It was only an hour’s drive from Scunthorpe to Barnsley, one shithole to another in the northern part of England that the Scottish called ‘Posh Southerners’. There was certainly nothing posh about where they had come from and where they were going. The five of them crammed themselves into the battered-out van that they used to travel to gigs in. Classic rust was its main colour with the band’s name hand-painted on each side with Matt’s crappy artistic style of slap it all over – Skeleton Key in capital letters with paint dripping down the side of the van gave it a menacing; rock-style look that they all liked and lived up to. The band’s name had been chosen whilst they were all drunk-on cider whilst still young teenagers messing around in a park one summer evening many years ago. If you asked them, not one could remember who came up with the name, it’s simply a name that appeared out of nowhere and stuck with them.

Over the sounds of the van engines' coughs and splutters, Duckegg moaned about where they were going. “Ah, fucking hate Barnsley!”

“Why?” Asked Gary. “What’s that place done to you?”

“You remember back in the late sixties, there was a serial killer that killed all those pensioners in that old folk’s home, he was a Doctor and a right pervert as well?”

“Yeah, I remember that fucker, the rotten bastard.”

“Well, when I first became a solicitor, I had to study that case as part of my training, and guess what?

“What?”

“The fucker was from Barnsley.”

The whole van erupted in much-needed laughter. Duckegg was a highly intelligent man, with a law degree, touted as a future judge at his law firm for being so clever and astute in court, but he could be as dumb as he looked sometimes.

“It’s not just him though, the whole area is fucked up.”

Freddy loved Duckegg, the crap he came out with at times just couldn't be written by the best comedians in the world and always made him laugh. The steering wheel wobbled as he chuckled away whilst driving. “What ya mean, the whole area?” Whilst laughing.

“It’s full of old men walking around with flat caps on and wearing donkey jackets whilst out walking whippets, saying ‘Ey up’, to everyone. It’s a proper fucked up place, fucking murderers the lot of em, and the pits are out on strike so the fuckers are rioting as well.”

“So, what’s fucked up about that?” Asked Andy whilst laughing.

“Who the fuck says ‘Ey up’. What does it mean? ‘Ey up’love, yooo alreet tha noss. Bunch o fucking nutters. I’m telling you all we are gonna hear is ‘Ey up’ everywhere we fucking go”

A signpost on the motorway claimed that their destination was now only five miles away, so Alby composed himself and focused on the road ahead of him. In the looming distance, an array of colliery chimneys and pit head lifts with their cast iron wheels turning away could be seen casting an eerie shadow over a town that only knew hard graft and dirt and serial killer Doctors, oh, and the odd miners’ strike.

They turned off the motorway and into Barnsley and within five minutes they were lost.

“Fucks sake.” Muttered Alby under his breath.

“Pull over and ask someone the directions.” Ordered Andy in a frustrated tone.

“No fucking way.” Claimed Duckegg from the back of the van, “these fuckers will have us. Have you seen the film Deliverance?”

The van pulled over and everyone except Duckegg peered out the front window hoping to catch someone to ask for directions. An old man in a donkey jacket, a flat cap, and walking a whippet walked towards the Van. Gary wound down the passenger side window that stuck at every opportunity but eventually managed to get it down far enough to talk.

“Hey mate, could you help us please?”

The old man stopped and looked towards the dilapidated van and walked his dog over to Gary. “Ey up,” said the old man.

“I fucking told you.” Whispered Duckegg from the shadows of the back of the van.

“Wit can a doo fa thee tha nos?”

“We're looking for this council estate, can you help us find it please”. Asked Gary whilst showing the old man the piece of paper that Ina had written the address on.

“Eeee tha dunt wanna goo out thear tha nos. Fucking ruff it is, a waint even tek dog out thear. Whatda wanna goo to that shitole fer?”

“Skuse me mate, do you speak English at all.” Quipped Freddy from the driver’s seat.

“I am speaking English ya cheeky basterds, fucking find it tha sen.” And the old man walked off in the direction of some other old men wearing flat caps, donkey-jackets, and walking their whippets.

“It’s like a different world, I told you didn’t I!”

Freddy put the van into gear and slowly moved off hoping to not take a wrong turn into a rough area, but it was all rough and by the sounds of it, their destination was the roughest of it all.

It wasn’t long before they came across the much-anticipated Police cordons that seemed a normal part of the landscape in this part of God’s country. They had already passed four burnt-out police vans, a tipped-over and burnt-out bus, and large groups of school kids collecting rocks and bricks as if they were scrumping apples from an orchid. Arthur Scargill and his striking miners had been having a week-long game of brick the coppers and by the looks of the injured cops and wrecked vehicles, the miners had won round one.

A tired cop waved them over toward him. His traditional British Bobby helmet and uniform looked like it had been through the wars, and it had. His eyes looked like the thousand-yard stare that soldiers develop after spending too long in battle and he hadn’t had a cigarette all day. Freddy pulled over and Gary attempted to wind the knackered window down again, but as usual, it only went down a little.

“Aye up.” Said the cop whilst not taking his eyes off the boys. He was expecting a bit of trouble with the lads and so were his colleagues. Within a minute, twenty cops holding big and nasty batons surrounded the van anticipating another kick-off. For the past two weeks, travelling strikers from other collieries had been moving around the country to cause riots and Barnsley had become a hotspot for violence and fuckery.

“What’s tha doing round ere lads, eh? Are thee Flying Pickets?”

“Like fuck we are,” responded Duckegg angrily from the back of the van. “We can’t stand that gay A Cappella crap. We’re a Rock Band. We play instruments in our band, not with our gobs. Fucking Flying Pickets, I ask yer.”

“Well in that case boyos, open up thee van and show us thar instruments.”

Everyone looked at Duckegg and gave him an angry stare. The van was empty of musical instruments and the only sign that showed the cops they were a real band was the name Skeleton Key emblazoned on the side of the van. Freddy climbed out and slid the side door open. The van reeked as it always did. It belongs to Matt’s dad who runs the Fruit and Veg stall on the market but didn’t mind lending it to the lads when needed – which was all the time. The stench of old rotten onions and cabbage took the cop's breath away when the door opened and presented Duckegg, Andy and Mat sat on a pile of old potato sacks.

“So where’re tha instruments if thars a rock band eh?” Asked the tired grumpy cop who was now rubbing his well-used baton in anticipation of another rumble.

“We’re not here to play a gig mate, we're just trying to get to this address to see a friend.” Gary passed him the piece of paper with the address written on it. He looked at the writing and laughed in a sick twisted cop-style manner.

“A waint even goo up ta that shitole in a riot van never mind a clapped-out piece a shit van like this. Everyone out the van now.”

The lads climbed out stinking of rotten fruit and veg and lined up against the van as if an SS unit had pulled up a bunch of Jews attempting to escape a ghetto during the war. Welcome to the reality of Thatcher’s Junta, 1984 it certainly was indeed. The lads were forced to put their hands up against the van and spread their legs. The cops had seen this done on Starsky and Hutch, Kojak, and Hill Street Blues and loved doing it to people. It was ‘Their thing’ that they loved doing whilst laughing about it in the Police canteen. The cops had quickly realised that five soft lads, dressed like this, with hair that could only have been styled by a puff, could no way be flying pickets and rioters, but it had been a tough day and they needed some fun. The striking miners had been handing the cops their arses in the riots for the last two weeks and they needed to blow off some steam and make themselves feel big and hard.

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Another tough old veteran cop who had been drafted in from London walked forwards and towards the line of scared lads whilst tapping his truncheon in his hand. He struggled to not laugh at Duckegg shaking like a leaf. But chose to start with Freddy first.

“What’s yer name, Son?” Whilst menacingly tapping his truncheon on the back of Freddy’s hair-sprayed lathered head.

“Freddy.”

“Freddy what? Freddy fucking Mercury, nahahaha. Freddy Kruger, nahahaha” He laughed as if it was coming out of his nose and the other cops joined in laughing to back up his childish joke.

“Freddy Jones. Look we’ve done nothing wrong we just want to be on our way.”

“And where you from Freddy, what you slargs doing round ere.” He put on his best Jack Regan voice from the cop drama ‘The Sweeney. ’ Jack was his hero and he taped every one of the shows to watch them over and over again whilst driving his ever-suffering wife to madness.

“We’re from Scunthorpe, we’re not here for trouble.”

“Scunthorpe! Bit out the way init?”

“We’re just visiting a friend,” claimed Gary, who was next in line to Freddy.

The tough old London cop moved closer to Gary and again menacingly tapped his truncheon against the back of a hair-sprayed, lathered head.

“And what’s your name Lad?”

“Gary Smith.”

“Gary Smith! Listen, lad, if you take away the letter ‘R’ from Gary, what are you left with?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Asked Gary in a desperate tone.

“Take away the letters ‘R’ from the name Gary and what are ya left with? Either answer me, or a’ll hit ya.”

“Gay, you’re left with the word Gay. Happy now?”

“Oh my God.” Did ya ere that lads?” Asked the tough hard cop to his colleagues. “We’ve got a woofter.”

Now I’m not one for calling the boys in blue, racist and homophobic, especially in an era where the cops were renowned for being racist and homophobic, but here it is, all laid out in front of you, undeniable proof.

All the other cops pretended to look as menacing as possible for their fun and games and moved forward a couple of steps hoping it would shit the lads up a bit more, and it worked.

“And just what’s your profession if you don’t work down pits?” asked the big tough copper.

“I’m a hairstylist, back home in Scunthorpe.”

The cop squealed with delight. “Didddd Youuuuu here that boys?” He turned to his colleagues with fun and mischief in his eyes. “A fooking hairstylist.”

“It's not against the law to be a hairstylist, or gay, even though Gary isn’t gay. I’m a Solicitor, I know our rights.” Duckegg had decided enough is enough, he grew some balls and removed his hands from the side of the van. Freddy had been his assistant in the legal firm where Duckegg worked for a few years and had seen exactly what he could be like in Court. A different Duckegg came out from deep within him like a Jekyll & Hyde character that only revealed itself when needed.

“If any of you so much as harm a hair on our heads, I’ll have your jobs, your pensions and I’ll make sure you’re all sharing cells with the miners that you’ve put there.”

The lads all looked at each other with amazement. Freddy had tried to tell them for years what Duckegg is like but no one believed him.

“We have special powers given to us by Margaret Thatcher. We can stop and search anybody we like. God bless her.” Grunted the cop who was now thinking twice about their actions.

“Unless those powers have been ratified into law by the Queen, which they have not, then you have fuck all special powers, now get out of our way before I destroy your life and career.”

Now totally deflated by a weird-looking bloke with a bizarre hairstyle and extra-thick glasses, the cops all walked backward and away from the lads. The boys climbed back in the van without saying a word and off they drove until that little incident was right behind them.

The tough cop just had to say something to his audience of colleagues who stood there wondering what had happened.

“You know what’s wrong with society today Bob?”

“What Harry?”

“People like that are allowed to vote.”

* * *

It had taken another hour of driving around Barnsley to find the estate but find it they did, and when they turned onto Gawber road, it was as if they were in a living Hell. Nobody down this road owned a running car. The only vehicles present were burnt-out wrecks that rested on bricks having been stripped of their tires. Stray dogs barked and chased each other from one side of the street to the other until the van parked up and the dogs’ attention turned to the boys.

“Lads I'm wearing designer crushed velvet, with an expensive pair of hand-stitched shoes, straight in from London, so I’ll be fucked if I’m getting out of the van”. Said Gary in a pompous and slightly camp voice. He always was a bit of a woofter, even his mum said so and the cops had noticed it as well.

Freddy banged his head on the steering wheel and then turned to Gary. “I’ve seen you knock out blokes bigger and harder than Andy, so don’t give us that bollocks. We stick together and we get out of the van at the same time... OK!”

They all peered out the windows at the run-down council house, with an overgrown and unkept privet hedge. The rickety wooden gate was hanging off its hinges and the front lawn, if you could call it a lawn, had grass so high that a family of pygmies could have lived there and gone undiscovered for centuries. The front door had the glass missing and its repair with cardboard was far from eloquent and the side door to the house couldn’t be accessed due to dozens of bin bags overflowing with empty beer cans and wine bottles. It would be a mad dash to jump over the rickety gate before the half-starved stray dogs could bite at Gary’s expensive shoes.

“One.. Two... Three,” shouted Freddy. The van doors violently opened and five of Scunthorpe's finest jumped out and leapt over the garden fence leaving the bemused dogs wondering what had happened, but they made it over the gate and instinctively checked their shoes for dog shit before walking over to the boarded up-front door.

Before knocking, all five of them bent down to read a small hand-written note stuck to the door at letterbox height, and they all had to squint as the writing appeared to have been written in crayon by a child.

“What's it say?” Asked Duckegg, whilst adjusting his thick spectacles. “I can’t read it,”

“‘Fuck off’,” Answered Gary, who added, “Well I do believe God doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”

Andy walked forward towards the door and knocked quite hard on the lower part. He couldn't knock anywhere else as it was patched up with cardboard and would probably have fallen apart at the slightest touch. The knock went unanswered so Andy knocked again and a plump woman from next door with curlers in her hair opened an upstairs window. “Ey up,” she screamed. “Can thee pack the fucker in. Usbands bin on neets and can’t sleep wi all that racket”.

“What did she say?” asked Andy.

“It's a different world.” Whispered Duckegg fearfully.

“We're looking for the man who lives here, do you know where he is?”

“Aye, be down either bookies or pub just round corner.” And she slammed the rotten window shut loosening the mouldy putty from around the glass.

They turned away from the front door to walk back to the van, disheartened and fearful of searching around this damn awful estate for God, but stood between them and the rickety wooden gate was indeed a sight to behold. . . . well maybe not behold. . . well to be honest with you, the sight was a bit of a shit house. A four-foot-high midget with matted long hair and a grey nicotine-stained beard, with piss-stained jogging bottoms, stood there shaking his head. He reached into a carrier bag for a can of beer and opened it with froth squirting into Mat's hair-covered face.

“Can you no fucking read?” Asked the midget as he placed the can of beer to his lips and drank the frothy nectar. “Fuck off, means fuck off, so if you wouldn't mind.” And he grumpily shoved his way through the five of them and made his way to the front door. He pushed the door open and slammed it behind him shaking his makeshift cardboard window out of its place, giving the lads a perfect view of the inside of the house. It was full of battered and broken furniture with empty beer cans and wine bottles strewn everywhere – and by god, it stunk of piss.

“We know who you are!” claimed Freddy.

“And I know who you fucking are, now fuck off.”

“We need your help.”

“They always do, every week it’s the same, last week I had Mick Jagger from ‘The Rolling Stones for the same reason you're here, next week it'll be Adam and the Ants, begging for help. Sick of it all. You sold your souls to my brother the Devil, didn't you? And now he's come to collect.”

Gary peered his head through the door. “Just tell us one thing before we go, just how has the Almighty Heavenly Father, come to live like this?”

The midget lifted his head slightly and looked at the five lads through bloodshot eyes that showed total defeat. The lads looked at it him desperately, knowing he was their only hope. The question hit a sore point. He had gone from the supreme creator of everything to living in Barnsley, on a council estate, stinking of piss. “Best come in lads, come in… let me explain.”

They walked through the hallway and into the front room, moving beer cans and bottles out of the way with their feet. “Sit down lads.” But that was a bit difficult with barely any furniture other than the battered old armchair that the midget sat on. So, they sat on the bare floorboards with the hope that nothing nasty was living under the rubbish.

“Nobody has ever asked me that before today… they just come here out of desperation, not giving a fuck how I ended up like this. Ask, ask, ask – that's all they ever do”.

“So how did you end up like this?” asked Gary again.

The midget opened another can of beer and emotionally, began to explain: “I created this world for play and fun, so everyone could come here and laugh and feel joy. But my brother, the jealous little bastard, decided he wanted it for himself. He persuaded people to turn to the dark side and start wars and shit. He’s the one behind religion, not me. Just look at what that bollocks has done to the world.”

He swigged the last of the beer from the can and threw it into a corner then reached into the carrier bag for another. “It came to the point where I had to do something, anything, so I agreed to a poker match. Whoever wins, gets the world to themselves. How could I possibly lose? I'm God for fucks sake, the creator of everything.”

“And you lost didn't ya,” piped in Duckegg whilst adjusting his glasses with his forefinger.

“Well, Durrr… obviously,” came the low sarcastic reply from God. “The fucking shit cheated; he must have done. I had a pair of Aces and a pair of Kings, and he came back at me with a Royal Flush. I’ve never seen one of them before and I've been on this fucking estate ever since. The bastard won’t ever let me leave.”

“I have.” Claimed Andy. “I’ve seen them many times, I used to deal for a local villain at his card games back home, I can make a Royal Flush appear from thin air. Piece o’ piss and I can teach you how to cheat. Play him at his own game. We help you, and you help us. Quid pro quo.”

God finished his beer and lit up a Woodbines' cigarette and slowly blew out the smoke. “Okay you got a deal, now tell me the story of how it all started.”

“Well,” said Freddy. “Two days ago, we were the most famous band the world had ever seen. Then this happened.”