Spike Island Page #5

Shh!

...Shh.

Ready?

Go!

Zip, you know where we're going?

Yeah. Been there with my dad

on a bit of work. It's f***-all away.

Shall we get out of this shithole then,

or what?

...Go, go, go, go, go!

Oi!

- Go, go, go!

Burn rubber, Zips!

Hey, check what he's got.

What is it? F***ing... Methadone!

Oh, he's a wrong 'un, him,

a wrong 'un, mate.

It f***ing stinks in here.

- Whoa!

- Where's Harold?

- Who the f***'s Harold?

- It's his van.

- Pull over, Zippy.

I am! Take a chill pill!

I thought she was all right.

I think you're quite unwell.

- Go, go, go, go, go!

- Sorry, love!

Here y'are, stick that on, Tits.

- Is that the demo?

- No...

This is the demo,

but it's not coming out again until

I'm banging it in the hands of Stone Roses.

Actually, f*** that, Tits. You take it.

Guard it with your life.

Nice one.

Soak me to my skin

Will you drown me in your sea?

Submission ends and I begin

Choke me, smoke the air

In this citrus sucking sunshine

I don't care, you're not all there

Every backbone and heart you break

Will still come back for more

Submission ends it all

We come flying out of the Red Bricks

and hit the road out of town,

with a cockpit full of weed smoke

and pockets full of E's and speed.

Absolutely buzzing our nuts off.

We were leaving Manchester

and a world of shite behind. We all were.

Just for one day, anyway.

You know what? Despite everything,

it felt f***ing all right, man.

Bye-bye, bad man

Bye-bye

- Ooh, look!

- Wow. How f***ing camp was that?

Look at what?

- Warrington.

- Ace. What about it?

Ian Brown's birthplace.

They should erect a statue.

I'd like to erect a statue.

In Lisa Hughes' fanny!

What exactly

are you doing there?

Slipping her one.

- Slipping a f***ing disc.

- Oh, we should take a detour.

I'd like to take a detour...

To Lisa Hughes' fanny!

Yeah, he's never even seen a fanny.

Except when he looks in the mirror!

Hit him, Little Gaz.

We're nearly there now, anyway.

What? How?

I ain't even seen a sign for Widnes yet.

Widnes?

They sound the same.

What? Like "you dick" and "you prick"?

Who's the driver?

This goon.

Right. Did you not bring a map?

- No.

- Did you not look at a map?

- No.

- Right.

Well, this is you...

This is Widnes, and this is the M6.

It's going to be your little friend.

You want to take him south to junction 21A,

get on the M62 towards Liverpool,

junction 10.

Follow the signs from there,

Bob's your uncle, fanny's a rude word.

Thanks, Suzanne.

- Pleasure. Going to Spike Island?

- Yeah.

I'll keep my eyes peeled for you.

Especially for you.

Oh, and do us a favour, will you?

Tell your thieving little bastard mates

to put everything back,

else I'll lock the door

and get the Dobermans in.

That was your fault, Dodge.

How d'you work that one out?

She's seen the box

fall out of your tracky top.

What was you robbing

Tampax for, anyway?

I didn't know what they were,

I couldn't read it, could I?

I thought they were

individually wrapped biscuits.

Roses!

Hey, hey, Spike Island!

We'll be there shortly!

- Here y'are, Zippy, turn it in.

- What're you on about?

You can't tap your feet

while they're on the pedals.

- I'm not!

- Then what the f*** are you doing?

- Nish and klish.

- Then why's the van spazzing out?

- I don't know.

- Shut it. Turn the tunes off.

It doesn't sound well.

Might be a daft question,

but have we got any juice in it?

Yeah. It was full this morning.

- What?

F***! You're joking me!

- F***!

- F***!

F***ing f***!

Word!

We can't hang about here.

- What the f***'s he doing?

- Climbing the van, clearly.

- Why?

- Reconnaissance.

What?

If we walk six fields northwest,

there's a motorway running perpendicular.

I think it has to be the M6.

Come on!

Are we really following this retard?

What about the van?

I've remembered its position.

I'll watch your van for a tenner!

You can watch my arse disappear

for f***-all, you cheeky twat.

Right, come on, back on the bus.

...Shh!

Spike Island!

Oh!

- Dirty bastard!

Zippy. Please tell me that's not your cock

digging in my back.

I can't help it, it's the vibrations!

- For f***'s sake!

- We're slowing down.

- We must be nearly there.

Thank f*** for that. I

think I've broke my arse.

Someone's arse deffo ain't working right,

or they've been eating rats.

- Get your Stone Roses T-shirts!

- T-shirts!

I pray

Give me joy in my heart, keep me praying

Keep me praying till the end of day

- Have we stopped?

- Yeah.

Whatever happens, we stay together.

Three, two, one.

Hey! What do you think I use wing

mirrors for, you little toe rags!

Come on, Pen, leg it!

Sh*t! Where's Penfold?

- Fucks knows!

- Pen?

He couldn't have gone far.

Just look for his sun hat.

Pen! Penfold!

Penfold!

Pen-is!

Pen-is, where are you?

- Penfold!

- Ah, steady!

- Penfold!

- Pen!

- Penfold!

- Pen-is!

Pen-is, where are you?

Ah, f*** that, man.

Let's head down to the main gate.

Reni hats! Get your Reni hats here!

Get your f***ing Reni hats here!

Go on, Manchester!

Roses souvenir posters! Two for a tenner.

He's got no shirt on!

Hot dogs! Free ketchup or Ian Brown sauce!

You can see the gate from there.

Yeah.

Here we go, lads! F***ing Mersey paradise!

Rights, boys, let's have it!

Right, tickets out, please.

Go 'head, Bananarama, straight in!

- Here y'are, sweet cheeks, get in there!

- It's Bez!

- Do the dance!

- Go ahead, lad, do it.

Oh! You're in, you're in!

- Mate, hang on, how old are you?

- Eighteen.

Eighteen? I've got porn

mags older than you!

Cheese and Marmite together?

On the same butty? That's f***ing repellent.

- Can I have it back, then?

- No. Get to f***, go on.

- You all right, mate?

- I'm not your mate. Tickets.

Should be on the guest list.

Yeah, and I should be on the telly, lad.

Here you are, Sid, get on these.

Go ahead, whose list?

- Ibiza Ste's.

- Who the f*** is Ibiza Ste?

- My brother.

- Why d'you call him that?

'Cause we've got the same mum and dad.

I mean "Ibiza Ste"?

All right, 'cause he lives in Ibiza

and his name's Ste.

Oh, yeah, got it. Nice one, yeah.

Boss name.

Yeah, he's a Manc legend!

A Manc leg-end, no less.

Well, welcome

to f***ing Merseyside, son.

We don't know no Ibiza Ste

and he hasn't got no f***ing guest list.

Yeah, well, try Red Bricks Ste? He used

to live there before he moved to Ibiza.

Stop it, will you?

You'll ruin it for me

when his autobiography comes out.

Try the Roses. Mani.

I sort him out with hair gel.

...Go ahead, what's your names?

Gary Titchfield, Darren Hodge, Chris Weeks,

Gareth Barret and Andrew Peach.

No. You're not down.

- Try Shadow Caster. We're a band.

- F*** off!

Mate, we're a support band.

Oh, the support band.

Oh, sorry, lads, in that case...

F*** off!

No tickets, no guest list,

no entry, no chance.

Now f***ing yabba-dabba-do one, d*ckheads!

Go 'head, move! Do one, you beaut!

- Well, that went well. - Can't believe

he's never heard of Ibiza Ste.

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