My friendships outside of school had
started to change. Once, my friends after school were completely different from
who I messed around with in school. We started to tribal-ize. Mickey and the rest had started to do stuff
with their school mates and I had began to stretch my horizons to other parts
of the town - and beyond. And the Roller-hole, as we called it- or Banbridge
Roller Drome to give it it's real name- took up a lot of my time. Not so much
"the place to be," but the place we shouldn't be. Its reputation amongst
parents in Banbridge, as the late seventies met the early eighties, was as a
place for the wild. The drinkers. The smokers. The hustlers. Bikers. Punks. The
"gamers," though that term was not yet invented. I was too young to drink – and didn’t for
most of the Roller Drome’s short existence.
I feel the reputation was not one it deserved. But parents watching their teenagers stretch
their wings worry about their haunts.
 |
| Me, 1981, doing one of my favourite things... |
Banbridge Roller Drome was on the site of The Castle Ballroom which had had its heyday in the sixties
and seventies. This paradise for young,
bored people could be seen in the context of a move towards the way young
people interact today. We were brought
in from the cold. This space allowed us in
a “religious society,” a secular place of congregation, comradeship, without
having to sneak into pubs and clubs and away from the youth clubs attached to
churches. It was a place that offered
craic with others. It always had been an
interface – a place of the camaraderie of communal music – and that very venue
of cross-community harmonious music, at one time, had come under murderous attack when the Miami Showband played the Ballroom and were attacked by terrorists on their way home. Attacked by people who didn't want us to live normal, fraternal lives.
 |
| Banbridge circa 1981. The Roller Drome would be on the left of this picture. |
 |
| Same view of Banbridge today (via google Images) |
To enter, you walked up a grand, marble
look staircase. The place smelled of
cigarettes, burgers and cleaning chemicals.
At the top of the stairs, there were a myriad of rooms – in front of
you, a side room with a pool table, and the main old ballroom past that, had
been converted into the roller skating rink.
If you turned right at the top of the stairs, you could go into a room
with pinball machines and video games.
And through the door from that was a café with a room off that with
three or four full sized snooker tables.
The stairwell was surrounded by video games. And the noises depended on the time of
day. If you arrived straight after
school, it hummed with chat and electronic games and pinball sound
effects. A little later, loud music
permeated nearly every other room from the roller-disco. And in the café and snooker room, the jukebox
played the choices of the less energetic of us.
Nowadays young people sit in their rooms
talking to each other through microphones and play their online games. Back in 1981, we had to have
a pocket full of 10p's to become heroes at Space Firebird, Crazy Climber and
Donkey Kong. And we met, physically. The Roller hole was a melting pot of all
three secondary schools in Banbridge, though few Banbridge Academy pupils came to it. Well, there were a
few from there- those working class people who had been good enough at
"verbal reasoning tests" to pass the 11 plus. The majority of us were
from my school, (which had went through three name changes since I had started
it- from Banbridge Intermediate School, which got the name, "Intereejit
school," Banbridge Secondary School, and now Banbridge High School) and St
Patrick's High School, the local catholic secondary education school. And that
melting pot- that interface where all of us young people who had been living
side by side, then split into a dreadful sectarian/grammar school, class system
of day time prison, brought us in contact with girls from another planet. At
least that's what they seemed like out of their uniforms. And uniforms and identity usually divided in
Northern Ireland.
Outside of school I dressed in jeans, trainers
and my army jacket. I, like everyone in the roller hole, hoped I looked
different, though as teenagers are prone to do – we dressed in our tribal
wear. The good thing about teenaged
tribal wear, especially in the dark days of the troubles, was that it brought the
uniformed tribes together that those dividing us didn’t like to see. The outsiders in the Rollerdrome were those
who criticized it’s religious interface.
It was a place none of us noticed the sectarian division. And dressed
like this, I wasn't the nerd who was
beaten black and blue in first, second and third year- and as some of the
wildest, insanest people left to go to "The Tech," (Banbridge
Technical College), I started to feel freer. I felt like I wanted to show my
identity to the world, and my band badges covering the pockets of my South
Korean army coat, started that transition. My love of Joy Division, Blondie,
Toyah, Ultravox, The Human League, The Undertones, The Pretenders, The Ramones
and communism where what would make me cool. And my want to leave this place
would make me interesting. And my ability to skate and get high scores on Space
Defender and Donkey Kong would surely be seen as cool.
She was amazing on roller skates. Singing
"It feels like, it feels like I'm in love," skating backwards, with
her eyes closed; spinning, and her legs crossing and zig-zagging to the
music. And I noticed she knew all of the words of
"Eighth Day." She was confident.
Carefree and looked rebellious. And
I wanted to skate and sing to impress. But learning was hard and expressing
yourself so openly was not what we guys did. We skated coolly, hands in
pockets, if at all. At least, I, wobbly,
tried to.
I remember she went on and on about Ali
Campbell. I liked UB40, well, what I had heard at the time, but I couldn't
interrupt. I listened to her, sagely nodding, smiling until my face ached. She
didn't like Adam and The Ants, which was ok by me. Secretly I liked them.
Outwardly, I agreed that they were a kids band.
My cousin thought UB40 were great, but he
was into heavy metal. Whitesnake, had we heard of them? Iron Maiden? The girls,
exotic, cool, knowing nodded, but said they preferred music with a message or
something you could skate to.
They were from St Patricks. It didn't
matter to me, the sectarian aspect of that; well, it mattered in that they
wouldn't know me. It mattered that they were from a tribe that was for some
reason not my tribe. They had never seen me getting my head kicked in. I could
be who I liked. I could be the me school didnt allow me to be.
"Do you know what UB40 means?"
My cousin did. I hadn't a clue. I knew it was political. Mike Read had said something that alluded to
that on the Radio One Breakfast show.
"Aye. I'm signing on soon," he said. “I fucking hate school. I’m out of it as soon as.”
"Where abouts in England are you
from?"
"Warrington. Near Manchester."
"I hear you get more dole money over
there..."
I didn't know the wee guy. He was from St
Patricks too. He was wee and he didn't know me. I could be anyone I wanted.
"Don't be fucking stupid. He's from
England, not a different country." Maybe I was too hard on him. The
bullied being the bully. He looked
hurt. I smiled at him. I hadn’t meaned to sound so hard.
She looked at me. Her face changed.
"England is a different country. This
is Ireland."
Her eyes held mine. Daring me. Though I had
no idea what she was daring me. She dared me to say something but I had no clue
what.
"Aye, I mean, like, their dole is the
same as ours. Its the same all over the UK."
She looked at me warily.
"Has anyone got two 10p's for
pool?" Her friend took the heat from me.
"20p for a game of pool? That's a rip
off," I said, again too loudly. I
was relieved the conversation was moving away from something I was really
uncomfortable with.
My own views on my
own country hadn’t been fully formed. I
knew what I was against… I didn’t like the political killing; I didn’t like the
inequality; I didn’t like the Queen, but the counterargument from school mates
that I, “must like the Pope then,” had to be looked into. The Pope, surely, was a religious
leader? I didn’t like religion
either. How could I be “for the Pope,”
if I thought religion was nonsense? Was
he political? Was he Irish? I had quite
liked the fact he had come to Ireland. I
had recently got into John Lennon. Just before
he had been shot. I had bought his comeback
single, “Starting Over,” played it to death, researched him and the Beatles;
loved the words of Imagine and thought, “I believe that!” and then he had been
shot, just months before. I felt let down. But I knew that that song distilled what I hoped
the world would become. And there was no
mention of the Pope or Paisley or the Queen.
They laughed and flirted and we were cool
and beat them in doubles in the first game.
"This time I'll be on your team,"
her friend pointed at my cousin. "You be on his."
She smiled at me. Was I forgiven?
My cousin smiled. "I need a cig
first."
He took out a packet of Embassy Regal and
passed them round. We all took one and he lit each of us before himself.
“I’ve got 50p. That’s four songs on the
juke box. Anyone want to help me choose?” She jumped off the side of the pool
table.
“I will!”
I wanted to impress. I punched in the number for “Eighth Day.”
“I love that song,” she smiled.
She punched in the numbers for “Food for
Thought,” “Kids in America” and “The Tide is High.” I approved.
Kids in America was a good tune, though even I realized the use of the
word “America” was the record company’s way to try to break Kim Wilde into that
huge market. It was a New wave song,
especially constructed to grab the same market of Blondie, though, the album
Autoamerican showed Blondie were going in different directions. I had bought it and had been a wee bit disappointed
in it. It had little of what Parallel
Lines or their other albums had – pop-punk.
But nowadays, over 30 years later, it’s an album I still return to, with
its mixture of huge sounds and jazz themes.
Tide is high was happy pop.
We sat on the plastic chairs and dragged on
the fags. I could feel the tobacco burn my throat. The taste was vile, but it
was something I could do and passing fags around people I didn't like was
usually a good way to stop some bastard from randomly smashing my nose on his
knee.
I did. I taped the best of the top forty
every Sunday night and listened to the best ones over and over again.
"They're weird. It's like a Christmas
song. About Jesus and all," I said disdainfully.
"Aye, but don't you think they are
amazing? They make you think!"
I laughed. "Aye, about Christmas
dinner!"
She rolled her eyes. My cousin laughed.
I smiled, "Why? What's wrong?"
They all laughed. I went crimson. I was outside. They knew something I didn’t. They had a shared target – me.
"Never mind, commie. C'mon and play
another game a' pool!" She threw
the dog end of her fag on the floor and ground it into the wooden tiled, parquet
floor.
I felt small. I felt I had missed something
again, but I had no clue what.
She took the pool cue from me. "I'll
break!"
"It is about Christmas," I said.
My cousin nodded. "It is, yes."
"What were youse laughing about?"
"Listen to it when you get in."
He stopped and took out another cigarette.
"Want one?"
"No thanks."
"She fancied you though."
"What? No way! She thought I was an
idiot."
"Aye, she thought you were an idiot,
but she fancied you. Two different things."
"Her mate fancied you!"
"Aye, I know. But remember, I'm going
out with someone at home."
They came back from the Café.
“We have to go, “ she said.
“OK,” I smiled. “We do too.”
We walked down the stairs and out onto
Newry Street.
“We are going this way,” she pointed
towards the Bridge.
“Sure, we’ll go that way too, I can show my
cuz around the town.” I winked at my cousin, because I knew he knew the town
well. He’d been coming here for years.
She shivered and I took my jacket off and
gave it to her. The two girls
smiled.
When we reached the bridge, she stopped and
said, “We’ll see you again. Thanks for
your jacket.” She handed it to me and
they ran on, across the road and we watched them laugh and chat their way down
Scarva Street.
She was in my head for a long time after that. I
was fourteen. I’d never felt that
before. I asked people in school about her, and found
out who she was. And I saw her from
afar, in the Roller Drome and years later in The Coach, that other melting pot for Northern Irish young people in their teens and
twenties.
And I found out the meaning of
“Food for Thought,” and learned the words.
But I never spoke to her again.
 |
| The Roller Drome aka Castle Ballroom aka Circus Circus aka today's Lucky's Bingo Club, still bringing people together. |
Since putting this piece together, I found out the man behind the Roller Drome was Harry Copeland. Perhaps he didn't know that his business was the melting pot it was. But he did a brilliant thing by opening this secular place for young people to come together.
