer and half-digested chips splattered into the porcelain bowl.

“Can’t take your beer, that’s your trouble,” the old man said, walking past. “You should stick to shandy, lad.”

Colin turned on the cold water tap and splashed water onto his face, then ran his hands through his hair. He tried to mould it back into shape but it was too wet for that. He reached for a paper towel but the dispenser was empty. He sighed, took a final look at his reflection in the mirror, and walked back into the bar.

Brian’s eyes widened. “Fucking hell, what’s happened to you?” he asked.

Colin attempted a smile as he staggered back to his seat, and winced at a sharp pain in his lip. “That fucking skinhead cunt smacked me in the bogs.” He looked around the deserted pub. The old couple with the dominos pointed and laughed at him. “Where is the bastard?”

“Went ages ago. You all right then? You look a right fucking mess.”

“Yeah well, I’ve been better.”

“Mate, if I’d known I would’ve come in and helped you out. So what happened then?”

“Took me by surprise, didn’t he? Fucking little coward whacked me while I were having a piss.”

“Fucking hell, what a cunt,” Brian said, shaking his head. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, exhaling the smoke in Colin’s direction. “You want me to take you home or something?”

Colin shrugged and reached for his beer. “Nah, I’ll be all right.” His hand shook as he raised the glass to take a sip. Searing pain shot through his mouth. Colin jerked the glass away, spilling beer down his already wet clothes.

Brian looked at Colin and raised an eyebrow. He smirked. “You’ll need to drink it with a straw, mate. I can remember when me brother gave me a fat lip years ago, it fucking killed for ages.”

Colin put the glass down and reached into his leather jacket pocket for his cigarettes. The gold pack was damp, and his fingers sank in as he gripped it. He flipped up the lid, took hold of a cigarette, raised it to his mouth–

–and looked down at the soggy brown filter tip in his hand, the rest of the cigarette still in the packet.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Colin flicked the cigarette filter away and turned to Brian. “Give us a fag Bri, mine are all wet.”

Brian tossed his cigarette pack across the table and held out his own cigarette for Colin to light one from. Colin closed his eyes and sighed as he exhaled. The nicotine rush cleared his head a little. He opened his eyes and looked at his beer longingly, wishing he could drink it without pain. He decided Brian’s idea of using a straw wasn’t as daft as it sounded, and looked toward the bar. The barmaid stared at him, her arms folded. She frowned. Colin placed his hands on the table and pushed himself to his feet. The table wobbled under his weight, and Brian grabbed his pint glass to stop it from toppling over.

“Have you got any straws?” Colin asked the barmaid.

She shook her head, frowning. “I’m not serving you looking like that. You’ll have to leave.”

“What?” Colin said. “I haven’t done nothing. I got attacked in the bogs.”

“I don’t care, this is a respectable pub. People come here for a quiet drink, they don’t want to look at louts like you and your friend over there. Now get out, you’re barred.”

Colin knocked over an empty stool and glared at her. “It’s a fucking shit pub anyway.” He looked at Brian, who frowned back at him.

Outside, Colin shivered in the cold while he waited for Brian to finish urinating against a wall. A dark blue car pulled up at the kerb just as Brian finished, and its tinted passenger-side window rolled down. A young man wearing a suit and tie leaned out, then beckoned Brian over with his fingers. Brian walked up to the car and leaned down to look inside.

“What’s up, mate?” he asked.

“SID’S DEAD!” the man shouted.

The driver of the car, another young man in a suit and tie, laughed and aimed a bottle of tomato sauce over the passenger’s shoulder. He squeezed the soft plastic bottle and a stream of red tomato sauce flew at Brian. Brian jumped back, but couldn’t avoid his face and clothes being splattered with it.

“You fucking cunt,” Brian shouted. He reached for the car’s door handle and pulled, but the door was locked. He reached through the open window and grabbed a handful of the passenger’s shirt. The car sped away with a squeal of tyres, causing Brian to withdraw his hand quickly.

“FUCKING TOSSERS!” Brian shouted after the car as it raced to the end of the street. It disappeared around the corner with another squeal of tyres. Brian turned to Colin. “Did you see that?”

Colin nodded. “Yeah. Fucking trendy wankers, they’re worse than fucking skinheads.”

Brian took a handkerchief from his jeans pocket and wiped tomato sauce from his face, then dabbed at the smears on his leather jacket and T-shirt. “As if anyone cares about that drugged up cunt anyway. He couldn’t even fucking play.”

“Yeah,” Colin said, not really interested. He had heard Brian’s tirade on the relative merits of Sid Vicious and Ronnie Biggs versus Glen Matlock and Johnny Rotten many times before and had no desire to hear it again. “We going to The White Swan then, before I sober up too much?”

Without waiting for an answer, Colin marched unsteadily up the street.

* * *

Continued next Friday.

Punk Faction by Marcus Blakeston is also available in paperback and ebook if you don’t want to wait that long.

Hank the Yank versus The Crips

or … why Americans shouldn’t try to write about British characters.

“Yee-Ha,” Hank exclaimed, jumping off his horse in a single bound. “Time to get me some faggots.” He tied his horse, Muffin, to an empty hitching post in the disabled area of the Tesco car park. “Y’all coming, Trixie?”

Trixie, still sitting in the passenger saddle tied to the back end of Muffin, looked down at Hank and shook her plastic grass pom-poms at him. “Heck, Hank, what y’all doing parking old Muffin here in the disabled area? We ain’t got no disabilities, dumb-arse.”

Hank tilted back his ten-gallon hat and peered up at Trixie. He smiled. “Old Muffin here ain’t as young as he used to be, so he ain’t. Gonna be fit for the knacker’s yard soon, I reckon. Besides, he started limping a bit when we crossed the prairie, I reckon he might’ve got bit by a rattlesnake or stepped on a cactus or something. Reckon that makes him disabled enough for parking here, I surely do.”

Trixie swung her leg over the saddle and slid off the horse. Hank caught her in his arms and got a face-full of pom-poms when she landed on the ground before him. He slapped her arse and told her to go get a shopping trolley.

“Y’all got a pound coin on you for the trolley?” Trixie asked.

Hank sighed and reached into his leather chaps for a pound coin. He flipped it in the air and Trixie caught it in her mouth. She transferred both pom-poms to one hand and took the coin from her mouth, then inserted it into a shopping trolley.

“Let’s do this shit,” she said, pushing the trolley into Tesco.

A tumbleweed drifted across the car park. Hank patted Muffin on the back and lit a cigar. “Y’all wait here while I mosey on down to that there Tesco and get me some faggots,” he said to the horse. The horse nodded its head and whinnied.

A wrinkly old-timer standing at the Tesco entrance glared at Hank as he approached. He pointed at a No Smoking sign and shook his head. God-damn health and safety laws, Hank thought. God-damn government should get the God-damn hell out of my God-damn life. He stubbed out his cigar on the palm of his hand, smiling defiantly at the old-timer. The old-timer nodded and waved him through the door. Hank blew on his hand and shook it when he was out of sight. Now look what your God-damn health and safety laws gone and done to my God-damn hand.

He found Trixie by the gun department, shaking her pom-poms at a buy one get one free sign. He clumped towards her, his spurs clicking on the tiled floor as he walked. Trixie turned and smiled.

“Gimme a G,” she chanted, thrusting up her left pom-pom. “Gimme a U.” The right pom-pom shot above her head. “Gimme an N.” The pom-poms swished past each other as Trixie crossed her arms above her head and dropped down to her knees. “Gimme some guns, motherfucker.”

Hank shook his head slowly. “Hell, Trixie, ain’t you got enough guns already? There’s hardly enough space in our caravan as it is.”

“A girl can never have too many guns,” Trixie said. “What if there’s another Apache uprising or our caravan gets surrounded by bears?”

“Heck, y’all know that ain’t never gonna happen. There ain’t no picnic baskets at our caravan park to attract the bears, and all the Apaches are running bingo halls now.”

“But it’s buy one get one free. Y’all know I can’t resist a bargain like that.”

Hank sighed. He never could resist Trixie’s puppy-dog eyes. “Okay, but make them small ones, I don’t want you filling up the shopping trolley with guns again like you did the last time they had a sale on. You gots to leave room for my faggots, ya hear?”

“You and your damn faggots,” Trixie said. But at least she was smiling again.

Hank watched Trixie pull a couple of pink Uzi submachine guns from the shelf and plonk them in the shopping trolley. He sighed and shook his head.

“What?” Trixie asked. “They’re smaller than the M60s, and they’ve got them in my colour. Now I just need to find some pink bullets for them and we’re all set.”

Trixie reached up, standing on her tippy-toes, but couldn’t quite reach the boxes of pink ammunition on the top shelf. She beckoned Hank over and told him to assume the position. Hank bent down before her and clutched the back of his knees. Trixie climbed onto his back and swiped boxes off the shelf with her pom-poms. She jumped down and spun in a pirouette, then picked up the boxes and tossed them in the shopping trolley.

“Now can we go get me some damn faggots?” Hank asked, rubbing the base of his spine where Trixie’s high heels had dug into him.

“Hell yeah,” Trixie said.

Hank led the way to the faggot section of the supermarket. He debated whether to buy a pack of four Mr Brain’s, or a Tesco own-brand super saver variety pack of six. Trixie’s new guns, even if they were buy one get one free, were going to cost a pretty penny and his credit card was already stretched to the limit. Luckily, Mr Brain’s faggots were also on special offer. Buy two packs and get a pack free to throw away, a sign on the shelf read.

“Yee-ha,” Hank cried, and tossed six packs of Mr Brain’s faggots into the shopping trolley.

“Y’all ain’t never gonna eat that many damn faggots,” Trixie said, frowning.

“The hell I am,” Hank said. “Now git yo arse over to that there till, we’s done enough shopping for one day. Old Muffin will be getting his britches in a tizzy thinking we done gone and left him, so he will.”

Trixie pushed the shopping trolley to the till. Hank moseyed after her and watched as Trixie put their goods on a conveyor belt. A spotty kid working the till picked up one of the pink Uzi submachine guns and turned it around in his hands, looking for a barcode to scan. When he couldn’t find one he put it down and reached under the till for some picture cards showing different varieties of guns. He found one that matched Trixie’s gun and scanned a barcode printed beneath it. He picked up the second gun and consulted his cards again.

“It’s the same damn gun,” Hank said, getting impatient. “Y’all just need to scan the same damn picture twice.”

“And it’s buy one get one free,” Trixie added. “So don’t go ripping us off none, y’all.”

The kid looked up and nodded. He scanned the barcode again and picked up a box of ammunition. Trixie stuffed the two Uzi submachine guns into the waistband of her rah-rah skirt and flounced out of the door. The kid scanned the remaining boxes of ammunition, then Hank’s faggots. As Hank handed over his credit card, Trixie came running back into Tesco.

“It’s the damn Crips,” she yelled, waving her pom-poms. “They’re coming across the prairie and they’re heading straight for us.”

“Hell, that’s all we damn need,” Hank said. He put the faggots in one carrier bag and the boxes of ammunition in another, then headed for the door.

“Gimme my bullets, quick,” Trixie said, dropping her pom-poms.

Hank reached into a carrier bag and held out a box of ammunition. Trixie snatched it from him and tore it open with her teeth. She pulled out a handful of pink bullets and slapped them into one of the guns.

“Y’all want the other gun?” she asked.

Hank looked at the pink gun she held out for him and shook his head. “Hell no, I ain’t no damn sissy boy.”

Trixie grunted and loaded the other gun. She held one in each hand and stepped out into the car park. Hank picked up her pom-poms and stuffed them into one of the carrier bags and followed her out.

The old-timer at the door pointed frantically at a No Loaded Guns sign. Trixie barged past him and ran up to a parked wagon nearby. Its horse whinnied and reared up, but couldn’t pull away because the wagon’s handbrake was on. Hank glanced at Muffin, who had his nose in a water trough, and joined Trixie behind the wagon.

In the distance, Hank saw clouds of dust churned up on the prairie. As they got closer he could make out sitting figures, their hands frantically spinning large wheels by their sides. It was the damn Crips, all right. The most feared gang in all of Americaland, and here they were heading straight towards them.

“Oh, hell no,” Hank said.

“Hell yeah,” Trixie said, grinning. She stepped out from behind the wagon and raised her guns. “Eat pink leaden death, motherfuckers,” she yelled. Crips jerked and danced under her barrage of bullets. Wheelchairs spun out of control and tipped over. Trixie laughed, her arms shuddering from the recoil of her pink submachine guns.

The Crips skidded to a halt and crouched behind their fallen comrades. One pulled out a bazooka and rested it over his shoulder, the barrel pointing straight at Trixie. Trixie was having too much fun to notice.

“Get down,” Hank yelled, but Trixie couldn’t hear him over the roar of her twin guns. He ran out and grabbed her around the waist, threw her onto the ground just as the bazooka flashed. The Crip’s wheelchair shot backwards, the bazooka’s shell whistled past Hank’s head and exploded in Tesco’s doorway. The old-timer flew into the air and landed on Tesco’s roof. He looked down and shook his fist.

The Crips were on the move again. Trixie shouted something, but Hank couldn’t hear it over the ringing in his ears. She scrabbled across the ground to the two carrier bags he had left behind the wagon and rifled inside them. She pulled out a new box of ammunition and loaded her guns. The bazooka flashed once more and the wagon shattered into a thousand burning splinters of wood flying in the air. The horse ran away, its tail on fire. Trixie levelled her guns on the Crip with the bazooka and blew his head off.

“Yee-ha,” Hank shouted. Another Crip raised a gun and fired at him. Hank’s ten-gallon hat flew off. “God damn it,” Hank said, and crawled after his hat. When he picked it up there was a bullet hole in both sides. “Oh, you’re gonna pay for that, you surely are.” Hank ran to Trixie’s side and snatched one of the submachine guns from her hand. He pointed it at the remaining Crips and squeezed the trigger, swaying the gun from side to side as he watched them slump in their wheelchairs.

“Mighty fine shooting, partner,” Trixie said when all the Crips were still. “I reckon you done deserved those faggots now.”

Hank nodded and gave Trixie her gun back. She spun both guns over her fingers by the trigger guards as they walked back to Muffin.

“Oi, what about me?” the old-timer shouted down from the roof.

Hank looked up and tipped his hat at the old man. “You can buy your own damn faggots.”

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 01

1 Fucked Up and Wasted

Colin Baxter was already buzzing when he walked through the door of The Queen’s Head half an hour after opening time – four cans of beer to go with the bag of chips he had for tea had seen to that. The pub smelled of furniture polish and stale tobacco, masking the sweet scent of malt and hops he expected.

An old couple playing dominos near the door looked up at Colin and tutted to each other. The middle-aged woman behind the bar eyed him with a frown. Colin ignored them all. He was used to getting funny looks – everywhere he went people stared at him, like he was an alien or something. You’d think nobody had ever seen a punk before, the way they always stared. Still, it was their problem, not his.

Colin looked around the otherwise empty pub for his mate, Brian Mathews. He found him sitting by an old Wurlitzer jukebox, and raised his hand in greeting. Brian nodded back and glanced at his watch.

“All right, Col?”

“Yeah, not bad.”

Brian reached into his leather jacket and took out a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches. He pulled a cigarette out with his teeth and struck a match on the underside of the table. Colin took out his own cigarettes and leaned over the table to get a light from Brian.

“What did you want to meet in here for?” Colin asked, blowing smoke across the table. “The place is fucking dead.”

The old couple playing dominos tutted again. One mumbled something, the other laughed. Colin poked out his tongue at them.

“Happy hour, innit?” Brian said. “Might as well get a few in here while it’s cheap, then fuck off down to The White Swan once we’re bladdered.”

“Yeah, I guess. Or we could just get some drinks in here and take them with us?”

Brian laughed. “Nah, that barmaid’s been watching me like a fucking hawk since I came in. You’d have no chance getting out of here with any drinks.”

Colin looked at the barmaid and smiled. She frowned back, hands on hips. Colin walked up to the bar and drummed his fingers on it.

“Pint of bitter please, darling.”

“How old are you?” the barmaid asked.

“Erm … Eighteen?” Colin looked away and tapped his cigarette on the edge of a spotlessly clean ashtray.

The barmaid sighed. Colin looked up in time to see her shake her head and frown. She reached under the bar for a pint glass and filled it from a hand-pump, then put it down on the bar before him.

“Sixty pence,” she said.

Colin pulled a crumpled pound note from the pocket of his leather jacket and dropped it into the barmaid’s outstretched hand. She sighed again and straightened it out, then held it between her thumb and forefinger as if it was something disgusting while she took it to the till. She returned and dropped Colin’s change on the bar.

Colin’s eyes strayed to a naked girl on a peanut dispenser behind the bar as he picked up the coins and put them in his pocket. The young blonde woman in the photo had one bag of peanuts hanging over each breast. Colin thought about buying a bag, and wondered if the barmaid would give him a choice between left or right. But something about the way the woman stared at him made him change his mind, so he just picked up his pint and walked away.

“I thought you’d have saved that for the gig at the weekend,” Colin said, pointing at Brian’s Cockney Upstarts T-shirt.

Brian shrugged. “Nah, I’ll get me mam to wash it before then. Or wear something else. I haven’t decided yet. Besides, everyone else will probably be wearing the same shirt, and I’d rather be an individual than a sheep.”

Colin sat down and took a long drink of beer. He sighed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Talking of which,” Brian said, spinning round in his chair. “What do you reckon to this? Twiglet’s brother did it for me, fucking smart or what?”

Colin stared at a white Exploited skull intricately painted onto the back of Brian’s leather jacket, with the band’s logo beneath it. He nodded.

“Yeah, he’s done a good job there. How much?”

Brian turned back and smiled. “Twenty quid.”

“Twenty quid? Fucking hell, where did you get that much money from?”

“I haven’t paid him yet, I said I’d give him it when me giro comes. Well worth it though, nobody else has got anything like this.”

Colin thought about his own leather jacket, the stencilled band names spray-painted onto it, and wished he could afford to have something similar done to his. Not much chance of that though. After he paid his grandmother for board, Colin’s giro hardly stretched to a couple of nights out a week and a new record at the weekend. Brian didn’t know how lucky he was having working parents who could afford to keep him for free.

The pub door swung open with a loud thud. Colin turned toward it. A young skinhead with an angry scowl on his face swaggered through the door. He was short, just over five feet tall and slightly overweight, and wore a green flight jacket with a Union Jack patch above the left breast. Red braces hung down from a pair of faded denim jeans, the legs of which were turned up six inches to show off a pair of highly polished cherry red fourteen-hole Doc Marten boots.

“Aye up, it’s the Munchkin Gestapo,” Brian whispered.

Colin laughed. The skinhead glared at him as he walked toward the bar. Still smiling, Colin shook his head and picked up his beer. He gulped it down.

“Sieg Low, Sieg Low, Sieg Low,” Brian said, holding a finger under his nose.

Colin spluttered beer across the table. Brian wiped splashes from his face with a frown.

“You dirty bastard,” Brian said. “You dirty fucker.”

“What a fucking rotter,” Colin said, recognising the famous quote from a write-up about it in Melody Maker. He sensed someone standing behind him and turned. The skinhead glared down at him. Colin nodded. “All right, mate. You joining us?”

The skinhead stared at Colin for a few seconds, then shook his head and turned away. He took up a seat a few tables away and sat with his arms folded, staring at his pint glass. Colin shrugged and turned back to his beer. He drained the glass and took it to the bar for a re-fill.

“What’s his fucking problem?” Brian asked, nodding at the skinhead when Colin returned.

“Dunno,” Colin said with a shrug. “I need a piss anyway. Watch me beer for me.” He put the full glass down on the table and headed for the toilet. “All right mate,” he said when he passed the skinhead. The skinhead didn’t look up.

Inside the toilet, Colin rushed to the communal urinal and pulled down his zip. The toilet door opened and closed behind him. Boots slapped across the tiled floor. Colin took a drag on his cigarette and sighed clouds of smoke while he urinated.

A hand grabbed the spikes on the back of Colin’s head and yanked it back. Colin cried out and dropped his cigarette into the urinal, raised his hands and tried to turn. His forehead crashed into the wall with a dull thud. Blinding white light filled his vision. His head was pulled back and slammed into the wall once again. The hand released his hair and he was spun around by his shoulder. He stared at the fuzzy blob before him and shook his head to bring it into focus. His eyes widened. The skinhead scowled at him and raised a fist.

“You fucking cunt,” the skinhead yelled, and smacked Colin in the mouth.

Colin’s lip stung. He tasted warm copper, felt something dripping down his chin. He raised a hand to his mouth. Rough hands pushed him back against the urinal wall.

“What the fuck are– ” Colin began.

The skinhead punched him in the stomach. Colin doubled over, the wind sucked out of him. His legs buckled from beneath him, his back slid down the urinal with a faint squeak of leather against aluminium. He looked up at the skinhead as he sat there, piss soaking through his tartan trousers.

“Not so fucking big now, are you cunt?” the skinhead yelled. He shook with rage. His fists clenched and unclenched by his sides.

Colin held his stomach and moaned. He leaned to one side and spat out a glob of blood. “What the fuck?” he asked.

“Like you don’t fucking know, you gobby cunt.”

Colin shook his head. “Mate, I were just being friendly. You’re a fucking psycho.”

“Fucking cunt,” the skinhead roared, and kicked Colin in the side of the head.

Colin didn’t feel the impact, everything just faded to black. The words echoed around his head, “—unt –unt –unt”, along with the beginnings of a cackle of laughter. The sounds mingled together before fading to nothing along with his vision.

* * *

Continued next Friday.

Punk Faction by Marcus Blakeston is also available in paperback and ebook if you don’t want to wait that long.

 

Punk Faction Online Serial Part 00

Punk Faction was my first book, or at least the first one I actually finished writing. It first saw the light of day right here on this blog back in 2010 as a series of short stories, and if it wasn’t for the encouragement I got from a few people who read them at the time I never would have finished it, and never would have written any of the others that followed it.

So it seems only fair that it should return here now in its revised version, with new episodes posted every Friday until it is complete.

It will remain available as a paperback and an ebook for people who either don’t want to wait for each new chapter, or who don’t want to read it on a computer screen, but my intention is to leave it here forever for anyone who wants to read it.

Use this link for easy navigation to each chapter.

http://marcusblakeston.wordpress.com/category/punk-faction-online-serial/

 

Copyright

Punk Faction  © 2011 by Marcus Blakeston. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or places is entirely coincidental.

Paperback ISBN: 1477517960

Ebook ISBN: 9781465723079

Kindle ASIN: B005EDH62I

This book is respectfully dedicated to the memory of Richard (Sooty) Sutton, who didn’t survive the 1980s.