@BertTrautmann'sParachute
great story, brother.
where did you get your sputnik from? longsight?
when i lived in hulme i frequented the spinner's arms.
it was like being at the fucking theatre.
i used to sit in a corner that offered a good view of the place.
sometimes i'd write/draw in a pocket sketchbook.
i loved socialising at gigs and at the footy,
but i've always enjoyed my own company too,
people watching and stuff.
most folk came and went quickly.
bought a drink, grabbed their eighth and scarpered.
sometimes the moss side old bill would turn up.
the landlady was dead relaxed and rarely let them in.
they'd wait outside and search everyone coming out.
the thick twats were always disappointed,
they never thought to look inside people's mouths, haha.
on the odd occasion they got inside they'd be equally disappointed.
the sellers kept their gains in separate compartments of the till.
the 9bars were hidden down the back of the outer seats.
they'd search people and find nothing.
i liked it on a saturday night
(unless there was a decent gig on in town).
nobody bothered anyone else but everyone was friendly.
one night this woman came in.
i instantly recognised her but no one else seemed to do so.
she sat in the corner adjacent to where i was sitting.
i'm sure i was reading baudelaire,
well, i was pretending to read,
i just kept glancing up and looking at her for about an hour.
she was reading and never once looked up except to light another fag.
it was getting on and i got up to leave.
co-incidentally, a split-second before she did the same thing.
i was first out of the door and held it open for her.
it was snowing heavily.
i walked on but was stopped in my tracks by a german accent.
the conversation went something like this...
her: so, where are you going, readerboy?
me: the psv club.
her: what is that short for?
me: i honestly don't know.
her: what sort music do they play?
me: dancehall reggae.
her: can you smoke joints in there?
me: i think it is obligatory.
she laughed, put her arm through mine
and we wandered over to the psv in the blizzard.
we didn't speak again until we were in the queue.
she asked me what drinks they sold.
i told her there were only 2 options,
the lads drank cans of red stripe,
the lasses drank quarterbottles of 20:20.
once inside, we went to the bar...
she asked for 2 bottles of 20:20, haha, and told me to pay.
you could hardly hear yourself think and the bass was mental.
she wanted to sit down so i took her up the back stairs.
there was a small room up there where dealings occurred.
there was also a small kitchen counter that sold rice and goat.
personally, i'm not all for currying goats but that is by the by.
at no stage did i let on that i knew who she was.
i kept it simple,
where are you from? why are you in manchester? et cetera?
she never let on who she was.
she told me her name was chrissy.
she said she had a poet friend from manchester called john,
but he was stuck in australia or something.
we ended up just talking about music.
i was young and she was considerably older than me,
but she knew a lot of punk and post-punk bands.
she told me about a lot of hippy stuff i didn't know.
after a while she said she felt tired.
we left and i found her a taxi.
i'd planned to spend longer in the club,
but i went home instead and pinched myself.
naturally, for the following weeks i was in the spinners on a saturday night without fail.
she showed up 3 weeks later and went and sat in her corner.
but there was no sign of recognition from her.
i thought, oh no worries and read my book.
about 10pm i got up and went over to her...
me: do you fancy going for a can of red stripe?
her: what took you so long, readerboy?
we wandered over to the psv together.
something we did a few more times that winter.
a couple times she wanted something different,
so i took her to jamaican shebeens in the crescents.
we never kissed or anything.
this was her.
