The Haçienda (2 page)

Well, back then we did. Now, of course, it just seems like a good old-fashioned mess. Because not only were we never told how much we’d earned, but also we weren’t told how much we’d invested in the club, either, so we can’t know for certain how much of our earnings were used to keep the Haçienda afloat. It was clearly a huge fuck-up, but one we’ll never be able to gauge the true scale of.

As my mother Irene used to say, God rest her soul, ‘You’ll never get into trouble if you tell the truth, our Peter.’ Let’s see if she’s right. This book is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

As I remember it.

Hooky, 2009

It’s eleven o’clock Saturday morning and I’m well up for it. Tonight’s going to be a big night for me. I’m doing the door in my own nightclub, the Haçienda: the biggest, wildest place in Manchester, in England and possibly the world. Where everything happens and anyone who’s anyone goes to do it.

The reason I’m working the door? We’ve had a lot of trouble.

We always have trouble, of course, but complaints against the doormen have reached an all-time high. The management say they’re on the take and that they’re worse than the gangs. The police say they’re worse than the gangs. Even the gangs are saying they’re worse than the gangs ...

Meanwhile, the punters are unhappy, too, and there’s been a growing number of complaints from women. Violence against male punters isn’t exactly unheard of, but now they’re saying that girls are on the receiving end as well. A couple have been slapped, one punched, one beaten up,and we’ve had a few women alleging that what started as a ‘drug search’ ended with a bouncer’s hand down their knickers.

I guess that’s really what’s made me take action and why it’s different from all the previous moaning about the doormen: these complaints have come from girls.

Talking about it to our head doorman, Paul Carroll, he brushed it off: ‘You can just as easily be stabbed or shot by a woman as a man, Hooky. And anyway, if you’re so fucking clever, why don’t you come and do the door?’

‘Right, right,’ I said, ‘I will. Saturday. You’re on. You can rest easy now, Paul. I’ll be in charge!’

Fucking hell. Me and my big mouth.

I get the kids ready to take back to their mam’s house. One of the only good things about being a single parent, you always have a babysitter for your nights out. It’s unusual for me to go on a Saturday, though. I’m more of a Friday person myself: I prefer the music. Saturdays at the
Haçienda tend to be a bit too dressed-up for me,both sartorially and musically. But tonight I’ll make an exception.

I phone my mate Twinny and arrange to meet him in the Swan in Salford about one p.m. ‘Get stocked up,’ he says, ‘and I’ll bring the little fellas.’

Dutifully I phone my friend in Chorlton and arrange a couple of Gs of Colombia’s finest for later.

Now, what does one wear to do the door? Hmm.

Black?

Too formal.

Something casual?

No authority.

I know, the linen look: Armani suit, white shirt, brown loafers – my summer 1991 outfit.Sorted.

God, I’m excited. Scared, mainly. It’s amazing how fucking dangerous the door can be, from roaming hordes of Leeds stag-nighters to gangsters demanding respect by not paying and scores being settled both on the way in and on the way out. It all happens on the door.

I get ready, shower and dress. My mate Rex brings me a glass of milk. He’s an old Joy Division follower,from when he was fourteen.It was he who tested our flight cases, by which I mean we’d lock him in one and roll it down five flights of stairs. He’s ended up homeless for a while, so he’s living with me and engineering in my studio for me too.

‘Best to line your stomach for later,’ he says in his strong Blackburn/Chorley accent.

He’s a good lad.

So, at last I’m ready. Phone the cab, do a cheeky line of speed and off I go. Man, these Withington cabs stink; I’m worried about my suit already. I stop off at my friend Wendy’s house to collect. God bless her, nice to see her. She’s a lovely lady. We chat for a while, she does me a sample and I’m off again.

Salford, here I come. Home sweet home. The Swan is an old pub on Eccles New Road opposite Weaste bus depot, an area I’ve hung around my whole life. I was born in Ordsall and grew up there; when we formed the band in 1976 we used to practise upstairs at the Swan – it cost us 50p each, as long as we bought a pie and a pint. That was just before we got our drummer, Steve. Then Ian moved back to Macclesfield and we mainly practised there.

That room above the Swan is still there, exactly the same. The pictures on the wall have been taken but the fag smoke has framed them perfectly forever.It’s very weird seeing it.I go up every now and then – if I’m melancholic about how Joy Division ended up, or pissed off with New Order. Reduces me to tears sometimes.

But not today. Today I’m buzzing.

I walk into the pub. Twinny’s already here and he’s with Cormac, Beckett and Jim Beswick, who gets the first pint. A nice tradition: you never pay for your first drink. Well, it’s only fair as I’ll be paying for them all in the club later.

There’s an electricity about the place. It’s just a normal, shitty, working-man’s pub but it seems too alive today. What’s going on? I look around to see what’s happening. There’s a crowd in the snug – unusual for one in the afternoon.

‘Ah,’ Twinny laughs. ‘It’s the Salford lot . . .’

Turns out a bunch of the younger gang members had recognized two ‘dealers’ as undercover cops – a man and a woman posing as a couple – and arranged to meet them here, away from prying eyes, to quietly do a ‘deal’. Then a team of armed gangsters had turned up and hemmed the coppers in.

I go over and have a look. Trapped like mice tormented by a cat, the poor bastards are pinned in the corner being made to smoke a joint while someone else chops out a line of whizz for them, insisting that they take one each. Fuck, what a joke. Seems they’d been recognized from court and there you go: some light entertainment for the afternoon. Fuckin’ hell. Half an hour later the coppers are being sent on their way, stoned, whizzing, with a kick up the arse. See you.

We settle down to an afternoon’s hard drinking. Two more pints and I’m feeling very brave about later.

‘There are problems at the Haçienda,’ I tell the lads. ‘I’ll get to the bottom of it,sort it out.’

The lads are laughing. The afternoon passes in a haze of dope smoke, beer and prawns from the market. ‘Rhythm is a Dancer’ on repeat. Beckett almost sells a car he’s got outside but ends up having a fight with a prospective customer who’s over-revving the engine. He even gets in the guy’s car and screws that, too. Hilarious. As daylight fades, I’m offered everything from racing bikes to CDs, washing machines, fags, sweets and holidays in Turkey . . . Fuck, it’s endless. And
before you know it it’s nine p.m. Time for work. The lads go home to get changed while I head for the Haç.

Manchester’s buzzing now.Loads of people everywhere.God,I love this city. I’m so proud to be part of its heritage. As I round Deansgate and head up Whitworth Street I can hear the bass drum from our sound system, the one I helped to build. I love the way it makes the Haçienda’s windows rattle. Who’d have windows in a nightclub? Us. Yes, fucking twelve of them, all rattling away like a manic mullah calling us to worship.

I step out of the car. What, no red carpet?

‘Where have you been, cunt?’ asks Paul Carroll.

Charming. I walk inside, towards the bar, get in the corner. I work out an arrangement with Anton, the bar manager, where he’ll bring me a treble vodka and orange every twenty minutes. A Special. I neck the first one. Then go to the door. Right, bring it on.

I check the regular doormen: Damien Noonan, Pete Hay, Stav, several others I know to nod to. Good lads. They’re smiling. Why are they smiling?

Because
fuck
this is boring. I’m whizzing me tits off. It’s very slow between nine and eleven p.m.,just a few trying to get the cheap ‘before ten thirty’admission,but we’re sold out – always are.We’ve sold 2000 tickets in advance at our bar, Dry, earning us a £2 premium on each. (Don’t tell the licensing, ha ha: we’re only meant to hold 1400.)

Then, as we near eleven p.m., there’s a definite change of atmosphere. It becomes more intense, hectic, like things are about to spin out of control.Suddenly everyone’s rushing,shouting,wide-eyed.The pubs are closing and they all want to get in before the queues form. Our bouncers are good, working well, recognizing a few teams as small-time gang members and refusing them entry,no trouble.A couple of drunks are sent on their way with a slap.

‘This is going well,’ I think sipping my third drink, watching someone arguing about the guest-list. He’s claiming to be Barney’s brother; there’ll be maybe five or six brothers and sisters for each member of New Order coming every night.This one gets knocked back and slinks off with his tail between his legs.

Then it happens.

One of the doormen is talking to a mate. I’m watching, and suddenly his mate disappears. He’s collapsed. It goes off like the Wild West: he’s
been poleaxed, stabbed in the head. The guilty little fucker’s run off down Whitworth Street before our lads can do anything. The doorman cradles his mate’s bleeding head in his hands.

‘
John. John
...’

Fucking hell. But then he’s up and OK. Shit.

Another Special comes my way. I grab Anton and say, ‘Better change that to every ten minutes,mate.’

My heart’s pounding.Then it goes off again.One of the older Salford lot is arguing about paying the £2 guest-list that we have to charge in order to keep the licence.He’s got one of the very well-known Salford girls with him and it’s going off royal. Damien is shouting, then they’re all shouting. Fuck me. Suddenly two lads from a rival gang take the hump at being refused and kick off. They’re turfed out but retaliate by throwing bottles at the door. Our doormen give chase and catch them on the pool-hall steps,unfortunately for them.It took me a while to realize that there are two sorts of bouncers:the big,muscly ones we all know and love; and the little ones built entirely for speed, like cheetahs and lions.

But fuck me. I’ve had enough of this.

I check my watch. It’s ten forty-five. Paul Carroll and Damien are laughing their bollocks off as I skulk away, tail between my legs.

Welcome to the Haçienda.

I slide in through the famous doors, with their number 51 cut into them, wipe my feet on the ‘51’ mats. The place is packed now. Throbbing.Nearly full.Do I know everyone in here? Suppose I do.

I make my way towards the bar. Seems to take forever. I’m fucked. I need another drink. I meander to my corner at the bottom of the stairs where Ang Matthews and Leroy Richardson, the co-managers, hang out. I take in the club and watch the shenanigans. The bouncers are all laughing now about my evening as a failed doorman. Bastards. Stav comes by – to ‘watch over’ me, he says. But I know that the true reason is that he loves to share my drugs. He’s always getting a bollocking off Paul for it, but we have a laugh.

I settle in. This is a good night, a constant parade of people: friends, acquaintances, drug dealers, load of girls. I’m single but never can quite seem to make it with the women here. It’s more like they come for the occasion, not to cop off. Either that or I’m too fucked to get it together.

It’s really busy, so I go up to the DJ box. I bang on the door for what seems like an hour and finally Graeme Park lets me in.

‘Oh Hooky, here’s a tape for you,’ he says, handing it to me.

‘Great, a Saturday-night tape from last weekend,’ I think. ‘That’s nice of him.’ (Not realizing that he’s been selling them on the quiet for £10 each and making anywhere from £500 to a grand extra per night. Good lad; wish we’d thought of that.)

Where were we? Right, lines. I bring out the charlie, chop them out and survey the madness:a sea of hands,flashing lights,all moving to the
bang, bang, bang
of the bass drum. God, it’s good to be alive and owner of the Haçienda. What happened earlier? Can’t quite recall.

Later I rejoin the lads. My mate Travis is in.

‘Go and get us a couple of little fellas from the Salford lot,’ I say, and he departs to the back corner of the alcove. The alcoves are famous. Each contains a different gang,but we call this particular one Hell.This is gang-member territory.If you wander in without approval you get a slap and you’re shoved back out if you’re lucky. Even I won’t go in there without Cormac or Twinny. My lot are in the second alcove; they’re the older Salford lot. Travis takes ages, comes back with a bloody nose, says they’ve fucked him right off.

I’m angry now, so I storm off to the door to get hold of Paul or Damien, shouting, ‘How long do we have to put up with this ...?’

Nah, nah, nah.
I sound just like a baby, screaming, ‘These little fuckers . . .’

‘All right,’ they say, ‘don’t be a twat all your life.’ Laughing again.

‘Right,’ I say, and storm back in to see Suzanne, who runs the kitchen.

‘Your bucket’s over there,’ she says.

This is one of the perks of management: because we didn’t put in enough toilets when we built the bloody place, you can never get a piss. Plus I always get hassle in the bogs anyway. So I’m the proud user of a Hellmann’s mayonnaise bucket with my name on it, which stays in the kitchen.It’s a source of great hilarity to everyone (until they want a piss too). Suzanne actually has a great trick of getting people to hold it for a while. Then, when they ask ‘What’s this for?’ she tells them. Ah well, little things please little minds.