Years ago - nearly twenty years ago - I lived in one of the Cecils (I forget which one) in Armley. It was a dead end street of typical Leeds back-to-back houses. I was on the dole, in a band, and my g/f and I had our tiny baby to look after.
Our house, a Housing Association domicile, was next door to a bloke who rarely wore a shirt at all, regardless of the weather.
Indeed, he was rather taken with himself, and would often stand outside his house, or on occasion even take to strutting along the street and bellowing "I'M T'COCK OF UUURRR STRRRIIRRRTTT" (to interpret, "I am the cock of our street").
This simple promulgation was treated with the respect it deserved.Indeed, I could not agree more that he was indeed a cock.
We made all attempts possible to not have anything to do with the scary wiry, semi-naked thug and his female accomplice, Tracy Sharon Tracy Tracy or their alarmingly fizzog'd child Keelie Kylie Keelie. (It took us some time to establish that the small child was not called "Ge'rear.Now.")
Despite our execellent and largely successful avoidance tactics, it was only a matter of time before Cock, Sharon and Keelie Kylie paid us a visit. Sharon Tracy Tracy Sharon thought that Keelie Kylie might like to play with our son. Our son was four months old.
Cock brought some Carlsberg Special Brew with him and I was encouraged to havea drink with him. I don't usually drink beer at 9.30AM on a Wednesday, but it seemed like the apposite thing to do at that time.
We discovered that we had a lot in common. For instance, our parents all came from Leeds, and we all had most of our fingers and toes. I liked Peter Garbiel's Genesis and he also liked whatever was trendy and in the charts that day in 1987. I had very long hair almost to my waist, wore a leather biker jacket that to this day reeks of patchouli, stripey hippy trousers and coloured Docs, and he too had a skinhead, burgundy casual trousers, white socks and those fucking stupid leather shoes with little tassles on them, and onthis occasion a grey jumper with blue diamonds on the front.
I played bass in a band, and he also demanded to have a go and nearly bust an E string, he was hitting the thing so hard. I think he was trying to make his hand bleed or rip a finger nail off to prove how hard he is.
So we had so much in common that he politely stuck his vile red angry face close to mine and said to me "you and me are gwin to be miiirts. You can start by gi'n' us a tab". At that time I did smoke,but I rolled my own for cheapness and extra cancer. He didn't seem to mind, fortunately.
It was a relief when he left, I can tell you.
Often I wish I was a stupid thug, I really do.
Sadly, cruel fate made me the opposite...
..OK, work's over for the day, time to continue. This tale is still firmly scored into my brain, in exactly the same way that burning yourself by eating molten lead might be:
I was in a band in Leeds in 1987. It was not a particularly happy time for me, because the singer/songwriter/guitarist of the band was a lanky southern ponce who, to this day, is about the most multiple-personalitied GET I have ever met.
There was an ad in the window of Music Ground, in Leeds that used to be very close to dark arches and Leeds railway station (not sure if the shop is still a music shop as I haven't paid attention on recent visits). The band wanted an 'individualist' bass player for an indy-pop band.I did consider myself to be said individualist, and I passed their audition with flying colours. I was a couple of years older than most of the band, who had all attended the same course at Leeds uni together, but that wasn't a problem.
However, they did not like my long raggedy bleached hair, and they weren't too keen on my style of dress - scruffy hippy clothes.
Nevertheless we got on with it. I liked their music, which ironically was a few years ahead of a curve that became pretty big in the UK in the early nineties. They were very earnest and in to what they were doing, but I was clearly never going to be part of their in-crowd, and I wasn't happy that image was s oimportant to them.
This was without doubt the most serious band with which I had yet been involved.We practiced many hours each day, most week days, and we toured incessantly. If the bus didn't show up, which was fairly common, I would walk from Armley over to Hyde Park, carrying my bass in its case. The case was rubbish and would often fall off the handle. The handle holes had been re-drilled so many times there was little wood left, so often I would have to carry the thing over my shoulder or under my arm, which was a bastard. And I would get bollocked by loopy James for being late.
Or for opening his guitar case the wrong way, or for being 'facetious' (he rally said that!),or for having long hair, which apparently it was totally alright for our harmonica player to have because 'he's handsome'. Come to think of it, James was actually a bit of a c*nt.
From September of 1987 to the end of December 1987 we played around forty gigs. We were on Radio Leeds and I still have a tape of that show. Unfortunately I re-recorded it via a mixer and over boosted the bass...vanity. Sounds alright though.
So how does this relate to semi-naked Cock-of-our-Street?
On November 5th of 1987, the band was scheduled to play a gig in Sheffield. Meanwhile, it had been getting quite exciting in our dead-end street. Cock and some of the other jailbirds in our Cecil Mount - actually quite handy for the jail, come to think of it - had been building a tower of crap in the middle of the street. Dofas, chairs, lamps, bricks, asbestos, polystyrene, ice, brooms, sweepers, tyres, fish, and books, and the works of the Beatles. I suppose that given the street was indeed a cul-de-sac, they could safely have a towering inferno in the middle of the road, without fear of interruption by heavy traffic or chance of slowing down work of the emergency services, which was highly considerate of the local residents.
Or it's quite possible that absolutely no consideration was given to anything other than having a big fire in the street and getting drunk, shouting and hopefully hurting someone.
Cock came around in the afternoon to 'invite' us to the joyful
festivities. It was made quite clear that not attending would be frowned upon by the social set, and we might quite possibly be sent to Coventry. Or have our knees smashed with hammers. At this point I was beginning to suspect that he didn't actually want us to be there, but merely wanted to wield power over us in the only way he knew - with subtle guile, wit and charm. Or perhaps sheer vulgar moronic naked physical aggression.
It's a fine line between the sleight of hand of a master manipulator and the dead-arm thuggery of a worthless bully, and I can never quite distinguish between the two. Needless to say, I was pleased that I knew I was going to be out of the house until late.
I felt really bad for leaving my better half behind to cope with the
proceedings. I had actually suggested to her that she and our son
stayed with her sister that night, but she opted to remain at home, much to my consternation.
I set out fairly early to make sure I got a bus to Hyde park in time to
get to meet the band and go in our VW camper to the Sheffield gig.
When we reached the bar in Sheffield it was closed. It was closed for refurbishment or for Guy Fawkes night or something. I have no idea what the reason was, but it was firmly shut, and very much not open.
In those days there were no mobile phones. I mean my dad had one for his job once, but it was about the size of a breeze block, and had collossal batteries that were designed to hang on a purpose made belt from his hip. I didn't see anyone using a consumer mobile phone until 1991, when a bloke in a pub near Stroud suddenly started shouting "I'm in the pub" at the top of his voice, into something resembling a beige house brick. Everyone stood
back and gawped at the twat.
At that very moment he could have triggered a revolution. Now gits answer the phone in the middle of a conversation in a restaurant, in the cinema, in the swimming pool, and even on the bog. I have heard people merrily splashing away in the bog and having earnest conversations at the same time. It used to be considered the height of bad manners to answer a ringing telephone if you were in face to face conversation, in a social setting at least. Now there are no bad manners it seems, and the phone is more important than the face.
But I digress.
Unable to establish why our venue was unavailable to us for our performance, we headed back to the VW camper. It was a clear and fresh November night. All around were the sounds of Guy Fawkes night - the celebration of the democracy of England and the court of King James defeating the outrageous treason and terrorism of Guy Fawkes and his evil mujahadin cohorts:
"Pound for t'guy!", vomiting, couples shagging in alleys, and the sound of people screaming as fireworks exploded in their faces, echoing around the once proud industrial heartland, but now grim empty streets of work-shy Sheffield.
Still, they could have all got together and formed a male strip tease group.
I suppose it hadn't occured to me that my dear neighbour and his mates and lovely family would still be sitting out there at 11.00 at night, I suppose I was thinking about other things.
But sure enough, the fire lit up the sky,and there they were, framed by the glow of burning sofas, polystyrene foam, plastic bags, old doors and probably some car tyres, policemen's helmets and Edrward Woodward.
The nature of the street, a cul-de-sac, meant it was impossible to make an entrance from the other end. Our house was, naturally, very near to the closed and walled end, so by necessity I had to walk the gauntlet of flinty eyed, scary faced Sharons, Tracys, and Kevins. On his kitchen stool throne, at the head of his court, was my beloved next-door cock o'street.
He had changed into evening attire, had his hair attended to, was shaved and sleek in appearance, the very epitome of the well-groomed, well heeled and well-to-do man about town. His shiny black shoes and matching silk socks were the finishing touch to his rather elegant tuxedo and black tie.
He sat by the grand piano, one foot raised slightly and resting on the cross bar of the stool, the other foot on the ground, tapping a counter-rhythm to the ditty he casually laid down upon the piano keys with his right hand. He smoked a thin cheroot in an ivory cigarette holder. He flashed his winning smile, as he eyed me through his monocle. I caught a hint of expensive and yet tastefully understated eau de cologne. This was a man of taste and dicretion. A gentleman, a scholar and yes, an acrobat And yet he liked quality and luxury for itself rather than in that vulgar way the nouveau riche have; of displaying their ill gotten gains in a gallery of obvious trophies; the Benz, the villa, the yacht, the gold plated Dior mobile phone. He was a popular man, the lifeblood of the party. An entrepreneur, philosopher and a philanthropist. The last of the great adventurers. A splendid visionary, loved by women and revered amongst men.What a guy!
Actually no, that's all bollocks. He was wearing yet another diamonded BHS jumper, a burgundy leather(ish) jacket that was too small for him, as was the scary-man fashion of the time, too-tight jeans, obligatory white socks, and those excellent tassley shoes.
Attempting to walk back to my house was clearly verboten.
I was carrying my bass in its case.
"Alright miiiirrrrttt! Giz a tune then. Giz it 'ere, ahh can play it better than what you can. Yer ot fookin' gwin in, yer can stay irrr ferra drink wi' us."
Jesus fokken Kriste.
So I grinned and bore it because death wasn't on my option list that evening, or any evening for that matter. And this guy was a nutter. A dickwad. A twat. The kind of bloke you cross the road to avoid, but hope that he doesn't notice you doing so. He's "did you spill my pint?!?!" and he's "are you lookin' at my bird?!?!?" and he's "my life is shit and I hate myself and the world so much, but mostly myself, that I'm going to take it out on everyone, but especially anyone who looks different, especially anyone with the wrong hair and the wrong clothes and the wrong speech and books and music and interests other than lager and telly and aggression..."
And he was my next-door neighbour. He was my next-door neighbour. Why yiny lordy baby Jimmy Jesus? Why? What had I done. Was I a Tory in a former life? I didn't understand.
So he told his Tracy Sharon Tracy to get him adnmyself a beer. Tracy Sharon goes inside the house and returns carrying three cans of Special Brew. She proffers the lager brews to myself and C.O.O.S., and then attempts to take a seat. She falls straight over backwards and her kitchen stool and self hit the ground with quite a din. Mr Cock jumps up, panic stricken.
"You've spilled fookin' beer all over t'place you stupid cow. Fookin' 'ell!" And he proceeds to chase the rolling can which is spewing foaming foul brew all over the street, rather than attend to to the mother of his child. Well she's the mother of Keelie Kylie Keelie Five Star anyway. Whether his seed was the catalyst is another question, as the child bears little resemblance to either of them, although I do recall him referring to the kid, in a moment of saccharin paternal melodrama as being a 'cute little c*nt'.
The can actuallr rolled in circles, propelled by the force of the lager jet that was hailing from the partially opened vessel. The cock of our street grabbed at it, unable to predict it's entirely orbicular path in advance, presumably due to his advanced state of intoxication.
Realising that Tracy Sharon Tracy had not suffered any serious physical damage, I retreated to my house under cover of the confusion.
Phew, that was a close one.
The very next day we were at the Housing Association in Headingley begging for a transfer. This we got, soon after, but it wasn't much better. In fact the new house, in Bayswater Grove in Harehills, was nowhere near as nice, and the neighbourhood was not as generally peaceful and quiet. But at least we didn't have a psychopathic next-door neighbour.
Not immediately next-door.
apologies for typos - it was pretty late in the day before I finished this
