Tommy Timor and the Tremors

Introduction

This simple little story came to mind when my Dad was going through his terminal illness. I realised I never knew enough about his life back in England and his days of youth in London as the true Cockney he was. So as my final gift to him, I told him I would write him a rock ’n’ roll fictional story set in his era. We both accepted that he would never read it but what it did give us were a few short moments in time together, with him reliving London, his mates, and his youth. He made me laugh a lot during those small sessions as I took notes. He had always talked about the rockers – Billy Fury and Marty Wilde and the Wild Cats and reason he had a bobcat tattooed on his forearm (or so he told me). Yet during those sessions he told me all about ‘The Lads’ (his best mates) Michael, Frank and Bowie and their love of gambling, drinking and being rather unruly, plus the regular nights of watching bands. So I decided they would be my group members for my fictional musician and band – Tommy Timor and the Tremors.

Tommy is an amalgamation of Dad’s idiosynchrosies, humour and quirkiness, a lot of me of where my mind takes me and especially the strange places it sometimes unwillingly goes. I always saw my imagination’s rockabilly image of Tommy as the main character. Yet I never saw my dad’s face as this character; it was never him (his hair style YES)! Tommy had to be his own person and is, just as ALL the characters in this story!

As I sat down to begin (long after Dad’s passing), I had no actual storyline but simply brief descriptions of his mate’s personalities as the band characters, as well as Eileen. Where it begins (the first page virtually untouched) made me laugh a lot as I couldn’t believe that was where my mind chose to start from and then inspire my continuation. I knew then, I could do this!

I do apologise beforehand for any historical, geographical, and timeline errors. All I had was Dad’s sparse notes, conversations with Mum, my own memories, and a little research to guide me through this journey of life set in my birthplace (that I have no actual memory of at all) being a ten-pound baby pom and immigrating on my parent’s ticket, way back in 1962. We left England on my 2nd birthday and arrived in Perth, New Year’s Day - 1st of January ‘63. Of course authors write best about what they know yet I still felt compelled to tell a story, so I have with pure imagination of an era long gone and missed!

As the story progresses and characters needed to be added, I decided to use some names and places of Dad’s life as a gift to Mum to give her a chuckle and jog some of her own memories, even though one of the funnier stories in here actually came from her and was a must to add, so I put an extra twist into it. You can ask her what one it was! But I stress this is nothing more than a fictional story with fictional characters from my imagination and what I believe life would’ve have been like back amongst the birth of rock ‘n’ roll - the highs and lows of relationships, sprinkled with a musician’s life; it is NOT a biography! It simply is a life journey. And the truth that my dad wasn’t musically blessed, beside his biast mother who said he had the voice of a choir boy when he was young (heard those words with my own ears)!

Of course as a writer, once you finish the initial draft you start the rewrite and the proofreading begins, so does the second-guessing of your work by asking yourself, ‘Is this any good?’ The only person I showed this close to completed draft to was my beautiful wife – Vickie … and of course, she loved it! Yet still I rewrote more to my own expectations. And so did we get there? That will be for you all to decide.

The very first paperback copy will be signed by me with a personal dedication to Dad and for Mum to keep.

Of course there are some very politically incorrect themes here. But it was a time when no one actually gave a rat’s arse about offending anyone … and yet we know people did! Of course, on the flipside was low tolerance and extremely outdated expectations. Whether you believe that we are better off these days or not with all this political correctness going on, is entirely up to you! I grew up in the sixties and seventies and thank God for that!

I hope you all enjoy this naughty little tale as I know my dad (and his sense of humour) would’ve gotten more than few chuckles out of it in places and that is all I aimed for both of us.

It was the 5th anniversary yesterday of his passing and it still feels like yesterday as he lives strong in my heart. I hope my son – Ronan, remembers me this strong when it’s my time to be with Dad.

So let’s get on that Double Decker and head down to the ‘Dukes’ for a pint or two.

Jonny

13/10/2019

Contents

Introduction

Part 1

1 - Happy Birthday Wanker

2 - The Lads

3 - Thomas the wot?

4 - Man on the track or man in the boat?

5 - Eileen

6 - One door closes

7 - Rose and Eileen

8 - Time to learn

9 - Rehearsal time

10 - The truth

11 - Hit the road Jack

Part 2

1 - Birmingham

2 - Set up

3 - First gig

4 - Fucker Boy

5 - Allo

6 - Last gig

7 - The Crestmore

8 - May, June, and July

9 - Firth and last tram

10 - Beatrice Beetroot

11 - Call

12 - The game

13 - Take one for the teams

14 - The real world

15 - Bath time

16 - Farewell old friend

17 - Funeral

18 - F off Mum

19 - Time’s clicking

20 - Change

21 - Cold

22 - Bangers again

23 - Off the hook?

Part 3

1 - Death or life in the ’60s?

2 - F.U.T.T.N.F.O. please

3 - Reality

4 - Facing demons

5 - Time for change

6 - Farewell

7 - Reflection from the water

8 - Heat and humidity

9 - To the Sunshine State

10 - Christened!

11 - My new home

12 - Dreamtime

13 - Spot the Pommy bastard

14 - Get to work

15 - Little sister

16 - Tassels on the charlies

17 - Eileen and me

18 - Coral Lee, Coral Lee, Coral Lee

19 - Paradise is golden

20 - My Australian Rose

21 - Heaven

22 - Silence isn’t golden

23 - Melting ice

24 - Empty amongst the emptiness

25 - Goodbye

Part 4

1 - Big city

2 - Goodbye Mini

3 - Chicken shit

4 - Audition

5 - Rehearsals

6 - Call her Chicken Shit

7 - Dad’s Dilemma

8 - Gig

9 - Mums are the best

10 - Allo Mum and Dad

11 - The letter

12 - Coming home

13 - ‘Ome, sweet ‘ome

14 - Michael’s business

15 - Roses are blood red

Part 5

1 - About time

2 - Tremors

3 - Get back on the horse, Charlie

4 - Baby, baby

5 - It’s about time

6 - Home at last

7 - Our Bussa

8 - Christmas 1968

9 - My Eileen

10 - Writing the wrongs

The End

About the author

Other titles also available

Part 1

Happy Birthday Wanker

Dad … Dad, quick, I need your help! I screamed from the bathroom as I stood naked and cold from the freshness of the London briskness in the cast iron bath, with the water ankle deep and refusing to go down the plughole, Dad … Dad!

You see my name’s Thomas Edmonton but you can call me ‘Tommy’ because that’s who I am now, not fucking Thomas! Only Mum and Dr Bell call me by that moniker. And there’s nothing like having that wrinkly and smelly old Dr Bell, fondle your balls while he’s asking,

So Thomas, how’s school? Yeh, you can keep your fucking - Thomas.

1958 is the year and today is my 20th birthday and a big day with the boys starting with a few celebratory pints at the ‘Dukes of Arms’ and then off to Harringay for a few more and our regular punt on the dogs. But first, there was this immediate bath problem to fix. Okay, I admit it, I’m officially a randy twenty-year-old today and I wasn’t planning on it, but knocking one-off in the bath seemed like a good idea … until this happened, and the evidence is still floating and swirling around my feet. At last a knock on the door,

You all right Love? Oh fuck, it’s me, Mum!

All good Mum don’t come in ... I need Dad. Where’s Dad? Tell ‘im the water’s not going down the ‘ole.

Now don’t be silly Love, just cover yourself and I’ve seen you naked since you were a baby and I can clear the … and at that precious moment, the situation escalated as I had tried quickly to get out the bath to wrap a towel around myself and slipped over and squashed my love nuts on the bath edge. Holy Mary, mother of Jesus … that fucken’ hurt! The door opens and in walks Mum, as I’m sitting on the bath edge with my penis in hand, held upwards as I’m right in the middle of my goolie’s visual inspection for any obvious damage or bruising to the fruit, and to make sure they were both still there on the outside.

Oh, Thomas! Yeh Mum spun around as I dropped my todger and grabbed a towel to cover myself.

Muuuum! I told you not to come in, with her back to me, she reaffirms my going to hell.

You will go to hell if you keep doing that! Possibly blind ... remember old Jim Rafters ... that’s what happened to him you know.

Mum he was friggin’ sixty-three when he went blind … he lived another bleedin’ ten years and died from a heart attack.

It was the Lord’s will ... and on his birthday too! And with that final comment, she finally left descending the staircase as Dad crossed paths with her on her descent.

What the bleedin’ ‘ell you gone an’ done now? He placed his newspaper on the sink and moved his reading glasses upwards on his balding forehead and followed my pointed finger to the evidence around the blockage at the plughole. He looked in, then looked at me before shaking his head in disgust and went to the bathroom cupboard and riffled around ‘til he found a plunger. I just sat there, towel around myself with my head looking downwards as this was the most embarrassing thing I’d ever been through and Dad’s final comments, while he was pumping the plunger in the bath, said it all,

You stupid little wanker!

Yeh, Happy Birthday to me.

The Lads

About friggin’ time … let the piss up begin! Jim (aka Bowie) tapped his watch to reinstate the fact I was late as fuck, as Frank passed me one of the ‘Duke’s’ finest pints before handing out the rest.

Sorry lads ... I had a little sticky situation at ‘ome.

These boys always brought a smile to the dial. We may have not been the ripest bunch of grapes (besides Michael) but we had something special between us ever since we were just kids, banging about together playing silly-buggers yet we all knew we were a bit more than that – brothers from another mother if you like! It’s something I believe only true friends understand, like an unwritten law or something. I could only describe it as I already said, close to a family in a sense, with the good and bad, warts ‘n’ ll accepted but once you’re in – you’re fucking well in and that’s it! Oh we fought like fuckers on occasions as all pubescent tin lids do, but you get over it and become stronger. I admit as an only child, these three arseholes had become my only true brothers – blood brothers!

Frankie bought the first round of pints as Bowie lit us all a fag each.

Cheers Birthday Boy! We all clinked to Frankie’s toast and I got slapped hard on the back before Frankie the big cunt, whacked me hard with a punch to the arm. Fuck me dead, you actually made it to twenty, amazing! I stared at him and grimaced as Bowie and Michael chuckled,

Oi, what’s that supposed to mean? I questioned just because I was the last to lose my teens. But before he got to answer, the scenery changed and was definitely looking for the better than their ugly mugs.

Cor blimey, look at the bristols on ‘er. Michael’s eyes darted back and forth, left to right until we all worked out Bowie meant – right, three o’clock ... and he was quite observant as they were a great pair.

My eyes soon bugged when I realised,

That’s Mrs Bellamy’s daughter, remember little Betty in secondary, back in my class … remember? So I clarified, We used to call ‘er … Betty No-knockers, remember now? Bowie’s eyes widened and he spat a bit of his drink out just so he could add his tuppence worth,

Bullshit! That’s not Betty No-knockers! I couldn’t actually believe it myself, as she was looking like a bit of alright these days, sort of a movie star look with that eye make-up and that pink and black polka-dot scarf over her hair, with those jet black sunglasses perked on top ... and then she recognised me and waved. Oh fuck, she’s coming over our way!

Thomas, is that you? You’re all grown up. Do you remember me … Betty, Betty Bellamy ... from back in school? Her dainty limp-wristed hand was held out so I shook her fingers and her bright pink fingernails.

Oh, Betty ... yeh-yeh that’s right, now I remember. Cor bleedin’ ‘ell … ‘aven’t seen you in years … you’ve grown up too! Bowie had to be so blatantly obvious about her tits growing the most with the cupped hand gestures, out of her view behind her at the bar (but directly into ours) and it was hard to ignore. I did my best not to look down at the two pointed suspects and kept my gaze directly at her bright blue eyes. So to break my wandering eye’s defeating battle I started talking,

It’s me birthday today, wanna join us for a drink to celebrate? Betty smiled, checked her gold watch and nodded,

Okay I’ll stay for one but I gotta meet Mum later … we’re going to that new bingo where the Capitol used to be, been shopping. Betty held up a shopping bag then turned and smiled at Michael, who was already getting up to go to the bar.

Brilliant, what’s your poison? Michael asked as he leaned in in his usual charming way, Michael … Michael Meddleton ... nice to meet you, Betty. And he kissed her hand gently as her eyes had already told me if anyone was gonna get into her knickers, then it would be him. I’m sure his private schooling gave him the edge in the brain department above our lower-class crassness but deep down he was just as common as the rest of us bastards! He still did live with his rich toffy g.p.’s across the river in Kensington these days, but his younger public primary years were brought up in Battersea. It was where he met us in the local cricket club, before he crossed the Thames with his folks and turned into a privately scholared toff. We had always kept in contact since kids (against his old cheese’s better judgement), always meeting up on the weekends that he came home from boarding school. We all made sure that he’d keep his head out of his own toffy arse whenever we could. Though by the time he was fifteen, we soon accepted he was the most educated of us by a long shot, even though we would never admit this to his face and still stirred and renamed him – Michael Muddlebrain; he fucking hated it! We’d all soon exchanged our weekend cricket matches for gambling and smoking, but it was Michael that showed us how to make a decent earner from a bet! Having an uncle in the racing game helped immensely with the outside word and the teachings of gambling. He had a hot French teacher in high school that used to place bets for him as his tipping helped her earn her a bit on the side too! We pooled all our winnings (after fag expenses) for a whole year and divvied up at Christmas; we were all rich … for two weeks!

Just a shandy, if that’s okay? Betty smiled at Michael and the gap between her teeth hadn’t changed since school but everything else had and that once skinny-legged, gapped-tooth, no knockered annoying girl, had been replaced with this voluptuous pretty young nubile and one thing was for sure – we all wanted to shag her!

Thomas the wot?

Seven shandies and several pints later it was this birthday boy who actually got to put his hands down Miss Bellamy’s naughty knickers in the front garden of her mum’s council flat, just before midnight.

That’s it, Tommy ... do it faster! Betty bit my earlobe as my finger went in top gear. She was starting to moan and the night’s silence was broken by it! A dog barked and then a light came on from upstairs; it was her fucking mum! My hand retreated quickly and into my right trouser pocket as Betty straightened her knickers and flattened out her skirt just as her Mum poked her head out of the council flat’s upper bedroom window.

What the bloody ‘ell do you call this ... coming ‘ome at all bleedin’ hours young lady … and who’s that there with you?

Tommy from school ... he walked me ‘ome, you remember Thomas, Mum? Bernice, Bernice Edmonton’s boy … Bernice from bingo! It’s Thomas’ birthday today so we ‘ad a drink or two before he walked me ‘ome … sorry ’bout missing bingo. Then out of nowhere, the conversation turned personal, He was the one you said you thought would turn out ... you know ...? as she raised her right hand in a limp-wristed gesture.

What the fuck? I whispered as Betty patted my chest to stay quiet, as her mum added,

Thomas … Thomas the poof? And by the sound of