Skins and Bones

Thank you for Mr John for pointing out that yesterday’s blog entry was the most depressing thing ever written. I concur, I just needed to get it out of my system and now it’s out I can get back the business of writing a more light and jolly blog entry. 

So, dead puppies.  

Ha ha! Only kidding! 

Dogs. 

Yes dogs. 

I love dogs (only platonically mind) and am in my element when one is near. Their kind eyes and long noses are utterly enchanting and they are quite the sweetest and most sociable animals in the natural world. 

However; even I have my limits. Small yappy dogs leave me cold and I hate aggressive big dogs. Even though I’ve not met a dog that couldn’t be pacified with a scratch behind the ear or a tickle on the tummy.

However some dogs exude an air of utter menace. 

A few months ago I was walking between my house and the supermarket near where I live. A chap was out with his dogs, he was a rough looking sort with a shaved head and a bomber jacket. Using my unparalleled powers of deduction I surmised that he was a skin head. Yes I know Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have shit on me.

 Now skin heads don’t really bother me, as a number of years ago there was a movement in the world of ‘we gays’ to claim the look from the thugs. So a group of gay skin heads were formed who were far from racist or evil and engaged in a bit of rough rumpy. Not my scene of course.

Frankly sex is no good to me if I can’t wear a cravat or drink a dry Martini during it.   

This movement led to the most amusing and violent moment I’ve ever witnessed. It happened when I was in London. It was more an accident that I was there at the time, I’d gone down to do a gig which had been cancelled and was at a loose end. The London Pride (not the beer) had been taking place nearby and the streets were flooded with queens of every variety. In an attempt to escape the throng I headed to a pub off Old Compton Street and settled in for a nice drinking session. Within minutes the pub filled with skin heads. Now I became mildly concerned as I was wearing a cravat and drinking a gin and tonic. 

My relief was palpable when one of the guys shouted “Peter get me a dry white wine.” 

To cut a long story short I fell in with them and spent a pleasant time drinking and chatting about bums and beer. Then one of the party suggested we should try another pub, a pub in Saaaaf London which he knew to serve good beer. By this point I was plastered enough to go anywhere. 

FADE TO BLACK 

FADE UP 

So there we were in this rather seedy looking pub, which did some cracking real ale. Result! 

We spent a good three hours in there drinking before my brain gave me the instruction to head home. The other guys seem to have been given the same message by their grey matter so we headed off into the night air.

Me and twenty drunken skin heads, wobbling down the roads of Vauxhall in an attempt to find a bus or tube station which would return us to our beds. 

Then my brain went haywire; for a moment I thought somebody had placed a mirror in the street.  I could see – heading towards us- a very similar looking group of skinheads. There were around ten of them and they looked quite cross about something. 

Then it all went mental, I was pushed to one side and fell onto the pavement. It took be some moments to find my feet as they seemed to have turned into some kind of rubber. On regaining my full height I goggled at the scene in front of me. My drinking companions of only a few moments ago were beating the hell out of  ‘proper’ skinheads. Two of which I could see running down the street. The rest were pinned down and covered in blood. 

Then came the police who bundled everybody (apart from me who was sat on a wall drinking the takeout beer I’d purchased earlier) into a van and off they went. 

So there I was, sitting on a wall in<insert name> with a bottle of continental lager musing on the strangeness of life. I wasn’t alone for long though as the two skin heads that had run away came creeping back. 

“Right mate,” one said to me. 

“Hello,” said I. 

“Those blokes were fucking mental, are you alright,” said the the most ruddy faced of them. 

“Yep” 

“Did the pigs get ‘em” 

“Yep” 

“They were fucking mental,” piped in his companion.

 “Indeed.” 

“Your (sic) not from round here?” 

“No, I’m from Yorkshire.” 

“Yorkshire is fucking great, my Dad’s from Yorkshire.” 

“Really, whereabouts?” 

“Halifax.” 

“Whoa! That’s where I’m from.” 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell.” 

“Tell him that the Piece Hall is still standing, wanna swig?” 

“Yeh, cheers.” 

“Those blokes were fucking mental” 

“Finish it if you like I’ve got to be heading back” 

“Thanks mate.”

 

Then off I went to my hotel, having had the strangest day of my life. I’d started the day expecting to be yammering swears on a stage and ended it in South London chatting to a Nazi thug whose Dad came from my town.

It’s a funny old life. 

So where was I, ah yes dogs. 

So there was this skin head with his mutts. Now as I say, I can see the good in almost every dog apart from these two. One of them looked at me and our eyes met. Now I know what you’re thinking: was it love at first sight? Did we go dancing and then make beautiful lovin’s? 

The answer to both those questions is NO. 

What actually happened was that, for a moment, I felt as if I’d looked into the eyes of Satan. Now this is a very strange thing for me.  I no more believe in the devil than I do Unicorns or the paternity of Prince Harry. So for a rational human being to feel such a primal horror while looking into the eyes of a dog, something has to be wrong. Doesn’t it? 

Well probably not. After all evil is a human construct used to explain the actions of nutcases. It’s easier to say that a serial killer committed his crimes because he was evil, rather than because he was a barking mad fruit loop. 

Anyway I don’t like that kind of dog. 

Right I’m off for a bath.