07. CRACKING SKULLS IN PORTISHEAD
Pt One.
By Tony M Richards.
Portishead: Friday November 19th 1982.
Looking from his top floor room out into the cold evening, Jeffrey Cohen observed the deserted coastal front, illuminated by the dull orange glow of the street lamp that hung just below his window. There was nobody outside. The street was like a ghost town. Watching the empty town whilst sucking on Marlboro cigarette, he stared and wondered at the eerie beauty on the other side of the cold glass. This was beautiful. Peace and tranquillity. On a dark November evening, the overcast sky was disappearing and the onset of nightfall filled him with excitement and a terrible sense of loneliness- The orange street lamp lurking just beneath his window; the empty street outside; the cold North Sea air... Western civilisation, horrifying and fantastic at the same time.
Jeff walked over to his record player and switched it on. Next to his record player, he kept his prized collection of vinyl; each one a reminder of his beloved America. Running his fingers along the top of the pile he plucked out King Curtis and carefully pulled the vinyl from its sleeve. Holding the disc up in the air; just beneath the light bulb hanging from the low ceiling, he inspected it, blowing away any dust. Placing the record on the deck and dropping the needle, Jeff walked back to the window and waited. He had agreed to meet his friend Antonio at eight pm in the Green Man, a local pub. Jeff had time to kill and he was haunted by memories. Memories of failure, memories he would now rather not face. He lit another Marlboro.
Amanda had been the perfect match. He had moved to England and set up shop in the quiet town of Portishead. Things hadn't worked out, his soul felt broken. He remembered that long car journey back from Scotland and her confession that she was still in love with her ex-boyfriend Danny, an out of work factory worker. He had sneered at her love for such a loser until he realised the ugly truth: It was he, that was in fact the loser.
Amanda had fled to London to take a job at a busy central pub pulling pints of lager. Jeff was stranded in a lonely coastal town.
GONE. ALONE.
PORTISHEAD.
They had met whilst holidaying in Miami with friends. He had come to England to be with Amanda and finish his novel. His typewriter lay untouched. The book was still incomplete. He was stranded and hopelessly out of his depth in England. He was in Portishead and this was now his home. The sunny, azure skies of Beverly Hills were a long distant memory. His pride was his downfall and he knew it. His father had always reminded him at Friday night dinners.
"Jeff, you have a furious love for the Raiders, but your pride blinds you. The Giants are your calling to victory. Your pride will be the death of you."
His father always used sport to mask his scathing criticism of his son's character. That aside, he missed those Friday night dinners. He missed the social aspect; laughing with his cousins, especially Hymie, who would take a twisted delight in denigrating Judaism. Hymie always loved an audience. He didn't hate being a Jew, he just loved making people squirm after a few glasses of wine:
"We killed Jesus, that's a fact if you believe the gentiles. How's that chicken taste Michael?"
"Hymie... Did Adam raise you to be a writer or some kinda jerk who offends people?" the New York native would ask, visibly annoyed at his brother's rebellious offspring. Seeing his dad taking the bait gave Jeff an untold joy as Hymie laughed out loud. It made Jeff smile mischievously.
Grandma Ruth would take a great delight also:
"Mike, learn to laugh. It's YOUR pride that makes you a fool my boy."
His father would look at his younger brother Adam and shake his head:
"Our children..."
This was a million miles away. California was a million miles away, Jeff thought. Back to the cold reality of sunny old England.....
'A Whiter Shade of Pale' blared out from the speakers. Jeff sat on the floor, resting his back against his bed. The house was long and thin, it had four floors, the only other resident resided at the bottom. With an empty house, Jeff could play his records as loud as he wanted; there was nobody who would complain. An empty house; an empty town; and an empty life, Jeff picked up the King Curtis record cover and scanned the sleeve again. Jeff could feel the emptiness of the rooms below him and the town outside. He could feel the emptiness inside himself.
When the record clicked off, he headed down the long stairs to the bottom of the narrow house.
Jim was sitting in his chair, asleep as usual.
Jim was a World War Two veteran and Widower. Jeff enjoyed lodging with Jim. Jim was friendly enough, he would go to the pub most days at midday and return at 6pm to eat and crash out in front of the television set.
The television set blared away as Jim slept; some sort of tacky game show that the Brits seemed to love, Jeff noted.
Jeff switched the television set off and headed to the front door, taking a brief look back at Jim, drool moving from his chin to his shirt.
Outside, Jeff pulled the cold North Sea air deep into his lungs. The cold air burned him through his jeans. Jeff darted across the road to the red phone box. Pumping pound coins into the phone machine, he hoped his mum would answer- not his father; he couldn't handle a conversation with his dad right now.
He could just imagine his father needing justification for how Jeff was spending his inheritance, asking him how the book was coming; knowing damn well how it was going.
With Christmas approaching, Jeff toyed with the idea of going home for the holiday season; if only to see Hymie....
Jeff was homesick and wanted to return.
He wanted to tell his mother the truth.
His father would win if he did.
He placed the receiver back on the hook.
The clanking of pound coins dropping back through the phone confirmed Jeffs decision was final. The phone call could wait for now.
Jeff thought about the bindle of coke he had; at the bottom of his inside coat pocket, but thought twice- Food.
Gotta get some food, he thought. Before he opened the door, he saw something, scrawled across the glass in thick black letters:
CRACKING SKULLS IN PORTISHEAD.
What did it even mean? He stared at the writing, puzzled and intrigued. Maybe it was a British thing he reasoned to himself, a phrase used and lost within the cultural divide between Europe and the United States. He thought he may have even seen or heard it before. He considered it for a second and then forgot what he was even considering. His short term memory loss was a sign of low blood sugar. He needed to eat.
Jeff would phone his parents tomorrow. Ask them to come and visit him.
Maybe....
Pushing open the phone box door, he thought about his mother's excitement of seeing the local lighthouse at night and then he thought about his father's slow, creeping disdain at the lonely town.
"This is what you came to Jeff?"
Jeff's spirits were lifted when he saw the bright sign of the chip shop: The Skippers Choice. Jeff was unsure what that meant also. Jeff did speak English, but there were times when he couldn't quite figure out what phrases meant in England, especially in Portishead. He had been warned by outsiders that the language culture in the West Country could be dense and coded to the outside ear. Jeff had no problem in London or in Manchester for that matter. Portishead was a different ball game.
The chip shop shone like a bright star in the dark street. The curtains were drawn inside the surrounding houses; the other shops had all long closed for the night. As Jeff pushed open the door, his senses were assaulted. His eyes adjusted to the light; his nose picked up the smell of the frying fish; hot oil; vinegar and tobacco smoke; his ears picked up the sound of the fruit machine clashing with the old television set, mounted high up on the wall behind the counter.
"Good evening, to what do we owe this visit?" said the miserable looking young man behind the counter.
"Caviar, lobster... Maybe a bottle of your finest champagne," Jeff joked.
The young man forced a smile and responded:
"Usual then. Cod and chips with a Coke."
Jeff took a seat by the window, although sitting by the window was pointless exercise; the view that was visible consisted of a few street lamps and passing cars. Jeff looked up the television and fiddled with a half empty ketchup bottle.
"WHAT DID I TELL YA, DICKHEAD!! YOU GOT TO GET THE CHERRIES, AINTCHA, DICKHEAD!!"
Jeff looked to the bottom of the narrow fish bar and saw three skinheads, kids, playing an arcade machine. Jeff recognised one of them as Tobey, a kid who knew Antonio.
"YOU PLAY THAT THING LIKE A FUCKING ARSE BANDIT, DICKHEAD!! I TOLD YOU TO GET THE CHERRIES DIDN'T I?! YOU DICKHEAD!"
Tobey was playing the machine, the beady eyed little creep next to him was doing the shouting.
Jeff thought he looked like a worm- A worm with beady eyes.
"C'MON DICKHEAD! LET ME HAVE A TURN, YOUR FUCKING USELESS AINTCHA! GIVE ME A TURN YER CUNT!"
Jeff watched the beady eyed creep push Tobey off the machine and take over: "SHOW YA HOW TO DO THIS PROPERLY, DICKHEAD!"
The misery guts behind the counter brought over Jeff's plate, dropping it on the table like a hot brick in front of him.
"Thank you," Jeff said after the kid, as he slipped back behind the counter.
As Jeff was tapping the ketchup bottle, he watched the beady eyed creep start to lose control of himself. Jeff thought they looked like pricks with their shaved heads. Their heads resembled penises he thought.
"IT'S FUCKING BROKEN INNIT!! I CAN'T MOVE QUICK ENOUGH!!"
The beady eyed creep began to rock the arcade machine back and forth on its axis, making it crash and bang against the wall violently.
The chip shop owner; a chap called Vince, came rushing out of the back room.
"THAT'S ENOUGH TERRY!! SHOW SOME RESPECT!! THE MACHINE IS FUCKING RENTED!"
"IT'S FUCKING BROKEN VINCE! IT'S A FUCKING RIP OFF INNIT!" Terry, the beady eyed little worm shouted defensively.
"ANYMORE OF THAT LARK AND I'LL CHUCK ALL THREE OF YERS OUT! GOT IT?!"
Terry turned his attention back to the machine, mumbling insults under his breath.
Jeff wolfed down the greasy food wolfishly and drained his coke. He winked at the kid behind the counter and made his way back out into the cold November night.
The pub was a fifteen minute walk and it gave Jeff a bit of time to think. He was meeting Antonio who was a nurse at the local hospital. Jeff and Antonio had met at the local pub and had become close friends. Their bond was strengthened by their love of marijuana which Antonio could get easily in the sparse coastal town.
Antonio wasn't the typical kinda guy that Jeff would have hung out with in Los Angeles, but here in Portishead.... Who else could Jeff socialise with? He had nobody else. Antonio was also in his mid to late twenties and had a very similar sense of humour. Antonio was half Jamaican, and had experienced a fair amount of racism in his life. His mother was white and he barely knew his father. Jeff admired Antonio for his thick skin and pragmatic approach. Antonio was a mod, dressing sharper than cut throat razor. It wasn't surprising that he was successful with women, but he was never boastful and this added to his charm.
Jeff walked through the quiet country roads with narrow paths and overgrown bushes and weighed up what he liked about Portishead and what he hated. He did love the small country roads and quaint pubs. The Green Man was such a pub. It was small and compact. It had wallpaper that reminded Jeff of a Miami hotel carpet in the early seventies. The random photos of horses and boats on the wall always made Jeff think of the bars back in Los Angeles, photos that to the outside eye meant nothing, but to somebody they meant something.
One thing that divided Jeff was the fact that the town died after seven O'clock. In Los Angeles, the streets were always alive, good or bad. Here in Portishead, even on the weekend, the place became a ghost town once the sun set.
Sure, Jeff liked the tranquillity; it was something that was unattainable in Los Angeles. But if you needed groceries or company, you had nothing, maybe an odd nightclub on the wrong side of town or a lock-in at a local pub, a pub like the Green Man.
This country only has three channels on TV, Jeff pondered with contempt. At that moment in Jeff's mind, the negative was outweighing the positive.
From the dark, badly lit pathway, Jeff saw his destination. Contempt for the bad national entertainment disappeared when he saw the pub and realised it was busy and full of life. At that moment his heart felt warm, Jeff was feeling happy. With a full gut, he made an informed decision to get wasted. What else could he do?
Walking inside, he was amused to see Antonio and Greg- the pub landlord, engaged in an animated conversation. He already knew what they are discussing: Soccer.
"Let me tell YOU something Tony! Last time, City beat Rovers two nil, right? So how can YOU say that Rovers are better, it's all about the last result....."
"For fucks sake Greg, that's a load of bollocks and you know it!" Antonio said, smiling like a crocodile as Greg shook his head in utter frustration. Antonio was on the wind up. Jeff played along keeping a poker face. Greg was wound up tighter than a spring.
"Can't you two just get along?" Jeff shouted over the music, jolting the two from their fierce debate.
"It's about time, we was gonna send a search party out for you," Antonio scoffed, handing Jeff a pint and winking.
"Well, well... If it isn't the resident doctor, our friend from the mighty United States," Greg announced, reaching over the bar to shake Jeff's hand.
Greg was typical of landlords in British pubs during the seventies. He wore a tie, short sleeve shirt and pleated trousers. His green blazer had a huge crest on the front pocket, symbolising his patriotism and local pride. Greg had a bald head with a thick orange beard. This is the type of guy Hymie would find hilarious, Jeff thought. Hymie could write a whole comedy show based on this guy- and there were tons of guys like him here in the West Country. Jeff really missed Hymie.
Jeff and Antonio discussed local gossip and then discussed 'An American Werewolf in London'.
Antonio would always remark how much Jeff looked like the main character in the film to which Jeff would roll his eyes and sigh.
"I guess all us yanks all look the same huh?"
They also made a few humorous remarks about Greg when he was serving some of the punters.
"He looks like Kojak's ugly cousin," Jeff cruelly observed, "Who loves ya babey?"
"He supports Bristol City too, what an idiot!" Antonio said in a stage whisper that made Greg well aware he was being lampooned.
"Listen, right! Any of you Rovers bastards can find another boozer if you don't like it here!" Greg pointed to the door, theatrically.
"Nobody else would have the bastards!" One of the locals shouted, as Antonio flicked the V sign in mock disgust. It was at times like this that Jeff really loved Portishead. They were all mad as cat shit but they had a really choice sense of humour.
The jovial banter was suddenly interrupted as the pub door flew open with a loud bang and the skinhead kids from the chip shop walked in making a huge racket.
"Excuse me gentlemen," Greg said, his face contorting with anger. "Let me just go and deal with these little cunts."
Jeff watched Greg walk out from behind the bar, John Wayne style, and head over to the new arrivals. Jeff couldn't put his finger on it, but he had a bad feeling about them.
"How can I help you gentlemen?" Greg asked, eyes blazing with anger.
"Well, that's a warm welcome, eh lads?" Terry, the ringleader with the beady eyes, commented sarcastically. "Three pints of lager please Greg."
Greg and Terry eyed each other for a few seconds.
Tension......
"Now Terry," Greg said, not breaking his stare, "Weather you get the three pints or not depends."
"Depends on what Greg?"
"Depends on if you promise to be on your best behaviour."
"Why would we not be on our best behaviour?" Terry sneered, scratching his shaven scalp. "Last week, I had to throw you lot out for being rowdy, remember?" Greg stated.
"Ahh yeah, right," Terry said, pretending to remember, his face transforming from a sneer to an angelic smile. "I'm sorry Greg, promise we'll behave."
"That dude is an asshole!" Jeff spat in Antonio's ear. Jeff was by no means a violent man, but he would have paid a million bucks to punch the little skinhead fuck in his ugly face.
Calm was restored and the pub returned to normal; the air thick with smoke; the outdated jukebox blasting away:
Celi Bee- Superman.
"So what's this party you want to take me to Tony?" Jeff asked, wanting to get the scoop on the night's action.
"Well, these Rasta guys I know have are having a shindig, should be a blast and there's no rush to get there, this thing goes on until the morning. You game?" Antonio raised an eyebrow at Jeff.
"Absolutely, why not, need I ask what music they'll be playing?"
"Take a guess genius. I have to make a phone call," Antonio said, getting up from the table and heading outside to the phone box directly across the narrow country road from the pub, buried underneath an overgrown bush. The punters in the pub would joke that one day the bush would consume the phone box whole, and spit the bones out into the road. This was a subject and joke brought up by the regulars to infuriate and antagonise Greg; who had had furious rows with the local council and land owner opposite the pub. Neither would cut the troublesome bush.
"How can my punters use the phone?" Greg argued, alas, to no avail.
Greg, every summer would go across the road himself with a big pair of shears and cut the bush.
The locals would laugh, watching Greg in his bare chest and Farah slacks, cutting the bush and swearing to himself in frustration- sweat pouring from his bald head and rolling down his flabby, freckled back.
Both the landowner and local council were barred from the Green Man- For life.
Greg cutting the bush was one of the first memories Jeff had of Portishead. When he first arrived. With Amanda....
Jeff watched the busy pub and smiled as everybody seemed oblivious to the world outside. In Los Angeles, everybody seemed to watch you in bars, noting you're every move. Here? Nobody gave a shit!
That suited Jeff fine. Tranquillity.
"FUCKING HOLD! I TOLD YA, DIDN'T I? DICKHEAD!" Terry yelled, as Kevin played the fruit machine. Jeff's tranquillity was suddenly broken.
"THAT'S ENOUGH TERRY!!" Greg shouted, pointing at the door in a threatening manner. Jeff wondered why Greg let these skinhead fucks in. At that precise moment Jeff fantasised about smashing Terry's head into the wall.
"We're on!" Antonio said, walking back into the pub, bringing a gust of cold air in with him from the winter weather outside.
"OYI! BLACKIE! CLOSE THE DOOR WILL YA, ITS FRIGGIN' COLD OUTSIDE!" Terry yelled at Antonio, not looking away from the fruit machine.
"FUCK OFF TERRY! YOU LITTLE CUNT!" Antonio responded, rolling his eyes at Jeff.
Jeff was upset that people in the local pub accepted this; this was what he HATED about Portishead. The English put up with racism way too much.
"Why'd you let him talk to you like that Tony?" Jeff asked, scowling at Terry's back.
"I don't. He's an arsehole. My own family have given me more shit then he will ever know. A half black baby in a family round these parts is a target," Antonio lamented, brushing off the racism, and trying, unsuccessfully, to appease Jeff.
"That asshole makes one comment about me being Jewish and he's gonna wish he didn't," Jeff stated with conviction. He wasn't joking.
"Forget it," Antonio said. "We got a party with some serious music and some serious women!"
They both laughed and headed to the toilets to answer the call of nature.
The beer had already taken effect as Jeff had to steady himself whilst urinating. "This party should be good. You still got that thing I got for you?" Antonio asked. "The coke right?" Jeff replied, forgetting himself.
"Shh! You never know who could be listening Jeff!" Antonio scolded him.
"Yeah, right..... It's in my pocket. What time you wanna hit the party Tony?"
"We'll have another drink first. I reckon-"
The toilet doors burst open with a bang. Jeff and Antonio spun around in shock to see Terry, Tobey and Kevin walk in. The skinheads fucks.
"Hey boys, it's the kyke and the wog!" Terry announced, before spitting on the floor.
"You gotta spit on the floor asshole? You can't see the toilet or the sink?" Jeff retorted angrily. "Calm down curly, it's Friday night," Terry responded, walking into one the cubicles to urinate- loudly.
"One more drink then we'll head off," Antonio addressed Jeff.
"OI! BLACKIE! YOU GOT ANY GANJA?!" Terry hollered, walking out of the cubicle, zipping up his jeans. Jeff could feel his fists clenching.
"Not if you ask me like that," responded Antonio, not unreasonably.
Terry shrugged and pulled out a magic marker, he then started writing on the wall. Jeff watched him, waiting to see what bullshit he would write, what non-intellectual statement this white trash asshole would make to the world, or the world according to him. Jeff felt genuine anger towards Terry. He hated bullies, especially ones who were ignorant assholes.
CRACKING SKULLS IN PORTISHEAD
Jeff lost control of himself: "WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN ASSHOLE?!"
"WHAT?!" Terry shouted. "WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?"
"ME?!" said Jeff, then he posed his own question:
"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU ASSHOLE?!"
"TAKE IT EASY CHAPS!" Antonio cut in, worried things were getting a little out of control. They were....
"FUCK RIGHT OFF, THE BOTH OF YERS!" Terry shouted, raising his fist in the air. Antonio dragged Jeff out of the toilets, violently and against his will.
"WHAT'S THE FUCKING PROBLEM ANTONIO?! YOU GONNA LET THOSE ASSHOLES PUSH US AROUND?"
Outside the toilets, Jeff was frustrated by Antonio but not angry with him. Greg heard the commotion, but Antonio waved him back, signalling it was all nothing.
Jeff felt his anger rising. Terry was the guy who made all his frustrations seem a hundred times worse than what they were. Terry was everything he hated about Portishead: Small town people, small town minds.
"Two guys like us, getting pushed around by a five foot Nazi fuck Antonio?! Are you for fucking real?!" Jeff asked, exasperated, frustrated his good night was being ruined by a jerk.
"Leave it for fuck sake Jeff, he's promised to fix the brakes on my motor. He's fucking harmless.
C'mon! Have a drink!" Antonio reasoned, unconvincingly.
They both walked to the bar, Antonio ordered two more drinks. Jeff began to calm, although his heart was still pumping.
"Everything okay gents?" Greg asked suspiciously, plonking the drinks on the counter.
"Greg, have you seen your bathroom wall?" Jeff asked.... Vengefully. "Jeff, leave it," Antonio cut in.
"No? Why?" Greg quickly responded, his suspicious nature fully awoken and aroused.
"What does 'Cracking Skulls In Portishead' mean? Can you shed any light?" Jeff asked Greg. Greg could see that the American doctor was in no joking mood.
"Somebody keeps writing it in magic marker on my bloody toilet walls, in the chip shop, in the local phone boxes," Greg answered passionately, "I'd love to catch the bastard doing it, I tell yer.."
The skinheads: Terry, Kevin and Tobey walked from the toilets to the bar, right next to Jeff. Terry was on a mission to antagonise Jeff; he had no idea that Jeff was game. It was a bad move for Terry. A school boy error..... Small town, small mind.....
"WHAT KIND OF ASSHOLE WRITES 'CRACKING SKULLS I PORTISHEAD' AND THINKS ITS SOME KIND OF STATEMENT?!" Jeff asked the pub. He now had everybody's full attention.
"WHAT'S IT GOT TO DO WITH YOU ARSEHOLE?!" Terry spat back in anger, taking the bait.
"Here we go..." Antonio said to himself in a stage whisper.
"WHO CRACKS SKULLS AROUND HERE?!"
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!" Terry shouted, realising he was being mocked.
"I JUST SEE NICE PEOPLE.... AND SOME PUSSY SKINHEAD FUCKS! THE SKINHEAD FUCKS I SEE, DON'T DO SHIT! THEY JUST HANG AROUND WRITING BULLSHIT SLOGANS ON WALLS THAT NOBODY, AND I MEAN NO-FUCKING-BODY UNDERSTANDS!"
"OOOOHHHHH, ALRIGHT THEN DOC, YOU GOT PROPER GANGS IN AMERICA THEN?! DO YA?!" Terry responded, obviously angry at his reputation being belittled publicly. Jeff watched Terry's face turn red. A little red worm with beady eyes. A little penis... With beady eyes... "YEAH ASSHOLE, WE DO! GUYS WHO CARRY GUNS! MAFIA AND BLACK GANGSTERS! WE EVEN HAVE SKINHEADS! THE ARYAN BROTHERHOOD! NOT JUST A BUNCH OF DUMB, STUPID, EVIL-WHITE TRASH ASSHOLES WHO CAN'T FIGHT!" Jeff yelled, as Antonio burst out laughing, seeing Terry receive a dose of his own medicine.
Then the pub started laughing.
Terry being the conniving soul he was, responded accordingly:
"Well, we can't all be rich Jews, can we now?"
"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Shouted Greg, trying to defuse the situation.