AN
ENGLISH
W
de
By Salba
On December 8, 1987, I, Screaming Lord Salba, met
up with my partners in crime:
Jason Jesse-F.N.G. and boyfriend beater. He was
attired in khaki pants, Docs and a blue bomber jacket.
Steve Keenan-Gypsy photographer and one hell
of a rock-n-roller. Slap. Stevo looked reasonably
warm in blue 501s and a Levi jacket complete with
fur lining. He was his usual restless self from lack
of beauty sleep, but unusually excited about our
destination-England.
Jeff Grosso-Former singer for the Insultors and
renowned Dead Head. He was sound asleep in a
molded plastic airport chair. For some reason he kept
mumbling the number nine over and over. The Gross-
man dressed like any other Californian would-in
shorts. He slept with a "toys in the attic" smile.
Christian Hosoi-Ex-kamikaze pilot and con-
noisseur of fashion t-shirts. Christ, stylin' in the latest
Jimmy'Z attire, showed up right before the last
boarding call.
On our way to the plane I overheard a snotty old
lady say, "Look at those boys, twenty years old and
going on ten." The people around her all nodded
their heads in agreement.
Airline Security took our skates away when we
boarded our flight because they knew we had the
latest in James Bond technology. On the way to
London we ate shitty food, sat in shitty seats and
watched a shitty movie. Fortunately, some of us met
Andy Granatelli, the tune-up master, in one of the
restrooms. We all had pleasant dreams during the
remainder of the flight, except for the Grossman. He
was consuming many bevys and reading a
fascinating true life book called "Say Love to Satan."
Shane O'Brien and Jason Jeese, frontside follow through out of a blacked-out
Brixton bowl called Stockwell banks.
Photos by Steve Keenan
When we arrived in England I could feel the cold
in my bones. It was 10:00 a.m. British time but 2:00
a.m. our time. We were met by Shane O'Brien,
Darrell, Paul, and his girlfriend. They drove us into
London in a rented van that the promoter provided
for two days. Hot.
Somewhere along the line the chit-chat turned to
skating as usual, and before we knew it we were star-
ing at one of the best metal ramps mortal man has
ever conceived. We didn't stay long because the
ramp had one of the biggest chains in existence
locked across it. We lickety-split for Slam City
Skates-Paul's skateshop. Paul called the promoter
to let him know that the bloody Americans were safe
and sound. I could smell conspiracy in the air.
After an hour we drove to the famous Meanwhile
2 banks. The banks have a nice tranny but no flat
bottom. The whole gang started ripping immediate-
ly. I despised Mr. Freeze for making my joints ache.
Hosoi slipped and slided. Keenan rocked and rolled.
Jason was movin' and a groovin', and Grosso was
satisfying his soul. The locals were shredding. I was
amazed because they all knew all the newest tricks.
guess British skaters are hip after all.
The ripping lasted a little longer then progressed
over to a lighted streetstyle type area across the path.
about 30 minutes I finally ordered the troops back
A new session started sizzling. I was freezing. After
into the van. We drove on to our next destination,
Southbanks.
The banks are located next to the Thames River
and loaded with lines. You could carve, slide, grind
and wall ride. I was still freezing, but after I skated
a while I warmed right up. Just like a ballpark frank
back at Dodger Stadium. We were all pretty tired so
we adjourned to a local pub to get out of the cold.
Then for some ungodly, unknown reason Paul ▸
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