September 2008

Last month, when I was talking about the notorious and sleazily glamorous squatted street Bristol Gardens where me and Doll By Doll lived in the seventies and eighties in London, it got me thinking more and more about those times – you could write a book – maybe I will....

Further draughts of memory from those times came upon me, some more comfortable than others, veering from ‘shut that bloody door’ to ‘and an angel appears – enter, enter’... Doll by Doll guitarist Joe Shaw and me used to drink in a fabulous pub in Shirland Road called The Shirland. This was a tough old Irish pub with a beautiful tiled toilet (though not as fantastically tiled as the toilet of the Chippenham pub half a mile further on up the road). At this time Joe and me could drink five pints of Guinness each of a lunchtime then go and rehearse and songwrite all afternoon. We became accepted by the Shirland landlord Pat and his regulars quite quickly, and by George, the Greek chip shop owner next door who sold us pasty and chips to help deal with the Guinness overload.

The Shirland was simply phantasmagorical in those days, with lots of clearly illicit dealings taking place in corners, but also with a proud, even distinguished working class spirit, and an excellent old fashioned jukebox playing everything from ‘And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda’ to a couple of singles from Willie Nelson’s iconic (did I just write that? – I beg your pardon) ‘Red Headed Stranger’ album. There was another single that we were mad about but I can’t remember what it was called – can you Joe? A clear instance of remembering with the heart, not the head. It’s what old people are doing when it irritates you – ‘I forget his name, but he was at the – oh I can’t remember, ANYWAY, he said, and this was funny, - er, he said to Joan, no wait, he said to Freda’....

One night some extremely big geezers in shiny charcoal grey Burton style suits came in the pub, and although the place didn’t exactly freeze as in westerns, it was clear from the demeanour of the locals that these were men to be rightfully feared. An old Irish fella who we’d seen shaking a collection tin for the I.R.A in a famous old pub of the time, Biddy Mulligan’s, crept over to us and whispered ‘Flying Squad’. So these guys were the real Sweeny (Sweeny Todd – Flying Squad). The pub was dark and red with raging southern Irish country rock playing, and Pat the landlord was having a night off, leaving a Scottish half-wit called Stuart to run things. Stuart was useless – if you asked him for a packet of plain crisps he would shamble over to the crisp boxes, then look back at you beseechingly and say ‘wuz that PLAIN or SALT AND VINEGAR? – I ken ye said PLAIN, but sometimes Ye waant SALT AND VINEGAR’... ‘Plain please Stuart’...

‘Awright awright, just COMIN!’ Stuart disappeared round the back to admire the tiling in the toilet as these Flying Squad bastards slowly took over the pub through sheer force of menace, LOADS of cash on the bar, and leering looks at any women worth leering at in their book. A bit like drunk Premiership footballers today, except the coppers had genuine charm and charisma by comparison. Suddenly head copper veered over to a table and grabbed a woman by the wrist, forcing her to join him and his mates at the bar while her mild mannered and very drunk young Irish beau looked on in horror and consternation.

‘Wha’yougonnadoabahtit-go-onmake yourmoveyoufuckinbogtrottingwanker’ invited the copper to young Romeo. His girl was twisting and turning with fading self belief in copper’s iron grip and the young Irishman just looked on helplessly, torn between appropriate fear of these arseholes and a need to make a show of protest on behalf of the girl who, unfortunately he didn’t really know well enough to warrant getting kicked to pieces. Curiously, he picked up a beer mat and shook it in a faint way between thumb and first finger whilst looking directly at the offending cop.

This made all the coppers roar with laughter – the girl by this time was staring at the floor, still in the iron grip, and trying to slide back on a stiletto shoe that had become detached in the general merriment.

Suddenly the main pub door swung open and Pat the landlord appeared, to take a fast professional view of the piece of theatre taking place. Kenny Rogers was singing ‘Ruby Don’t Take Your Love To Town’, Stuart was crouching behind the bar pretending to stock-take the salt and vinegar crisps, a formidable local hardman called Alan Chamberlain was moving slowly towards the action, clearly intent on taking on the Sweeny men alone if necessary: he would never have won but would have most certainly hospitalized at least one of them – a absolute fact as far as the coppers, who knew Alan of old were concerned, as they watched his eerie progress like crows intent on defending their rights to a dead rat.

Suddenly the girl shouted at full welly ‘LET ME GO!’ and attempted to pull violently away from the restraining copper. Restraining copper watched her do this as if noticing for the first time that she was even in his grip. He let her go and she fell against Pat’s chest – Pat’s stately wife Maria had now come through the pub door and stood looking at this wildness with the air of a woman who might just report the entire business to the European Court Of Human Rights. Pat tenderly passed the shaken young girl to Maria’s motherly care and walked over slowly to the main copper and talked in his ear for a few moments as Thin Lizzy careened through ‘Whisky In The Jar’.

The policeman nodded thoughtfully and with respect to whatever Pat was saying, motioned with his head to his fellow fuzz and they all left the bar in silence without finishing their drinks. Stuart was still counting his crisp packets as Pat resumed his position as commander of the bar. A big ancient Irish labourer called Bad Ronnie, standing next to me and Joe asked: ‘What did ye say ti them Pat?’

Without looking up from where he was brushing out full ashtrays into a bin, Pat said ‘I told them to fuck off out of my bar’.