Picture this. It's a mid seventies weekend on a tiny council estate in East London. It could be Friday, but more likely Saturday, and my sisters and me are safely tucked up in bed. I'm four or five, and my sisters are one or two years older. It's the wee small hours and our mum is also safely tucked up in bed.

So where is the Old Man? On this particular night he is heading home from the local boozer, after another of the Flower Pot's famous lock-ins. He and his friends are beered up and looking forward to a game of late night cards at our place. On the way they'll pass the local bakers. The baker gets up very early to bake his bread and my Old Man and Co can smell the mouth-watering aromas emanating from his red-hot ovens.

But of course, my sisters and me know nothing of this and nor does my mum, although she probably has a good idea. The first we know of the boozy antics of our father is the sound of the stereo being turned on loud and clear. My Old Man has an album by 10cc called ‘Sheet Music’ in his hands, and he places the needle firmly into the groove of track three, ‘Hotel’.

Now, the intro to ‘Hotel’ has a strange, otherworldly electronic sequence, like nothing else at that time, and once the freaky sounds reach my bedroom I'm instantly awake, eyes wide open, searching for identifiable bedroom objects in the ghostly gloom.

As my eyes grow accustomed to the dark I hear gruff manly voices, drinks being poured, glasses clinking, and the music, always the music,

'Let's buy a hotel, let's get a yacht, we'll get a golden island, in the sun made of coconut.....'

But in a flash it is 6 or 7 am Sunday morning, the house is deathly quiet, and not a sound can be heard. I tip-toe to my sisters room and find them awake, excited just like me. We rush downstairs to check out the aftermath. And on this morning it's a bonanza. First we spot the huge brown paper sack in the kitchen. We dive into it and bring out the fresh bread, golden crusty rolls, biting into them, no need for butter or fillings. Then, rolls in hand, we explore the living room. The interlopers are long gone, but their presence is everywhere, empty beer cans, whiskey glasses, congested ashtrays, scattered playing cards, half empty Chinese take-away cartons, but best of all piles of scattered shrapnel on the carpet. Two p's, one p's, half p's, and even some five and tens, the silver gleaming like miraculous medals.

We fill our pockets, shouting and jumping with glee. Then we look at each other in wonder. We know full well our parents will be asleep till late morning and for a few precious hours the living room, a huge normally off-limits playground, is ours. We charge around, lifting cushions off the brown leather settee, constructing intricate camps and making giant sandwiches, using the cushions as bread, the green and red velvet cushions as filling, and one of us as the meat!

And that is where the scenes ends, with three kids playing happily, pockets filled with coins and tiny mouths filled with fresh bread, jumping, running, laughing madly, while the rest of the world fades to grey..................

'Let's buy a hotel, let's get a yacht, we'll get a golden island, in the sun made of coconut.....'

Joe grew up in the East End of London and left school with few qualifications. He then embarked on a succession of menial jobs. After being stabbed in a bar brawl and getting robbed at knifepoint he decided it was time to leave the country and promptly travelled the world; Mexico, Guatemala, Belize, Malaysia, Thailand, Indonesia, Japan, Australia, and New Zealand. He stayed in Australia for three years living mostly in the Kings Cross area of Sydney until he became an illegal immigrant. To avoid being deported Joe then went to Thailand and brought a share in the world's smallest bar, the famous and now defunct Barcelona Bar. After fleeing Thailand with a tail between his legs he returned to London in 2001 where he lives and writes to this day. To read his story, ‘Candice’ on the showcase section of this site, click here.

© 2007 Laura Hird All rights reserved.