Brighton in the late 70s and early 80s was the destination of choice for the various youth tribes of the time: Mods, Rockers, Skinheads and Punks. As well as dress code, something well-covered elsewhere, as were the outbreaks of violence between clans, each faction had their own mode of transport: Mods arrived on scooters; Rockers all had very large motorbikes; Punks turned up in vans, someone’s mate’s brother’s car or something; the Skinheads all used trains.
Travelling via public transport meant they could drink more freely than the other subcultures (no one had to be sober enough for the journey down, let alone the return home) but this also created problems for, awaiting their arrival at Brighton station would be the local constabulary, who would immediately corral the Skinheads in cages and then give them a thorough searching. This was principally for concealed weaponry but, more interestingly, someone on the police force also had the bright idea that, given the wearing of ten and even fourteen hole high-top Doc Marten’s boots was de-rigeur among their clan, if you wanted to prevent a Skinhead from being any kind of credible threat, all you had to do was remove their boot laces. This rendered them incapable of moving at any speed greater than a shuffle and consequently very easy either to outrun, or catch up with and apprehend should they be seen engaging in any felonious act.
Given that Skinheads were largely ultra right wing and racist, it became a local sport among anti-fascist groups to congregate outside the station and, just, watch…
As a result of these indignities, the first task of any Skinhead leaving the station was to find new laces. But here another problem emerged: the only stockist of these within waddling distance of the station was the newly opened convenience store a block away, whose owner was of Pakistani origin. He had no problem selling them the laces, but they did have to say please and behave nicely while in his shop. And of course Mr Patel’s stock of laces was never large enough to cater for everyone, so many still found themselves undone, so to speak.
At the time all this was going on, I was working on Brighton seafront in one of my first jobs. Martin, one of the people I worked with had a friend who was something of an entrepreneur. I can’t remember his name, so we shall call him Paul.
Paul was always on the look out for ways he could make money out of situations and this lace-shortage seemed to him to be his big chance to make a killing. The idea was simple: all he needed to do was stand on the promenade with a pair of scissors and a ball of string, offering specially cut lengths at an exorbitant price to any hapless Skinhead who had been unable to purchase laces from Mr Patel. This worked for a while, there is not a lot you can do with unsecured boots and when faced with a crisis most of us are prepared to pay over the odds. The queues formed.
However, what Paul had not figured into the equation was the fact that Skinheads, despite being mistaken in their political views, are not entirely stupid. It only took one of them to realise that now being equipped with functional footwear, plus the moral superiority that comes from having just been fleeced, meant they were now in the position of being able to kick the shit out of this opportunist. A brief fracas ensued which Paul was lucky enough to escape from, but the last Martin heard of him as the police arrived, was his cries of “If I throw you the ball of string will you leave me alone?” emanating from the top of the lamp post he’d managed to shin up in his efforts to escape the angry hoarde.
All this came back to me when I saw that today there was an all-day, 70s Skinhead reunion event at the Volk’s Tavern. Given that the Madeira Café – frequented by many of the local hardcore biker population – is only a few feet from the Volk’s, this seemed an opportunity too good to miss, so, accompanied by E.A. my partner in crime for the day, there I headed.
It turned out to be rather a sedate affair. True, gleaming ox blood polished boots, red braces and turned up jeans or sta-press trousers abounded, but many of those whose heads had once been cropped close out of choice, now sported similar haircuts born of necessity. Some of the very few, younger members (who couldn’t have even been alive in the 70’s) exhibited the air of menace that brought back some of my nastier memories, but for most it seemed just an excuse to hold a pint while discussing this and that with old friends. Some wandered off in search of souvenirs in the local knickknack shops.
Only a few feet away, the bikers spent the day drinking tea and waving, as various friends arrived or departed on machines that, surely, were fashioned in the factories of Satan.
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(With thanks to Simon from down the pub for additional details to complete this story)
Umbrellage 