I was never very competitive. Never very good with money, This is probably why I'm skint at sixty. But strangely happy. Others pretended not to be ambitious at university but there was enormous self love everywhere I realise looking back. If you're not going to love yourself at 19 why should you expect anyone else to love you. The strongest sense I felt in my first two years was an eerie sensation that something was not quite right. Bad Faith as Jean Paul would have it.
Despite the pretence and assumption of left wing airs, ideals and principles there was the stench of Thatcherism wherever you looked. What many wanted despite the communal facede of 'all in it together' was the desire to be the best, Perhaps I'm unkind. But three terms in I think I knew it. I found my rich, Malaysian honey declared my feelings to her and she reciprocated and we hunkered down together.
And listened to records like this. Though not actually this. I've only uncovered The Death of Samantha looking for options to populate this countown, tell you my story of 1986 and give you flavour of the place and the timbre of the times. Death of Samantha is pure Santana's.
Santana's was the Norwich club we made our way towards on Thursday nights at every opportunity .Like the shepherds trooping down from the Bethlehem hillsides in search of snakebite and The Mamas and The Papas and youthful thrills. Thursday Night was Sixties Night and we were there most Thursday nights. Three miles in. Three miles back. No need for sheep. They were what we were up against. Permanent drizzle all Thursday night..
You saw it all at Santana's. Speed Freak townies. Girl fights. I first snogged my Malaysian honey sat on the dancefloor one Thursday night in May to my friend's horror. They'd assumed I'd sold my soul to Bolshevism but I had a mind of my own and she drew me towards her me in with her invisible crook,. made off with my soul and eventually took me to Penang, But it started with a kiss. At Santana's. I wasn't the only one. There was always a shocking snog or several on Thursday night at Santana's to gossip about on Friday mornings over a fry up at The Fifer's Lane canteen. It was a feeling that felt as if it would last forever. .
Gavin was always there. Large and unlovely. The nephew of John Braine author of Room At The Top Apparently. He was invariably there when we arrived at nine on Thursday. Tottering malevolently in a huge fluorescent pink and black shirt which frankly should have been incinerated on a bonfire immediately to avoid contagion. He haunted the edge of the dancefloor with my pal Hippie Andy.
I'd wander over to Gavin and his greeting was always the same. 'I've had ten pints and I'm drunk as fuck... His breath was withering. It was probably best to leave him to it. He had a mad, dead eye. A greasy, bleached fringe. He set his room on fire third term and dropped out within a year.
Hippie Andy was a different matter, One of the finest people I met during my time at UEA. A true friend. The gig going pal of my lifetime .The only person I've ever met who I wanted to form a band with. Stipe and Buck. Jagger and Richard. Nation and Bax. A West Country Bhuddist and Beat Poet. .
Over the years we bonded over The Velvet Underground, The Doors, Les Negresses Verts, Left Wing activism The Pixies, All Tomorrow's Parties and trips to New York City and Auschwitz. We've lived together.
Andy would love Death of Samantha. Cleveland Ohio's finest. Well Pere Ubu had cleared out by 1986. Death of Samantha were pretty ace. Leather jackets and shades. Dream Syndicate meets, Gun Club, Bo Diddley and The Cramps. So 1986.
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