The Ned Wood Archive

Who cares what games we choose

Little to win, but nothing to lose

The Strawberry Alarm Clock

Like I already said, two days later, on the Saturday after the Thursday after the Gabriel gig, on the day I got the Television album, I also got the Jam single. I’d read about it in NME and thought I’d take a chance. You had to with so much stuff coming out that year, blink and you’d miss some’at. And like I also said, I played it and played it and played it. Even before I played the TV album I played it and played it. And I made Bernie listen to it,
even though he’d come back from town with me, having told me to buy the TV album and wanting to know what I thought of it. And I got Jo down to listen to it. And she did, even though she asked me where Annie was, though I didn’t understand why. And Jo brought Sniff with her.

So we listened. Like everything that summer it was simple, loud, obvious, and perfect.

And Jo liked it. And Bernie liked it. And Sniff loved it, and he called me Jam Fan forever after that.

Jo you know about because she lived upstairs from us in the hall. She was a laugh a minute, full of lightness and adventure. Helen used to live in the room next to her before she moved out. Sniff, though, was new to me then. I’d met him once or twice briefly, but what I didn’t realise was that he wasn’t a student. He was a townie. He’d just decided it would be cool to hang around the Union, and he managed to make friends with Jo, so he just came by and we accepted him as one of us.

He’d ride up on his bike, dressed in his leathers, which were held together with a couple of safety pins. His hair was so ragged and sharp, like a hedgepig’s. He had two or three earrings on each lobe, maybe a razor blade hanging on a rider in his ear or round his neck on a long chain and a scarf or red handkerchief round his neck or his head. And still at school.

They’re strange people, bikers. Have you noticed? It’s like the bike is the centre of their universe. Sniff was like that. He’d always take that extra bit of care parking his bike. He’d try and leave it where he could see it, and when he was in your room, he’d try and look out of the window to check it was still there. He could do that in some of the rooms overlooking the drive, but he couldn’t do it from my room which was at the back. It must have been torture.

There was another guy with a bike at Chamberlain. There must have been more, but this one I remember too. He lived in South Lodge, in one of those rooms that must have been servants’ rooms once. I can’t remember his name, but I’m pretty sure he shared his room with Chris, at least until Chris moved out. He loved his bike too, but he was always taking it apart. I remember going in to see Chris and finding that every spare surface in the room had a part of a bike on it. All sparkling clean – that strong grey metal look that comes when you soak stuff in white spirit and give a good scrubbing with a wire brush. There were engine parts on the mantelpiece, the cooling fins looking like some modern ornament, a gear box in front of the wardrobe, a chain hanging from the light, spark plugs and other small stuff that I wouldn’t know what to do with, but which looked mighty important, stacked up on the desk. It was as if this guy had undone his very soul and spread it all out before us. Chris didn’t seem to mind. If anything, it made him more at home.

Chris’ room-mate would always be having the same discussion, whenever I was there, using the fact that I come from the Midlands as a cue. Actually, it was a monologue – like he was on a soap box, or more likely one of those old geezers that sit in the corners of waiting rooms at stations or your local alehouse and talk to the wind.

He’d say “All the best bikes were made in the Midlands.” To which someone would say Harley Davidson or Ducati, or Vincent and get a reply like America, Italy, or Stevenage, as if that was all it took to prove his argument. And if not he’d go on about Ariels, or BSAs, or AJSes or Broughs or Nortons. Which reminded me of home, because the bikers there were always talking about BSAs and stuff. Not that the argument would end there, so he’d ask what sort of bike Brando rode in the Wild One and, reaching over and caressing the nearest part of his bike, say “Coventry’s finest”.

He’d tell whoever wanted to listen, that Brando, wearing jeans, white T-shirt, leather jacket and all that jazz, rode “Coventry’s finest”, whatever that meant.

Anyway, back to Sniff. What I also didn’t realise till that day was that he was a Tricky. Should have placed his accent I guess. Cos that was what threw us into thinking he wasn’t local – he’d moved down with his folks two or three years before. He’d lived the first thirteen or fourteen years of his life in Nottingham. But, as I keep getting told, I never listen to folk, so I didn’t pick up his accent until he shoved its source in my face. See, after three playings of the Jam, he rushed out, then rushed back five minutes later, a distracted expression on his face like he’s trying to add up in his head.

“What you looking so pleased about, then?” asks Jo.

“Oh…One all,” says Sniff, eventually understanding he’s the centre of attention. I heard the ‘One all’ and that part of my brain which dealt with language recognition swung into action.

“Football,” says Jo. “You should talk to Riff about it.”

A feeling of guilt was passing over me. Here I am, the football freak of the Hall and I’ve forgotten all about it for a day. I’ve been so wound up by my new vinyl that I’ve missed catching the results on the radio. And not only have I been exposed in front of a fellow football freak, but he turns out to be a Red just like me.

So I find out that Forest have drawn one all. Sniff says Robbo put us ahead in the first half, but Rovers equalised in the second. Bristol Rovers of all people. Here we are three games of the season left and we can’t win at Bristol. And Chelsea, Notts, Bolton, Blackpool all won.

So what does that mean? Now I’m back in football mode. Jo and Bernie fade away like the Cheshire Cat. It’s just me and Sniff now. I’m trying to remember the positions from this morning and add ones or twos to the points totals. We’d gone third by beating Oldham while I was grooving to the mighty Lou Reed, that much I knew.

Sniff provided the answer and at the same time proved how much closer he was to it all by scrawling the positions on the wall, just above my bed, using a blue biro that was the first thing he could find. Just the top few teams, their points, and how many games they’d played.

Wolves Chelsea Forest Notts Bolton Blackpool Luton Charlton

54 52 48 48 47 46 ?? ??

(39) (40) (40) (40) (38) (39)

“Do we care about Luton and Charlton?” he asked. For sure Jo and Bernie didn’t care.

It all depended how many games they had left. We knew it was at least two. One of the pleasures of the end of the season is when you can look at the table and know that some teams just can’t overtake you. There’s immense satisfaction from knowing that even if you lose all your games and say Leyton Orient for example win all of theirs, they can’t catch you.

“What about Southampton?” I asked. We both wanted to end up above them.

“No, they could still do it, even though they lost.” Sniff knew exactly what I meant.

Then he wrote down the maximum number of points each team could get. After he left I realised I should have made some pretence to stop him. After all, that was my wall, and my deposit he was risking. He’d put this untidy scrawl on the white-washed wall right above my bed. The sort of untidy scrawl that won’t wash off in a hurry. I put the Bowie poster from the inside of Man Who Sold the World over it so the cleaners wouldn’t notice. The one in black and white where he’s playing guitar and kicking the camera. It was only a painted wall anyway. At the time I was more interested in what he was writing. I took the poster back down and stared.

Wolves Chelsea Forest Notts Bolton Blackpool Luton Charlton

54 52 48 48 47 46 ?? ??

(39) (40) (40) (40) (38) (39)

60 56 52 52 55 52

That didn’t look so good. Only three go up. We had to win our last two games and hope everyone else slipped up.

“No, only Bolton,” said Sniff. “On account of we’ve got the best goal difference”

But I wasn’t convinced. It looked too close to me. I stared at the wall and played the Jam twice more to make me feel better. And it did. It always does.