Johnny Rotten
A night under the High Tatras
© Jon Horne  

   Stáry Smokovec, eastern Slovakia. April 1992
    I’ve never heard a racket like it. In one corner of the bar a television shows the Freddie Mercury tribute concert live via satellite. Guns ’n’ Roses or some other megabuck mediocrity are blasting out ‘We Will Rock You’ as if nothing depended on it - which is at least accurate. Around the TV, leather-clad youths bellow along with the chorus and mumble the verses. In another corner a six-piece brass band is playing ‘Roll Out The Barrel’ to an audience of beer-sodden, nicotine-stained ancients.
    I sneeze into a piece of sandpapery bog-roll, then wipe my streaming nose with another. Outside, my car sits buried under a foot of snow. I’m in the huge downstairs bar of the third-class hotel, a square, oppressive building of grey concrete blocks, and I’m getting drunk.
    A glass flies towards the TV, propelled from the huddle around the bandstand. It misses its target and smashes against the wall. The youths break off from a brave attempt at singing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ to stand and face their elders. The old men stand up. The two groups edge towards each other slowly and noisily, shouting unintelligible abuse.
    They meet. They glare.
    A punch is thrown. The two groups explode into a mass of furious violence, and I stare transfixed. Fists fly. Lips and noses bleed. After a minute, the howls of fury subside as if scripted. There is a silence and the combatants emerge from the melee grinning.
    I glance around and realise that I am alone in the bar. Muffled laughter is coming from the door. I look over and see the lobby crowded with people.
    I sneeze again and the brawlers all turn to stare at me. They advance quickly. It’s too late to run for it. A scrawny boy, about seventeen, in a misspelled Harley-Davidson T-shirt, points at me and says something in Slovak. I stare blankly back at him.
    “Wie heißt du?” he says in German that sounds as convincing as mine.
    “Jon,” I reply.
    “Johnny,” he says, “Johnny Rotten!”
    He grabs me by the lapel, pulls me up to him, and sings, an inch away from my face: “Anarchy for the UK!”
    Something takes me over and I yell back: “It’s coming some time and maaaybeee!”
    The boy still has me by the lapel. “Deutsch?” he asks.
    “Anglicki,” I reply.
    “Martin!” someone says, from the back of the group.
    The boy nods in excited agreement. “Martin!”
    He lets go of me. A girl peels off from a flank and runs to the lobby. Beer arrives, and heavy hands push me back into my seat. They all stare at me as I drink. For the first time in my life, I drink a pint of lager down in one. The girl returns, dragging an older man by the hand.
    “Hi,” says the man, “I’m Martin.” He speaks American English with a heavy eastern-European accent.
    “I’m Jon.”
    “Well, how d’ya like our fucked-up little town?”
    “Is it always like this?” I ask.
    “Pretty much,” he replies.
    “Then I think I like it,” I reply. “I think I’ll stay.”