New Merchandise
BOy's Own GEAR
Welcome To Boy's Own
Some 30 years young… a tale of amazing parties, stunning records, football, and strong looks. Boy’s Own started during the last time Britain was ruled by a woman prime minister.
Since the digital arena has not passed us by, and most of us have smartphones with one notable exception, we thought we should have a go at this Interweb thing. So, please expect over the coming months poorly written articles, musings on the state of Donald Trump’s combover, and actually some superbly written articles by people who went to proper universities and art schools.
Please don’t misunderstand us; we do have day jobs and postings might be infrequent. If you’re into social media you can find out when any new stuff is up by looking at our Facebook. Or put yourself down for the newsletter in the box down at the bottom of the page. We have a new Instagram too if that’s your thing.
Also we’ll be selling various articles of clothing… and, if it all goes especially well, some cheap luggage. There’s a few bits now in the ‘Gear’ section. Think about the loved ones at Christmas.
NEW FANZINE BITS
STUFF TO READ AND GET UPSET AT
Shall We Print the Book Again?
We’re mulling over a second, celebratory printing of Boy’s Own – The Complete Fanzines 1986-92
Copies of the first printing regularly change hands for hundreds of pounds via Ebay.
If you’d be interested in a copy, please let us know via info@boysownproductions.com. If we get enough love for the reprint, we’ll set the wheels in motion.
For DRoId x
ON THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF ANDREW WEATHERALL’S PASSING
17.02.2021
LEADER OF THE GANG
My first gang was in the playground. “All join up for waagh-aaghh,” that’s what we chanted. The Second World War had ended 25 years previously, but 7 year olds don’t think like that. You could be German , English or Italian, that didn’t matter. It was the running, shouting, and leaping around that bound us together.
At Primary school, Mick Bund and I headed up the Naughty Group. Our arch enemy – the Good Group. The Good Group played with the girls; in summer they’d take the cut grass and trace the outlines of their imaginary homes. We strafed them. Our mission was to fly in and kick those lines of grass away.
After an introduction from my friend Louie, I attained late entry to the Church Gang. They couldn’t have been less of what the notion of a ‘gang’ conjures up. But they did they hang out around a Church. That is where I met Jonny, Justin, Micky, Jane, Simon, Sarah, Rachel, Benny… the list goes on.
This gang felt different. It felt fun, homely, a bit weird, clever and cosmopolitan, almost avant-garde. They knew about Sartre and the boys wore eyeliner.
These guys were my introduction to Andrew. He didn’t wear eyeliner. But he had foppish hair, worn with his deconstructed Grammar school outfit and bearing a Revs record bag. So he carried the swing. I wanted what he had: the energy, the style, the insight. It took a couple of years, featuring lots of fashion mistakes for me while he had a bleach blond flattop to die for. But we ended up mates.
Our first gang was the Space Heads. There was Phil Goss, Andrew and I. We dressed up, inspected each other and off we went, ranging across town. Lucy provided the fuel. We flyered the clubs we frequented: ‘SpaceHeads are Go!’ Our soundtrack and timing was the nine o’clock drop.
We were everywhere we could be: gigs, parties, Kensington High St, Kings Road, Electric Ballroom, ULU, ICA anywhere that showcased new ideas. It was while rolling over and around the Jeep at The Mudd Club that Andrew and I connected with Terry, Mayes and Paul Mckee. We started hanging out. Concentric circles of other suburban gangs came into range. Steve Hall enters stage left with Eamon, Nick and Mick… and we all carry on with complete abandon without ever knowing what the next day brings.
This was the foundation of the gang Boy’s Own. It was to be our biggest, funniest and our most outrageous.
Basecamp – the Lamb and Flag. Our pathfinders, flag-wavers and supporters were Gary Haisman, Nick Tann, Rocka, Plug, Van Burn, Delroy, Mark Powell, Norman, Chris Sullivan, Christos, Stephen Mahoney – this was 1986 and we had no idea what was coming.
1988 was the start of an even bigger organisation. It included other gangs; Shoom, Future, Roundshaw, Flying. It grew and grew. It was out of control. Suddenly we were one nation under the groove.
Andrew, as you know, stuck out. He was the outsider, in front, on his own but with people. He loved gangs: Sabres, Rotters, Blood Sugar. He loved running together, shouting and leaping around. The thing that binds us together.
The gang as it exists now, is a gang without a name. It’s too big, diffuse, creative and energetic to pin down with a brand or badge. It is young and old, but still burns with a passion for the new.
In general terms this new gang refutes leadership. It prefers things to be level and opportunistic for all. And that’s where Andrew was special.
Andrew had been nominated without ceremony to lead this worldly gang. His output, wit, compassion and knowledge unwittingly created a seat in which no one else sat. And he didn’t engineer that. We did, you did, we all engineered that. Because we all recognise that, every now and then, some people are born to be leaders of the gang.