Karl Wiggins's Reviews > Scary Modsters…and Creepy Freaks

It’s been suggested that Chavs are the offspring of previous working-class youth subcultures such as Skinheads and in turn Mods, but this book has nothing to do with Chavs. Here we’re talking Mods, the working-class, scooter-riding precursor to the Skinhead. The Mod subculture, which had its roots in the economically depressed areas of South, East and West London, favoured the ‘Rude Boy’ look, and Mods found themselves enticed by vibrant Caribbean ska, bluebeat and reggae because it was a covert, underground, non-commercialised music that was spread through house parties and clubs. By the end of the 60’s Mods – who were by now sporting close-cropped hairstyles - had become known as Skinheads.

But it’s in 1966 – two years after Pete Townshend first smashed up his guitar at The Railway Tavern, Wealdstone (a walk from where I grew up), and a year or two before Mods become Skinheads - that we meet Peter, a sort of New Romantic pop star ahead of his time. The interesting thing about Peter is that he’s soon to become a ghost.

A favourite pastime of my own is poking fun at East Londoners when they start going on and on and on about jellied eels and pie ‘n’ mash and West Ham winning the World Cup in 1966, and I’m sure the author shares my sense of humour here for she taunts and derides them by placing Peter’s father as a worker in a steel mill, when at the time all East London men either worked down the docks or in the ship-building industry - the nearest steel mills to the East End of London being about 200 miles away in Sheffield. And she then rubs salt in the wound by stating that Peter’s mother was a waitress in a pub! You won’t find a waitress in an East London pub now! In fact you’ll hardly find waitresses in any pub in England – let alone war-torn London in the 1930’s and 40’s.

And this will, of course, have East Londoners rocking backwards and forwards in indignation, “Waitresses in pubs, and steel mills in East London! I’ve never heard of such a thing! Apples & pears, Bow Bells, Adam & Eve it, food of the Gods, I should coco!”

I love it! Rinella, by daring to poke fun at East Londoners, is tipping the world on its head a little bit, and I adore the devilry! In fairness, East Enders have a terrific sense of self-deprecating humour. They hate their football team, they love their jellied eels and they’re not afraid to stand toe to toe with anyone in the world. Although I take the piss out of them, I love ‘em.

If I had to find a negative here - and I truly don’t need to in such an excellent tale – it’s that despite the title there isn’t a single Mod in the book at all. No fishtail parkas or zoot suits, no Vespas or Lambrettas, not even the odd clash with Rockers on Brighton seafront or Shepherd’s Bush Market. But we can forgive the author this small faux pas in the title, for this is a well-thought out storyline and the reader is never quite sure where it’s heading.

And the book truly does get better and better! Diane has a quirky style of writing that is quite appealing. She switches not only between past and present, but also between the male and female point-of-view. And she manages both with such ease.

I really don’t want to throw any spoilers in here, but there is much, much more to this book than can be imagined at first glance. Upon reading it you feel as if someone called Fuchsia or Bamboo or Puma, who runs the local writer’s workshop, has set the group a task of writing a tale with all the ingredients of Nick Hornby’s Hi-Fidelity, as well as a paranormal romance and reincarnation, and asked the group to try and include both the male and female POV, and for good measure to also leave a ‘message,’ no matter how subtle, and Diane Rinella has said, “Righto, then” and sat down to churn out this idiosyncratic masterpiece in a weekend. It is excellent!

The overriding message between the lines, by the way, is that of musicians being ripped off by their promoters. Jimi Hendrix was boracic when he died, as was Joe Louis by the way, with most of his money going to his handlers. But it’s not just boxers and musicians who get ripped off. I’ve seen timeshare salesmen, door-to-door salesmen and a host of other occupations, including no doubt authors who’ve fallen victim to unscrupulous publishers. Rinella cleverly uses the metaphor of the pop star to bring this wrong to light.

But back to the story. It’s simply fab! There are twists in the tale, and twists in the twists. You’ve got a couple of dippy birds, a saucy and at times flippant ghost who is consumed with thoughts of revenge, a love affair or two, and a lawyer with blunted emotions. I was very sad when the book finished and these daft characters left my life. Mainly, I think, because I actually liked all of them.

Before I finish this review, however, I'd like to make something absolutely clear; if anyone saw me on the train to work reading the last few pages of `Scary Modsters' and looking like I was welling up ..... I wasn't, okay? I'd just pulled a hair out of nose, that's all. Wasn't crying, aright?

Do yourself a favour and download this book sharpish! You won’t regret it.