This pride is feeding a real air of self-importance as we drive past the library, the cinema and Kardouni’s Joke Shop towards the venue. We feel like genuine rock and roll stars when the Town Hall comes into sight with a number of people outside the venue. It is dusk, and the interior lights of the impressive civic building are lending further atmosphere to proceedings. We turn left, driving past the well-maintained gardens to park at the side, unloading the van to carry the gear through to the stage door.
The inside of the hall looks the same as the Wedgwood pottery that my granny loves. The curved ceiling has a pattern of rectangular china blue inserts framed by cream ornate carvings, all matched by the design of high arched sash windows running down each side of the room. The uniform rows of grey chairs evoke the image of an East European military parade, and though the seats are starting to fill up, it appears that admission to the hall is conditional upon your level of incontinence. The ticket holders look either over ninety or under three. This does not look like a crowd that will appreciate the musicality of Junkie’s Fudge.
*
A little later, my chief emotion remains one of anxiety. I peer through a gap in the curtains at the side of the stage and take in the first few rows of the audience. It now resembles a shampoo and set convention. Kevin Pratt, heartthrob star of the Leasowe Minstrels, is on his knees waxing about his ‘Mammy’. Meanwhile, a number of the old dears in the front stalls are wiping away tears from their eyes. This might be the emotional intensity of Kevin’s performance or his renowned bad breath.
I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder. I turn around to see a pockmarked Teddy boy glaring at me. Leather-clad, fair skinned, and unshaven, he has one of his front teeth missing and looks the type who works for a travelling fair, spinning the cars on the waltzer. I cannot help but notice that his black leather trousers are ridiculously tight, his genitals packed like sardines in a tin. It is a sort of horrific, twentieth century version of Michelangelo’s David.
‘What you going to be singing lad?’ he growls.
‘Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep,’ I reply in a pitch higher than normal.
‘Fuck me, what a sack of shit!’
The fact that he makes King Kong look under nourished softens the edge to my riposte. ‘What about you?’
‘Rock and roll lad, rock and roll.’
He explains he is a survivor from the Merseybeat era, claiming his group, Jimmy Jet and the Rockets topped the bill at a local ballroom in 1960 when The Beatles were the opening act. They had toured the county’s cinemas with the likes of Gerry & The Pacemakers, played regularly at the Cavern, and released one single, the gut wrenching ballad 'My Heart Stopped Beating the Day She Died'. He still cannot believe the record did not chart, adding bitterly that his musical career never recovered from a combination of this setback and the subsequent, personal incapacity caused by a virulent strain of infected haemorrhoids.
Against my better judgement, I mutter, ‘This must be a bit of a comedown then.’
For a moment, I think I am going to be head-butted, but the rocker regains his composure. ‘Tonight lad is the start of Jimmy Jet’s comeback. Stand by for lift-off!’
His backing group appears. There are only two of them, a drummer, and a bass player, and neither speaks a word of English.
‘Here’s some advice lad,’ says Jimmy conspiratorially. He checks that nobody is listening. ‘Keep it a trio, so there’s less to share the stash. And if you’re really lucky like me, you’ll hire a couple of East European refugees. These soft gets think that £30 divided by three makes a quid. Sometimes I buy them a pair of Wranglers or even Sea Dogs, which to them is like getting a bloody Rolls Royce. And one last thing lad about agents and managers... do you know what they are?’
I shake my head.
‘I’ll tell you what they are.’ Jimmy seems to be recalling some damaging past experiences. ‘They’re the fucking scum of the earth. What are they?’ he shouts with an intimidating look across his face.
My voice rises an octave to confirm, ‘Scum of the earth?’
‘That’s right lad, that’s right.’
The exchange seems to have taken its toll on Jimmy who has to sit down to recover his poise, wincing as he does. His trousers are valiantly taking the strain.
‘Fucking piles,’ he bellows.
Enthusiastic applause from the crowd acknowledging the end of 'Mammy' interrupts this rather private exclamation. The Master of Ceremonies, whose demeanour is as smooth as his brylcreemed hair and worn out dinner suit, takes to the stage.
‘That’s fabulous ladies & gentlemen; let’s hear it once again for the Leasowe Minstrels starring our very own Kevin Pratt.’
Further applause rings out. When it fades, the MC resumes his patter.
‘Now ladies & gentlemen, it’s time for more local talent. Making his comeback after a series of unfortunate ailments, including a twisted bowel, shingles, and hepatitis, it’s the one, the only... erm... the unforgettable erm...’
The man is plainly struggling to find the name on his list. I glance at Jimmy who tries to save face.
‘The bastard’s building up the tension.’
After a further uncomfortable moment or two, he finally locates the name.
‘Ah yes, the one and only, Jimmy Jet and the Rockets.’
Jimmy moves on to the stage as though he has shit himself, his waddle a passable impersonation of an inebriated duck, and he is carrying his guitar as though made of nuclear material. There is tangible trepidation in the lukewarm applause from the crowd, justified when it gives way to a cacophony of noise from the band. To me, they sound good, but they are loud, so loud that the audience members either cover their ears or disconnect their hearing aids.
I move backstage where there are no dressing rooms, and it is utter chaos with countless minstrels, a sprinkling of aspiring musicians, a fire-eater, magicians, and a small brown dog walking on its back legs. I spot Julian in a dark corner, partially obscured by a black curtain. As I approach my friend, I see that he is in a passionate embrace with one of the chorus girls, so I make myself scarce and return to watch Jimmy Jet from the wings.
At the end of his two-song set, the singer swivels his guitar so that it is resting on his back, and in keeping with 1960s’ beat group tradition, bows to the audience with his fellow band members. As he straightens up, there is a blood-curdling scream from the audience. It seems that the courageous battle fought by Jimmy’s leather trousers to remain intact during his performance is well and truly over. A flap has appeared around his crotch, just large enough to allow his manhood to become visible to all and sundry. Unsurprisingly, there was no room for underpants between the ageing trousers and Jimmy’s raw flesh. As the cries continue, he is oblivious to the fact his meat and two veg are now on display and wrongly interprets the shrieking as a latter day version of Beatlemania. He proceeds to run back and forth across the stage acknowledging the hysteria, all the while his genitalia flopping around like a rag doll. After an eternity, he finally heads off stage, clearly elated.
‘Fuck me lad,’ he says as he passes, ‘that was the dog’s bollocks.’
‘No Jimmy,’ I reply, pointing at his groin, ‘they are the dog’s bollocks!’
He looks down. ‘Oh fuck.’
Normality is quickly resumed via the Leasowe Minstrels and their 'Swanee River', after which it is the turn of Junkie’s Fudge. We gather just off stage and give each other last minute words of comfort and encouragement. The final few moments of calm preparation are then undermined by Ged who suddenly announces in a blind panic that he cannot remember any of the chords to the songs. We desperately attempt to revive his memory as we hear the MC preparing to announce our entrance.
‘Wasn’t that wonderful, ladies and gentlemen? Follow that as they say, although someone has to! And so for your further delectation and rapturous enjoyment...’
The MC is growing into his role; in fact, he is growing into Leonard Sachs of The Good Old Days.
‘Three young lads from Wallasey, let’s give a warm Talent Aplenty welcome to...’
He searches his list and screws up his eyes trying to read the words.
‘Junkie’s Fuck!’
The show is turning into an unexpected x-rated ordeal for the shampoo and sets in the audience, and a stunned silence accompanies our first ever stage entrance. It is not a great start, but it gets worse. Ged might have remembered his chords, but now he cannot get his amplifier to work. He fiddles frantically with his jack plug, turning every knob and flicking every switch on his guitar and amp, but all to no avail. Consequently, the musical backing to 'Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep' is a wonky tambourine and a simple bass riff. It is a clear débâcle. Above the tinny rattle of my handheld percussion, I can hear sniggers and giggles from the audience. As the song progresses, I notice most have lost concentration and are talking to one another. At least Jimmy held their attention, even if it did involve waggling his unmentionables in front of them. The song ends after what seems like three hours, and I cast my eyes over the grainy wooden boards of the stage floor, searching in vain for a trap door from which to make an escape.
‘Evenin' Wallasey!'
Ged’s shout to the crowd at the end of the song leaves them a little bemused. At least he is still living out the rock and roll dream, buoyed by the fact his amp is now working again.
‘Our next song is one written by our drummer, Tom Kellaway.’
I stand up from behind the drums trying to disown myself from this unwarranted solo credit, but it is too late. Ged’s riff kicks in, and we are away. Compared to 'Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep', this is Gershwin’s 'Rhapsody in Blue', and for a couple of minutes, the Liverpool Stadium fantasy becomes a bit more real. Yet I am soon appreciating how much hard graft is required to be a drummer. I feel so hot.
From nowhere, a stagehand appears with a fire extinguisher and starts squirting me with white foam. We all stop playing in an instant, and as I protest to the DIY fireman, he yells something about the fire-eater leaving a trail of petrol from the back of the stage. I glance down and am horrified to see flames licking up the sides of my cricket pad cords. I act quickly and decisively, removing them with the speed of a nymphomaniac that has Steve McQueen chained to the bed, although quite why the stagehand continues to aim the nozzle of the extinguisher at my groin is a complete mystery. It is a moment of unutterable, personal indignity, something difficult to accept at my vulnerable age, compounded when we leave the stage to howls of laughter and thunderous applause.
Ged immediately heads towards a group of minstrel girls, Julian resumes his liaison with the lass from the chorus behind the big curtain, while I am left standing there trouser-less, wearing what looks like a pair of pants sculptured from crazy foam. Some kind soul eventually finds me a pair of trousers to wear, conjured up from somewhere, perhaps by the conjurer whose tricks went so badly earlier. I put them on and am six years old again... that kid who turns up at school wearing a clean pair of grey cotton shorts, pisses himself during sums, and goes home wearing a pair of polyester dungarees. Rock and roll, you can stick it up your arse. I decide to retire from showbiz with immediate effect.
It is not long before the MC is congratulating the Minstrels for a fantastic show.
‘So once again ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for the Leasowe Minstrels.’
The audience responds with enthusiastic applause as Ged whispers, ‘Can you guys smell shit?’
I tilt my head up slightly, crinkle my nose, and breathe in through my nostrils. The unmistakeable odour of dog muck is in the air.
‘And I’m sure you’ll agree that the local talent we have seen tonight has been of the highest order. We’ve had singers, plate spinners and my particular favourite, The Dancing Dachshund.’
I look to my left and see the jiving dog, still walking on its back legs, and it seems to give me a guilty look. I lift the right leg of my replacement trousers and there, smeared across the full width of my baseball boots, is a dollop of dachshund poo, the colour of a Caramac bar. My evening is complete.
‘But there can only be one victor, and so the winner of the 1972 Wallasey Town Hall Talent Aplenty competition is… that hilarious comedy trio, Junkie’s Fart.’
‘Comedy? Fucking hell,’ says Ged. ‘They think we’re the fucking Barron Nights.’
3. Blind Dates
‘I’ve got you a date Tom,’ says Julian, cradling his bass like a protective bitch with her newborn pups.
‘You’ve got me a date?’
‘Yes. You know the delectable Amanda?’
‘The hairdresser?’
‘That’s the one.’
My hopes rise like the perfect soufflé.
‘You’ve got me a date with Amanda?’
‘Not quite my man, she’s mine to be fair. But we do have a double date, and you’ll be with her sister.’
‘Oh no, not again.’
The soufflé deflates. I fear the worst about my friend’s matchmaking, and I have good reason.
‘What do you mean?’ says Julian, his eyes widening with genuine surprise.
‘This time last year... remember.’
He gives me a bewildered look as though discovering the moon is made of blancmange. I remind him of the blind date with the younger sister of a certain Pamela. The penny drops, and Julian’s gaze drops likewise to the floor. I hear Ged stir, just managing to hold on to the glass of pop he is drinking.
‘What’s that you’re talking about?’ he says.
‘Last year, Jules had a date with a girl called Pam.’
‘Big Tits Pam?’
‘Yeah, Big Tits Pam.’
‘You lucky bastard Jules,’ says Ged.
Julian returns a knowing look.
I continue. ‘But Pam insisted her younger sister came as well, so Jules, being the thoughtful kind, invited me along to make another couple.’
‘Sounds fucking ideal to me soft lad.’
‘She was ten years old!’
‘Fucking hell!’
‘She did look older than ten,’ says Julian, guilt visible in the creases of his frown.
‘She was sucking a lollipop and carrying a Sindy doll!’
Predictably, Ged finds this hilarious, and his laughter only ceases when he lets out an involuntary burp. Julian reassures me that this date will be different because my partner is the elder sister, and as Amanda is near genetic perfection, her sibling must rank high in the tasty stakes.
‘Fantastic.’ I can almost hear my groin moaning in anticipation. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Brenda.’
‘Fuck me,’ says Ged, nearly choking on his Dandelion & Burdock. ‘It sounds more like her mother!’
I reassure myself that her name is not important. The Italian looking girl in Strathconas comes to mind. If she were a Brenda, a Gladys, or an Olive, would she be less attractive? Clearly not.
I have been messing about on Ged’s guitar and place it back carefully into its battered case. It is now a month since our memorable - for all the wrong reasons - debut, but it did not take long for the guys to persuade me to rejoin the band, though it was on the basis that I keep my trousers on for the duration of any future performance. We are back in the front room dominated by the snow capped mountains, china blue sky, and calm waters of the Fablon fjord, and there is clear evidence that things are getting more serious. We have found ourselves a roadie, and he is due to arrive in his van at any moment. He is an acquaintance of Julian’s called Brian who claims to have been part of a travelling circus, which is a bit of odd given that he now works as a clerical officer in the local Department of Employment… from travelling nomad to man in grey.
My mind returns to the blind date.
‘Where are we meeting them Jules?’
‘At the 99 Club on Saturday.’
The choice of venue is a relief. The doormen are tolerant about age, an important factor when you look barely old enough to dress yourself. However, I do have mixed feelings abou
t the arrangement. I might be nearly eighteen, but I have never had a proper girlfriend, and my confidence with the opposite sex is as brittle as an overcooked meringue. Nonetheless, I experience a rush of adrenaline pump through my guts at the prospects for the evening.
The sound of something like a British Army Tank then drowns everything out. I pull back the curtains to reveal the source of the din. Manoeuvring its way into a parking space outside the house is a Bedford Caravanette, sky blue with a cream roof and broken exhaust. Around the wheel arches and along the sills, I can see smudges of corroded metal, the colour of dog shit. I get the distinct feeling that loading my bass drum alone will be the final straw for the chassis of this rust bucket. After the relative luxury of the Ford Transit at Talent Aplenty, it is certainly back down to earth with this jalopy. Behind the wheel, there is a weird looking guy wearing small, round sunglasses despite the early evening dusk. This must be Brian. We trail out of the house to meet him.
Brian evidently thinks it is still the Summer of Love. He gets out of the van, holds up an inverted two-finger salute, and greets us. 'Peace cats'.
He is quite a sight with ridiculously flyaway hair, seemingly crocheted from discarded Brillo pads, and clothes that are pure San Franciscan flower power. He is wearing an oversized, multi-coloured tee shirt with a spiralling pattern that ends at the centre of his ample front. His trousers are sky blue with a black stripe, and he has yellow clogs, second only to stilts as the worst possible footwear for driving. Mind you, it is a shame that the Bedford is not from the same era as his clothes. A 1967 model would do fine. It looks like we will have to make do with a 1957. Surprisingly, the others do not appear to share my disquiet.