A deleted scene from my memoir “Stairway To Nowhere” Biker Party, Birmingham, England 1978

I’m in my kitchen, half-heartedly throwing a large kitchen knife at what’s left of the back door. Despite many years of practice, I can’t quite get the hang of knife throwing. Which is a shame, as a circus act is among the many sensible back-up plans I have should the band fail. Time after time the knife clatters to the floor, occasionally gouging chunks out of the door. Just as the knife hits the floor, Miki pushes the door open. He grins at me, nodding at the knife on the floor. “Still chuckin’ it like a girl then?” “Bollocks,” I say, “It’s the knife. There’s something wrong with it.” “Yeah, it’s got an arsehole for a handle.” he says, and grabs my last can of Red Stripe off the kitchen table. “Come on in and make yourself at home. Have a beer, why don’t you.”

He salutes me with the can and takes a long pull. “Don’t mind if I do.” he says, wiping the back of his mouth with his hand. I pick up the knife, and put it back in the drawer with the rest of the cutlery. I turn to Miki. “It’s disgraceful, is what it is.” I say, “I mean, it’s not too much to ask is it? A gig, a bit of a party, some drugs, a blow job?” Miki waggles the now empty can of Red Stripe. “And now, not even any beer.” I say, “Thank you very much.” “Terrible.” Miki says, and belches sonorously. He crumples the can with one hand and tosses it in the general direction of the old oil drum I use as a rubbish bin. He misses and the can clatters to the floor. Suddenly his face brightens. “Here, I know something we can do tonight. Sid’s gang is having a party. Loads of booze. And pills.” I look doubtful. “What, the Road Rats?” “Most likely be biker chicks there.” he says. “Alright then,” I say, “Why not. What else are we gonna do? Sit in and watch the gardening on the telly?” “What telly?” “Precisely.” Miki’s brother, Sid, is a Brummie biker. His seventeen stone frame subsists almost entirely on a steady diet of savaloy and chips, all swilled down with Strongbow cider. He will cheerfully tell you that it’s only due to all the speed he does that he manages to keep his weight down! In the two years since Sid joined the Walsall chapter of the Road Rats he has written off three motorbikes, and spent a little over a year in various hospitals. He has steel pins in both elbows, several bolts in his legs, and a medium-sized plate in his head. This plate, given the right atmospheric conditions and with his neck tilted at just the right angle, enables Sid to pick up Radio Luxembourg as clearly as any transistor radio.

Even though he knows I will take absolutely no notice, Miki warns me that this party will be filled with greasers, who are not chaps generally renowned for their tolerance of anyone who doesn’t look exactly like them.

“Come to think of it,” he says, “These arseholes don’t even tolerate each other.”

“Not to worry, my man,” I say, “I shall forgo the mascara, keep the eye liner to a minimum and just for a change … wear black. No fake furs or leopard skin, okay?”

I disappear into my swamp of a bathroom. When I reappear, a mere ten minutes later, Miki stares at me.

“You look just the sodding same you prat. Still look like a weirdo at best. An elongated queer at worst.”

“Look, I’ll have you know fate has greatness in store for me, mate. Therefore, I’m bleedin’ invulnerable, aren’t I.”

“Be interesting then. To see just how much physical pain you can endure on the way to this greatness there’s no guarantee you’ll ever attain.”

“Oh ye of little faith.” I tell him.

“Make that, no faith.” Miki says. “Come on then Nureyev, let’s go and strut your funky stuff.”

The bikers have rented a self-contained flat in the upstairs part of a nice enough house on a nice enough street not far from Edgbaston cricket ground. Whoever lives downstairs is either dead, deaf, or terrified - quite possibly all three. In the interests of security, the Road Rats have nailed the front door shut so the only entrance to their domain is through a heavily padlocked back gate, topped with barbed wire. Miki grunts Sid’s name and indicates his family connection. Once inside the gate, we make

our way past a chained, half-starved alsatian, and across the motorbike parts-littered, cemented-over back yard to a rickety wooden set of back stairs that lead up to the kitchen door. We enter the kitchen with Sid repeatedly bellowing,

“This is me bruvver an’ ‘is mate. They’m in a band!”

I immediately take note of the solitary female in the kitchen. She is definitely on the hefty side, and is shrink-wrapped into bulging, faded denim. The crown of her greasy, peroxide coiffure is dull brown and dandruff-littered. She stands in the middle of the kitchen floor, surrounded by a small circle of admirers. When she throws her head back and cackles laughter at an obscene compliment, I see she’s missing a couple of front teeth.

Miki shoves me after Sid as he passes into the living room. The only piece of furniture, if you don’t count three motorbikes, is a battered couch. It’s the same one that’s followed me from dressing room to dressing room at every gig we’ve played so far. I’m not entirely surprised to see it. The stereo is blasting AC/DC. Appropriately, the stereo’s wires are jammed into the outlet with three matchsticks. There are some impressive holes variously burned and ripped in the once pea green carpet, as well as a few holes in the walls about the size of large fists. I slump onto one end of the settee, Miki next to me, and Sid jams his frame in at the other end. Several pairs of eyes that would make vultures envious turn to stare at us, well me mostly. Between tracks Sid yells his mantra into the room:

“This is me bruvver an’ ‘is mate. They’m in a band!”

I smile and nod at faces that clearly want to suck the marrow from my bones and drink Brew XI from my hollowed-out skull. “This is fun.” I yell in Miki’s ear. Miki nods his head sideways at his brother. Sid is rolling a cigarette but seems to be having some difficulty. I immediately see that this is because he’s on the point of passing out. I realize that the second he loses consciousness our protection is gone, all bets are off, and it’s open season on queer-looking guitarists. I hold my breath and wait for “Kick In The Teeth” to finish.

“Gotta piss.” I yell into the sudden silence and lean over and shake Sid back from the brink. “Where’s the bog Sid?” Sid mumbles something that could be anything but I’m already up and headed out of the room. I sense Miki is hard on my heels. Once through the door, I bolt down a corridor. There’s a door at the end and I’m going through it wherever it leads. As it turns out it is the bog, and I’m straight out the window and down the drainpipe. Fate has obviously decided I still have my shot at greatness because the drainpipe is fixed to a street-side wall. I jump to the pavement and run like bloody fuck. Ten minutes after I get back to my gaff Miki shows up. He’s severely winded and so unable to talk as he plonks a full bottle of cider down onto the kitchen table and unloads a scattering of pills from his pockets.