Come On Train!
For Russ Redfern – gone but never forgotten.
Some people burn so bright, you think they’ll shine forever.
Russ Redfern was that for me.
My best mate. My brother in all but blood.

When he went, he left a hole nothing’s ever filled.
This story’s for him. For us. For the buzz we chased that made us feel truly alive.

Come on train.

Shut me eyes. There he is. Russ.
Clear as day. Loud as owt in me head. Sharp as ever, laughing his gob off like he never left.

We were proper mates from kids. Went everywhere together. Lost him too young. Like someone booted a hole clean through me chest and left the wind belting straight through.

We were muckers. Both twenty years old. Fit as fook. Game for anything. Always up for a laugh. And we had one thing binding us—we were both mad on Northern Soul. We traipsed all over the country chasing that buzz.

Fook, I miss him.

He was a live wire. Funny as fook. A mucker of the highest order. Never met anyone like him before or since.

Don’t mind saying—it broke my fookin' heart the day he died. I cried like a baby when we laid him to rest.

He’s been dead as long as he was alive now. I still think about him—the daft things we did, the places we went. If you’d known him, you’d know.
I’ve got my memories. And when I hear certain tunes, he’s right there, grinning like a loon.

But this memory?
This one’s nailed to me soul.

The day we legged it to Manny for the soul train.

Till next time, mucker. Keep spinning up there.

Russ Redfern 1959 – 1992




MARK "I'LL TRY OWT TWICE" TAYLOR

Speed. Soul. Fookin' Salvation.
Buzz in me belly. Dex rattling through me ribs. Flat, warm Panda Pop to wash it down. That’s the spark.

Face ticking. Eyes sparking. Heart bouncing like a pissed-up fly.

Like I’ve plugged straight into the mains.

Dexies – The Little Bombs
Dexedrine. Dexies. Little orange ones. Little white ones. Didn’t matter. Cheap as chips if you knew the right scallies.

Pharmacists handed 'em out like Tic Tacs. On the street? Gold dust.

Scallies flogged 'em by the dozen—nicked out of DDA boxes. Smash-and-grabs. Kids legging it with boxes stuffed down their kecks.

Some sold ‘em. Some necked ‘em straight away. We did both.

Dex lit you up. Made you feel ten foot tall. Bulletproof. Feet like fookin' lightning.

We didn’t walk through walls.
We danced through ‘em.

Bank Holiday Monday – Warrington, 1980
Sun smashing it down. Proper scorcher.

I’m flopped on me mam’s brown corduroy sofa—stinks of fags, chip fat, and Shake n' Vac. No shirt. Adidas trackie bottoms stuck to me legs like clingfilm.

Soul pirate tape crackling away. Mam scrubbing the hall like the Queen’s on her way.

BANG. Front door near comes off its hinges.

In blasts Russ.

Half-zipped Harrington, sweat pissing off him like he’s sprinted from Orford Park. Scuffed loafers, bright white socks, jeans turned up just right. Hair razor sharp. All about the look.

"MARK!" Eyes blazing. "SORTED THE GEAR!"

Waving foil like he’s found the crown jewels. "SKF Dexies, lad! Off Jamie. Ritz alldayer. Manny!"

Didn’t need telling twice. I’m up. Trainers in hand. Heart booting inside me chest.

Let’s fookin' have it.

The Walk
Padgate Station. Dead as owt.

Sun bouncing off the tracks. Rails buzzing.

Sign taped on the booth:
NO TRAINS – BANK HOLIDAY.

Russ: "You’re 'avin a fookin' giraffe."

Didn’t matter. Dex had us flying.

We jumped down, full clobber. Russ in his brogues. Me in me Sambas. Singing “The Night” like we’re topping the charts.

Sleepers clacking under our feet. Sweat belting out of us. Russ’s braces flapping like gulls over the old fish market



I tried a backflip off a signal box. Landed square on me arse. Russ near pissed himself.

Warrington Central
We rock in. Buzzing our tits off. Faces twitching.

“Train to Manny?”

Bloke behind the glass: "Not from here, pal. Diversions. Try Bank Quay."

Fook. Other side of town.

Didn’t matter. We were gliding now.

Bank Quay Station
Heaving. Wall to wall.

Mods, scooter lads, soul boys. Girls in minis and mohair. Lads in Freds and Sta-Prest. Hair slick as Saturday night.

Someone’s tape deck blasting “Out On The Floor.”

We shoulder through. Proper wired.

Train screeches in. All of us pile on like it’s the last bus from Stockton Heath.

Russ jams in a Maxell. Dobie Gray rattling the carriage.

Mouth like I’ve been licking tarmac. Heart battering me ribs.

Someone lets one off—no one gives a toss. We’re too busy flying.

Train overshoots Deansgate. Dumps us at Victoria.

Russ: "Where the fook are we?"

Me, licking cracked lips: "Hell, lad. But it’s got soul."

We leg it.

The Ritz – Manchester, 1980
Sky blazing. Streets buzzing.

Mods weaving through traffic. Copper chasing a skinhead. Some girl bawling down a phone box like she’s lost her giro.

We peg it.

Down Whitworth Street. Dodging pigeons. Jumping piss puddles. Chip wrappers flapping.

Then—The Ritz.

Glowing. Pulling us in.

Queue snaking round the block. Bouncer’s a fookin' wardrobe. Eyes dead as Monday morning. Probably ex-para.

Slide him a quid each. He clocks us. Nods us in.

First tune slams in. No warning. No messing.
COME ON TRAIN – DON THOMAS.

Bass boots me in the ribs. Brass belts me round the head.
It’s like the fookin' roof’s come off.

Whole room explodes. The train’s here. And we’re ON it.

Me and Russ freeze.

That’s the one.
That’s why we’re here.
That’s why we walked tracks and tore through stations and burned through Dexies.

This is the moment.

Russ grabs me shoulder. "Lad."

I’m buzzing. "We walked fookin' tracks for this."

He drops his head, laughing, tear hanging on his lash.

I throw me arms wide. "THIS IS IT!"

We pile in.

Feet smashing. Sweat flying. Dex belting through us. Shirts clagged to our backs.

Whole room lifts. Train tearing through us.
We ride it.
We own it.
We burn it.

We never wanted it to stop.

(Play the track now. Let the train hit you. Feel it like we did. This is why we came. This is why we danced.)

Aftermath
Lights slam on. Dream’s gone. Floor’s sticky. Air’s thick. Pop’s flat. Sweat’s flat. Buzz slipping.

Russ’s jaw swinging like a loose gate.

We stagger out. Night roaring.

Kebab shop calling. Steam fogging the windows. Grease dripping down the walls. Two-quid special. Shared in silence.

Russ looks over. "That was summat, weren’t it?"

I nod. "Felt like we mattered. Just for a bit."

And we did.

No cash. No clue. No right to feel that good.

But we danced.

In The Ritz. On Dex. On belief.

On borrowed fookin' time.

And that was enough.

[ "Come on Train" Don Thomas Let the train hit you.Feel it like we did. This is why we came. This is why we danced.]

By Tommy Kennedy IV
Warrington-born. Soul-fed. Memory-driven.