SATURDAY NIGHTS:

Most Saturday nights, when other boys were riding bikes, 
we loaded up the Ford & drove out’ve the village. Sometimes
South to towns with working men’s clubs, Sometimes East to 
the nightclubs of Birmingham & the Black Country, but often
West to village halls in the outlying districts. 
The working me’s clubs smelled of stale cigar smoke & beer, 
your feet stuck to the carpet at the load in. Black Country
night clubs were organised, had load-in bays, bouncers & 
dressing rooms, they were efficient, unemotional, did what 
they said on the tin. The village halls guaranteed a fight
& spilled blood, but nothing serious you understand. 
I was 14, the other lads a few years older, but when a fight
broke out age didn’t matter, it was all about etiquette, 
you didn’t touch the ‘Turmn’.
The boys from the village would eye-up the boys from out’ve 
town as they strutted in at the start of the night. Watched 
them pose at the bar like they were taking over, let them
get settled, spend their money. Somewhere around the midpoint
break, somebody would say something, someone would do something
to someone or something would happen outside & the word would
go round. You could feel it from the stage, an energy shift in
the room & you knew ‘it was on’. I don’t know if they picked
a specific tune as the signal, but one minute the dance floor
was packed with laughter then suddenly it would turn.
Fists, feet, teeth & broken glass, the floor awash with beer,
farmers boys on the door would come in to break it up, then
one of them would take a punch & it always turned serious but 
only for a very short period in which you had to keep playing 
or risk getting noticed – keep believing ‘you don;t touch the Turn’.
We stopped once, somewhere out near Godforesaken, a geezer
came up to the stage & yelled, 
“Keep playing or you’ll get a clout!”
When we started up another face tore it’s self away from the 
mob & screamed, 
“If you don’t stop me & my mates are gonna wait for you outside!”
My dad, sensing the crossing a line stepped up,
“Is this bloke bothering you son? That’s a lethal weapon in your
hand lad, if he tries anything, hit him!”
The bloke looked dad square in the face but seeing what was in 
his eyes, winked at me & went back to the fight,
“You’re alright kid me smiled” 

(K)