Part 3 (1/2)
”Well, I've been thinking of doing something quite radical about it.”
”Like?”
”Spying on him for a few days.”
”Careful, man. You remember ...”
”Yeah, I know, but I'd be really subtle. Nothing sinister, only to find out where he goes, what he does. Where he drinks. Where he eats. And then-go undercover.”
”Explain.”
”Like-I dunno, get a job in the pub he goes to, or-”
”You could start working at that dry cleaner's,” Alan deadpans, sipping his drink.
”No, somewhere that might require banter. Like his music shop.”
”You're mad. Anyway, I don't think he even plays music anymore.”
”He's bound to do something, though.”
”What does he look like these days?”
”Pretty much the same. Slightly fatter perhaps. Same kind of hair, like it was after he cut it. Receding a tad. Dresses smartly. A bit like Mick Jones, but younger.”
”Facial hair?”
”No.”
Alan ponders for a moment, then his eyes light up slightly. I think I've got him.
”I'd love to ask him about Gloria Feathers.”
I open my hands with what I hope looks like an air of benevolence.
”All this may be possible.”
Alan grins stupidly at me for a few seconds, like a toddler who's just been promised an ice cream. Unfortunately it doesn't last.
”So where exactly do I fit in?” he frowns.
”Well,” I smile greasily, ”quite apart from wanting to share my plan and its subsequent progress with my oldest friend ... I was sort of hoping you could lend me something.”
”What?”
”I'll be really careful with it.”
His frown becomes a glare.
”Oh no.”
”Oh, come on.”
”Clive, no. You don't understand. That thing is under lock and key.”
”I know.”
”And it's falling to bits.”
”I know! I won't take it anywhere.”
”That book is valuable. Some of the ticket stubs are worth-”
My turn to scoff. ”Worth what? They're fascinating, but they're not worth worth anything.” anything.”
”That Jesus Jones ticket, man. Kilburn National, May 1990. Blur first on the bill, Ned's second. That's worth money money, man. The geezer on XFM said so.”
”Well, whatever. It's not really the ticket stubs I'm interested in. It's the other stuff.”
”Why do you need it?”
”Partly for research purposes. But ... well, put it this way, if ... sorry, when when I meet the bloke, I'm gonna look a whole lot more impressive with that on my bookshelf.” I meet the bloke, I'm gonna look a whole lot more impressive with that on my bookshelf.”
”You actually reckon you're going to get him round to your house?”
”I'm using the word 'bookshelf' figuratively.”
”Yeah, exactly-which is another way of saying my precious sc.r.a.pbook will be knocking around in your b.l.o.o.d.y rucksack for weeks on end. I tell you what, man, you set up a meeting with him, or provide me with some ... evidence that you're making headway, and you can borrow the book.”
I shake my head in disbelief.
”a.r.s.e. 'Provide me with some evidence'-for G.o.d's sake, you're beginning to talk to friends like you're conducting an audit.”
Alan shrugs, Shylock-style. ”Those are my terms.”
”Thanks, but it really would be better if I could have the book first ...”
”Perhaps, but I'm not budging on this one. Not after what happened to my Curve twelve-inches.”
”Oh, come on, some of the reviews in there are mine anyway.”
We continue in this manner for another ten minutes, after which an unsteady compromise is reached. I will be able to view the sc.r.a.pbook within the confines of Alan's house, but it is not to be removed until some contact with Webster has been made, the nature of which will be evaluated by Alan at the time. I am happy with this, up to a point. The next debate is whether my initial sc.r.a.pbook visiting time could be this very afternoon-which, after some resistance, I win.
We jump into Alan's Mini and head to Crouch End. He goes a really stupid route via Highbury Corner so it takes ages and I have to endure most of the Kooks alb.u.m, but the en route banter suggests he is a little more upbeat about my proposed project than he originally let on. Finally he swings the little car into a spot outside his palatial residence.
I cannot possibly overstress how different Alan and Liz's place is to the sort of dwellings that Polly and I end up grumblingly sharing. Potter Heights, as only I call it, is a four-storey town house entirely owned and occupied by the Potter family and their Bulgarian nanny, who has her own flat on the top floor. It's clean and immaculately decorated; carpet in rooms that require it, real varnished wooden floors in those that don't. It's always warm. Alan and Liz each have an office on the first floor. The lounge c.u.m c.u.m dining room, which can be one or two separate rooms depending on what mood you're in, is bigger than our entire flat. The bas.e.m.e.nt dining room, which can be one or two separate rooms depending on what mood you're in, is bigger than our entire flat. The bas.e.m.e.nt is is the kitchen, where the fridge groans with produce from posh local delis and organic-mongers. There are five loos. It's the sort of house even Alan's parents describe as large. All of this from a bloke who only five years ago was living on 25p packets of noodles, sneaking cans of lager into the pub and buying alb.u.ms on ca.s.sette in their first week of release. the kitchen, where the fridge groans with produce from posh local delis and organic-mongers. There are five loos. It's the sort of house even Alan's parents describe as large. All of this from a bloke who only five years ago was living on 25p packets of noodles, sneaking cans of lager into the pub and buying alb.u.ms on ca.s.sette in their first week of release.
We go inside and, emphasising that this is strictly a business mission rather than a social call, Alan leads me straight up to his office.
”Coffee?”