Read Online Touching From a Distance by Deborah Curtis - Free Book Online

one reply. This came from a guitarist called Iain Gray. He was a gentle figure, who enjoyed cracking jokes and for most of the time managed to cover up the fact that he was still grieving for his mother who had recently died. Ian began to see him on a regular basis, initially to exchange ideas about song writing. The two of them began searching Manchester night-spots and pubs for others to join the band, and met Peter Hook, Bernard Sumner and Terry Mason in the process.
    As if being summoned to a religious gathering, we all assembled at the Lesser Free Trade Hall, Manchester, on 20 July 1976 to see the Sex Pistols. Ian had missed them the first time, much to his dismay. This was their second gig at this venue. He strode along looking for the right building and as I ran to keep up with him, he hurriedly explained that this band ‘fought on stage’. There weren’t as many people there as history would claim, but everyone who was to become anyone attended.
    Peter Hook, Bernard Sumner and Terry Mason were sitting somewhere in front of us and although Ian spoke to them, he did not introduce me. Four small waifs strutted across the stage dressed like cronies of Oliver Twist. I wondered who was the mastermind behind this plan, but Ian was ecstatic. Seeing the Sex Pistols was confirmation that there was something out there for him other than a career inthe Civil Service. Their musical ability was dubious that night, which reaffirmed Ian’s belief that anyone could become a rock star. After the performance everyone seemed to move quickly towards the door. It seemed as if we had all been issued with instructions and now we were set to embark on a mission.
    Ian’s determination gathered momentum. In August of the same year we packed one borrowed rucksack and hitch-hiked to Mont de Marsan for the punk rock festival. For me it was a welcome opportunity to goon holiday. For Ian it was business – part of his career strategy. A bus and a boat-train took us to Paris. As we sat in the square at Saint-Cloud and devoured the last of our packed sandwiches, we didn’t suspect it would take us at least two hours just to get out of Paris. Once on the N10, it was comforting to know we were at least on the right route, but I can’t imagine why anyone ever picks up hitch-hikers. Every time we got into a car with a couple, they invariably had a row. One person would want totake us as far as possible and their partner would want to eject us at the earliest opportunity. Then there were the two German hitch-hikers who insisted we walk behind them. We bowed to their superiority and allowed them to pass us. They were picked up within minutes. I’m afraid to say that at one time we were so desperate for a lift that Ian hid in the doorway of a tobacconist’s and left me alone at the side of the road. When a businessman in a smart car stopped, Ian ran out just in time to jump in.
    After yet again causing an argument between a French couple, we were dropped on the outskirts of Bordeaux. There wasn’t another vehicle in sight and by the time we trudged into the city I was beginning to panic. We didn’t have a tent, it was nearing closing time for the hostel and, worst of all, Ian’s allergy to the sun had begun to take effect. Ian had always told me that he was allergic to the sun, but I had never seen it before. His hands were crimson and had swelled to resemble a huge pair of red rubber gloves. The busy port reminded me of Liverpool and I had visions of us perched on a park bench all night, afraid to go to sleep. Ian was very calm. He simply approached a young man buying petrol and asked him for a lift to the hostel.Panic over. They bandaged Ian’s hands, although they seemed sceptical of our story that the sun was responsible. When two boys who were sharing Ian’s dormitory came to bed, he closed his eyes and stifled his giggles as they discussed his bandaged hands lying motionless on top of the covers.
    The following night was spent in