Dominic Cummings woke alone in the early hours of a cold December morning. His atomic clock (accurate to 1000 of a second and linked to NASA) told him it was 2am.
He put on this glasses and as his eyes focussed he made out a terrible grey faced spectre hovering at the end of the bed.
“Fuckpigs”, He said to himself “It’s the Spirit of Sir Keith Joseph”
The Ghost of Sir Keith loomed closer, rattling chains made out of government outsourcing contracts.
“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past” he wailed “And I have brought you a nightmare vision of your life”
The vision swirled and he was, at once, back nearly 40 years ago.
It was the last mod night of the year at Klute, and Dominic was working in the cloak room. The cold weather had brought a big collection of coats – among the fish tail parkas were customised MA1 jackets with scooter patches, the occasional white mac modelled on Harry Palmer, and a couple of full length skinhead Crombies.
The crowd was excitable, and mostly too young to drink legally. The clubs owners didn’t care – the police rarely took any interest and the beer was so watered down it was hard to get drunk anyway.
In the upstairs bar people chatted, drank and smoked, mostly sharp dressed boys eyeing up the small number of single girls. The dress code spanned every era of mod – some in black polo necks and Chelsea boots, others in skinny suits and ties, some in check button downs and braces. Occasionally a paisley shirt from the late 60s. Lots of sunglasses after dark.
Downstairs the organisers took turns spinning records, while a tight packed crowd danced and sweated. Tamla, Atlantic and old RnB. The Who, Kinks, Small Faces. The Jam, and the revival bands; Purple Hearts, Dexys. Ska from the 60s and 70s with it’s bouncing upbeat.
This wasn’t the first time that Dominic had worked mod night. He stood on the side lines, working the cloakroom, and watching other people having fun.
This wasn’t unusual for Dom. Standing on the side lines watching the action was how he lived his life. A wimp in a class of Rugby players. A public school boy in a City full of comprehensive school kids. A Thatcherite during the miners strike. He had never belonged, and never fitted in, and the world never let him forget that.
He was sat in the cloakroom brooding on Bismarck, when a group of lads came over and started chatting. One of them wanted something out of the pocket of his coat. Dominic suspected it might be something elicit, but he was happy to have the company. They were full of the good humour that warm watery beer gives you when you are 16. They chatted about music, and clothes and were happy to have Dominic in the conversation, keen to enlighten him about all things mod. For the first time he found something he could be part of and still be himself. He kept the conversation going as long as he could, before the pull of more beer and music dragged his new friends away.
The next mod night Dom looked different. His hair was neater and brushed forward into a Julius Ceaser cut, hiding his premature receding hairline. A dark three button suit from a charity shop. Enough to fit in, not enough to stand out.
He still worked the cloakroom, but took time to chat as he took in the coats. Later, when the cloakroom was quiet he made his first trip downstairs. He stood on the edge of the dance floor watching the crowd sway and surge. He wasn’t the only one – plenty of sharp looking young men were stood around practising looking moody, too cool to move. He nodded at the faces he recognised and they nodded back. Too scared to dance, and unsure of the moves, yet he felt at home in the heart of the crowd.
After that he took the big step. The next Saturday afternoon he hung out in Durham, wearing his newly adopted gear. He drank coffee and chatted to the people dressed like him. He started to work out the pecking order – some older and cooler, others younger and easier to make friends with. There could be snobbery at times about how you dressed, but most of the time people were just interested to talk about music, clothes, and who was dating who. Soon he was hanging out every Saturday afternoon, often the evening too, sometimes local pubs or house parties. Best of all was finding a student bar that could be taken over mob handed, usually the student union or the Junior Common Room at the Castle. At times he would meet posh boys like him, bemused students wondering what had happened to their bar, but he would pretend to have nothing in common with them, his new gang much more important to him. There were a few local bands with a 60s sound who would play, mostly a mix of beat group and garage punk, but with the odd pretentious psychedelic styling.
School became less important to him, and when it was time to go to 6th form he left public school and moved to a local Comp to be with his new mates. He has previously planned on Oxford or Cambridge, but his friends and the life of clothes and music were more important, His parents had a large house outside the City, and he bought a 2nd hand Vespa to commute to school. The purchase of a scooter moved him up hierarchy . He was taken more seriously, and could take part in trips away – often to scooter events or northern soul nights. At one of these trips away he met a girl with kohl eye make up and bangs. They dated, spending their time listening to music and watching repeats of 60s TV; The Prisoner, The Champions, Man in a Suitcase, The Avengers.
At the end of 6th form the groups started to break up a bit. Some stayed in Durham and got jobs, others moved away to Uni, a couple joined the army. He started working in his Uncle’s sports shop, and did well. He added Fred Perrys and Italian cycling shirts to the stock, and started doing mail order. Best of all he stocked the grey marl Londsdale T-shirt with the real felt logo. His friends would stop by, and he would travel further and further to scooter and music events.
He married his girlfriend, and they furnished their house with 60s furniture and piles of vinyl. This was his life. His hairline receded, first into a skinhead, then bald, but he kept some neatly trimmed side burns. When the Internet age came along he expanded the mail order side of the business on line, selling retro sports wear, along side classic mod clothes.
They would travel away at least once a month in the summer to scooter event, sometimes as far as Italy or France.
Cummings sat upright in bed.
“I thought the ghost of Christmas past was supposed to show me something scary?” He said “This is all lovely”
“I’m the ghost, I make the rules” Sir Keith replied “and that isn’t what really happened is it?
“No” said Dominic sadly.
Sir Keith rattled his chains and Dominic saw the scene again, this time how it really turned out.
This time he gave the young mod the coat, and tried to engage him and his mates in chat. The looked at him like a weirdo and told him to fuck off. He never became a mod, or felt like he belonged
“If you had made friends that night you would never have become the sad lonely, bitter man you are now. All of those grievances you carefully nurtured from your teenage years would have vanished. You would never have risen through the ranks of right wing politics” Sir Keith explained “Without the bitterness there would be no Brexit, and no Boris”
“So it was important that I should suffer and have shit life to bring that about” Dominic asked?
“Yes” said Sir Keith “it was crucial that you should grow up to be a total twat”
“You think I am a twat” said Dominic sadly looking at Sir Keith Joseph
“Yes” said Sir Keith “Everyone thinks you’re a twat”
And with that he vanished like a wisp of smoke
“Fuckpigs” said Dominic, wishing that he could swear properly like the comprehensive school kids