I come to find myself stood in crisp morning sunlight,
eagerly awaiting my carriage to today’s destination, the one-time factory of
the empire, the hallowed bastion of true British culture, the quite simply
unique Manchester, a destination and journey I’ve made for over a decade now. Examining
my ticket like a chastened train spotter I muse at the days I used to get up
before dawn’s light with a fresh wage packet, taking this sacred journey to
search out exotic clothes and rare records. I recall these great days with much
vigour, the thought makes the hairs on my neck stand on end.
Today’s
expedition recalls those great times, although now a little more sensible with
my earnings, a day out in the North is certainly the tonic I need to cleanse my
mind... I just hope it’s not grim today. As it happens, Manchester doesn’t
quite seem to cut the same mustard as it once did; Oi Polloi has lost its verve,
Vinyl exchange is full of crate digging fiends fingering all the decent stock
and taking ages at the listening deck, the bloke in bags of flavour barely
looks up to greet me. Something’s changed, perhaps it’s just me? I’ve barely
scraped my bank account. The buzz is missing.
Slightly
dejected, I’ve decided to cut my losses and head to the station and so I amble,
part sulking in the fading light of the great North, in the general direction
of Piccadilly. Then it hits me, as fierce as a blow to the head from the heavy
buckled belt of one of Manchester’s Victorian rogues, I’ll fuck the spending off
and go on my own historical journey to search out the hallowed streets of one
of Manchester’s original creations, the forerunner to every working class
street and youth cult that has passed through since, the foreboding
thoroughfares of Great Ancoats and the urban catwalks for an almost forgotten
youth cult, the Victorian gangs of Manchester’s original finest, the Scuttlers.
I quickly
assess the landscape and trajectory, heading out of the Northern Quarter and
towards the red brick mills that shadow the city, heading away from everything
I know, my pace now quickened, I’m walking with intent, with purpose. I cross
the main road that runs adjacent with Ancoats, navigating the Friday traffic
and stopping at least twice to assure myself I’m on the right track and not
heading off into an unknown concrete jungle, and then the ground changes from
tarmac to a mosaic of cobbles, probing the soles of my feet and assaulting the
soles of my footwear, I’m on the right track.
I take stock of my surroundings;
I try to picture the slum dwellings of yesterday Manchester, instead greeted
with flashy new apartment blocks and countless building projects. I know my
desired destination, I want to find Bengal Street, I want to find the home of
the tigers, arguably top boys of the scuttling world.
The streets are near deserted
apart from a rather shady African gentleman who seems to be taking a rather
vested interest in this cultural tourist, trudging around looking a bit lost. Then
I see a name plate that I recall, Hood Street, and I stop and take it in; its
weathered appearance looks beautiful and original, I know from my own knowledge
that Bengal Street isn’t far from here.
After
navigating my way around these historically important streets where, unless you
had prior knowledge to what went on here over a century ago, you would assume
was just another lego-brick construction site, I finally reach the corner of
Jersey Street and look around for clues that I’ve reached my destination, and
then there it is. Bengal Street. I freeze to the spot, I can almost taste the
confidence of youth in the air, hear the scuttle of brazen street gladiators
going about their foray, feel the bond of working class camaraderie, anticipate
the violence.
There’s definitely an energy here, it’s tangible.
As I stand
in this sacred spot, allowing my imagination to take me on a roller coaster of
sights, smells, sounds and feelings, I feel those stubborn hairs on my neck
start to take note, rising, receptive to this enigmatic place. I look left,
right, a couple of people shuffle past with looks of bemusement on their faces
as they give this chap with a massive beamer on his dial a definite wide berth
– I must look slightly mental, but so what? Keep walking otherwise you’ll feel
the wrath of Bengal Street, I’ll take off my Anderson’s belt and clock you,
give you a taste of Scuttling...
Although to most people this spontaneous visit might seem a little odd or even pointless, I stand with a sense of achievement. The story of the Scuttlers has always been spellbinding to me, their story resonates with my passionate personality and is one that should be included in the national curriculum, its imperative, as this near forgotten way of life is simply a most important entry into the cultural history of our country. I let myself seep back into reality for a second, let us examine this some more...
A fine correlation between young working class men and the
undeniable desire to be well turned out has been standard protocol in relation
to the various youth cultures this country has seen come to fruition throughout
the years. Fashion and attitude have always been an integral part to many of
the famous and infamous youth sub cultures that were born on British streets,
and it’s a known fact that the styles associated with the likes of mods,
skinheads, teddy boys and punks often went hand in hand with violence, carried
off with an air of nonchalant, adolescent rebellion.
When we
think of those diverse style tribes we’re often presented with the image of
hundreds of parkas swarming across Brighton beach to engage in ritualised
combat with a cluster of black leather motorcycle jackets, perhaps we may
conjure up the thought of Oxblood Dr Martins and checked Ben Sherman shirts
making waves to Jamaican reggae at blues parties with neatly shaved side
partings resplendent in extremely short clipped hair. Or we may associate the
Peter Storm cagoule and Adidas Stan Smith clad scallies that were born in late
1970s Liverpool, emitting a cheeky, accosting
grin from beneath a perfectly formed mushroom wedge.
All of these
examples are undeniably special in their own right, each holding their rightful
place in the archives of British culture and style, often revived or
inspirational to the modern day wardrobe. Each of those youth movement radiated
the feeling of importance, identity and belonging and the opportunity to relish
a siege mentality of us and them, often leading to violence and disorder.
If we look
back to the 1950s there were numerous young men who held a passion for the
Edwardian dress sense that was coined by various London tailors after the Second World War.
Together with American rock and roll music and an ethos of being young,
boisterous and confrontational, they were to become known as ‘Teds’ or, as the
media dubbed them, Teddy boys.
It was from these beginnings that
many people associate the birth of British youth sub culture, however, they’d
be forgiven for being mistaken. Decades before a Teddy boy ever perfected a
quiff, a lifetime before scooters, gleaming in the seaside sunshine were seen
patrolling the promenades of Brighton and a century before working class
Liverpudlians planted the seeds of what would grow into a trainer shoe obsessed
terrace phenomenon, the original
style conscious youth culture was being played out among the cobbled, poverty
stricken streets of Victorian Manchester.
Victorian
Manchester was the heartland of the Industrial revolution, its skyline
blanketed by a constant unhealthy smog and the innumerable chimney stacks of
towering factories. The conditions were often below the poverty line with
expansive numbers of inhabitants crammed into over filled and disease ridden
districts such as Angel Meadow, New Cross, Miles Platting, Deansgate and
Ancoats.
It was here among the squalid,
working class cobbled thoroughfares and grey foreboding side streets that the
unmistakable echo of brass tipped clogs could be heard clattering across the ground,
creating an unmistakable crescendo of sound for all in the vicinity to hear.
This sound was emitted from the soles of well dressed young men searching out
confrontation with protagonists of the same ilk. The term was known as
Scuttling and was the anthemic sound of Manchester’s much reviled Scuttler
gangs.
The Scuttler was a young, working
class male usually between the ages of 14 and 20 for whom everyday life
revolved around territorial disputes, street fighting, local pride and street
fashion. Scuttlers were often portrayed as hoodlums of the night, as
ragamuffins and street urchins who held no regard for public order or
discipline. However, to the Scuttler, being well turned out in the street
styles of the time was paramount and the look would very often mimic the
wealthier portion of Victorian society.
Just as
their future cohorts would do, they adhered to a distinguishable look,
identifiable by a number of garments and items that held as much relevance to
them and their counterparts as the parka did to the Mod, or the beetle crusher
did to the Ted. These quintessential items were centered around a heavy laden
brass buckled belt, a statement on parallel with the Dr Martin boots of the skin
head. With this being the most important item that no Scuttler worth his salt
would be without, a heavy sense of one-upmanship was often prevalent and brass
belts were sought out in the most intricate and exquisite designs, the quality
and weight were essential, as the item was also used as a formidable weapon during
scuttles between rival gangs. Being the most desirable element of a Scuttlers
identity, reliving an adversary of theirs was seen as the greatest accolade
achievable in the heat of fighting and the ultimate trophy to parade to enhance
reputation.
The legs of
a Scuttler would be shed in bell bottom trousers with a wide hem at the ankle,
not so dissimilar to the trend that swept Manchester
and Liverpool during the casual era to draw
attention to the wearers taste in rare footwear, often imported from European
away games. To compliment the bell bottom trousers, brass tipped clogs were the
order of the day, completing the bottom half of the style conscious Victorian Mancunian street
youth.
Along with
these items, the other important insignia of the Scuttler included the all
important donkey fringe. The donkey fringe was the hair cut of choice among the
youths, proudly displayed even when the obligatory tilted cap was being worn.
If this was the case, the cap was tilted back so that the hair was on constant display
affording the disciples of this enigmatic lifestyle the knowledge that he too
was a wanton partisan of the underground world of Scuttling. The ensemble was
completed with luxurious silk scarfs regularly woven in elegant patterns or as
an alternative, the muffler which was preferable in plain white. Each would be worn
often in a knot around the neck, peering out through under the waistcoat or
overcoat of the wearer.
Gangs such
as the infamous Bengal Tigers, named after the main street in which their
territory lay, the Meadow boys, from the district of Angel Meadow and the
Bungal boys who resided in the area known as Ardwick, would vie for supremacy
through fearful reputations but also the respect gained from their
one-one-upmanship and street panache’ a trait echoed almost a hundred years down
the line by the scallies, perry boys and later, the casual's for whom the
lifestyle of style, fashion and fighting was a way of life.
There is an undeniable similarity
that’s universal between the ethos and cultural importance of Victorian
Manchester’s youth movement, and that of its numerous predecessors. The
inexplicable link between the various styles that were worn to signify an
obvious involvement and the feeling of belonging prove that throughout time the
importance to look good and to be part of something has never ceased to fade.
Where now the modern structures
lay over the original streets of that violent yet style led era of Victorian
Manchester, where the iron markets and filthy back streets were as much cat
walks as the Carnaby Streets or Kings Road of their respective times, linger
the spectres of those charismatic Scuttlers, resplendent in their alluring and
prototypical fashions, almost forgotten in the tapestries of British history.
They should be remembered and revered for their important and captivating
bearing they had on the attitudes and ideals of so many after them, but most of
all for being the catalyst from which the start of true British youth culture
and style was born.
