Night of the Hawks
I had a Saturday job at a town caf called Macaris. We were just a bunch of sixth form school kids who knew nothing, just there to earn a few quid and gain some useful job experience at the weekends, either practically or for the CV, who knows, in those days it was apparently important, like doing your Duke of Edinburgh Award.
That night we were going to see Hawkwind, the retro space rockers, who were probably even retro all those years ago (they are still going now, I saw one of them in the Laines in Brighton a few months ago when I happened to hear they were playing at the Old Market, not that I went, regretfully actually — they were doing their classic Warrior on the Edge of Time album). Not just any “one” of them, but perhaps the most recognisable one, to a fan like me at least, the leader, the Brockster, guitar and voc.; long straggly hair, like many ‘70s rockers, still intact.
Ferrari driving Lou, the Mac boss, wasn’t happy we were leaving early: Why don’t you just buy the record instead, he asked, just play it over and over for less than the cost of the ticket plus going all the way to Guildford.
All of these things happened at Mac’s, not all on the same day, but over the short period I worked there: We watered down the ice cream — sometimes to such an extent the Mister Whippy machine would just deposit creamy slush into the cone (and all over your hand) — this was the worst job to have especially on a hot summer’s day; we dropped lettuce leaves on the floor and walked over them before placing them in sandwiches; and we weighted the sandwich content down the centre cut, empty around the edges. Every little helps.
We were allowed a fizzy drink at break time where we sat upstairs with a sign on the wall proclaiming the formation of Unions was forbidden. As if that would ever happen.
My friend Keith told a black colleague to wash her face! We were young and foolish. But even then I was ashamed I didn’t stand up for her. She liked me and wrote me love letters, but Keith was cool — with leather trousers and long hair and a car: A metallic green Ford Capri with no seat belts and an unreliable alarm. On one camping trip down to Cornwall it didn’t even have brakes — just the handbrake Keith had to apply in anticipation of junctions.
Another worker, whose name I can’t remember, but the word Marshall comes to mind, said he’d break my legs by laying them across two chairs and jumping on them. This was if I didn’t allow him to come to a party my girlfriend Penny had planned, at my house, while my parents were away. I cancelled it and hid behind the sofa with the lights out. No one called that night. Thank god we didn’t have Facebook in those days.
One time Lou said he’d pay me an extra pound if I could butter all the loaves of bread in half an hour instead of the usual hour I spent. I fell for it — did the task in super quick time and then he said — right, you can do that every time now for your normal wages. Got suckered into that one.
So we left Mac’s earlier than normal that afternoon and travelled up to Guildford in Keith’s phallic metal machine with Hawkwind’s Sonic Attack album blasting from the speakers.
There was plenty of dry ice and a bank of TV screens strobing eyeballs, hands and fingers opening and closing in quick succession like the opening credits to classic 70s kids sci-fi programme Tomorrow’s People. The sound was a dirge. The extended Sonic Attack title track was great but on the way out I had to ask someone if they had even played Silver Machine. I don’t think they did. Outside in the street I bumped into Penny with her new boyfriend Gareth. He was cool too; he had long hair and wore waistcoats. That was a bit awkward.
