At that time there were a few youngish teddy boys from mid Sussex area they went to a venue in Portslade so you would have the joy of sharing the last train home from Brighton with them
I lived in Portslade at the time and me and my mate Nils had to run the gauntlet of these gits when we got back from the Basement, Resources Centre or Alhambra, as they were going in the opposite direction. At one point Nils had a pair of hobnail boots with metal coming through the soles, and I had a pair of antique cricket shoes in a similar state of disrepair. We always legged it at the first sign of trouble, we haveing a combined bodyweight at the time of around 14 stone (my how things have changed). It was probably not the best move when wearing footware that turned into lethally slippery nightmares at the first sight of shiney pavement and at the first hint of exertion. You can guess the rest
Well almost . . . for some reason, the crazed oafs turned back to the station after the pair of us had slithered into near motionlessness. Perhaps they thought it was an ambush. Lucky escape, given that if either of us had made an attempt to swing a punch we were more likely to whack each other than the Brill Creamed popinjays.
Apparently legend has it John Lydon spent an evening in that pub in Portslade in 76, in full drapes and crepes, emerging unscathed (this was before he was famous).
