Pretty Vacant

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It was the summer of 1977. The Sex Pistols were sailing down the Thames singing “God Save the Queen” and throwing the British public into apoplexy. Meanwhile, a group of art students stood on the stage of the Dog and Duck pub in Huddersfield and introduced themselves as The Virgin Prudes.
Joy de Vivre was an imposing six feet two inches tall as she swayed in the very high stilettos she wore, and while Joy hadn’t travelled quite as far as Holly from Miami, FLA, she’d undergone a similar transformation on the boat from Dublin to Holyhead. 
Whilst studying at Leeds Polytechnic, she’d witnessed the Sex Pistols playing alongside the Clash and the Damned. The next day, she formed her first band in the art rooms, reasoning that if they could do it, anyone could.
Now, four weeks and three rehearsals later, she took a deep breath and tottered her way on stage with a bottle of beer in hand and snarled into the microphone. 
“Hello, you bunch of boring bastards, we’re not the Sex Pistols. We’re far better looking than them.”
Joy’s friend and drummer, Steve clicked his drumsticks together four times before guitarist Stacey and bass player Duncan started to play. Joy danced around the stage and  screamed into the microphone, “I need you like a hole in the head, when I’m with you, I wish you were dead.”
Her eyes, already emphasised by the dark kohl eyeliner, bulged as she leered at the group of old men nursing their pints of bitter who’d had the misfortune to choose to sit at a table that was too close to the stage for comfort. Joy’s hair stood on end. It looked like someone had taken a pair of garden shears to it which wasn’t that far from the truth. Stacey had cut Joy’s hair the night before with a pair of pinking shears from her sewing kit. The end result, Joy was forced to admit, made her look like a toilet brush.
It only took one verse and half the chorus for the first bottle to be thrown. As the bottle smashed against the wall just behind Steve’s drum kit, Joy replied by raising two fingers and singingly told them to “Fuck right off.”
The small group of punks who had come to see them pogoed and bounced around the pub, banging into tables and causing other pub-goers Bolu Escort to complain and stand up and push them away. Several skirmishes and fights broke out as the Virgin Prudes played on, oblivious to the carnage that enveloped the rest of the bar.
After four songs, Joy announced they’d had enough and the band flounced off stage. 
They sat on beer kegs in the storeroom which doubled as their dressing room, drinking beer and cheap red wine, with an assortment of friends and hangers-on crowding around.
When the man who threw the first bottle came into the room, everyone cheered. He raised his hands in acknowledgement as they chanted, “Dave, Dave, Dave, Dave.”
He approached Joy as she sat on an empty keg, leant down and kissed her on both cheeks.
“Darling, you were absolutely marvellous.”
“Thank you, darling. Mwahhh mwahhh.”  
He lifted his head and glanced around the room.
“Jesus, Duncan! Can you not find somewhere a bit more private?”
Everyone turned to see Duncan leant against the wall with one of the groupies, a teenage girl in a short tartan skirt and black bra, kneeling and sucking his cock. The girl paused only long enough to give Dave the finger before she resumed her enthusiastic sucking.
There was a knock on the door and a small man with shoulder-length blonde hair and a beard came in.
“Er… Hi.” He waved his hand in greeting in the general direction of the band.
“Um… I’m Martin. Who’s in charge?”
“Fuck off, hippy. We’re an anarcho-syndicalist collective. We take it in turns to be…”
“Oh shut up, Steve.”
Joy stood up and took the couple of steps necessary to cross the room and shake Martin’s hand.
“Hi, I’m Joy.” She turned and indicated Dave. “And that’s Dave, our manager.”
Martin explained he was with Slush Records and was very keen to sign them. He was convinced they could be the next Sex Pistols.
“But we’re not the Sex Pistols,” Joy interjected. “The Sex Pistols are a bunch of plastic cretins. They’re only in it for the money.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Martin countered. “Isn’t that what everyone wants? The filthy lucre?”
He made a leering face as he rubbed his finger and thumb together, reminding Joy of Fagan from Bolu Escort Bayan the Oliver Twist musical she’d sung in last Christmas. Then his expression changed. Joy glanced to see what he was looking at and saw he was watching the girl on her knees in front of Dave.
“Isn’t that what it’s all about,” he muttered, almost to himself before Joy’s cough brought him back.
He flustered, glancing back at the girl, then at Joy and Dave then back to the girl before finally shaking his head and smiling.
“Look, you are a gorgeous young woman, Joy, and I’m sure with the right backing, you and your band will go far.” 
He raised his arm and pointed out into the middle distance for emphasis.
“What are you offering?”
“You don’t hang around, do you, Joy?”
Martin’s leer was back. Joy didn’t have much up top but she pulled the baggy sweat-soaked tee-shirt closer around her, blushing under his lecherous gaze. 
“I was thinking a ten thousand advance would be more than enough.”
“Fuck off, the Pistols got ten times that at least.’
Martin shrugged. 
“But you’re not the Pistols, are you?” He ran his finger down Joy’s cheek. “You’re just a small-scale band with the potential to blow the Pistols out of the water with the right management.”
Joy swallowed.
“I’ll have to talk to the band.”“Don’t take too long.” He glanced around the room before turning back and locking eyes with her again. “There aren’t exactly loads of other labels beating down the doors now, are they?”
He tucked a business card into the visible bra strap on Joy’s shoulder and turned to go. He stopped at the door and looked back. He indicated the blowjob girl that was still on her knees in front of Duncan.
“There’ll be wall to wall of that, lads, once you’re famous. Trust me. I’ll go get a drink at the bar while you talk it over. I’ll give you half an hour.”
After he was gone, and the groupies and hangers-on had been bustled out the door, the band sat and discussed Martin’s offer.
“He gave me the creeps,” Stacey shuddered. “Like he was undressing you with his eyes.”
“I dunno,” Duncan responded. “He seemed sound enough. I mean ten grand is massive.”
“You do know what an advance means?” Joy Escort Bolu stared at him. “It means they pay us ten thousand pounds to make a record. Then, when it’s released, they get all the money until all the expenses are paid. Only then do we get any of the profits.”
“But it’s ten grand, Joy. We can make our own records. And if we don’t make any money, we’ll still have got ten grand.”Joy looked around the room for support. Steve shrugged and Stacey gazed at the floor. Duncan smiled at her.“So we take the money then? Agreed?” 
Duncan looked at the rest of the band. 
“Raise your hands if we take the money.”
Joy slowly shook her head and watched as Stacey and Steve raised their hands.
“Right,” Duncan exclaimed. “Let’s get Martin back in.”

The next Monday, the Virgin Prudes were in a recording studio. Martin was in the control room, smoking a cigar and looking like he’d done a course on how to look like a record mogul cliche.
It became apparent that Martin wasn’t interested in their own songs or what they were singing about. He had his own ideas about what he wanted. 
“You’re not really very punk rock, Darling, are you?” He complained during one of the recording breaks. “I mean, look at you, Stacey.” 
Stacey’s eyes grew large as he reached over and unbuttoned the top three buttons of her shirt.
“That’s better, we can see your bra and the shape of your tits now.”
When Joy tried to interrupt, he talked over her.
“You need to project the right image. Punk’s all about being in your face. Shoving sex in the face of the great unwashed British public.”
Joy glanced at Stacey who was now sitting smiling with her tits hanging out, hanging onto every word Martin uttered like he was the new Messiah.
“Look, Martin,” Joy tried again. “Punk is about identity. About us creating our own identity, singing about our lives.”
“Pish posh pash,” Martin countered in his upper-class sing-song voice. “Punk is about sex. Everything is about sex really. Sex sells.” 
He looked around the room again before announcing, “I’d be back in a bit. Try and get something half decent recorded by the time I get back.”
With Martin gone, the group felt energised and had four songs recorded by the time he came back. They were in the control room listening to the last take when Martin bustled in, carrying four carrier bags.
“Darlings, I’ve been down the King’s Road and did a little shopping. Stacey, these are for you. Why don’t you try them on?”

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