a baby's brain and an old man's heart (I'm 18…)

The son of a very good friend turned eighteen the other day, and he had a party for the old folks, the guest list hand written by him. Somehow I got through the velvet rope, and found myself enjoying food, champagne and embarrassing stores told by his mom about how l'il Abe used to hate birthday parties when he was a (young) kid. Me too, I thought. Then I thought some more; about my 18th birthday and the non-party I enjoyed. Just me, the love of my life, a turntable, some music, recreational aids and dreams of what might be. I'd left home the year before,  splitting from my 'family' as they spit after me, yelling "don't come back!" The ill feeling was mutual, Ma.

When I got home I recalled the year that I was 18, and tried to piece together what happened. All I could remember were some gigs, learning how to protest, trying new drugs, dancing, driving, traveling, reading and acting. There was a lot if it, too. The world in 1980 was a frightening, inspiring, fascinating and dull place. It was everything and yet little remains to me. Rather than writing too many words, which would struggle to tell a fraction of the story of my 18th year, I thought I'd do it with pictures instead. What follows is in a random order of imperfect recollection. It's incomplete, of course. If you want any words to go with any of the images, just ask.

Old Mod And Rocker Looking Back (Hello I Must Be Going)

Joe and Phil meet for a last wander with the dogs on the common. Joe's moving out West where the sun shines longer and the air is fresher.
"I'l miss ya," Phil nods grimly. "Ooh else is gonna put up with me insulting them?"
"What, the missus left at last, has she?"
"Yeah, says she's movin' out West with some bloke claims he used to be a Mod."
"Hah. Not many of them round 'ere. Mostly a bunch of dirty greasy gits in old boots."
"Oi! I'll have you know I was always clean, liked to do myself up like Marty Wilde or Billy Fury of a weekend, but even in the week I'd wash me 'ands before tea."

"And what about before meeting your bird? Bet you was always full of grease off those smokey old bikes".
"Least I 'ad some wheels, unlike your lot. Those tiny little things sounded like sewing machines."
"I don't know, used to get me about town and with the engine being covered and all, my clothes never got dirty."

"So these clothes of yours. Where'd you get them from?"
"Some I'd buy local, in Burtons—shirts mostly—but others I'd get made up. My old woman was a dab hand with a needle and thread, made me some lovely stuff. Button-down collars, took in trousers to make 'em flat fronted and all that."

"But how'd you know that they should be like that in the first place? If you didn't go down London, where'd you get the ideas for new clothes? Shops round here sold only the usual stuff for work, like."
"Well, there was the telly, though Ready Steady Go was black and white, of course. But mainly I got my look from record covers."

"Had many, did ya?"
"No, but you could always look, couldn't you? Racks of them long playing singles and albums always out on display, me and a mate would spend Saturday mornings in Jarrolds looking through the sleeves, trying to remember what we'd want done to our clothes. Suits from Burtons could be altered, you see. If there was a particularly good outfit, we'd club together to buy the record, give the sleeve to my mum to work from."

"You cheap bastard, getting your poor old mum to slave over her needle so you could swan about looking posh."
Joe grins a wide, leery, cracked smile, the memories flashing by in his mind as the river behind him glints in the weak sunlight.
"Not any more though, eh?"
Phil looks off, trying to hide the fact that he's really going to miss his old dog walking pal.
"No. 'Suppose not."

Too Much Skinhead Fighting On The Dancefloor (Burn It Down)

Krish was a skinhead. He had a number 1 crop, a checked, button down Ben Sherman, red braces, skinny 501's, 8-hole Doc Martens and a red Harrington. He used to 'do' security at a squat bar in West Hampstead, circa 1982, and always carried a sawn-off snooker cue wrapped in gaffer tape ("so it don't splinter when I 'it people wiv it") while on duty. Some Saturday nights Krish would bring his best mate Alf along to help out. Alf wore a tonic suit, white shirt, skinny black wool tie and monkey boots. Sometimes she'd wear a trilby hat, but after it got stamped flat at a Meteors gig where she and Krish were supposed to be minding our PA stack, she'd taken to only wearing it when off duty.

Krish was from a wealthy Cypriot family who were desperate to get him back home from the squat he shared with Alf and three women who wanted to set up an anarchist brothel, in Brixton. Can't think why, but Krish's parents kept trying to get him certified insane, so he told us. They'd offered him money, a holiday, a new car, anything if he'd give up Alf and return home and settle down to a life as an accountant. At least, that was how he explained the wads of cash he'd sometimes turn up with and hand out as if £10 notes were Bensons.

Krish loved it at the squat bar in NW6. The music we played was a mixture of proper old soul, pure punk, post-punk, funk and reggae, all of which he said he loved, and would spend most of the night dancing to as he swigged Tennents Super, speeding off his head on blues (which we'd trade, 2 for a beer). Most nights, in order to get it together Krish would toke on a joint as it made its way round the 'staff', usually some time after 2am.

When the pubs closed the bar—which was once a Turkish restaurant—would fill up with the local and not so local punks, musicians, jokers and tokers (though hippies were thoroughly discouraged) from Kilburn, Camden, Willesden and all points North and West. If the booze ran out (always sold at cost or swapped for similar substances) before everyone left, it would be topped up with a trip to Willesden Lane and the all-night corner store opposite the aptly named Bliss chemist.

Local dealers kept everything else topped up. It was a cool place throughout the winter of '82 and into late summer '83, open very Friday and Saturday night, entrance free. Sometimes a band would play, more often cassettes made up for the night would play through a small band PA.

Then Geronimo and the spider web gang found out about the place and turned up one sunny Summer evening. It was early, about 9, so no-one was in except Krish, Alf, Speedy Steve, Mick the mechanic and a couple of us squatters. The skinhead gang all had spider webs tattooed on their faces, necks or heads, all of which were done using  biro, in borstal. You had to get a spider web tattoo if you wanted to be in the gang. Geronimo their leader also had 'cut here' and a dotted line around his neck, 'hate' tattooed on the chuckles of both hands and a little bird on his left cheek. His head and right cheek was covered in the web.

The spiders all lived in grotty ex-council flat squats on the Abbey Road estate and either mugged or 'begged' money on Mill Lane in West Hampstead and the passageway that ran from beside the Moonlight Club to Finchley Road. Most of them were scrawny kids and usually too out of it on glue or Tennents Super to be any real trouble. Geronimo was a different matter, though. Just out of Borstal, bristling with anger and psychotically deranged by glue, he banged through the plate glass door of the bar and dropped straight into a press-up stance. Shouting 'one-two' he pressed using one arm for twenty and then switched to the other arm. His gang stood outside, watching through the windows, open-mouthed and tetchy in Crombie coats, Harringtons and the odd MA1 jacket: it was still hot outside.

After finishing his press ups, Geronimo shot upright, flexed his muscles and turned to the door, which had swung shut behind him. As if affronted by the door having acted against his wishes, he stepped up to it and head butted the plate glass. Which shattered. Then he picked up a chair and threw it at the window, which didn't break. That was the signal for the gang to spring into life. They ran in and started to rearrange the furniture, such as it was. Krish, who looked just like them minus the spider web, shifted himself quietly among them as they raged among our skip-found chairs and crooked tables. Positioning himself behind Geronimo, Krish heaved back with the snooker cue and whacked the spider web on the side of the big skin's face, following it up with a swift kick between Geronimo's legs.

Everything stopped, chairs were held in mid-air, everyone gaped at the big skin as he stood, shoulders hunched, unmoving for a second that stretched into what seemed like a minute.
"Hunh."
Geronimo turned slowly to face Krish who backed off two steps with his cue raised at shoulder height.
"Shit."
"Hrrrrhnnnn!" Geronimo lurched at Krish who ducked and ran out the door, sending a kick at the nearest spider web before scuttling under the nearest stationery vehicle, and old, rusting ambulance. Geronimo and his gang tried the kick Krish out from under the van, but ended up smashing the windows, headlamps and mirrors in frustration as he stated put. After  a few minutes, with our windows smashed, the furniture ready for the fire and the old van standing firm, Geronimo led his faithful clan off up the Finchley Road in search of more mayhem.

Krish and Alf drifted away soon after that, and we also moved on, squatting an old cinema up the road where we put on gigs, events and blues nights (sound systems only). At Christmas 1983 we heard that Krish's parents had hired a couple of guys to kidnap their son, and he was sectioned, sitting in a south London psychiatric ward, nodding out as his hair grew. Alf had a plan to get him out though, which meant she had to dress like a girl (he was willing just that once) but which worked, and briefly in mid-1984 the pair of them returned to the scene, looking smart and dancing as only they could, helping us with pro-Miner's gigs, benefits and protests. They were married, Alf said, so his parents couldn't section him without her say-so.

Krish committed suicide in 1985.