I gape at him for a few astonished moments, then absentmindedly flick through the pages. This isn't one of the issues I kept, so it's strange to see the various features again, the editorial, the letters, the appalling photos ... but to be honest, I'm busier wondering how the hell I could've missed Gloria Feathers among the two-hundred-odd names I sent the rag to every quarter.
"Gloria was a complete fanzine hound," he continues. "You surely knew that?"
"Yeah, but ..."
I notice one of my rambling discourses about Webster himself and snap the booklet shut.
"You used to send it to a Lucille Sanson in Lyon, France."
"Um ... perhaps, yes-I do remember sending a couple abroad ..."
"She's one of Gloria's school friends."
"No!"
"Yup. She sent stuff on for Gloria ... to wherever she was."
I'm flummoxed. I've a feeling I should be realising something important, but my brain's processors are too jammed to function properly. Does this mean Gloria gave it to Webster recently recently, or ... back then?
"That's who I had to send all my letters to," he explains, "until Gloria told me where she really was."
This is too bizarre. I gulp some coffee, praying it'll have some sort of untangling effect on my brain.
"Which page were you on?" he asks.
"Oh ... nothing, just some feature about-"
"It's the editorial, isn't it?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Go on, read it," he instructs.
I open the fanzine again. Dear oh dear, the thought that he's seen all this nonsense is acutely embarrassing. But he has has seen my note, so we've kind of hit the bottom of that particular barrel already ... seen my note, so we've kind of hit the bottom of that particular barrel already ...
I'd like to thank Mary Ryder in Norwich for her letter of last week, in which she put my thoughts into words perfectly regarding Webster's latest incident. He is indeed indeed not a man who should be mocked. He's trying, in his own heartbroken way, to say many things to a world which will no longer listen. He's attempting to warn us of the dangers ahead for the alternative music world, when sales figures and chart positions will kill new bands before they've even had a chance to break into their stride. Music will cease to be about passion, intelligence, humour and warmth, but will be governed by the likelihood of a certain song being used in a car advertisement, or by what designer jeans a so-called indie group are sporting on the cover of the not a man who should be mocked. He's trying, in his own heartbroken way, to say many things to a world which will no longer listen. He's attempting to warn us of the dangers ahead for the alternative music world, when sales figures and chart positions will kill new bands before they've even had a chance to break into their stride. Music will cease to be about passion, intelligence, humour and warmth, but will be governed by the likelihood of a certain song being used in a car advertisement, or by what designer jeans a so-called indie group are sporting on the cover of the NME NME. We'll be surrounded by faceless, charmless dullards with nothing to say and no decent music to say it to. Webster's own wrenching experiences of the last few years should speak volumes to us, but everyone's decided to ignore him or laugh at him instead.
"Fuck me," I wince. "What a pile of earnest bollocks!"
"Read the last paragraph," says Webster. "Out loud."
"Oh, God, do I really have to?"
"Read it," he commands.
I look down, hot and exasperated. Perhaps this is what he means by burying the past: getting Clive Beresford to read read the past aloud to him in the middle of an airport terminal. Each to their own. the past aloud to him in the middle of an airport terminal. Each to their own.
"Uh ... it just says, 'I'm going to close the correspondence regarding Webster for a while now, but I'd like to finish by saying, to him, wherever he is, remember all that you've achieved, and don't ever forget that no matter what the music press or anyone else says, you've composed and played music which has enriched the lives of thousands of confused, frustrated and lonely young people around the world, played gigs that have sent legions of punters home ecstatically happy, and written lyrics that will remain permanently lodged in the head of anyone with an ear for a good line and a spark of wit. You're fragile right now, and you deserve to give yourself a break. Hear it from someone who's been with you since the autumn of 1988: you don't need to fight anymore. Take it easy zeitgeist man, you'll always be our alternative hero.'"
I quickly close the booklet and knock back the last of my coffee. I'm nervous again and I can feel myself blushing. Webster's put his shades back on-his standard interview punctuation mark, I'm now realising-so I'm quite literally in the dark as to his point of view. The sight of those impossibly black lenses on his impassive, featureless face reminds me of something, but I'm presently too frazzled to place it. By the fact he hasn't said anything, I'd almost guess he's angry. Perhaps because I made him sound like such a casualty. He's not known for being nice to interviewers who point out his weaknesses, so I grip the edge of my chair and clench my teeth for the ride.
"So, d'you think I liked seeing all this stuff, at the time?" he asks flatly.
"I, um, dunno ... I guess I was a little bit passionate about the whole thing."
"Mmm, it seems so." He stares back at me, inclining his head slightly. "And can I ask ... what exactly were you trying to achieve by writing all that?"
"Well ... I was trying to ... y'know. I was angry. At the way you'd been treated. I wanted to, er ... defend you."
"You thought I needed defending."
"Um ... er ... well, not exactly defending ... defending ... I guess it was more ... redressing the balance. Trying to blow the lid on some of the ... um ... the nonsense that was being written." I guess it was more ... redressing the balance. Trying to blow the lid on some of the ... um ... the nonsense that was being written."
"And you're still trying. Aren't you?"
"Yes," I nod. "I suppose I am. That's what I mean when I say I'm after vindication."
"For me or for you?"
That bloody question again. I shift uneasily in my seat, aware that my sodden shirt is now sticking to my back.
"Well, for you mainly. But it's been difficult ... not having the full story."
"And now you've got it," he states sternly. "Haven't you?"
"Yes," I squeak.
He leans back and folds his arms.
"So. What are you going to do with it now, then?"
I've been dreading this. It's going to sound so unfathomably mercenary. How I wish he'd take those fucking sunglasses off.
"Um ... well, I suppose I'll ..."
"Huh?"
"Well, I'll start by writing it up, y'know ... properly ... so it can be read by people other than just me, and then I'll ..."
His black lenses are saying nothing. They seem to be getting even darker, but that must be my imagination.
"Then I suppose I'll try to interest some people in it. You know, people who'll appreciate what it all means, and so on ..."
"Like who?"
"Um ... y'know ... the usual ... I'll start with Q Q perhaps. They might like to do a retrospective feature." perhaps. They might like to do a retrospective feature."
"Possibly."
Then it hits me. The video for "Bad Little Secret." He wore shades throughout the whole bloody clip, staring straight at the camera, mouthing the words as if in some sort of zombie trance. Their shittest video. Doubtless he decided looking cold, blank and detached would perform wonders with the American market. It worked. And he's using the same tactic to freak me out. It's working now, too. What a fucker.
"Um," I continue desperately, "then there's Mojo Mojo and and Uncut Uncut, they sometimes-"
"Know any of the editors there?"
"No, but I-"
"Anywhere else?"
"Um ... ah, yes, a friend told me you're still fairly well-known in the States, so maybe I'll try ..."
He's shaking his head already. Oh shit.
"... Rolling Stone," I conclude pathetically, Alan's words from eighteen years ago leaping into my head: "You've got to have your strategy worked out, man." I conclude pathetically, Alan's words from eighteen years ago leaping into my head: "You've got to have your strategy worked out, man."
Webster drums his fingers on the table and looks away, directing his pair of black voids towards the centre of the restaurant.
"And you think these people will be interested in all this bullshit, do you?"
"Well, I I would be, if I were-" would be, if I were-"
"And you imagine they'd actually pay pay for it?" for it?"
I let out a rather large sigh.
"Look, Lance-"
"Geoff."
"Sorry: Geoff ... Look, it sounds bloody awful, I know ... It's your life. But really, the whole point of me doing it is so you can be vindicated, and ..."
Here I run out of steam. Arse. He's got me.
Silence.
"I know someone who'd buy it," he announces.
"Uh?"
He's still looking over at the bar, perhaps eyeing up one of the waitresses.
"Who?"
"Someone who'd make really good use of it, and make it worth your while, too."
"Who do you mean?" mean?" I demand, tired of this tortuous exchange. I demand, tired of this tortuous exchange.
He turns and looks straight back in my direction.
"Me."
I snigger disappointedly.
"You what?"
"I'm serious."
"No, sorry ... what what are you saying?" are you saying?"
"I'll buy it from you," he insists. "Exclusive rights, of course."
I've run out of ways to ask what the hell he's talking about, so I stay quiet.
"I've told you what you wanted to hear ... now here's your side of the bargain. I'll buy it off you for ten grand."
Oh God. He's gone bonkers again. Next he'll be shaving off his hair and putting on his white suit.
"Um ..."
"Ten grand. Sterling," he adds.
"Sorry," I mutter. "I'm totally confused."
Now he's even getting his bloody chequebook out.
"Wait, hang on," I protest, trying to grab his pen. "What are you doing?" doing?"
He drops the pen and again takes off his shades.
"Listen, Clive ... I don't mean to patronise you, but you're being really naive. I'll be totally honest: you're not going to get much out of this story. No one will care. Screw any false modesty: who really gives a fuck about me? You might get one of those silly half-page 'where are they now' pieces, if you're lucky. As for any money, forget it."
"But that's not the point, it's ..."
"And frankly, I don't want everyone knowing all this stuff. I'm not going to be around much anymore, but ... my family's still here, a few friends ... They'd find it ... well, difficult."
"So why the hell have you told me me?"
"Because you deserved to know."
I study his face for a moment. I see no humour-and very little of anything else, in fact.
"Is that it?" it?"
"Look at it this way okay? I've been living with this shit for years, and gradually I've managed to patch up a few old wounds. But the one thing I've never done is say sorry, and explain ... to someone who was there."
"At Aylesbury?"
"Yeah. And the couple of years after that."