Part 22 (1/2)

From that moment, ”madness” also took hold of me. A receptionist had already asked me what my business was but I was too preoccupied to answer, so a fifth security guard, clearly given the marginally less exciting job of keeping the building free from further undesirables, now approached to usher me back outside.

”Lance!” I screamed suddenly. ”Lance! Get a hold of yourself! You don't need need to do this!” to do this!”

”Right,” snapped the guard, grabbing my forearm. ”Out! Now!” Now!”

”It's okay okay, Lance! You've done enough! Thousands of people still love you! We We understand!” understand!”

”Get out!” out!” continued the guard, increasing his grip to Chinese-burn level and yanking me towards the door. ”Or I'll throw you out!” continued the guard, increasing his grip to Chinese-burn level and yanking me towards the door. ”Or I'll throw you out!”

My arm hurt so much that I obeyed and stepped back; but I continued to shout.

”Don't listen to those c.o.c.ks! It'll come around-it'll all come around! You don't need to fight anymore!”

And with that I was back out on the pavement, facing the astonished crowd. After a few seconds they started to sn.i.g.g.e.r so I moved a little way down the street.

”t.w.a.t,” I heard one of them say as a distant police siren started to become louder.

The next few minutes I only hazily recall. I know a police van must have arrived, out of which some policemen must have emerged, but only because they came out of the building some minutes later with a handcuffed Webster. I remember him looking relatively calm and resigned: a far cry from the ball of wrath that raged in August 1995. He no longer had his sign (I later saw one of the beery k.n.o.bs carrying it off as a souvenir). The police were firm but gentle, perhaps because he looked like a monk-and few people would be rough with a monk. The industry representatives were amused, but didn't seem to jeer or shout. No-the most animated, wild and enraged person on the scene, by a country mile, was me.

I wept. I howled. I shouted all manner of terrible things (”Why are you c.u.n.ts doing doing this? He's done nothing this? He's done nothing wrong! wrong!”), I almost took a running kick at the side of the police van but stopped myself, thankfully. Once Webster was inside, most of my monologue was directed at him: ”We won't forget you”-”You've done so much”-probably, I fear, ”We love you”-and other desperate garbage. You'd think he was being put away for twenty-five years on a false murder charge, I was making such a b.l.o.o.d.y fuss. My final utterance I remember being ”Farewell, zeitgeist man,” to which a suddenly teacherlike Bob Grant turned and said, ”Oh, for G.o.d's sake, will you be quiet.” quiet.”

By the end of that day, three things had happened: 1. George Michael had been arrested in a Los Angeles public toilet for a supposedly lewd act with an undercover policeman, thus s.n.a.t.c.hing every inch of entertainment-related news s.p.a.ce available. To the best of my knowledge, the Webster incident didn't make it into the national press; it barely even made it into the music press.

2. Lance Webster was released from Marylebone Police Station without charges, but with an instruction to seek psychiatric help. Whether he did or not is unknown. He never signed the rumoured record deal and, apart from a small solo gig in Bergen, Norway, the following year, effectively retired from the music business.

3. I was summarily sacked from Craze Craze magazine. In addition to my leaving crucial items of work undone for two hours on the week of an issue deadline, eyewitnesses had recounted my embarra.s.sing hysterics to Stuart Harris, who had finally been convinced by Gloster that I was a nonstarter. In any case, the beleaguered magazine. In addition to my leaving crucial items of work undone for two hours on the week of an issue deadline, eyewitnesses had recounted my embarra.s.sing hysterics to Stuart Harris, who had finally been convinced by Gloster that I was a nonstarter. In any case, the beleaguered Craze Craze folded within months. folded within months.

And why, I hear you desperately wail, am I telling you all this?

Well.

Partly because it's now just under a month since the Artist Formerly Known as Lance disappeared from both the pub and my life-after discovering that nice, boring, timid and interest-free ”Alan Potter” was actually nasty, opinionated, threatening and borderline-alcoholic Clive Beresford-and I've got f.u.c.k all else to write about.

But mainly because I'm plundering my memory banks, racking my brains and scouring the very bottom of my soul with a Brillo pad, trying to work out why the h.e.l.l h.e.l.l he would choose to send me this: he would choose to send me this:

From: GEOFF WEBSTER ([email protected]) GEOFF WEBSTER ([email protected]) Sent: 1 June 2007 07:23:46 1 June 2007 07:23:46 To: [email protected] Subject: (no subject) (no subject)

Dear Clive Dear CliveI've spent a f.u.c.kload of time and money trying to escape the person I was ten years ago, and I've no desire to meet him or be him again. I don't like being lied to, either. But I suppose I never got around to thanking you for all you did, so here I am. Also, now the past has been dug up, I might need your help sometime burying it again. Be ready.Geoff This arrived two days ago. Since then I've done very little but stare at it and wonder what the h.e.l.l he could possibly be on about. I haven't shown anyone. Even Alan. Actually make that particularly particularly Alan. The tone of deathly seriousness makes me feel very peculiar every time I look at it, like someone's thrown a handful of rice down the back of my T-s.h.i.+rt. Yesterday the reason why occurred to me: it's like Lance himself is speaking to me, Clive, for the very first time. Today I realised it's not Alan. The tone of deathly seriousness makes me feel very peculiar every time I look at it, like someone's thrown a handful of rice down the back of my T-s.h.i.+rt. Yesterday the reason why occurred to me: it's like Lance himself is speaking to me, Clive, for the very first time. Today I realised it's not like like at all. It at all. It is is.

Other things have changed since Webster's departure: some good, some bad, some significant, some irrelevant. It's become summer (good). I've started a temporary job of quite breathtaking ba.n.a.lity (bad), but the pay is decent (good), so there is a tiny shaft of light at the end of the overdraft tunnel. Alan, awkward b.a.s.t.a.r.d that he is, has suddenly decided to take an avid interest in the whole Webster thing, ringing me up on a twice-daily basis with a new theory (”You know what, man, I reckon he knew knew it was you all along and was just winding you up”), or to ask if there've been any ”updates.” The only update I know of is that Webster's flat has been put on the market. Occasionally I see an estate agent taking people in there. Last weekend I saw the smaller of the two roadies (was it Malcolm?) coming down the outside steps with a large cardboard box; he glared at me, so I glared back. No sign of Webster himself. it was you all along and was just winding you up”), or to ask if there've been any ”updates.” The only update I know of is that Webster's flat has been put on the market. Occasionally I see an estate agent taking people in there. Last weekend I saw the smaller of the two roadies (was it Malcolm?) coming down the outside steps with a large cardboard box; he glared at me, so I glared back. No sign of Webster himself.

Until the arrival of Webster's email, the most significant thing that's happened-although not directly connected to the Webster saga-is that Billy Flus.h.i.+ng has been in touch again. He sent me a breezy text message earlier this week saying he was in town, and would I like to go for ”brunch on Sunday”? Picturing a sunny, pleasantly busy pub, b.l.o.o.d.y Marys, a stout fry-up and some fit waitresses, I immediately replied in the affirmative; but then was a little perturbed to receive a call from his PA on Friday giving me details of a members' club in Soho where the dress code is ”smart casual” (ye G.o.ds). So now I am in my work trousers, black trainers, an acceptable-looking pink s.h.i.+rt I found in a charity shop yesterday, and a blue jacket I'd forgotten I owned. I look pretty absurd and I've got the faintest notion that Billy is perhaps slyly punis.h.i.+ng me for being such a d.i.c.k at school. You know about most of this. You know about me ”ditching the dweeb,” letting Alan steal Billy's role both as my friend and as a.s.sistant editor of the Peanut Peanut. You do not yet know about Spike Island.

Perhaps it's time you did.

SUGGESTED LISTENING: The Stone Roses, The Stone Roses The Stone Roses (Silvertone, 1989) (Silvertone, 1989) Why you're sitting here still thinking about all this s.h.i.+t is beyond me Well, for a start, I've sort of misled you about something. Two things, actually. One is that the teenage Alan and I didn't take any drugs. The second is that we didn't go a bundle on any of the Manchester bands. Both these things are slightly untrue. Not that I am suddenly revealing we spent all the early nineties off our t.i.ts, wearing flares and fis.h.i.+ng hats, listening to Northside and informing all and sundry we were ”havin' it”-but we did indulge in the occasional smoke and, increasingly, as the nineties wore on, pill. It all started at Spike Island.

Not at the gig, you understand. On the way home.

Having spent an underwhelming New Year's Eve in the local pub vainly trying to convince some girls that our tonsils would be worth investigating, we spent the first few hours of 1990 stretched out in Alan's parents' copious lounge, where-having initially dismissed it as drippy, tuneless mush-we finally ”got” The Stone Roses The Stone Roses.

”This stuff isn't so bad, man.”

”Yeah,” I replied. ”You just have to chill out to it.”

We listened on, getting appropriately excited when everything goes doolally at the end of ”Resurrection,” then flipped over the disc and started again.

”What do you think about drugs?” Alan mused, munching a cream cracker.

”Not sure, really. Smoking doesn't really appeal to me. I physically can't do it.”

”Takes practice, man. But I was really thinking about the more chemical stuff. Speed ... trips and so on. Ecstasy. I wouldn't mind trying it sometime.”

”Yeah, maybe,” I replied. ”It'd have to be the right occasion, I think.”

The right occasion presented itself when a month or so later The Stone Roses announced plans for their Spike Island gig. We ordered our tickets and spent the spring wondering how on earth we were going to get there. Despite the trouble we had getting back from The Heart Throbs gig in Harlow that April, we decided our budgets were too meagre for anything other than hitching. Alan's dad gave us a lift to junction five of the M1 (the ridiculous sight of two indie oiks getting out of a spotless top-of-the-range Mercedes, then holding up a cardboard sign saying YOUNG AND SKINT, IN SEARCH OF PARADISE-BUT SPIKE ISLAND, CHEs.h.i.+RE, WILL DO MUST YOUNG AND SKINT, IN SEARCH OF PARADISE-BUT SPIKE ISLAND, CHEs.h.i.+RE, WILL DO MUST have been a treat to anyone driving north at that moment). And there we waited, at eight o'clock on a thankfully dry May morning ... for around two hours. At last an unmarked lorry stopped half a mile up the road and stuck its hazards on. have been a treat to anyone driving north at that moment). And there we waited, at eight o'clock on a thankfully dry May morning ... for around two hours. At last an unmarked lorry stopped half a mile up the road and stuck its hazards on.

”Yer want Runcorn?” the driver yelled, once we'd reached earshot.

”Yeah, thereabouts!” I shouted back.

”Better check he means Runcorn, Ches.h.i.+re, and not Runcorn, f.u.c.king Scotland,” Alan grumbled as we trotted the final few yards.

I opened the pa.s.senger door and smiled uneasily at our driver. He was a short, stocky bloke in his fifties with grey hair and a red beard. He frowned at me and spoke in a breathless, prematurely irritated way.

”Yer getting in or not?”

”Er, yes, thanks, can I just check ... you do mean Runcorn, Ches.h.i.+re?”

”Yer know another one?”

”Ah, no. Thank you.”

It took us half an hour to fully realise he was drunk. Initially we just thought his truck was a bit dodgy-something about the wheel balance that kept sending us veering into the adjacent lanes-but soon the truck's cab became sickly with booze fumes and he started taking large, obvious swigs from a hip flask. Finally he started to nod off. Alan and I exchanged worried glances, silently wondering if we'd live to see Birmingham, but just as we were pa.s.sing Northampton a miracle occurred.

”I need a slash,” the driver spat, steering his lorry across two lanes to join the service station's slip road. No indicators were involved in this action.

”Aw, shut the f.u.c.k up!” he bawled at the resulting fanfare of horns.

He parked in the services' lorry zone and wordlessly dismounted. We waited until he'd rounded the corner, then scarpered across the picnic area into some bushes.

”f.u.c.k,” I spluttered. ”What a total nutter.”

”I knew it,” Alan stated, in his usual worldly tone. ”As soon as he stopped so far up the motorway, I knew it was a bad idea.”

”Yeah, sure,” I nodded sarcastically.