those friggin’ tossers who said I wor a useless good-for-nowt and that I wor wasting my life. I wor out of their grasp now. No more hiding in t’ science-block toilets in a blind panic or bunking off school cos I wor terrified. A strange, floating calmness coated me. I stood tall, patted my hair. I strode back into t’ bar. Warren had skedaddled.
I wor miffed to find my drink had been whisked away, so I ordered another one.
Folk started arriving in greater numbers now, singly and in pairs. My finger ends wor tingling. I bided my time, watching. It wor as if I’d stumbled on some secret society, and I wor about to be initiated, stretched out naked before ’em while all manner of acts wor performed on me. It occurred to me that maybe Warren hadn’t left at all. Maybe he wor upstairs wi’ t’ rest of ’em. That would take the biscuit. I stood there, undecided what to do. Then I took a long sup from my lager and lime and headed up the stairs into t’ growing hubbub.
There wor a good thirty people there. Thankfully, most of them wor men. The meeting passed in a daze. I wor crushed by t’ stomach-aching ordinariness of it all. I found it hard to fathom what it wor all about, and my attention drifted off into musings on some of t’others about me. Such as the man in t’ Michael Caine glasses and mustard poloneck sweater. Or t’ long-haired man in black velvet loons who perched cross-legged on his chair all evening. The woman in t’ white denim all-in-one, the bib decorated wi’ flower patches. The thin-faced Asian bloke who listened wi’ his chin tilted toward t’ cornice.
My stomach wor growling so loudly I wor sure everyone could hear it. The weasly, freckle-headed man sitting next to me must have heard. And yet, somehow the demons beneath t’ skin stayed quiet.
Mustard-poloneck man stood up, took off his specs and wiped them, then welcomed everyone, ‘especially the new faces’. A few heads swivelled my way, so I looked down at my boots.
There wor an agenda. And friggin’ points.
Point one: Should the women have separate meetings? This wor held over, cos there wor so few women present. Maybe they wor stuck on t’ island Jim said they’d bought.
Point two: Back copies of
Gay News
should be collected and donated to fish-and-chip shops as politicised wrapping. This wor passed, and two people said they’d take care of it.
Point twelve: Should PIE be part of t’ meetings?
I turned to t’ weasly man next to me. ‘Pie?’ I whispered hopefully. I wor friggin’ famished.
‘Paedophile Information Exchange,’ he replied.
This caused a long and heated debate about t’ Gay Lib position on t’ age of consent, wi’ some saying there shouldn’t be one at all, and others saying it should be lowered from twenty-one to sixteen, which one of t’ PIE men said wor discriminatory against kids, and then he got into a right shouting ruckus wi’ this other bloke which ended wi’ t’ PIE man calling us all fuckin’ fascists and storming out. Finally there wor a show of hands. I didn’t raise my hand. PIE would still have lost.
There wor more friggin’ points, and then we wor asked if anyone had owt else to say, and of course some goon wi’ a stammer did. The meeting lasted a friggin’ century, and I clenched my buttocks, trying not to fart. ‘Any other business?’ took a whole half-hour.
Eventually we ‘adjourned’ downstairs. In t’ bar, the men flocked about me like gulls fighting over a morsel. Someone wor asking me loads of questions, someone else plied me wi’ drink, someone squeezed my arse. I knew I wor getting khalied, cos I wor drinking too fast and my teeth wor becoming numb. I fell against a table.
‘I should be off,’ I slurred, unable to will mesen to move. Then, somehow, I wor pushing through t’ pub doors and stumbling into a street bin. I heard a voice calling out after me, calling out my name.
Irene Richardson
05/02/1977
The Saturday after Irene Richardson wor done
I wor miffed to find my drink had been whisked away, so I ordered another one.
Folk started arriving in greater numbers now, singly and in pairs. My finger ends wor tingling. I bided my time, watching. It wor as if I’d stumbled on some secret society, and I wor about to be initiated, stretched out naked before ’em while all manner of acts wor performed on me. It occurred to me that maybe Warren hadn’t left at all. Maybe he wor upstairs wi’ t’ rest of ’em. That would take the biscuit. I stood there, undecided what to do. Then I took a long sup from my lager and lime and headed up the stairs into t’ growing hubbub.
There wor a good thirty people there. Thankfully, most of them wor men. The meeting passed in a daze. I wor crushed by t’ stomach-aching ordinariness of it all. I found it hard to fathom what it wor all about, and my attention drifted off into musings on some of t’others about me. Such as the man in t’ Michael Caine glasses and mustard poloneck sweater. Or t’ long-haired man in black velvet loons who perched cross-legged on his chair all evening. The woman in t’ white denim all-in-one, the bib decorated wi’ flower patches. The thin-faced Asian bloke who listened wi’ his chin tilted toward t’ cornice.
My stomach wor growling so loudly I wor sure everyone could hear it. The weasly, freckle-headed man sitting next to me must have heard. And yet, somehow the demons beneath t’ skin stayed quiet.
Mustard-poloneck man stood up, took off his specs and wiped them, then welcomed everyone, ‘especially the new faces’. A few heads swivelled my way, so I looked down at my boots.
There wor an agenda. And friggin’ points.
Point one: Should the women have separate meetings? This wor held over, cos there wor so few women present. Maybe they wor stuck on t’ island Jim said they’d bought.
Point two: Back copies of
Gay News
should be collected and donated to fish-and-chip shops as politicised wrapping. This wor passed, and two people said they’d take care of it.
Point twelve: Should PIE be part of t’ meetings?
I turned to t’ weasly man next to me. ‘Pie?’ I whispered hopefully. I wor friggin’ famished.
‘Paedophile Information Exchange,’ he replied.
This caused a long and heated debate about t’ Gay Lib position on t’ age of consent, wi’ some saying there shouldn’t be one at all, and others saying it should be lowered from twenty-one to sixteen, which one of t’ PIE men said wor discriminatory against kids, and then he got into a right shouting ruckus wi’ this other bloke which ended wi’ t’ PIE man calling us all fuckin’ fascists and storming out. Finally there wor a show of hands. I didn’t raise my hand. PIE would still have lost.
There wor more friggin’ points, and then we wor asked if anyone had owt else to say, and of course some goon wi’ a stammer did. The meeting lasted a friggin’ century, and I clenched my buttocks, trying not to fart. ‘Any other business?’ took a whole half-hour.
Eventually we ‘adjourned’ downstairs. In t’ bar, the men flocked about me like gulls fighting over a morsel. Someone wor asking me loads of questions, someone else plied me wi’ drink, someone squeezed my arse. I knew I wor getting khalied, cos I wor drinking too fast and my teeth wor becoming numb. I fell against a table.
‘I should be off,’ I slurred, unable to will mesen to move. Then, somehow, I wor pushing through t’ pub doors and stumbling into a street bin. I heard a voice calling out after me, calling out my name.
Irene Richardson
05/02/1977
The Saturday after Irene Richardson wor done
Similar Books
