Birmingham, England - July 1978
“The Cla …. The Cla … The Cla…”
“You’ve got the clap?”
“No … The Cla ….”
“You really should cut down on the fags.”
“No stamina these keyboard players. What do you expect though? They just stand there all night.”
“The fucking Clash!”
“Congratulations. A complete sentence. Sort of.”
“I knew he could do it.”
“We’ve got a gig with The Clash!”
“It’s those night school classes he’s been – WHAT!? What did you just say?”
Mulligan has got his breath back. He sniffs and turns his back.
“Never mind never mind, fuck face, what did you just say?” Dik demands.
“Come on Jon. What? A gig? With The Clash? You’re kidding right? Like that time you told us your granddad was a captain in the IRA.”
“I’m not telling you now.” Mulligan sulks, but I can see malicious glee is all but straightening his dreadlocks.
“What we need in a situation like this is a manager.” I say, “So we’d know what’s going on.”
“Or a swift knee in the bollocks.” Dik says.
“Oh, alright then. I was in town and I ran into Corky. He needs a band this Saturday to open for The Clash at Barbs. He said we could do it if we want.”
“If we fuckin’ want?!” I’m hopping around the room like a totem pole on the loose.
“Hang on,” Dik says, “It’s Friday today innit. That means tomorrow night?”
“Yeah.” Mulligan says, “You aren’t busy are you? Washing your pubes or anything?”
“Right after the gig Jon, that’s precisely what I plan on doing.” Dik says. “Right, rehearsal tonight men. There’s gonna be some fuckin’ white men in Barbarellas tomorrow night!”
Causes Luke James Supports
Doctors Without Borders