The Subs Anecdote

I recently wrote this story up for a friend, who was there but somehow had forgotten. I enjoyed writing it, so I thought I'd post it here. For no obvious reason. So here it is:

What to say about the legend that was the Sub Club and is no more? Well, when I knew it, it was in a block of buildings that had somehow survived the demolition of virtually that whole area of Rotherham, and stuck up out of a sea of brick rubble like some sort of soot-blackened ghost ship. I think it housed a bike shop as well, but the Sub Club, as the name suggests, was in the basement and accessed down a flight of stairs outside.

Anyway, on the day of the UK Subs gig, we had both (entirely coincidentally) been to some sort of family ‘do’ before hand – the sort of ‘do’ that requires you to look vaguely smart and be nice to a selection of dimly recognised relatives. Consequently we both turned up for the gig wearing smart shirts and cardigans, which were briefly acceptable around the heyday of The Smiths (that’s what I tell people when they see photos of me from that era, anyway).

The rest of the crowd, as you can probably imagine, was dressed somewhat at variance to ourselves, tending as they did towards leather, tartan, studs and sweat. Still, we were undaunted and set about a few pints. As a warm-up to the Subs coming on, they were playing a medley of punk classics over the PA, and when ‘Submission’ came on we both – obviously feeling a bit more comfortable by now and presumably being fond of this track (it is one of the Pistols’ better efforts) – as one man nodded at each other, got up and headed for the dancefloor.

Said dancefloor was pretty much lost to view in a dense crowd of black leather, but we pushed our way through and, with a last mighty heave, spilled forth onto the floor.

It was then that we realised that nobody else was dancing. I’ll repeat that, because it bears repeating - NOBODY ELSE WAS DANCING. The crowd stopped at the edge of the dancefloor like some sort of Star Trek force field was in operation, and my friend and I, in our smart shirts and cardies, looked around at a blank and frankly slightly hostile wall of 6-foot Mohawks.

I can still remember how my heart sank.

Anyway, it is to our eternal credit that we looked at each other, shrugged and started slam-dancing. The Mohawks, presumably deciding that we were either mad and therefore probably harmless, or very, very much harder than we looked (and this latter option is unlikely, I know) elected to leave us alone. In fact, I think a few warmed after a while and joined us on the floor. But I may be making that up to make myself feel better.

And there you have it – what has become known as ‘The Subs Anecdote’, a tale of misguided sartorial endeavour from a lost, but not forgotten, age.