1980 – Bob Short – extract from his book ‘Trash Can’

Doctor Death (not his real name) was about as bad an advertisement for five years worth of medical training as you could possibly imagine. It wasn’t so much the fact that he was a bad doctor . Whilst he was definitely crap in his chosen field, that was beside the point. It is just that you’d expect some kind of reward for that much work, wouldn’t you? Five years worth of sleepless nights on duty in a public hospital? Years of treating the great unwashed and washed alike? That has to worth something. You’d at least expect a receptionist and a car with the vaguest hope of passing its next MOT.

I don’t know who he’d pissed off in this (or some previous) life to earn his current lot but it must have been some unbelievably evil bastard. The judge’s gavel had fallen hard with a sentence that included a fleet of trucks worth of bad karma. Shit, we’ve all been there, done that and visited the souvenir shop.

Condemned by the local Health Authority to work a dingy basement surgery on a Waterloo council estate, he sailed ever closer to the day of his inevitable striking from the Medical Register. He had little to look forward to. There was the bottle of Sainsbury’s scotch in his bottom desk drawer but that was more of an everyday thing than a treat. Retirement looked good if he lived that long. In the meantime, from dawn to dusk, he received a steady stream of punk rock zombies craving Valium and Mogodon. At least, despite appearances, they didn’t want to feast upon his living brains.

I was not really interested in his problems because I had enough of my own. It was a quarter past eleven on a Friday night and I was wondering whether I dared put my penis in Doctor Death’s hand. I’m sorry but I had to give you a little heads up about his medical standing and the dangers such an act might involve before I got on with the details. Standing over the toilet, inspecting the tell tale signs of newly discovered venereal disease, it was a decision that I, myself, was not taking lightly. There was the clap clinic at St Thomas’ of course but last time I went there, the blood test had revealed a large and diverse range of pharmaceuticals. So large and diverse in fact that the attending nurse had loudly introduced me to all and sundry as the walking chemist shop. Such familiarity is rather inappropriate in such settings but she was cute as far as nurses go. The cutest nurses always work the clap clinic. It is the one place no-one seriously tries to pick you up.

The doctor confirmed the nurse’s diagnosis and assured me such variety of substance abuse represented something of a record in his experience. Not realising this was a bad thing, I was quietly pleased at such recognition . Don’t tell that to anyone. A good drug fiend has a reputation to uphold but it should be spread in whispers.

My main problem with the staff of that venerated institution was that they liked sticking that horrible umbrella thing up the eye of your cock and giving it the kind of good hard scraping that is difficult to forget. A quarter century on and the wince is still there. I still clench my teeth at the memory. If you thought the burning sensation you experienced due to the disease was bad, here was a procedure that would have you contemplating celibacy as a serious life option for at least several days. You have to admit that several days is a long time to consider celibacy.

The other disadvantage with the clinic was that it wouldn’t be open until Monday. The sooner I got onto those antibiotics, the sooner I’d be able to fuck again. The way my dick looked, I didn’t even want to touch it myself so a wank was out of the question.

I knew that I had to deal with the problem and I had a fair idea that I could just demand penicillin from the Death dude and he would oblige. His bedside manner was generally restricted to the phrase “What do you want?” His pen would already be quivering atop the prescription pad in bored anticipation. He positively groaned when presented with an ailment that you didn’t know how to treat yourself.

The trouble would come if he suddenly decided to take his hypocritical oath seriously. (I’m sick of writing sic.) Alcoholics can be so damn unpredictable. Doctor Death could suddenly become overwhelmed with quiet sentimentality towards his patients. Paternally, he would turn to you and tell you that he wouldn’t feed his dog the crap that he was scripting out. I doubted he had a dog or at least not one that hadn’t died of neglect. I figured that he sometimes just liked the company. He had once decided to stare into my inner ear for a good twelve minutes for no apparent reason other than my request for sleeping pills. Maybe he was just checking if I had any brain left in there to damage.

What if he reached into that tattered plastic holdall he carried in lieu of a black leather bag? God only knows what he kept in there. What if he pulled out some rusty hooked device of his own design? I imagined the good doctor downing another healthy swig of whisky whilst trying to work out which one of my dicks he should plunge one of his bent coat hangers into. It was not a thought to inspire confidence.

My course of action was clear. Tomorrow, I had to see the doctor but remember to keep one eye on the door in case he asked me to take my pants off. In the meantime, I had to take lots of downers and try to remember not to fuck anyone. Normally, that would be easier said than done but there was the whole question of how I’d managed to get myself into this situation again. That had not raised my stakes in any of the major popularity contests. The queue to my bedroom door was noticeably thin.  

I had met Toni under rather unusual circumstances. Waking up on the toilet to find a strange girl pumping some unknown chemical into your blood stream cuts through all those usual social niceties one expects by way of introduction. Apparently, she thought I was cute but urgently needed some kind of a pick me up to awaken me from my drug induced stupor. A syringe full of what I can only assume was sulphate certainly caught my attention. My introduction to intravenous drug use thus came unexpectedly and unasked for. Don’t let me try and convince you that I was complaining. I was out of my fucking gourd. Besides, it was a good lesson about not falling asleep in the toilet with the door open. I mean to say… anything could happen and it probably did.

Things had taken a fairly predictable course from there. Within an hour, she had climbed over a fifth floor balcony and threatened to throw herself upon the cold hard courtyard below. In a voice that quivered with existential angst she proclaimed the world cruel and bemoaned the fact that nobody loved her. Well, that was a feeling I at least understood on some level and, not having had sex for a fortnight, my testicles felt swollen like watermelons with backed up sperm. It all made a quiet kind of sense at the time. Who says the age of romance is dead?

The next morning, she scarpered early because she thought her boyfriend would probably be worried, Toni, or Puke as she preferred to be known, strapped on her Docs and headed back to the wilds of Kennington. Unbeknownst to me, I had just secured another black mark against my name in the eyes of the Campbell Buildings sewing circle. It was bad enough that I had copulated outside of the group but no-one had pointed out to me that Toni was only fourteen.

With such a large group of reprobates gathered in such close quarters and with so little to do between ponced cigarettes, gossip was the order of the day. Cliques, sub cliques and secret societies blossomed. An anthropologist would have had a field day.

The sewing circle was a loose collective well known for its member’s skill at needle work of one sort and another. They were the princesses of the block, the in-crowd, the squats’ equivalent of a cheerleading squad. They would squeal with delight if you liberated stock from the local off-licence or illegally rigged their electricity supply. But they were fickle in their favours. They had the skills to cut enemies to ribbons with the sharpest claws south of the river and they weren’t afraid to use them. What good is power if you never use it?

It was easy to fall from grace in a shifting moral landscape. I had initially fallen foul of the sewing circle because I snogged Evelyn under the kitchen table one night. Cold shoulders, tongue lashings and cries of “unclean” taught me that it was one thing to have Crass records and go to Rock against Racism gigs but that didn’t give you the automatic right to kiss women of colour.

Such concerns had not occurred to me. I just liked the way Evelyn hid the most beautiful pair of eyes behind the nastiest pair of granny glasses that the National Health could supply. In her green plastic sandals worn over pink florescent socks, she was strange and other worldly and thus reminded me of me.

I thought racism was the preserve of skinheads and the mentally sub normal. Swastika shirts were ironic rather than iconic. Skin colour had as much significance as eye colour in a world of rainbow hued hair dyes. Of course, I lived in a world where bald headed boys with home made British Movement tattoos listened exclusively to Jamaican records. The nation’s morality reeked of insanity. If any proof were needed, the recent election of Margaret Thatcher underlined it. If I couldn’t follow the rules it was simply because the rules made no sense.

Once again, the news was out all over town. I had been a very bad boy.

This moral outrage did not stop the sewing circle adopting an under aged runaway of their own. This sweet young thing clearly idolised the shop lifting pink Trojan mini-skirt lifestyle and all those who walked it in sharp stiletto heels. She would have crawled across hot coals in a bid to fit in so that is exactly what they made her do. They named her Tea, not through rhyming slang acknowledgment of criminal skill but because it became her duty to make that beverage on request. That along with any other household duties required, demanded or merely dreamt up in a fit of casual sadism. I first met her on her knees as she attempted to scrub a bathroom floor with a nail brush. I suggested she rebel against this task but she feared the consequences. They might not take her thieving later. Lincoln had freed the slaves but not in beautiful downtown Waterloo.

Campbell Buildings was a sprawling between-the-wars estate that Lambeth council wanted demolished to make way for a bus terminal. Quietly, it was probably policy to turn a blind eye to the hundred or so punks who had squatted in the interim. There were a lot of hard core lefties in the Lambeth administration who believed all the homeless should be housed and took this as an ideological stance. It was, however, the pragmatists in the regime who finally reigned. For them, we were a way to save money. It was good we made such appalling neighbours. The existing tenants who had previously held out for the better deal to which they were entitled were suddenly none too fussed about which new hovel they were transferred into.

There was also the advantage that it was cheaper to leave us where we were rather than build a brand new state-of-the-art prison facility. That could wait until the new Tory Government provided funding to open up the internment camps. In the meantime, we were free to make our own Abaddon which is exactly what myself and the others did.

Despite my unkind words, the sewing circle was not wrong all of the time. Sleeping with fourteen year olds is never clever especially when they are fourteen going on fifty. Listen boys, you don’t need a degree in psychology to guess at the traumas you’re complicating when you go there. That said, the squatters of Campbell Building were all fucked up one way or another; literally, figuratively and most often both. We sought comfort not just in the arms of strangers but with anyone who would have us.

The sewing circle was also right about not sleeping with people outside the immediate vicinity. My newly festering penis was ample testimony to that. 1980 was a different world of course. Condoms were the weapons of choice for disgusting old people raised before the contraceptive pill. AIDS was not even a blip on yonder horizon. Disease was defeated and we all lived better through illicit chemistry. We could be the generation who lived fast, stayed beautiful, never died and never grew old; a veritable army of Peter and Petra Pans. It was a grand scheme until its inherent follies were exposed.

Scarecrow had been the first to die. Loaded up on sleeping pills, he went up to the roof for reasons unknown. He might have been bored, depressed or just needed a minute to himself to watch the moon come up over the buildings. Who knows why any of us do anything? He either overdosed or fell asleep and froze. We never found out which. By accident or design, it was a sad and lonely passing. In the morning, the police played a game where they threw tiny stones at his open mouth to see who could score the first point. Grief spilled out onto the courtyard below but the authorities had marked out their patch with strips of Metropolitan Police tape, He belonged to them now.

From that moment on, death watched over us with an icy gaze. It was capricious but it would not be denied. Parents came to reclaim bodies, cut hair, choose suits and re-brand with long abandoned names. Their control, thought long lost, won out in the end. These prodigal sons and daughters found repose in the leafy suburbs and towns from whence they thought they had finally escaped. They had found their little piece of England whether they liked it or not.

The ghosts of those we knew and loved were never laid to rest. No graves marked the names we spoke. Their stories were wiped clean and altered as if Jesus was a real person and he himself had washed and forgiven them of their sins. History is always written by the victor and the battles we waged looked all but lost.

The world was dark and that darkness was rising up against us. It was chucking out time on Friday night at locals across the land; the most dangerous hour of them all. The blackest of hearts were granted courage through alcohol but now found themselves ripped from the nurture of the publican’s breast. Angered by these severed ties, the well worn path between boozer and council flat were littered with half eaten curries, bad intentions and the bodies of unwary travellers.

We were held up in a ground floor flat. The council had boarded up the windows and we left these four ply sheets in place not merely through laziness but also for defensive purposes. Even sunlight was our enemy now. The only access was through the front door and, even there, precautions had been taken. Bolts, locks and chains merely offer psychological defence for those who believe their safe European homes to be their castles. In reality, these devices fail all too readily at the first hint of serious attack.

In all the flats, we removed the kitchen doors and propped them up at forty-five degree angles against the front doorways. This was the kind of defensive installation that allowed you to catch several winks of wary half-sleep if you kept one eye open. Well, it did if it was used in conjunction with a bucket load of downers and a strategically placed blunt instrument left under the mattress. The claw hammer was the Teddy Bear of our new generation.

Though we took many chances, in this we took few. Attacks were common and we didn’t take any chances by offending any deities. Charms and amulets began to proliferate along with spells, talismen and hexes. We weren’t fussy about Pantheons. We made a new voodoo from our superstitions. Certain pavement cracks were avoided whilst walking, matches were always snapped after third light and hats were kept far from beds. Various items of clothing were deemed to be lucky and were thus worn until they rotted from our skin. The line between mental illness and religion is a thin one. Once you convince another of the truth of your lunacy then all doubts are cast aside. Convince a few more and you can start picking up tax deductable donations.

It was a boy’s night in and pickings were scarce. We collected our dole on Thursday and the cash had gone the way of dreams. It had vanished with the dawning. We spent the night with prescription drugs, talking and smoking Benson and Hedges cigarettes. The floor was a gold field of abandoned packets.

There was Cory Spondendce and Quick Phil, Two Tone Steve and me. Fat Phil was off sulking in the kitchen or some other dank corner. He had been pretending he was in a time warp for the last few days and this attention seeking had become rather tiresome. Cory had suggested he go and fuck himself – but not anywhere that we could see him doing it. There were certain things you had to specify in Campbell Buildings. Self help books addressing boundary issues were at least a decade off.

Others came and went over the course of the evening. Ruthless and Jessica asked if we wanted to go to the Marquee and see Cowboys International. As if. There was a group who played no part in anybody’s top ten thousand must-see bands list. Pinki and Blowjob made a visit to inform us they were up to no good somewhere. It involved a group of the local estate lads and we thought it better not to know any more before the event. We’d certainly hear all about it in explicit detail later. That went without saying.

A portable record player spun an endlessly repeating loop of Siouxse and the Banshees singles. After they left the charts, top forty records tended to end up in the local newsagency at forty nine pence a pop. That put them within our price range unless, of course, the sales assistant wasn’t paying too much attention. The discount then grew to be five fingered.

I had been in better moods. Frequently. Life was going the way life tends to go the minute some fool claims that things couldn’t get any worse. Some people have so little imagination that it is scary.

I had only just got up to take a leak when I discovered my symptoms. You don’t need to know the foul details but, suffice to say, if you’re one of these people who believe in divine retribution then I had proof positive that yours is a vengeful God. If I needed any more proof then it came in the form of the commotion at the door. The alarm was raised. The Scousers were coming.

Hang on a second. Who the fuck were the Scousers? Much like primitives who choose to live under the shadows of volcanos, we had set up home at the nexus point between a Mod pub, a Rockabilly pub and a Greaser’s pub. In all fairness, the Greasers just sat around listening to Deep Purple albums but anyone who could do that had to be twisted in some kind of sick and evil way. One had to always quietly suspect the worst. To top that off, skinheads were free ranging ubiquitous troublemakers and Mad Dog’s Faginesque punk troop could also be counted upon to make unwanted intrusions. We couldn’t have planned it better if we tried.

Who were the Scousers? Even if you religiously read NME, in tribal London there were hip fashion trends that could rise and fall in an afternoon. A vague image formed of cleaver wielding Liverpuddlian mop tops serenading us with such ditties as “I want to hold your hand” whilst hacking away at various parts of our anatomy. Stranger things have happened in the big town.

Of course, it could have been a glue sniffing flashback too. Stranger things than that have also been known to happen.

There are a whole lot of theories about why people watch horror films. Some will tell you that horror films desensitise the viewer so that they may overcome their fears and learn to face the horrors life will inevitably throw their way. Others claim this desensitisation leads to sociopathic behaviour and the breakdown of society as we know it. Thus, these latter critics claim, that horror films should be banned accordingly. I think that is all a crock of shit. I repeatedly went to screening of George Romero’s “Night of the Living Dead” because it provided me with a range of educational insights into the kind of situation I had just found myself in.

The main thing you learn from a horror film is that when you do something stupid then you tend to die fairly early on in the piece. If you do something unbelievably stupid you will be lucky just to see out the opening scene. As is so often the case, fact proceeded to follow fiction instinctively. Emerging from the toilet, I discovered that the front door was wide open and everyone was running to the back of the flat. The fact that there was nowhere to go back there didn’t seem to be occurring to anyone at the time. The messenger had been let through the barricades only to see them abandoned in the ensuing panic. This was turning into a frigging bloodbath without even trying.

I focussed my fear on the problem at hand. I was not in the mood for bashings, beatings murder or rape. These things would not bring a perfect end to a perfect evening. I got the door down just in time to hear the first bangs of fists on the wood outside. Sam Raimi couldn’t have timed it better even if he tried. Actually, he did try in the first Evil Dead film but he couldn’t cut his timing any closer to what I’d just pulled off. Now all we needed was a soundtrack by Goblin and we’d have something that would put bums on cinema seats.

An undecipherable blur of drunken accents began to howl something that probably amounted to assorted threats and abuse. Scousers my arse. Drunken Irish builder’s labourers more like with enough Poteen in their bellies to present a fire hazard. They lived over in the next block but I had no idea what their beef was. In life threatening situations, it is often better not to know as there is little time to ponder life’s little absurdities.

“Little pigs! Little Pigs! Let us come in!”

“Not by the hairs on our chinny chin chins.”

That’s about as good a translation as I can really give you. The words were all different but I think I captured the spirit of the piece. The huffing and puffing that followed seemed a little more forceful than simple exhalation. These guys were putting their shoulders into their work big time. I was putting all my weight down on the buttress and still I bounced up with every heave ho. I looked around for the nearest large heavy object.

“Phil! Get your fucking fat arse over here!” I demanded with the kind of voice Marine Drill Sergeants use in the movies.

Fat Phil preferred to be called Phil Free for obvious reasons. However, no-one really wanted to take him up on that particular implied offer. Being told to feel free does not, by definition, demand obligation.

There was, however, a duty to differentiate between him and Quick Phil. We called him Fat Phil because Slow Phil would have been even more insulting than our eventual choice. Besides, he was not merely big boned. He had, despite the most meagre of rations, still retained sufficient padding so as to cover up the fact he was big boned. In addition, he wore the kind of coat that Uncle Fester would only wear in the depths of a Siberian winter. With his thick black eye make-up he looked like a vaguely satanic panda. Satanic Panda Phil would have made an ideal rechristening if not for the fact that it was too much of a mouthful.

“No,” he replied. “I’m scared. They’ll hurt me.”

I felt like slapping him around myself at that moment. My fear had bought out a cruel streak from deep inside. I went with the feeling even though he was a friend who was already close to tears. I could tell you that I spoke for the good of the group but part of me meant every word that I said.

“Listen to me, you fat pile of shit. If you don’t get you’re arse over here right now, you won’t have to worry about them because I will personally come over there and beat you to death myself.”

I must have been fairly loud and fairly scary because even the banging on the front door stopped. The room took on a deathly silence as Phil assumed the position. I glared around the room.

“Now, will one of you useless fucks get me a bloody hammer so I can nail the first cunt who comes through the door.”

Outside, there was a half hearted volley of abuse and a few random kicks to the door. It was all over bar this shouting. What was planned as a simple massacre was turning into something more difficult. Someone other than us might end up getting hurt. The assaulting force vanished back into the night as if they never were there at all. The silence just swallowed them.

The next morning, when the buttress was raised, the front door was shattered and torn from its hinges. Locks and bolts hung off of bent and mangled screws but most of the damage was invisible. It lay deep within us in a place where no investigative surgery, electron microscope or endoscopy probe could find it. It was the kind of damage we all take on one hurt at a time. It’s just that some of us take it harder than others.

There are many who will tell you that the rock and roll dream is all about fast cars, loose women, money and the kind of shit that money buys. In Campbell Buildings, we lived a dream all right – but it was nothing like the one advertised on the box. One can only wonder at how much worse the straight world must have been for us to not just choose the life we did but also to revel in it. Is it better to rule in hell than serve in heaven? To us it seemed better to just live in hell.

Original mugshots from Waterloo station photo-booth courtesy of Leah D…


Bob Short claims he has not only heard the chimes at midnight, he has stayed up past dawn to hear them again the next time around. Before being old enough to drink, he haunted Sydney’s beer barns with proto punk band Filth. Later on, he gained some notoriety in the UK with the band Blood and Roses when he was described as everything from a “shambolic messiah” to a “long, tall streak of piss”. He has been a DJ and worked in a sex shop, the civil service and as Musical Director for a theatre company. He claims the only thing ever to surprise him was seeing his thirtieth birthday. Currently, he lives in exile in the penal colonies of New South Wales with his son, Billy. There he has makes low-budget films such as Makers of the Dead, Kings’ Cross Vampires, Lone Gunman Theory and Bad Animals. He is also working on a novel entitled “Red”.

Available from http://www.lulu.com/content/956220

  1. Chris L
    Chris L
    October 22, 2010 at 3:11 am

    James. to refer you back to the post above:

    >>Just a quick message for James if he’s still about.
    You wanted to know all about the skin/face tat crowd, then get yourself over to Sydenham station and high street…..cos that is where you’ll find Bonner……YES he is still alive, and i’m sure if you buy him a few special brews he’ll give you his tale.<<

    So there you go; "get yourself over to Sydenham station and high street" and stop acting like a horse's cock on here with your daft questions.

  2. James
    October 22, 2010 at 4:29 am

    I’m just asking how old Bonner will be, JESUS CHRIST

  3. AL Puppy
    AL Puppy
    October 22, 2010 at 9:12 am

    Jesus would be about 2000 and 10 years old by now if that is any help.

  4. i@n
    October 22, 2010 at 1:34 pm

    He’ll be between 20 and 65, roughly speaking, if that’s any help. Thanks.

  5. James
    October 23, 2010 at 5:05 am

    Why the sarcastic comments? Stop being cunts and just tell me how old is Bonner… roughly speaking

  6. Penguin
    October 23, 2010 at 8:08 am

    Your original question which you asked on september 25 about Bonners age:

    “Also – where is Bonner from exactly how old will he be now”

    My original reply to the question posed by you, also dated september 25:

    “Kerr gave you some history of Bonner way back, look for it again. Lewisham is mentioned. He would have been around 16 in 1980 so you can do the maths.”.

    If you can not do the maths, then please ask a nearby adult.

  7. AL Puppy
    AL Puppy
    October 23, 2010 at 8:51 am

    2010 – 1980 = 30

    16 + 30 = 46

    So he will be about 46 years old. The way I worked it out was this. If the age of B = 16 in 1980, what will the age of B be in 2010? So I took 1980 from 2010 which gave me 30 which I added to 16 to give and age of 46.


    1980 – 16 = 1964

    2010 – 1964 = 46.

    The fact that the same number, 46, appears each time suggests that this is more than just a co-incidence.

  8. i@n
    October 23, 2010 at 10:44 am

    …roughly speaking

  9. Kerr Ray Z. Fokker
    Kerr Ray Z. Fokker
    October 24, 2010 at 9:53 am

    Cut into the present and the future leaks out. Predictive linguistics programmes determine the following month’s local news headlines as follows……

    Lawful Killing Verdict Returned as Homeless Sydenham Man Kicks “Tattoo-obsessed Researcher” to Death.

    “A Succession of Wanton Provocations” says Judge. “Sane People Everywhere Offer Their Heartfelt Thanks.”

    In related news…..

    Anorak Weekly Mourns Death of a Man Known on Internet as the ‘Human Ansaphone’.

  10. James
    October 24, 2010 at 11:59 am

    So Bonner wasn’t even 18 when he got his face tattooed? :O

  11. Penguin
    October 24, 2010 at 12:09 pm

    Who told you how old he was when he got his face tattooed?

  12. Penguin
    October 24, 2010 at 12:10 pm

    P.S. Could you fuck off now please? Make a twat of yourself on the forum Martin C kindly supplied to you on a comment above. Thank you very much indeed in advance.

  13. James
    October 24, 2010 at 12:37 pm

    Fuck off you cunt.

  14. Penguin
    October 24, 2010 at 1:01 pm

    Strong words indeed.

    I vote for the policy that you yourself should, in your words, “fuck off you cunt”.

    Hopefully I will get more votes concerning my policy than you do with yours.

    In fact I will not bother to count the votes, I will assume you will not win, so contuary to my libertarian beliefs mentioned in a comment a little way up, I will just ban you from entering idiotic comments onto this site again.

    Hope you find what you are looking for tweedle dumber…

    Good day sir.

  15. Penguin
    October 24, 2010 at 7:17 pm

    Tactical voting again Kerr?

  16. Kerr Ray Z. Fokker
    Kerr Ray Z. Fokker
    October 24, 2010 at 9:05 pm

    Indeed, Mr Whitehead,

    Why climb a fence when you can just sit on it?

    I think this thread definitely needed something though. Maybe sheep wasn’t the answer. Maybe there is no answer. Who knows?

  17. dave
    October 25, 2010 at 9:25 am

    james why dont you go and get your face tattooed, move onto the streets for a few years, make a diary and then you can answer all the questions you have.
    Kerr, the chippy under the bridge? opposite the tea bar, v.nice but always preferred the pie mash from the cut. the chippy down the lower marsh, was a good one because it was close to red star parcel tunnel, which was a short cut to the station when you was running from kenningtons un savioury uniformed!

  18. baronvonzubb
    October 29, 2010 at 5:12 pm

    i love the smell of 46 shearing sheep in the morning/smells of victory.

  19. dave
    October 29, 2010 at 10:33 pm

    now im wondering whos worse, the gay necro duck or the person who watched, and then felt the need to dissect it after?? im confused

  20. Penguin
    October 29, 2010 at 11:40 pm

    Can you remember if there were any dubious ducks getting up to no good down Waterloo back in 1980 Dave? Or were they just the scourge of Battersea park? Dirty rotters.

  21. baronvonzubb
    October 30, 2010 at 11:23 am

    pengween, you dirty ducking rotter. this is getting dangerously near the 700 posts mark. not a good sign.
    K, where do you find that stuff?

  22. Kerr Ray Z. Fokker
    Kerr Ray Z. Fokker
    October 30, 2010 at 5:00 pm

    “Gay Necro Duck”? Wasn’t that a 70s disco classic?

    Baron Von Z….I think most of them are Igs…..


    Today’s talking point at the local pub was…


    Just remembered that they used to hold a most boring lecture contest at some UK university back in the 70s/80s. It was won every year by some guy in nhs specs and bright wooly jumper who would just return and deliver the same lecture over and over. Think it was entitled ‘A statistical analysis of the relationship between two co-efficient points’. Friend of mine met him once, said he was totally barking.

  23. dave
    November 2, 2010 at 11:01 pm

    penguin.. the whole lot of that area was dubious in one way or another
    i knew a bloke who cleaned waterloo station toilets and spent most of his time polyfilling in glory holes and whacking people who tried climbing from cubicle to cubicle. most just spent their time night shopping and planning how to ambush footie supporters and outsiders. there was also a bloke who pulled out market barrows shouting fuck off to the sky (apparantly his family was bombed during the war)??? the only claim to fame for se1 residents is we have all been to the old bailey and long grove in epsom

  24. Kerr Ray Z. Fokker
    Kerr Ray Z. Fokker
    November 4, 2010 at 9:28 am

    I had fish n chips at masters super fish yesterday lunchtime. There’s loads of new buildings going up around that area and tons of roadworks. It is definitely beginning to move with the times. Inevitable, I suppose.

    Dave, don’t start me on courthouses. Spent a lot of time hanging around Blackfriar’s, Inner London and Southwark. Defendant, witness, juror…done it all…

  25. baronvonzubb
    November 5, 2010 at 12:46 pm

    i love the smell of court in the morning/smells of victory.

  26. thom3
    November 28, 2010 at 3:34 am

    Hello, that photo at the top brings back memories. Just spent the evening reading through this thread a bit of social history that shouldn’t be lost or forgotten.

    Anyway, I lived in Campbell Buildings in ’79 in a squat opposite Bob and Ruth. I came there from a South London suburban council estate, escaping an oppressive (read traditional working class ex East End) family with my friend and one time lover Angie. We were only 17, totally naive; didn’t do drugs except for speed, hadn’t met a gay man (well I had but didn’t realise) etc etc.

    I was a punk (in fact I knew Ruth from our days hanging out in Bromley and it was a surprise to see her again as I had no idea she was living there).

    I had a picture of Adam Ant and James Dean painted on my wall in the squat at CB – AA pre poncey pirate of course – if anyone remembers.

    I was told about CB by some hippy I worked with (yes I had a job too). I remember sending off for my copy of the squatters handbook, nicking a hammer and screwdriver off my dad and moving in on one grey Saturday.

    For me squatting at CB was an introduction to something completely off my radar and the experiences I had at there really had an effect on the way I saw and still see the world. Funnily my time there taught me tolerance, which perhaps seems a bit weird, reading a lot of the comments proceeding this.

    I kind of went in there and just accepted everything I saw and experienced – the fear, death, drugs, sex, violence and madness along with the kindness and the sharing. The thing that really sticks with me was the ’79 christmas when everyone got together and cooked a dinner (did someone really shoot up the potato water? Sounds like a coffee myth but I’ve believed it until now). It was a real communal thing (or is that the rosy tinted backward gaze?). As far as I can remember we ended up in Bob and Ruth’s squat watching telly and drinking a bottle of whisky. I must admit I was always a little bit in awe of Bob – still am.

    As I said I didn’t know anyone except Ruth (where is she?) but ended up sharing a squat with Sue (whose brother lived in CB and was gay – Phil?) she was in her twenties then (or so she said). They came from Thornton Heath. My Angie’s dad died a few weeks before that xmas so she went back to the council estate (she’s still there), but I decided to stay on my own at CB – despite thinking I’d seen a ghost in our squat. Sue moved in as she was crashing on floors and I had a spare room.

    My memories are pretty vague (well its nearly 30 years) but I do remember going to see Dr Death to get Tuinol (he also diagnosed scabies bites on my cock – which I though was the pox); the old bill kicking my door down looking for an underage runaway; and helping people out of a burning squat on the end of the block on the ground floor. I also remember talking all night to someone about whether they should have a sex change (what did I know at 17? But I hope they did because they were really unhappy). I can’t remember any names except for Bob, Ruth and of course Cory.

    Two people whose names I can’t remember but I spent some time with was a skinhead who as far as I know later died in a fire after a glue session? He gave me the scabies after I lent him a pair of my trousers. He also saved me from a kicking in Camden Town. There was also a guy (also on the run from care – Mike? Mick?) who decided to pierce his nose and I remember it took hours to do it. Excruciating to watch. I think I got the Tuinol from Dr Death for him.

    Sue and me moved out in early 1980 to the estate by Lambeth Walk (along Black Prince Road, can’t remember its name). But it was a luxury compared to CB as we had a bathroom, hot water, proper cooker etc. We had loads of visitors (as we had baths, warmth and food) soon people began to squat the empty flats around us. The buildings were due to be refurbished and the council were slowly moving the tenants out, who were really nice to us and gave us all their old furniture.

    I do remember a Sid Vicious march in the Kings Road, although I didn’t go to it. I think I was going to see Joy Division that night (playing with Donna and the Kebabs?!!) and I didn’t have a ticket so wanted to get there early. Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures was the album that I listened to over and over again at CB – there that existential alienation made perfect sense.

    I left in 1980 to go back to the dreary council estate. I’d had enough of being hassled by the old bill and skinheads, the neighbours had turned nasty as well. There was also a suicide off our balcony (an older guy as far as I remember) and I’d fallen in love with an Indian woman from Catford – not good with all those skinheads about.

    The old man let me go back to ‘his house’ with restrictions and it lasted until I jacked in my job and went to live with my then girlfriend’s family, who introduced me to Art and Poetry – Friedrich and Rimbaud.

    Campbell Buildings did change me and it was as much a positive experience as negative. I can understand for others that it was grim and now has the reputation of being a hell hole, but its that Xmas dinner that sticks in my memory as something special (and I know its really cheesy but it does).

    By the way there’s no religion lurking around here – I was taught by catholic priests and nuns so any of that stuff was beaten out of me long ago.

    Please correct me or fill in names, I do have a photograph of Sue somewhere and can post it if anyone wants to see it. I really would like to know what happened to her and Ruth.

  27. Penguin
    November 28, 2010 at 1:45 pm

    Thanks for sharing these memories Thom; Phil is a regular commentator to this site and as far as I know his sister Sue is well. Cory is still around and sells the Big Issue in Muswell Hill and surrounding areas I have been informed. Bob is of course is still around and lives back in Sydney. Ruthless…Sam or Baron AKA Jake AKA Rich Kid would know more and hopefully all these folk will get onto the site in good time to respond to your memories.
    You should try to get hold of both of Bobs books both of which are a fascinating insight to the period.
    Check the bottom of this thread for details of obtaining both:
    Also the Baron has written some stuff on the subject in his book:
    Again look at the bottom of the post for details on how to get the book.

    BTW – The rough drafts in Barons book post which you can view on the post above are just rough drafts. The book itself is correctly typeset and the spelling mistakes are now at the very minimum after its second printing!
    The names of the folk in the book by Baron are all changed as well btw, just in case you do not recognise anyone in the paragraphs..!

  28. thom3
    November 28, 2010 at 11:01 pm

    Thanks Penguin. Book looks good. Just grabbed a copy of Trashcan.

    I just want to add that I used the word ‘tolerance’. Its wrong. Perhaps its empathy or acceptance or something, lets say something – I don’t want to sound like some ‘tolerant’ dad or liberal social worker.

    Anyway look forward to reading more on the subject.

    PS just in case you haven’t come across Mr Bey I’m sure some of what he writes will be of interest



    Thom (Martin)

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