The Outside Of Everything

Chapter 1
The Chase Is On ...

Those were different times. Those were dangerous times. You could take your life in your hands just walking down the road. Walking down the road wearing the wrong thing, that is. We did a lot of running in those days. Not for fun. There really wasn’t a lot of fun around. It was lonely being in the wrong crowd.

Tribalism. You’re not going out dressed like that? But we did. The end of the seventies. The end of the century. It felt like that. Dressing like we did you could upset an awful lot of people. We sort of liked upsetting people. Took a bit of a perverse delight in it. Quite strange, when you actually stop to think about it. And I’ve been thinking quite a bit about those times of late.
Late night tales. Late at night really wasn’t the time to be out and about. Not that there was anywhere to go. It could be bad enough during the daytime. It never really seemed the right time to split hairs, to stop and debate semantics, to explain that just because we were dressed the way we were didn’t mean what they thought it meant. Not that thinking was their strong point. Like trousers, like brain, the man said. But like hair, like brain? Those guys didn’t have a lot of either. Their loss, not mine.

Skinheads. I knew more about their roots than they ever would. The Return of Django and all that. Sheepskin coats and brogues. The exact moment the word suedehead came into play. The right dances. The right colour socks. The Liquidator. Roots? All they were interested in were boots. And the damage they could inflict. Is that what nihilism’s all about? Maybe. Maybe it was just bone-headed stupidity.

We wore disguises. Fred Perrys and hush puppies. V-neck jumpers and narrow leg jeans. Golf jackets and crombies. Desert boots and sta-prests. Quality cast-offs. Other people’s rubbish. We liked Vic Godard and his Subway Sect. The Purple Hearts and Joy Division. Strange and wonderful things. We were young and stupid. Heads full of ideas. Pockets full of books. Modern classics.

The local gangs of skinheads never seemed ready to stop and discuss what made us different. They saw us. They saw what we were wearing. They put two and two together. That’s as far as applied mathematics went. And then it was time to run.

One time sticks in the mind. We were up the shopping centre. Looking for girls. The sweetest of beat angels. Look and smile. Don’t talk. Don’t touch. Some chance. Nevertheless. You’ve got to have hope. Broad daylight. Walking along. Watching reflections in shop windows. Distortions. Distractions. When all of a sudden, there they are. Reeling out of the amusement arcade. A bag of pennies spilling open. Coins clinking on the pavement. Rolling towards the manhole. Green nylon flying jackets. 18-hole Docs. Number one crops. Braces and Union Jack patches. Bleached jeans that look like they’ve been ironed on.

A push and a shove. A rush and a roar. Pointless rituals. Kicking the glass in a bus shelter. Throwing a stone at the chip shop window. Obscenities and outrageous antics. Offering a fascist salute and a football chant. Offensive and meaningless. Lines to recite, poses to throw. Horseplay and hate.

I hate to say they saw us standing there transfixed. Mods! Get ‘em! Fly the flag and hang a mod. We wouldn’t have been seen dead in a parka. No time to explain. Time to fly. We were used to this. No time to stand and stare. We wouldn’t dare. Take to the air with the greatest of unease. Panic! Nothing personal, we knew that, but hardly a thought to console when the chase is on. Distant echoes and distant shouts to chill the bones. But not gaining on us. Not this time. Shoppers scattering. Stop the nattering. People knew what was happening. We knew what to do. We’d plenty of practice. A spring in our step. Sheer necessity. Amazing what you can do when you have to.

When do you know you’re safe? When can you stop to draw a breath and take stock? As far down the road as the swimming pool. No sign of danger. Not a skinhead in sight. We stop. Hands on knees. Bent double. Gasping for breath. Laughing to keep from crying. Out of sheer relief. Out of harm’s way. A lucky escape.

And then a bus turns up. Right where we’re recovering. The bus stops. The bus stop’s right by us. The doors open. And we wished the ground would. We couldn’t believe our eyes. We couldn’t believe our luck. For off of the bus piles a dozen of the most craven of shaven souls. A classic Keystone Kops caper. Before the Benny Hill chase can start all over again. Cornered. Outmanoeuvred by a number of Neanderthals. The shame of it. There must be better ways of ending it all. But it’s not the end. Just feels like it. How to explain this one away? A few wounds. Wounded pride more than anything. And a lesson for the future. No bones broken though. Just a record. A prized copy of The Kids Are Alright. If only.

But that was the start of something. The end of innocence, in a sense. And something better beginning. We picked ourselves and dusted ourselves down. Wiped away the blood and the tears. And swore to ourselves. Swore that we would get revenge. Some way. Some how. Vengeance would be ours. Though we didn’t have a clue quite how. Well, not just then. But the seeds had been planted.

We laughed about it then. We’ve laughed about it since. We didn’t give anything away. No one would have guessed. No one would have imagined what our intentions were. But we were adamant. Certain we’d never be bettered again. Or battered again. So we battened down the hatches. Pulled down the emotional shutters. Re-adopted our disguises. Put on our masks. And started training. Waiting. Watching. Blending in. Biding our time.