ISSN 1758-6488
|
Heroes Essay |
print view |
I never saw John Mahoney again. I’ve no idea if he ever outgrew his racism, or his infatuation with his brother. Years later when I was 17 I bumped into his old lieutenant Mark Higgins in a pub in town. He told me John had got a girl pregnant whilst still at school and had ended up marrying her. ‘Too much too young’ he said – six years too late - as he sipped his lager and black. He was dismissive of his former hero, laughing at his folly. I knew all about fallen idols. David was in his Glass Spider phase. We drank and chatted and reminisced about the mice in my dad’s cellar. My dad was dead by then, the shop and the cellar sold and I was living in a different part of the city. I found myself thinking back to one of the last conversations I’d had with John. In those last few weeks of primary school with 'Ghost Town' at number one, The Specials had finally done enough to dent the consciousness of my classmates. John asked me:
‘So are you a mod?’
This was a common misconception. The Specials, Selecter, Madness, The Beat were all seen as mods. Anyone in a suit basically. I wasn’t a mod. I knew very well that mods liked Motown and Northern Soul, but followers of ska were rude boys (or girls). I knew also that such a distinction would be far too finely graded and nuanced for anyone at school to get, even John Mahoney the one time great sifter of punks and poseurs, so I said simply:
‘Yes.’
‘I like the coats they wear. The parkas. They look good with the targets and stuff on the back. I might get one,’ he said.
‘Ok.’
‘But if you’re a mod, do you have to like wogs?
He knew the answer already, but I gave him what he wanted.‘Yeah, you do.’
‘Do you have to dance next to them?’
‘Yeah you do.’
‘Do you have to hold hands with them?’ He was laughing now at his deliberate childishness.
I laughed too.‘Yeah you do.’
John pretended he was choking on poison, holding his throat and sticking his tongue out, parodying his own disgust. I laughed at the charade. He stopped choking but carried on smiling at me.
I’m not sure if we choose our idols or if they choose us. I think if it hadn’t been for Borstal Jimmy, John might have been a different boy.
