Blank Sheet of Paper

Youth is a blank sheet of paper. As you drift into fully fledged adulthood it becomes crumpled and muddied, but it is up to you whether you write and draw on it. Some, feeling themselves coming into their power, choose to determine which path they will follow. Others follow the paths laid out for them.

Meeting Darren was a seminal moment, although no semen was involved. It was a college disco. I was miserable, having just been dumped for the billionth time by arsehole Antony. Actually, he did not so much dump me as repeatedly make our relationship impossible, thanks to an overbearing gambling addiction.

I knew Darren, but only vaguely. He was two years above me and majoring in Art. I was rather lamely following an English Literature course. I know I looked as if I had been dragged through a hedge backwards. I liked to display my unhappiness via untidiness.

I sat at a table on my own, clothed from head to foot in black, and scowling at everyone. This did not seem to put Darren off. He sidled over, pint of Guinness in hand, and said “Do you mind if I sit here”.
I did not answer.
He repeated the question.
I was amazed that he had not just helped himself, having become so accustomed to Antony doing exactly that.. I held out my palm, indicating that he was welcome to park his arse. Rather than attempt to draw me into conversation, Darren leant back in his chair, taking the occasional sup from his pint, and generally observed what was going on around him. This gave me a chance to study him at close quarters.

He dressed strangely, apparently always the same badly fitting black suit. It had a certain charm about it though and reminded me of French intellectuals photographed at the Parisian barricades of 1968. His ginger hair was shaved almost to his scalp. Scuffed Dr Martens were secured to his feet.

“Do you want to dance?” he said suddenly.
“Yeah, alright then,” I was about drunk enough.

Whoever was spinning 'da choons' obviously had a penchant for The Rolling Stones. I quite liked them myself. As soon as I was on the dance floor I realised this had been a massive mistake. I watched in horror as Darren merrily stomped and swayed, entirely on the off beat. It was as if he was dancing to a record someone else was playing, somewhere else. I let my arms flop to my sides and stood stock still, hoping he would get the message. But he did not. He was unperturbed by my behaviour and carried on regardless. In the end, realising I looked more of a prick just standing there, I began to non-committally move. After a couple of hours and a couple more drinks, I found that I really was enjoying myself.

Darren offered to walk me home. I refused. “Look, I got something for you,” he said holding out his hand.
“You stole the disco tape!”
“Ah, I'll give Nigel a copy tomorrow, he won't mind.”
I looked at it. 120 minutes of The Rolling Stones. Cool. I was not going to complain.

And that is how it started. I spent quite a lot of time with Darren. It was summer, often we would lie on his purple candlewick bedspread in his back garden. He introduced me to Tartex, Gil Scott Heron and anarchism.

The small cafe in Saltley seemed pretty unassuming. 'Vegetarian Wholefood' it said outside on its hand-painted sign. Inside it was cosy, with pine tables surrounded by mix and match chairs, pot plants scattered around various shelves, nice demi-punk music and a book corner. It was like being back at school, but without the teachers or the grey paint.

I can't remember what I ate, something sloppy and wholesome probably. I felt comfortable there instantly and, when I saw the sign on the wall asking for volunteer staff, I thought 'Why not?' Paul, behind the counter, recruited me immediately, said I would have to come in for a training session next Thursday, and that he was pleased to have me on board.

Dougal's, for that is what the caff was called, operated as a workers' co-operative. I had no experience of such organisations, but I learned quickly. Essentially, the ethos was that if you worked, then you were a member and entitled to say in what was going on. I loved it, the cooking and cleaning and getting pissed in the back kitchen on Friday nights, serving customers with vegetable crumble instead of apple crumble.

“What's that?”
“I don't know,” I said, staring into the bowl, so stoned my eyes were on stalks.
“It looks like a carrot,” the customer said, moving the offending article from underneath his soya ice cream.
“Ooops, sorry,” I was giggling so much I nearly wet myself running back to the kitchen, bowl in hand.

As well as food we served politics, of the anarchist variety, to anyone and everyone who would listen. The people around me fell roughly into two camps; the life-stylers and the class-based. Life-stylers seemed to think that we could change the world by leading by example. However, I was slightly confused as to how drinking Barleycup would bring down capitalism and defeat the military-industrial complex. The class-based activists made more sense to me, with their defence campaigns, Black Cross and street fighting actions. I joined them.

And so it was, that I ended up chained to law court doors, dumping cars without engines bang slap in the middle of town during rush hour and standing on a department store's porch roof, dressed as tarty santa, ringing a bell, and shouting “All prisoners are class prisoners. Free Martin Finnegan”.

Mother was so proud.

My parents were furious. They decided that it would be for my own good to withhold my grant monies. Father refused to pay my university fees. Mother said “If you move back home, and live by our rules under our roof, then we're willing to support you. If you persist in behaving like scum you leave us no choice.” As a family we had already explored these options with Rosie. She decided to become Jewish so that she could marry her partner. Father went berserk. He completely disowned her. We were not even allowed to mention her name. I gave my parents the traditional two finger salute and went and found a paying job.

It was tough, trying to keep up with college, two jobs and a social life. The amount of weed I smoked did not exactly help either. There were other drugs, most notably speed. I was up and down like whore's drawers. Had a cracking good time though. Did it all, saw it all, pushed it so far I nearly met my maker a couple of times.

Darren was still in the picture, introducing me to the ancient and mystical art of shoplifting, how to roll a foot long spliff and, most importantly, an appreciation for live Irish music. He was an accomplished fiddle player and on Tuesday nights we would go to The Antelope together. I liked sitting there, in amongst the haze of cheap fags, listening to the old guys give it some welly. Life did not seem so cold with a few pints of Guinness in you and a tune on your whistling lips.

One night we deviated from the usual plan. Darren wanted to go to an anti fascist meeting. I was not much bothered. The NF and BNP were all over Birmingham, and big fuckers they were too, I remembered from that time they had busted up the Troops Out meeting I was at with Antony. “C'mon,” Darren said, “Just to keep us company. I don't know anyone there.” So I agreed and we trekked into the centre of town.

The meeting was a shambles. The guy who was meant to book the room had fucked up in some way and we ended up all standing in a corridor. He was nice though, 'meeting room fuck up guy'. He had this very blonde hair, almost white in fact, a semi-mohawk, shaved into an exact point at the nape of his neck. I quite liked the look of him. I volunteered to draft a leaflet with him and we arranged to meet the following Thursday at Dougal's.

He did not show up. I spent an hour waiting for him, drinking bloody Barleycup. Paul kept telling me how unusual this behaviour was for the guy. 'Yeah right,' I thought, 'I should've known'. Then he phoned, Paul passed the message on, he had flu or something and could not make it. 'Well, at least he phoned.' I thought no more of it. I did not go to another anti fascist meeting. Life rumbled along as normal.

Mother, in a fit of pique, made sure when I arrived home on Christmas morning that everyone had already opened their presents. Mine were slung into a black bin-bag in the corner of the room. We had a huge row. At the meal table I threw my prawn cocktail at her. She was already drunk. I do not think she even noticed. Father made us all stand for the national anthem and queen's speech, as per usual. He made no mention of the Class War t-shirt I was wearing, nor did he allude to the three rings through my nose. After dinner I spent most of the afternoon smoking spliffs in the bathroom, standing on the toilet and exhaling out of the window.

I worked in a pub in Balsall Heath, which everyone called 'The Old Mo'. In common with most English pubs it was divided into two areas; the snug and the main bar. Mostly men drunk in the bar area, often accompanied by the old dogs who hung around waiting for someone to throw them a boner. It was pitiful really. I would have felt sorry for them if they were not always so bastard rude to the prostitutes who used to drink in the snug. I could never quite work out how those who accepted their payment in booze were able to consider themselves so much more superior to the woman who went for the straight cash transaction.

I liked the whores, mainly because they were honest. One in particular, this buxom, blonde lass, all frizzy hair and lipstick, used to tip me well. I did feel a bit guilty taking her money, being as she had to work so hard for it, but it would have been insulting to say no when she chirruped “And one for yourself love”.

Paul came in one night, with his mate, who was just about to start working there. I was surprised that it was 'meeting room fuck up guy'. I do not know why. Sometimes when you see people and then you do not see them it is like you are never going to see them again.

“Matt,” he said, holding out his hand to shake mine.
“I hope you're going to pull your weight around here,” I said, stacking the glass washer. Acerbic with a hint of cleavage. I knew what I was doing.

He was fun to work with, always cracking jokes, smiling a lot and did, indeed, pull his weight – unlike so many barmen who expect the girls to do all the work. I lusted after him, perhaps because of his hair, maybe his southern accent, or it could have been his silver cigarette case. He had style. “I smoke Embassy Filter because they fit exactly into a joint, you don't get any of those nub end left overs.”
'Now there's a man who's got a brain,' I thought.

It happened gradually, over a period of months. I was living with someone else, who was such a child that he thought posh nosh was adding curry powder to a can of baked beans, and Matt appeared to be gay. I think it was the pink tie dyed combat trousers and the fact that no matter how much I threw myself at him he did not seem to notice. Occasionally, as we brushed past each other, beside the till, my body would linger, involuntarily, so I could remain in contact with him for a few seconds longer.

The turning point came when I saw him rioting on the television. It was not what he was doing, although I found that interesting, more the expression on his face. There was a shot of him being arrested by two police officers, one of whom had a truncheon wedged under Matt's chin. I liked the way his nostrils flared and the veins stood out on the side of his neck. I was fascinated to note that, despite mounted police, missiles and his own precarious situation, he did not show one single sign of fear. I covered his shift without a murmur. I assumed he was locked up somewhere in London.

Three days later he turned up, with his cigarette case but minus his pink combats. We worked our shift as normal, every once in a while somehow finding an excuse to touch each other lightly. It is customary for bar staff, at the end of the night when everything is all tidy, to stay for one drink. I sat on a stool at the bar and he perched behind me, putting his hands on my shoulders, pressing his thumbs between my blades. I was tired. It felt good. I offered him a lift home. He accepted. In the car park outside his flat he asked “Do you want to come up for a coffee?” I did.

He lived on the eleventh floor of a tower block. Because he had neglected to pay his electricity bill, he had no power and, therefore, no light. I stood in the kitchen, looking out of the window, the city below twinkling in amusement. “So how are you going to make this coffee?” I asked.
“I wasn't,” he said, “It was a foil. Sounds better than 'fancy a shag'”.
“Yes.”
“Yes it sounds better than fancy a shag, or yes you fancy a shag?”
I laughed. “Both.”

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