The Last Days of Disco (4 page)

‘Whit’s the name of yer disco?’ When he’d rehearsed this phone call in his head, all Lizzie’s questions had been about his musical taste, his DJ influences and – most importantly – the price. With the benefit of hindsight, this was an obvious one and he felt a bit stupid that he couldn’t immediately answer her.

‘We’ve just started up … but don’t worry, we’re great. Folk have been phonin’ non-stop lately. Phone’s been ringin’ off the hook, so it has.’ Bobby searched vainly around the room for some inspiration. ‘We’re kinda booked solid for the next month, ken?’ he lied, looking
at the discarded copies of
Playboy
and
Razzle
that lay around his room and then at the VHS tape in his left hand.
Big Juggs Disco
…? Nah, wouldn’t work.
Disco Deep Throat …?
Nope, that would rule out the church gigs.

‘It’s a mixture of parties like yours and …’

‘For God’s sake, ah’m no Eamon fuckin’ Andrews. Ah don’t gie a fuck about yer life story. Just gies the name ae the disco!’

A Rickenbacker riff provided the answer. In just over four years Weller had never let Bobby down and here he was again, just in the nick of time.

‘Aye, sorry. It’s Heatwave. Heatwave Disco.’ Bobby looked at the cover of the
Setting Sons
LP with a mixture of pride and relief. He felt as if he’d just been told he’d passed a polygraph test.

‘Ah’m no payin’ more than £40, an’ ye’ll get it on the night, at the end,’ said Lizzie with a force that firmly established the offer’s take-it-or-leave-it status.

‘OK. That’s grea … eh, fine. Yeah, we’ll see ye on the night then?’

‘Don’t be fuckin’ late or ah’ll be dockin’.’
Click.
There it was again – that monotonous dialling tone. It was in sharp contrast to Lizzie’s vivid accent, but Bobby listened to it – hypnotised by it – for several minutes. When he finally pressed the big button and re-holstered the aerial, he allowed himself to laugh out loud. He was now a DJ.

‘An’ now … comin’ ride atcha, it’s the wan und only Adam and his Ants with “Stan an’ Doliver” …’ Fat Franny was giving them his best lines, but the twins’ twenty-first birthday party was lifeless. No shock to the heart could revive
this
turkey. The Broomhill Hotel was an awkward venue. A narrow winding stair made the journey from car park to dancefloor with heavy speakers one to avoid. The plan of the function area worked against the generation of any atmosphere. The dancefloor was square, but too close to the bar,
where people queued. The DJ had to set up behind a column and adjacent to the door to the toilets, which meant that half of the L-shaped room and a corner of the dancefloor wasn’t even in the DJ’s line of sight. The upper floor of the Broomhill didn’t need a lot of people for it to appear full which, on the evidence of tonight, was just as well. But it was a Tuesday night – the dead zone for mobile DJs – and of the thirty-odd partygoers, more than half looked like a SAGA Tours mini-bus would be returning them to an old folks’ home in about five minutes; just in time for
Late Call
.

A lot of nights were like this. If it wasn’t for the fact that the money was the same, regardless of whether the hall was full or not, Fat Franny would’ve found it all pretty depressing. He often wondered what the main motivation was for people holding a party for
themselves
. A hopeful public display of their popularity? The desire for an event, which – with Kodak’s assistance – they might be able to recount forever? Or simply an opportunity to maximise the
presents
count?

Fat Franny could tell almost instantly into which category people fell. Within half an hour he had Deirdre and Donna Dunlop – the twins for whom this particular celebration was in aid – firmly in the first grouping. Their furtive glances towards the door and the slight drooping of their shoulders as another elderly relative came through it were a dead giveaway. But there was an additional edge evident here. The twins were apparently in a self-esteem struggle with each other, and the result on this particular evening was a dull, dreich, no-score draw with a third of the match still to play.

‘An’ a very highly ‘propriate one for y’all now. It’s Dave Stew-Heart and Barbara Cat-Skin with “It’s My Party” …’ Fat Franny chuckled to himself at this jokey pronunciation before continuing, ‘… and I’ll bloody cry if ah want tae …’ No-one looked up, far less laughed. He faded the music down again and flicked the mic switch. ‘We’ll be cutting the cakes after this wan.’

‘Fuck’s sake, Bert. Get us a pint, will ye?’

Bert Bole had been downstairs in the bar, building up the courage
to come up and tell Fat Franny the bad news. As he stood at the bar watching Pearl Fisher pour the golden liquid into the pint glass, he thought it could maybe wait another day. Fat Franny didn’t seem to be in a good mood, and this damp squib of a party was clearly the principal cause.

‘That’ll be 75p, luv,’ said cheery Pearl, whose surname since she’d married Andy Fisher had required her to be almost constantly upbeat. The number of times she’d had to smile cheerily, as some drunken prick had asked stupid questions about her name badge. Still, it could have been worse. Andy knew a guy who knew a guy called Colin Curtain, and
he’d
married a girl named
Annette.

Bert walked back over to the decks and put the pint down on a three-foot-high Marshall amp. Cliff Richard was singing about exultations and telling everyone that he was in love with her, or him. The assembled well-wishers surrounded the blushing twins, and an impromptu Hogmanay-style, crossover-arm-linking began, giving the whole scene a surreal air. When the circle started rushing in towards the girls, Fat Franny pushed on ‘The Stripper’ by the David Rose Orchestra, just to witness the confused looks on the faces of those on the dancefloor.

Thirty minutes later, and, entirely predictably, the twins’ dad approached the decks.

‘We’re goin’ tae call it a night, big man,’ he said. There were now less than fifteen people in the room, but four of them were being paid to be there and another was Bert Bole.

‘Fair enough pal,’ said Fat Franny. With a bit of luck he’d be home before midnight. An unexpected bonus.

‘Let’s say we call it thirty quid, eh?’ said Mr Dunlop.

‘Whit? Ah don’t fuckin’ think so!’ Fat Franny had had this exact conversation many times before.

‘Come on. We booked ye til one o’clock but yer stoppin’ at eleven.’ Mr Dunlop’s arms were widespread in demonstration of the reason behind his argument.

‘Aye, but ah’m only stoppin’ cos’ you asked me tae. Ah’ll play on
tae one in the morning if ye want me tae.’ Fat Franny had recently read a book on mind games, which had suggested mirroring and matching as a tactic of positive negotiation. Accordingly, his arms were also now opened out with hands facing upwards.

‘Ah’m no sure that’s entirely fair.’ Mr Dunlop now had one hand on his hip and the other was scratching the top of his balding head. Fat Franny knew this looked ridiculous, but since it had been highly recommended to him, he mimicked as the book decreed.

Bert Bole watched this bizarre ritual from the comparative safety of the bar. He observed both men looking like teapots, saluting like Hitler and then – most curiously – both standing on one leg. Whatever it was, Fat Franny looked to have emerged triumphant. The other guy had just slapped money down on a box of records, leaving Fat Franny with that recognisable, thin-lipped smile, which only seemed to happen when he came into contact with money. Bert reconsidered his earlier trepidation and decided that having just been paid was as good as it was going to get to let Fat Franny know he had been usurped.

‘So whit did Gary end up gettin’ ye?’ said Joey Miller.

‘Eh? Ach, bugger all,’ replied Bobby. ‘Cunt got me a magnifying glass an’ a satsuma. He told me to look through the glass. When ah did, he says, “
Look, ah got ye a Space Hopper”
.’

Joey laughed and folded his arms. ‘Aye, ah’ve got a family like that as well. For ma sixteenth, ma dad got me “Hide and Seek”
.
’

Joey was sitting on a three-foot-high, red-facing-brick wall. It had been around twenty minutes since his best friend had started speaking, and he’d taken advantage of the first available pause in Bobby’s pitch to try and change the subject. Bobby’s constant pacing back and forth had almost created a curved groove in the black tarmac in front of him. They had been friends for more than
five years and this current scenario was a familiar one: Joseph Miller, the logical ponderous
Hutch
to Robert Cassidy’s hyperactive and relentlessly optimistic
Starsky
. But it was a good combination. Bobby was the ‘ideas’ man and Joey the pragmatist, the one who was left with the task of turning Bobby’s various dreams into some form of reality. A sort of Butch Cassidy and … Jeeves!

There had been the money-making scam from a year ago that had almost resulted in a school expulsion for the pair of them. Bobby had envisaged an alternative tuck-shop where crisps and chocolate could be sold at a discounted rate. Joey had access to the goods through his part-time shelf-stacking job at the local Safeway. It operated successfully for three weeks before various interfering prefects detected a strange downturn in the revenue from the school’s four official outlets. Another piece of entrepreneurial hustling had the fifteen-year-old Joey searching for a ten-foot ladder as a key part of the new Cassidy & Miller window-cleaning company. Having established a client list and a local rota, which would bring in £23.50 a week, Bobby established the rules of engagement. They would work solidly through the glorious summer of 1980, pay off mental Mogga McManus for getting the ladder
and
nobbling main competitor, Tam Cooper’s van, and then save their cash for a week on Arran in September. Bobby’s latent vertigo meant Joey being constantly lodged at the stupid end of the ladder, from where he fell five days into the venture, breaking an arm and killing the dream in the process.

But on this miserably wet February morning, Bobby seemed to have a far greater sense of purpose than before. He had barely come up for air in the rollercoaster tale about an eighteenth birthday party, the Sandriane Bar, Paul Weller and mobile discos, Lizzie King and, most significantly of all, Fat Franny Duncan. It had been a promising venture up until
his
name had been associated with it. Joey Miller knew all about Fat Franny. Both he and the Fatman lived in Onthank on the other side of town. Onthank was Fat Franny’s personal
fiefdom
. The repetitious sprawl of semi-detached, two-storey
grey boxes grouped in actual – and metaphorical – cul-de-sacs was where he earned a living. There wouldn’t be many who would testify to the fact, but Joey was convinced that drug-dealing and money-lending would be as much a part of Fat Franny’s empire as the ice-cream vans and this new mobile-DJ scam about which Bobby was currently so energised.

‘Don’t worry about Fat Franny,’ said Bobby, right after Joey had said he was worried about
anything
that involved Fat Franny. ‘We’re only hiring the gear off him,’ reasoned Bobby. ‘It’ll be just for one night.’

Joey’s expression hadn’t changed since the start of the story, but secretly he was just as enthusiastic about its infinite potential as his friend. Joey really loved music; in fact, probably more than Bobby did. Joey immediately pictured himself running Mod nights at the Henderson Church Hall; The Jam, Secret Affair, The Who – all blasting out at such volume it could be heard at the Cross. Fat Franny Duncan, though. That was a major spanner.

‘He’s a fuckin’ mental case, Boab. Is there naebody else tae get gear from? Like a band or something?’

‘Listen, it’ll be a’right. One night. In and out. Nae need to go back tae him once we’re up and runnin’,’ reasoned Bobby, in trademark bottle-half-full mode. ‘Ah must’ve been speakin’ tae somebody that kent him, that night of ma birthday. Ah got hame and his fuckin’ hoose phone number was written on ma foot.’

‘Lemme go an’ speak tae Jeff McGarry,’ said Joey, using his frozen hands to lever himself off the wall. ‘Ah’m sure he kens a guy that gets lights and stuff for heavy-metal bands. They both work out at a farm near Hurlford.’

Bobby looked puzzled. ‘Izzat no that cunt that’s got the thing aboot cows’? Did he no get put away fur it anaw?’

‘Aye, but he’s a decent lad, Jeff. Get ye whatever ye want for nae mair than twenty quid. You name it, he’ll get ye it. A toaster, a fridge, second-hand motor …!’

‘Whit, aw for twenty quid?’ asked a disbelieving Bobby.

‘Naw, twenty quid’s his mark-up,’ replied Joey.

‘So if his mate at the farm … y’know, Bon Scott’s roadie … can get us the gear, we’re payin’ Jeff twenty quid jist for the introduction …? Fuckin’ hell, Joe, she’s only payin’
us
forty!’

‘But like ye said, once we’re up and runnin’ we’ll be away … and this way, we’ll still have the use ae wur legs if anythin’ goes wrong.’

Bobby had to contend that, with this last point, Joey made a compelling case. So they agreed to follow the recommendation of a convicted cattle fetishist and made the call to Hairy Doug, the nomadic biker and Grateful Dead fan, and – according to Jeff McGarry at any rate – owner of the biggest cock in Scotland.

3

LAUREL & HARDY MEET THE HAIRY GUY

‘Ye know the only downside tae spending time in here? Listenin’ tae
this
shite every day.’ Joey stretched his legs out until his body lay flat across three of the softer sixth-year common-room seats.

‘Get up an’ switch it off then,’ said Bobby.

‘These stories must be aw made up. That fuckin’ depressin’ theme; a tragic story … “We fell in love, then I had to have my leg cut off, then we were separated by a ragin’ storm and never saw each other again” … Whit a loada fuckin’ horse manure. And then ye find out that their
tune
is fuckin’ “Lady In Red”.’ Even lying down, Joey was capable of a level of animated exasperation that Bobby found impressive.

‘When Heatwave gets goin’, ther’ll be nae
middle-o-the-road
pish gettin’ played. That’s got tae be rule number one.’ Joey folded his arms.

Bobby laughed. Since Joey had embraced the dream and put the spectre of Fat Franny Duncan to the back of his mind, there had been around twenty-three ‘rule number ones’.

‘Right. Got it,’ said Bobby. ‘Nae
Christy Burgh
. Nae
Goombay
Dance Band.
Nae
Flocks o’ Fuckin’ Seagulls.
’ Bobby sighed. He feigned irritation, but he secretly loved these exchanges with his best friend.

‘Did yer man Jeff say the biker guy would be there all afternoon? Mibbe ah should go tae economics today.’ Bobby looked up at the monochrome clock above the double doors into the common room. It recorded the time as 10:32 p.m. – just as it had for every minute of the last thirty-six days. ‘Whit time is it? Dunno why ma dad can’t get that bloody thing fixed.’ Neither of them wore a watch and therefore relied on the numerous clocks, which were located at department boundaries all around the James Hamilton Academy.

‘Dunno. Half-eleven, mibbe,’ said Joey, eyes now closed and giving the impression that only an earthquake with a north-east Kilmarnock postcode as its epicentre would move him.

‘Right. Ah’m goin’ tae auld Fowler’s class at ten to twelve an’ then we’ll fuck off tae the farm after dinnertime, eh?’ Bobby really didn’t want to go and listen to Kondratieff’s cyclical theories of economic expansion, stagnation and recession. Although he broadly understood it, and could appreciate why an economist might find it important, it said nothing to him about his own current interest: The
Black
Economy.

Bobby actually quite liked school – or rather the freedom its flexible sixth-year structure afforded him. He had to be careful, though. Having a parent working in the same building wasn’t ideal. But he had accumulated a decent level of ‘O’ grades and Highers in the two previous years and – as with Joey – this allowed him the comparative freedom of coasting through his final year on the assumption that he would progress on to university. For this to happen, though, Bobby needed a pass in the subject that had become his tormentor.

Joey had no intention of going to university. His dad worked for British Rail in Glasgow and felt that it was a man’s duty to leave school as soon as possible and earn, in order to help pay his keep at home. Joey’s dad left school at fourteen and proudly belonged to an era that considered
that
to be more than enough education for the essential tasks in life: enough reading to be able to laugh along to John Junor’s rancid, bullying
‘
Angry from Auchtermuchty’ columns
about ‘poofters’; enough writing to be able to fill in the betting slips at the bookies; and, enough arithmetic to instantaneously add up the exact accumulator payouts. Some – but not all – of that ethos had rubbed off on his son.

Joey actually
was
asleep by the time Hamish May came into the common room at twenty-five past twelve. Hamish came in with two others and, on seeing Joey, quickly put a forefinger to his mouth. The ‘shushing’ was to remove background noise to allow him to deliver his trademark farting-in-someone’s-face routine. Hamish May’s farts were the stuff of legend. It wasn’t clear exactly what his daily diet was. but when he recently ate two tins of catfood to win a £1 bet in this very common room, it was apparent to all present that there wasn’t much at which Hamish turned up his nose. In fact, the environment still stank of that very event because one girl – who hadn’t been party to what was going on – caught sight of the big man polishing off the cat food and promptly brought up a few Meaty Chunks of her own.

‘Shoudnae be sleepin’ at the school anyway,’ reasoned Hamish, in justification of a punishment dealt out to a wayward pupil by a prefect. Yes, Hamish May was a sixth-year prefect and, more incredibly, given his involvement in a number of Bobby Cassidy’s money-making schemes, he was Deputy Head Boy.

‘Fuck off, you,’ gasped Joey, once he had finally stopped gagging. ‘Help me open aw the windaes. Jesus Christ, mate. Whit the fuck have you been eatin?’

‘At break earlier, ah had fourteen boiled eggs. Ah won three quid ower behind the gym block. Boaby Kerr said that bit in that Paul Newman film couldnae be done,’ said Hamish, proudly.

‘An’ he’d have been right as well then. Paul Newman ate about fifty,’ said Joey.

‘Boaby Kerr’s a prick though. Made a bet without havin’ seen the film. He thought it was
fifteen,
no fifty … and when he wisnae lookin’ ah drapped one intae ma bag.’

‘Just like the one ye drapped in here?’ said Joey.

‘That was a fuckin belter, eh?’ The two others who had come in with Hamish laughed their approval.

‘So whit ye up tae later then?’ said Hamish. He sat down next to Joey and pulled out a ten-pack of Embassy Regal, from which two were already absent. He turned the pack upside down and two sticks fell onto his palm. Hamish put both in his mouth and lit them before handing one to Joey. Joey didn’t smoke much, but he rarely refused a cigarette when offered.

‘Me an’ Boab are headin’ out tae a farm near Hurlford. He’s got this plan tae start up a mobile disco, an’ auld Harry’s gied him some cash tae buy lights and stuff.’

Joey drew deeply on the cigarette anticipating a barrage of questions about this new information. There was none, though. Hamish blew smoke rings – a skill Joey had never mastered – and then stood up briskly.

‘Fair enough’ he said. ‘The two o’ ye buggerin’ off for the day then?’

‘Aye. Ah’m no comin’ back
here
later,’ said Joey.

‘Ah’ll turn a blind eye then,’ said Hamish, pointing to the yellow badge on his dark-blue blazer. ‘Ah’ll see ye later. Ah’ve got dinner duty so ah need tae go.’

‘Aye, Hammy. See ye.’ Joey felt he’d got off lightly from this encounter. He felt sure Hamish would have been wondering what
his
place in Bobby’s plans might have been. Joey was also fairly certain that Hamish would have been a bit hurt that he hadn’t been included. Although Hamish had always understood the almost telepathic synergy between Joey and Bobby, he did feel that the three of them were pretty close. But he was always a bit of a maverick, and his status within the school was only one of a number of complex contradictions in his life.

Hamish’s mum was a cleaner who worked part-time for some of the large house-owners down the expensive end of London Road. His dad was employed within the United Kingdom’s impregnable diplomatic service and spent much of his time overseas in exotic
places like Tangier, Marrakech and Tripoli. It was always a bit of an event when Hamish’s dad was back in town, and both Bobby and Joey had a great liking for Stan May. His eccentricity – and the bizarre stories he told about these strange places – was exhilarating. It was easy to see where Hamish got his independent spirit.

For a working-class Ayrshire family, the May children had unique and unusual names. As well as Hamish, there was Dolly, Glendale, Winston, Elliot, Donovan, Aretha and Tess. Bobby and Joey both loved re-telling the story of the time Hamish’s dad came home after six months away in 1978. Hamish had made it known to everyone who would listen that his dad had made a fantastic deal in getting a new car and he’d be driving it back up from Portsmouth. Stan had been decidedly vague about the make, but Hamish reckoned it might have been one of the new MKIII Capris – a highly impractical selection, as there were eleven members of the immediate May family, including a live-in granny.

Eventually, during one long afternoon in early June ’78, Stan May drove up to 46 Ellis Avenue in a new-
ish
–
but highly distinctive – vehicle to be greeted by around thirty people who had been waiting in the front garden for almost an hour. No-one was sure what type of car it actually was, but a next-door neighbour asked if Stan had bought it from the Ant Hill Mob, drawing a collective ‘Aaahhhh …’ as if to say ‘
That’s
where I’ve seen it before.’

It was an El Camino station wagon of sorts, and it was certainly distinctive. The car looked like it should have been taking a barefoot fourteen-year-old Ohio bride and her toothless cousin to the place where their union would be confirmed.

Bobby nudged Joey. ‘Jesus fuck, Joey. Look at the state o’ that motor.’

The wooden-panelled side door opened and Hamish’s dad slid out. He had a triumphant look on his face.

‘Never mind the motor, get a swatch at the
threads
! Ah widnae get
cremated
in that!’ smirked Joey.

Stan looked as striking as the car, with a beige zoot suit and a
massive brown kipper tie complementing the vehicle’s earthy colour palette. The entire May family – and one of their dogs – fit easily into the three rows of seats and, with the windows rolled down to allow mass waving, they set off up the hill. Predictably, they didn’t get far. Unknown to its passengers, the car’s journey from the south of England had been a largely subservient one, having been towed for more than half of its route. Perhaps thirty yards and a bang from the exhaust signalled the end of the adventure, and happy smiling faces turned first to concern and then to dismay as the car’s large antiquated wheels rolled backwards.

Joey smiled yet again at the memory of that afternoon as he walked the short distance down Ellis Avenue towards Bobby’s house at Almond Avenue. From there, they’d walk to the bus station for the journey to their destiny.

‘Dunno why ah bother readin’ these fuckin’ papers,’ said Joey. ‘Nae cunt’s got a job an’ yet the main story’s about fuckin’ Booga Benson an’ Tucker Jenkins.’

‘Heatwave’s a good name though, intit?’ Bobby was distracted and more than a bit nervous.

‘There’s nae way the Tories are gonnae get back in after this. Nae cunt our age has got any chance of workin’. Everybody’s either on the broo, or on wan ae these useless fuckin’ YOP schemes.’ Joey was aware that Bobby wasn’t really listening. He was away in another world; a world of shiny lights and massive glitter balls.

‘Ah think we should get off here,’ said Bobby. There was no bus stop in sight but Joey got up and followed him to the front of the bus.

‘Can ye let us off here, driver? We’re goin’ tae Crosshands Farm an’ ah think it’s roon about here.’

The driver pulled over to one side and opened the door, letting in the bitingly cold air.

‘Cheers, mate,’ said Bobby, as Joey shivered behind him.

Although not entirely certain that it was the correct road, the two friends began the walk up the single-track hill in the hope that a farm would be at the other end of it. It was freezing and a shower had just started to drive into their faces.
This had better be worth it,
thought Joey. He pulled the hood of his fish-tailed parka up as a defence. Bobby hadn’t had the same foresight and had to make do with zipping up his beige Harrington as far as the zip would go. As they tramped on, the beige got rapidly darker.

‘Remember in
Sons of the Desert,
when the two ae them are strugglin’ tae walk up that sand dune? That’s whit this is like.’ Bobby knew this would lighten Joey’s mood. They were both fans of Laurel and Hardy and often compared something they were doing to a scene from one of the old films. In these analogies, Bobby was always Ollie the organiser, and Joey was always the clumsy, child-like Stan.

The rain was coming down in angular sheets and Bobby was extremely relieved to see the sign for Crosshands Farm at a junction in the road, just over the brow of the hill. Less pleasing was the figure ‘2’, written in smaller type next to the words.

‘Two fuckin’ miles!’ shouted Joey. ‘We’ve already walked about
three
in the pishin’ rain!’

‘
You
were the one that got the directions fae that McGarry boy.’

Joey had to reluctantly concede that ‘a big ferm near tae Hurlford’ wasn’t the most precise of Ordnance Survey coordinates. At least the remainder of the journey was basically downhill. It was endured in silence, though. Bobby’s anxiety grew as he rehearsed the negotiations with Hairy Doug, the sound-and-light man. Joey was simply dreaming of getting home and into a hot bath.

They approached the rustic collection of sheds and outhouses that surrounded the original farmhouse. The driving rain had abated slightly.