It was the summer of 1977. The Sex Pistols were sailing down the Thames singing “God Save the Queen” and throwing the British public into apoplexy. Meanwhile, a group of art students stood on the stage of the Dog and Duck pub in Huddersfield and introduced themselves as The Virgin Prudes.


Joy de Vivre was an imposing six feet two inches tall as she swayed in the very high stilettos she wore, and while Joy hadn’t travelled quite as far as Holly from Miami, FLA, she’d undergone a similar transformation on the boat from Dublin to Holyhead. 


Whilst studying at Leeds Polytechnic, she’d witnessed the Sex Pistols playing alongside the Clash and the Damned. The next day, she formed her first band in the art rooms, reasoning that if they could do it, anyone could.


Now, four weeks and three rehearsals later, she took a deep breath and tottered her way on stage with a bottle of beer in hand and snarled into the microphone. 


“Hello, you bunch of boring bastards, we’re not the Sex Pistols. We’re far better looking than them.”


Joy’s friend and drummer, Steve clicked his drumsticks together four times before guitarist Stacey and bass player Duncan started to play. Joy danced around the stage and  screamed into the microphone, “I need you like a hole in the head, when I’m with you, I wish you were dead.”


Her eyes, already emphasised by the dark kohl eyeliner, bulged as she leered at the group of old men nursing their pints of bitter who’d had the misfortune to choose to sit at a table that was too close to the stage for comfort. Joy’s hair stood on end. It looked like someone had taken a pair of garden shears to it which wasn’t that far from the truth. Stacey had cut Joy’s hair the night before with a pair of pinking shears from her sewing kit. The end result, Joy was forced to admit, made her look like a toilet brush.


It only took one verse and half the chorus for the first bottle to be thrown. As the bottle smashed against the wall just behind Steve’s drum kit, Joy replied by raising two fingers and singingly told them to “Fuck right off.”


The small group of punks who had come to see them pogoed and bounced around the pub, banging into tables and causing other pub-goers to complain and stand up and push them away. Several skirmishes and fights broke out as the Virgin Prudes played on, oblivious to the carnage that enveloped the rest of the bar.


After four songs, Joy announced they’d had enough and the band flounced off stage. 


They sat on beer kegs in the storeroom which doubled as their dressing room, drinking beer and cheap red wine, with an assortment of friends and hangers-on crowding around.


When the man who threw the first bottle came into the room, everyone cheered. He raised his hands in acknowledgement as they chanted, “Dave, Dave, Dave, Dave.”


He approached Joy as she sat on an empty keg, leant down and kissed her on both cheeks.


“Darling, you were absolutely marvellous.”


“Thank you, darling. Mwahhh mwahhh.”  


He lifted his head and glanced around the room.


“Jesus, Duncan! Can you not find somewhere a bit more private?”


Everyone turned to see Duncan leant against the wall with one of the groupies, a teenage girl in a short tartan skirt and black bra, kneeling and sucking his cock. The girl paused only long enough to give Dave the finger before she resumed her enthusiastic sucking.


There was a knock on the door and a small man with shoulder-length blonde hair and a beard came in.


“Er… Hi.” He waved his hand in greeting in the general direction of the band.


“Um... I’m Martin. Who’s in charge?”


“Fuck off, hippy. We’re an anarcho-syndicalist collective. We take it in turns to be…”


“Oh shut up, Steve.”


Joy stood up and took the couple of steps necessary to cross the room and shake Martin’s hand.


“Hi, I’m Joy.” She turned and indicated Dave. “And that’s Dave, our manager.”


Martin explained he was with Slush Records and was very keen to sign them. He was convinced they could be the next Sex Pistols.


“But we’re not the Sex Pistols,” Joy interjected. “The Sex Pistols are a bunch of plastic cretins. They’re only in it for the money.”


“And what’s wrong with that?” Martin countered. “Isn’t that what everyone wants? The filthy lucre?”


He made a leering face as he rubbed his finger and thumb together, reminding Joy of Fagan from the Oliver Twist musical she’d sung in last Christmas. Then his expression changed. Joy glanced to see what he was looking at and saw he was watching the girl on her knees in front of Dave.


“Isn’t that what it’s all about,” he muttered, almost to himself before Joy’s cough brought him back.


He flustered, glancing back at the girl, then at Joy and Dave then back to the girl before finally shaking his head and smiling.


“Look, you are a gorgeous young woman, Joy, and I’m sure with the right backing, you and your band will go far.” 


He raised his arm and pointed out into the middle distance for emphasis.


“What are you offering?”


“You don’t hang around, do you, Joy?”


Martin’s leer was back. Joy didn’t have much up top but she pulled the baggy sweat-soaked tee-shirt closer around her, blushing under his lecherous gaze. 


“I was thinking a ten thousand advance would be more than enough.”


“Fuck off, the Pistols got ten times that at least.’


Martin shrugged. 


“But you’re not the Pistols, are you?” He ran his finger down Joy’s cheek. “You’re just a small-scale band with the potential to blow the Pistols out of the water with the right management.”


Joy swallowed.


“I’ll have to talk to the band.”

“Don’t take too long.” He glanced around the room before turning back and locking eyes with her again. “There aren’t exactly loads of other labels beating down the doors now, are they?”


He tucked a business card into the visible bra strap on Joy’s shoulder and turned to go. He stopped at the door and looked back. He indicated the blowjob girl that was still on her knees in front of Duncan.


“There’ll be wall to wall of that, lads, once you’re famous. Trust me. I’ll go get a drink at the bar while you talk it over. I’ll give you half an hour.”


After he was gone, and the groupies and hangers-on had been bustled out the door, the band sat and discussed Martin’s offer.


“He gave me the creeps,” Stacey shuddered. “Like he was undressing you with his eyes.”


“I dunno,” Duncan responded. “He seemed sound enough. I mean ten grand is massive.”


“You do know what an advance means?” Joy stared at him. “It means they pay us ten thousand pounds to make a record. Then, when it’s released, they get all the money until all the expenses are paid. Only then do we get any of the profits.”


“But it’s ten grand, Joy. We can make our own records. And if we don’t make any money, we’ll still have got ten grand.”

Joy looked around the room for support. Steve shrugged and Stacey gazed at the floor. Duncan smiled at her.

“So we take the money then? Agreed?” 


Duncan looked at the rest of the band. 


“Raise your hands if we take the money.”


Joy slowly shook her head and watched as Stacey and Steve raised their hands.


“Right,” Duncan exclaimed. “Let’s get Martin back in.”



The next Monday, the Virgin Prudes were in a recording studio. Martin was in the control room, smoking a cigar and looking like he’d done a course on how to look like a record mogul cliche.


It became apparent that Martin wasn’t interested in their own songs or what they were singing about. He had his own ideas about what he wanted. 


“You’re not really very punk rock, Darling, are you?” He complained during one of the recording breaks. “I mean, look at you, Stacey.” 


Stacey’s eyes grew large as he reached over and unbuttoned the top three buttons of her shirt.


“That’s better, we can see your bra and the shape of your tits now.”


When Joy tried to interrupt, he talked over her.


“You need to project the right image. Punk’s all about being in your face. Shoving sex in the face of the great unwashed British public.”


Joy glanced at Stacey who was now sitting smiling with her tits hanging out, hanging onto every word Martin uttered like he was the new Messiah.


“Look, Martin,” Joy tried again. “Punk is about identity. About us creating our own identity, singing about our lives.”


“Pish posh pash,” Martin countered in his upper-class sing-song voice. “Punk is about sex. Everything is about sex really. Sex sells.” 


He looked around the room again before announcing, “I’d be back in a bit. Try and get something half decent recorded by the time I get back.”


With Martin gone, the group felt energised and had four songs recorded by the time he came back. They were in the control room listening to the last take when Martin bustled in, carrying four carrier bags.


“Darlings, I’ve been down the King's Road and did a little shopping. Stacey, these are for you. Why don’t you try them on?”


Stacey gingerly took the proffered bag and glanced inside. She held up the black lace basque.


“Really?”


Martin beamed at her. “Try them on. I think it’s the perfect look for you rather than that pair of jeans and one of your Dad’s old shirts. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘Punk!’ at me.”


“It’s good enough for the Buzzcocks,” Joy interjected.


“The Buzzcocks won’t get on the front cover of NME though, will they, darling?”


Stacey came back in again a few minutes later. The black lace basque showed off the swell of her breasts and the red leather mini skirt and black fishnet tights finished off the outfit perfectly.


“Just one more thing,” Martin added, standing up to put a leather studded dog collar around her neck. “You look the perfect sexy little bitch now,” he complimented as he ran his hand down Stacey’s arm.


“Ok then,” Martin looked around and clapped his hands three times. “Back to work now. Let’s hear this new song.”


Joy watched as Stacey slung her guitar over her head and plugged in the lead. She stood with newfound confidence and strummed out the C F G riff as Joy stepped up to the microphone.


“Martin is an arsehole,

Martin is a twat.

Martin is the kind of guy

To wear a stupid hat.”


She was improvising off the top of her head but the look of horror on Martin’s face spurred her on.


“He put the cunt in Scunthorpe,

He put the pain in Spain,

I hope to fuck I never ever

Ever see him again.”


Martin flipped the power switch and as the sound died in the room, he sniffed and suggested everyone took a half-hour break. He clicked his fingers.


Stacey, come with me.” and turned and left the room. Stacey glanced at Joy who just shrugged, then quickly followed him out.


Joy sat, biting her fingernail, deep in thought. After five or ten minutes, she stood up and left the room. As she headed down the corridor to the toilets, she passed an open door and heard Martin’s voice.


“That’s it you little slut, fuck you look so good on your knees.”


Joy peered in through the gap in the door and was shocked to see Stacey on her knees in front of Martin. Martin’s trousers and Y-fronts were around his ankles and Stacey was running her tongue along the length of his cock whilst he kept talking, telling her what a dirty little cock sucking whore she was.


Joy held her hand over her mouth, desperate not to make a sound. She kept thinking she was going to be sick as she watched her friend giving their creepy record label boss a blowjob.


Martin reached down and gripped Stacey’s long blonde hair. He tugged her face off his cock. He stared down at her as she grinned up at him, lasciviously licking her lips.


“Mmmm, you’d make such a better singer than Joy, Stacey. I can make that happen. Would you like that?”

Before she could reply, he pushed Stacey’s face back onto his cock. He held her face there. His hands pressed on the back of her head. It was only when he felt her struggling and clawing at his thighs that he released her head and let her breathe.


Joy willed herself not to be sick and not to interrupt. She stood, frozen in the doorway.


“You give me what I want, and I’ll give you what you want.”


He pulled her up to her feet by her hair. Joy caught a glimpse of Stacey’s tear-stained eyes and a face smeared with drool and Martin’s pre-cum before Martin turned her and pushed her, face down over the desk.

“Pull your knickers down, slut.” 


It was a whispered command and Stacey instantly obeyed. Her hands slipped under her skirt and with a wriggle of her hips, the yellow cotton panties were on the floor. Martin pushed up the red leather skirt and pawed at her ass cheeks like two pieces of rump steak.


“Fuck, you have such a sexy arse, Stacey. You will look so good on the front cover of the NME as the new face of punk.” 


Stacey yelped as Martin smacked her arse. 


Then he pushed his cock into her. 


“When we’ve got rid of Joy and you’re the new singer, I’ll make sure you’ll have decent lyrics to sing. Songs that will get to the top of the charts.”


He began to move faster. His hips slapped against Stacey’s arse as he fucked her harder and deeper.


“You’re such a good little slut, aren't you Stacey?” Martin growled. 


Joy took a couple of steps back. She didn’t need to watch the end. As she walked down the corridor, she could hear the sound of flesh slapping flesh as Stacey’s high-pitched wails combined with Martins’ grunts. Then everything went quiet.


Stacey came back into the recording room a few minutes later. Her cheeks looked flushed and she avoided eye contact with Joy as she picked up her guitar.


They spent the next hour working on a song Stacey had written. It seemed to take forever to get the rhythm section right. Every time Joy sang, they seemed to go out of time.


“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I give up. Let’s call a break.” 


Stacey threw off her guitar and picked up her leather jacket.


“I’m going to the pub. You coming?”


“I’ll catch you up,” Joy told them as the rest of them hurried across the street to the nearest boozer.


Joy walked back up the corridor. Martin was still in his office. Joy knocked once and walked straight in without waiting for Martin to reply.


“Well come in then, Joy,” Martin announced with mock civility. “What can I do you for?”


Joy smirked at his naff pun. She looked around the room. She noticed a painting of what looked like Martin on a white charger, posed like Saint George.


“Is that you?” she asked, incredulously.


“It is, yes.” Martin smiled back. “It’s what I do. Ride in on my white charger rescuing companies, or bands. Their knight in shining armour.”


“Is that why you do it? For the kudos. The applause?”


“No,” he smirked, “I do it for the fucking money.”


“Just the money?”


Joy bit her lip.


“Well, the added benefits certainly help. Some people are ever so grateful.”


“Was Stacey grateful? Did she go, ‘Oh Martin, thank you for impaling me on your big hard shaft?”


Martin grinned. “I see she keeps her mouth shut for about as long as her legs then.”


“Stacey didn’t tell me. I saw you. You left the door open.”


Martin shrugged.


“You can’t just fire me like that. We’ve signed a contract.” Joy was determined not to let her voice crack as she continued. “It’s my band.”


“Well then maybe you should put your mouth where the money is, then.”


Joy swallowed. Was that prick really telling her to suck his cock? She watched as he pushed the swivel chair back from his desk. His hands reached down to unfasten his trousers. He raised his ass off the chair and pushed trousers and Y-fronts down his thighs before settling back on the chair.


“Come on, Joy. Show me why you should stay in the band.”


Joy swallowed. The dirty bastard probably hadn’t even washed since he’d fucked Stacey and here he was, waving his cock in the air for her.


She lowered herself down onto her knees. Memories of being an altar server in the sacristy after mass flashed into her head. Kneeling in front of Father Flanagan. She closed her eyes and sucked. She could taste Stacey on his cock as she swirled her tongue over it. The angry purple head appeared every time she pulled the foreskin back.


He put his hand on the back of her head and pushed. She was ready for it. She only hoped he was as shallow and bigoted as he appeared to be. She remembered Father Flanagan telling her what a good boy he was. As she felt Martin grunt and jerk, she closed her mouth around him and sucked as spurt after spurt of hot white cum flooded into her mouth.


Joy stood up and kissed him. She held his face in her hands while she painted his cum on his lips with her tongue.


She stepped back. Eyes locked. Her fingers reached for the top button of her white shirt. She’d styled herself and her look on Patti Smith with her white shirt and black trousers. She stepped back and stared at him as she unbuttoned the shirt.


“Why didn’t you buy me any clothes, Martin? Am I not your type?”


The white shirt hung open, revealing her black bra. Joy unbuttoned her trousers. She watched Martin lick his lips.


“I’m not wearing any knickers,” Joy whispered, letting the trousers fall to the floor.


“Holy fuck!”


Martin scrabbled his way backwards, his feet pushing the swivel chair as far away from Joy as possible. Joy stood there with her cock hanging, dangling between her legs.


“What’s wrong, Martin? Does the thought of someone with a dick between their legs not set you off?”


Joy stepped closer.


“But... but... You just sucked my cock. Fuckkk.”


Martin swung around on the chair and grabbed the wastepaper bucket. Joy smirked as Martin vomited into the bin.


“Awww, where has my big brave knight in shining armour gone, Martin? Can your male pride not take the thought you might be gay? Does having amn suck your cock make you feel gay, Martin?”


Martin stared up at her. Joy shrugged as she towered over him. Martin seemed even smaller now as if he was trying to shrink away. “I’m not some fucking poof.”


“After all, fair’s fair. If I’m going to get fucked over by you, it’s only right that I get to fuck you first.”


Joy pulled Martin off the chair and down onto his knees. His trousers were already crumpled around his ankles and his big pale arse stuck up into the sky. 


“So what’s it going to be, Martin? Do we fuck each other over or do I get to keep the Virgin Prudes and the money and you get to keep your virgin arsehole?”

“Fuck you,” Martin scowled.

“I think you mean ‘Fuck me’,” Joy laughed as she lined up her cock. A list of potential names for her new band already forming in her head.