8 Oct

In the early 60s there was a lad just got back from Germany. He’d had a job there playing music every night, six or seven hours straight. Rough crowd. Sailors, soldiers, gangsters; all the waiters had a weapon somewhere. Most mornings they had to clean up the blood and broken furniture.

There he was loafing around the house, wearing a couch. His dad got jack of it, told him to go and get a proper job. The kid protests: I’ve got a job. I play the bass. Bullshit! the old man gave him the boot. Out the door and don’t come back ’til ye’ve got a job! So he went to the labour exchange who sent him to Massey and Coggins – a coil-winding factory. He got the job. He showed promise. They thought him management material. Sorted. Well to be honest he wasn’t very good at winding coil but he showed up every day. Nice lad.

One day his no-good mates show up. One of them’s from a broken home, full of attitude. Always almost getting thrown out of art college. Guitars, greased back hair, leather-wearing so-and-so’s, so American. And of course they’re here to get him off this shite job. They got a local gig and gigs are hard to get. Like there’s a future in that. Dreamers these laddies.

Well he’s a good lad and loves his father. “No”, says he, “I’ve got a steady job here and it pays £7 14s a week. They are training me here. That’s pretty good. I can’t expect more.”



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