"Yeah, I s'pose," I grumble. "I was never into football, so they were like my surrogate football team."
"So, are you gonna reply to him?"
"I dunno yet. There was something else he wrote, a weird bit about thanking me for all I'd done."
"For looking at his writing?"
"No," I frown. "This was written to Clive, not the other guy."
"But you are are the other guy." the other guy."
"Yeah, but this was ... different. I can't quite describe it, but it was blatantly written to Clive, and not 'Alan.'"
"And did did you ever do anything for him?" you ever do anything for him?"
"Well ... not really. Apart from writing a load of stuff in my fanzine, back when he was freaking out, and some letters in Melody Maker Melody Maker and so on. Y'know, supporting him. Telling everyone to leave him alone. Nothing he'd have known about, though." and so on. Y'know, supporting him. Telling everyone to leave him alone. Nothing he'd have known about, though."
Billy giggles and shakes his head.
"Clive, I don't mean to belittle you, man ... but I do feel kind of sorry for you. Christ, I mean ... you're such a nice bloke, you always were, but you do end up sticking your neck out for people who probably don't deserve it. Isn't it time you put yourself first?"
"Well, I kind of am, really."
"How so?"
So I spin him my usual yarn about Webster being forgotten, and how vindication for him would be equal vindication for me. I try Billy with my theory that all those druggie northern bands continue to bask in reverence while all the southern "booze" bands-particularly my beloved Magpies-are quietly swept under the carpet, and how I want to redress the balance. Billy waves all this away.
"What can I say? Sorry, Clive. Thieving Magpies were boring boring. Everyone knows that. Lance Webster's one of the most boring men to sell a million records."
"He's not!" I argue hopelessly. "He's got mystery. Who else had such a public fall from grace that's never been explained?"
"Where's the mystery in that? He was just pissed off his career was going down the pan."
"But that's the point," I insist. "It wasn't. Not yet."
"Well, I dunno. He always seemed pretty dull to me."
"He wasn't dull in interviews," I point out.
"Who remembers interviews? It's all words words. People only remember actions-visual stuff."
"I don't agree."
"Yeah, well ... no offence, Clive, but you're not the sort of person that counts. Yes, you love Lance Webster's witticisms, Carter's puns, but God, how far down the food chain d'you think that shit goes? Do you know why I don't get too involved in movie adaptations of my stuff? Because I can't bear how much they have to cut out out. So I just leave 'em to it. At the end of the day, audiences don't wanna think. People like songs for the choruses and catchphrases. They like films for a cracking good story with some laughs, a few bangs and crashes and a bonking scene. They like interviews for quick sound bites, and rudeness. Not intelligence."
"What about Morrissey?"
"Morrissey was in The Smiths," he shrugs, indicating no further explanation is necessary.
Something about Billy's directness is both appalling and refreshing. I expect I'll come away from this experience feeling rather like I did the few times I've ever been to a gym: that I enjoyed little of it, but it was precisely what I needed.
"You hate Liam and Noel for being mouthy, arrogant assholes," he continues, "but they're loved by a billion people for precisely the same reason. Yes, Ian Brown says fucking homophobic stuff in interviews and gets away with it, gets arrested for plane rage, and people still love him. But what do you want? Everyone loves a bad guy. I know it's not fair. You You know it's not fair. But fuck it, that's life." know it's not fair. But fuck it, that's life."
He takes a fortifying swig of his Bloody Mary.
"But don't think you're the only one. I fucking love heaps of stuff-music, comics, films-which doesn't get anywhere near near the sort of recognition it deserves, even from the 'alternative mainstream.' But I ain't crying. You talk as though you're the only person who still likes Thieving Magpies, or any of those bands. That's bullshit! I'll give you two scenarios, right? One: an alternative radio station, tomorrow lunchtime, plays 'Wonderwall.' Or 'I Wanna Be Adored.' Or, I dunno, that fucking Verve song. What happens? Nothing. Scenario two: the same station plays 'Look Who's Laughing.' Or 'Sheriff Fat-man.' Or 'The Size of a Cow.' What happens? Twenty, thirty people phone up and say, 'Oh, that song's so amazing, haven't heard it in years, reminds me of going to the fucking student bar' or whatever. They're the sort of recognition it deserves, even from the 'alternative mainstream.' But I ain't crying. You talk as though you're the only person who still likes Thieving Magpies, or any of those bands. That's bullshit! I'll give you two scenarios, right? One: an alternative radio station, tomorrow lunchtime, plays 'Wonderwall.' Or 'I Wanna Be Adored.' Or, I dunno, that fucking Verve song. What happens? Nothing. Scenario two: the same station plays 'Look Who's Laughing.' Or 'Sheriff Fat-man.' Or 'The Size of a Cow.' What happens? Twenty, thirty people phone up and say, 'Oh, that song's so amazing, haven't heard it in years, reminds me of going to the fucking student bar' or whatever. They're loved loved, man. Rather than just part of the fucking wallpaper. And in the States? Let me tell you. If Thieving Magpies re-formed tomorrow-God forbid, but let's just say-where would they play? Madison Square Garden."
"No ..."
"Madison fucking Square Garden! Guaran-teed. People in the States, and in Europe, they remember remember. But I'm telling you, the British press sends out a warped fucking viewpoint on culture, man. What's big and what isn't. Particularly for music. Dunno why. And when I say Britain, I really mean England, and perhaps Wales. Scotland and Ireland, they're fucking on the continent by comparison. You've no idea. England's a weirdhole. Thank fuck I left."
I remember the Irish girls who accosted Lance outside the art gallery. Goddammit, the man might be right.
"But Clive ... this is all just the gravy. Why you're sitting here still thinking about all this shit is beyond me. You're thirty-three years old, boy. The only way you you can get ahead in your life is to forget all that shit, and get on with what can get ahead in your life is to forget all that shit, and get on with what you you want to do. You want to meet this guy? You want to finally get that story out of him? You've fucking got to want to do. You want to meet this guy? You want to finally get that story out of him? You've fucking got to go go for it. You email him back, for it. You email him back, demand demand he tells you what you want to hear. Make sure you lay it on really thick, all the guilt tactics, tell him you stuck your neck out for him, back in the day, tell him he he tells you what you want to hear. Make sure you lay it on really thick, all the guilt tactics, tell him you stuck your neck out for him, back in the day, tell him he owes owes you, then you, then drag drag those fucking sordid details out, whatever the hell they are ... and then you those fucking sordid details out, whatever the hell they are ... and then you move... the... fuck... on! move... the... fuck... on! You want to write for somebody? Come to New York, I'll hook you up. You want to sit around on your arse dreaming of 1990? Stay right here." You want to write for somebody? Come to New York, I'll hook you up. You want to sit around on your arse dreaming of 1990? Stay right here."
Stay right here.
We stay right there for another hour, blethering about this and that, returning to our main subject every so often. We put away a delicious brunch, have a few more drinks, then the natural time to go approaches and Billy calls for the bill. I'm not quite sure why, but I'm a little taken aback when it arrives and, having captained the entire experience-drinks, conversation and meal, right down to ordering my own food for me ("I know the best stuff they have here, dude")-Billy announces, "So we'll split it, yeah? It's eighty-two quid, so that's forty-one each, plus tip is forty-five ... forty-five pounds and ten pence each."
"Er ... sorry," I splutter. "I haven't ... um, I've only brought twenty along with me ..."
"Oh," he frowns. "Damn. Well, there's a cash machine up the street."
"Ah, right," I nod, and put my jacket on. "Well, I'll be back in five minutes, then."
"Yeah," he grunts, already starting to text somebody.
Billy waits until I'm almost through the terrace door, then howls with laughter.
"Ha ha haaa haaa!! You goon! goon! Of Of course course I'm paying for the whole thing!" I'm paying for the whole thing!"
"Wha ... uh?"
"This isn't even a proper bill," he continues, scrunching it up. "I don't get get bills here, man! I bills here, man! I own own half the bloody club. Ha ha half the bloody club. Ha ha haa! haa!! Your face was so classic!" classic!"
"Okay," I smile, dripping with embarrassment. "You got me."
Suddenly Billy's smile vanishes, he reaches out and shakes my hand with startling firmness.
"Now that that was for Spike fucking Island." was for Spike fucking Island."
Fair enough.
And so I leave the cosseted world of the extremely successful and mooch off into the warm, sleepy Soho Sunday afternoon. As usual at these junctures, the temptation to install myself at a nearby pub, phone a friend and let the rest of the day take its long, boozy course, is compelling. But Billy's pro active words are ringing loudly in my ears and I'm driven by some invisible energy back up to Oxford Street and straight onto the bus. By the time we hit King's Cross I've mentally composed three-quarters of my missive to Webster, and even consider jumping off somewhere to get it done in an Internet cafe before I forget. But I stay on, repeating "You owe owe me" like a mantra as we lurch up the Essex Road. me" like a mantra as we lurch up the Essex Road.
Once at the flat, I storm through the kitchen (where Polly is drinking Pimms, wearing a bikini and midway through a jigsaw), settle myself down and begin to write what feels like the email of my life. And oh, it's a good one. It's beautifully written, sincere but not too cheesy, impassioned but steering clear of the stalkerish vernacular which doubtless screwed up my previous effort, well-argued, well-intentioned (I only say "you owe me" once, and make plenty of references to it being for his own good), there are even a few laughs (I think) and, crucially-for this is a bad habit of mine-not too long. I finish it, step outside for some air, come back and edit thoroughly, remembering to add appropriate heartfelt apologies for having misled and repeatedly lied to him. It takes me the better part of four hours, no further alcohol touches my lips (but our kettle works overtime), and then, just when I'm scanning one last time before guiding my mouse to the send button, my computer dies.
No. It really really dies. dies.
It quite literally does nothing nothing. It's like it has suddenly refused to accept electricity into any of its circuits any longer.
"Polly!"
I am so pissed off, so knackered, so unable to even consider consider writing the whole thing out again from memory, that I grab Polly's laptop, open up my email page, hit reply to Webster's original message and simply type this: writing the whole thing out again from memory, that I grab Polly's laptop, open up my email page, hit reply to Webster's original message and simply type this:
From: CLIVE BERESFORD ([email protected]) CLIVE BERESFORD ([email protected]) Sent: 3 June 2007 20:02:31 3 June 2007 20:02:31 To: [email protected] [email protected] Subject: (no subject) (no subject)
Dear Lance Dear LanceI'll gladly help you bury the past as long as you tell me everything about the night of 12 August 1995. I think you owe me.Clivep.s. sorry I lied to you I add my mobile number to the bottom of the email, hit send and watch the little dial go round and round in the corner of the screen, counting down the milliseconds I have to stop the thing from leaving. I exhale as the confirmation page appears, shut the machine down and join Polly in the kitchen for a large Pimms. The email vacates my head for the rest of the evening, not returning until I'm halfway to work next morning, at which point I chuckle heartily at life, with all the funny twists and turns that propel one to send abrupt emails to ex-pop stars on random Sunday evenings in June. But the even funnier thing is-it works.
SUGGESTED LISTENING: Pop Will Eat Itself, This Is the Day, This Is the Hour, This Is This This Is the Day, This Is the Hour, This Is This (RCA, 1989) (RCA, 1989) It's my life, so I've never found any of it particularly enthralling It happens on a Thursday morning.
Thankfully, as it turns out. For several reasons.
But we'll get to that.
It's the usually underwhelming arrival of a text message that kicks it all off, while I'm engaged in that noblest of activities: taking my recycling to the recycling bank (I say "my" and not "our" because Polly decided some months back it was all claptrap and now throws everything rather ostentatiously into the council litter bins). I ping the last of the green bottles through the black plastic brush thingies, wipe the remnants of stale beer on the back of my suit trousers and stride over to the bus stop feeling rather pleased with myself. Then the phone bleeps and my world, frankly, stops.
Ok you little shit you win. I'm at Heathrow terminal 3 for the next 4 hours, after that I won't be in the country for a very long time. Come and get it. L Not acquainted with anyone else whose name begins with L and who'd send me something like this, my heart starts thumping and I frantically review my options. There aren't any. I make a breathless phone call to my office (despite being a crap liar I am the world heavyweight champion at pulling sickies) and race over to the other bus stop, the one that goes to the tube station. I'm still panting with anticipation, pinching myself and, more cynically, congratulating Webster on abandoning this "Geoff" nonsense (though that is is his real name, the poor man), when the karma comes hurtling back at me and my phone bleeps again. his real name, the poor man), when the karma comes hurtling back at me and my phone bleeps again.
P.S. I'm beyond security so you'll have to buy a ticket somewhere "Buy a ticket somewhere? What the fuck do you mean, 'buy a ticket somewhere'? Are you fucking out of your mind? mind? Where? Where does terminal three Where? Where does terminal three go? go? Do you think I actually have Do you think I actually have money?" money?"
I'm so incensed, all of the above is said out loud to the assorted bods gathered around the stop. With beer on my suit and profanities on my tongue, I'm one can of Carlsberg Special Brew away from the kind of nutter everyone moves away from. Lacking further bright ideas, I hurry off in the direction of home.
"I don't understand," ponders Polly five minutes later, in between drags of her cigarette. "Why would he be on the other side of security?"
"God knows! He's fucking with me!"
"Mmm ... maybe he's on a massive stopover?"
"From where?"
"I dunno," she frowns. "Like he's flying from Mexico City to ... um, Warsaw?"
"Ah, yes. That commonly travelled route."
"Well, anywhere you have to change in London, really."
"Why would he be doing that? He's from He's from London." London."
"Clive, I really don't know. Sometimes people make odd trips. Might be work-related."
"But he'd be able to leave leave security ... wouldn't he? I mean, he's British." security ... wouldn't he? I mean, he's British."
"I don't suppose you fancy texting back to ask why?"
I consider this for a second, but any of the phrases I might use ("Is there any particular reason you can't meet me in the public area?") sound pretty pathetic in the face of what he's offering me. Polly pulls her dressing gown around her and exhales elegantly, producing a plume of smoke that hovers above our kitchen table for almost half a minute. We both stare, as if it's about to morph into a genie. Which would be quite useful, in fact. Instead, Polly bangs her coffee cup down on the fridge and strides off to fetch the next best thing: her laptop. She plonks it on the table and starts looking at the Heathrow website.
"What are you doing?"
"You've expended too much energy on this bilge to bugger it up now," she mutters.
"And?"
"So I'm finding out where terminal three goes, and we're going to get you in there."
"But Polly, I haven't got any-"
"Clive, be silent. I've had quite enough of this cocking about."
"But you can't seriously be suggesting we buy a whole airline ticket just to get me the other side of-"
"Shush! Here we go. Terminal three. Canada. China. Air India. American Airlines. Mauritius."
"Nice of him to pick the budget one."
"New Zealand, Emirates, Egypt, Japan ..."
"Maybe we could just do it over the phone?"
"Balls," Polly counters. "Malaysia ... lots of Middle Eastern places ... Korea ... ah, here you are ... Turkey ... Scandinavia. That's better."
But the day-of-travel ticket prices are all astronomical. A couple of one-way tickets to Stockholm and Copenhagen for seventy-ish look promising, until we notice they go at ten o'clock (just over ninety minutes away and I'm still at the wrong end of the Piccadilly line). Later this afternoon the fares shoot up to two sixty.
"This is fucking ridiculous," Polly yells at her machine. "Why isn't there a flight to Guernsey or somewhere?"
Time is racing on and I'm pacing up and down the kitchen; the best bet seems to be Stavanger in Norway for two twenty-five, but then Polly has a brainwave.
"Air India fly to JFK," she remembers, hammering on her keyboard. "I bet they're ... yes! Look! Two hundred!"
"You mean New York?"
"What other fucking JFKs do you know?" she snaps, pulling her purse from her handbag.
"Um ... New York's a bit far, isn't it?"
"You're not bloody going going there, Clive, you moron. There you go, two hundred including everything. Not bad. Who'd have thought?" there, Clive, you moron. There you go, two hundred including everything. Not bad. Who'd have thought?"
"Okay," I sigh. "Let's do it."
Polly whips out her credit card and a few moments later I am heading back out the door. I turn round and give her a smile. She's a mad old fish but she has her moments. On Thursday she works from home, you see. At least, that's what she tells her employers.