Part 24 (1/2)
”Yeah, I s'pose,” I grumble. ”I was never into football, so they were like my surrogate football team.”
”So, are you gonna reply to him?”
”I dunno yet. There was something else he wrote, a weird bit about thanking me for all I'd done.”
”For looking at his writing?”
”No,” I frown. ”This was written to Clive, not the other guy.”
”But you are are the other guy.” the other guy.”
”Yeah, but this was ... different. I can't quite describe it, but it was blatantly written to Clive, and not 'Alan.'”
”And did did you ever do anything for him?” you ever do anything for him?”
”Well ... not really. Apart from writing a load of stuff in my fanzine, back when he was freaking out, and some letters in Melody Maker Melody Maker and so on. Y'know, supporting him. Telling everyone to leave him alone. Nothing he'd have known about, though.” and so on. Y'know, supporting him. Telling everyone to leave him alone. Nothing he'd have known about, though.”
Billy giggles and shakes his head.
”Clive, I don't mean to belittle you, man ... but I do feel kind of sorry for you. Christ, I mean ... you're such a nice bloke, you always were, but you do end up sticking your neck out for people who probably don't deserve it. Isn't it time you put yourself first?”
”Well, I kind of am, really.”
”How so?”
So I spin him my usual yarn about Webster being forgotten, and how vindication for him would be equal vindication for me. I try Billy with my theory that all those druggie northern bands continue to bask in reverence while all the southern ”booze” bands-particularly my beloved Magpies-are quietly swept under the carpet, and how I want to redress the balance. Billy waves all this away.
”What can I say? Sorry, Clive. Thieving Magpies were boring boring. Everyone knows that. Lance Webster's one of the most boring men to sell a million records.”
”He's not!” I argue hopelessly. ”He's got mystery. Who else had such a public fall from grace that's never been explained?”
”Where's the mystery in that? He was just p.i.s.sed off his career was going down the pan.”
”But that's the point,” I insist. ”It wasn't. Not yet.”
”Well, I dunno. He always seemed pretty dull to me.”
”He wasn't dull in interviews,” I point out.
”Who remembers interviews? It's all words words. People only remember actions-visual stuff.”
”I don't agree.”
”Yeah, well ... no offence, Clive, but you're not the sort of person that counts. Yes, you love Lance Webster's witticisms, Carter's puns, but G.o.d, how far down the food chain d'you think that s.h.i.+t goes? Do you know why I don't get too involved in movie adaptations of my stuff? Because I can't bear how much they have to cut out out. So I just leave 'em to it. At the end of the day, audiences don't wanna think. People like songs for the choruses and catchphrases. They like films for a cracking good story with some laughs, a few bangs and crashes and a bonking scene. They like interviews for quick sound bites, and rudeness. Not intelligence.”
”What about Morrissey?”
”Morrissey was in The Smiths,” he shrugs, indicating no further explanation is necessary.
Something about Billy's directness is both appalling and refres.h.i.+ng. I expect I'll come away from this experience feeling rather like I did the few times I've ever been to a gym: that I enjoyed little of it, but it was precisely what I needed.
”You hate Liam and Noel for being mouthy, arrogant a.s.sholes,” he continues, ”but they're loved by a billion people for precisely the same reason. Yes, Ian Brown says f.u.c.king h.o.m.ophobic stuff in interviews and gets away with it, gets arrested for plane rage, and people still love him. But what do you want? Everyone loves a bad guy. I know it's not fair. You You know it's not fair. But f.u.c.k it, that's life.” know it's not fair. But f.u.c.k it, that's life.”
He takes a fortifying swig of his b.l.o.o.d.y Mary.
”But don't think you're the only one. I f.u.c.king love heaps of stuff-music, comics, films-which doesn't get anywhere near near the sort of recognition it deserves, even from the 'alternative mainstream.' But I ain't crying. You talk as though you're the only person who still likes Thieving Magpies, or any of those bands. That's bulls.h.i.+t! I'll give you two scenarios, right? One: an alternative radio station, tomorrow lunchtime, plays 'Wonderwall.' Or 'I Wanna Be Adored.' Or, I dunno, that f.u.c.king Verve song. What happens? Nothing. Scenario two: the same station plays 'Look Who's Laughing.' Or 'Sheriff Fat-man.' Or 'The Size of a Cow.' What happens? Twenty, thirty people phone up and say, 'Oh, that song's so amazing, haven't heard it in years, reminds me of going to the f.u.c.king student bar' or whatever. They're the sort of recognition it deserves, even from the 'alternative mainstream.' But I ain't crying. You talk as though you're the only person who still likes Thieving Magpies, or any of those bands. That's bulls.h.i.+t! I'll give you two scenarios, right? One: an alternative radio station, tomorrow lunchtime, plays 'Wonderwall.' Or 'I Wanna Be Adored.' Or, I dunno, that f.u.c.king Verve song. What happens? Nothing. Scenario two: the same station plays 'Look Who's Laughing.' Or 'Sheriff Fat-man.' Or 'The Size of a Cow.' What happens? Twenty, thirty people phone up and say, 'Oh, that song's so amazing, haven't heard it in years, reminds me of going to the f.u.c.king student bar' or whatever. They're loved loved, man. Rather than just part of the f.u.c.king wallpaper. And in the States? Let me tell you. If Thieving Magpies re-formed tomorrow-G.o.d forbid, but let's just say-where would they play? Madison Square Garden.”
”No ...”
”Madison f.u.c.king Square Garden! Guaran-teed. People in the States, and in Europe, they remember remember. But I'm telling you, the British press sends out a warped f.u.c.king viewpoint on culture, man. What's big and what isn't. Particularly for music. Dunno why. And when I say Britain, I really mean England, and perhaps Wales. Scotland and Ireland, they're f.u.c.king on the continent by comparison. You've no idea. England's a weirdhole. Thank f.u.c.k I left.”
I remember the Irish girls who accosted Lance outside the art gallery. G.o.ddammit, the man might be right.
”But Clive ... this is all just the gravy. Why you're sitting here still thinking about all this s.h.i.+t is beyond me. You're thirty-three years old, boy. The only way you you can get ahead in your life is to forget all that s.h.i.+t, and get on with what can get ahead in your life is to forget all that s.h.i.+t, and get on with what you you want to do. You want to meet this guy? You want to finally get that story out of him? You've f.u.c.king got to want to do. You want to meet this guy? You want to finally get that story out of him? You've f.u.c.king got to go go for it. You email him back, for it. You email him back, demand demand he tells you what you want to hear. Make sure you lay it on really thick, all the guilt tactics, tell him you stuck your neck out for him, back in the day, tell him he he tells you what you want to hear. Make sure you lay it on really thick, all the guilt tactics, tell him you stuck your neck out for him, back in the day, tell him he owes owes you, then you, then drag drag those f.u.c.king sordid details out, whatever the h.e.l.l they are ... and then you those f.u.c.king sordid details out, whatever the h.e.l.l they are ... and then you move... the... f.u.c.k... on! move... the... f.u.c.k... on! You want to write for somebody? Come to New York, I'll hook you up. You want to sit around on your a.r.s.e dreaming of 1990? Stay right here.” You want to write for somebody? Come to New York, I'll hook you up. You want to sit around on your a.r.s.e dreaming of 1990? Stay right here.”
Stay right here.
We stay right there for another hour, blethering about this and that, returning to our main subject every so often. We put away a delicious brunch, have a few more drinks, then the natural time to go approaches and Billy calls for the bill. I'm not quite sure why, but I'm a little taken aback when it arrives and, having captained the entire experience-drinks, conversation and meal, right down to ordering my own food for me (”I know the best stuff they have here, dude”)-Billy announces, ”So we'll split it, yeah? It's eighty-two quid, so that's forty-one each, plus tip is forty-five ... forty-five pounds and ten pence each.”
”Er ... sorry,” I splutter. ”I haven't ... um, I've only brought twenty along with me ...”
”Oh,” he frowns. ”d.a.m.n. Well, there's a cash machine up the street.”
”Ah, right,” I nod, and put my jacket on. ”Well, I'll be back in five minutes, then.”
”Yeah,” he grunts, already starting to text somebody.
Billy waits until I'm almost through the terrace door, then howls with laughter.
”Ha ha haaa haaa!! You goon! goon! Of Of course course I'm paying for the whole thing!” I'm paying for the whole thing!”
”Wha ... uh?”
”This isn't even a proper bill,” he continues, scrunching it up. ”I don't get get bills here, man! I bills here, man! I own own half the b.l.o.o.d.y club. Ha ha half the b.l.o.o.d.y club. Ha ha haa! haa!! Your face was so cla.s.sic!” cla.s.sic!”
”Okay,” I smile, dripping with embarra.s.sment. ”You got me.”
Suddenly Billy's smile vanishes, he reaches out and shakes my hand with startling firmness.
”Now that that was for Spike f.u.c.king Island.” was for Spike f.u.c.king Island.”
Fair enough.
And so I leave the cosseted world of the extremely successful and mooch off into the warm, sleepy Soho Sunday afternoon. As usual at these junctures, the temptation to install myself at a nearby pub, phone a friend and let the rest of the day take its long, boozy course, is compelling. But Billy's pro active words are ringing loudly in my ears and I'm driven by some invisible energy back up to Oxford Street and straight onto the bus. By the time we hit King's Cross I've mentally composed three-quarters of my missive to Webster, and even consider jumping off somewhere to get it done in an Internet cafe before I forget. But I stay on, repeating ”You owe owe me” like a mantra as we lurch up the Ess.e.x Road. me” like a mantra as we lurch up the Ess.e.x Road.
Once at the flat, I storm through the kitchen (where Polly is drinking Pimms, wearing a bikini and midway through a jigsaw), settle myself down and begin to write what feels like the email of my life. And oh, it's a good one. It's beautifully written, sincere but not too cheesy, impa.s.sioned but steering clear of the stalkerish vernacular which doubtless screwed up my previous effort, well-argued, well-intentioned (I only say ”you owe me” once, and make plenty of references to it being for his own good), there are even a few laughs (I think) and, crucially-for this is a bad habit of mine-not too long. I finish it, step outside for some air, come back and edit thoroughly, remembering to add appropriate heartfelt apologies for having misled and repeatedly lied to him. It takes me the better part of four hours, no further alcohol touches my lips (but our kettle works overtime), and then, just when I'm scanning one last time before guiding my mouse to the send b.u.t.ton, my computer dies.