Buzz or Howl: Short Stories

The Oi!dyssey

Anthony stumbled out of The Dublin Castle, barely hiding his half-finished pint from the doorman. It was his eighth of the evening, and he hadn't even bought it, but he'd be damned if he was going to leave any unfinished booze behind at closing time. He took a crafty swig of it, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stumbled in a direction he hoped was homeward.

He had spent the whole evening trying to chat up Penny, but so had every other young man with a mohican and a safety pin through his nose in the Greater London area. Eventually he had given up and sought solace in some hops and barley.

It didn't matter anyway; Penny was waiting for Oddball to come home from New York. Everyone knew it, though she'd never admit it.

"I've had enough of blokes," she would proclaim, "I'm just focusing on getting The Shroud sorted before I even think about men."

The Shroud was a gig she'd been planning ever since Oddy had been waylaid in New York on the way home from helping the Sex Pistols on tour. No one had heard from him since then. Everyone surmised that he'd gone to the Big Apple to take a shot at Debbie Harry or maybe lug gear around for The Ramones now that The Pistols had called it a day.

It had been nearly a year since he'd gone and Penny was still scouting out bands for her Shroud. That night at the Dublin Castle it had been some new wave band called Sheep Escape playing, but apparently they "weren't quite right." Anthony was beyond caring. It was too much hassle. Let the other lads squeeze blood from that particular stone; Ant's bed was calling.

His journey was fraught with peril, however. Punks were not looked upon kindly in London during 1978, and even the short walk home through Camden was hazardous. He knew he didn't want to pass by the Charlie Bliss club, because that's where the bobbies drank after their daily beat, and he'd been thrown into the drunk tank enough by them for one lifetime. However, the only other way home passed The Skylark, a fascist boozer. Still, better to get seven bells knocked out of you than get locked up for God knows how long.

Anthony, his eye's grey from the drink and his fingers rose-red from the cold, downed the remainder of his beer in one great gulp and meandered onward. As he approached the pub he could hear the patrons drunkenly bellowing their hateful anthem: "There ain't no black in the Union Jack/There ain't enough white in the stars 'n' stripes."

Anthony shuddered. It sounded like there were at least eight of them. His heart rose up to his gullet and for a second he felt like he would weep. His drunken mind distracted him, however, reminding him through clouds that he still held an empty pint glass in his hand. The discovery of this amused him.

"All out of Dutch courage, boy."

Looking up from his emptied nonik, he caught sight of a taxi as it drove past him and pulled in next to the pub. Four big lads got into it, cheering and yelling. Ant's ears pricked up. There was nothing but silence. Maybe he'd avoid a thumping after all. He practically strutted as he continued forward, right up to the pub.

When he got there, he stopped dead. In his hubris, he had nearly walked into the back of the biggest thug in London, Paulie Thomas. He quickly leapt behind a parked car to avoid the man mountain. But it was too late. Paulie had heard someone moving. Slowly, he turned around.

"Who's there?" he boomed.

Intoxicated and panic stricken, Anthony answered him: "Nobody!"

The giant grunted and moved towards his voice.

With a swiftness of thought unworthy of a man in his state, Anthony acted. Leaping up, he tossed the empty beer glass at his assailant. The missile flew through the air, catching the brute directly in-between his eyes. The glass shattered on impact causing blood to splatter across Paulie's face.

Anthony took a moment to taunt his would be attacker with a gesture of two fingers, narrowly avoided a blindly thrown fist, before hurrying off as fast as he could. He heard Paulie angrily cursing Nobody all the way home.