"Feliway? Yeah, I think so ..." I looked at the products stacked up on the shelf and located a little purple box. I then tried to hand it to him, but he was still busy with his creature, so I was left standing awkwardly with my arm out for a few seconds. I was going to say, "Here's your spray," but that sounded peculiar, so I settled for a cough.
"Oh! Sorry!" he exclaimed, took the box, looked up and then treated me to a full-strength, 1991-style Lance Webster grin, dimples and everything. Blimey. Christ knows what sort of look I must have given him in return. I fear that my eyes probably widened, my mouth opened slightly, as if I'd just been injected with something. We held this tableau for what seemed like about five minutes, then Webster himself coughed.
"So ... are you going to take some money off me?"
"Oh, shit! Yes." I moved round to the other side of the desk and sifted through the bills that Jackie had clipped together. "That's ... wow, five hundred and fifty."
"Plus this?" he asked, waving the spray.
"Ah. Sorry. I'm, um ... new here. Has it got a price on it?"
"No, not that I can see."
"Right." I fought the temptation to say "Hey!-have it on the house. Have an operation, get the pissing spray free." Instead, boringly, I settled for phoning Jackie. Webster didn't seem to mind. He sat down while I rang, busying himself with his chequebook. Finally she answered and gave me the correct price.
Thinking back now, from the vantage point of lying on my bed in the small hours drinking the last of a bottle of leftover wine, it seems hard to accept there was nothing I could have done to take more advantage of the situation, but I'm afraid it's probably true. I'd like to be able to say it was enough, just as it was with Bjorn from ABBA, to share the company of musical brilliance for a few fleeting minutes and, in this case, at least to talk about something; something; but I don't think I can. I was pretty pissed off as he left-bearing his doomed animal, still grinning, admittedly a far cry from the curt so-and-so who'd entered the building five minutes before-although of course I didn't show it. I even managed a proper smile. I toyed with the idea of saying "Thanks, Mr. Webster" just for a laugh, but thought better of it. I shut the door behind him and then took a look at his cheque. HSBC. Reading Broad Street branch. Funny, you don't expect people like him to bank in normal places-but I suppose that's just silly. His writing was a mess. "Five-six-seven-fifty." How strange. He writes cheque amounts like Ron at work. Now I think about it, his dad was an accountant. That must be it. Then I eyed his signature. Mr. G. W. Webster. Funny; I thought he'd changed his name to Lance by deed poll. Clearly not. but I don't think I can. I was pretty pissed off as he left-bearing his doomed animal, still grinning, admittedly a far cry from the curt so-and-so who'd entered the building five minutes before-although of course I didn't show it. I even managed a proper smile. I toyed with the idea of saying "Thanks, Mr. Webster" just for a laugh, but thought better of it. I shut the door behind him and then took a look at his cheque. HSBC. Reading Broad Street branch. Funny, you don't expect people like him to bank in normal places-but I suppose that's just silly. His writing was a mess. "Five-six-seven-fifty." How strange. He writes cheque amounts like Ron at work. Now I think about it, his dad was an accountant. That must be it. Then I eyed his signature. Mr. G. W. Webster. Funny; I thought he'd changed his name to Lance by deed poll. Clearly not.
I fished around in my bag for Alan's scrapbook, which I'd brought along for moral support. It didn't take long to find what I was looking for. Please excuse the fact that Alan is going through his "interesting handwriting" period and seems to have abandoned the use of most uppercase letters: FRIDAY 24 AUGUST 1990mega city 4, mudhoney, MAGPIES, faith no more fucking brilliant only gonna be breif cos the pens running out, what a cracking day. janes adiction pulled out which was a right pisser but megas were amazing, mudhoney good stuff although had to pick clive up about 4 times because we'd had about three bottles of mendip each, some shit irish band came on and nick cave was well boring so we just drank more then MAGPIES who were absolutely splendid, lance on good form, he did this brilliant thing before look who's laughing cos there were loads of rockers showed up to see FNM. he made all the rockers put their hands up, then all the indie fans, then got the indie fans to go to the rockers and say "good evening, welcome to reading festival, this is our festival now but thank you for coming anyway, this is the thieving magpies who are from reading and they're about to do one of their top ten hits"-it was well funny, the bloke I said it to was okay but clive's told him to piss off after about five words, I reckon there must have been some fights. then FNM played who were great but their sound was shocking, patton finished hanging off the scaffolding, didn't bother with the cramps but went and found a magpies bootleg and lisened by the tent with more mendip but the BEST THING WAS that I met LANCE BY THE TOILET after FNM and got his autograph, all right it's a bit [word I can't make out, but I think it's probably "unco," i.e., uncool] but I was laddered and couldn't be arsed to think of anything good to say. READING IS AMAZING ... neds tomorrow You can imagine what Alan's entries were like when he wasn't being "breif."
Stapled to the page is a label from one of the bottles of "mendip" (full name actually Mendip Magic, a strong cider we had bought in bulk from a crustie) which Alan had hastily ripped off and presented to the passing Webster. I remember being obscenely jealous of this. Alan had a knack for spotting members of bands while out and about, often for striking up relaxed banter with them. I never spotted them, apart from that one time in Harlow. But Alan was constantly seeing the fuckers, like he had a sixth sense for it. And in the most incongruous places. He once saw Carl McCoy from Fields of the Nephilim in Boots. Barry Mooncult from Flowered Up in (honestly) a florist's. Andy whatsit from New Fast Automatic Daffodils on a platform at Manchester Piccadilly station (he even claims they went for a pint together). I remember wandering around Reading that year desperately trying to spy my own exciting crop of indie celebs, but to little avail (I think the best I managed was Jonathon, the indie DJ at Camden Palace, but you saw him everywhere). So, anyway-Webster's autograph is just a scribble and the originally black ink has turned browny-green over the years, but I held up his cheque and compared the two scribbles, made under such wildly different circumstances, and I have to admit the similarity sent a little tingle down my spine.
I sat back in the vet's now silent waiting room (apart from the occasional muffled whimper from the perpetually vocal Nigel) and my mood plummeted. Not only had Lance Webster already been and gone, leaving me with bewilderingly few options for taking the matter further, but I still had a day's arsing around with animals to get through. For free. I glanced at my watch and, to be frank, the idea of fucking off occurred to me. The Other Vet would be arriving any minute. If I just left the keys on the desk and snuck out the door, letting it lock behind me, that wouldn't be too bad, would it? The animals would only be alone for, what, two minutes. I'd helped them out with the day's most important and arduous task; they could surely manage the rest of the day? I mean, what would they have done if I hadn't offered? I gathered up my belongings and stood up, giving myself a last-minute karma check. Was this okay?
But by the time eleven o'clock had struck, two things had magically happened: one, I had been transformed into a selfless hero of the hour, possessed of endless public spirit and generosity, sensitive, thoroughly modern, masculine and (perhaps) attractive; two, I had decided to rub along through the day after all. The power of women, eh?
All right, bearing in mind that our fourteen-hour relationship has just come to an abrupt and fairly acrimonious end, by which I must be slightly influenced, I can still say that she wasn't that that attractive. I think it was more the initial shock of her bursting through the door (carrying her bike), actually being female and close to my age, then the fact that she spent the next five minutes telling me how wonderful I was for giving up a whole day and how much she'd heard about me from Jackie (eh?), all the time flashing her eyes and doing that tactile thing. I mean, I suppose it's just nice to be flirted with, and complimented and stuff, because to be frank (and I don't mean the violins to come out here) it's been a while. So when she finally put on her white tunic and disappeared inside the consulting room, I was gasping a bit. Okay, I'm being unfair. It's also because she's ... you know. Pretty. An ingredient not lost on me when, some eight (nonetheless knackering) hours later, she (yes, she) suggested we go for a drink. attractive. I think it was more the initial shock of her bursting through the door (carrying her bike), actually being female and close to my age, then the fact that she spent the next five minutes telling me how wonderful I was for giving up a whole day and how much she'd heard about me from Jackie (eh?), all the time flashing her eyes and doing that tactile thing. I mean, I suppose it's just nice to be flirted with, and complimented and stuff, because to be frank (and I don't mean the violins to come out here) it's been a while. So when she finally put on her white tunic and disappeared inside the consulting room, I was gasping a bit. Okay, I'm being unfair. It's also because she's ... you know. Pretty. An ingredient not lost on me when, some eight (nonetheless knackering) hours later, she (yes, she) suggested we go for a drink.
Now, before you start worrying that this is all getting perilously close to the Nick Hornby zone, there's a good reason for telling you all this. Here we have, or had, a fairly standard thirty-year-old London-dwelling Englishwoman. Born in Kent, I think, normal school, studied to be a vet in London. Likes doing normal London things: drinking, partying, eating out, going to the cinema. Clearly-although we didn't discuss it properly until much later-enjoys music, as she mentioned she had tickets to this year's Glastonbury But halfway through the evening, which was going very nicely, thank you (a few pints in, chat flowing, the pub buzzing but not too crazy), the following exchange occurred.
"Well, at least you only have to talk to them on the phone," she was despairing, on the subject of the general public. "I actually have to meet the fuckers. Tell 'em what's wrong with their bloody pets."
"You don't enjoy it?"
"I love the animal part."
"You love animals' parts?"
"Silly," she laughed. "I love the actual vet bit. It's the bloody public-relations bit I can't bear."
"Right."
"You know what I wish?" she began, playing with an empty crisp packet. "I wish it could be a vet drive-through. They drop the animals off at a kiosk, bugger off and wait in the car park. Then they get called over the loudspeaker when I've finished, drive to a second kiosk where they get their pet back and a printout of what's wrong with them."
"That's a great idea. I should think they've got those already in America."
"Probably."
"But you do get relatively interesting characters in your place," I suggested, deciding the time was right.
"Like?"
"Well, the guy today, who picked up Jessica the cat. Just before you arrived."
"Jessica? That old tabby with lymphoma?"
"Lymphoma," I winced. "That's like cancer, yeah?"
"It is cancer. Poor thing." She drew her index finger sharply across her neck and shrugged.
"Curtains?"
"Weeks, I'm afraid. Maybe less. The guy's heartbroken, though. He keeps taking her in for pointless treatment. Seems to not care too much about the cost."
(Ah. So maybe he has got a few bob stashed away somewhere.) "Well," I confided, "you know who that guy is, don't you?"
"His name is ... um ... Webster."
"Yeah," I smiled, patiently. "Lance Webster."
"Okay," she nodded, still expecting something more.
"Lance Webster," I repeated. "Used to be the singer with Thieving Magpies?"
She frowned and swallowed a mouthful of beer.
"Now, that name rings a bell. Remind me who they were?"
There it is.
I mean, I ask you. This kind of bloody thing happens all the time. Remind me who they were Remind me who they were.
Usually, depending on who has said it and how much I've had to drink, such a comment heralds the arrival of a rather large argument. Not because I'm offended offended, you understand-it's just that I'm genuinely confused. Nah, bewildered. Flabbergasted. I just can't understand it. It doesn't compute with the way my brain operates.
Who were they? Only the biggest British alternative band in the world, between the years 1991 and 1995. With the arguable exceptions of The Cure and Depeche Mode. Oh, and maybe New Order. "Bad Little Secret," their biggest UK hit (although far from my favourite song of theirs, as it happens), held the number-two position on the singles chart for three weeks (only kept from the top spot by that stupid "Please Don't Go" song). Only the biggest British alternative band in the world, between the years 1991 and 1995. With the arguable exceptions of The Cure and Depeche Mode. Oh, and maybe New Order. "Bad Little Secret," their biggest UK hit (although far from my favourite song of theirs, as it happens), held the number-two position on the singles chart for three weeks (only kept from the top spot by that stupid "Please Don't Go" song). Bruise Unit Bruise Unit, the 1992 album that propelled them into the same arenas around the planet as the likes of Nirvana, Pearl Jam and REM, shifted four million four million copies. Between 1989 and 1995, the Thieving Magpies sold out Brixton Academy a record-breaking copies. Between 1989 and 1995, the Thieving Magpies sold out Brixton Academy a record-breaking twenty-five twenty-five times, including three four-night runs. In addition to goodness knows how many NECs, G-MEXs and festival-headlining slots. But no one ever remembers all this. They just have vague memories of a band who were kinda fun down at the student disco, but who were ultimately forgettable. Or, if a music journalist is talking, an outfit who represent quite how bad indie music managed to get, before Britpop came along and, by the grace of its fucking hairdo, corduroy jacket and afternoon drink at the Good Mixer, saved us all. times, including three four-night runs. In addition to goodness knows how many NECs, G-MEXs and festival-headlining slots. But no one ever remembers all this. They just have vague memories of a band who were kinda fun down at the student disco, but who were ultimately forgettable. Or, if a music journalist is talking, an outfit who represent quite how bad indie music managed to get, before Britpop came along and, by the grace of its fucking hairdo, corduroy jacket and afternoon drink at the Good Mixer, saved us all.
Or, even worse, a recollection like the one my "date" offered me.
"Oh, I know-they did that song that went 'Nothing ever happens, dum-dum de dum-dum de dum...'" 'Nothing ever happens, dum-dum de dum-dum de dum...'"
"No, that was Del Amitri."
"Oh, sorry."
I have no idea how people do it. But they do.
"You remember," I coaxed. "'You still don't know how ... look who's-'" "'You still don't know how ... look who's-'"
"'... laughing now,'"she finished off.
"There you are! You know them."
"Yeah, I know that one. Christ, that was him?" him?"
"Yup."
"Blimey," she remarked. "I always kind of preferred the Mondays and the Roses, though."
"Ah."
"You're a big fan, I take it?"
"Um, yeah," I mumble.
"Wow. So it must have been quite a kick for you, meeting him today?"
"Sort of, yeah-I've met him before, though."
Technically not lying, but all the same I decided it was a good time for a toilet visit. The last thing I wanted was my noble, gallant and (not to mention) date-acquiring day's activity to be exposed for the devious, self-interested and ultimately useless exercise that it really was. I regrouped with the assistance of the mirror in the gents'; I get pretty flustered on this sort of occasion and need to check that I'm still with the programme, especially after a minor blow like this one. It's funny, if I'd mentioned the Magpies and she'd exclaimed, "Oh my God! Not them! them! He was the most hideous creep and all their videos sucked!"-I'd have been happier. Marginally. But it's the He was the most hideous creep and all their videos sucked!"-I'd have been happier. Marginally. But it's the indifference indifference that does my head in. The predictable, let's-ring-up-XFM-and-ask-them-to-play-"I Am the Resurrection"-for-the-fifteenth-time-today-style ennui which leaves me gagging. The sort of musical apathy that drives a listener straight into the arms of ... well. You'll see. that does my head in. The predictable, let's-ring-up-XFM-and-ask-them-to-play-"I Am the Resurrection"-for-the-fifteenth-time-today-style ennui which leaves me gagging. The sort of musical apathy that drives a listener straight into the arms of ... well. You'll see.
Having said all that, I am nothing if not a nine-months-single, thirty-something loser with a few pints inside him who wouldn't mind a shag. I returned from the loo and the evening rolled happily along, music remaining firmly on the conversational reserve bench, and before I knew it they were chucking us out of the pub. How the decision was made to come back to mine I can't now remember, but I do recall being glad that Polly was still at her parents' house, and then having a bit of a snog in the kitchen. That, unfortunately, was as good as things got.
"You got any music?" came the enquiry, after I'd poured us a glass of wine each.
"Of course! What do you want to hear?"
(Mental note: never ask this question. Just select. It's so much easier.) "You know what I love, love, love love to listen to on nights like this?" she enthused, already starting to dance a bit. to listen to on nights like this?" she enthused, already starting to dance a bit.
"No," I replied, hoping I had whatever it was.
She took a sip of wine and proclaimed, with some drunken passion: "Snow Patrol."
Oh God.
"If I lay here ... If I just lay here ..."
She closed her eyes and started to sway her hips.
"Would you lie with me and just forget the world?"
"Oh, really?" I asked, feigning innocence.
"Have you got that?" she beamed. "Or Keane?"
"Um ..."
"Is it any wonder I'm tired ... Is it any wonder I feel uptight ... Oh, such a good song." Oh, such a good song."
"Yeah, I suppose ... I'm not sure we have it ..."
She clapped her hands, gave me a big kiss and asked excitedly, "Okay, what do you have? Show me. Which one's your room?"
Before I could respond she'd skipped off down the corridor. I followed, hoping my quarters weren't in too much of a state. She turned into Polly's room and snapped on the light.
"Ah, that's my flatmate's room."
"Bloody hell, what a tip! So this one must be yours," she smiled, bursting into the room opposite. "Oh, such such boy colours ..." boy colours ..."
She settled down next to my unruly stacks of CDs while I folded a few items of clothing and generally tidied up a bit. Her fingers skipped through some titles that clearly didn't register and it was a while before she spoke; each time she did, it irritated me.
"Nirvana, cool ... Oh, you've got the Pulp Fiction Pulp Fiction sound track! Excellent ... Mondays ... Oh, I love the first Oasis album ... Who the fuck are sound track! Excellent ... Mondays ... Oh, I love the first Oasis album ... Who the fuck are they? they? [I think she was eyeing a Butthole Surfers album at this point] ... The La's. Oh my God, 'There She Goes' is so amazing ... Loads of people I've never heard of! ... Oh, here's a Thieving Magpies album-let's have a look ... Oh my God, it really is him!" [I think she was eyeing a Butthole Surfers album at this point] ... The La's. Oh my God, 'There She Goes' is so amazing ... Loads of people I've never heard of! ... Oh, here's a Thieving Magpies album-let's have a look ... Oh my God, it really is him!"
"We could put that on if you like?" (It was the MTV Unplugged Unplugged album.) album.) She frowned. "Not terribly romantic stuff, though, is it?"
I was rapidly losing interest in the whole thing.
"Chili Peppers ... Oh, it's an old one, though ... Wonder Stuff. Has this one got 'Dizzy' on it? [I didn't bother to reply] ... Christ, have you actually got anything recorded recently?"
"Yeah, loads! I think there are some Elbow albums in there ..."
"Boring."
"Fratellis? Boards of Canada?"
"Yeah, shall we try to stick to people I might've even vaguely heard of?"
"Or Arctic Monkeys?" I held up their CD hopefully.
"Bit punky for late at night, perhaps?"
"There's vinyl too ..."
"Oh, bit of a palaver. Has your flatmate got some music?"
Without my say-so, she strode back into Polly's room and to her diminutive CD rack, where, I knew full well, some true horrors lurked. I hovered in the doorway, huffing a bit.
"Oh, this is a bit better! ... Bjork ... Moby ... Scissor Sisters ... Oh my God, she's got Snow Patrol! [She extracted this for later use and continued] ... Bluetones ... Leonard Cohen ... The Verve ... Oh, Joni Mitchell. I love this ... Coldplay! Is this the one with 'Fix You' on it?"
"It had better not be," I grumbled.
"Cheer up, Granddad!" she laughed. "Can we hear this?"
"Um, I'd rather not ..."
"Oh, come on. It's gooorgeous. Better than your Snoozing Magpies," she chuckled, giving me another kiss. My sour face must have said it all. She frowned again, this time genuinely. "Seriously, Clive, brighten up! It's only music."
"It's not not only music," I snapped, and stomped off to the kitchen. only music," I snapped, and stomped off to the kitchen.
Okay, I know what you're thinking. She's right. Lighten the fuck up, sad boy. Let her stick on her Chris Martin claptrap, or whatever she damn well wants, have another drink, forget about it, and get ready for some action. But no. I'm sorry. Perhaps I'm getting old-or older, at least-but I can't be arsed with that sort of thing anymore. I was going to spare you the cringesome details of the next ten minutes but you ought to hear them, really, as it gives you some insight into what really goes on in my head. Put differently, it demonstrates what a fuckwit I am. Especially when I've had a few.