And the screaming! Screaming at such forced intensity, so loud, it hurt my chest. Perhaps all the time that I was running with my chest rasping with the effort I'd been screaming. I was thankful nobody was in the room to witness my terrors. A few minutes later I'd calmed down after realising I was back in my cancer filled real life. One thing I decided in those few minutes was I never wanted to ever experience anything like that again, though something about those incredible sensations were beginning to haunt me.
The full crystal clarity of the dream was beguiling, it had been very frightening, something to be wary of. Within an hour of waking I knew that I wanted more of this experience. Not the vicious experience of the cancer demons ripping at and consuming my body, I wanted more of the intense power of life this wondrous reality had given me. It was an addictive opiate, one experience and somewhere inside a craving for more was secretly growing. At that moment I was not strong enough to survive the terrors another visit might bring.
Fear was building inside me because I would tire through the day and tonight I would have to sleep. The knowledge that I could be in the same disgusting alleyway again was a terrifying prospect. The secret addiction had started its insidious creeping into my psyche. With my weakened broken body, the power I'd felt during the dream was irresistible. Already after a few short hours the pain was becoming a forgotten mist, and trapped in my ravaged body what I wanted now was more experiences of vital strength and sublime sensation.
Would I ever have another dream like this? Whilst I had cancer I feared this could be the first of many cancer demon-filled experiences. Could I stay awake for several months until I was cured or dead? No, impossible. I would have to face the demons regardless⦠I had discovered something special, but what? Was I to repeat that desperate flight over and over?
Moments later I was asleep once moreâ¦
Mushbies were killed by the onset of the nerds! Let me explain. Mushbies existed long before the nerd, but are essentially the same weird creature. Mushbies are socially ostracised misfits, strange people who dwell on the arcane, the minutiae of detail, who live in another world of numbers and strange facts. They are nerds before the invention of the home computer.
The modern nerd exists and prospers because computers exist and prosper. The nerd is the tool that breathes life into modern technology. Before this dedicated lunacy they had no part in society. They were outcasts in every way, dreading every single boring day at school, and continuing beyond the classroom to become outcasts in so-called “normal” society.
They developed through the years into a group of twenty-something men who could not place themselves socially, continuing to live with their unfortunate mothers. The uniform was greasy hair and always ill-fitting, charity shop clothes, or at least the look was ill-fitting and second-hand. In the age before the modern electronic revolution, society had no place to put these people. The consequence of this was a job well below their academic ability. You know the guy, a school janitor who reads Sartre in the original French, or devours complex works in Latin and can multiply six-figure numbers in his head. This man only seemed to communicate with the strange kids, or were they the smart ones?
In 1971 mushbies hovered in corners in pubs, and in dark alcoves near the bar in nightclubs. Women could never be attained, it was not possible to drink enough courage beer to be able to walk and talk. By the time you had the courage you didn't have the legs. The worst thing about the mushbie was the choice of record on the jukebox. It couldn't be a bit of Rod Stewart or the Rolling Stones. No, it had to be Ray Stevens or Dawn. What was wrong with a bit of Redbone or The Doors? This was a vital clue. If you went into a pub and something totally shit was playing on the jukebox then be afraid. If this was followed by something equally bad you knew somewhere at a quiet table in a corner would be an infestation of mushbies.
Bob Wilson, my best friend, the one who looked like ersatz George Best, he was a mushbie!
He openly loathed all mushbies. The problem for Bob was apart from looking like an internationally famous sex symbol, he was, through and through in his manner and choice of music, a mushbie. In his defence he was never going to be the entire mushbie. He wasn't that smart. He had all the attributes, only hampered by good looks and a normal IQ. The secret side of me, the side you couldn't see staring at a reflection in the mirror, might also have hints of the godforsaken mushbie. But at least I was going to put Curved Hair or Carole King on the jukebox. Was Tapestry a good choice or verging towards forbidden territory?
Bob was waiting for me at the bus stop. He lived in a new estate on the edge of town. This was slightly strange as Bob's house was on the far side of the town. He'd taken a bus through the town centre and out to where I lived to meet me. He wanted reassurance as well as a large dose of joint Dutch courage. It was only a mile ride to the heart of the disheartening metropolis that was our small industrial town. This bus ride took me away from a stinking farm into a grubby odorous town centre. The economy of this so-called centre existed solely of travel agents, charity shops, estate agents, banks and pubs. Most of these were pretty dire, others were far worse. The pubs that is, not the banks, they started their downward path in the eighties.
The Cauldron was the place to be if you were young and out on the town, other than that it was not a town full of interesting nightspots. The only reason it was the centre of attention for the town's youth rested squarely on the shoulders of the very stout landlord, Billy. His eyesight must have been appalling and his business brain keyed in to the disposable income of the underage punter. Billy Jones was somewhere beyond his sixties and, according to him, even policemen look like sixteen-year-olds. A good excuse.
It was no surprise to anybody then that everybody in the pub looked old enough to be a policeman, therefore old enough to be served. This boosted Billy's economy no end, a respectable adult would never be seen dead in such grubby, loud dive. I think if you pushed a pram in there with a pound note pinned to the blanket the baby would get a drink. What made you a customer was money. There was one golden rule â no credit!
We were dressed in the gear and we thought we were cool. Other teenagers seeing us with the latest gear on probably thought we were cool too, but to anybody else we no doubt looked like a pair of fashion victims. Obvious seventeen-year-olds in killer clothes, killer perfume, we were the unstoppable force in the game of love.
The Cauldron in all its glory of peeling paint and mouldy brickwork was built in the early post-war period, constructed during a time when every estate needed a massive pub. I don't know if this time ever existed or the breweries thought it might come with future prosperity. The television killed going out and most of the big pubs. The upshot was every town in England seems to possess several of these massive crumbling pubs, usually at prime spots on the corner of busy crossroads.
These were eyesores, and The Cauldron was no exception. You've all been there at some time, a smoke-filled, yellow-walled games room. At the better end some even possessed a snooker room with its darkness only broken by shafts of smoke-filled light illuminating the baize. Then the usual bar with lounge bar and, for the appreciative of smoke-filled quiet, the snug. The Cauldron always had a pervading smell of stale cigarettes and stale beer topped off with a distinct whiff of old heating oil. The carpets once possessed some dark red floral pattern, now they were almost shiny black everywhere that mattered. Of course to the hardened customer the only thing they were there for was the beer. The fact that the beer was good and cheap made the place a winner. For the underage teenager the bonus was Billy became blind!
I walked up to Bob who was shuffling and fidgeting in his usual display of nervous tension. He was casting dancing shadows like a bizarre marionette shadow act under the street light at the bus stop. My stomach was doing its own dancing act, but at least I kept it on the inside unless, of course, I vomited.
“How's it going, Bob?” I said.
“Not bad, Pete, not bad, Pete. You loaded?” This was Bob's opener.
“Loaded? What's that supposed to mean?” I said.
“You know, johnnys (condoms), and cash for booze,” he replied.
“I got money, no johnnies,” I said.
“No johnnies! What you going to do if we score?”
“They sell them in a machine in the pub toilet,” I said. I was acting cool
,
acting. Inside I was a ball of nerves.
I'd practised with a condom but never put one on in front of a woman. I imagined a woman pulling it down my erect penis, helping me with it. Jesus Christ that was an even scarier thought! I would become so nervous the whole thing could end in soft disaster. The more I thought about the mechanics of sex and some woman staring at my teenage body the more terrifying the experience ahead of me became. I couldn't imagine any form of success with all this tension. What I needed now was beer, lots of beer!
The conversation carried on like this all the way to the pub. Bob wanted to tick all the boxes and cross all the Ts before we got a sniff. He was nervous as hell, because this could be the magic night we both lose it. The more Bob banged on about different aspects of it the more my stomach started to react against me. It wanted to run and vomit. I wanted to be cool. No way was I going to vomit and no way was I as calm as I pretended to be.
I was playing it cool for Bob. I was playing a game of bullshit poker with my friend because he was breaking down into a display of open nervousness. If I went to pieces Bob would just drink nine pints then spend the rest of the evening throwing up in some alleyway. I would get no support, nobody to back me up. Next day he would blame me for spoiling it.
As we entered the brightly lit bar the jukebox was belting out âRose Garden'. I instantly knew that the bar full of odour and the crush of young bodies had been invaded by the mushbie. As we pushed through the crush towards the bar we ran smack bang into Lenny the Helmet. He was a character.
“Hello, tossers!” was Lenny's greeting.
“Alright, Lenny, you prize wanker?” was our stock response to this standard greeting. If we had said these words with malice it would have been something quite different. Lenny was a bit of a hardcase. Mates were mates, and if you weren't a mate then you were an enemy. Lenny was very black and white on most things.
Lenny the Helmet did not carry this title because he was a big, shambling, long-haired, greasy git who always walked around with a crash helmet under his arm. No, Lenny had the Helmet nickname because he possessed a very big penis, and at the slightest provocation would demonstrate its size, never failing to point out how splendid it was at the business end. It only took about four pints for Lenny to get into his amazing demonstration mode. This actually worked with some girls, to our surprise, and had us at times dumbfounded. Lenny was a special case. He was a man for whom the rules were made to be broken.
Etiquette
was a strange French word that didn't exist in the world of Lenny. The only person who understood how very special Lenny was, of course, was Lenny.
He also had something we did not â money. Lots of money, and nobody we ever met knew where he worked or what he did. Somewhere disgusting like the abattoir would be where Lenny worked, you could tell this by his demeanour. An animal crudeness and everything about him spoke of filth and violence. Many rumours abounded that Lenny was the man to see if you wanted LSD; the very powerful hallucinogenic drug taken by weirdos and hippies. I would never be interested in anything so tainted, so mind destroying! Lenny never told us what he did. He was a monster and we were frightened children playing men. We didn't dare ask.
“Smiggy tells me you're going to break your cherry (lose your virginity) tonight with some sluts at a small party. Is that right?” Lenny asked.
We were about to reply when the man himself, Smiggy, weaselled his way through the crowd towards us. Small and spidery he wound his oily way between the crowds in the bar. If you watched him closely he always said “Excuse me” to all the men he forced his way between, all the while rubbing himself as hard as possible against the girls. If a girl was wearing a short skirt and no tights he would make certain his hand would be trailing down by his side. This would force him to rub it against her thighs at which he would pull a thin, cold smile.
“Hello, tossers!” He was in agreement with Lenny.
“It takes one,” Lenny said.
I was about to say hello to this hideous creature. At this time in my history Smiggy didn't seem so bad, but as the years roll by I can see him in all his awfulness. I was going to say something but Bob jumped in.
“Hey, Smiggy, is the party still on tonight?”
“Of course it is, and you two spotty herberts will probably finally bust your sad cherries!” His reply was through cigarette-stained teeth clenched in a tight rictus smile.
My stomach took a turn at this news. The news that it was ON grabbed my intestines and twisted them. I was in need of a drink to calm my nerves. Downing a drink or three was definitely on the cards, after which, no doubt, I go to the toilet to buy condoms, and at the same time calm my stomach by vomiting. The driving force in my life that night was the sexual lust of a seventeen-year-old tired of playing with himself too much. I was desperate in my illusion that having sex would make me a man, after which I would probably masturbate more remembering the event.
The respect between us all continued unabated, with our conversation in that noisy bar dominated by bad jukebox choices. Benny Hill was playing at one time, and I think I wanted to burn the jukebox. Shooting the mushbie who'd selected H7 would be more productive for mankind. Conversation between the four of us continued along the lines of tosses, wankers and all the other usual robust pub insults.
Banter is the name of the game. That night the real game was macho bullshit bollocks. We were playing this hard, though on the inside we were soft strawberry jellies.
The beer flowed, pints being washed down at a swift rate. The worst feature in that bar was the snail speed you were served at â murderously slow. On Friday night it was double murder. They employed four staff, two of them very attractive cynical university students who possessed no skill with a beer pump. This was the only brake on the amount of beer we could drink. It took longer to get served than to drink a pint. Smiggy wanted all his beer for free. His reasoning being he'd organised the little party we were going to, and for this we should be eternally grateful. This little rat's idea of grateful would be buying him beer for the rest of his miserable life, and I didn't want to buy him beer for the rest of the miserable evening, unless it turned out to be a special night.
We didn't know too much about Smiggy. He wanted to drink enough to forget that he was only nineteen, married and the proud father of one. If his young wife wasn't lying he was about to be the proud father of two. He'd told us that skinny bitch of his was always lying. He didn't know if she was up the duff or not. The other thought he shared about his young wife was she was very hot in bed, always wanting it. This translated in his mind that she was probably shagging the milkman and God knows who else.
With this in mind the greasy little rat was always looking for a bit of outside action. He liked to spread it about. How he managed to get it was more of a mystery than Lenny the Helmet's sexual successes. God knows what Smiggy called action. He would have shagged anything including the milkman. His values were very skewed, but then I don't think our hormone driven values were too noble that night either!
Lenny said he might come along for a laugh, and see if any of the little girls could cope with a real man. We thought all this was bullshit designed to make us nervous, and he was succeeding. What we also thought secretly, and on some level knew, was Lenny knew what to do with a woman. We weren't going to admit this to ourselves but we were clueless, desperate, and, without a doubt, moving into unknown territory. When it came to fantasising about our short-term prospects we wanted to know too much to be cool. Lenny, if he did come along with us, would have intimidated us into a flaccid catatonic daze. We were useless and he would have magnified it!