BUTE TOWN ’78:

Cardiff, Bute Street, the long road to the docks. In the future this 
place will be called a ‘marina’ & we’ll split our sides, remembering 
the drawn out nights we stumbled down here, after the pubs had closed, 
after we’d drifted into clubs in search of that thrill we were missing.
When everything was closed we’d head to the docks, a desolate landscape 
of backstreet desertion, even alleys were friendless, an occasional 
figure waiting beneath a streetlight, a car without headlights watching 
out of sight. If you were in the know or if you had a friend to drop 
the right name you could drink till sun-up behind doors in walls. 
Knock, a flap opens, a face squeezed into a square appears, eyes you 
up-&-down.

“What?”

“I’m a friend of…”

“Wait”

Slam! Muffled voices, music under water in another room.

“What did you say your name was?…Wait”

locks, keys, chains, bolts, a crack in the wall, a yellow light, 
a tortured bulb hangs from a naked flex squealing, 
“Help me!”  weakly – half man, half fly.
Pass beneath it down a dirty corridor to a back room/front room/kitchen, 
a stripped out space lined with sunken faces waiting for some action, 
hoping you’re ‘it’. 

“Two beers please mate”

A makeshift bar, beered-up water in dirty glasses served with hangdog 
distain at the back of the gloom. A drink so soul less you get sober 
from the darkness that hits the back of your throat. A floor with bare 
boards like the Punk House, feels like home, except for the threatening 
stares lining the walls – don’t go to the toilet alone tonight.

(K)