And so it came to pass. 1979 become 1980 and a new decade had begun. I knew it was going to be good. I could feel it in my water.
Life was great. I was joining a band, playing synths. First gig, Rock Garden, second gig, Ronny Scotts. It was happening. I was getting where I wanted to be on my terms. Exactly as planned.
My politics were now full blown socialist, with that subtle edge of capitalism that you find when scruffy, useless oiks get a sniff of money or fame. Think of that useless cunt Billy Bragg and you get the idea. Born to be loaded but impeccable socialist credentials. Can read a balance sheet and P&L whilst hand rearing an orphaned lamb in front of the cameras. My time was taken up hassling slick A&R men at record companies, negotiating gig fees, recording, thinking up marketing scams and the oh so important networking with the other scammers trying to climb the greasy pole that leads to being able to spout about poverty whilst having your favourite hat flown first class across the Atlantic.
It was only a matter of time until I too could order a learjet, stick two fingers up to the “ordinary” people and be me. I knew best.
An offer of a record contract came. It was based in Germany, even better. I could get out of Thatchers Britain and go and get me some cosmopolitan credentials. We were the “hot” band, over from the UK to take the German market and I could show these squareheaded sausage munchers how it was done. Except I couldn’t. Being a novelty is great until the novelty wears off. Been seen too often playing at the same old clubs, not able to negotiate in German and there was no way anyone was going to give a bunch of upstarts like us a break if we kept biting the hand that fed us.
The record company loaned me out to all and sundry to keep me from smoking in their offices and shagging the receptionists. A tour of Eastern Germany came up and I was in heaven. I could mingle with the comrades, taste their suffering and feel the cold grey atmosphere of a totalitarian state where I was sure I would feel at home. Visions of Tractor Production and smiling children filled my head.
Bollocks to that. After two weeks on the road, I realised that East Germany was a desert. People stayed at home, being fed propaganda that none of them believed all day long and the Police were not friendly agents of the State, anxious to ensure that the spirit of comradery flourished. They were bored, stupid and cold.
There was nothing decent to eat, the women were all so bloody tired, the men never smiled and the fashions were worse than any Australians nightmare. And the sun never shined. The clouds hung 12 feet above your head all day and the wind blew. The drinking was hard and fast to make sure you numbed yourself as quickly as possible. Nobody spoke to us, our lyrics had been cleared by the censor before we performed and fraternising with the locals was not permitted. East German hotels only have so much “charm” after two nights and the stench of two stroke never leaves you.
It was grim. Really grim. The people were miserable, defeated and there was NO escape. I’ve seen similar in North Wales.
Enough of the music business. I wasn’t going to get rich after all. Plenty around me did though. But they were the Billy Braggs, the cunts, the back stabbers and the most venomous capitalists wearing red flags you have ever seen.
Luckily, I had started to experiment with computers and the first desktops were hitting the office managers desks. I had knowledge and knowledge is power, so by the start of the second half of the eighties, I was suited and booted and working in the City of London. Oh yes, it was fever time. My first property on Streatham Common, my first filofax, my first car.
Interesting times. Those that could show wealth, had respect. Those that couldn’t were excluded from everything. The Porsches, the Yuppies, the Champagne. Of course, I reconciled my socialist leanings with the fact that I wasn’t part of the system, I was exploiting it. Sure, I could spout about starving Africa because I had dub records. I could feel guilty about starving Indians because I’d been there. On holiday, mind. I read Time Out and laughed at the Steve Bell cartoons. I was hip. In the know. I could throw stones at Thatcher because even though I was part of it, I could read the Guardian and pretend I was above it.
The façade didn’t last. The one thing I am very bad at is working for other people. My personality and my upbringing taught me to hate authority and if people left me alone, it was fine. But they didn’t. Dogs were eating dogs and it was an orgy of egoism back then.
Eventually, I simply snapped. I’d had enough of fools gold on their terms. I sold up on August 1st 1988, loaded everything into a van and set off for Dover…
Lessons Learned One: Money is the root of all evil
Lessons Learned Two: Propoganda is just that. Worthless
Lessons Learned Three: German women don’t shave their armpits, legs or twats. Or chins in Gera.
Lessons Learned Four: People who read Time Out are far more dangerous than you think.