Babylon will burn.
Skinheads, punks and students. With a healthy sprinkling of squaddies as this is a garrison town.
A heady little brew.
A spicy looking stew.
The skinheads hate the punks. The punks hate the skinheads. The squaddies will probably join the skinheads. Everyone hates the students, even me and I am one. What deranged Entertainments Officer in their stripy blazer and scarf was daft enough to dream this little gig up? The Rutts are coming and Babylon will burn.
Babylon is burning.
Five minutes after the Rutts start their set Babylon ignites. The lead singer is setting about a bunch of skinheads with his microphone stand and calling them fascists. His language is appalling, I feel like asking him if he kisses his mother with that mouth, a symphony in f sharp, flat, major and minor. Boot and beautiful alliteration punctuate his sentences as he lays out all about.
The skinheads are hitting the punks.
The punks are hitting the skinheads.
Skinny little students are holding up their fists in classic Marquis of Queensbury pose and skinny little students are getting creamed. The police are outside. There’s a rumour that someone has had their throat cut with the ragged edge of a split beer can. The police took one look in and decided the air was cleaner out there. In my opinion this is a pity as they would be the final perfect ingredient in this volatile little mix.
One more tribe
To go to war
For a haircut.
I am perfectly calm.
Sometimes I am impervious to harm.
People run towards me but for some reason they always back off.
Perhaps they think I am a crazy person because of my goofy smile.
Perhaps they do not like the broken bottles that I hold
one in each hand.
If this is Hell’s kitchen
For one night only
I am head chef.