Wednesday, November 16, 2005
I obviously haven't changed much since I was a squit of 16. I'm gradually replacing many of my film obsessions involving warring gangs, with DVDs which, previously - ignoring the videotape blip - I used to express through dashing out and buying the vinyl film track album. The covers of these would be hugged tightly to my breast every night in homage to these god-like heroes, in the hope that some of their raw glamour would seep into my bones and make me be more like them. Fighting anthems would be dragged out of the revolving black disc by a fluffy stylus scratch-jumper and sent out of single speaker directly into my excited heart.
In real life I was terrified of gangs and gang warfare. Most decent lads were. But I couldn't resist the allure of reading about it. I consumed rubbishy books like Richard Allen's Skinhead in all its forms: Escapes, Sorts, Trouble for.. And its follow up Suedehead, and all those Hells Angel and their Chopper books by Hunter Thompson and H.R Kaye. I would down them as if they were literary oysters - cracking them open and tipping them down my throat, endlessly, until I felt sick. And that was before I started watching the films. More fear, more fascination.
Somewhere, tucked away in my loft, the most unfashionable room in the house, I have the above film sound track. A mere glance at the picture takes me right back to when I first watched the film. Mine has been gathering dust. The cover - its protective carcass, faded, corners softened, mashy. The flimsy sleeve, its own personal protector, torn, frail; barely capable of concealing its fragile charge inside. I need to find it, make it safe.
But now I have The Warriors on DVD. To add to my Clockwork Orange (another vinyl languishing somwhere) and The Wanderers. The supermarket two for tenner scheme. What better way to restock the sources of your warped dreams.