Die Hard Mod (3 page)

6

Steve arrived at
George
Best
Belfast
City
Airport
with an hour to spare before his
5.40pm
flight. A screen played clips of Best in his heyday on a continuous loop. ‘So what would you do if you were in my shoes, Geordie?’ wondered Steve. ‘I know. You’d start workin’ yer charm on the first sexy blonde you met and offer to share some vino with her on the flight. She’d fall for your little-boy-lost routine and want to look after you… she might even be loaded and let ye take refuge in her penthouse flat… champagne breakfasts every mornin’ and sex on tap…save ye all the bother of tryin’ to make yer way in some strange town...’

In the check-in queue, he clocked a foxy, posh-looking 30-something blonde in a pencil skirt which made the most of her nicely-shaped backside. Their eyes briefly met and he smiled at her but she shot him back a look that said ‘don’t even think about it, loser.’

‘
Brighton
it is, then,’ decided Steve.

After an uneventful flight during which he was stuck between two chubby business men comparing the nightly rates of upmarket hotels they’d stayed in, Steve arrived at London Gatwick.

The Gatwick to
Brighton
train was mainly filled with weary, defeated-looking commuters but in the seat facing him were a couple of lads he took to be students. One had opted for the dishevelled, floppy-haired indie look while the other had shoulder-length dreadlocks, a lip-ring and a Free Tibet t-shirt. The indie-looking kid looked impressed by Steve’s style.

‘Excuse me, mate. Just wondering where you got those boots from. They really look the business.’

Steve had a shiny pair of black
Chelsea
boots that went well with his check-toothed hipster trousers. He smiled at the compliment.

‘Got ‘em off Ebay, mate… only a tenner. So what’s the crack with you lads? On yer way to
Brighton
then?’

‘Yeah,’ said the dreadlocked one. ‘Had a bit of a mental one partying in London with mates and just getting back to reality now… we should probably start looking for a summer job now that term’s over.’

‘So you’re Irish, yeah?’ asked the indie kid.

‘Aye, that’s right’

‘Cool!’

Steve liked that. He hadn’t even had to do anything and he was already deemed ‘cool’ just by virtue of being Irish. For the rest of the journey, the students were hanging on Steve’s every word, with any minor witticism that he delivered in his thick
Ulster
brogue being greeted with howls of laughter. It looked like
Brighton
was going to be a doddle.

7

Steve arrived in
Brighton
with two basic tips from the students ringing in his ears. ‘Avoid
West Street
, mate, especially at weekends… it’s full of lairy dickheads. And see the pubs right next to the station? Don’t bother, they’re crap. Just go down
Trafalgar Street
and head to the Albert ... it’s only a minute’s walk away’.

The second piece of advice immediately seemed very sound to Steve. There, immortalised in a mural on the side of the pub was his hero, George Best. ‘This is my destiny calling,’ he thought.

For a Monday night, the place was pretty busy, filled with a ragged, genial-looking assortment of art students, old rockers and booze-hounds. While the juke-box played the opening riff of
Tin Soldier,
his favourite Small Faces tune, Steve felt a life-affirming buzz, sat himself down on a bar stool and tried to get the attention of the tattooed, peroxide blonde barmaid. Next to him, there was a skinny, hollow-cheeked dude with an unruly mop of collar-length brown hair who wouldn’t have looked out of place at a psychedelic rave-up in 1967. He was intently mouthing the lyrics of the tune while nursing an empty glass. So could this really be
Brighton
; the carefree land of kindred spirits that Steve always dreamt it might be? He caught the barmaid’s eye.

‘Pint of Guinness please luv and whatever this fella here’s havin’.’

The recipient of his generosity turned and smiled at him. He looked like he’d had a few but was still keeping it together.

‘Cheers boss… don’t I know you? We do a gig together one night or something?’

‘Nah mate, it’s just that anyone who appreciates Tin Soldier is alright by me. I’m Steve by the way… pleased to meet ye.’ Steve shook his hand.

‘Likewise, boss. I’m Bobby. You’re a Belfast Boy yeah? Would know that accent anywhere. So, don’t tell me… George Best was the Messiah and Gloria by Them blows the fuck out of anything by English ponces like The Beatles or The Stones …’

‘Spot on, Bobby. You’re a smart lad.’

‘… and let’s not forget that the sweat of Belfast shipyard workers built the mighty Titanic and that your lot were the unsung pioneers of the 17
^th
century who crossed the Atlantic, made Tennessee their own, formed the back-bone of the American revolutionary army and invented country music…’

‘Not too keen on the oul’ country music so let’s leave that bit out,’ laughed Steve. ‘How the fuck do ye know that stuff?’

‘My old man was from
Belfast
, boss… grew up on all the myths and legends.’         

‘He sounds like a wise and enlightened fella… here’s to yer da, cheers!’

Steve clinked glasses with his new companion and drained his glass. All the stuff he’d heard about English Guinness tasting inferior proved untrue and the agreeable atmosphere in the pub put him in a drinking mood.

‘Two more pints please, luv.’

From his stool, Steve could see through to another seated area behind the bar and his heart raced as he saw the slender back of a girl with a sleek black bob and striped t-shirt. He was about to blurt out something but when the girl turned around, although she was quite a looker of similar height and build, she wasn’t Jeanie.

Bobby noticed Steve’s sudden change in demeanour.

‘You alright boss? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘Yeah, something like that… more a case of mistaken identity.’

Bobby looked bemused but didn’t pursue the matter any further.

‘So what brings you to
Brighton
?’

Steve gestured to their surroundings.

‘I wanted a bit o’ this, mate. I’ve always heard that
Brighton
’s a tolerant place… I know the tourists are flocking to
Belfast
‘n all but this is more my kinda town… sort o’ place where ye might bump into folk who know the lyrics to Tin Soldier and where ye don’t get any hassle if ye choose to dress differently to every other spidey wanker.’

‘Spidey? Whaddya mean, boss?’

‘Sorry mate… I think ye say chavvy over here, don’t ye?’

‘Well I grew up in a dodgy estate in Hackney so I can’t say I’m in a position to look down on the rougher elements but the clobber that you see some of the youth wearing these days, it’s diabolical… ‘orrible white trainers, tracksuit bottoms, hoodies and baseball caps… shocking.’

‘Too fuckin’ right… just ‘cos ye grow up poor, shouldn’t mean that ye don’t have any class.’

The pair clinked glasses again and continued chatting. Bobby told Steve how he made a few quid as a musician doing pub gigs with a soul covers band but when that kind of employment was thin on the ground, he’d turn his hand to anything… labouring, painting and decorating… whatever it took to get by. Steve decided to keep schtum about his real reasons for coming to
Brighton
. It would make life simpler if he just said that he fancied being in a happening seaside town for the summer. After getting another round of pints in, Bobby gave Steve a mischievous look.

‘Hey boss,’ he whispered. ‘If you fancy making a night of it, you could have a dab of this and we could go to this club I know… a lot of the art school chicks go there… they play a lot of trendy indie shit but the totty makes up for it.’

Bobby quickly opened his palm and showed Steve an open bag of white crystallised powder.

‘MDMA yeah?’

‘The very thing… its quite pokey though, so go easy.’

Steve had a glance around to make sure that he was being discreet, licked his right index finger, dipped it into the bag and then quickly put the substance in his mouth.

Towards the end of his pint, Steve felt the drug kick in as The Byrds’s
Mr, Tambourine Man
blasted out of the jukebox. The colour of his companion’s shirt now seemed the bluest of any blue Steve could imagine and the euphoric chemical rush seemed to obliterate all the dreadful events of the weekend. The music, which Steve loved anyway, suddenly seemed even more magical and profound.

‘Fuckin’ hell Bobby, I’m flyin’.’

‘You said it, boss… so let’s get outta here and fly on down to The Joint to check out the talent.’

8

If Steve had thought the Albert was agreeable, he found The Joint even more so. Having checked in his holdall at the cloakroom, he followed Bobby down a spiral staircase into a dimly-lit basement decorated with kitsch, vaguely erotic murals. The venue was rammed with good-looking scenesters making shapes to a tune Steve quite liked called
Jerk it Out
by The Caesars. Steve reckoned it wasn’t a patch on the original 60s stuff but it was a pretty decent pastiche. It certainly provided a worthy excuse for joining in with the dancing.

Steve felt such a big emotional connection with music that he was an effortlessly graceful dancer. While a lot of his Mod friends in
Belfast
would stiffly and self-consciously try to ape dance moves that they’d seen in old episodes of
Ready Steady Go
from the 60s, Steve just let his body respond to the groove of the tune and would almost glide around the dance floor, with a beatific smile on his face.

In true Mod spirit, however, he was a terrible snob and if a tune offended his taste, he’d stop dancing and hang around the bar until it was over. As Bobby was getting more beers in, Steve couldn’t help himself from looking around intently in the hope that Jeanie might be amongst the crowd but after clocking at least three girls with a similar black bob, he realised that he needed to stop his chemically-enhanced imagination running away with itself.

After three or four mediocre tunes that all reminded him of Joy Division,
Molly’s Chambers
by Kings of Leon came on. Bobby was still waiting to get served at the bar but Steve felt like mingling with the revellers, especially as the tune had exactly the type of rhythm that he liked dancing to.

Steve was adept at feigning a lack of interest in what was going on around him on the dance floor but he felt a tantalising sense that a fair-haired girl in a red ‘Vintage Vinyl Saved My Soul’ t-shirt seemed to be making an effort to dance closer to him. She had a sweet, apple-cheeked face and Steve thought that she looked quite like an
Eastenders
actress from the 90s that he used to fancy. His instincts proved right and soon the girl was dancing right in front of him and looking right into his eyes. She lent closer.

‘Didn’t think you Mod dudes liked this sort of thing.’

Steve gently put his hand on her neck as he spoke into her ear.

‘Sometimes a fella just wants to shake his ass around a dance floor and ye can’t always be fussy about what yer shakin’ it to.’

The girl giggled flirtatiously.

‘Sounds like you put your ass about a little too indiscriminately… I’d watch that.’

Steve laughed.

‘Yeah, I might catch indie wanker disease if I’m not careful.’

She scowled in mock indignation.

‘I’ll have you know that some of my best friends are indie wankers.’

The Kings of Leon tune started cross-fading into
Apply Some Pressure
by
Maximo
Park
and Steve grimaced.

‘Talking of indie wankers, I aint dancin’ to this shite… fancy a drink? Sorry, I didn’t catch yer name?’

‘I’m Sally but everyone just calls me Sal. And yours?’

‘I’m Steve. It’s nice to meet ye Sal. C’mon, let’s get away from this dross. It’s offensive.’

Sal pulled a face and gave the music a thumbs-down sign in solidarity.

As they walked towards the bar, Steve saw that Bobby was engrossed in conversation with a wasted-looking guy with an impressive afro who had appropriated the bottle of Becks that was intended for him.

The throng at the bar had thinned and Steve quickly got another Becks and a rum and coke for Sal. They managed to secure a couple of seats at a candle-lit alcove at the rear of the club.

Steve now felt pleasantly drunk but still quite lucid as the effects of the MDMA wore off. Sitting next to Sal, he could see that although she wasn’t his usual sultry brunette type, she was an attractive girl and her open, smiley manner made him feel relaxed and upbeat.