Free Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys, Boys. by Viv Albertine Page A

overwhelmed when he put his hand between my legs that I started to tremble. He stopped and said we should go back downstairs. We didn’t collect the crates, and he never made another move.
    A strange twisted little man who collects the glasses at Dingwalls – he isn’t paid, he just comes early and they let him stay because he works for nothing – has developed an obsession with me. It was annoying at first but now it’s got out of hand. He calls me ‘Tresses’ because of my long wavy hair – which is actually a perm I had done at Molton Brown in South Molton Street, copying Maria Schneider in Last Tango in Paris . He has long black oily hair and bulging eyes and talks like Uriah Heep, all long-drawn-out vowels and whiny intonation, whilst rubbing his hands together. He wears tight black trousers and red scarves tied to his wrist, a cross between Max Wall and a demonic Morris dancer. He starts coming to my flat when I’m not working and waiting outside the front door all day. I don’t want to be intimidated by him, but I don’t fancy going out whilst he’s there. He pushes notes under the door, written in this flowery, mediaeval script. The other day he dropped some scented soap through the letter-box with a note saying, ‘Dear Tresses, Every time you use this, you will be rubbing me all over your body.’ I chucked it in the bin. I ignore him. I never look at him or speak to him and change my phone number. It’s the only way to deal with an obsessive.

    Growing out my ‘Maria Schneider’ perm. Muslin top from Kensington Market. Waistcoat homemade by me. Boots, Terry de Havilland. 1973
    Working at night brings you into contact with some strange people and puts you in some scary situations. One night I was walking over the little bridge in Chalk Farm Road, just before the left turn into Dingwalls, when I thought I caught a flicker of something ‘not quite right’ out of the corner of my eye. Foolishly, I ignored it. As soon as I turned into the cobbled yard behind Dingwalls, I found myself on the ground. It happened that quickly. Two boys were on top of me clawing and scrabbling at my crotch, trying to tear my tights off. I screamed and fought back but I wasn’t strong enough to fight two of them. Then luckily for me, a big white car turned into the yard; it was Russell, the bar manager. I shouted out to him, he stopped and the two boys ran off. Russell told me later he nearly didn’t stop, he thought it was just a bunch of kids mucking about. He called the police and they came and interviewed me. One of them said, ‘Well what do you expect, going round dressed like that?’ I was wearing a denim skirt, denim jacket and stripy Biba tights. They didn’t follow it up.
    The longer I work at Dingwalls, the harder it is to get the energy to do it. At first I was very keen and interested and wanted to make a good impression, but after six months of night work, I’m tired all the time and stroppy to the customers. I’m taking speed every night and missing out on life by sleeping all day. I’m getting nothing done except kissing lots of boys. One night when I arrive for work, the bosses call me into the office and sack me. They sack nearly everyone that night, even Rose who’s a brilliant waitress. Not only have I been sacked, I’ve got nowhere to live. I’ve fallen out with the girls I share a flat with in Bounds Green. It happened when the bog broke. I asked them to chuck a bucket of water down it after they’d been, especially if they’d thrown a tampon in there. I’m not that fastidious about cleanliness but it was beginning to stink. They were furious with me for suggesting such a thing, accused me of not being a feminist and being revolted by natural womanly functions. (It’s become quite difficult nowadays to disagree with other women without being called anti-feminist.) Anyway, it’s all turned nasty so I’m going to move out.
    Now I’m homeless, with no future, and not even a barmaid at