Read a rare short story by Mark E. Smith
Mark E. Smith was the outspoken, sardonic frontman of the seminal Manchester post-punk band The Fall. Formed in 1976, inspired by the burgeoning British punk scene, the band became known for Smith’s witty lyricism – sung, spoken and screeched in his distinctive northern twang.
Smith released 32 studio albums and countless live records as the only constant member of The Fall. The frontman was a skilled wordsmith, often singing observational lyrics about northern English life, blending snarky cynicism and humour. His lyrics and vocal style defined the band, inspiring generations of future musicians to adopt a similar approach, ranging from the likes of Pavement to LCD Soundsystem and Yard Act.
However, the vocalist also channelled his lyrical talents into writing fiction alongside his songs. In 1999, one of Smith’s short stories, No Place Like It, was published in The City Life Book Of Manchester Short Stories. Set in the band’s native city, the story mirrors much of the lyrical themes which define The Fall.
Read No Place Like It below.
No Place Like It
PONDERING at half-step on the gross arrogance, blatant incompetence and thievery of the white trash in their late twenties and their shaven-headed middle-class imitators, FRANK circumnavigated what seemed like endless sand-holes, foxholes, spastic-convenient kerb stones punctuated by upright, kicked-over, reddy-orange and white fences on his way through the doing up of the Manchester Victoria post-bomb development.
It had been a muggy, slowcoach taxi ride, due to the incompetent driver, who in his porn-stupefied brain had not turned left before the Cathedral, where FRANK had made an early exit.
The only thing he remembered was the three healthy kids who’d thrown two rocks at the passing vehicles near the Rialto in Higher Broughton.
He was getting the black illuminations again, i.e. All Is Substance – You Have Contact With None, or There’s Been Nothing on Granada For At Least Ten Minutes, Never Mind the Digital Testing.
DELIVERING leaflets 22 hours a week was just about manageable, thought JOE, if it wasn’t for those big over-powered cars making him jump every time he crossed the road – they made him remember the small metal splint in his upper right thigh from that time he’d ventured into Rusholme, pissed, and got half knocked over. He’d agreed with most of the shit on that political leaflet that other bloke he’d bumped into was giving out, apart from that repeated phrase – It All Makes Sense, Doesn’t It QUESTION MARK.
The men in the yellow hats sniggered as he limped by, and it seemed that they’d deliberately sanded near him, sending vicious particles coupled with lime flowing through the muggy, close, damp Cheetham Hill mid-afternoon onto his forehead and into his eyes.
STEWART Mayerling sat down in the Low Rat Head pub near the bottom end of Oxford Road, trying to work out how his plans to distract and confuse his English Drama lecturer hadn’t quite worked out. Mother was a teacher, and the attention/distraction games had always worked on her. The pager going off, mid-lesson, the showbiz titbit asides in the middle of Hamlet, my vegetarianism – how the jumped-up prole sneered at that, of course not understanding my code of internal hygiene, well advanced beyond that of mere travellers and their ilk, or polytechnic balding lecturers. For that matter – I think I’ll head up to Victoria, skip the lecture.
THE MITRE Arms, adjacent to the Cathedral, and next to The Shambles was empty this afternoon. FRANK walks in, having well given up on getting past Marks & Spencer, and blanching at the apostrophe on the Finnegan’s Wake pub sign, towards the station. Picking a table was fairly hard even though – only one large eight-seater occupied by Joe.
In walks STEWART.
‘Is it OK to sit here?’ he asks the seated two.
‘Sure.’
‘It’s crap out there isn’t it?’ says JOE.
‘Damn right it is.’
‘Let’s form a Party,’ says FRANK . . .
THE END
