THE IMAGES

SATURDAY DECEMBER 11TH 1976
CHARING CROSS, GLASGOW : NIGHT
The darkness of evening fell like a thick fog, engulfing everything as night began. The yellow light of tall street lamps shone like masses of fireflies in the thickening mist. Groups of people ambled like ants, scurrying to weekend targets that allowed them to forget the shackles of their daily lives. Bars, pubs, clubs, cinemas, theatres and restaurants were filling up with human traffic while the streets were still busy with people rushing to a vast array of destinations.
Bill sat on the back seat of the monolithic yellow and green bus, vaguely running through the afternoon's Sawbones rehearsal in his mind and impatiently awaiting his exit stop near Charing Cross. Uncomfortable seating, questionable passengers and appalling driving left him unaffected, it was simply part of life and hardly deserved consideration. With a quick glance down he ensured his black trousers and heavy brogues were neat and lint free before flicking his dust blue, pleated shirt and shrugging his heavy Crombie with upturned collar into a more comfortable position. The rear escape door was directly on his left and he preened himself while he stared at his window reflection, swiftly flicking down the flyaway fragments of hair and admiring his shady features. The pedestrians who stood on the street found great difficulty in understanding what the contorted figure in the passing bus was doing. The dance hall was pulling Bill as a light attracts a moth and he eagerly looked forward to having a night out with the boys - if only this bloody bus would travel as though it wasn't going to a funeral.

Joanna’s was filling up as well as it did on any Saturday night, with more bodies than space. Located on Saint Vincent’s Street across from the King’s Theatre, in the Charing Cross section of Glasgow, it was far from the most sophisticated club in the town but was known for attracting as many cuties as it did thugs and it was certainly a cut above Tiffany’s, The White Elephant or Viva’s. Security was tight here, this end of town always drew a multitude of weekend ravers but it also tended to induce a small bunch of troublemakers that demanded heavy-duty bouncers. No one entered the disco without being frisked – even the women, for they were often charged with importing weapons for their boyfriends, brothers or gang members. Like any system, there were times when it was circumvented but that could be said for any set of procedures in existence. The security protocol was pretty standard throughout the Glasgow nightlife scene and few people found it more than an irritation.
Sto was still mentally humming Jimi Hendrix ‘Crosstown Traffic’ in his head as he slipped through the bustling crowd for no other reason than it was the last song playing before they exited the car less than half an hour ago. For some reason the others considered the journey to be hair-raising where he merely saw it as ‘prompt’, bearing in mind his father’s Volvo was hardly made for competing at Brand’s Hatch. Sometimes he felt truly unappreciated by his friends, not one of them had ever complimented his driving in the past nine months… typically jealous probably.
His baggy patchwork jeans were covered in ink and drawings, while his Lou Reed T-shirt, which hung like a well positioned dish cloth, was immaculately clean. Sto’s casual style was a pleasant counterbalance to the Poseurs and Plebes shimmying or hopping about the dance floor – that in itself made him feel good. Joanna’s was very hot, dim at the table crammed sides and a supernova of cascading colours focused on the mass of frantic dancers in the middle.
The bass heavy sound of Silver Convention’s ‘Get up and Boogie’ was blasting across the main floor at a volume that obliterated his own soundtrack – he hated this disco shit, it wasn’t real music, but it did bring out the Babe-ettes. Deep in the human jungle he watched the little groups of girls who were dancing together and casually scrutinising who was watching them. Sto paused at a group of ordinary girls with their figure hugging trousers in a variety of colours, grey, black, white, burgundy and all with Chelsea Girl tops, some sparkly, some with puffed Angel sleeves and some cropped to the shoulder. They were cute and the girl with long dark hair midway down her back seemed to be paying him close attention. Sto was in two minds whether to go over and ask for a dance but it was always a pain in the arse when trying to pick one from a group, they seemed to run on committee voting just for a simple ‘yes’. Instead he threw one of his sophisticated smiles in her direction and drifted over a little closer until he saw another girl approaching from his right. The almost plump girl with dyed blonde hair and expansive breasts, only barely held in control by a white blouse three sizes too small, almost saw Sto as he frantically dived into the nearest loo to avoid her. The bright red tiles and mirrors reflecting his own image barely made an impression on him for once as he mentally noted to be careful for the rest of the night, an ex who was heavily into relationships, marriage and kids he could easily do without.

Macklin and Harris stood against the bar at the back with pale green light slithering over them, close enough to observe the well known Radio Clyde DJ working in the little, elevated booth. He was wearing thigh length boots, shorts and a tiger patterned fur coat, all topped off with a mutant top hat and oversized shades that made sure no one could miss him. Periodically he unleashed a spate of unintelligible verbal diarrhoea, which was occasionally interrupted by clips of banal chart and disco music that somehow managed to make most of the clients dance and defeated the natural urge to put him out of everyone else’s misery. It was very hot in the bowels of the low roofed dive and no less so where they stood, the strobe effect of the bright flickering lights was a little less intense in this location and being slightly raised from the level of the dance floor it allowed them to observe the patrons with a margin of discretion. They both hated the DJ with a burning passion that mere indifference could not obliviate – even more so as he blasted out 5000 Volts ‘I’m on Fire’ at a brain piercing volume. Each of them wished the DJ was indeed on fire, just not the way he clearly felt he was.
The mannequin like barmaid bumped the drinks onto the counter. Her beautifully painted face was heavily made up as if she worked at the cosmetics and perfume counter in Fraser’s or Lewis’s and competed with her thin white blouse, the last barrier her explosive bust faced before freedom, and its contents for the focus of attention. Dave smiled as suggestively as he could, even after she had indignantly walked away from him. Flicking the ash from his tight, dark blue trousers he replied to Harris.
"No, the old bastard won't give me the car unless he needs to be taken anywhere!"
"Seems a bit pointless passing your driving test then, doesn't it? Maybe he's scared you'll have an accident or something!"
"Very funny. But I suppose there's a chance to get it sometimes – maybe! Fuck, I don't even want to think about the demented old bastard, I'm here to enjoy myself. More importantly, if this turns out to be a bust we can always catch the midnight show at the Classic…" Dave offered as a hail of rotating light reflected from his skin tight, long sleeved white T-shirt to mysteriously illuminate his face.
“Good one, ‘Don’t Look Now’ and ‘The Wicker Man’ – double hit!” Harris enthused with a smile as he drained half the glass in one swallow and watched the barmaid’s pert bottom reveal the outline of her brief underwear as she bent down to lift a case of mixers from beneath the bar.
The smoke from Dave's John Player Special cigarette curled towards Harris in obnoxious wisps but he ignored it as he saw Bill cutting through the crowd and walk over towards them, a reflection in the mirrored bar before him.
"Yours, Bill!" Harris said before Rosser even had the chance to ask whose round it was.
"Would you step into my grave as quickly, Harris?" Bill asked with a note of irritation in his voice.
Harris quickly downed the remains of his vodka and blackcurrant, then offered the empty glass to Bill.
"No." He swiftly reciprocated. "It'd be too small!"
Rosser shook his head and pushed between them to try and attract one of the busy barmaids attention. Dave timed the consumption of his ‘snakebite’ to perfection, just disposing of the last dregs as Bill renewed the stimulants. Communication was mainly non-verbal, a series of nods, grins, eyebrow flicks and twisted faces as the volume cut into their conversation forcing them to move away from the alcohol source a little.
Bill knocked half his pint back in record time as the decibel rate reduced momentarily. "Needed that! So, what's the lay of the land?"
Dave looked over with a wry grin. "I don't know but I'm bloody sure that you'll find her!"
"Got a new scriptwriter, Dave? That was rather good!" Harris laughed.
"I thought so." Macklin nodded laconically.
"Well, I didn't. Just so you two know, I look for the person inside - not just how they look and whether they're easy or not!" Bill said sternly as the other two guffawed.
"Use that, Bill. There's bound to be one or two nubiles who'll buy into it and loosen their underwear if you pitch that line to them!" Harris chuckled.
"Jesus, coming from Sergeant Superficial, that's rich!" Rosser retorted almost finishing his pint.
"So how was the rehearsal?" Dave asked.
"Not bad, gigging tomorrow, I think!"
"You think? It might be a good idea to know!"
"Nah, that's tomorrow's worry… tonight the world is mine, or a small part of it anyway!"
Harris nudged him with a wry grin. "A small part between some pretty's thighs, I assume!"
Bill shook his head and handed the empty glass over. "Very cynical, Jonn! Same again, Sport!"
Harris smiled despondently and forced his way back into the bar, ordering the same again for them all.
Dave elbowed Bill. "Hey, B, that's one of your types!"
Bill looked without seeing. "Where? What do you mean 'my types'?"
"I'm tempted to say breathing, but actually just over there… with the gallon sized jugs!"
"Shit, nice… very nice. Duty calls, hang onto my drink when Harris gets back!"
Dave shook his head and simply smiled, he was a friend but thank God he was too young to have started breeding… the world didn't need hundreds more little fuck-hunters like him on it.
"Has he gone on the prowl then, Dave?"
"What do you think?"
"I think he's gone on the prowl!"
"Very wise and quite correct!"
"Drink?"
"Why not?"
"Indeed!"

The disco was jammed with milling bodies mainly writhing to the sounds of Kool and the Gang’s ‘Jungle Boogie’ which flooded out of the wall of speakers around the DJ booth and duplicated at the far end of the dance floor. Joanna’s attracted a diverse crowd, there was no homogeneity here, it was filled with all sorts, a conglomeration of factions that created the whole. The crowd tended to be young, from teens to mid twenties and certainly no one over thirty unless they were staff, older types went to other venues like the ‘White Elephant’.
The guys fashions varied from smoothly styled poseurs in bell bottoms or nine inch flares and ‘Simon’ tops or lush shirts with large rounded collars they sometimes embellished with big ties and occasionally little tied scarves. Here and there were youths in wide lapelled, cheap suits from 'City Cash Tailors' or ‘Crazy House’ - appearing like second rate versions of those whose sartorial elegance demanded made to measure togs from a variety of Argyle Street outfitters like ‘Dee’s’, making them look sharper and more interesting to their targets. At the other end of the style spectrum were those dressed in the retro ‘hard man’ denim 'suits’ by Wrangler, Levi and Nordoc, embellished with Rugby tops, dated Tank tops, garish two toned shirts of contrasting colours or simple mono toned T-shirts. At the flashier end of the spectrum were the poseurs who sought only the most up to date figure hugging, Italian styled shirts and slacks with neat little ‘Ravel’ shoes – these tended to be the ones the most attractive girls went for generally, unless diverted by the individuals who cut their own style. Footwear tended to be restricted to two-inch platforms, stack heels, boots of varying types and sometimes light deck shoes or tennis shoes. Hairstyles, on the other hand, were much less diverse with most of the clientele sporting medium to long hair in a variety of cuts with only a few getting on board the shorter style trend which was manifesting. It was like a human zoo for anthropologists observing West of Scotland mating rituals and sartorial comportment.

Mhic and Sto were taking a temporary respite in one of the little booths inside the other little hall where ‘Vogue’ would be performing later on, both feeling the heat and the subtle tingle of their boozing. Running a hand through his hair and leaving an untidy clump of damp, side parted style, Sto shook his head at Mhic wordlessly.
“So, anything on your horizon so far, Sto?” Mhic asked.
“No, but there’s some really tasty pieces here. Fuck. I’m baking… how can you still be wearing your jacket? It’s boiling!”
Mhic’s deliberately retro ‘Mod’ suit was pleasantly lightweight and his synthetic, white, button-down collared shirt was allowing his skin to breathe as well as provide a nice contrast to the dust blue attire he had chosen. He shrugged and smiled back to his friend.
“Guess I’m just not a sweaty bastard like you!”
Sto gave him the finger and suddenly slithered as far into the little booth as he could.
Mhic was puzzled and looked round about them without seeing any clear cause for alarm, but he said nothing.
Finally his spectacled friend hesitantly moved back to a normal stance and faced the inquisitive look that demanded a response.
“I saw Coco earlier and then she just came out the loos there – she’s the last thing I want to get saddled with tonight! I need fresh meat!” Sto hissed and then drained his glass as Mhic looked blankly and leaned forward to be further enlightened.
Sto tutted and made a little head shaking gesture. “Coco? Remember, last year, Caroline, Coco? The fucking coconut, mental girl, give me babies - all that?”
“You expect me to remember all your ex’s? Sto, it’d be easier to learn the telephone directory… was it the chunky blonde thing that waddled past?”
Sto nodded. “Looks like a few pies too many, serious pork out!”
Mhic chuckled. “Maybe she’s just ‘with child’?”
The other shuddered and nodded to Mhic’s glass as he cautiously rose to get refills.
“Don’t care, so long as it’s not mine and I don’t spend a microsecond with her! Life’s too short. Same again?”
“Why not?” Mhic grinned.

Harris and Rosser were leaning on the little steel fence that sectioned off a seating area, intensely watching Macklin dancing with a tall girl with wavy reddish hair pushed back from her pretty face by a black hair band, a short red ‘A line’ skirt that suited her natural colouring and a flimsy white cheesecloth shirt that revealed her midriff. The voyeuristic pair smiled to one another each time the ultra violet light flashed on and off revealing the girl’s tiny purple and pink print bra beneath her top as the rays cut through the white material like an x-ray. Dave seemed to spend more time focussing on her face than the section the other two watched with a grinning enthusiasm.
The floor was bustling to Sailor’s ‘Girls, Girls, Girls’ as the pair observed the variety of females dancing before them. Unlike the males, the girls had a greater variety of styles and variations from French Pigalle-ette females with their frizzy Biba hair and contemporary peasant like clothes that did little to reveal their shapes but did demonstrate ‘The Good, The Bad and The Ugly’ aspects of their foundation wear under the influence of the ultra violet and when throwing their tiered skirts about them to reveal their little French knickers. It was this illumination which often revealed the changing course of underwear trends manifesting in the growing choice of seamless, flesh coloured bras that provided the illusion of female liberation and the cute, intricate lacy bras that looked like curvy stencils over undulating flesh. Others adopted the Laura Ashley look of flowing skirts and cheesecloth tops and shirts with carefully curled hair and loose waved or corkscrewed perms that only occasionally genuinely suited them. This group contrasted sharply to the disco orientated elegance of the teenage affluent middle classes with their latest chic rage of a rainbow of reflective satins - whether tops, skirts, trousers, jackets or sharply cut and carefully conceived party dresses. Another subsection of this movement were the slightly less well off who purchased the High Street, shiny satinised Polyester knock off styles that were virtually undetectable from the more expensive garments purchased in the chic boutiques in the heart of Glasgow – at least in the dimness of the discos. Some girls still wore contemporary versions of boob tubes, all glittery sequins and shiny fabrics in little Bandeau styles that could be truly eye catching or sometimes stomach churning, tight little shorts that had derived from the early seventies hot pants and Lurex leggings or tights. Jump suits were making a growing impact, some in hard denim but cut to be figure hugging and seductive whilst others were dressed in the new Lycra materials that derived from professional dancers. Other girls were adopting the leopard print styles in contrast to the Lurex and Spandex materials that many disco clothes were composed of. The female fashions were easier to categorise economically than stylistically because there was such an ability to blend or mix and match garments, whereas the product itself told you more about the wearer’s background or orientation than their chosen style. Footwear also varied enormously from platform shoes of varying heights and heel thickness, Platform boots being more popular with the disco crowd than in the real world, to Clogs and Mules, little sandals and flat heeled shoes for the overtly tall and most rare the sophisticats who sought out the timeless Stiletto – any of these could be integrated into any of the styles without too much conflict. Hair, too, seemed to be less controlled by accompanying fashion than it did by personal choice, from the long dead Feather cuts to the contemporarily popular Flick that demanded constant attention, to the rage for perms of all kinds whether long or short, curled, waved or kinked with only the courageous few embracing the cropped style which, for many, merely dissolved what little femininity nature had bestowed. All of it was only fashion, but that was what made the world go round in this arena.
Most of the people at the Disco were normal everyday civilians who came to life after work and lived a little at the weekend. For the most they burned the night away quite happily, oblivious to the depression of work. Their fashions demand that a person should be noticed, be hip, individual even. But in effect it was simply a commodity which, after the initial impact of a new rage, was as common as life and, as such, defeated the purpose of innovation, except to make money for someone and continue the long battle for the street person to be a dedicated follower of fashion. Thus, most people followed the trends of their own peers and adhered to those of the same clique, taking an interest in few others unless truly exceptional. The majority looking at the minority, who were, in turn, ignoring the rest - such was the balance of style.
Harris and Rosser progressively found themselves unable to keep their eyes off the two tall hairdresser girls in spray on silver body stockings and stack boots who spent the night dancing, pawing and exhibitionistically falling in love with each other as if no one else existed, inciting fantasies for prowling studs and similar AC females who were still too shy to publicly acknowledge their private sexuality.
“I want one of them for Christmas, Daddy!” Bill chimed as he tilted his head to better observe the jiggle factor of the dancing twins.
Harris laughed and shook his head, the long fringe falling over his eyes as he did so.
“Think you’d need the snip for them to have much interest in you, old chap.”
“Might be worth it!”
“I hate it when you’re right, Mr. Rosser.”
“I know.”
“Another drink?”
“Yeah, a long tall glass of them!”
Harris chuckled as he wandered off, Rosser was nothing if not single minded.

As the night wore on the crowd became more frantic and enthusiastic as alcohol and abandonment filled their bloodstream, the heat was rising in tandem to the volume of the music making even the banal bandwagonning M.F.S.B.’s ‘T.S.O.P’ sound exciting enough to dance to… but by now most of the clientele would have danced to the sound of a dustbin falling down the stairs. It was getting near time for ‘Vogue’ to play their first set of the night and people were already moving through to the other half of Joanna’s in anticipation. Vogue were popular on the local circuit and most of the disco’s patrons were enthusiastic about them or had at least heard of them before and probably even saw them in other venues like Clouds. Many of the dancers and drinkers had now vacated the main dance floor just enough to make it tolerable once more instead of the human crush it had been for the past couple of hours. Mhic and Harris were standing at the rear bar while their comrades were dancing their hearts out with some unidentified girls they had picked up.
"What?" Harris exclaimed with some surprise. "Michelle's going to be a model? Boing! Where did this eventuality come from?"
Mhic nodded back to him, his voice straining to be heard amidst the confusion of sounds which bounced around the sweat filled cave.
"Apparently some guy, an agent or photographer or something, met them in Nico’s or Maestro's last week and suggested it'd be a good idea. Offering her and, wait for it, Christene, some test shots - if they want them."
"Wow, is it for real?"
"Seems to be, the guy is part of that 'Agency' group that Stevie's father has money in!"
"Stevie works there now, didn't you know?"
"News to me!"
"Junior in Operations or something!"
"Well, it's as close as he was ever going to get to a medical career!"
"Unless he turns out to be a back street abortionist - and he'd probably be not bad at that, at least he knows where he's going down there!"
"I'll have to ask Stevie…"
"What's down there, Mhic?"
"Ha Ha! No, get him to check this shit out!"
"It's only test shots, Sport!"
"Maybe! But needless to say, Michelle thinks she's going to be the next Margeaux Hemingway. The whole thing's ridiculous. I mean it's fiction novel pap!"
"Well, test shots might lead to something - everybody has to start somewhere! Unless you have a rich Daddy with pull. But why cop the attitude? Isn't she good enough in your eyes to be a model?"
"Well, yeah. No… Yeah, she's good enough, but…. I should be pleased for her, but I… shit! Maybe she's got a chance to do something with herself, not like this shower of deadbeats. It might be a great chance for her, for them both! But I'm not pleased."
"Why?"
"You know why, don't you?"
Harris reluctantly nodded the affirmative.

Bill and Dave danced as though they were flea ridden, Bill's eyes rarely leaving the blonde girl's vaccinating breasts as though under some form of spell from them. Dave's partner was a thin, spider like girl with hair that fell to her hips in unpleasant waves, at the first opportunity he left her abandoned in the middle of the floor wondering what had gone wrong. Candi Statton’s ‘Young Hearts Run Free’ was now the soundtrack for Bill and his partner to move to, making Rosser mime lyrics in an artificial adoration of the buxom filly he was temporarily obsessing on. Dave trudged over to Harris and Palmer, retrieving his pint with a dejected look they knew all too well. Somewhere off to their right, Sto was still dancing with the girl he had targeted earlier – throwing himself about in a frenzy of rhythmless movement that made his partner giggle as if it was being done purely for her. The others tried to attract both Sto and Bill to induce them to move through to catch ‘Vogue’ but the pair were the least likely of the crew to be watching anything outside of their partners and had to be physically accosted to head into the club section of Joanna’s.

Next door, the band finally appeared to shouts of praise, little islands of abuse and squeals of excitement from the crushing throng. The stacks of Marshall amps and cabinets stood erect and proud, reflecting a mass of splintered light of every colour as they took to the stage and eased into their first number – a slightly funky and harder edged version of the Glitter Band’s ‘Angel Face’. The stage shook with the vibrations of the bass and drums as it punched into the cover with unexpected panache and made the watching audience bop about from foot to foot as they were quickly seduced.
The five piece were well practised and tight, they may not have been everyone’s top choice for the NME’s poll winners but they were good at what they did. Two guitars, drums, bass and a lead singer who was burning with ambition and a slightly misplaced belief in his own abilities. They wore tight satin trousers, little white vests and short denim jackets and all of them had well coiffured hairstyles that were just a little too long to be as hip as they hoped. The front man was putting his heart into the number, almost like a ‘knee-tremble-Johnny’ as he began to focus on the prettiest girls in the audience and sang as if only for them. The horde of dancers at the front leapt and jumped around in rough time to the music as ‘Vogue’ attempted to make the entire audience move. They were just over a year old in this line up but had good paying gigs in the best local clubs every weekend and were making waves as a popular dance band if not yet impressing any record companies. The band had filled the breach left by Salvation when they became ‘Slik’ and signed to Bell records, happily removing themselves from the endless hustle of playing hideous covers to dance halls, discos and other toilets throughout Glasgow in pursuit of fame and fortune. The Glasgow band were even on Top of the Pops and being nailed up on thousands of teenies' bedroom walls as pin-ups from issues of ‘Jackie’, ‘Patches’, ‘17’, ‘Mates’, ‘Record Mirror’, ‘Smash Hits’ and other pre pubescent orientated magazines. The five man ‘Vogue’ combo felt it was only a matter of time until their lucky number came up and they could get the hell out of Glasgow – it had recently happened for ‘The Dead End Kids’ so why not them?

The band were covering Bryan Ferry’s last hit, ‘Let’s Stick Together’ with uncanny accuracy as Storey leapt around like a man possessed with no regard to timing or sounds. His partner, Hellen, a rather pretty but vaguely sly looking creature with a sharp nose, large mouth and wild fair hair, was enthralled by the whole situation, her eyes occasionally flickering to see if her comrade was watching her. Her friend, Penny, was of medium height and attractive in the most pedestrian manner, clearly a retiring type of girl in a cumbersome pink dress that buttoned up to the neck, covered her to below the knee and really revealed almost nothing about the underlying form – it was a style which her grandparents would happily have approved of. Her shoulder length curly hair and large, round silver rimmed glasses did little to flatter her pretty face and induced a strange response that seemed to repel all the poseurs and many potential suitors. The girl was more attractive than she allowed herself to be, almost as though endeavouring to make herself as inconspicuous and unappealing as possible.
Harris watched the scene with a margin of disapproval, temporarily losing his concentration dedicated to analysing the performers on stage as he watched the little underdog’s discomfort. The girl caught his look, held it for a moment and then turned away nervously. Somehow there was something very charming about the little ‘plain Jane’ – she was certainly not the usual type he would pay attention to, he tended to go for the flashier girls like the dark haired one directly in front of him who managed to keep bumping into him with a big smile of apology, short skirt, long legs and tight top.
The issue faded for a moment as Dave nudged him to draw his attention to the guitarist’s little toy about to be highlighted during Peter Frampton’s ‘Show Me The Way’. There was only one of these little voice box gadgets in Glasgow, as indicated by Frank Drein at McCormack’s Music in Bath Street, and this guy had obviously made enough cash to swag it… utilising it more than efficiently. Dave and Harris grudgingly acknowledged the lead guitarist’s skill – but it was still someone else’s song!
Harris was wearing tight, black satin, straight-legged trousers with neat little silver zips on the rear pockets, a tight black, cap sleeved T-shirt and a pale blue cheesecloth shirt that was tied at the waist. His black, Italian cut stack heels with side lacing, raised him an inch or so more than nature had allowed and the semi ‘Diamond Dogs’ hairstyle in tandem with his skeletal disposition gave the impression of his being taller than he actually was. He knew he looked cooler than the performers on stage before him and was happy that it didn’t matter to him. When he turned to see Sto pawing his dance partner in phase three of his seduction technique, he saw the plain girl being ignored and looking at him again. Harris smiled broadly and nodded making her flash a brief, nervous smile before turning away to watch the band again.
Vogue were starting to relax and enjoy themselves, losing any early set nerves and really getting Joanna’s moving, hammering out tight renditions of cover versions that predominantly reflected the last six months of mainstream chart hits whilst tending to avoid the growing trend of disco and funk with the exception of their fiery rendition of Wild Cherry’s ‘Play That Funky Music’. The lead guitarist prowled the stage as if he were the night’s singular attraction, his black Fender Stratocaster’s mirrored scratch plate sending flecks of lights sparkling to the back of the hall with each and every movement. Their pretty rock-singer posed and pouted like an indulgent immature schoolboy, a mane of lacquered hair shaking artificially, almost like a hip version of The Rollers Les McKeown – but it worked for them and the girls clearly liked it.
The floor was like a seething jungle filled with strange inhuman things which writhed in a groovy pain as the band hammered on, any hint of musical ineptitude or minor errors being disguised by the ever increasing level of sound and support of the audience.
Rosser had long ago lost any interest and was busy teasing his dance partner and wondering how he could get hold of her flumpies. At the mid point of the set both Dave and Mhic had indicated to Harris that they had reached yawn point and were going out for more booze and probably some more personal despondency since neither of them seemed to have been embracing the evening with the enthusiasm they would usually approach it with.
Standing alone and with folded arms, Harris spent as much time watching the band as he did the long legged girl in front of him, smiling every time she danced back onto him and made her wide eyed apologies. He was almost tempted to dance with her as the band covered Hello’s ‘New York Groove’ but found himself unable to overcome a lifetime of avoiding public shuffling wherever possible, lying in response to the girl’s request by miming a fictitious war wound that made her giggle seductively and wiggle her tight bottom all the more. Harris was having a nice time.
Over to the right Sto was all over his partner like a cheap suit and she was lapping it up, either because she was genuinely enjoying it or because she was more intent on making her demure friend clearly uncomfortable. As Vogue waded through more songs, Harris began to lose interest – he’d seen what he needed. As they launched into Cockney Rebel’s version of ‘Here Comes The Sun’ he drifted over to Sto, watching his blonde partner drink him in as he ignored them both and began chatting to their lonely friend.

By the time Vogue’s first set was finished and people had spilled back into the main dance floor again, Mhic and Dave were sitting in the same seats they had occupied for the past half hour, their faces were long and drawn as though they were going through an illness. Rosser was nowhere to be found, so he was undoubtedly doing the type of thing he was known for… playing bathroom exploration with his latest toy. Sto and his secured 'pick-up', Hellen, chatted and laughed their way through their drinks as lights flickered and sounds screamed hysterically with a hypnotic and regular monotony all set to the impotent backing of Elton John’s ‘Philadelphia Freedom’ and the predominant stench of stale cigarettes mixing with little smoke machines strategically placed around the main floor. Hellen was amazed to see Penny still with Harris, long drinks in hand as they approached the table, her cheeks flushed with annoyance and she immediately quietened.
"Hi!” Harris said to the bodies generally.
Sto’s head rolled in reply, the booze getting to him a little and inducing a slight stupor that didn’t bode well for his driving abilities sometime later. Having been acquainted with Hellen’s information, Storey looked at Penny and drank in all of the disguised body he had earlier ignored.
"So, this is the Daddy’s girl who's rich when she's bored, eh?" he said mockingly.
Harris's eyes cut through him with a flare of irritation. "So this is the Landlord’s daughter who soaks up lounge lushes?" He returned as the morose pair watched proceedings with a piqued interest.
Sto felt a little miffed but took the hint about the looseness of boozed talk and diplomatically shut up, pulling Hellen a little closer.
The girl saw her opportunity to score more points, grinding some incomprehensible axe. "Go on, Penny, why don’t you tell them all about the band - you know all about music, don't you? You play enough of it!" She droned patronisingly. "Her father's a music publisher or producer or something - but he doesn't let her out very often, does he?"
Harris nodded his head sympathetically, she was demonstrating all the unpleasant characteristics he hated.
"How do you pick 'em, Sto? If that was any dumber you'd need pictures to follow her conversation! I hope she’s got some truly magnificent hidden talents because right now you’d be better off with the five finger shuffle!"
Sto looked up with discomfort, almost pleadingly, abject apology behind the lenses and mouth firmly closed.
Unfalteringly, Penny diffused the confrontational situation by responding to Hellen’s request. "I think Vogue are quite good, actually. I mean, it’s obviously mainly covers but they do them very well and people enjoyed it. The second last one they did was their own and it wasn’t bad, quite poppy! I think, musically they're pretty tight – certainly not any worse than some chart bands I’ve watched, but there's no personality, nothing really makes them stand out. You feel as if it’s something you’ve seen before, that’s it’s nothing new - a band needs presence, something to make them really stand out from the crowd… especially if they’re going to chase the ‘Big Time’.”
She sipped at her long drink and watched Harris out the corner of her eye, gently leaning against him as if he wouldn’t notice.
"Too true" Storey agreed.
Harris smiled discretely as he and Penny sat amongst their friends, nodding to the leggy dancing girl from earlier as she passed by, now attached to a smartly dressed guy in his early twenties.
Saturdays were never dull – and you never knew what was on the cards.

The night had slithered on to become the early hours of Sunday, the irritating DJ hammered out disco and funk tunes with an occasional nod to mainstream chart tedium through the high end PA, people danced, drank, scored, flirted, laughed, shouted, cried and partied. The crowd danced and shouted enthusiastically the more booze they consumed, obliviating themselves to forget whatever the reality of their daily lives dictated. Joanna’s was hot, smoke filled and awash with abandoned revellers in a tension free atmosphere. Now and then minor scuffles broke out but the bouncers tended to be swift and harsh at dealing with such trivialities. Most people were just having fun – it was merely another Saturday night of wastage in the big city.

It was well into the early hours and the wasted dancers were now in a frenzied mood – nonsensical screams and shouts escaping from the multitude of perspiring bodies writhing on the dance floor. Fresh air was now more valuable than diamonds as smoke, sweat and boozy smells filled the low roofed hall where something strangely indefinable was now in the air. The sounds of Andrea True Connection’s ‘More More More’ filled the disco, echoing even into the depths of the toilets.
Bill stood back from the white bowl against the wall to avoid getting splashed, his release brought a sigh of pleasure from deep within himself. He mentally shook his head at the thought of all that booze money literally going down the drain. Behind him Harris was preening himself in the mirror, endlessly adjusting his hair with freshly washed fingers. Rosser’s flow continued unabated as he flicked a quick glance at Sto who was rezipping himself.
“Man, this has been a good night! Pulled the little blonde thing and got a bonus with some cute little schemie outside the ladies loo. Total glove puppet mode… God, I hope I got her before she went in!” Rosser chuckled.
Harris glanced over to them. “I’m surprised you couldn’t tell when you finger sniffed afterwards, slut boy!”
“Give me some fucking credit, Harris!”
“I thought I was.” Harris said softly making Sto chuckle as he began washing his hands while Rosser endeavoured to ignore the sarcasm.
"Anyway… the main event was more important. Incredible, really incredible she was. Horny as can be, Catriona's the name and she is a major PT. A good night indeed, maybe a lot better to come – so to speak!”
Storey felt the light of realisation hit him as he looked up from the sink.
"Christ, Catriona, and she's got blonde hair? And big, y’know, like really big?"
"Yeah. Right! Do you know her?"
"I used to and she was tighter than a drum skin!"
"Maybe you don't have the right approach, Sto. Some of us got it and others ain't."
Harris laughed at them, his thoughts springing elsewhere for a second as he smiled wryly at the child like innocence of Penny and the tiny scrap of paper she pushed into his hand before she left. ‘Refreshing!’ He thought to himself as he pulled the door open to exit the dismal blue tiled toilet as the others followed. Abruptly, they stopped on sight of the three youths who appeared to be waiting on them as they opened the heavy door.
One was tall and thin, resplendent in a long coat and longer hair, another was a short, burly type, dressed in a leather studded bomber jacket and the third was of medium height with an ugly looking scar from his left ear to his mouth.
"That's the cunt! I saw him with his hands up Lucy’s skirt!" the short one said harshly pointing to Bill.
"Right. Come on, fuckin’ take him!" Scarface said.
Harris despaired and automatically felt himself tighten up as though he were a clockwork model. He turned as if returning to the toilets, his body pivoting at the hips and his right leg shot itself at Scarface. Harris stiffened as his foot leapt high and smashed into the youth as he ran forward, hitting him square on the chest so hard it drove him back, soundlessly emptied the antagonist’s lungs and knocked Harris himself off balance. Bill moved simultaneously, slipping past the fallen Harris, his hands clenched like ugly clubs swinging viciously into the tallest of them as he bombed out the door, sending Long Coat reeling back into a nearby crowd of hard faced poseurs who immediately set upon the invader, thinking they were being attacked.
The third of the trio steamed into the remaining victim. Storey fell back into the toilets, bouncing off the urinals, writhing badly from a completely unexpected kick in the groin which burned like hot needles. The small youth again leapt at Sto, mouth drawn like a razor slit and boots swinging recklessly.
Outside, Rosser fell back against the wall trying to support himself as someone piled into him in a frenzied urge to escape the ongoing carnage. The immediate vicinity became a tinderbox of activity as bystanders began to punch and kick those who bumped and bustled in or out of the trouble. The music played unabated but faces were beginning to see the commotion and react to it. The nearby bouncers began to rush over, knocking innocent dancers aside in their haste.
Panic flashed through Rosser as he saw the Long Coat come back towards him, the smashed pint glass quivering threateningly. Helplessly, Bill felt unusual waves of fear float through him as the glass swung relentlessly at him, too much booze still running through his system. The huge steward steamed in, pushing a couple of the now aggressive Poseurs aside with impunity and obliviously moving forward as his gaze was focused on his vulnerable side. The burly security man accidentally intercepted the blow meant for Rosser, the glass inadvertently sinking deep into his face in an explosion of blood, blinding him as the splinters lodged in his eyes. A hideous scream escaped his lips, momentarily pausing the action. The long coated figure himself hesitated as he saw the blood spurt wildly from the steward, seeing the hands clawing at the broken face and copious amounts of red liquid spurting onto the black jacket. The moment of hesitation was all that was needed as another steward decked him from behind and jumped on him as he fell face down immediately, the sound of breaking bones crunching quite audibly even above the music.
In the distance Mhic and Dave made a beeline for the melee, making eye contact with the retreating Rosser. Bill frantically gestured for them to bail out, he had seen enough of these brawls to know what was likely to occur… he himself was already promptly backing up in towards the toilets again.
Fights exploded around them like wildfire, instigated by the least jostle or even for no discernible reason, leaving bodies falling to the floor, broken and bleeding. A thin black youth in a cheap suit fell to the floor, eyes rolling in agony, feebly clawing at the broken screwdriver which had been plunged into his scrawny ribs, unable to understand why the people around him were suddenly kicking him unmercifully.
A group of denim clad boot merchants pounded an unidentifiable body to pulp, relentlessly kicking, regardless of the screams of pain or the blood which sprayed everywhere. People began to scatter as a panic began to rip through the drunken dancers like a mini tidal wave that swept everyone into its wake. The air seemed to be on fire with the taste of violence, bounding from ecstatic excitement to senseless savagery. The Stewards pounded at anything in their path, irrespective of guilt or innocence, desperate to get to the source of the trouble and ensure the safety of their own people. Chairs and tables lay smashed and broken, weapons and objects of frustration.
The glass bottle thudded into Scarface's good cheek to the sound of grinding bone, Rosser grinned joyously at the sight and the feel of the sweat on his palms as he finally fell back into the toilet once more.
The whole area was a demented confusion of sound and light as the music continued blasting out making any sound of appeasement impossible to hear. Madness reigned throughout as if someone had pushed a button and sent half the crowd into an orgy of savagery, changing the atmosphere from one of feverish excitement to one of violent insanity. The lunacy lasted only a short length of time, but to some it was an eternity, the scars of which would last forever.
Unseeing, the fat man's boots lashed out again and again like an automaton thudding into the object on the floor which groaned pitifully with each new assault. Someone knifed the fat man and he fell onto his victim, their blood mingling in a symbiotic union of damage. The nearby girl's rapturous and voyeuristic excitement was cut short as the home-made cosh blindly struck her, breaking her nose noisily and sending her into the darkness of unconsciousness.
At the old fire exit, Mhic and Dave battered at the door, having fought their way to an avenue of freedom and adamant that they would not fall victim to some unthinking fool's violence. Rosser was right, there was no sense in trying to aid their friends in that madhouse of violence, the only thing to do was to get out as fast and in as healthy a state as possible, they all knew it! Together they made one more frantic assault on the illegally locked fire exit. Finally the door gave as the jambs splintered, wood ripping asunder as it opened and a host of nails staring up at them accusingly. Cold night air bit and refreshed them as they plunged into the gloom to try and locate the toilets where their friends were trapped.
Now inside the toilet, Bill pressed hard against the door as an unseen enemy struggled for access. Sto’s face rested on the cold wall, relaxing his body to the pain which was gradually fading away, infinitely slowly. He glanced across to the burly youth that had been gleefully kicking into him. Harris had incapacitated the thug by jumping him from behind as he had booted into the fallen Storey, smashing his face into the urinals again and again until he had stopped moving, a large pool of blood seeping out his broken face and leaving a growing puddle of sticky redness.
The onslaught at the door continued and Rosser looked alarmed.
“One of you get over here and help, I can’t keep this shut much longer!”
Harris’s eyes flashed over as he destroyed the windowpanes barring their route, the fractured piece of metal from the paper dispenser in his left hand leaping up and down like a machine. With the metal still in his hand he ran back to Bill and added his weight to the human barricade.
“Move your arse, Sto! Get the fuck out so we can bail… come on, move it!” Harris yelled harshly.
Slowly, with the pain still ripping through his system, Sto clambered up and flopped out the window, dropping into the back alley, he could hear the police sirens in the distance, light years away.
Harris glanced to Bill as the noise and the thumping bodies beyond continued unabated. Their faces echoed the unspoken thought they both shared – how could they both escape and keep the door shut?
“Do you think you can hold it for thirty seconds?” Harris asked breathlessly as Bill nodded in reluctant affirmation.
The thin figure darted away and dragged the bleeding youth across the floor to the door leaving a bloody path behind marking the trail. Harris pushed it into the hinge side, kicking him in the face once more as he began to move again. Rosser almost grinned and nodded to Harris to bail out. The thin youth hesitated, reluctant to leave Bill to have to negotiate the tricky escape alone.
“Beat it!” Rosser demanded, “You’re too fucking skinny to keep any weight on the door. Go, Now!”
Harris belted to the broken window, jumping up and waiting to grab Rosser when he came.
Bill closed his eyes for a second and heaved a silent prayer as he waited for the right moment. Suddenly he ran and the door burst open behind him, figures fell into a crumpled heap as the resistance moved unexpectedly without being able to fully open the door as the bleeding body left behind worked like a human wedge. It gave Bill enough time for a swift departure. Harris pulled the other to freedom and safety as the first body inside began to rise while the two fugitives tumbled eight or ten feet to the ground, sore but intact.

The dampness of their sweat turned cold in the air, foggy breath floating like tell tale signals for scant seconds as they quietly moved swiftly down the dim alleyway. Heads were already peering out the toilet window, shouting angrily but not following – yet. In the distance, lights reflected on the sides of buildings giving just enough of a glow to unmistakably see the other two drifting towards them. Harris waved to them, indicating that they were heading the wrong way. In no time they stood facing one another, breathing heavily and sending out clouds of foggy, heated breath into the night sky.
Silence reigned as they listened to the sirens, music and shouts fill the alley in splintered echoes that gave them little sense of security. Now reunited, the five stood quietly for a few seconds more, listening to the sounds of the carnage which still appeared to be going on. Still, no one had anything to say, they merely shook their heads at one another as the horror slipped away from their souls, smiled and began laughing. As one they began to trot along the alley as swiftly and discretely as possible - the last thing they needed was to be corralled by thugs, bouncers or Ecilops.
Like the mutant riders of apocalypse, they slipped off into the night as they found their bearings. Slinking along behind the King’s theatre to avoid the human obstacles that were probably pouring along Saint Vincent Street, they moved quickly, turning right and then across to North Street, moving up towards Newton Place and the safety of Storey's car. Yellow neon streetlights casting long shadows that streaked into the distance as they disappeared into the darkness to begin their escape back to Danbray.