The following is based on actual events from my younger days in 1980's North London, it had a high population of White and Irish working class from the council estate I grew up on, the names of the protagonists have been changed and no real names have been used.
Mirror in the Bathroom
There's me, Tottenham Lad, all of 17 finished school one year back, at work, dead end job, no education, school was a waste of time, in Thatcher's Britain of 1980 only one thing mattered, work and money in your pocket to have a good time at the weekend, a blow out, live for the moment the laugh, music, mates, style, no tomorrow, yesterday was a waste, next year when you're older?
Who cares? Not me, I'm the last person to worry, brought up in a family where my dad is a manual worker Jack the Lad and mum's Irish Catholic, I was a Catholic Altar boy until I was eleven so I was relatively sheltered compared to some of these blokes in North London, a fair few of `em well they were Hooligans, Misfits, Criminals, dangerous, violent and unbalanced looking for something and not having the brains or the imagination to find it themselves, confrontation came to them for good or bad they attracted it like flies to shit, but one thing they were and that was real, they were real as warm watered down beer or dirty pub ashtray's half filled with fag* and spliff* ends and dirty alleyways filled with the stench of puke and half eaten Kebab's and Chips.
Me, in my own world, a paradox or an observer, unintentional tourist with a zoom lens and a brain full of contradictions, you can't choose your Manor* it chooses you, Tottenham, Arsenal, West Ham or Millwall, which one are you then mate?
This was a Tribal state of affairs and there was nothing as strong or as real as Tribal allegiance in this part of the World, if you were a poof you kept it to yourself, brains count for nothing, there was the Psycho's the Jokers or the `Faces' which one am I? None of these, or all?
Just an Observer in the right place at the right time, or the wrong place maybe or the wrong time who's to say, It was all about Saturday night and Sunday morning, the Specials, Selector, the Jam Trojan Reggae, Two Tone, Left and Right, Black and White, Opportunism, fake courage and real misery, booze and fags, spliffs and despondency, what to do?
Enjoy the ride and make the most of it, North London full of empty promises and lost horizons, hard men and sharp humour, I was there in the thick of it when it mattered and there to see the `lost' generation of adrenaline rush merchants with nothing better to do, my story is different though, a poof, queer learning to survive, not easy, but then it never was, never would be, not in this world, your Manor Chooses you not the other way around, stay or go is the only option, for a while I stayed.
Morph he was my mate from Primary school and fellow Altar boy, Irish Mum and Dad, a rebel, tough family life, 5 brothers and sisters all in a two bedroom terrace, always got the blame if the IRA decided to plant another bomb, distant dad, hard working mum, salt of the earth, there for you, well most times anyway, he was my link to local pub culture and the tooled up mob, he was in with them, me an observer, but because I knew him and knew him well ,I was inside if I wanted to be, the pub crawls, the birds, geezers and the booze and draw, Music, laughs, dares, late nights and bad Monday's that's the world I moved in then, no escape, you're in or you're not, Black and White, clearly defined lines, no mistaking, no ambiguity it was all there waiting for me, money in my pocket, paid on Friday, gone by Sunday, day to day no future, no present living for now, that was them, that was me, no escape, no surrender, don't lose face.
Morph was always stoned; he bought the gear would think nothing of skinning up in the middle of a pub and smoking it there as well.
He was also one of the few that had a full time girlfriend, Doreen from Edmonton, Greek background, fearsome temper, during a Sunday drinking session she once came in the pub and tipped a table of full and half full glasses of beer over me Morph and a bloke called Terry, he'd lied to her saying he was having a quiet day in and we got the tail end of her anger, there me and Terry sat a lap full of beer and broken glass while Doreen dragged Morph outside and to give him a proper dressing down.
There was the two West London blokes (Chelsea supporters) Gareth and Steve, they were a bit older, older and bigger, Gareth was out for the laugh, Steve had bigger issues, Chip on his shoulder, bossy, big mouthed, liar, cheat and messer, he hated me straight away and didn't hide it, I knew where he was coming from, closet poof? I was thinking, or maybe not.
Then there was the others, mainly a good bunch, Batty, Terry, Darryl, Denty Billy Ace Face' and a few hangers on who came and went, it was Ben Sherman shirts, tight two tone strides and short hair, there was a coupla Skinheads as well but they was more a sub' group although they hung around just for the aggro and where always up for a laugh.
Also there was the token Girls, either dating or knocking off a few of the blokes, the Blonde one and the Black one wearing two tone mini skirts and always insisted on dancing wherever they were, they got into trouble one night with some Rocker girls in a pub in Palmers Green, of course the Rocker girls had a whole gang of bikers with them and all hell broke loose, the barney* ended up in the car park and yours truly being nearest the road and Old Bill car got a night in the cells and the standard fine in Magistrates court, but that's the way it goes, it got me some respect from the others and a blanking from my mum for a week, course my Dad came with me when I was sentenced and loved every minute of it, been there, done that.
Looking hard and long at all this I couldn't see much that was gonna get me into some like minded company, just going with the flow, a party was thrown at a place in Tottenham High Road, one of them last minute things after a booze up in the Prince of Wales, the hosts were two blokes from Norfolk down for the weekend, Carrot Crunchers*, bikers and cousin's of Steve, we all went, but I stayed the night, I heard Steve muttering that he thought his cousin Ned was queer, so it was a quick drink and smoke for him and Gareth before they shot off and a long night for me, I slept in Ned's guest room on the floor, Ned was an old fashioned type of bloke compared to us London boys, loved his bike and liked his men as well I suspected, I propped myself up against his legs in the morning watching the Telly, that's as close as it got with this lot, I knew he was gay but with a cousin like Steve you wouldn't broadcast it would be all over the pub the next Saturday, another lost opportunity for me but something for me to think about all the same.
Some other Saturday nights were wild, the smashed bus windows, run in's with cab drivers for unpaid fares, problems with Rasta's about the size and price of a draw*, despondent faces on a Sunday drinking session over the result of a match the previous day, always the two girls up for a laugh with their gin and tonics, big earrings and red lipstick, predictable chaos, the skinheads would show up every now and then, one of em was a big lad who didn't speak much but had the uncanny ability to gain respect by the size of his biceps, he filled out his tye died strides* really well and was usually tooled up* to the nines, gold rings, bright blue eyes, size ten boots, braces, all two tone, ska and fucked up politics, he was the business though, alright for a quite chat if you could get him alone, nice smile, vulnerable but clued up, he was the real thing, well apart from Billy the face, he was more what you would call a presence' he was what the Jam' should have looked like, born twenty years too late.
I worked as a post boy in Publishing in the heart of the print industry near Fleet Street, one day I was in my usual newsagent buying some smokes and I had a glance at the top shelf mags, to my surprise and delight I found a couple of gay themed glossies, when no one else was in the shop I had a quick look through the pages and ogled the dicks and muscles, I only plucked up courage to buy one of these after a few weeks and quickly stuck it in my sports bag and hurried out into Fleet Street with a genuine sense of paranoia, keeping it hidden at my parents was the hardest part, also sharing a room with my brother , lets just say I found some very interesting places to keep it well hidden.
An ad in the mag advertised a shop in Camden called `Zip it' it was near the canal lock and a place I had to visit, there was a world of films, books and other people like me ready to be explored and I had to escape somehow from the straight inward looking crowd I had associated with.
Camden was the place, Middle Class, Punks, ex Hippies, the last generation of original Rockers and a new gay Scene awaited.
It took me a fair while to pluck up the guts to go into this plain fronted shop and I waited until no one was actually walking past or there was a crowd around before I tentatively approached the door and entered through the outer door and in and through the hanging plastic strips that I know realise there always seemed be in `sex' related establishments.
My newly discovered world was full of men, naked muscular men, mags and films galore, I flicked through half a dozen with no intention to buy and now and then glanced up at the two blokes behind the counter, one was white wearing a leather vest and cap, muscular with a London accent, the other was Black, jeans, white t shirt and American.
They sensed my nervousness and chatted away amongst themselves, there were a few other customers in evidence, what I would call the `dirty Mac brigade' Middle aged, shirt and tie, probably married and out for kicks and cruising around hoping to get lucky, the black bloke came over.
"Anything I can help you with?"
"Er, just looking mate" I said barely concealing my nervousness.
I decided I would have to leave, I'd stuck my toe in the water for a short moment and I had my naked muscle mag at home.
As I was on the way to the door a voice came from behind.
"Can I give you this?" I turned quickly, it was the Black bloke.
He smiled and handed me a piece of paper folded up.
"Cheers" I said and quickly shuffled out into the world of Camden glancing around to see if anyone had noticed me leaving, of course no one was really interested and most people didn't realise what was inside anyway.
I waited until I was on the tube, took out the paper gingerly and on it were the words `I like you here's my phone number *** *** ****, anytime'
It was a couple of weeks later that I managed to actually ring the number and arrange a meet up, his name was Carter and he was living in Walthamstow, it's only a couple of miles from Tottenham and I'd been invited over to dinner on a Saturday night, I'd have to skip the pub and the gang, this was my excuse to do something different and I couldn't wait.
Nervously I rolled up to the house, just an ordinary terrace in East London, Carter opened the door and beckoned me in, he had dinner ready and mentioned my visit to Zip it, age wise I couldn't put a finger on it, to a 17 year old lad he could have been 30, 40 or ever older, after the food came the awkward lead up to sex, there I was in my two tone strides and Ben Sherman button down collar.
We had a couple of beers and Carter disappeared into the bedroom returning in just a white jock strap, his body was muscular, especially his legs and I was instantly hard, he lead me like an innocent white lamb to the bed, the room was semi dark, moody, deliberately so, he's done this before I thought to myself.
Carter liked younger white boys and I was his prize, I was shaking with anticipation and genuine fear, he picked up on this and made a good effort to help me relax, to me his body was god like, chocolate flavoured smooth black marble against my 29 inch white frame, he was all man and he wanted me on him, it's what I wanted too and we had sex all over the house ending up in front of the tv on the floor, our kisses seemed to last forever and his ample mouth seemed to suck me in with every breath, I could talk to this man about everything, all the prejudices and discrimination that existed in my London were not in evidence in his place, he had a brain, I did too albeit unused and fresh for knowledge.
This was my new world and it was a sharp contrast to the insular world of the local pub, the long drunken nights with the boys, the music, the laughter and the saving face, the door was open and I knew I could never close it again, Pandora left the latch off and I was Jack in the Box, Carter was my gay Professor Higgins with me the poor white catholic boy thirsting for his understanding and acceptance.
I still socialised with the boys but spent a few more weekends with Carter and eventually a trip to a few clubs in the West End at his request, it was the long nights in Walthamstow that I really wanted though, me and him, his bed, his body, his dick, his lips, soft and sweet the muscular stomach and strong thighs that would squeeze me tight, he hunted me and kept me in his soft sticky cage feeding me bits of himself, just enough to keep me hungry, we tried anal sex but I baulked at getting Carter's size up me, it all ended up in a heap of laughter and a promise to do it next time..
One day we were driving down Tottenham high road and at a junction a car containing Steve, Gareth and a couple of the Skins pulled up beside us, paranoia swept over me and they honked and shouted abuse through the window, all that went through my mind was how I was going to explain being in a car with an unknown Black bloke? Such was my sense of unease, I was still sweet but certainly not innocent, of course by the time I caught up with the crowd nothing was mentioned and it was the usual round of ritual abuse and Tribal banter, Morph even got me involved in a fight where he was smashed over the back with a large wooden block and I instinctively pulled a knife from my boot to confront the glazed eyed Rasta doing the same thing, it was a stand off and a trip to Casualty for us both and a wake up call for me.
My nights in the pub fizzled out soon enough, that crowd was heading for big trouble, there was talk of arranged fights with rival gangs and the fun nights out were turning into a battle to stay in one piece, the mob I knew was bad enough but I didn't need a rival crew turning up on the Manor with the intent to do serious damage, I'd found a man like me and he was genuine and caring, he also told me later he was a Doctor in the US forces and as such had to leave short notice.
I did see Carter again a few times when he moved to a more up market part of the city and by now I had shunned the Saturday nights with the boys and I also had to move on, mentally and emotionally I had grown up and fairly soon began the first of a good few years travel away from the grime and lost hope of North London.
Most of the pubs I knew back are now gone from Tottenham, all but one, the rest have been converted into accommodation for newly arrived refugees and Eastern Europeans, the pub culture that existed then is virtually dead, the humour, the music, the style and the violence, the working class of that generation either moved away or stayed and bought there rented houses and flats, the Tribal allegiances long gone, now a mixture of accents where before there was only one, freedom to choose your own life and values is what it's about now, this lost world of London still exists with some of the older generation of the East End, but it's a world out of step with the more liberal values of a modern Britain.
It was fast furious and genuine, no one then had a idea how to really plan their lives and the spontaneity is what sticks in my mind vividly, living day to day and only for the weekend was what it was all about, adrenaline rushes and gut wrenching disappointment were just part of life back then.
As an observer and slightly aloof outsider I long buried these experiences, but they're not forgotten, not by me anyway and maybe not by some of the others I remember from back then either, wherever they are now.
All I can say is `thank you Carter' you were a mate; I wonder where you are now?
*Fag (cigarette) *Spliff (joint) *Manor (London slang, area you come from, territorial) *Barney (London rhyming slang, Barney Rubble= trouble, fight) *Carrott Cruncher (Derogatory term used by city people to denote a country dweller) *Draw (an amount of weed or hash) *Strides (slang for trousers) *tooled up (carrying weapons, knives)