Bright lights, big city – not words people might not associate with the place, but it was a big deal for my best friend and I to travel into nearby Falkirk. Especially when you’re nine years old and never been on a bus before.
Back in the day, circa 1979. It was a heavy metal quest of gigantic proportions we were destined to take. Yep, my friend and I were head-bangers that required full on metal gear to go with our head-banging antics.
Studded belts, AC/DC patches, Black Sabbath, bleached Cosmic jeans; any piece of kit that turned us into the real deal.
It was a giggle on the bus, we were on a “Highway to Hell” heading to Falkirk outdoor market, with the firm intention of not bursting into flames when we reached our final destination. I remember buying a studded wrist band and slapping it on straight away. The smell of leather was the smell of pride. My exuberance as always was: “For Those About to Rock We Salute You.”
We were becoming a Rock Gods with every purchase. I couldn’t afford a studded belt like my mate, but a plethora of patches, and badges were available, so I indulged my cut off denim jacket with some bitchin' merchandise.
After travelling around the stalls daydreaming about metal, we found ourselves running out of cash for chaos. Not that there was much to be had by a couple of metal heads with a fiver to blow. It was time to head home to our awaiting arse skelps.
We still haven’t figured out how our parents somehow knew we’d been up to some heavy metal mischief in Falkirk . . . Hells Bells.