Thursday, October 20, 2005
NME Heroes - Part seven
I guess I have covered most of the writers and "famous" people that I worked with at NME, and that the only people left that I haven't written about specifically are the advertising staff, plus the admin guys and gals at the editorial department. Most stories I write about NME days will contain mention of some of these people, so I'll try to give a brief lowdown here on some of the likely culprits you may read about in future blogs on this site: First up is -
Tony Ociepka
I was good friends with Tony, or Tony O, or Tonio, or Tone, as he might be called, who was the "Gofer" at NME (the go-for-this, go-for-that jobholder). Nobody knew how to pronounce his (Polish) surname (O-See-ka or O-Chep-ka?) so we just used Tony O mainly. Tony looked like a smaller-version of Clint Eastwood
in his man-with-no-name persona (see pic); small black cigarillo, hat (though not a cowboy one, usually a flat or baseball cap), unshaven or with a short beard, and slow, laid back attitude.
We went boozing on many occasions - he was my main drinking buddy for about five years - and played lots of pool in that time, mainly in The Dog and Trumpet, but in many other London pubs too. We would seek out pool tables where we could get a game or ten; Opera Tavern, Stamford Arms, White Hart (Waterloo), White Hart (Drury Lane), Stamford Club, Wellington, and many more pubs whose names have changed and that I can't remember.
Tony used to come along to some of the gigs that I'd get free tickets for and also to a few football matches; I used to go to all the Charlton away games then, and I encouraged Tony to drive us both if the distance wasn't too far - I would pay his entry cost, plus an extra few beers, to pay for the petrol. We went to places like Reading, Colchester, and Brighton (where we lost 7-0!) amongst others. We'd always get back into town, drop his car off at his home (at one of the Peabody estates near Covent Garden), and go out on the booze for the night. He also came along to a few home games, and we'd do stupid things like pub crawls (by car - we didn't think about D&D...) along the Old Kent Road trying to find pool tables. One evening, we found a pub near the New Cross end of the OKR. We got our beers, put our money down on the table and started to watch and wait our turn. You always got funny looks - foreigners in a local pub - but we could handle it. Tony played first (it was winner stayed on), and won; I then played him and beat him. Then I beat a couple of others, but by now a bling-covered thick set black man, about 30 years old, had walked into the pub and put his money down. You could tell he was the main man in this pub... His turn came and I was the winner staying on to play him.
He was good, but I played a pretty good game, and beat him with about four balls to spare. There was a deathly hush when the locals saw me knocking the balls in and lining up the next shot pretty well. Plop! Plop! Plop! Down they went. I was on the black and stroked it the length of the table into the corner pocket. He was not amused. At all! He reached into his pocket (it was a bit of an "oh my god" moment, where we going to have to run for it?) and pulled out some more coins; but he didn't have enough and had to ask at the bar for change. He wasn't used to being beaten and I suspectthat his first coins usually kept him on the table all night! I played Tony next up, and he beat me. This didn't amuse Mister Bling one little bit and he wiped the floor with Tony next game. Nobody else had put money down once he'd walked in to the bar in case it upset him! I also hadn't put any more money down as it was kind-of time to move on. Mister Bling was furious that he didn't get another chance to face me across the green baise... We left, and checked our backs as we got into the car, onwards to the next pub!
Tony left NME in 1986 - he took redundancy - once the editorial department had moved into Commonwealth House. I always regretted not staying at his farewell leaving drink (in The Falkland Arms in Bloomsbury) but Charlton were playing Brighton that night (2-2 draw in our promotion season) at Selhurst Park. I popped in for a couple but made my excuses and left when I had to. Tony did not have a phone at home, and it was in the days before everyone had mobiles so we lost touch. I saw him just once after that, a year or so later when I bumped into him and his dad outside Charing Cross station. We had a chat then agreed to have a beer that night. It was just like the old days drinks-wise but we didn't meet up again, as we couldn't contact each other easily.
I have lots more stories where Tony will get mentioned, but will refrain from putting them here as they are more general.
Tony Ociepka
I was good friends with Tony, or Tony O, or Tonio, or Tone, as he might be called, who was the "Gofer" at NME (the go-for-this, go-for-that jobholder). Nobody knew how to pronounce his (Polish) surname (O-See-ka or O-Chep-ka?) so we just used Tony O mainly. Tony looked like a smaller-version of Clint Eastwood
in his man-with-no-name persona (see pic); small black cigarillo, hat (though not a cowboy one, usually a flat or baseball cap), unshaven or with a short beard, and slow, laid back attitude.We went boozing on many occasions - he was my main drinking buddy for about five years - and played lots of pool in that time, mainly in The Dog and Trumpet, but in many other London pubs too. We would seek out pool tables where we could get a game or ten; Opera Tavern, Stamford Arms, White Hart (Waterloo), White Hart (Drury Lane), Stamford Club, Wellington, and many more pubs whose names have changed and that I can't remember.
Tony used to come along to some of the gigs that I'd get free tickets for and also to a few football matches; I used to go to all the Charlton away games then, and I encouraged Tony to drive us both if the distance wasn't too far - I would pay his entry cost, plus an extra few beers, to pay for the petrol. We went to places like Reading, Colchester, and Brighton (where we lost 7-0!) amongst others. We'd always get back into town, drop his car off at his home (at one of the Peabody estates near Covent Garden), and go out on the booze for the night. He also came along to a few home games, and we'd do stupid things like pub crawls (by car - we didn't think about D&D...) along the Old Kent Road trying to find pool tables. One evening, we found a pub near the New Cross end of the OKR. We got our beers, put our money down on the table and started to watch and wait our turn. You always got funny looks - foreigners in a local pub - but we could handle it. Tony played first (it was winner stayed on), and won; I then played him and beat him. Then I beat a couple of others, but by now a bling-covered thick set black man, about 30 years old, had walked into the pub and put his money down. You could tell he was the main man in this pub... His turn came and I was the winner staying on to play him.
He was good, but I played a pretty good game, and beat him with about four balls to spare. There was a deathly hush when the locals saw me knocking the balls in and lining up the next shot pretty well. Plop! Plop! Plop! Down they went. I was on the black and stroked it the length of the table into the corner pocket. He was not amused. At all! He reached into his pocket (it was a bit of an "oh my god" moment, where we going to have to run for it?) and pulled out some more coins; but he didn't have enough and had to ask at the bar for change. He wasn't used to being beaten and I suspectthat his first coins usually kept him on the table all night! I played Tony next up, and he beat me. This didn't amuse Mister Bling one little bit and he wiped the floor with Tony next game. Nobody else had put money down once he'd walked in to the bar in case it upset him! I also hadn't put any more money down as it was kind-of time to move on. Mister Bling was furious that he didn't get another chance to face me across the green baise... We left, and checked our backs as we got into the car, onwards to the next pub! Tony left NME in 1986 - he took redundancy - once the editorial department had moved into Commonwealth House. I always regretted not staying at his farewell leaving drink (in The Falkland Arms in Bloomsbury) but Charlton were playing Brighton that night (2-2 draw in our promotion season) at Selhurst Park. I popped in for a couple but made my excuses and left when I had to. Tony did not have a phone at home, and it was in the days before everyone had mobiles so we lost touch. I saw him just once after that, a year or so later when I bumped into him and his dad outside Charing Cross station. We had a chat then agreed to have a beer that night. It was just like the old days drinks-wise but we didn't meet up again, as we couldn't contact each other easily.
I have lots more stories where Tony will get mentioned, but will refrain from putting them here as they are more general.
