‘A Tale In 12 Fragments’ by Tony Smith

Name: Tony Smith (@HotpixUK, hotpix.org.uk)
Hometown: Manchester, UK
Resides: Grappenhall, Cheshire UK
Profession: Independent Housing IT Consultant
Hobbies: Photography, Cycling
Hipstographer since: 1981
Year of Birth: 1963

Favorite Combo:  Jane  +  Ina's 1969 
Favorite Lens:  Jane 
Favorite Film:  Ina's 1969 
Favorite Flash:  Standard 

 

01/12 – Two Up, Two Down

The over-crowding was eased by the relative safety of the cobbled streets. Neighbours stuck together, with the odd moonlight flit, your extended family no more than eight streets away. My terrace could never be listed, not unique enough. While in my street it would not be pebble dashed or rendered, it may be painted.

My uncle Arthur fell foul of a coat of cheap red paint, obtained through a contact at ‘Direct Works’ at number 26. Closer to pillar-box than brick red, it was hard to swallow as a true blue, paid up ‘City season ticket owner. Still he had the last laugh. His outside loo became his winter wine chiller.

02/12 – Sacred Statue

Towering over his childhood was a large statue of Jesus (with a capital J) enveloped in a glass dome.

Outstretched hands, faded paint, the mark of a good or at least devout family of believers. He never knew what his old dad thought of it, never asked him. In this house honesty was the best policy. In later years he recognised it as the classic alabaster sacred heart, after the catholic schooling had done its work. He was set up for the world of alter boys, communion wine the fantastic smell of extinguished votive candles and the corruption of the local SVdeP chapter.

He could recite the Our father, traverse the rosary like a Greek fisherman handling worry beads and share his confession through the screen to Fr Kirkpatrick, early every third Saturday morning.

03/12 – Father

Proud, hardworking, but not particularly well off, he got on relatively well with his dad. Luckier than many of his friends then.

In those times some of his friends were more latchkey, parents spirited away for six months at her majesties pleasure, or just endlessly working away, building trade, drivers or down in London in music or media. Temptations were all around for the adults left at home. Wayward baby sitters, amorous neighbours, randy teenagers. The Zephyr Zodiac he could remember, its plate BNT6833. Leather seats, the smell of un-burnt two star and brown foam filling out from the dodgy rocker box.

04/12 – Maria

As school changed, the ‘cocks’ of the primary became the new intake of the secondary the acne started.

Bumfluff soon followed and a recognition that girls in the year were going through changes too. You could see from the older years and the sixth form where that process would take them. Opaque tights, filled out hips. Maybe a taste of something to come, forbidden fruit or just something in later years to regret. Bored adults staying together for the sake of a child maybe.

Not something that crosses the mind at the back of the groundsmens hut in the old showers. Clumsy, flustered, rubbish really. A rite of passage all the same.

05/12 – Rabid Dogs

It was a music time of change too. Older brothers ELP, Greenslade and Mott gave way to the filth and the fury.

Pub bands quickly morphed into punk bands. Belle Vue, The Mayflower and the Electric Circus was the baptism. Slaughter & The Dogs, V2, Albertos, The Distractions and the Manchester Music Collective. Lifts to be scrounged, strange orange SELNEC bus journeys, photocopied fanzines.

John Peel was the daddy, 10 til 12 under the candlewick bedspread, then Piccadilly Records on Saturday to track down his faves. Which mostly became his faves, running through his life like letters in a stick of rock.

06/12 – On The Shelf

Visits to the labour exchange and short jobs came and went. Fork lift trucks, dispatch rider, undertakers assistant, tarmac-ing. Good contributions to his passing out degree from the school of hard knocks.

Along the way a chance conversation with a drinking mate introduced him to the ‘ism’s of abstract art. Something that became an interest and a fascination. He enjoyed the minimal and did not miss the accuracy of the figurative. With time he noticed the symbolism and could also see it in the catholic culture drummed into him in school. The Holy Trinity in the fleur-de-lis, the five wounds of Christ in the pentagram.

His partner Carla humored this interest as his books collected on the shelves, taking over the tiny two bed flat.

07/12 – Unloved Mixtapes

As the decade wore on he worked away more and more, months at a time. Mixtapes became the currency in his relationship with Carla during weekdays away from home.

Snippets of 45 minutes and 12 or so songs each side. All lovingly named and themed. Bowie sitting next to That Petrol Emotion next to Tracy Chapman. Weekends were good, wild, lazy, druggy.

They could not stay faithful and the mixtapes were pretty much all he took away at the end...

08/12 – Looking For Dali

Breaking up is hard to do as they say. With some cash saved, the darkness of November creeping in, no partner and parents also gone, he went to follow art. A few weeks clothes in a rucksack, Just a few thousands short of million Pesetas, ferry from Dover, couchette interrupted crossing into Spain at Port-Bou, he travelled south from Barcelona. RENFE’s orange & white carriages reminded him of the Formica tables at his favourite cafe.

He got through Winston’s and Fortuna’s by the box of 100 while drifting into that breakfast ritual of Chocolate con Churros at the corner of the 3rd floor block he shared with engineering students. Late starts and a cafe con Leche suited him.

He didn’t find Dali in Cordoba, but the Hospital de la Caridad de los Reyes Catolicos together with small galleries in the vicinity fed his mind and soul.

With each afternoon a little more of his pain was forgotten.

09/12 - ¿te gusta?

It was the star tattoo on her arm that first caught his gaze, then the long blond hair. The station was quite empty for what was usually the busy evening rush hour from work.

"¿te gusta?”, she startled him after noticing him staring. “Disculpe, excuse me” he said in an embarrassed English accent. For someone usually very confident he could feel his face going red. It wasn’t the warm breeze blowing through Cordoba station this time either.

He missed his train that evening. And the next, and the next....

He realised he had reached one of life’s encrucijada’s. It felt good.

10/12 Afternoon Tea

María Carmen was unusual in enjoying tea rather than the Spanish default of coffee. She introduced him to the ‘teterias’around Granada and the arab Menta Poleo. More importantly she tipped him off to the tea sold at spice stores around the cathedral more like from his teenage years. The Té Pakistani became their favourite. It was a little fragment of Englishness at home in the boiling summer heat, of the frying pan of Andalucía.

The relief of the cooler evenings of autumn were interrupted by a call from home.

Mother rushed into hospital, acute appendicitis.

Before a flight was properly booked, she was gone. Slipped away to join his father...

11/12 Rite of Committal

She was no stranger to death and she helped keep him sane between registering it and dealing with the mountain of documentation. In a strange way he felt the process had brought them closer.

To reach the day of the evening vigil in the church was a great relief. After the Rite of Committal they stood alone between the coffin and the altar. A cold chill September wind ran through the old stone building. In funereal mode, he could not keep his eyes off María.

“You feel you want or need to stay here in England”, she said.

“Yes”. “I am sorry”

“Don’t be. I am in no rush to return to España, unless we go back together”

He was relieved. They kissed, he knew that night, there in front of him, he had found his twin soul.

12/12 Watch my bark

That's how it stayed.

I never lost my punk roots. Punk will never die!

If you see me, say hello. My bark is not as bad as my bite 8-) (honest!)

Tony Smith

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