Skinhead Summer '83

London was hot that summer. Islington was stinking, its air clogged with diesel fumes, melting tarmac, smouldering avarice and Nazi spite. The Blue Coat Boy, a big old-fashioned pub on Upper Street near to the junction with City Road was almost visibly sinking into a pit of right-wing, shaven-headed slime which was added to every night by the gangs of dim-witted, Combat-clad Nazi skins who met there to drink, fight and discuss plans to take over the world—after closing time, of course.

Lou, Dennis and The Lizard hated the Blue Coat Boy and all who sang in her. Two brothers and a cousin who regularly hitch-hiked and jumped trains between squats in Berlin and London, they were the constituent members of a post-punk, pro-Red Skin band named the Mercs (short for Mercenaries). They had a plan to create havoc at the pub.

Upstairs at the Blue Coat was a small, square room with a low-rise platform stage, on which every Saturday night a variety of nasty Skin bands could be seen and heard chanting 'Oi! Oi! Oi!' Although the Mercs all had mohican haircuts with straggly tails, and wore dyed-black army surplus gear (Crass had start the fashion by dying their clothes all black and stencilling 'Eat The Rich' neatly on the breast pockets), they decided that guerrilla warfare against the Nazi skins called for drastic action. So they had Big Janet shave their heads, borrowed some MA-1 flight jackets and rolled their skinny jeans up above the big boots they always wore, before marching into the Blue Coat one sunny Wednesday lunchtime.

The Lizard (an unfortunate reaction to illicit drugs turned him green whenever he took them—which was regularly) threw out a straight-armed salute and he shouted 'Sieg!" Attention gained from the fat, sideburn-wearing skin behind the bar, Lou stepped up and demanded,
'We wanna play 'ere on a Saturday night.'
'Why?'
''Cos weer a fuckin great Oi band, thats why, fatso'. Dennis wasn't the brightest of the Mercs.
'Youfuckinwot…'
'Orright, orright', Lou shifted between his brother and the barman. 'Wanna 'ear our demo?' he held out a cassette tape. Fatso took it, turned, and pushed it into a player underneath the almost empty optics.

The Mercs had recorded two songs just as an audition tape for the day. They'd chosen to do versions of Skrewdriver's 'Where's It Gonna End' and 'Plastic Gangsters' by The 4-Skins, laid down on a 4-track machine kept in a basement squat rehearsal room on the Finchley Road. The Mercs were a raw and powerful sounding bunch, and they put a lot of energy (and hate) into the songs. Fatso nodded half-way through 'Gangster' and growled 'Sat'day night. Be 'ere at 7, you can support Infa-Riot.'
'Great, can we use their PA?'
'Yer. Now fuck off'.

That Saturday night the Mercs arrived at the Blue Coat with a dozen similarly-dressed mates, expecting a dozen more to arrive later. They had a  'plan'. It was for them to get on stage at 9, turn all the amps up and launch into a fast and frenzied version of 'Nazi Punks Fuck Off'. The first chorus was the signal for their mates—standing at the back—to wade into the nazi punks and trash the place. Great plans have a way of falling apart, though, and this one was doomed to failure.

By 9pm the only people upstairs were all mates of the Mercs. The nazi skins were all getting stuck into snakebite downstairs, waiting for Infa Riot to get on stage. Still, the show had to go on, so the Mercs played 'Nazi Punks', twice. When no-one came running up to see what was going on, they simply reverted to style and played their usual post-punk set to their mates. They even played an encore.

After they finished, Lou gathered everyone together and suggested that they storm downstairs and attack the Nazis anyway. Dennis, thinking this was a great idea, unstrapped his bass and carrying it over his shoulder, stormed toward the stairs—where he was stopped by two enormous bouncers. He swung his bass at the head of the first, who ducked, twisted and came up from under Dennis' outstretched arms with a perfect uppercut. Dennis was out before he hit the deck. The bouncers, being rather seasoned professionals simply stepped backwards, swung the door closed and bolted it from the outside.

Carrying Dennis, Lou and The Lizard trekked down the back stairs to the carpark and loos, followed by their mates. Outside the bouncers were waiting with snooker cues. Peering past them into the public bar, The Blue Coat was heaving with shiny heads, MA-1s, and checked shirts and braces.
'Get yer gear and fuck off', said the head bouncer evenly.
'Orright', mumbled Lou.
'Unnhhh,' groaned Dennis

The Blue Coat Boy was renamed The Blue Angel by the end of 1983, and the landlord replaced with someone without known nazi sympathies. The Mercs became a Goth band.