Nine Foot Tall Read online

  Now it’s time to be a little more artistic.

  I get a Stanley knife and score the card so that it has a hundred tiny squares on it, take out the printing set, a little rubber stamper really, not much cop but does the trick. I opt for the little swallow picture coz it’s very pretty. Ha! Stamp stamp stamp…

  Place folded card into Jiffy bags and, Hey Presto! A hundred “Blue Swallows”, the latest tabs of acid to come from Amsterdam. Ha!

  Do-it-yourself drugs!

  Let’s go meet Barry.

  Like I say, I haven’t seen Barry for over a year; he moved to a little town a couple of hours’ drive away.

  I arrange to meet him at two in the afternoon, outside the train station, lots of people about. If he susses me he won’t make a fuss in public, will he?

  I’ll go in the car with two of my friends, walk over to Barry, who’ll be alone, and do a really sly swap of goods and money by appearing to shake hands and give him a hug. Exchange done, quick retreat back to the car. Drive home. Sorted.

  So, it’s Wednesday. We pull up to the station and there’s Barry leaning on a railing.

  I get out, heart beating like Johnny Bongos, walk over and Fuck!

  He’s got two guys with him, proper fucking meatheads too. Fuck. Think.

  I look really nervous and shifty as I approach him, looking over my shoulder and the like.

  ‘Barry, we’ve gotta be quick.’

  I point to a random car pulling into the station. It’s got three big guys in it and drives to the upper end of the concourse.

  ‘That car has followed us all the way here. I’m sure I’ve seen ’em before. Pigs, man. Quick, let’s do it and get fucked off.’

  Barry and his steroid-busting mates get really nervous now. It’s gonna come on top.

  I give him a hug, swap goods and look around…

  ‘Go on, quick, Barry man. Fuck off into the crowd.’

  They disappear. I run back to the car.

  Screech off.

  Back to Leeds.

  Laughing.

  Eight and a half hundred quid in my pocket.

  Smelling of fucking roses. Ha!

  Chapter Two

  -

  It’s a Far Cry from Monday Night at Tiffany’s

  Stayin’ Alive – Bee Gees, 1977

  Up until the age of around fourteen, I was what could only be described as a geek. A nerd.

  A swot. A spod. A spoff.

  An all boys’ school, an all boys’ Catholic school, believe it or not, brought me right out of my shell. I didn’t just come out of it, I smashed my way out like a baby fucking eagle.

  You see, the fact that there are no girls there can make you go one of two ways. You can either turn gay. No ta. Or you can spend your every waking hour, and most of your sleeping ones, thinking and dreaming and wishing and hoping for the chance to meet some of the fairer sex.

  Absence truly does make the heart grow fonder. I knew that girls were my vocation in life; the only problem was, the only ones I knew were my mam and my sister.

  Something had to change.

  Summer 1981 – Aged 14

  Monday night at Tiff’s, that’s Tiffany’s, the largest nightclub in Leeds. It even had a great big plastic palm tree at the side of the dance floor. It was the night, the place to be. It didn’t matter to us that it was for under-eighteens only. That they didn’t serve beer. We could get our own before we went in. It just didn’t matter.

  You see, Tiff’s was something special – your mates were there, the music, the lights and the girls.

  Yes, the girls.

  Hundreds of them.

  I’d hardly spoken to a girl, let alone kissed one, but Tiff’s was my starter for ten.

  All boys’ school by day. Every fucking day. Tiff’s by night.

  It’s my first night there and I’ve gone with Glenroy and Martin, a couple of mates who knew the score. Glenroy was black with no neck, dressed like Leroy from Fame, and Martin was white and skinny, just like me. Except Martin had a kilt on. Well, it is the ’80s.

  They had been hundreds of times, or so they told me, and they got laid every week, so they told me. But I don’t believe that anyone who wears a kilt is ever gonna get laid.

  I walk in and there’s strobes turning you into robots, and reds and blues and greens, and my head’s spinning already. Soft Cell, Depeche Mode, Human League. Spinning. Nothing to do with the two bottles of cider before we walked in – no, it was the atmosphere.

  There were girls everywhere and, get this, they were coming up to me, coming up to me, The Spod. In their miniskirts and teabag tee-shirts. This, I thought, is for me.

  Dancing, swaying, kissing and fumbling. Just what the Good Lord intended every red-blooded fourteen-year-old to do.

  Then it’s over.

  The trouble with Tiff’s is that it closes at 10pm, with it being under-eighteens and all, so it has to… to make way for the grown-ups. We were grown up, so it wasn’t fair; it finished just when you started to have fun. I’d go home and my head would still be spinning, buzzing, telling my mam about the night, leaving some things out of course – there are certain things that you just don’t tell your mam.

  It became a ritual for us on a Monday. We thought we were the main men. We weren’t, but we thought we were. I was no longer a geek. I was Gaz the Man.

  Bank Holiday Monday – 31st August 1981

  I’m loving life – it’s the summer holidays, it’s hot, no school, and it’s Monday! Tiff’s night. So here’s my plan for tonight: call for Glenroy and then go meet Claire. I’d met Claire at Tiff’s last week and she looked just like Bardot, man. I’d arranged to meet her outside Tiff’s. Yes, I’m loving life.

  First stop, Glenroy’s house. I gave a hard knock on his door and almost instantly the door flung open. It was Glenroy’s mam, a big handsome woman you might say, portly, with a headscarf around her Swede, in a kind of Gone with the Wind style, a real homely looking West Indian lady. She was eating a lime like an apple! Biting through the skin and everything, man.

  ‘Hail, bwoy, wah yuh wa?’

  Now, I’d spoken to Mrs Glenroy, as I called her, lots of times, and I still had no clue what she was on about, man.

  ‘Hello Mrs Glenroy. Is Glenroy coming out please?’

  Mrs Glenroy glared at me wide-eyed, threw her lime in a bin by the door and then, with one hand on her hip and the other on the door frame, turned her head into the house and shouted, nay screamed, upstairs:

  ‘GlenRye, yuh bredrin at di doa. Him wa kno eff yuh come out.’ Then she turned her head back to me, still glaring. ‘Him nah be lang, san. An how many time me tell yuh? Mi name not Mrs GlenRye.’

  At this she made a strange noise as though she were kissing her teeth and waddled back into the house mumbling and cursing under her breath.

  I had a little giggle to myself and then Glenroy appeared in the doorway wearing a red silk robe!

  ‘Alright, Gaz man, what’s happening?’ Glenroy had a Yorkshire accent, not a crazy one like his mam.

  ‘You know what, Glenroy man? I have never understood a fucking word your mam has ever said, mate.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ Glenroy laughed. ‘Don’t worry about her, Gaz man, she’s from Barbados. And she’s depressed beyond tablets. She makes us taste her food before she eats it.’

  I laughed at that statement, puzzling as it was.

  ‘Ha ha, Glenroy man. I don’t even know what that means but you crack me up, pal. Anyway, man, how come you’re not ready? You’re not gonna wear that to Tiff’s, are you, man? C’mon, I’ve gotta meet that Claire bird soon.’

  ‘Nah, Gaz man, I’m not coming.’

  ‘What? Just coz I’m meeting that lass? Aw come on, man, what’s up wi yer?’

  ‘Nah, mate, nowt to do wi’ that bird, man, she’s sweet. I’m just not
coming. It’s shit.’

  ‘Shit? You love it, man, you have a right laugh normally. What’s happened, bud? Has your mam been slashing her arms again?’

  Glenroy tightened the belt on his red silk robe, looked behind him into his house and came out into the garden.

  ‘Ya know what it is, Gaz man? It’s nowt to do with me mam’s arms. I’m not coming coz it’s full of fuckin’ n*****s, man, that’s why, too many for my liking.’

  I gave a nervous little giggle and thought for a second, and then said:

  ‘Ha ha, man, what you talkin’ about? N*****s? You’re a—’

  He cut me off mid-sentence.

  ‘Gaz, don’t you dare call me a n*****, man, just don’t. I’m not a n*****, I’m black. But them cunts who pick on everyone at Tiff’s, they’re n*****s, man.’

  ‘I wasn’t gonna call you that, pal, I hate that word. You know me, man. I’m not a racialist, but I’m not sure I’m with you, man. You mean them that bully everyone at the other side of the club?’

  Now, I knew the lads that he was talking about, you can spot them a mile off, hanging around the geeks and taking their spending money, jumping up and down like fucking baboons at the Space Invader, trying to make some poor spod crash his spaceship so they can bully his last go from him. They could be heard around the place with the unforgettable words: ‘Leeeanne me teeeane peeance.’ Which, in our language, would translate to: ‘Lend me ten pence.’ It was their way of extorting money from you by using the premise that it was only a loan. You’d never get the fucker back. In fact, if you were stupid enough to put your hand in your pocket and pull out more than ten pence, then that was it –Sock! Bam! Bish! Fat lip, black eye, no bastard money left. I fucking hated the thieving bullying bastards. Kept out of their way. They scared me.

  Glenroy continued:

  ‘Yeah, them cunts, man. They give the rest of us black people a bad reputation, man. We’re not all like them, they’re just fucking n*****s. They’ve got a bad fucking attitude. Bad fuckin’ mazzle. It was n*****s that were rioting a couple of weeks ago in Chapeltown, not black people like the papers said. N*****s.’

  Glenroy was right, there had been riots in Chappy a couple of weeks back, it was all over the papers – burning cars and looting and stabbing and shit.

  ‘I just put that down to poverty and socio-economic situations and stuff like that.’

  ‘Nah, fuck that poverty shit, Gaz man, they were just fuckin’ lazy thieving chancers. Look at it this way – I wasn’t there, was I? I’m black. My mam wasn’t there, was she? She’s definitely black. Mr Frankland from school wasn’t there, was he? He’s the blackest man I ever saw. Fat Cheeno and his fat brother weren’t there, was they? Fuck knows what colour they are, man, but they most definitely are not white. Were all the old ladies from St Ophelia’s Baptist Church there? No, none of ’em wa, man. I’ll tell you who wa there – a load of fuckin n*****s making life hard for me in future, making us all look bad. I’m not gonna apologise for them cunts to no-one, man.’

  I was still a little confused by his outburst, but he obviously felt strongly about it so I looked up and said:

  ‘So, you not coming, then?’

  He shook his head and walked back in his house, kissing his teeth like his depressed Barbadian mam.

  So off I toddled to meet Claire, seeing as Glenroy’s not coming coz he’s racist and Martin’s gone to Blackpool with their kid. With his kilt on.

  So, I’m here in Tiff’s, I’ve got my girl, gorgeous, just like Bardot, pink leggings around her ankles, it’s all sweet. I’m looking sharp too – jet black quiff, crisp white shirt with a frilly front, pressed to perfection, the black pantaloons with the tight bottoms tucked into my pointy toed Robin Hood boots, the great smell of Brut. Fantastic. And yes, we are both a little drunk; could be the night you lose your cherry, Gaz. Could be.

  No such fucking luck.

  I’m dancing with my girl, Adam and the Ants screaming their little heads off, and I’m busting for a shite. Can you believe this? A hot date and I need to go for a shite. Can’t hold it, gotta go.

  ‘Claire, I’m just nipping to the bog. Two minutes.’

  Right, I’m off. Sharpish.

  Shitting in a public bog has never been my favourite thing in the world, but if you gotta go, then needs must.

  I walk into the bogs and there’s heaps of guys hanging around, y’know, smoking weed and drinking beer that they sneaked in. Oh, and there are some black guys.

  I’m looking for a cubicle with a door that locks and there isn’t a single one, all broken. Hellfire, Mr Turd is pushing against the gusset of me scrundies now. Fuck it.

  I dive into a cubicle, close the door, drop me trolleys, sit straight down and start to squeeze one out. Bliss. The fact that the door won’t lock and I’m having to lean forward to keep it closed with my hand doesn’t matter. When you’re dying for a crap and it comes out, there is no better fucking feeling. I’m chuckling to myself because I can hear David Bowie and Queen singing Under Pressure from the club.

  Splash! Turd number one has landed – wet all me arse as well with the splash. I don’t care because here comes turd number two, and he is a beauty – squeeze, Gaz, get the fucker out.

  And then, out of nowhere:

  Bang!

  The toilet door slams open and hits me right in the fucking eyebrow, blood gushing, pissing out –always does from your eyebrow, man.

  ‘What the fuck?’I exclaimed in utter shock.

  I can’t believe my fucking eyes. This is unbe-fucking-lievable. I’m taking a dump, the fucker is still halfway out of my arse, and there’s King and fucking Kong in the doorway of my cubicle. Two huge black kids… well, they were huge to me. One of them had a hair lip. Some sort of cleft palate or summat.

  ‘Leeeanne me teeeane peeeeeannce, white bwoouy.’

  Oh no, man, it was the guys from the other side of the club, the bullies.

  ‘You have got to be kiddin’ me. I’m having a fucking shite.’

  ‘Monaaaay now, bwoouy.’

  I’m getting nervous now, these cunts mean business and I’ve still got Charlie Brown hanging from me arse, too thick to nip. Under Pressure still playing in the club.

  ‘Look, fellas, let me finish me crap and I’ll see what I’ve got in me pockets. Okay. One minute.’

  I wave my finger as if to repeat what I just said.

  Humiliation is the worst torture known to man. Forget getting red hot needles in your eyes or razors across the bell of your dick, humiliation is the worst, and guess what, these dudes have got it off to a fine fucking art. Completely ignorant to my plea, they each grab a foot, and Bong! They pull me straight off the toilet and onto the tiled floor, the “wet through with everyone in the fucking club’s piss” floor. This is the most unfunny thing that has ever happened to me. This is not at all nice.

  Not only am I sitting in rivers of piss, but the big, fat, creamy turd that was hanging from my sphincter chopped off on the seat when they pulled me off and smeared right up my back. No, not smeared – the only word to describe it is smathered, yeh, smathered up my nice new white frilly shirt. And I banged me head on the seat, but that wasn’t so bad as it was a crappy plastic one.

  I get a swift kick to the chin from King, a jab in the cheek from Kong, they rifle me pockets, take my cash, what little I already had, and they fuck off. Laughing.

  I manage to stand up, a bit shaken up from the kick and the punch, but fuck that, man, I’m covered in piss, and there is brown, fuckin’, foul, stinking shite all the way up my back, even on my hair, my lovely hair.

  I look in the mirror and I’m a right mess.

  And I stink. Of shit.

  That right there just sucked the fun right out of my childhood, man.

  I limp back out to the dance floor to Claire, still with lots of shite left on me – couldn’t wash it all
off in the toilet – she sees me, smells me, calls me a dirty little bastard and gets sick over me, big fucking chunky sick as well. Then she runs off crying. Leaving me stood staring at the DJ, who must think he’s a funny fucker because he bangs on Don’t You Want Me by Human League. Har bloody har.

  I never saw Claire again as long as I lived. Pity that, she looked like Bardot.

  I’ve no cash, so I have to walk the four miles home.

  Stinking.

  In the rain.

  And the wind.

  Glenroy was right though, man, these guys weren’t black, they were fucking n*****s!

  Summertime 1995 – Aged 28

  I’ve always maintained that “you should beware the little guy”. If you go to a nightclub and the bouncer is only five foot tall and the others are all six foot bruise monsters, then you should watch out for the little fella. He’s there for a reason. He can do some damage.

  I’ve never been big. Sometimes wish I was, but never have been. Oh well.

  But Steve, my mate Steve, my “business” partner, from a distance you’d believe he was nothing. Five foot eight, a very unassuming looking character, like looking at John Hurt.

  Drinks with his pinky stuck out and crosses his legs.

  But if you get up real close and you can see into his eyes, shark’s eyes, then you know, you know he can hurt you.

  Bad.

  They call him “Unsolved Steve”. This name, apparently, is attributed to him because most of the unsolved murders in Leeds are supposedly from his hands.

  A black guy once walked over to him in a pub, real mean-looking bastard, Steve with his legs crossed and all, and said to Steve, ‘Are you a puff?’

  Steve didn’t even flinch at this remark, he knew full well that the guy wanted to cause trouble, and just calmly answered with, ‘No, mate. Are you a n*****?’

  Before anyone even knew what was going on, the black guy was laid on the deck.