Angels vs. Skins

'What's The Truth About Hells Angels and Skinheads' is a BBC 'Man Alive' documentary from 1969. With Angels and Skins neck and neck in the contemporary Folk Devil stakes, presenter Harold Williamson decides to meet and talk with members of each group and, crucially, to speak to their parents, in order to find out what they're really like. He does, and it makes for interesting viewing. 

THE TRUTH ABOUT HELLS ANGELS   

Williamson's first job is to spend some time with a chapter of Hell's Angels from Oldbury in the Midlands. The leader is called Hasser, and is inordinately proud of his Nazi regalia. When asked what it represents, he readily admits that it is purely to set himself against the older generation, to align himself with something they fought against. Just as the Angels cultivate a scruffy, sleazy image, they take a direct route to alienating their elders by adopting the symbols of opposition - a taboo that the Punks would latch onto a few years later. In Williamson's assessment, for the Angels, 'to disgust is to win'.

Hasser, like the Captain of a ship, is able to conduct marriage services although, unlike the Captain of a ship, these are not actually legal. Still, the Angels don't care about little things like that. The ceremony is simple: swear on the Motorbike Manual, exchange oil lock rings and get sprayed with beer by your fellows.

A divorce is even simpler, the husband simply rips up the motorbike manual - but this must be done in one go. The Motorcycle Manual is their Bible, so this feat of strength is not to be taken lightly.

At this point, it's worth introducing the happy couple, Sylvia and Hitler.   

SYLVIA AND HITLER

Sylvia is nearly eighteen; Hitler isn't much older. They're not really married, of course, but they are 'in the eyes of the Angels' which is all that seems to matter to them. Sylvia is scatty, chatty and likeable, and says 'am' instead of 'are' (as in 'we're happy as we am') and 'them' instead of 'they' (as in 'them think we barmy'); Hitler is a gangly, gormless boy with an almost impenetrable Black Country accent and a tendency to make comments that highlight just how tough he is: 'I like to beat a skinhead up, that's great. If it were legal, we'd go about hanging skinheads'. 'If it were legal', Hitler? What sort of outlaw attitude is that?

When asked whether he'd ever divorce Sylvia he says: 'if she's a bad girl I'll thump her head in. I could slit her throat or hang her - depends what mood I'm in' (and, presumably, what's legal).

Through all this, Sylvia looks on at him adoringly. It's hard to believe, but she thinks he's brilliant. When she says 'give us a kiss' he says 'what for?' before grabbing her and sticking his tongue down her throat. He's a real catch. Sylvia has no interest in the conventional idea of marriage, anyway, turning up her nose at the idea of a gold ring rather than one taken from a motorbike. At this point, Hitler chips in with: 'You get two things with them brass rings: a ring, and a green finger'. It's the most sensible thing he's said so far.    

Sylvia's parents simply have no idea what their daughter is doing with her life, although they concede that she has never been in trouble. They seem to know Hitler quite well, perhaps even liking him, but clearly not liking what he represents.

Mr. Gough soon gets onto the subject of his sort-of son in law's name. Funnily enough, as a war veteran, he doesn't like it and recognises it for what it is, a cheap attempt to shock.  Hitler comes back with a rather pathetic 'it ain't done anybody any harm' before Mr. Gough delivers the killer blow:

'Is that a clever name, do you think, PAUL?'.

THE TRUTH ABOUT SKINHEADS

There are, according to Williamson, 8,000 Skinheads in Britain. A Youth Cult in the most fundamental sense, very few of them are much older than eighteen. 'If you're feeling sad and need cheering up' says Williamson, the sarky devil, 'you're never too young to be a skinhead'.

Williamson first meets with a gang from the East End. Chelsea fans, all around 16, they have some things to say, not least about 'Pakis'. Greasers are their natural enemy, one says, Pakistanis 'a pastime'. Eager to clarify, he says: 'It's not their colour because, you know, the Jamaicans are alright. They don't like Pakis either. Anyway, sometimes we hit 'em, sometimes we just leave 'em'. 

On their 'natural enemy' the Skins are quite clear: 'There ain't no Hells Angels in this country, just old greasers like we used to have'. Comparing the exploits of the UK bikers to their American counterparts one says: 'What they do is mouse like (I love that phrase) compared to what they do out there, innit? They smash up whole towns and get away with it. A band of grease couldn't even smash up a club over here and get away with it. Well, maybe once or twice, but not a third time'.   

Wiliamson asks how long will they be Skinheads:'About 18. We've got nothing to lose now. After 20, 25  you've got yer wife to think about'. There it is, then, the trajectory of a working class youth - a brief, wild hurrah, then domesticity and conformity.    

STEVE THOMPSON

Steve is 16, and works as an assistant at a Printers. He doesn't really care about his job, he just likes the money it gives him to spend at the weekend.

Steve's Mum doesn't like him being a skinhead because of his appearance. He just doesn't look like her little boy, anymore.

Steve's father is one of those great working class armchair philosophers that programmes like this often turn up. Master of his own home, he maintains a sense of sang froid throughout the interview, ultimately making Williamson sound like a hysterical old biddy. An ex-Teddy Boy, he can relate to Steve's desire to 'be trendy, be one of the crowd', recalling his old uniform of 'midnight blue drape suit, pink shirt and a big stetson hat'. 

It's a phase, he says, a short-lived craze and Steve agrees (it would be interesting to pinpoint the moment when youth cults went from being a short, intense experience to being something some people adhere to their whole lives. It was definitely some time after the original event: revivals tend to breed fanatics, eager to prove themselves equal to the originals). Williamson asks: 'But what about him not being able to go into cinemas and certain dance halls, being banned from these places?'. Dad thinks for a moment then replies 'I can't really blame him for that, though, that's the old Authorities'.

When Steve is interviewed he seems a thoughtful, soft spoken boy, light years away from one of the crowd talking about 'rolling Pakis' (on this, Dad says he thinks this is exaggerated - merely bravado - Steve agrees it is - for the most part). Steve says that he wanted to be a Journalist but, when he went for an interview, his East End background went against him. After that he couldn't be bothered, and got the first job that came along. He says something very telling about the class system that absolutely pinpoints why he is a Skinhead:

'I thought I could get out of it (his class), but I've come to my senses and realised I can't. If you can't get noticed at work, you get noticed on the streets. They notice us, and that's what we want'. 

Steve tells a story about how a thousand Skinheads converged on Southend and went looking for Greasers. In the crowd, all dressed the same, all shorn the same, all with the same aim, he felt security - a common cause - comradeship - a sense of belonging that nearly brought tears to his eyes.

'There you go' says Dad 'that sums it up, that's what they are: they're sentimental boys'.     

Clear Your Diary 2

Another Sunday, another dose of self promotion. After a very successful and hugely enjoyable first week, Subverse Britannia continues at the Showroom Cinema in Sheffield, and today, I'm proud to be introducing one of the finest sci fi horror films ever made, Joseph Losey's 'The Damned'. It all kicks off at 2 pm. I know it's snowing and all that, but it's worth the trip, honest. 

Milton!

The formidable (and familiarly attired) Mr. Milton Reid turns up in 'Terror', playing a bouncer at a bizarre club where the main attraction is a stripping whip wielding punkette. When the customer get out of long, Milton attacks, neutralises and frogmarches their sleazy arses out. No lines, but plenty of action.

One Step Beyond Horror

‘Terror’ is absolutely brilliant from start to finish. Although there is a plot (something about a foxy witches curse), it mainly concerns itself with introducing (occasionally attractive) people before almost immediately putting them in perilous situations, racking up the tension with horror signifiers familiar from nightmares and other horror films and then summarily disposing of them in inventive, gruesome and bloody ways.  

What most of them have to do with the curse is anyone’s guess, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that they die: beheaded by falling glass, smashed on the head by a falling spotlight that then catches fire, garrotted and then impaled on some railings. Most of all, there’s a whole lot of stabbing going on, and in really painful places, like the foot, and the crotch, and the mouth. I don’t suppose there is a nice place to get stabbed, but these attacks look particularly ‘ouch-y’ (if that is a word), and you can imagine contemporary audiences cringing as the blade plunges in.

Ostensibly a straightforward slasher, you keep expecting a ‘Scooby Doo’ dénouement where the killer is revealed - until the film climaxes in a full on supernatural assault in which that pesky, foxy witch turns up and wreaks her bloody final revenge which reminded me of ’Suspira’ on a shoestring budget, lots of dry ice and a wind machine.

Extremely enjoyable, and it features Milton Reid in a supporting role! It’s a classic, and the sort of film this blog is all about.

Terror

Brace Yourselves...

You're Invited To The Torture Party

‘Satan’s Slave’ is a film that director Norman J. Warren sweated blood to make, spending years on getting the finance into place. His efforts were rewarded with a sizeable UK hit and, best of all, a really cool piece of work that still entertains today.

Crazy old Michael Gough stars, here sporting an outsized moustache and, on occasion, a goat’s head mask. He has designs on his niece (Candace Glendenning), believing that her sacrifice will bring about the resurrection of a centuries dead witch. He is aided and abetted by his creepy rapist / murderer son who alternately woos and threatens the girl, who is especially vulnerable as her parents have just been burned alive in a mysterious car accident.  

Full of energy, verve and a keen sense of the grand guignol, ‘Satan’s Slave’ powers towards a surprising finale, but only after knocking off several cast members in a succession of grisly murders. Gough is his usual urbane / psychotic self, but a special mention should go to Martin Potter, who plays the evil son. Potter also appeared in ‘Goodbye, Gemini’, so seems to specialise in deeply fucked up individuals with a habit of stabbing their way out of uncomfortable situations. Potter is aided in his characterisations by his unforgettable face: at first glance rather handsome but, on closer inspection, waxy and haunted, like a contorted mask. It’s a great asset as an actor, although I wouldn’t want it between my ears.    

Satan's Slave

Come Back, Mrs. Noah

How can one describe 'Come Back, Mrs. Noah', a 1977 sitcom written by Jimmy Perry and David Croft ('Dad's Army', 'Hi De Hi', 'Allo fucking 'Allo) about an annoying old biddy (Molly Sugden) who accidentally ends up in orbit when her fat arse presses the launch button on an experimental rocket?

How about 'it's shit'? 

A much, much worse than it sounds cross between 'Space 1999' and 'It Ain't 'alf Hot, Mum', it's set in a 2050 where Britain is once again the dominant world power (yeah, right) and starts off by not being funny in the slightest before quickly becoming so pathetic that even the writers tire of the show and, realising there isn't going to be a second series, end it by simply flinging the rocket containing the ageing cast even further out into the universe, a sort of cosmic 'fuck you' to a load of shitty, shit smeared space junk. Good riddance.    

It's A Small World

Town Centre, Model Village

Promenade, Southport and Babbacombe, Torquay

This model village is apparently in two places at once, which is good in some ways, but perhaps means that they are machine tooled rather than the handiwork of a one off man mental with unlimited money and leisure time, which slightly goes against the grain. Here ancient meets modern on a bonkers red plastic road that looks like a series of horrific accidents waiting to happen. Caution tiny motorists, if you slide off and hit the verge there's a twenty foot drop to contend with.