A Gothic Evening - Part Two

As promised, here's the second part of the story.

    Town on a Monday evening was like a Wild West ghost town with October leaves and crisp bags that drifted sadly about. The Art Centre was closed and silent, a skewed poster on the window informed that ‘Soul Scream’ would be playing live at the Queen Caroline in Stafford – coach leaves at 7.30. We sat down on the wall and Ant chucked us each a fag, he made a grand gesture of lighting them with his new Zippo lighter, and nearly burnt his fingers for his efforts. Matt looked thoughtful as he took a drag of his ciggy, then he turned to me with a wry smile.

   ‘Hope you don’t mind Rich mate, but as you and Emily are no longer an item – you don’t mind if I have a crack at her.’

   I felt a sharp wrench inside. Yes I mind, and well you know it you bloody vulture.

   ‘Not at all, good luck to you.’

    ‘That’s cool, cause I’ve already asked her out!’

  Ant must have noticed my lack of enthusiasm, as he added his own eloquent two penn’orth, ‘Rich’s just miffed that he never got the chance to get into her knickers.’

   A four letter retort sprang to mind but I said nothing.

    ‘Never mind mate, perhaps you’ll have more luck with these Goth chicks.’

    I’d recently listened to a new Bon Jovi song called ‘Blood on Blood’ about kids being friends for ever and all that. I thought it could have been written about me, Matt and Ant - but now I wasn’t so sure. We’d turned sixteen and something had changed.

   A few cars had pulled up outside the Art centre and a number of black clad folk with palid faces and impossible hair had started to trickle in - the gathering of the Goths had begun. There seemed to be quite a few girls, notably more than found amongst the metal crowd.

    ‘Wonder what she uses to get her hair like that?’ Ant gestured to a nearby Goth girl, she seemed to be wearing a sort of floral dressing gown and her raven locks stuck up wildly in all directions.

   ‘Go and ask her!’ Matt nudged his arm, ‘I wouldn’t mind gelling her hair for her.’

   Typical Matt humour - sort or Eric Idle crossed with David Lee Roth.

    ‘Good you could make it lads,’ Justin had arrived and was making his way through the throng. He had been in our last year at school but had left early (some say expelled) in slightly mysterious circumstances. I hadn’t known him too well, but he’d seemed an ok sort. In honour of the occasion he’d donned his old school jumper, although now it was tactfully adorned with slashes, and (bizarrely) a Cadburys Dairy Milk badge - there was also a hint of make-up. He seemed to know a lot of the Goth crowd and paused to flirt with a girl before joining us.

    By the time the venerable coach pulled up a small crowd had gathered and the smell of hairspray and petula mingled with diesel fumes. We clambered on board and headed for the back seats, they were of the old fashioned bristle type and smelt faintly of disinfectant.

   ‘How are you doing at college?’ I asked Justin.

    ‘Oh great they did me a favour expelling me from school.’

     We were joined on the back seat by a Goth lad and girl. The lad seemed a few years older than us and wore a greatcoat that looked like it had last seen use at the Battle of the Somme, his acned face was part hidden with a pair of dark shades. The girl was slim and surprisingly she had red hair rather than the usual black dyed locks. She was quite cute too, with large brown eyes, she flashed us a smile before sitting down.  The coach was now full and the driver pulled away from the Arts Centre and headed towards the A5. I glanced across at Matt, and he shot me a questioning look. I could tell what he was thinking. What on earth are we doing on this coach in the company of a tribe of Rocky Horror Show rejects. The lad fished around in his greatcoat and like a shabby conjurer produced a bottle of Strongbow cider, ‘Here you go lads.’

   Not wishing to appear an outsider I took a swig from the bottle, inwardly grimacing at the warm, sour taste. As I passed it across to Matt, I certainly hoped it was just only cider. The girl wandered up the aisle to talk to a friend, Ant leaned forward and in a low voice whispered ‘I want to do it with her!’

   ‘Do what?’ said Matt, ‘Breakdance? Ride a Tandem?’

   ‘No,’ Ant Frowned, ‘You Know.’

She wandered back and tumbled into the lap of the lad, and in a haze of cider fumes they started to snog noisily, while Ant stared fixedly out the window and fumed silently.

Back in our Day - Into the Labyrinth

This was a 1980 offering from HTV about the adventures of three time travelling kids.

  The kids, Phil, Helen and Terry have been recruited by sorcerer Rothgo (grumpy but good) to help him in his quest for the magical 'Nidus' stone. Unfortunately, Rothgo has a nemesis, in the form of the witch Belor (fearsome but foxy) who will stop at nothing to get her hands on the Nidus.

  Following the spooky theme tune, the kids would arrive in a different time zone (Dark Ages etc). Rothgo (delightfully played by Ron Moody) would be in disguise ( as a dotty druid or something) and be able to help the kids in their search. The downside being that Belor (a sultry Pamela Salem) was also in the zone (normally disguised as a cunning - but cute courtesan) and out to nail those pesky kids.

 The Nidus would be hidden as an everyday object and once the kids had found it, Belor would appear cackling maniacally as her witchy self, to scream out her famous line "I deny you the Nydus!" Kids and Nydus would be flung into a different time zone and the quest would continue...

  As with Dr Who, time travel is always a good theme for a story. Unfortunately the show was made on a very shoestring budget - Dr Who was almost Star Wars in comparison. The way to get round this was to use the same polystyrene cave set every week, with different costumes and period decorations. Surprisingly, this worked quite well and gave an eerie background to the adventures.

 What made the series, was the on-screen chemistry between Salem and Moody, who seemed to enjoy playing the feuding wizards, squaring up to fight 'astral duels' with lightning bolts.

 Even for the time, the special effects were a little limp, and are fairly comical compared to today's CGI magic. However, 'Into the Labyrinth' was certainly entertaining (better than watching Blue Peter)  and definite nostalgia for a child of the 80s .

A Gothic Evening - Part 1

A bit of a Blue Peter style post this week (here's one we did earlier). This is the first part to a story extract I posted a while back called A Gothic Evening. I'll repost the second part (without the opening blurb) to keep the story in sequence. Hope you enjoy.

 What do you wear to a Goth concert? That was the question I pondered as I stared forlornly into the wardrobe looking for suitable clobber. After some deliberation I decided upon a faded pair of jeans and a black t-shirt with the logo ‘Anthrax!’ across it. Goths wore make up and stuff didn’t they? I thought briefly about borrowing some of mum’s black eyeliner – and rapidly dropped the idea. Best not to give my sister too much ammo, she frequently muttered comments about bottle blond brothers with girly hair; too trendy my sister - what with her Erasure tapes and all that.  A knock at the door interrupted these musings. Before I answered, I made the finishing touch to my Goth rock look – a ‘Motorhead’ pendent in the shape of an iron cross. Not strictly Gothic – but who cares?

   At the front door were Matt and Ant, who, like me, were togged up in their ‘metal’ gear. Matt wore denims and a ripped ‘Metallica’ t-shirt, while Ant sported a tasselled leather jacket and a pair of black spandex trousers over his long legs - the image of a Liquorice Allsort sprang to mind. As he dramatically flicked his hair over his shoulder I caught the sickly whiff of petula oil. Yep, no doubt he’d been on a shopping spree at the ‘Oasis’ indoor market – he always did have more dosh than the rest of us.

‘Wahay!’ said Matt grinning, ‘let’s get going - we’re meeting Justin outside the Art Centre!’

   ‘Enjoy yourselves, girls!’ as we walked down the drive, my sister's voice called mockingly from her bedroom window.

Fallen Angels - Coward’s Classic

 

Haven't posted for a few weeks, so I thought I'd try something a bit different. This is my first bash at a play review, and it's Fallen Angels performed by Intimate Theatre.

Intimate Theatre staged their version of Noel Coward’s ‘Fallen Angels’ at the George Hotel in Lichfield on the 13^th April.

  This was a ‘double first’ evening for me, it was the first time I had seen an 'Intimate' production and the first time I had seen any of Coward’s work performed.

  In fact, my knowledge of Coward is pretty limited to smoking jackets and ‘Don’t put your daughter on the stage Mrs Worthington,’ so I was looking forward to this play.

  With a minimum of props, and the song‘La Mer’ playing in the background, the Garrick Suite was transformed into 1950s elegance.

  The story centres on two young friends, Julia and Jane, whose husbands Fred and Willie prefer the Golf course to their wives. The girls receive a post card from a mysterious Frenchman, Maurice Duclos (charmingly played by Ian Henderson), whom they both had a fling with before married life, and who is returning to stay in London.

  With the guys away on a golfing weekend, Jane joins Julia at her flat for dinner, where they agree to push their stuffy husbands aside and surrender to the Gallic charms of Maurice, when he arrives. However, the drinks are flowing, and a tipsy (but bitchy) rivalry, is soon in full swing.

   The girls are played to perfection; Nicola Bannister showed clever timing as ice maiden Jane, who melts into drunken hysterics after numerous glasses of fizz, while Amanda Robertson excelled as the elegant – but neglected – Julia.

  Robin Lewitt gave a stylish portrayal of Julia’s golf loving, frustrated husband Fred, and Richard Bannister played the priggish Willy (complete with Oxford bags) to full bombastic effect.  

  

   To say any more would spoil the story, but a special mention must be made of Sue Evans who plays Saunders, the knowing maid, who certainly has the edge over her naïve employers.

  This was an enjoyable performance, and I hope to see more of Intimate Theatre’s productions in the near future.

Valkyrie

Back in the 80s, Heavy Metal was a musical genre lacking a feminine touch. Of course, there were artists such as Ann and Nancy Wilson, Pat Benator or Joan Jett but they were more rock gals as opposed to 'proper' ladies of metal.

  An exception was Doro Pesch, frontlady of German head bangers Warlock. With Valkyresque looks and a line in slinky black leather, Doro was something of an icon for spotty adolescent rock fans such as myself. Sugary pop chicks such as Sinitta or Kylie (as she was then) just didn't cut it compared to this metal maid.

  Easy on the eye, Doro could also belt out a few tunes, whether screaming like a banshee on anthems such as 'All we are!' or showing her melodic side on the haunting ballad 'Fur Immer'.

  I saw Warlock back in 87, (my first gig!) when they opened for Ronnie Dio (RIP) in Birmingham at the NEC. Nearly three decades on, Doro is still recording/performing and - apart from the odd foray into classical - still rocking.

 Whether you love or loath Heavy Metal, Doro deserves some respect for surviving in the fickle music business - long may she continue.

Picture by rock photographer, Ray Palmer (1955-2002), it (or something very similar) probably graced my bedroom wall, circa 1988.

Wake up without the coffee

A guy at work was rubbishing Camp Coffee.

'Absolute dross, on a par with some of the worst supermarket cheap, chicory crap!'

  I have an affection for this sticky beverage, so I beg to differ. A cup of camp made with hot milk is as fine a drink as any (except a good scotch). It's not bad in cakes too.

  So if there's a bottle lurking at the back of your cupboard (probably stuck fast with congealed gunge), give it a go, you may be surprised. It evens boasts a new label with the sepoy and highlander sitting down and enjoying a cuppa together.

 Allright, it's not coffee, but then it's never claimed to be.

 Before this blog turns into a free advert, I must explain the coffee theme. For two weeks now I've given up drinking coffee.

  At work this is dead easy, the coffee comes in those big economy tubs, where after a couple of weeks the contents have the resemblance (and probably the taste) of a tray of cat litter. At home it's more tricky, I like fresh coffee, made in a cafatiere, that fills the kitchen with a fragrant aroma and gives you that morning kick up the derriere.

 I didn't think you could get withdrawal symptoms from coffee, but over the last few days I've had cravings as bad as any when I packed in smoking ciggys.

  Ah well, I have a few more weeks to go yet, so best grit my teeth and enjoy my cup of Redbush tea.

Tying the knot

There was an article on the BBC website about ties, apparently school kids are now showing a new rebellious streak by knotting their ties in outlandish fashions.

 I wonder what school the writer went to? This revelation is nothing new, and for years kids have been wearing school ties in any number of weird styles.

  At my school, the fashion was to tuck the fat end inside your shirt and just show the skinny length; often the tie would be pulled down barely visible, to your jumper neck. A few years earlier, when my sister was at school, the trend was the opposite and ties would be worn in a freakishly fat knot - with the tie often as wide as it was long. Uniforms weren't compulsory at sixth form, and my tie probably ended up in the clothes rag-bag along with the rest of my old school clobber. I now had a tie free time until I started work.

   My first 'job' was a YTS placement at John German chartered surveyors, where the senior partner bluntly told me to cut my hair and put on a tie if they were going to suffer my presence in the office (a bit rich - considering they were getting me for gratis). At my next office, open necked shirts were also taboo. If you forgot your tie, the senior draughtsman would lend you one of his spares. These were a selection of 1970s kippers garishly decorated with paisley swirls - and a surefire incentive to remember your tie!

  I don't where a tie to work now. If media presenters, (seen by millions on national TV), don't bother, why should I - working on an industrial estate? I must admit though, seeing a middle aged TV presenter, shirt askew, as if he's had a rough night on the razzle, isn't too inspiring.

 So the ties have been consigned to the wardrobe, only to venture out for weddings and interviews etc; and if I look hard enough, I'm sure I'll find a paisley number lurking at the back somewhere...