"But that's just it," I persist. "If I write this thing, you'll be able to apologise and explain it to everyone... everyone..."
"No," he frowns. "Not in the way you're hoping. Oh, a few people might say, All right, well, fair enough, then'-and instantly forget about it. But it'll just mean more embarrassment for me, and the whole thing'll rise to the surface again."
"But ..."
"And there are others involved."
It's this last bit that shuts me up. Call me slow on the uptake, but for the first time I have the slightest idea where he's going after all this.
"But you," he states, pointing at me, "are probably one of the only people left who it genuinely means means something to." something to."
He opens his chequebook again, and starts to write.
"Look, Lance-"
"Geoff," he corrects me again, not looking up.
"Sorry, Geoff ... I don't think I can-"
"Clive, listen to me. One of the old songs just got licensed for a big advert in America. Ten grand is roughly what I'll get, and it may sound insane, but that's ten grand I don't want want. It'll be a reminder of a past life, hanging around like a bad smell. And also ... well, there are other reasons why I don't want it. It's a single R in Beresford, isn't it?"
"Um ... yeah, but ..."
"Plus, you have have earned it," he nods, "running around like a twat for the last few months, listening to me prattle on today. Oh, and the work you did on earned it," he nods, "running around like a twat for the last few months, listening to me prattle on today. Oh, and the work you did on Sainsbury Sid Sainsbury Sid, and who knows what'll happen with that?"
Bloody hell, Sid the fly. I'd almost completely forgotten.
"So ... you take this," he breezes, flinging over the mammoth cheque, "and you bloody well sort yourself out sort yourself out. You're a fucking good writer. You should be doing something with it ... other than hankering after ex-indie pop stars."
I gaze down at the row of zeros in the box, and look back up at him.
"I still don't understand why you're giving me this."
"For fuck's sake, Clive, don't make me spell it out to you-I'll miss my bloody plane."
I can't help but continue to wordlessly gape at him.
"You don't get it, do you? Cast your mind back. I was at my fucking wits' end in ninety-six. My career was fucked, my girl was thousands of miles away with a child I hadn't even met ... didn't even know what gender gender it was ... my bloody dad was dying of cancer and I was surrounded by people laughing at me and calling me a cock. It often felt like you were the it was ... my bloody dad was dying of cancer and I was surrounded by people laughing at me and calling me a cock. It often felt like you were the only person on my side." only person on my side."
I try to respond, but only a feeble croak emerges.
"Gloria started to send me cuttings. Bits and pieces you were doing, a word of encouragement, a letter of support. The way you asked people to write in with their thoughts, gig memories, favourite B-sides ... it all reached me. Yours was the only British review of Commercial Suicide Commercial Suicide that understood what I was trying to do, and appreciated the fucking state I was in ... I was almost ready to give up songwriting that understood what I was trying to do, and appreciated the fucking state I was in ... I was almost ready to give up songwriting entirely entirely before I saw that. Then when things before I saw that. Then when things really really started to deteriorate ... well, man, you practically pulled me in from the edge of a building. The things you shouted to me at BFM ... this may sound unbelievable, but ... fuck it, they actually started to deteriorate ... well, man, you practically pulled me in from the edge of a building. The things you shouted to me at BFM ... this may sound unbelievable, but ... fuck it, they actually calmed calmed me. No me. No way way was I going quietly into that police van before you appeared!" was I going quietly into that police van before you appeared!"
If I wasn't sitting down I probably would've fallen over. I'm waiting for the moment when he says, "Nah, only winding you up," and rips the cheque in two.
"But how did you know that was me me?" is all I manage to ask.
"Well ... that's the strange thing. I didn't didn't actually know it was Clive Beresford for years, until your note came through the door. That line you wrote at the bottom," he says, opening the scrap of paper again, "'You've done so much.'" actually know it was Clive Beresford for years, until your note came through the door. That line you wrote at the bottom," he says, opening the scrap of paper again, "'You've done so much.'"
"Ugh. Cheesy."
"Maybe," he concedes. "But distinctive."
I look back at him, a cocktail of nausea and butterflies careering around within my torso. I need an extra hour with him, plus a secretary to transcribe all this hair-raising stuff just in case I convince myself I've dreamed it. And I need a drink. A waitress passes with a couple of beers and I seriously consider lunging for one of them.
"So then this note shows up," Webster continues, "at a time like this ..."
"A time like what?"
"A time when I'm making some major changes to my life," he responds, in a manner that forbids further prying. "The note comes through the door, and I realise there's some unfinished business."
"Are you seriously telling me," I frown, "that if I'd simply walked up to you on the high street and said, 'Hi, I'm Clive Beresford. Can we talk?'-you would have said yes?"
He sighs.
"Probably."
I let out a little moan and bury my face in my hands, marvelling at the untold pointlessness of everything that's happened to me since that Saturday in April. The time, the expense, the job, the stress, the lies. Some of which aren't directly connected to Webster, of course, but it certainly feels like it's all part of the same sorry spiral. I look up after a minute, and to my amazement he's actually laughing.
"But hey," he grins. "It was so much more fun more fun doing it this way ... wasn't it?" doing it this way ... wasn't it?"
Once again, words have deserted me.
We sit there for a while longer, batting the various absurdities of the last couple of months to and fro. I'd be quite content to remain here for the rest of the day, but I'm suddenly all too aware that my final seconds with Lance Webster are approaching. That age-old "if you were stuck in a lift with anyone" rubbish pops into my head, and I rack my brains for something I might spend the next few years regretting I'd missed my chance to ask. Finally, he stands to go.
"One last question," I demand.
"You're getting your money's worth, aren't you? Okay, hurry."
"Why d'you think they all turned on you?"
He looks up at the ceiling, gives a quick hoot of laughter and claps his hands.
"Oh, fuck it, Clive, I dunno. It was our time. We were stubborn, we weren't going away. I think every journo and industry knob expected The Social Trap The Social Trap to bomb, and when it didn't ... they all just thought enough was enough. We simply didn't fit with what was going on. And also ... oh, I suppose I'd made some enemies over the years. Said the wrong thing, slagged the wrong band, insulted the wrong writer, fucked the wrong girl. So I guess it was a multitude of revenges. But I'm over it." to bomb, and when it didn't ... they all just thought enough was enough. We simply didn't fit with what was going on. And also ... oh, I suppose I'd made some enemies over the years. Said the wrong thing, slagged the wrong band, insulted the wrong writer, fucked the wrong girl. So I guess it was a multitude of revenges. But I'm over it."
"Really?"
"Yeah ... just. Listen, man, gotta go."
I wave the cheque at him feebly.
"You know, I'm really not sure I can take this."
"Don't be a pillock," he snaps. "Take it. To be frank, it's either you or the Inland fucking Revenue. But remember-exclusive rights. Not a soul."
"Okay," I respond, feeling that only a total moron would argue with a deal like this. "Thanks," I add unsteadily.
"Fine," he smiles. "Don't do anything stupid with it. And get your fucking shit together, will you? Quit drinking so much."
"I'll try."
"And email me an invoice."
"Okay." Ever the businessman.
"Oh, and I guess you can probably tell this crap to your mate Alan."
"Ha! Well, maybe. Not sure he deserves to know right now."
"Whatever."
He slings on his shoulder bag and gathers his paperwork.
"I suppose I'm not permitted to ask where it is you're going now, then."
"Hey, man ..." he answers, putting his shades back on. "I said I'd tell you about August the twelfth, not about August the twelfth, not the future. You're gonna have to work that one out for yourself. But you guys seem to be fairly good at that," he sighs, nodding at Alan's scrapbook. the future. You're gonna have to work that one out for yourself. But you guys seem to be fairly good at that," he sighs, nodding at Alan's scrapbook.
We shake hands. It all seems rather formal-but oddly appropriate.
"Well," he says. "It's been ... different."
"Alternative?" I suggest.
"Pah," he responds. "Always hated that word. Made us sound like poor cousins."
"Independent."
"Even worse," he frowns. "Right. Better get going. Don't want to get in trouble for holding up the plane, five hours later."
"Keep away from any cute girls," I offer, as he departs.
"Ha! Fat chance," he scoffs. "You know what they say."
"What's that?"
"No one likes a grown-up pop star."
He delivers a final trademark Webster grin and bounces off towards his gate.
I remain standing next to the table for a minute, blindly fingering the cheque with something approaching mild dementia. My instinct is to instantly rush out and find a bank, but instead I sit for a while, a strange but not entirely unpleasant daze engulfing me, as I consider what a strange man my benefactor is. But although Webster's certainly got a loose screw or two, the cheque itself is signed, dated and unarguably sane. Of course, in the grand global stadium of rock 'n' roll, people often get bigger cheques for doing far less, while in my tiny little pub venue of an existence the notion that I've truly earned this money seems a little far-fetched. But if Lance Webster wants me to have ten big ones, then bugger it, who am I to protest? My short-term plans remain swathed in their usual fog of uncertainty, however. I have my priceless information-the story it feels like I've spent a lifetime pursuing-but nothing to do with it. It's time to think of something else to write about. A situation I've been in many times before; only this time I've got slightly more money.
"Anything else, sir?" asks the passing waitress, and inevitably the thought of a drink enters my head. But something stops me, and the words "No, thank you, just the bill" emerge from my mouth almost automatically. Weird.
I pay and amble out among the hurrying passengers and duty-free shoppers, suppressing another instinct when I spy one of the flight-information monitors. I start towards it, hoping to see which badly delayed flight is at last about to depart. But no. That's what I would have done a month ago. Now things are slightly different. Just let him go Just let him go. Wherever it is he's going. Bangkok, Mumbai, Cape Town, So Paulo, San Francisco. He had a friend in New Zealand he used to Skype with, didn't he? Perhaps. Or he may just be going on an extended holiday. Or maybe he's going to see Gloria, or Rosamund, as she now might be known again, to finally be the partner and dad he's longed to be. I have a suspicion this might be too straightforward, but then ... twelve years of long-distance forgiving and forgetting could hardly be described as straightforward. And after all, he's no longer a rock star, so they've actually become cosmically compatible cosmically compatible. Ha! But who knows? Let it go, Clive Let it go, Clive.
As I get back to the place where the passengers stream into the departure lounge after their long wait, I find myself laughing, as it occurs to me that he never said why he couldn't come to the other side of security. Maybe he couldn't be arsed to move. Or maybe it was another test: to see how much I wanted his story. Who can guess? But on a more practical note, I'm not entirely sure how one gets out out of here again. Not many people needing to go the other way. A pair of pretty girls stroll by, one of them lamenting to the other that she's "only got half an hour to shop" before her flight leaves. What's the world coming to? When someone actually seems more excited about their shopping experience than going to a wonderful, far-off place ... of here again. Not many people needing to go the other way. A pair of pretty girls stroll by, one of them lamenting to the other that she's "only got half an hour to shop" before her flight leaves. What's the world coming to? When someone actually seems more excited about their shopping experience than going to a wonderful, far-off place ...
Like New York.
It's the old cartoon lightbulb, the whack of the iron bar on the head, the Zane Lowe interview moment. "My whole life changed ... the dry cleaner's ... just be honest ... what if I actually did go to New York?"
Well, what if I did?
I look in my jacket pocket. There's my boarding pass, handily tucked into my passport. The flight leaves in forty-five minutes. I look at a departure monitor: it's on time. "Go to gate," in fact. Not much hard currency, no change of clothes, no laptop, not even a toothbrush. But a cheque for ten thousand pounds. It's a Friday tomorrow. All I need is an envelope and stamp, to send it to my bank manager (who'll probably fall off his chair). Perhaps a quick call to my folks to let them know I'll be away for a bit, and to ask if they can transfer me a hundred quid or so until tomorrow, when my (ahem) ten grand comes in. If I beg them hard enough, they'll agree. Especially if going abroad is involved-always makes my mother nervous. She'll instantly start to worry I've taken up drug trafficking. Maybe a text to Polly, to tell her I'll be paying back the cash for the plane ticket sooner than expected, but that I'll be gone for a few days and she can use the kitchen for whatever foul, depraved activity she likes. I check my phone for Billy Flushing's US number. Could I drop him a line now, to let him know I'm on my way? No, I should surprise him.
I really could could do this. do this.
New York in the summertime. I walk slowly in the general direction of the flight gate, even spotting an "I heart NY" mug in a souvenir shop (although who would buy this at a London airport is a mystery). Okay, so I didn't fully "heart" NY on my first trip, but I've heard it improves with each visit. I could saunter down the avenues and along the streets, snooze in Central Park, perhaps amble over a bridge or two, browse in the bookshops, stop in the cafes, couple of pints of ... Whoa, remember what Webster said. Take it easy. Maybe, just for once, I should be a little careful. If Flushing is to be believed, there could be an army of useful people out there. They'd like to see Clive Beresford the writer, not Clive Beresford the filing-clerk piss-head. Let's set the yardarm for slightly later in the day, shall we? There'll be plenty of time. All the time in the world.
I locate a few cursory items for the flight, post my cheque, call my parents and send my message to Polly, then mount the travolator for the short ride to the gate, a little smile forming at the ends of my lips. I can see the planes taxiing about outside in the sunshine, weaving their way among the baggage buggies and the traffic controllers, everything slightly out of focus through the clouds of exhaust. In the distance, a jumbo rockets into the sky. Perhaps it's Mr. Webster, zooming off to whatever awaits at the other end. Lance Webster, the man who crawled through a river of indie filth, to emerge on the other side, battered, bruised and a little torn around the edges, but clean, in one piece, and without the bailiffs hammering at his door. And although my mind is still in too much of a muddle to really believe it, it's a tale of survival in which I seem to have played a small supporting role. I give a little nod to the rapidly ascending plane, then turn back towards my own onwards journey.
As I spot my flight gate in the distance, I take my phone from my pocket one last time and, with a final mischievous thought, hammer out the following: Hello boy. Hope all good. Just to say I'll be away for a bit. But also: I got the whole story from Webster. Every last bit of it. I'll tell you soon. Have a lovely weekend x I press send, and-picturing Alan's astonished gasp, his abrupt exit from a meeting to immediately phone me back, and his frustration at being greeted only by my voice mail for a good few days to come-turn my phone off.
I reach the end of my ride, step lightly off the belt and stroll towards my waiting plane.
a cognizant original v5 release october 07 2010
DISCOGRAPHY.
THIEVING MAGPIES.
Monument / Videopsychomania / The Ballad That Never Ends / Videopsychomania / The Ballad That Never Ends February 1987, 7/12, Abandon Siamese Burn / Inappropriate Girlfriend / I'll Give You Action If You Give / Inappropriate Girlfriend / I'll Give You Action If You Give Me Peace September 1987, 7/12, Abandon (UK chart position: 72) Soapbox / Zeitgeist Man / Marlow Meltdown / Zeitgeist Man / Marlow Meltdown May 1988, 7/12, BFM (UK chart position: 43) SHOOT THE FISH.
September 1988, LP/Cassette/CD, BFM (UK chart position: 18) Scared of Being Nice Siamese Burn If I'm Still Sober, You're Still Ugly Soapbox Now That You Are Fashionable Have You Stopped Talking Yet?
Chopped Heart I Always Hated Love Songs Me in a Room All the Bees Are Dead Scared of Being Nice / Mad Chicken in a Mud Wrestle / Celebrity Spares / Mad Chicken in a Mud Wrestle / Celebrity Spares October 1988, 7/12, BFM (UK chart position: 41) What If Everyone Goes Mad? / The Bitch Is Still Around / Something About / The Bitch Is Still Around / Something About Him / Zeitgeist Man (Live) May 1989, 7/12/CD, BFM (UK chart position: 15) War on the Floor / The Great Kilburn Cop-Out / Arguably the Last Time / The Great Kilburn Cop-Out / Arguably the Last Time October 1989, 7/12/CD, BFM (UK chart position: 12) LOVELY YO UTH.
February 1990, LP/Cassette/CD, BFM (UK chart position: 5 US: 67) Rancid/Putrid Tube Screamer War on the Floor Look Who's Laughing When You Were Fun Lovely Youth Pit Pony Little House on the Flight Path The Hell You Went Through Camp David Everyone Behaves Like a Cunt So Why Can't I?
Look Who's Laughing / Jason Got It Wrong / Centrefold / Jason Got It Wrong / Centrefold February 1990, 7/12/Cassette/CD, BFM (UK chart position: 9) Pit Pony / With Hilarious Consequences / What If Everyone Goes Mad? / With Hilarious Consequences / What If Everyone Goes Mad?
(Live) / Bette Davis Eyes July 1990, 7/12/Cassette/CD, BFM (UK chart position: 27) Roundpeg Squarehole / King Mother / Roundpeg Squarehole (Bandwagon / King Mother / Roundpeg Squarehole (Bandwagon Jumping Tie-in Mix) / War on the Floor (Live) June 1991, 7/12/CD, BFM (UK chart position: 7) The Cool and the Crooks / Bleached Whale / When Girls Fight / Hold Back / Bleached Whale / When Girls Fight / Hold Back the Rain January 1992, 7/12/Cassette/CD, BFM (UK chart position: 5 US: 64) BRUISE UNIT.
February 1992, LP/Cassette/CD, BFM (UK chart position: 2 US: 10) The Cool and the Crooks Bad Little Secret Memories of ...
Walking on the Mines I've Laid Roundpeg Squarehole Bad Wiring Plant Life This Is What You Wanted Even If You Were a White Man Lose It Maybe You Were Jesus Bad Little Secret / The Harridan of Old Brompton Road / The Cool and the / The Harridan of Old Brompton Road / The Cool and the Crooks (Live) / Bad Little Secret (Undressed Version) April 1992, 7/12/Cassette/CD, BFM (UK chart position: 2 US: 15) Walking on the Mines I've Laid / Mobile Phone / Lose It (Live) / Maybe You / Mobile Phone / Lose It (Live) / Maybe You Were Jesus (Live) July 1992, 7/12/Cassette/CD, BFM (UK chart position: 13 US: 46) Memories Of ... / Candid Casualty / Leyton Layabout / Pit Pony (Live) / Candid Casualty / Leyton Layabout / Pit Pony (Live) October 1992, 7/12/Cassette/CD, BFM (UK chart position: 17) MTV UNPLUGGED.
April 1993, LP/Cassette/CD, BFM (UK chart position: 5 US: 36) Roundpeg Squarehole Have You Stopped Talking Yet?
Bette Davis Eyes Bad Wiring Chopped Heart Hold Back the Rain This Is What You Wanted Walking on the Mines I've Laid Look Who's Laughing When You Were Fun Bad Little Secret Zeitgeist Man Retro Hetero / Far from Eleven O'Clock / Back to Blighty / Far from Eleven O'Clock / Back to Blighty April 1995, 7/Cassette/CD, BFM (UK chart position: 4) THE SOCIAL TRAP.