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Authors: Viv Albertine

Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Entertainment & Performing Arts

Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys, Boys.

BOOK: Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys, Boys.
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For Arla

CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

Introduction

Side One

1. Masturbation

2. Arcadia

3. Pet Sounds

4. Bad Boys

5. The Belt

6. You Can’t Do That

7. Chic

8. John and Yoko

9. Gone

10. The Kinks

11. Shit and Blood

12. Too Cool for School

13. Woodcraft Folk

14. Music Music Music

15. Hello, I Love You

16. Amsterdam

17. Art School

18. Dingwalls

19. 22 Davis Road

20. Peacock

21. Horses

22. First Love

23. The Leap

24. Viv and Mick

25. The Clash

26. First Guitar

27. The Roxy

28. Mick and Viv

29. Something in the Air

30. Twist of Fate

31. Shock

32. Blow Job

33. Chained

34. The Shop

35. The Flowers of Romance

36. The 100 Club

37. Christmas ’76

38. Me and Johnny T

39. Heroin

40. Shift

41. Sidney’s Dream

42. The Coliseum

43. Daventry Street

44. The Slits

45. Ari Up

46. White Riot

47. Jubilee

48. Peel Session

49. Abortion

50. Sid and Nancy

51. Personality Crisis

52. Songwriting

53. Grapevine

54. Cut

55. Simply What’s Happening

56. Space Is the Place

57. Return of the Giant Slits

58. Overdose

59. The End

Side Two

1. Lost

2. Wishing and Waiting

3. Get a Life

4. Camera Obscura

5. The Pact

6. Nab the Biker

7. The Wonderful World of Work

8. Baby Blu

9. Hell

10. Heaven and Hell

11. Blood on the Tracks

12. The White House

13. Hastings Housewife Rebels

14. Beautiful Fortress

15. The Letter

16. The Year of Saying Yes

17. Fairytale in New York

18. To Play Guitar

19. Bel Canto

20. A Matter of Death and Life

21. The New Slits

22. Falling Apart

23. Yes to Nothing

24. A Rainy Night in Nashville

25. Liberation

26. Sex and Blood

27. Flesh and MILF

28. The Midfield General

29. Beautiful Psycho

30. Lives Well Lived

31. The Vermilion Border

32. Friendly Fire

33. False Start

34. Feeling the Weird

35. Aloneness

36. An Orange

Clothes Music Boys

List of Illustrations

About the Author

Copyright

INTRODUCTION
If you don’t want to slip up tomorrow, speak the truth today.
Bruce Lee

Anyone who writes an autobiography is either a twat or broke. I’m a bit of both. Once I got going, I did make myself laugh a couple of times and learnt a few things, as patterns emerged that I hadn’t noticed before. Hopefully you’ll have a bit of a laugh and learn a few things too.

The title comes from something my mother used to say to me: ‘Clothes, clothes, clothes, music, music, music, boys, boys, boys – that’s all you ever think about!’ She would chant this refrain when I came home from school every day with no clue about the content of my lessons but able to describe in minute detail what the teacher was wearing, raving about the boys I fancied and predicting which records were going to be hits.

This is an extremely subjective book, a scrapbook of memories. The experiences documented here left an indelible emotional imprint on me; they shaped and scarred me. And I was present at every one. Let others who were there tell their versions if they want to. This is mine.

 

Some names have been changed to protect the guilty.

 

For those in a hurry …

 

Sex
references: pages
3
,
32
,
38
,
113
–5,
370
–2,
380
Drugs
references: pages
54
–5,
147
–9,
230
,
376
–7
Punk rock
references: pages
84
–6,
89
–90,
136
–8,
142
–3,
153
–4

Side One
1 MASTURBATION

Never did it. Never wanted to do it. There was no reason not to, no oppression, I wasn’t told it was wrong and I don’t think it’s wrong. I just didn’t think of it at all. I didn’t naturally want to do it, so I didn’t know it existed. By the time my hormones kicked in, at about thirteen years old, I was being felt-up by boys and that was enough for me. Bit by bit the experimentation went further until I first had sex with my regular boyfriend when I was fifteen. We were together for three years and are still friends now, which I think is nice. In all the time since my first sexual experience I haven’t masturbated, although I did try once after being nagged by friends when I complained I was lonely. But to me, masturbating when lonely is like drinking alcohol when you’re sad: it exacerbates the pain. It’s not that I don’t touch my breasts (they’re much nicer now I’ve put on a little weight) or touch between my legs or smell my fingers, I do all that, I like doing that, tucked up all warm and cosy in bed at night. But it never leads on to masturbation. Can’t be bothered. I don’t have fantasies much either – except once when I was pregnant and all hormoned up. I felt very aroused and had a violent fantasy about being fucked by a pack of rabid, wild dogs in the front garden. I later miscarried – that’ll teach me. This fantasy didn’t make me want to masturbate, I ran the scenario through my head a couple of times, wrote it down and never had a thought like it again. Honest.

(Please god let that old computer I wrote it on be smashed into a million pieces and not lying on its side in a landfill site somewhere, waiting to be dug up and analysed sometime in the future, like Lucy the Australopithecus fossil.)

Here we go then, (genital) warts an’ all …

2 ARCADIA
1958

My family arrived in England from Sydney, Australia, when I was four years old. My sister and I had three toys each: a Chinese rag doll, a teddy bear and a koala bear. We were not precious about our toys. The dolls were repeatedly buried in the back garden, eventually we forgot where they were and they perished in the earth. The teddies we would hold by their feet and smash them at each other in vicious fights until they were torn and mangled, with eyes and ears missing. We didn’t touch the koalas because they were covered in real fur and felt creepy.

We sailed from Australia to England on a ship called the
Arcadia
, according to a miniature red-and-white life-belt hanging on a nail in the bathroom. It was a six-week journey. One of my earliest memories is of my mother and father tucking my sister and me up in bunk beds in our cabin. They told us they were going to dinner, they wouldn’t be long, and if we were worried about anything, to press the buzzer by the bed and someone would go and get them. This all sounded perfectly reasonable to us, so we snuggled down and off they went.

About thirty seconds later, we were gripped by terror. I was four, my sister was two. Once the door was shut and my parents had gone, the reality of being alone at night in this strange place was unbearable. We started crying. I pressed the buzzer. After what seemed like ages and quite a lot of pressing, a steward appeared and told us everything was fine and we should go back to sleep. He left. Still scared, I pressed the buzzer again. For a very long time no one came, so I carried on. Eventually the steward came back and shouted, ‘
If you press that buzzer once more, the ship will sink and your mummy and daddy will drown
.’ I didn’t stop pressing and Mum and Dad didn’t drown, they came back from dinner to find us bawling.

Mum and Dad

At four years old I learnt an important lesson: grown-ups lie.

3 PET SOUNDS
I wish I were a girl again, half-savage and hardy and free.
Emily Brontë,
Wuthering Heights

My sister and I were quite feral little girls. We weren’t like girls at all for a few years, quite unemotional, verging on cruel. We had a dog called Candy. She was a white Yorkshire terrier and she ate her own poo. Her breath smelt. After she had an operation (so she couldn’t have puppies), she lay in her basket trying to chew the scab off her wound. I suppose we all do that in a way.

My sister and I taught Candy to sleep on her back, tucked up under a blanket with her front paws peeping over the top. On Guy Fawkes Night we dressed her up in a bonnet and a long white dress (one of our christening gowns), sat her in a doll’s pushchair and wheeled her round Muswell Hill Broadway asking for ‘a penny for the guy’. We didn’t get much, but that wasn’t the point.

We got bored with Candy quite quickly and stopped taking her for walks. The only time we called out ‘Walkies!’ and rattled her lead was when we couldn’t get her in from the back garden at night. Eventually she caught on and wouldn’t come in at all.

One day somebody put an anonymous note through our door, ‘You don’t know me but I know your poor little dog …’ Telling us off for being mean to Candy. We gave her away.

We had a cat too, Tippy. We used to build traps for her in the garden. We would dig a pit, cover it with leaves and twigs, then wait for her to fall into it, which of course she never did. So we tried to push her in instead. She ran away.

Lastly we had three goldfish, Flamingo, Flipper and Ringo, all from the local fair. Flamingo died after a few days, Flipper died a couple of weeks later and was eaten by Ringo. Ringo had a nervous breakdown (no doubt guilty about eating Flipper) and started standing on his head at the bottom of the fish tank for hours at a time. Eventually I couldn’t stand it any more so I flushed him down the loo. When the bowl cleared, he was still there, standing on his head. It took lots of flushes to get rid of him. That image of Ringo on his head at the bottom of the loo still haunts me.

BOOK: Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys, Boys.
6.82Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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