The Downham Tavern was my sister Becky’s place. There all-dayers there were one of the parties that she’d started going to while I sat my last year in Leeds. Now, I was back. Both of us, momentarily, living at my dad’s. Mum having dumped him for Charlie. 

I pestered Becky to get me a ticket. She didn’t want me along, cramping her style, showing her up, but when I bought a bag of Es – quality Calis – from an old school friend who was dealing, she finally buckled. I remember, that first Saturday, sitting out by the clothes-line, sharing a spliff with her friends. All of them five years younger, dressed in matching flowery Laura Ashley jumpsuits and spotless white Nikes. Becky said, “I’ve got you two tickets, but you’re not sharing a cab with us, and don’t speak to me, or spy on me, when we’re in there.” I managed to convince a mate, today let’s call him “Jim” to come with. 

Jim was a friend, but he was tighter with Davey. Now that Davey was at poly we’d been pushed closer together. Everyone else we used to hang about with was crazily engaged or married. I’d dragged Jim to The Fridge, when Coldcut were spinning, given him a pill and it had taken his head clean off. He spent the rest of the night holding my hand and telling me how beautiful everything was. Since then, most weekends, I’d pick a spot, sort us both out, and Jim’d do the driving. The thing was that Jim was Old Bill.

When I’d left for uni, Jim had been serving an apprenticeship as a site foreman, but the perks of joining the force – decent salary, pension, holiday and assisted accommodation – meant he’d thought, “Why not?” He had his own flat in Beckenham. Such were the times, though, both of us barmy, the two of us didn’t think twice. E seemed practically legal. Everybody was doing it. If you didn’t you were the odd one out. 

In the Tavern we’d bump into tons of people we knew. A lot of exes actually, and their new fellers. They were surprised to see us, especially Jim, but welcomed us with open arms. As we became regulars, and got to know our way around, we made friends with the familiar faces, for starters, there was a big group of geezers from Portsmouth, and also began to recognise the records. The DJ’s set always built in a particular order. There’d be fireworks, for example, to the sound of A Split Second’s “Flesh”. The last tune would be The Waterboys’ “The Whole Of The Moon” (1). 

During the party, high, we’d all be on some mad internal mission. Dancing. Wandering off. We’d get separated, but the opening bars, the clipped guitar chords, of Chris Rea’s “Josephine” were a signal that the lights were about to come on. We’d all run around the venue to a prearranged meeting point. Where we’d hug, and I’d try not to cry.  

I guess the song’s mix of jaunty lick and orchestra strings unlocked different things for different people. Most would be smiling, singing along, skipping in Timberland boots. I’d be dancing, but eyes closed. Surrounded by rushing ravers but in my head totally alone. Soaked in self-absorbed sadness. A romantic lead lost in some private movie. I’d be eaten by this bittersweet feeling. Spine tingling, exhaling. Catching my breath. Where happiness felt like a faded, yellowed photograph. A thing of the past. My girl was in Merseyside. My mum and dad in tatters. My little sister somewhere in here off her nut. All these things that I couldn’t hold on to. People I’d hurt. All the things that I couldn’t stop from falling apart. 

Becky and her crew, plus any boys they’d picked up, would pile into taxis and head for Proctor’s Promised Land – somewhere she’d forbidden me to go. Me and Jim, instead, would find a quiet place to park, I’d skin up and we’d waffle on about the meaning of life, until sunrise and the buzz began to wear off. Jim and me, of course, him being a copper, we eventually came a cropper, that’s a tale for another time, but it was Jim who turned up at my bed-sit, right after my old man kicked me out, with a gift of the Chris Rea 12 in his hand (2). 

NOTES

1. It’s probably impossible to imagine now, but, back before digital and back before the internet, these tunes were like gold dust. The French remix of Chris Rea’s “Josephine”, Red Box’s “Enjoy”, Scarlett Fantastic’s “No Memory”, even the 12 of “The Whole Of The Moon”. The sound of The Downham Tavern in particular was built on this white pop. Everyone had a forgotten `80s favourite. Something that struck a chord in an MDMA-fuelled moment. These were records that folks came to dance to, and, often, they couldn’t hear them anywhere else. They were closely guarded secrets, and once you’d somehow, third, fourth hand, managed to get an “ID”, you’d spend months scouring shops, nearly always coming up empty. 

2. It was Davey who scored bright red copies of the Scarlett Fantastic from a second-hand bin for only a quid each.