THE LIFE MODEL

I Am Seventeen

29th of April 1970 to 28th of April 1971

THE SPOKEN WORD

THE WRITTEN WORD

Above

THEY WERE SHITE
By Simon McCormick

I awoke that morning as normal, realising I had left my radio on all night.
I would struggle in vain to fight sleep every night, just so I could hear the captivating sounds of DJ Elvin Clough transmitting on Radio Tangerine, a station that illegally broadcast from a decommissioned passenger ferry, anchored at an undisclosed location somewhere in the black recesses of the Irish Sea.

By morning the only sound emanating from the small speaker was that of white noise, something that apparently, I was to learn in later life, is an excellent aid to sleep.

I traipsed downstairs to find amongst the post, a few envelopes sitting on the mat with my name on them. Most had been handwritten and turned out to be birthday cards from relatives. One in particular was formally printed. I had never received a formal letter in the post before, so I was particularly intrigued by this.

But, before the opening of the letter could commence, the most important act of the morning had to take place, the ceremonial brewing of the day's first cup of tea.

My father bought and drank Yorkshire tea religiously, which to my mind was simultaneously a great paradox and coincidence, as he was Scottish and a minister.

Upon opening the letter, I was startled into the realisation that I had been accepted onto an “Ancient Greek Carpentry” undergraduate course at Queens University, Belfast.

My particular passion lay in the era around 700BC, when advances in mathematics and applied physics allowed the harmonious proportional relationship of each element of a building, in relation to the whole.

I had completely forgotten about my application and immediately tried to remember why I had chosen the ungodly, parochial, backwater of Northern Ireland in which to study.

The course began that September.

The remainder of my final year of school was fairly uneventful, apart from an unfortunate incident where my science teacher Mrs. Schlesinger was killed outright in a freak incident involving an unsound Liebig Condenser.

I achieved the grades I needed to progress to Belfast.

In July of 1970, at the very beginning of the summer holiday, my sister and I befriended a group of Finnish furniture removal men who had driven all the way from Kankaanpää in western Finland to where we lived at the time, in Whitley Bay, North Tyneside. 

Once they had crossed from Helsinki, on the ferry to Tallinn, Estonia, they drove continuously for over 1500 miles to Calais in France, only stopping when absolutely necessary to refuel, buy cigarettes and pornographic magazines. A feat which astounded me.

In their possession, they had all the worldly belongings of a Finnish professor who was relocating to England to take up a post at Northumbria University.

The professor had two non-negotiable conditions for taking up this new post, firstly his personal effects must not be transported by air, and secondly, he was to live beside the sea and commute to his place of work by private taxi, driven by a man dressed in full chauffeur's attire.

The men agreed to let us hitch back with them to Helsinki at which point we would be on our own, at least that’s what we understood by way of their limited English. I would be lying if I said the thought of being brutally violated, murdered and dumped deep in a Latvian forest hadn’t crossed my mind.

For the next two months my sister and I lived in a very small, very cheap apartment in Munkkivuori, east Helsinki, odd-jobbing where we could, in kitchens, in bars, at the docks, in warehouses, etc.

In my free time, my favourite thing to do was visit the museums, there seemed to be a lot of them, I mean, there’s fucking loads of them, and I made sure I visited them all, The Helsinki City Museum, The Finnish Museum of Photography, The National Museum of Finland, The Finnish Museum of Natural History, The Museum of Finnish Architecture, The Suomenlinna Museum, The Kiasma Museum of Art, The Museum of Impossible Forms, the list goes on….

As September approached, I readied myself for the move to Belfast.

 

The thought of hitching back to England didn’t enthral me, but thankfully we had saved enough money to fly by Concorde from Stockholm to Birmingham.

In a way, I was very sad to leave Helsinki, the people there were incredibly kind, worldly wise and well educated and despite enjoying myself immensely, I vowed never ever to return under any circumstances whatsoever.

I arrived in Belfast on the 24th September 1970, the halls of residence I would be residing in were located on Botanic Avenue, near the university and very close to the, where my studies would take place.

My first month was spent wandering the streets of the city on my own, getting a sense of the space, trying to tap into whatever kind of energy exuded from the overwrought Victorian architecture.

I chose to be on my own as the students I shared the halls with seemed to be only interested in drinking until they vomited or passed out, usually both, and in that order.

I returned to Whitley Bay to spend Christmas with my family.

My father broke down and cried as soon as he saw me. I’d never seen the man display this kind of emotion in my life.

As the new year metamorphosed into early spring, I was enjoying my course and excelling well at it.

My time working near the Helsinki docks, fabricating wooden statues and very small boats last summer had served me well in my pursuit of artisan carpentry.

By this stage I had made a number of friends, most notably James “Jim” McKenna, a well-read, long-haired Tyrone man, whose love of music and art closely mirrored my own. He convinced me that I should spend summer in Belfast.

On March the 5th we headed out for Jim’s birthday, to the Ulster Hall.

Led Zeppelin played. They were shite.

Below

I KILLED MY BEST PAL
By Adam Jacobs

In 1970 aged 17 years old, I accidentally killed my best pal Angus…

This is of course not what most 17-year-olds are responsible for as they approach manhood. But I was not most 17-year-olds...

And when I say accidentally, it really was, although that burden has stayed with me long after, until the present day and very likely to the grave. Maybe even beyond that too.

It was the start of a brand-new decade and already an incident fuelled one. The Beatles had stopped, and McCartney had released a half decent solo album just before my birthday. What was even better was the slide of the Tories as they began to nosedive, and England crashing out of the World Cup which brought a huge smile to my face as you can imagine.

But enough of everything else that was going on in the world at the time. You want to know Dear Reader about that crushing opening line, right? I mean, who starts a chapter of a life story with that sentence? Well, I do, because it’s true and it happened...

At the beginning of 1970, I was 16 going on 17 and about to go to art school. I didn’t know what career path I wanted. It wasn’t as an artist, but I knew that culture in all its forms was going to provide the backbone of ‘working’, even if I never wanted to really work for a living if you know what I mean. I’d been employed in a few different jobs, but the one I favoured and got the most out of was behind the counter at ‘Reach Around Records’ in Corby where me and Angus ruled the roost as we dished out LPs and occasionally unwanted or unwarranted music advice to strangers (sometimes real, sometimes just plain lies) and could play pretty much what we wanted on the shop’s stereo system (with the volume cranked a lot louder post-closing time).

With access to all of this music and on the paltry wages that the owner Stan paid us, it was inevitable that some of these mighty fine records would accidentally slip into our bags, only to be re-discovered later on at home.

I feel bad about it now…

But did I feel bad about it then?

Well, no, not really. I saw it as part of my musical education more than petty theft. Then that education was passed onto many more and besides, it was a bit of a Robin Hood mindset if you will.

When we weren’t listening to or stealing music, Angus and I would get drunk and get high as we dreamt of what our adult selves would think of these two wasters, who longed to get away from the ‘back to the grind’ jobs our parents had. Our plan was to hit up as many of the UKs festivals of the forthcoming summer, getting in for free of course because we had no money to spend on such activity. During the Spring, we spent time planning what we’d go to and how we’d do it – two best friends on the road, heading into the unknown with nothing but ourselves and some stimulants ahead of us as we waited for a summer of freedom and excess to consume us. But it didn’t quite plan out that way….

To get ourselves ready for such a hedonistic few months, we decided the best thing for it was to go to as many gigs as possible. Not only that, but to really get into the festival spirit by trying out as many hallucinogens and other illegal goodies to prepare our bodies and minds for our forthcoming adventures. And at first, this was a lot of fun of course...

But when you’re dealing with two 17-year-old lads with competitive streaks attempting to go the extra mile in taking things as far as possible, the fun is never going to last. So it proved…

On one particular evening as we mulled over the bands we were going to see whilst listening to the latest ‘borrowed’ vinyl from dear old Stan’s shop, we were also indulging in a few illicit substances. We were both in extremely high spirits as you can imagine, but wanted to take things further, still - what would happen? Imagine how we’d feel with even more! What harm could it do?

There was a point where Angus said that he’d had enough for one evening. That we’d be stupid to try more. But that wasn’t good enough for me. I had to cross the line, take it even further without fear of the consequences. But when I say cross the line, it was not with myself but with Angus. I egged him on, told him to do more, more, more…

He was reluctant at first.

I could see it in his eyes and feel it in the room. He didn’t want to do it but did it anyway for me. I was his best pal. We were having fun, what’s the worst that could happen? I egged him on, and we were laughing again as the substances took even more of an effect. But the laughter soon stopped…

This is not the time nor the place to go into details about what followed. Suffice to say that in the blink of an eye there was sheer worry, turning to panic, shouting, much shouting, a hurried phone call, a lifeless body. A trip in an ambulance, the fear, guilt and sadness creeping in. A hospital, a doctor, waiting and then more waiting...

A doctor again, a statement, tears, many tears, the worst feeling I’ve ever experienced, the depths of despair, heartache and heartbreak. More grief, depression, a funeral, facing the family, regret. The loss of my best friend.

I now live a life of teetotalism. When I say now, I mean since I was 17. Because an event occurred that shattered my world, with me at the heart of it. Amongst the many evenings (and early mornings) that myself, Angus and several of our friends indulged in, setting the night on fire so to speak, there was one in particular that stayed the course until now. The day my best pal died.

Post Script - In August, with his family’s permission, I took Angus’s ashes to the Isle of Wight Festival in his honour. Wow, what a line-up… what a weekend. I was glad I was able to do it with my best pal alongside me.

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