Peter The Piss Artist

“Relax don’t do it. When you want to go to it. Relax don’t do it. When you want to come.” So sang Holly Johnson of Liverpudlian gender bender band Frankie Goes To Hollywood. This however was the smelly end of January 1984, I was thirteen years old and was to say the very least a little bit confused as to what all the media furore around the records release and subsequent banning from radio play was all about.1

I was not so thick as to imagine these leather clad, moustachioed mincers were playing with a straight bat, but one look at the video that accompanied the song confirmed my fears. Yet another set of raving gayers had gained notoriety and become society’s norm rather than the embarrassing exception.2

All things considered though, top marks for a fantastic piece of marketing. Not since one Malcolm Mclaren had masterminded the rise of the Sex Pistols in the late 1970’s, had the idea of getting a record banned, as just about the most sure-fire method of getting it to the top of the charts been utilized so successfully.3

The British Broadcasting Standards Commission would have done well to learn a lesson hard learnt from this experience. Alas however no, as in the early 1990’s vertically challenged and sexually ambiguous midget Prince pulled off the same old trick with his song “Sexy MF!”4

Incidentally did you know that before he was famous, Prince used to be seen weekly ringing the bell on Fantasy Island while yelling “Boss! The plane! The plane!” Anyway the artist formerly known as Prince must have had something about him. As for some reason he was famously jumping up and down on Sheena “I’d love a go on that” Easton on a nightly basis. 5

Huge wanger or lots of cash?6

Yes the colour of money wins every time.7

Talking of things that should have been banned it leads me nicely on to one of my favourite television shows of the early 1980’s. 8

Namely the televisual feast that was The Dukes Of Hazard.9

Was it the piss poor plot lines, shoddy plank like acting performances or even the smorgasbord of socially inept comedy hillbilly villains that graced the screen on a weekly basis?10

No! 11

My like-minded school chums and I watched the show for two reasons and two reasons only.12

Firstly there was the car, namely one Dodge Charger, named for the civil wars confederate general Robert E. Lee, hence the cars moniker The General Lee. This vehicles heroics had become the thing of playground folklore the length of the nation. Mainly thanks to the antics of the cars drivers, the ubiquitous Bo and Luke Duke, as they evaded the clutches of the crooked Boss Hogg and his minions of feeble minded police cohorts. All the while getting into different girls undergarments on a weekly basis.13

Yes if Roscoe P. Coltrane had indeed been a real chap, I fear it may have been discovered in later darker episodes that his mother and father were in fact brother and sister.14

The second and most important reason we all watched the show was the very shapely Catherine Bach aka Daisy Duke and those denim hot pants. I used to tune in weekly my mouth literally agog, as she appeared each and every week to be exposing more and more female flesh. She was the brunette version of, sadly now past, Charlie’s Angel Farrah Fawcett, but with fewer clothes in the “On” position.15

Needles to say this caused quite a stir with my gang of associates. For reasons then only too apparent, her name became synonymous with tall tales of prowess in the dark art of self-manipulation. Scuddy Smith professed to have found a, and I quote “Scud mag” that featured photographs of the aforementioned Ms. Bach in the all together. What’s more he claimed the Herculean feet of doing and again I quote “Pints over her at the weekend!”16

A charming turn of phrase and a very disturbing mental image I think you will agree.17

The obvious charms of Ms. Bach aside, the main premise of the show was that “The Dukes” were reformed moonshine distillers/runners and Boss Hogg, himself no stranger to an illicit still, along with Roscoe and his half-wit nephew Cletus Hogg would do absolutely anything to see them in gaol.18

Need I say more, as the programme contained the three main elements all pubescent heterosexual teenage chaps are naturally interested in; Cars, girls and of course strong drink.19

Enter in to the tale Peter Walker. Peter as mentioned in a previous tale had a job delivering morning newspapers prior to him attending school. This of course, by the very nature of the business, meant an early start, out in all weathers and as is the way with all young chaps, the obligatory tall tales of what the carrot topped lying bastard had seen through various bedroom windows while out on his round.20

We had all then almost to a man, given up on believing anything that came out of Peter’s mouth. 21

I arrived at school that sunny June morning and it being a Monday the rigours of our schools weekly assembly awaited. These assemblies, aka en mass bollockings, were administered by the usual line up of miserable humourless bastards from the stage of the main hall.22

I pushed my way though the side doors, took my usual seat next to my classmates and awaited the typical hard line lecture. These “little chats” were always on standards of expected behaviour, the prevalent use of bad language and as per the format for such occasions, a well timed dose of fire and brimstone from Minister Baxter to bring proceedings to a conclusion.23

This time however things were different. Sure I was sat sitting there in my usual spot, surrounded by my classmates bracing ourselves for the onslaught, but there was a very distinct odour-hanging heavy in the air. The unmistakeable pong was that of cheap as chips Pikeymart own brand whisky.24

Had someone dared to smuggle some grog in to the school, only for it all to go wrong at just the most inopportune moment and the bottle break spilling its contents all over the inside of their schoolbag?25

In a word… No!26

Peter had purloined a half bottle of pikeys own from his father’s drinks cabinet. Alas the bottle had not broken and it’s contents spilt inside his school bag.27

Peter had spilt it down his throat as he delivered newspapers to the town’s folk earlier that day and was to put it mildly absolutely shit faced. Piss head Peter was quite literally rocking in his seat as he struggled to stay sitting vertical. How none of the teaching staff had noticed, or indeed could smell him, is a mystery to me. Mind you it is probably an all to accurate indicator as to their own alcohol-riddled systems.28

The curtains that had been drawn masking our view of the main stage swished back to reveal the usual line up of miserable teachers, flanked by Deputy Rector Crampbell and the dreaded Minister Baxter. 29

Poor, poor, shit faced Peter cheered and actually gave them a round of applause. I laughed, Smarty laughed, even Ms. Marks our schools teaching nymphet cracked a smile. Mr. Crampbell being a professional humourless bastard was as was his inclination less than amused.30

“See me in my office straight after assembly Walker!” Snarled the dratted Crampbell.31

“No bother Mr. Crampbell!” Peter replied with double upturned thumbs, clearly far to hammered to give a hoot pertaining to the predicament he now found himself in.32

Oh spoons!33

A large amount of shit was about to once again hit the fan.34