Lager Time

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening?

Lager Legions it’s lager season…. Well, it’s always Lager season over here in Lager HQ. I don’t actually drink that much these days but it’s a frame of mind more than anything, letting your hair down, getting things off your chest, that’s what I’m talking about!

And speaking of seasons, it’s all got a bit autumnal out there; I’m enjoying it! Been mainly at home this week, it’s been great, my wife is away for work, I miss her, but it’s just me and the doggies. Done a fair bit of looking out the window, this week watching the rain drops and listening to the magic; one of my favourite things to do. Large up James Harris, who writes Stiff Upper Quip on Substack, he wrote this nice little piece this week about enjoying the rain

Large up those of you that caught the first episode of Young Unprofessional last week. Despite the character being old, this series is all quite new at the moment, and I’m slowly finding my feet with it. These are all draft pieces, I’m writing it as I go along. I’m just playing the with character, and the form and seeing it where it goes. Much like I did with the Satellite Stories. If I can get to six, I’ll see where I’m at with it all. There’s a few stories  that I wrote a few years back, from when Reece was in New Town. I’ll probably put a few of those up at some point, lots of them include many of the characters in mentioned in these London pieces.

So this time next week, I’ll be getting ready for my gig at Poetry & Poppadums up in Wood Green, London. I’m on the bill with comedy and poetry heavyweight Simon Munnery, Carine Harb and all hosted and curated by the legend that is Paul Lyalls. It’s always a fun gig. Good food, booze, tunes and well run.

Also on the Thursday before that, I’m also at the launch event for the inaugural Maidstone Literature festival, at the museum there. Maidstone is where I live these days, and I rarely to get to do anything in the town related to what I do so I’m very excited at the prospect of walking to the gig, from my house. I don’t know what the crack with tickets is, there’s gonna be council people,the mayor but they have a website and are on Instagram so have a bucthers. They got loads of events happening around the town.

In light of upcoming gigs, I’m gonna do a Not Quite Live episode, where I basically just press record and run through a set of poems and sometimes music, then upload them, it’ll probably be just poems; I need to get a bit more practise in for the music before I start doing that again, it’s been a while.

Being that I’ve been at home a bit more, I’ve spruced up my website a bit; have a butchers at www.paulcree.co.uk and I’ve try to organise the Substack a bit as well, so you can see all the Satellite Stories in one place, for instance.

You can find my music on Spotify, Apple, Bandcamp and all of them; few videos on You Tube too.

If you like what I’m doing, hit subscribe on whatever platform you’re following on, it all helps, but I guess you already know that, you must hear it from people like me, all the time

Large up for listening, though

Keep it lager than life

Enjoy the story, it’s called The Urban Explorer But In Sick trainers

Peas and taters

Paul

LINKS

James Harris (Stiff Upper Quip – Notes On Pluviophilia)

Poetry & Poppadums @ Karamel, Wood Green

https://www.musicglue.com/karamel/events/2023-09-29-poetry-and-poppadums-with-simon-munnery-karamel

Maidstone Literature Festival

https://www.maidstonelitfest.org/

Not Quite Live Edition

https://cree.substack.com/p/not-quite-live-edition-2#details

My Website

www.paulcree.co.uk

Buy my books: The Suburban and The Hip Hop Theatre Anthology

https://paulcree.co.uk/shop

Stream my EP: Toast in the Machine

https://paulcree.hearnow.com/

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening?

Welcome to Lager Time;

So this week, I’m dropping in the first in a new series of stories, called Young Unprofessional. It’s about a character called Reece, who’s moved to London in the mid 2000’s, he’s in his mid 20’s and he hails from a fictional satellite town, called New Town.

A little reminder you can come and see me live at Poetry & Poppadum’s at Karamel in Wood Green, Friday 29th September. Simon Munnery is headlining, he’s a bit of a legend in the comedy and poetry worlds. Last time I did this gig it was packed out. Come on down, they serve banging Indian food and Paul Lyall’s is a great host.

If you like what I’m doing, do me a favour and hit subscribe on whatever platform you’re listening to this on, or even better, subscribe on Substack and you’ll get all the extra bits I’m gonna be sticking up on there.

I also jazzed up website this week, if you care to have a look? You’ll links to lots of my past projects as well as a shop where you can purchase books, music etc

www.paulcree.co.uk

Have a banging weekend

Keep it lager

Peas and taters

Paul

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

 Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening?

Yes indeed, it’s Lager Time! At last! Lager-Lites of Lager Land unite!

We are back in the game, mate! This week it's the last in the series of the Satellite Stories and it's called McGeezer thr Machine

t Poetry & Poppadums, @karamel in Wood Green.n.

The Suburban a

my most recent music project is called Toast In The Machine; a small 5 track EP which you can stream here.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening!

So, it’s been a few months since I’ve posted anything on here, this is just a little update to let you know that I’m still alive, and that I’ll be back up online sticking things out, Lager style, pretty soon. Probably from September onwards, possibly earlier; I’ve got a few ideas for some things I’d like to do, including something non-fictiony, type stuff.  A few attempts at essays and the like.

You might be wondering what the faaaack has been going on??? Where you been, Paul??? It’s really nothing that exciting, or alarming, possibly disappointing, definitely dull. A few months back I just decided to cut back on my creative endeavours, so I could concentrate on getting this flipping qualification finished that I’ve been doing (and longing-it-out longer than a disembowelled man’s intestines laid-out in a school-hall) – as well as keeping up with my regular work commitments, which have been quite a lot this year. It’s possibly the most mature decision I’ve ever made (even though I’m way past the deadline to hand in all my work!)

In all my years of writing, in whatever capacity, I don’t think there has ever been a time where I’ve not been working on something, so this is the first time I’ve ever put it all on hold, so I could; dare I say it, prioritise.

It’s not exactly been plain-sailing, I’ve still struggled to get the damn thing finished and the various workshop programs I work on (which is how I earn my living) have kept me double-busy. As well as running round London, I’ve been out and about to Cambridge, Bedford, York and Canterbury running sessions. Workwise, it’s been pretty nuts.

I’ve also had a few things happen personally, which has made me reassess a lot of what I’m doing and how I’m living, for the better, I’d say. I recently turned 40, and whist things are far from perfect, it’s probably the happiest I’ve ever been. I’m learning to be a bit kinder to myself and it’s a lot harder than it sounds. Anyone vaguely familiar with my work, will perhaps have noticed how self-deprecating so much of it is. That’s never been by design, it’s more of a reflection of the noxious arse-wind my head is often filled with. And whilst I’m certainly not about to ride the slippery-slide down some melty, disingenuous, self-love rabbit hole, into some narcist-convention of online influences, talking about their mental-health struggles, with everyone pretending to listen to each other; I am trying to do things a little differently.

So there you have it, for now, like Arnie, I’ll soon be back (but not like that) – In the meantime, one of the projects I work on in London, called Friends From Afar, with Dream Arts – are performing their latest show – The Big House – on the 10th August at Somerset House. The group is largely made up of unaccompanied asylum-seekers, some of which we’ve worked with over a few years now and are a wonderful bunch of young people

 I’ve written the script and made the music, and it’s co-directed it with Catharine Palmer. It’s set 100 years in the future, in a dystopian prison-like compound, in which everyone lives, but no one is allowed to leave, until it all starts falling apart… the show is nuts. If you’re interested, its strictly a guest-list affair but tap me up and I’ll link you all in

For those of you subscribed on Substack, I’ll probably ping out a few more little updates with a few bits and pieces that I’ve been doing, the rest of you, subscribe, lively!

That’ll do for now

Peas and taters, Paul

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening

Welcome to Lager Time, LagerLitles of LagerLand unite.

It’s been two weeks since I uploaded the second part of the Stand In Blend Out story; hope you enjoyed it. I’m trying this, two podcasts a month thing, it feels a bit weird, like somethings missing but I think it’s worth sticking with for now, as it got quite inconsistent towards the end of last year. I would like to be more consistent with it, going forward. So one story podcast and one miscellaneous show, per month; how about that, LagerLites?

What it has, in a way made me do, is work to develop a more regular writing practise for the poems and the like. It’s early days, so we’ll see, but I still enjoy writing random poems, about this and that. In the past, I’ve tended to write them in bursts, or on the odd occasion when I feel like it; as opposed to doing it regularly.

So how it works, is just me, keeping a file of anything I find interesting, from the one regular writing practise I do keep, which is these messy mind-dumps, which I do almost daily, (which some call free-writing) then extracting out things from there. I’ve been doing this on a regular basis for years, now; so potentially, like shale gas or something, there’s an abundance of untapped inspiration (that could well blow up in my face)

On the subject of the freewriting thing that I do, one reason I enjoy doing it, is that it reminds me of the sheer amount of utter bollox that makes up my thinking, at any one time. There are some twats out there, that do this writing caper, that probably think of themselves as some kind of superior intellect, who should be paid handsomely for every breath they bless us with. The idea with the freewriting thing, is that you write down all the thoughts that come into your head, with the aim of clearing a path for more considered thinking; hence the ‘dumping’ in mind-dump. I think a lot, so there’s a lot of crap in there; so there’s a lot of dumping; too much junk-food maybe? When I do it on a Word document, it just ends up being a messy block of black writing, with untold redlines underneath, which in all honesty, is about 95% inane crap; like not even remotely interesting; mostly shite about noises outside on the street, or that ginger cat that keeps mugging off my dogs, or things that have pissed me off. Just every now and again, I’ll hit on something, that is interesting, which occasionally goes on to become something else. But when I look at the rest, and see all the shite, it's humbling, mate. I’m just so humble, as the hypothetical, aforementioned twat, probably thinks.

However, I’ve been the doing the freewriting thing for years but and have got into a habit with the way I was doing it; which I don’t think was serving any great purpose (and sometimes would make me even more pissed off.) So recently, I made a bit of a change. Since the start of the year, instead of frantically trying to capture all the crazed thoughts that float around my head; instead, I’ve been focusing on trying to type without looking at the keyboard. It’s been a bit of a game changer, mate. If you follow my work, or have ever had communications with me over text or email, you’ll know I have a lot of difficulty with spelling, often missing out entire words from sentences. Doing this no-look typing thing, I have to type slower, much slower and hold the thoughts in my head a bit longer. The result of this being, my spelling has improved, as has my clarity, I’d say. However, I have to sit still a lot longer, something else I also have difficulty with; it’s hard mate; but I guess the point of this; is that it’s small improvements.

And speaking of small improvements, I’ve made these wooden frames for my office come studio; and stuffed them with acoustic panels and covered them in black cloth; which now sit to the left and right of me and above my head, on the ceiling. It’s taken me months to do this; and it’s all a bit of a botched job, but I finally did it; and my wife can see with her own eyes, something that I said I wanted to do 18 months ago, is now in existence. I’ve had to buy equipment, cut, drill, staple and hang. Previously, I wouldn’t have even attempted to do this; as organising everything would have seemed to big a task and probably used the excuse of being shit at DIY. What I’ve realised in doing this, is that whilst I am shit at DIY, I had no confidence to even attempt such a thing. My ability to catastrophise; is for the most part, really unhelpful at best; at one point I thought that If I drilled this one hole I convinced myself I was going to collapse the wall into next door; but I preserved and they’re now up. I’m just so resilient, as the aforementioned, hypothetical, humble, resilient twat, probably thinks. I’ve learned a thing or do in this process and the sound in the room I record in, is vastly improved. Like this podcast, it’s far from perfect but something is better than nothing.

So being this is the miscellaneous part of the month, I thought I’d share a recording of the recent gig I did at Poetry and Poppadum’s. The audio isn’t the best, I’ve tried to clean it up a bit. I bought a small audio recorder with me, and left on my chair on the audience when I got to perform, so they’re a few voices around me that you’ll hear, a bit louder than they should be. I’ll include the set-list below and in the podcast description. The intro is form Paul Lyalls; it was a great night.

Couple of little large ups; all the troops from the Spoken Word course I’ve been running with City Academy, over in Farringdon; it’s a great group of guys; in case you’re interested in getting involved there’s hopefully some more courses coming up later this year, have a butchers at the City Academy website. Large up poet Tyrone Lewis, who I’ve bumped into a couple of time on my way up there; I know Tyrone from way back in my Roundhouse days.

And finally, large up Cree Paul, who sent me a random message via my website, merely because we have the same names but the other way around; really made me smile.

So that’s it for now, enjoy the set; I’ve just finished the draft of the next story, which should be up in two weeks.

Peas and taters

Paul

Purchase my first book, The Suburban at www.paulcree.co.uk/shop

Go stream my latest EP Toast In The Machine

Poetry and Poppadums setlist

1: Fingers on the Buzzer

2: Born Slippery

3: Sleep Locked

4: Paper Trail

5: Broad Brush Stokes

6: Jazz Lock: Day 187, Guilty Conscience

7: What Happened to Drum and Bass?

8: Independence Day

9: Life Affirming Moments Part 1

10: Times of Respect

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening, welcome to Lager Time

This week it's the second part of the Satelittle Story - Stand Out Blend In Part 2

Here's a few links

Lager Time Not Quite Live Editon #2 -

My Book - The Suburban

Unexpected Twist Play

Kiki - Future Dead Chick

My EP - Toast in the Machine

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening?

I’ve got an actual gig coming up this Friday, at Poetry and Poppadums, at Karmel, North London. So in preperation for that, I slung a little show togethor whist I attempt to get match-fit again, it’s been a while

Just listned back and realised I tut a lot in this, apololgies. Something for me to work on..

Check out Gary W Hartley aka Gary From Leeds - go check his writings on insects - Insects and That -

https://gwhartley.medium.com/

If you want a copy of my book, The Suburban, head to www.paulcree.co.uk/shop

Check out poet Niall O’Sullivan’s work at

s

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening

Welcome to Lager Time. My legions of LagerLites stand tall.

So I Didn’t get round to putting this out on Friday as hoped. We had visitors in the gaff, what with Christmas and all that. Frozen streets, frozen pipes (yep we had those) a world cup final and a four-and a-half-hour journey across Kent in the train strike, just to get to London, meant it didn’t happen. However, here it is, here I am. More about the story in a mo though.

So I had a little bit of good news this week. I finally have a gig to announce. Pretty chuffed with this one. Friday 27th January, I’ll be doing a spoken word set at one of the best nights in London, Poetry and Poppadums, supporting Michael Rosen, who if you don’t know, is a bit of a legend in the UK Literature world. Alongside that will be Celia Bax, me and the host himself, Paul Lyalls; who runs the gig. Paul’s a great guy, and a good poet who knows how to put on a decent event. He’s supported me a lot over the years so I’m rally grateful to get on his stage again.

It's a gig I’ve done a few times and it’s one that I feel I can actually invite my mates and family too, confident they’ll enjoy it. Paul knows what he’s doing, it’s a cabaret style set-up, decent bar and food and most of the people are just there to enjoy themselves and hear something a bit different. I’ll put the ticket links in here and in the podcast description for the non-Sub stackers. Gives me another good reason to do a Not-Quite-Edition of Lager Time, to get match-fit, maybe even that live-stream I was going on about a while back. Should be a good one though, hope to see you there 

This might be the last Lager Time of the year, I hope not, but fear not if it is, I’ll most certainly be back in January, might be to give these satellite Stories a break for a bit though, getting the urge to write some poems again. So this story is the first part of a story about going to an Under 18’s event. Not gonna lie, I’ve struggled with this one a bit, hasn’t been as fluid as some of the others, either way hope you enjoy it.      

As ever, if you fancy giving us a subscribe on Substack, or on Apple or Spotify, or where ever it is you listen, I’d be very grateful. And if you’ve got any mates that might like it, let them know. And if you feeling really generous, in these hard-up times, you can give us a little donation on the old Ko-Fi that;s it for the begging. H Wait, and yea, and stream my EP, TOAST IN THE MACHINE

One last thing before I duck-out, I thought as it’s my Christmas, I’d read my and only Christmas poem, which I forget to plug every year, as a little Brucie Bonus. It’s in my first collection, The Suburban, which of course you can purchase from my website  just something that happened a few years back in Crawley.

So that’s it, if you don’t hear from me, I hope yous all have a banging festive period, full of food, family, friends, banter, boardgames, boredom, TV re-runs and loads of tea and lager. I can’t wait.

Peas and taters, quite Literally

Happy Christmas

Paul

One More

Round one, we arrive. Get a pint. Foster’s, cooking lager.

‘I wanna keep it light. Had a rough night last night, can’t stay out too long.’

‘What’s wrong with you?’ my mate says in jest, with an undertone that suggests, You’ve changed. You left, I stayed. I’m hard, you’re soft.

‘So be it,’ I say. We plot down, while he gets the round in. Back home, Christmas Eve. Me, my mate and my brother, sat round a beer-stained table, windows sprayed snow-white in the corners. Old cockneys and Irish crowd the bar like punters at a car auction; the taller patrons brush their heads against the tacky paper chain decorations; it’s warm. Don’t recognise many faces, but the place hasn’t changed.

Small talk begins, niceties are exchanged, ‘Good to see you back here’ and ‘It’s nice to be back,’ I say, they say, and we skip through, mortgages, kids, marriages, cars and careers, ‘What you doing now, how’s London?’ Property prices, transport and crime appear in the conversation like constituents waiting at an MP’s surgery, London provides the key and opinions rush the landlord.

Round two. ‘Fosters is crap, innit?’ I say, admitting my mistake. They laugh and I make that tactical upgrade to Kronenbourg, one that I’ve regretted in the past. Lug fast and it burns but it feels good.

Booze in the system, the Christmas season has seen me drinking like four nights in a row, hop-scotching from work dos and that, all shop talk, awkward exchanges and then to this, back home Christmas Eve, old mates, familiar place.

Smiles crack and we all begin to loosen. T’s and th’s start falling off, the first c-word gets dropped, as accents start slipping into them fitted cockney derivatives, treading paths parents and grandparents made to this place from London and beyond. ‘Faack off’ and ‘Shaat up, mate,’ we say, all spayed with affection.

Round three. I see an old mate who I stand up to talk to. Five minutes into the chat and I get a tap on the arm, turn round and it’s my brother and my mate and they’re like, ‘It’s your round, son,’ eyebrows up and down. I’m up to the bar and back again quick smart, a beer triangle in my hand, one I’m well practised in carrying. We sit down, we hear a bang and a few raised voices, door flies open and, on the pavement outside, we see two guys in each other’s faces. We look out the window, pints in hand like we’re sat in the grandstand at the races. Old Bill appear, they disappear, carted off in a meat wagon to the cages; a cheer goes up, it unites the pub and we laugh because nothing changes.

Round four and the talk is football and old computer games that we played, Streets of Rage and Street Fighter II, old holidays with mates and ‘We should do this again,’ we all say. But one by one we look at the time at ever-increasing intervals, something we never would’ve done. Until my mate finally breaks and says, ‘I should probably go,’ and I say, ‘Yeah, I need to get back,’ and my brother’s like, ‘Yeah, I gotta be up early,’ and suddenly everything’s changed.

It goes a bit quiet, as the last dregs get drunk and there’s that slight pause before the exit. We’re all thinking it. The Pogues come on the jukebox. At the bar I watch the landlord pour another pint and I turn round to the other two, shrug my shoulders, cheeky look on my face, and say, ‘One more?’

Sattellite Stories EP 8: Stand In Blend Out

Home time at school was always a joyous occasion. I bowled out on this day with a rare mix of what I think were positive emotions, mixed in with a few typical teenage concerns. There was this small crew of slick-looking wideboys and wide girls, early twenties types, protype Big Brother contestants; standing outside the school gates, in shiny puffa-jackets, by a parked-up Audi, in club branded t-shirts dishing out flyers, for an Under 18’s event, at Crawley’s premier-late-night-go-to, Ikon-Diva. It was a ruthless PR operation. Target audience marked and in sight. And it worked. Because I saw that flyer and couldn’t believe my eyes, it was happening. At last.

I’d heard the myths about these under 18 events, in places that were near-by but not-near enough, like Croydon and East Grinstead, where they ran these alleged events that were ram-packed with chicks, that apparently would get off with anyone, and they played banging Drum and Bass and Garage. Someone’s cousins mate or whatever had been to one on Hastings Pier, which had MC Dett and Kenny Ken. They were just names I knew from the Tapepacks, I didn’t even know what they looked like, let alone had the chance to hear them play. Who’s was gonna play at Ikon Diva?! They might get Shy FX?! Or Nicky Blackmarket?! Or Skibbadee?! 

And now, it was happening, in Crawley, almost home turf. A nightclub, with loud banging music. I loved loud banging music but only got to play it on my tinny headphones or shitty Argos hifi (with inbuilt graphic equaliser); which often didn’t work, so it wasn’t really loud, or banging. And of course. Girls. There’d be girls. Loads of them. Bare girls. Not bare, but bare, as in loads. Probably. Maybe. And Music, hopefully not shit music, chart music, but Jungle, Garage and more Drum N Bass, and Hip Hop. Geezers, my mates and girls. And probably dickheads, which put the brakes on my thinking a bit, might get started- on, was fairly probable, who would back it? Would I know enough people? I knew people but was I safe with them? Like safe, enough. Safe enough to say ‘Safe Kass’ and Kass to ‘safe’ back. Maybe, maybe not.

There were good reasons why Ikon Diva had been featured, a few times, on Crime In The South East. Fly-on-the-wall camera crew follows coppers, as they nick larey lads, and often females, kicking off at kicking-out time. There was always the bit, where three or four copers struggle to pin-down and cuff some geezer in a ripped Ralph shirt, wriggling about like a trapped wasp.

‘we need you to calm down sir ’

‘I’m fucking calm, I’m fucking calm’

Often, that was someone’s older brother, or mate, or occasionally dad.

All the non-conforming-alternative-types: the skaters, the metalers, the indie kids, the stoners, of which I was a conflicted, inconsistent member of, would consistently slag the place off, and its regulars, with anecdotes that were probably justified, but with tones and remarks that all-to-often veered into that merkey grey-area of outright class-bashing. I always felt I was somewhere inbetween those two world-views. I wanted to stand out, because there was more to life than Crawley town centre and chart music, but I also wanted to blend in, I didn’t want my arse kicked and I liked (but could never afford) Air Max and of course, Jungle, Drum and Bass’ even though it had been relegated in the coolness stakes, due to UK Garage being the go-to sound, banged out of any souped up-moter doing doughnuts outside Halfords.

So I’m at Horley station doing my very best to blend in. Pinstripes, jeans, Ben Sherman and jacket, standard night-out-geezer-in-training look.  I looked the part but lacked the pack, like a lone deer with low self-esteem, stood a few yards from a gigantic herd of does and horn-heads, all smoking Sovereign cigarettes, spitting on the floor and wearing better brands of clothes. Horley, being that smaller town-with-one-massive-secondary-school, meant that everyone knew each other who went to Oakwood school; which was all of them, with the exception of the few kids like me, who went to faith schools and the other odd few posh kids and scholarship kids who went to Reigate Grammer.

There must’ve been about thirty of them, all along platform two, in small groups, but all still communicating with each other, they knew each other, I didn’t really know anyone.  All it took was for one mouthy prick to look in my direction and the game would be up before it had even started.

 There were a few faces in amongst them that I recognised from my days playing football, for Horley Town under 9’s and 2nd Horley Cub scouts. Few wideboys I’d seen getting larey in the town centre. Some of the girls were fit, tiny, tight dresses, big earrings and loads of makeup and none of them had jackets on; it was cold. I wish I knew them. The 52 train rolled in and I sat as far away from them as possible.

We pile off the train at Crawley, me deliberately taking my time, with the aim of making as little noise as possible, I’d got good at that. I arranged to meet a few of the boys at the station. All the Horley lot pile off, I see them up ahead, along with loads of other kids, good mix of girls and boys. This massive crew that gets off at the opposite end as I’m walking towards the exit, they’re in a head on collision course with me, as we roll up the platform towards the exit. They’re done up to the nines in Moshino and Iceberg, and they look bigger and older, and ruder, all walking with a bop only reserved for the rudest of rudeboys round here. I’m guessing they’re from Croydon, they got that street air that just about gets filtered out down here, even in a satellite town full of attitude, like Crawley; if you bowled like these boys, you were either a pretender or you really were about it. There weren’t many that could pull it off.  They’re talking loud, making random noises, shouting and laughing and one of them is MCing; there’s no girls, just guys. They got an energy about them, which is unpredictable, but like, draws you in, like you wanted to be in their company.

I slow my step enough, so that I wind up filling in behind them as they go into the station, bowling right passed the infamous Indian Robo Cop, who today must’ve stood down with the shake downs. I doubt any of these kids, Horley, Redhill or Croydon, had tickets, but even the infamous Indian Robocop was powerless to stop them in the sheer numbers they were streaming through; either that or he’d passed out under a cloud of Lynx and Impulse

I stood on the steps of the station, watching them all make their way to Ikon, which was conveniently stationed, next to the station. All in big groups. As I’d come over the footbridge, I was pretty sure I heard the likes of Ronnie Wader and Shane O Connel, and I’m pretty sure Brendon was with them, sometimes he got invited to roll with those boys, same with Gareth. They were dickheads but I was jealous. Whatever it was, they sounded rowdy, like they were doing shots or something, bottles were clanging and doing football chants.

I stood on the steps, watching the masses make their ways in, in varying states. I saw a few faces like Yusef, Ryan White and Big Kass, which was never a good sign that those three were together; felt like everyone was mobbing up and coming out in force. They could very easily have stopped and come up the steps and performed the Crawley shake-down routine; I certainly had a few pound coins on my person; maybe they could teach this local custom to them Croydon boys in a cultural exchange, in return for some updated London slang; we always got it eventually; Thatcher’s trickle-down for satellite town rude boys.

I was a bit gutted that Brendon and Gareth were with Shane and that, I was on my own and lacking weight but trying to look like I did’nt lack wight but I was on my own and I did lack wieght. There was always a loose cannon like Kells about, but you know he’d just turn up anyway, though we never invited him for anything. Mo was coming, everyone liked Mo, and Rich was coming too, he could swing if he needed to, but right now, I was on my own; until Vee-jay trotted up. He’d walked from Broadfield, which was a good half hour. He was a good kid Veejay, but like me he lacked he didn’t scan well in the hardness polls, but he was trustworthy. Two wonna be’s are better than one wonna be but the two combined still don’t make the weight of a regular geez with a bit about him. We were still exposed

Eventually Mo showed up, he’d lived near by but had to come over the bridge and had bumped in to Ronnie Wader and those boys, and saw  Brendon and Gareth.  I could smell the booze on his breath; they were all safe with Mo. Luckily for me he didn’t stray. He was loyal like that; he could’ve mugged me and Vee-jay off for them. Rich then arrived, his mum dropping him off in the carpark, giving her a bit of grief as he got out the car.

‘shutup man, don’t  drop me off here next time’

So now there was four of us, that was something. We marched on over to the que, which snaked all the way round the side and back out into the station car park. It was a lot of people, and lot of bouncers, big mean looking bastard.  We were bopping towards the back of the que, but all subetley looing  to see who we knew, let all these pretty chicks and wideboys know that we were faces. Mo got a few nods but the rest of us got nothing; until.

‘Oi Rich, Rich, Paul, Paul yea boys, over here, yea, yea.’

Someone said my name. They said Rich’s first, but still, they said my name. I tried to look like it was nothing, like this kinda thing happens all the time. I slowly turned round, only to see Pidge, in the que, on his own. Pidge. I was a little bit disappointed but it meant we could sneak into the que and just hope no one called us out. Pidge had on a Tommy Hilfiger shirt that was way too big for him, to be fair though; he weren’t the only one in ill-fitting clothes.

Every wide boy in a 20 mile radius was in the line to get in, all the different parts of Crawley there, Pound Hill and Northgate to Broadfield and Bewbush. All the Horley boys, Horsham, Redhill, East Grinstead and those big crews from Croydon, all in the mix, all out for something. The energy of it all reminded me of watching one of those crusty science videos in school, where they would put a Bunsen burner under a substance and through the microscope, you could see all the particles getting lively; it was buzzing.

There’d already been a couple of casualties and we hadn’t even got in yet. One kid hauled out by security, who could barley even stand, spaghetti all down his shirt, two other lads had a punch up in the que, it was only just gone 7pm.  There was gonna be a few pissed off parents later, and probably a few parents who didn’t give a shit what their kids were up to; some mess in front of us was clearly sweating and gurning his face off. We were Tony Blairs children; he’d be proud.

As we slowly moved towards the door, I could start to hear those muffled base sounds of pumping music inside. Butterflies fluttered in my belly. But wait, what if it was so banging my ears couldn’t take it? I’d never been to a club before. I’d heard older people say dance music could brainwash ravers, but then my older siblings all listen to it and they’re alright? In-fact my brother said the sound system was shit?! Clubs were way better in Brighton and London. Which was odd, because out here, it sounded pumping, every time that door opened we got a blast, getting louder the closer we got to the door.

‘oi, that sounds sick boys’

‘Na it’s shit. Clubs are way better in Brighton and London’

From the time I’d got to the platform at Horley station, to getting in this que, I’d fallen in love about 400 times and my head had already concocted a whole series of fantasies, involving each one of these girls being my girlfriend, every time my eyes locked on one, it was hard to know where to look! It was also, in a way, a bit intimidating, some of these girls weren’t wearing much but were fully confident with it, strutting about, like they knew what they were doing, like they had all this power and were in full control; any young geezer looking to step, needed some serious minerals to match it. Couple of these chicks looked like they swing it out too, one girl with curly hair and fists covered in sovereigns had threatened to knock out some guy for pushing in; she meant it and he knew, we all did; he backed down fast.

When we finally got to the door, it was only then I appreciated the sheer size of these bouncers, with their black suits on with white shirts and shoulders like American football pads. Butterflies in my belly panicking to get out, fizzing like that ADHD inducing popping candy in my mouth and I’m pretty sure I had to lean forward at one point, to attempt to contain it.

‘You alright mate?

‘yea, yea, yea sweet, boys’

We’d all  gone quiet, I cleared my throat as we got to the doors, into the clock room area, where those big main doors were and every time they opened; I was blasted with pumping beats, mashed with the sounds of energetic young voices, like twisted bits of jewellery all forming this messy audio ball of madness which I couldn’t quite contextualise but my Lord, was it exciting, and scary.

‘alright’

My voice sudenly went up an octave and simultaneously my arms sprung out from my pockets into a straight position, like a spring-loaded bottle opener, without the bouncer even saying a word, just a split second of eye contact. How did he do that?! It was like magic!? And why did my voice go up like that?

He didn’t respond to my attempt at casual geezer niceties and when he was done, slightly shoved me in the back towards the area where the entrance was. I slightly tripped and my heart suddenly went up about a 100 BPMs thinking I was gonna stack it in front of all these kids in the que. Fortunately I managed to stye it out and smiled awkwardly, as I joined the boys at the till, paid my £4 cover fee, opened those almighty, towering double doors and just like that, we were in the club.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening, welcome to Lager Time

Lagerlites of Lagerland unite

This week's episode is a stry about a first kiss, on a boat. It's called HMS Geezer

This story was featured in my 2016 solo show, The C/D Borderline, whihc you can watch HERE

It was also featured in my book of poems and stories, The Suburban, whihc you can purchase HERE

Stream MY NEW EP, Toast in the Machine, HERE

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com

Greetings, bonjour, what’s happening

I don’t have this week to write up the intor, freestyles it a bit but have a listen and you’ll hear all!

The Toast in the Machine is EP is finally out!

Here’s some links to it -

This is the second 64 bar verse and beat I put togethor, as a bit of promo, for the Toast In The Machine, which is out NOW

https://paulcree.hearnow.com/

If you fancy giving me a little tip, for the price of a pint, would be much appriciated https://ko-fi.com/paulcree Follow me on any of these platforms SPOTIFY FOLLOW -

. APPLE FOLLOW - https://music.apple.com/us/artist/pau... AMAZON MUSIC - https://www.amazon.co.uk/music/player... BANDCAMP -

https://paulcree.bandcamp.com/

read all about the EP here https://paulcree.co.uk/blog

And here’s a Promo 64 bar verse called Gobshite 64 below -

Thank as ever for supporting, listening, reading

Have a banging weekend!

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit cree.substack.com