Cheery Bananas Gold: They Call Him The Moth!

Today’s Cheery Bananas Gold is the first episode in the serial They Call Him The Moth. Ayrshire’s answer to The Bonfire of the Vanities.

Part One – Secret Origins

A few months ago, I finally worked up the courage to look through my uncle’s old trunk, left to me after he took his own life.

A journalist working for one of the more prestigious broadsheets, Jack Baker was a rising star in the writing firmament until drinking, gambling and bouts of despair caused him to end things in 1997. I never knew why until I opened his trunk.

There were a few things of note inside, his diplomas, family pictures, his rare snap of Alice Beer pissing in a river, the kinds of things a niece would expect to find in the trunk of her good, sweet, dead uncle.

But there was something else; something that told me what had changed him so in the dark days of the eighties when all his potential turned into so much anger and self-loathing. At the bottom of the trunk lay a folder full of articles and notes, all submitted, all rejected, none ever published.

These articles, in as much of an order as I can put them with my limited skills, are what you are about to read.

They tell the story of a man who went to a little town where eighties “progress” meant the end of everything they knew. He went there to observe, to record the death throes of a community. Instead he found a man who tried to say no. A special man. A frightening man. A man who called himself The Moth.

March 21st 1986
It’s an all too familiar story. Here in Newkirk, a small Lace Town in Ayrshire, a take-over by American asset stripping company Gutcorps is decimating a once proud community. I’m here, fresh faced from the city, to cover the effects of mass unemployment on this historic place, the drift of the brightest and best away to better things, the efforts to save the community made by the pitiful few left behind.

It seemed prudent to start at the dole office. It’s the busiest place in town apart from the decrepit pool hall where gruff men bet money they don’t have or the river bank under the bridge, where winos gather daily to tell tall tales, piss their own trousers and fight over Turpentine. It was a depressing place. Lost husks of men wandered like ciphers around two boards with no real jobs displayed upon them, muttering like druids caught in a ritual. The rest queued for their chance to sign on, the only skill left here worth having.

Occasionally one would notice me and growl, leering contemptuously at my tan moccasins. I felt tense, hoping I had not made a grave error. It was not long before I got my answer. As I observed the succession of broken souls scratching their now worthless names for a handout none of them wanted, my eyes were drawn to one man about half-way down the lengthy queue. There was something different about this man. Maybe it was his chiselled, square jaw that suggested a reserve of strength missing in the others, or maybe it was the glint of dignity that flickered in his steely blue eyes. Or maybe it was because he was wearing a pair of American Tan ladies tights, Hi-Tec trainers that lit up when he moved, an orange tee- shirt with a hand stitched yellow “M” emblazoned across it and a snorkel parka tied cape like round his neck. Covering his face was what appeared to be half a child’s “Spain 82” plastic football, eyelets cut for vision, with protruding antenna fashioned from what looked like a coat-hanger and pin-pong balls.

This was my first encounter with The Moth.

“Haven’t I seen you already today Mr Paton?” I heard the weary looking clerk say as the remarkable creature reached the front.
“Widye mean?” said the vision facing him.
“I mean you’ve already signed today Mr Paton.”
“Luk pal,” said the creature, “I don’t ken who this Paton fella is but ah’m here to sign for The Moth. M-O-T-H. Try under “M”, eh pal?”
“You’re holding up the line Mr Paton. I haven’t all day.”
“Oh and ah huv?” said The Moth, his antenna rattling with indignity.
“You ony idea wha’s protectin’ this community while ah’m in here? That’s right, naebidy! Now check unner “M” afore I get enraged!”
The clerk seemed to realise he was beaten. Looking to the heavens, he filed through his box of UB40’s, even making the cursory gesture of checking twice.
“I’m sorry Mr Moth,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm, “It looks as if your records have been misplaced. I’ll have to get you to fill out a few forms.”
“Are you f***in’ jokin’ me pal? How am ah meant tae fight the scourge o’ crime wi’ nae breu?”
“ Well,” said the clerk, a smug smile creeping across his face, “I was always under the impression that all the best super-heros were independently wealthy…”
What happen next took but an instant.

Almost before The Moth had bellowed “That’s it ya ****!” the clerk raised the alarm, security guards descending from every corner of the building. As The Moth flung himself across the desk trying to throttle the now terrified office worker, four burly, uniformed men set about dragging the deranged creature away.
“C’mown Archie!” said one of the guards. “This is nae use! Every f***in’ week ya mad bastart!”
As one of the guards pulled off The Moth’s ad-hoc plastic cowl, he emitted a blood-curdling moan, covering his face and running towards the door.
“Ya bastarts!” he screamed. “Ma secret identity!”
Sensing victory, the security men took turns to kick and punch him as he was bundled out in to the street. One stood back, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Pair ****.” He muttered, before wandering over to sort out a pen theft incident brewing on the other side of the office.
Looking out of the window, I saw the dishevelled heap draw himself up, replace his mask and turn back towards the door. Peering in for a second he shouted:
“ Nane o’ you ****s better commit a crime right?” Yir f***in’ cards are marked!”
He began scribbling feverishly in a notebook, as a child passed by on a Sinclair C-5, breaking the silence on the shabby, deserted high street.
“Haw wean!” bellowed The Moth. “Back here wi’ ma Mothmobile!!”
The child, perhaps cockily since he was escaping at approximately four miles an hour, turned back towards The Moth to give him the finger. In response, The Moth lifted a half brick from the gutter and launched it at the child, who fell bleeding to the curb as the rider-less C-5 continued towards Nazim’s Quick Stop. The Moth walked over to the child, kicking him a couple of times in the crotch before lifting him by the scruff of the neck and pulling him into the dumbfounded office.
“Ye see?” he said menacingly as he threw the now sobbing child against the army careers advice desk.
“Ye see whit happens when ye f*** wi The Moth?”

I asked around. I had to.

Archie Paton had it all, the good job, the Betamax, the Atari ST, the Capri in the driveway. His wife shopped at Marks and his kids has a “Simon”. Then, slowly but surely, it all turned to shit. A skilled weaver, Archie had started working for Linndale Weaving at the age of seventeen, having stayed on at school to watch the smart fanny mature. The son of a staunch union man, he quickly rose through the ranks of the local GTWU, gaining a reputation as a man who cared about his members. He was voted shop steward in 1981 and successfully led the workers to improved tea breaks in 1983 and an end to coin operated toilet facilities in 1984.

He was a church elder, a scoutmaster, an avid bowler. He had the admiration of his fellow workers, the respect of his neighbours, the love of the wider community.
Then came last summer’s take-over by notorious American firm Gutcorps.
Having played on market rumours that Linndale chief executive Arthur Trams wanted to liquidate his majority shareholding to pursue his ambition of winning “Kick Start”, Bob Caltrone, Gutcorps Senior Vice President, blew into town promising the earth. Linndale’s workforce were dazzled by talk of pool tables on the shop floor, sexy dancers in the men’s room and chicken, tasty fried chicken for all. Against Paton’s advice, hundreds of staff members sold Caltrone their shares. When Arthur Trams eventually made it onto the semi-professional motor-cross scene the dye was cast. The take-over spelt doom for Archie Paton’s commodious life and disaster for the town he loved. Within weeks, half the four hundred strong workforce had been cast onto the scrap heap. With Gutcorps’ promises in tatters around them, the people turned to Archie Paton.

His response was brilliant. He organised lightning strikes, paralysing the factory, crippling Gutcops fledgling foothold in the market. Through negotiation, he secured promises of sympathy action from local schoolteachers, shop workers and Sally, the town bike. When more redundancies were announced, he organised a “work in” for sacked employees, causing over-production that resulted in the great Rayon shortage of ’85.

Paton was crushed when it all came to nothing. Within three months of taking the factory over, Gutcorps had stripped all heavy equipment, selling it to Korean sweatshops. The main building was abandoned, pending sale. All but seven locals were left redundant. Today, all that remains of Linndale Weaving is a site office and a cabin where the remaining workforce see out the company’s last outstanding contract, sewing lace edging to fancy pants. It was around this time that Paton discovered his wife Shirley was having an affair with his sworn enemy, Bob Caltrone.

Caltrone had remained in Newkirk to oversee the sale of the factory and had impressed Paton’s wife with his extravagant lifestyle and gigantic phallus. Paton’s suspicions were further aroused when Caltrone moved into the family home having announced in the local pub that Shirley was “the best ride he’d ever had”.

Devastated and with nowhere to go, Paton was banished to the shed at the bottom of the garden. Collecting his meals from the back door steps Archie would often be taunted by a brazen and triumphant Caltrone who would stand in the back yard with his man out, telling Paton about how he’d just “flung a beauty” into his wife. It was not long before the man who had single-handedly held a community together found his own grip on reality slowly slipping away.

I spoke to DHSS security guard Rab Smilie about the man he once counted as friend and colleague: “Archie had it tough. Nae job, his wife shacked up wi’ thon Yank, living out in that shed. It all took its toll. I remember seeing him in the pub, the day after the Prince’s Trust had knocked back is idea about building a Rubik’s Cube style puzzle out of discarded fag packets. He had a faraway look in his eye, an’ he wis dressed funny. He smelt a bit. It wis obvious that Shirley wisnae dain’ his washing anymore. Then, a wee while later, an argument broke out and it got a bit tasty. Geordie Seaton was gettin’ the pish ripped oot him, folk saying his daughter gave gams oot the back. Aw true by the way, but still, nae need tae rub the guys nose in it. Anyway, Geordie went berko, an’ took a pool cue tae Alan Cutler. In wades Archie, trying to break it up.”

Indeed Archie did try to break up the fight. In return, he received a savage beating. Hospitalised for six weeks, Archie returned to Newkirk withdrawn and depressed, a man on the edge. Neighbours began to notice unusual activity around Archie’s shed, strange noises at all hours, odd smells, a sign outside that said “The Mothball. Secret Headquarters of The Moth. Keep Out.” Then, strange things started happening all around town. Lost pets turned up on doorsteps, returned with bows tied around them, notes explaining their absences attached. The schools drinking fountain was inexplicably repaired. The family of unsettling gypsies who lived in the Scotmid car park packed up and moved away.

No one knew why until a fateful Market Day a few weeks after the odd activity started. One of the few remaining traditions that did no pass into obscurity when the factory closed, Newkirk Market Day had long been an opportunity for the townspeople to gather and catch up local news. Local traders gathered, farmers proffered their wares and Sad Jack, leader of the towns large band of homeless drunkards danced for pennies if you whistled him a hornpipe.

It was on such a day that Newkirk discovered their odd protector was none other than Archie Paton.

Just as the Market was getting into full swing, Archie, dressed in his now familiar costume and armed with a megaphone, stood atop a soapbox and announced that Newkirk’s dark days of fear and mistrust were over. Calling himself The Moth, he ignored pleas from former friends and colleagues to come down and shut up, while the rest of the exasperated throng did their best to comfort their weeping, frightened children.

Proclaiming to Newkirk’s criminals that their time was up, he then launched into a bitter diatribe against Bob Caltrone, wetting himself as he begged the American to “..stop riding his wife.” When Police officers arrived to take Archie away, he attacked them before they arrested and beat him. Archie was sectioned and spend the next three months in Culmile Hospital’s psychiatric unit. Psychiatrist Agnes Borns agreed to break doctor patient confidentiality to talk about her most unusual patient:
“There was a deep fissure in Archie Paton’s character. His subconscious mind could not accept his defeat; it would not allow him to continue being Archie Paton, the beaten union leader. Instead, his mind fractured. Archie’s failure was buried deep within his mind and a new persona was constructed, a super-hero, who could never be defeated. Of course, his physical shortcomings and the fact that he had no “super powers” caused this new persona to become very fragile, leading to Archie’s even more erratic behaviour. I remember asking him why he was The Moth, as it is not exactly a creature that embodies power of inspires fear and he told me that his job was to: “Chew holes in the cardigans of the evil, flap his wings annoyingly in the face of the rich.”

Even in his altered state, Archie seemed to realise the best he could ever do was irritate his enemies. It didn’t take long before group sessions and positive reinforcement began to break the hold his new personality had over him. When we released him, I for one thought he was completely cured.” Archie returned to Newkirk and his shed with a clean bill of health but was shunned by the community he cared about so deeply.

Little did his callous neighbours know how quickly they would need him.