‘Are you Rocky, young maahn?’

‘Uh-huh, no, ma’am.  Rocky don’t tok moch.  Name’s Wullium.’

Uh-huh, yes, mate.  William Penksylvia Jr., it was, these days, though his dad’s name was Archibald, and Penksylvania was only slightly more like his surname than it was like… anything at all.  And he’d got this accent, bless him.

‘But it says “Rocky and the Reverbs.”’

‘Uh-huh, that’s us, ma’am.  Booked to play two gnahts at your beaudiful… movie… thee-ater…’

I knew neither how nor why Billy had got a gig in Ipswich.  Unknown by anybody outside of Three Tuns but for the occasional Low Hillbilly venturing into the Vine, he’d found himself with commitments to fulfil in Suffolk with a band that sent postcards home when they got east of Bushbury.  The gig was a paying one, of course, but with their earnings for the year sunk into petrol costs for the cross-country jaunt it was also a gamble.

Never able to secure a booking agent, Rocky and the Reverbs would go months without a show until Billy woke up in the wee hours with a ‘what-am-I-doing-with-my-life’ panic shaking his heart and dedicated two days and a fortnight’s dole on phone calls and stamps trying to kickstart his career.  A relative flurry of gigs would follow, during which he would consider himself too busy (and broke) to book any more shows and a long hiatus would thus naturally follow, along with, more often than not, enforced changes of personnel and some hefty vet’s bills (Rocky lived the lifestyle in ways the other Reverbs could only envy, with bitches lined up outside the stage door from the soundcheck until the gear was carried to the old Bedford CA van; where Elvis got screams the Reverbs got whining, and it was now part of the band’s routine to check open-backed speaker cabinets for would-be stowaways before embarking on the return journey to Three Tuns. 

I was just glad of the ride.  Our only previous trip to Portman Road had been the previous season, when we lost 2-1 to the newly-promoted side, and the fact that said side went on to become league champions that season provided little comfort.  I was keen for revenge, hoped the Wolves were too, and was more than happy to lift a big of gear to pay for my transport.  Furthermore, as the band was playing consecutive nights, there would be nothing to shift on the Saturday afternoon, allowing for extra post-match pints in what I hoped would be celebration.

It was at that point that Bob Jeffers (Bass guitar, b. vox) arrived at the foyer door with Rocky.

‘He’s done his business now, Billy.  If yow ‘old him for ten minutes I’ll start unlowdin’’

‘Why, satunly,’ said Willium Penksylvania Jr., with a curl of the lip.

‘Ya’ll ahfter stand artside, then.  No dargs allowed.’

‘Ah beg pardon ma’am, but thus dahg is, um, a lidl diff’rent.’

‘Et don’t look deff’rent to me.’

‘Itsan the band.  Access all areas.’

A couple of whining bitches had appeared at the entrance by now, provoking a powerful jerk on the lead.

‘Rocky!  Sit!’ shouting Billy.

‘Oh, so thas is Rocky as art?’

‘Thus correct, ma’am,’ said Billy.

‘Wall than it’ll just be Revarbs tonight.  Strictly no dahgs at the Gaumont.’

‘But he’s…’

‘No dahgs.  Or pets of any kind.’

‘Well actually,’ said Billy, his accent suddenly a lot more Southern Staffs than Southern States, ‘he’s not really a pet.  He’s more like a part of the…’

‘No dahgs or no show.  You decide.’

An emergency band meeting was convened at the nearby (dog-friendly) County Hotel.  Some of the group, it has to be said, were more than willing to let Rocky go, feeling for some reason that he was holding the band back.  Billy flatly refused to work without his dog, and after a couple of rounds, a solution was found:  Rocky would perform from inside the van, parked close to the stage door, via a long microphone cable fed through the dressing-room window.  It was hoped the sound of the backline would reach him from there (the days of full PA’s and foldback monitors were still some years away back then), and I would be sat with him in the van to keep him company and allow him comfort breaks during guitar solos and instrumentals.

The band took the stage at 8.30, to a fairly-decent-sized crowd (there was very little to do in Ipswich back then, and the only other rock’n’roll show Suffolk had ever known, Buddy Holly’s 1958 show at the same venue, was still the talk of the town).  It was a pleasant evening, even a little stuffy in the van, so I wound down the windows to let some air in and allow the twelve-bar-blues song structures to reach Rocky’s ears.  Within a few bars of their opener, ‘Tail Between My Legs’, hoards of bitches had descended upon us.  They were yelping, whining, attempting to climb onto the bonnet and increasing in number with every chorus.  By the fourth song I had to wind the windows up to keep the largest of them at bay, and I was in no doubt that at least two of the van’s tyres had been punctured.  The mic cable lasted another song before it was ripped apart, heralding the end of the Reverbs’ set.  I let Rocky out to meet his admirers, and headed inside to help with the gear.

The frenzied excitement that Rocky had provoked within his own species contrasted starkly with the reception the band had received from humans inside the venue.  Jimmy Grace (drums) likened it to a gig at a morgue, while Bob Jeffers preferred the lounge of the Three Tuns (‘at least you can hear people ordering drinks there’).  Lead guitarist ‘Pucker’ Beesley was more concerned that he had messed up two intros because of the dogs’ noise outside, while the only feedback Billy got from the audience was a disgruntled ‘ruhrbish’ or two.  Rocky’s future in the band was again brought up, a subject quickly dismissed by Billy, before the manageress arrived to inform us that Rocky and the Reverbs would not be required for Saturday night after all and the cheque for their performance had already been posted, so no cash would be forthcoming.  Furthermore, we would have to move the gear out straight away.  After protests and some choice language, Billy grabbed a 4×12 cab and led the way out as Pucker and I grappled gamely behind with his AC30. 

And then they saw the van.

An ill-tempered and somewhat histrionic post-mortem ensued, with everybody blaming everybody else for just about everything.  Then we caught last orders at the County, returned to find Rocky in deep sleep outside the van, and climbed inside for what was to be an even more uncomfortable night than had been expected, given that we were sharing the cramped space not only with each other but also an entire backline and vocal PA.

Fortunately, although the following night’s show had been cancelled, I was still guaranteed a lift home as the band would have to fit the new tyres themselves (all four had in fact been destroyed in the mayhem).  I set out early for the pub and found the Flying Squadron in fine spirits. 

As for the match – things couldn’t really have gone better.  Two equalisers and a winner will always get an away crowd giddy, and a 25-yard rocket from Alan Hinton and two late goals from Pete McParland did just that, blessing their loyal travelling support with a fifth consecutive away win and this particular erstwhile roadie with a surprisingly happy kip on the floor of the 1952 Bedford CA.

At the top of the hill we saw it, the Church of St Nicholas rising up through thick clouds of smoke.  I imagined it was what heaven would look like after centuries of purgatory, and checked the inside pocket of my jacket again with a light tap, hearing the reassuring rustle before following the rest of the Honourable and Worthy Pedallers down the hill towards our longed-for destination, Barton-in-the-Clay.

□ □ □ □ □

It had been a long day.  A quick stop-off at the Rose and Woodbine in Coventry extended past dark and we were forced to cover over a hundred miles the next day to get to Luton in time for the two o’clock kick off.  An early reveille from our harmonica player, Don Flatt, gave us a healthy start, however, and our thirsts informed our legs, getting us to Kenilworth Road with an hour to spare and appetites that would be a joy to sate.  ‘It’s a picturesque little place,’ I managed to say to Frank Copley, though the need for beer and snout was both clouding my vision and interfering with my speech. 

‘Ar,’ said Frank, ‘but it do’ exactly look built to welcome Wolves.’

What he meant by this wouldn’t dawn on me until later, for now there were more pressing things on my mind, like pressing open the door of the Black Horse and ordering as quickly as possible while dexterously placing a Woodbine on my lower lip and striking…

‘Oi!  What on earf do you fink you’re doin’?’ came a voice from behind the bar, ‘Bob:  fetch the constable!’

Two dozen unlit cigarettes bobbed up and down in time as two dozen South Staffordshire voices said What’s the matter?’

‘Do not light those matches!’ cried the landlord.

I looked around the public bar.  You rarely saw ‘No Smoking’ signs in those days outside of coal mines, and there didn’t appear to be any in the Black Horse. 

‘Could you at least continue to draw those pints,’ said Ezekiel Graves after twenty seconds of shocked silence, ‘I’ve got a thirst on me like a swarm of locusts.’

‘We’ll see what the Constable has to say first,’ replied the landlord.

I was about to ask what any of this had to do with the Constable when a gust of January air blew into the bar and a plump, freshly shaven policeman entered with ‘Bob’ and a man in a strange red uniform.

‘What seems to be the trouble here, then?’ said the copper.

‘These… strangers… were about to light about two dozen fires,’ said the landlord.  ‘Thought you ought to know, Harry.’

‘Yes, thank you, Sid.  Now could I ask you gentlemen to put any matches you may have on the bar, please.’

As Honourable and Worthy Pedallers, we had no wish to antagonize the law, and conformed to the policeman’s request. 

‘Is this a no-smoking establishment?’ asked Natty Painter, placing his Bryant and May on the bar.

‘Are you trying to be funny?’ asked the Constable Harry.

‘No.  I’m just trying to enjoy a pint before the match.’

‘Here, here,’ came some muttered approval.

The man in the red uniform spoke at this point, in a weird, needling voice.  ‘Make them jump up and down, Harry.’

‘Christ and two sticks!’ said Ezekiel Graves, ‘What on earth is happening here?’

‘You can cut that language out for starters,’ warned the constable.  ‘Do what the Fire Warden says, please.’

‘We have just ridden a hundred miles on bicycles.  We are not going to jump up and down – certainly not before we’ve had some rest, some beer and some cigarettes.’

‘Like I said,’ muttered Frank Copley, ‘Not a place built to welcome Wolves.’

It was then that the penny dropped.  It was not unusual, of course, to see straw-lined floors in a public bar in those days, but the picturesque town I had admired was more than just rustic.  Plaited straw was everywhere: the furniture was made of it, the chairs and tables and the bar were made of it, and even the walls of the pub appeared to have been constructed entirely of plaited straw.  And all the picturesque buildings that had lined the street when we arrived were made entirely of straw, too.  Probably strong enough to withstand the huffs and puffs of two dozen wolves, but a single spark might raze the town to the ground.

‘If you cannot jump up and down and prove you have no more incendiary devices on you, I will have to arrest you.  This is a no smoking town.’

‘What if we stand outside?’

‘The streets are made of straw,’ said Constable Harry, as he collected the matchbooks and matchboxes from the bar, ‘The street signs are made of straw, and when you get to the football ground you’ll see that’s made of straw too.’

‘But I saw a tobacconist’s down the road…’

‘If snuff is your pleasure, Mr Talke’s emporium is well worth a visit.  He may even have some cigarettes and pipe tobacco for sale.  But you won’t find a light there or anywhere else in Luton.  Now please, jump up and down like the Fire Warden says.’

We looked at each other with glum faces.  Frank Carding, Jimmy Blight and Bob Crockett placed some spare matchboxes on the bar, shrugged our shoulders and jumped.

‘Excellent.  The Fire Warden will be accompanying you to the ground to be sure you are safe; there are plenty of fire stewards in attendance on match days who will do the same once you’re on the ground.  Enjoy the game and your drinks, Gentlemen.’

Enjoyment is relative.  Though Wolves won out against the Straw Plaiters, and Bill Barraclough and Wilf Lowton in particular had excellent games, every time the ball was out of play all I could think about was smoking.  At 2-1 we were all biting our nails for the final whistle, but carried on biting them until our fingers were wrapped around our handlebars and we were cycling feverishly north, towards the first pub that would allow us to combine our pleasures.  So driven were we that I don’t think Antonin Magne himself could have kept up with the pace.

□ □ □ □ □

As we descended the hill into the village of Barton-in-the-Clay gusts of cigarette smoke pulled us in like the hands of angels.  I inhaled joyful gusts of passive smoke from the pavements lined with smokers chatting, laughing and coughing as nature intended.  Church bells rang through the twilight and we parked up and walked through the sturdy streets.  Ezekiel Graves even stroked the stone wall of the Royal Oak before we entered, and Jack Dudley looked ready to lick the nicotine stains off the plaster in the public bar. 

‘Twenty four pints of your best bitter,’ said Natty Painter, turning round and adding ‘What are you having, lads?’ with a glint in his eye.

‘Twenty four boxes of matches, as well,’ called Ezekiel from the door. 

‘I’m sorry chaps; you’re out of luck.  The barrel’s just gone.’

‘Pale, then…’

‘We have no…’

‘Porter, stout… anything…’

‘No beer tonight, boys.  There was a big wedding.  I’ll be getting in a delivery on Monday.’

‘Are there any other pubs in the village?  An outdoor?  Social club?’

The landlord shook his head. 

‘I’m afraid not,’ he said, sadly, ‘Now, do you still want those matches?’