four

After me and Tony had been caught by Mrs Winters in the instruments cupboard, we were banned from going into the music rooms ever again, which (as you might imagine) severely curtailed our guitar playing activities. Hence we were on a bit of a downer for a while, reduced to spending our lunchtimes wistfully leafing through Melody Maker and/or discussing the bizarre assortment of bands we'd heard on the Peel show the night before.

Thankfully, the gloom of guitar deprivation was lifted from us soon afterwards when Mr Mammoth revealed that he'd persuaded the headmaster to allow him to add an old bass and an electric guitar to the school's collection of instruments.

Having spent many futile hours trying to convince the headmaster, Miss Winters and Mrs Hawthorn of the tremendous educational value of rock music, Mr Mammoth explained, he'd eventually won them round by informing them of the billions of pounds in export revenue that British rock music generated every year. When Mr Mammoth pointed out the impact of overseas LP sales on Britain's balance of payments (and the fact that Mick Jagger had recently purchased his old school a swimming pool), the headmaster suddenly started to say how much he enjoyed listening to jazz, and even Miss Winter's admitted to owning a couple of early Beatles LPs. They decided that it was perhaps wrong to deny the school's pupils access to such a unique creative opportunity. And, yes, some electric instruments would certainly be regarded as something of an asset to the school.

A couple of weeks later a brandless Les Paul copy and a battered Fender Precision bass appeared in the smallest rehearsal room, together with a five-piece drum kit, a microphone and a crackly, old valve combo. By today's standards, that gear was a load of old shit that no self-respecting muso would even build a fire with. However, at the time, with the spirit of punk still lingering on, the arrival of those guitars spawned an explosion of would be rock stars among the trendier sections of the school community.

Fortunately, although neither me nor Tony were particularly with it as far as fashion was concerned, we could actually play the guitar, and therefore managed to get our names put down for one of the treasured after-school band rehearsal sessions. It was forty five minutes on a Wednesday night which meant I had to sacrifice football training. But by then there was no longer any suggestion that I might prefer kicking a stupid ball round a muddy field instead of playing the guitar.

Hey, my soccer days were over, but my roller coaster ride into the wacky and wonderful world of rock n' roll had just begun!!

Seriously though, there was something quite magical about those first few sessions me and Tony spent playing electric guitars. It's difficult to describe the sheer excitement that used to build up in me during geography (which we always had last thing on a Wednesday) knowing that in a few minutes time we would be in the practice room blasting out each others' eardrums.

It wasn't just the sound of the guitar that thrilled me it was all the other things that went with it as well. The weight of that cheap Stratocaster copy pulling at my shoulders, the strap rubbing against my neck, the strings cutting into my still soft finger tips, the green lights that illuminated the amplifiers control's when you switched it on, the smell of dust burning on the amplifier's valves as it heated up, the rubbery feel of the charcoal grey lead, the incessant hum of the speakers, the angry crack the speaker made when you pushed the jack plug into the amp with the volume turned up, the way low notes on the bass guitar made the snare drum and cymbals hiss and rattle....it was an enthralling experience.

Even before I had played a note I would be smirking like crazy at Tony and he would smile back at me. Then he would adjust the volume on the bass and we would launch into some simple rock 'n' roll stuff, with me strumming away and Tony's fingers walking up and down the neck of the bass like he had been born with it in his hands.

By the time we got round to forming our first band Tony had become a far better guitarist than me. However there was a kind of unspoken agreement between us that he would be on bass and I would be on guitar because it was me who had first taught him to play. This set up - Tony doing all the rhythm playing and me playing all the solos - continued for years despite the fact that I was never more than a mediocre player and he was to become a guitar genius.

However, I have come to realise now that paradoxically it is often much harder to play something very easy than it is to play something very complex. Anyone can play thirty notes very fast and sound good, but very people can play three notes and make them sound equally impressive. I have never met another guitarist. professional or otherwise, who had such a talent as Tony did for making the mundane sound marvellous. So, on reflection, I don't really feel guilty about always being the glory-grabbing front man in the various bands we were in over the years. I think in a way his secondary role forced him to develop the depths of expression that are now his hallmark (although there were other things, which I shall come to later, that obviously had a far more profound effect upon him and his playing).

Although in those angst-ridden months of puberty I spent a lot of time worrying about how big my nose and my spots were and how small my cock and my muscles seemed, on balance, I was pretty content with my lot. Home was always hectic what with my mum and dad shouting at each other all night about me and my brother and money and the way they drove and affairs they'd had decades ago and what exciting things they each would have done with their lives had they never met and got married. You know, all the normal shit.

I was convinced then (and still am pretty sure) that I should never get married (although I think Beverly might have other ideas about that, especially since Becka at the aerobics club had her baby.) I don't know. I love Beverly, but I just don't think I'm cut out for a life of wedded bliss. The thing is I don't really feel any more grown up now than I was back then. I know in my heart of hearts that when I'm sixty I'm still going to be the same kid I've always been, strumming a guitar in a bed sit somewhere, struggling to survive on my old age pension, but not really giving a damn about anything (except how big my nose and the melanomas on my skin seem to have grown and how small my withered muscles and wrinkled cock seem to have become).

Anyway, back then I was, as I am now, and probably will be in the future, pretty happy. I had a real friend in Tony and, in guitar playing, had found something that made me want to get up in the morning and not want to go to bed at night. Even school seemed quite interesting at that time. I had recently learnt how to make a rudimentary electric motor, how to describe a trip to the zoo in French, and even how to wank and smoke (though not necessarily both at the same time).

Although school was generally OK, there were, of course, certain individuals who dedicated themselves to making things less than bearable for their fellow pupils (particularly those who were smaller and/or younger than them). A prime example was Barry Slater, the scourge of the second year. Barry was one year older than us (having been kept down a year, in the vain hope that he would be able to perform basic arithmetic and spell his name by the time he left). However he had already developed the stature of a fully grown man. Unfortunately (as I have inferred above) Barry's social development had not quite kept pace with that of his precocious physique. To be frank, he had all the maturity and morals of a retarded foetus. And, hence, we were all totally shit scared of him.

On one occasion I had arranged to meet Tony outside the Maths rooms. When I arrived I was alarmed, but not wholly surprised, to see Barry holding Tony by the ankles and shaking him up and down - possibly in an attempt to dislodge any loose change from his pockets, but probably simply because it seemed like a fun thing to do.

Now, if that had been me being shaken about I would have been shouting and waving my arms about and trying to kick Barry in the face. However Tony, being Tony, was hanging limply from Barry's huge hands like a rag doll. His face had gone bright purple (presumably because a large amount of blood had been shaken down into his head). However, apart from that, he seemed pretty unperturbed at having become a pack of salt 'n' shake crisps in Barry's latest impromptu role-playing session. As I approached, Barry, who was evidently delighted to have an audience, started to shake Tony harder and harder in an attempt to illicit some response from him. But, to be honest, a pack of crisps would probably have put up more of a struggle.

My biggest hindrance in life has always been my ability to open my mouth at inappropriate moments. I don't do it on purpose, it just happens. It would be nice if just occasionally my outspokenness was considered to be a trait of inherent honesty. But, unfortunately, more often than not, I am regarded as either arrogant or thoughtless and, generally, considered to be a bit of a twat.

Typically, when I saw Barry shaking Tony up and down that time, instead of using some form of subtle persuasion to make him stop what he was doing I yelled out, "Oi, let go of him you ugly cunt. You'll make his fucking head explode," (or words to that effect).

Strangely enough, the moment I had said that, Barry seemed to lose all interest in Tony and instead turned his attention to me.

"You fucking what?" he said.

"Leave him alone you thick cunt," I repeated, my brain still not having caught up with my mouth.

Barry deposited Tony on the floor and made a grab for the badge-covered lapels of my blazer. I decided it was perhaps a pertinent moment for me to terminate our little encounter before Barry Slater terminated me. So, with a yell of 'see ya Tony,' I turned and got the hell out of there as fast as my sixteen hole Doctor Marten boots would carry me.

Barry chased me down the stairs yelling out, "You've fucking had it Sharpe. You're fucking dead mate," and other similarly unfriendly phrases.

Like a pit bull terrier, Barry had a head that seemed too large for his body and a vestigial neck. He also had the disposition of a pit bull; friendly one minute and in a frenzy the next. Once he'd started attacking you he wouldn't stop. Luckily if he was a pit bull then I was a whippet, all ribs, sinews and elastic thighs. I could easily outpace Barry even in those gigantic DMs. Actually, my legs were so thin and rubbery and my boots so big that some of the kids used to joke that you could tie a ball to my head and use me as one of those floor-fixed punchbags - no matter how hard you hit me, I would come bouncing back up. However, I had a feeling that if Barry caught up with me I wouldn't be getting up for a long time.

I jumped the last few stairs that led down from the maths department to the entrance foyer below and hurtled along the corridor towards the physics and chemistry labs. As I passed the boys' loos, shrouded in a stench of piss, shit and smoke, I wondered if it would be safe to duck inside and lock myself in a cubicle and let Barry Slater hammer out his frustration on the graffiti covered door. However a single glance back over my shoulder at the seething fury in Barry's eyes and those huge clenched fists persuaded me that a couple of inches of chipboard would not prove to be an effective barrier to him.

I decided camouflage would be my best bet. I dashed out into the playground and wove back and forth through the throng of meandering pupils, who were a range of different colours and sizes, but who, conveniently, all wore pullovers and blazers the same shade of racing green as my own. I made for the corners of the lower school playground where those on the fringes of juvenile innocence snogged and delved beneath blouses and trousers, smoked dog ends and sniffed glue, played black jack and tattooed themselves with Stanley knives and blue-black biros.

By the time I reached the back of the sports hall I had shaken off Barry, but I was certain that with a few enquiries it would not take him long to locate me again. Behind the sports hall there is always a big pile of bags left by the lunchtime footballers. And I managed to persuade a couple of them, with a half-full pack of John Player Special's I happened to have in my blazer pocket, to bury me beneath the bags and to promise not to tell Barry where I was. I had been lying in my makeshift sanctuary for no more than a few seconds when I heard Barry's booming voice.

"Any of you lot seen Sharpy?" he asked.

I lay there trying not to breathe, assuming the lifelessness of the canvas duffel bags and plastic hold-alls that surrounded me.

"No I ain't seen him today," said a voice, I recognised as belonging to Steve, one of the lads I'd given a couple of fags to.

"No he ain't round here," said another. "What do you want him for anyway?"

"Keep your fucking nose out," said Barry, in a tone of voice that suggested he was not in the best of moods. "If you see him. You tell him he's got it fucking coming to him all right."

There was a general murmuring of assent. Then some joker thought it'd be funny to slam the football as hard as he could into the bags under which I was cowering.

"Owww", I said, startled by the sudden impact.

"What was that?" I heard Barry ask.

"That was me," said another of the lads I'd given a fag to. He noisily cleared his nose and throat and spat a globule of phlegm against the sports hall wall just above where I was hidden. They all laughed.

"You want to stop smoking lads," said Barry threateningly. "It could be bad for your health." The laughter ceased. I heard Barry say, "And don't forget, when you see Sharpy, you tell him I'm looking for him, right." Then he was gone.

I scrambled out from beneath the bags and thanked them for not letting on where I was.

"You better watch out," said Dave. "Slater's got it in for you."

"Yea, rather you than me mate," said another lad.

Then the bell went and they collected their bags and wandered off, leaving me stood there alone, trying to work out which would be the best route to take to the metal work rooms (where my next lesson was) so as to avoid running into my psychopathic pursuer.

For the next few days I carefully kept out of Barry's way. Although I caught him glaring across the assembly hall at me one morning and almost bumped into him coming out of geography one afternoon (ducking behind the door just before he turned round) I managed to get through the next week unscathed. However, as I said, Barry had that pit bull mentality. Once he had got his teeth into something he wouldn't let go. Barry Slater did not forgive and forget. So even days after our unfortunate little contra temps (an expression I had recently learned in French), the very sight of him swaggering menacingly down the corridor towards me was enough to send me scuttling off in the opposite direction.

Despite several hours of sleep wasted in worry about what horrendous injuries Barry Slater intended to inflict upon me, it had been quite a happy week. It was 1980. And, although, by then, punk rock had already begun to dig its own grave, it was still refusing to let go of the spade. And there continued to be plenty of simple, but effective, songs around, which even infantile guitarists, such as Tony and myself, could master; Teenage Kicks by the Undertones, She's Lost Control Again by Joy Division, Pretty Vacant by the Sex Pistols, all that kind of thing.

We'd found ourselves a singer, a girl called Shareen Carter. Shareen's dad was a local taxi-driver, a plump, pallid man with gingerish hair and fairly non-descript features. However her mum's family had originally come from Pakistan, and hence she had very long dark hair, pale brown skin and wonderful deep brown eyes.

Shareen was easily one of the best looking girls in the year and her skirt was so tight you could see her bum move when she walked. But better than that, she had a pierced nose and wore a black bomber jacket with her name in white stick-on letters across the back (which at the time was the height of fashion). She couldn't sing to save her life. However, that was something of an asset in those days, so we didn't mind too much.

All we needed to complete our band then was a drummer. After trying out one or two lads (whose previous percussion experience appeared to have been limited to playing with knitting needles on upturned saucepans) we decided to advertise. Shareen, who was pretty good at art and everything, drew a picture of a punk drummer in pastels and underneath we wrote:

"Wanted decent drummer for punk band. Knowledge of songs by Sham 69, Sex Pistols and the Clash essential. Must have own pair of drum sticks. Auditions Wednesday after school. Apply Tony Mallon or Shareen Carter (2B) or Peter Sharpe (2E).

Then we stuck the advert up on the music room notice board and waited. A few would-be drummers did show an interest, but they were either worse than the ones we had already tried or too old or just not into the same kind of stuff that we were.

It was a bit frustrating really. Shareen had started coming along to our Wednesday afternoon practices and knew the words (if not the tunes) to all the songs in our set. We were certain that if only we could find a half-decent drummer, we would have ourselves a proper group.

Anyway, one Wednesday afternoon I was sitting outside the rehearsal rooms waiting for Tony who had gone off to get the key from the caretaker, when I looked up and saw Barry Slater approaching. I wasn't exactly happy to see him, but it had been several days since our little misunderstanding, and I didn't think he would still be out to get me. However as he got nearer he shouted out, "Oi Sharpy! I want a word with you!"

And I was up off that bench and running, quicker than shit off a shovel (as they say).

"Oi Sharpy get back here!" bellowed Barry chasing after me. "Stop fucking about."

Ignoring his request, I sprinted into the main school building, along the deserted corridors and out through the doors that led to the art block, with Barry still behind me shouting out, "Get back here you stupid git!"

By the time I reached the art rooms, I was starting to get away from him. But, unfortunately, my luck ran out before Barry's stamina did. Three sacks of grey modelling clay, delivered a while earlier, had been left outside. And as I hurtled round the corner, I ran smack bang into them and fell. Before I could limp to my feet, Barry had caught up with me.

"Aha! Gotcha you daft git," said Barry, all red-faced and out of breath. "I'd like a word with you."

"Yea?" I said, nonchalantly gulping down a bolus of fear.

"Yea!" said Barry. "I hear you've got a band going with Melon and that Paki cow."

"Yea," I said, slowly nodding.

"Reckon you're pretty good don't ya?" he said.

"Yea," I said.

Barry reached inside his leather jacket. For a moment, I had this horrible vision of him pulling out a Stanley knife and stabbing me with it. But to my surprise, instead he got out a battered pair of drumsticks, with which he beat a brief tattoo on the top of my head.

"Gotta drummer yet?" he asked.

"Uhhmm no," I said.

"Well you have now," said Barry grinning and pulling me to my feet. "Come on. Lets go."