At around seven
o’clock on 11 December in 1969, George trudged his way up through the deepening
snow towards the familiar dark oak door of the Kings Head pub in Chesham in the
county of Buckinghamshire. It had been
snowing on and off for most of the day and George was in need of a pint. He slid the last few steps, grabbing
desperately at the old brass handle and swung in with the door as it opened
inwards. The Landlord looked up sharply
from across the deserted bar.
“Hi George” he said cheerfully stacking empty
pots on a shelf. “How’s it going?”.
“All right for ducks and reindeer I suppose”,
growled George, glad to be out of the cold. George closed the door and began to remove his
outer clothing. He shook his coat violently, watching the melting snow fall to
the floor and turn to slush. “At least it’s warm in here” he
said, looking across at the large log fire built effectively between the two
bars. “Are they in?”
The landlord nodded
towards the snug. “Keith’s in there”.
George looked across at the small
painted door at the end of the bar and went across. Keith looked up and beamed as he went in.“Hello mate. You made it then?”
George slumped down into a chair and
stuck his wet boots on to the hearth, watching the steam rise in to the air. “Yea – wasn’t easy though.
Slipping and sliding all over the place”
“Still, it’ll be worth it mate.
Just to get things sorted out. Keith stood up suddenly and started moving towards
the bar. “Guinness?” he asked rhetorically without looking round.
George had been a Guinness man
all his life, learning the skill at the local British Legion where good Guinness
was born and bred. Tonight though, they
had chosen the ‘Kings’ for their meeting, for a bit of peace and quiet. George shuffled his chair nearer the
fire. Beech logs smouldered gently in
the old cast grate and George could feel the warmth seeping in to his feet. He pushed his feet out towards the fire
watching the soles of his boots 'steam' against
the warmth. “What about John” he said to
Keith’s back at the bar suddenly pulling his feet away from the heat..
“He’ll be here” answered Keith, glancing round
as he ordered a fresh round. “They both will”.
They sipped their Guinness in
silence, staring into the fire, the quiet of the evening disturbed slightly by
the distant clink of glass and the hiss of the logs.
After a while Keith said, “This
might be the last one”. He held up his half empty glass, a pained look adopting
his features. “Drafts off” he said
explaining, “or nearly. Only about two pints left”
George looked sad and sighed. “Must be the weather I ‘suppose'. No deliveries. We should have gone to the
Legion. Still there’s always bottles”.
Keith looked slightly sick at the
thought.. “Not the same though is it”.
George shook his head. “No, it’s
not the same”
They continued their silent vigil
whilst sipping their drinks.
“How many have you got”, said
Keith suddenly, still gazing in to the fire. “It’s hard isn’t, to come with
good ones”.
George started to rummage in his
pocket. “I’ve made a list” he said eagerly trying to pull a small scrap of
paper from his jeans pocket
“Blimey” said Keith, “I could
only think of three. Good ones, that is.
Hardly a list. Good on yer mate”.
Keith seemed genuinely impressed that
George had managed a ‘list’ and then froze.
What does he mean by ‘good ones’ he asked himself For the first time since penning his
collection of names, George started to worry. There were about ten, and yea they were all
pretty good he thought. Punchy, zappy
names to sum up the band’s mission, providing good old Rock’n’Roll for all and
everybody.
“Don’t you think we should wait
for the others” said Billy gingerly finally removing the scrap from his pocket.
They didn’t have to wait long. John
and the Brian arrived just a few minutes later. They entered the pub in much the same way as George
had, pleased to be out of the cold, and looking forward to some good company
and a drink. Keith and George could hear them
laughing. John’s laugh was
infectious. George and Keith glanced at
each other across the firelight and started to giggle.
“He won’t be laughing like that
when he finds out about the Guinness” explained Keith, “I’d better go and break
the news”.
Keith got up and disappeared
through the small doorway to the main bar.
Brian was a slight man, and a
thinker. He’d spent a good part of his life in the army but now he was out.
Married. Divorced. Fancy-free. But the best part was that he was army
trained. In music. He was a
professional. It pleased Keith to have a
professional on board. It gave the band
some substance. They had rehearsed hard for four months, assembled a repertoire
of about twenty five songs. Seventeen of which were OK, four were a bit dodgy
and the other four were OK other than the fact that they didn’t have beginnings
or endings. They just sorted of started and then stopped at some convenient
point. But that didn’t matter. They were
off. Ready to rock and roll, playing the
music they loved in the community they shared. Music was in their blood; they thrilled to
the rich raw sound of the live music they created. They were ready. All they needed…was a name…
They were all seated in front of
the fire,
George nervously read from the
small scrap of paper clutched within his clammy fingers, his three best mates waiting. He read the names slowly and purposefully,
gaining confidence as he went.
“The Sound-trekkers, the
Beat finders, Tommy and the Knights….”
“Who the hell's Tommy” asked Brian,
his bony features caught in the firelight.
George paused and stared hard at
his friend. “Keith….and the Knights?” said George with mild contempt. “It just doesn’t sound right!”
After that, George completed his
list in silence.
“I like the last one” said John,
after a moment, “it sort of rolls off the tongue”.
“There’s already a
‘Storm-breakers’ reported Keith. They’ve
got them down at the sixty-one club next week.
Anyway, it doesn’t sum us up somehow.
It’s too rocky. Alright for the youngsters, but we’re seriously in to
the older set. Sports clubs: community
centres and the like. A real and proper function band”.
“What about the Dominators then”
suggested John?
“Too beaty” said Keith.
“Sound effects”, added George. That’s my favourite.
“Too gimmicky”
“The Telstars”
“Nah” said Keith
“How about the Kingsways”.
Keith shook his head.
“Livewires, Blue Stars”
“Not us” said John.
George glanced down at his list
and fingered the last entry. “Well this is it” he said with some
authority. “This is my last one”. He eyeballed his mates one at a time and
paused for effect. “The Senators” he
said finally, “What about the Senators?”
After the build up nobody knew
what to say. George swilled the last
drop of Guinness into his throat, obviously playing for time. Keith looked mildly confused and then
exhibited one of his bewildered smiles.
Only John took firm action and George was grateful.
“I’ll get em in” he stated.
No Guinness.
No Guinness.
Does anybody remember Watneys ‘PALE’? - the old 'hand drawn' draft beer found in
almost every pub in the land.
And what about another old
favourite. ‘A pint of ‘light and bitter' please’.
Just about every young man would sample it –
just to be cool. So there it
was…decided.
The 'Pale' and the 'Light' were off and running...or to put it another way... THE PALE LIGHTS