Our first house was a two up, two down, easy to keep semi in a quietish part of Ayrshire. We decorated as we went, wallpapering here, painting there. We did up the kitchen, sorted out the bathroom, replaced the front door and got a professional carpet cleaner in, watching in mock coolness – “Ach, it’s fine…it’s fine!” as Derek Reid, who was round to fit the new door, spilled his coffee all over the freshly-rinsed carpet before the cleaning guy was even in third gear and out our street. It was a great wee house and we have many happy memories of the place.
I used to pay close attention to the B&Q laminate flooring, taking great pride in washing it once a week, whether it needed it or not. Once washed, we had an indoor skating rink for a wee while, the pine-fresh flooring buffed up to mirror-giving qualities providing a new and thrilling household pursuit. It was the late ’90s, OK? We still had dial-up internet. We wouldn’t entertain Sky TV’s prices. We were easy pleased.
To enjoy the thrill of the slippy flooring in all its bone-worrying glory, I used to pull on a pair of thick, green socks. They provided just the right amount of friction between foot and floor and I could happily skite about for five thrilling minutes before the reality of what I was doing kicked in. Grow up, man, I’d think. You’re a homeowner now.
Our friend John is a car freak. He’s nuts about them. The sleeker, the sexier, the faster, the better. He’s less inclined to do so nowadays, but back then he was always changing cars. He had an Audi TT at one point. A Porsche too, if I remember. Somewhere in time he’d ordered an Aston Martin, and while he waited impatiently for them to build it to his demanding and exacting specifications, he looked for another car as a stop-gap. Really, he did.
He turned up one day just as I’d washed the floor. As I swished my way through the living room in my green socks, there he was, pulling up outside our house in a low-riding silver Mercedes of some sort. You can picture the scene – top down, spokes glittering in the North Ayrshire sun, music doof-doof-doofing the fuck out of the peace and quiet.
“Hoi! Jump in!” he shouts above the din.
“Gimme a minute ’til I find my trainers,” I shout back.
“C’mon, man! Get in! We’ll go for a wee spin!” (rev, rev)
“My shoes, John….”
(exasperated) “‘sake, man! Jist get in! Hurry up!” (rev rev rev! REV!!)
He’s a very persuasive friend is John, so before I knew it, I was sitting in the leather-upholstered passenger seat of this cool, wee Mercedes sports car, belt on, but minus shoes.
“I’m test driving it,” says John. “I’m thinkin’ of gettin’ it ’til the Aston’s ready. It fair shifts. I’ll take it out to the country roads and show you what it can really do.”
We pulled out of my street. I’m feeling self-conscious. The top’s down, so you’re fair game for a slagging should anyone you know see you. The music is doof-doof-doofing away and it’s not music I’d ever be caught playing or consciously listening to, so there’s that too. You’re really drawing attention to yourself in a car like this at the best of times, let alone one with the top down…in Kilwinning…on a dull day…playing music that’s far too loud and attention-seeking. Plus, I’m not wearing any shoes. This bothers me constantly as we make our way through the suburban streets towards the open roads of North Ayrshire.
A Fiat Panda pulls out ahead of John and he falls in behind it. He’s tailgating it, really, which I’m hyper-aware of, but you can tell that John has the bit between his teeth and he just can’t wait to put that, eh, pedal to the metal. Only one road snakes its way through Kilwinning town centre. Recently it was made a 20 limit. Back then it was a breakneck 30. Unless you were John. But he couldn’t overtake the Panda in front. Every time he pulled out, an oncoming car would force him back into lane, tucked in behind the limit-observing citizen in front, getting more and more impatient as each lamp post rolled amiably past. He’d chance it at a blind spot then swerve straight back in. He’d try and force the Panda in front to pick up the pace but, no, the driver was (rightly) observing the rules of the road. John was getting irritated as we edged towards the, eh, city limits of our town. And then…a chance! A straight road! No oncoming traffic! John went for it.
He dropped a gear. Raised the revs. Glided into the oncoming lane with a swoosh. Even I got a minor thrill at that, the car’s sudden G-force sucking me back into the soft, leather seat. John turned to me smiling an evil smile and really put the foot down…
…just as a speed gun totin’ traffic cop popped up in the middle of the road from absolutely nowhere. Honestly, it was like he was lying flat on the road, spring loaded and ready for action should a car exceeding the speed limit trigger him. Which, of course, John was.
“Shiiiiiteee!” he screams, hitting the brakes hard and immediately.
Der-der-derderder-der-der-der… went the ABS system on the Mercedes.
I was expecting to see the traffic cop land with a mangled thud on the car’s sleek and silvery bonnet, but, no, there he still was, less than 5 metres from us now, still pointing his speed gun directly at John. His was the second evil grin I’d seen in less than six seconds.
“John, man. If he asks us to get out of the car…I’ve got no shoes on.”
“Craig, mate. I was doing 65 in a 30 limit. I don’t give a flying fuck about your shoes.”
The cop comes over. He doesn’t need to get John to roll the window down, like you see in the movies, because we have the top down, remember?
“Good afternoon, sir,” he says, all sweetness and light.
“Would you mind stepping out of the car?”
(Ah shite, I think, and undo the belt.)
“Just you,” says the cop, pointing to John.
My heart begins beating again, although much faster than it was twenty seconds ago.
A second traffic cop appears. They go through a whole good cop/bad cop routine, John doing his best to butter them up.
“How quickly d’you get to 60 in that car of yours?” he asks, pointing to the long and sleek BMW police car that was parked just out of view of the main road.
“Quicker than that car of yours,” comes the reply from good cop.
“…If it really is your car,” insinuates bad cop.
“I’m just out for a test drive” says the jovial John. “Nice car, innit?!”
“Are you getting it?” asks good cop.
“…cos you’re getting this…” says bad cop.
I’m assuming it was a speeding ticket or worse, but an ashen-faced John wouldn’t tell me. We drove, sensibly and safely, back to my house, me and my green socks skipping back onto my still-slippy floor.
We never spoke of this again.
I noticed McAlmont and Butler had reissued ‘The Sound Of…‘ recently. I think I’m right in saying it’s the first time that the stomping, stupendous Yes has made it to vinyl. That alone would make it worth getting, I’d think.
Lesser-heard, but every bit as good is Speed, a song recorded for the duo’s ultimately abandoned third album.
McAlmont and Butler – Speed
Making a fleeting appearance on a Rough Trade 7″ and digital download only, it barely registered anywhere. If you didn’t know the charts went beyond a Top 100, you might not know that this song made it all the way to 196. So, yes, you’re forgiven if you don’t know the track…just be thankful it’s here for you now. It’s got it all; McAlmont’s octave surfing vocals, Butler’s keening, twanging electric guitar, an ice shimmer of strings, full-on Phil Spector drums, hysterical backing vocals and a thumping, reverb-soaked kitchen sink production worthy any Scott Walker record on the Philips label. It is, as they say, a cracker.
‘Faster than the bullet train in the east,’ it goes. Which, according to the reading on that traffic cop’s gun, is only marginally slower than a speeding Mercedes on the outskirts of a small Ayrshire town.
Plain Or Pan 