The Alternative Hero

SUGGESTED LISTENING: Jesus Jones, Liquidizer (Food, 1989)

You can tell us to
f*ck off if you like

Alan is already halfway through his first pint and tenner on the fruit machine by the time I appear. He’s always been punctual. I find it quite annoying. I used to bitch to others that it was because he had nothing else to do. Now I realise he’s just efficient. Which is probably why he is the owner of a successful business and is loaded, and why I am not.
“Hello, mate,” I begin.
“Hi.”
Can’t talk to him now, he’s three nudges away from victory. I get a drink instead.
“Shit,” he observes, petulantly slapping the side of the machine as I return. We sit down, Alan switches off his phone. “All right then, what’s this amazing piece of news?”
I take a deep breath.
“Lance Webster is living in a house at the end of my road.”
“Oh, f*cking hell.”
This is not the reaction I hoped for. But I remain hopeful.
“Is that a good ‘f*cking hell’?”
“No, it isn’t. Are you serious? Is that really what you have to tell me?”
“Yes!”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Clive. I thought you were gonna tell me you’re getting back together with—”
“And you really think that would be good news?”
“Well, I’d think so.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be,” I assure him. “Can we get back to my original subject?”
He exhales theatrically. “Lance Webster.”
“I saw him yesterday picking some stuff up from the dry cleaner’s. Then I followed him home.”
“You sad bastard.”
“He lives at number 3 on my road. Possibly 3A.”
“How d’you know he actually lives there?”
“He must do. Unless he’s started a dry-cleaning delivery service.”
Alan smirks. “It might really have come to that.”
“I’m going to interview him.”
“How?”
“Not sure yet.”
“I didn’t think he did that anymore.”
“That’s ’cos people have approached him the wrong way,” I proclaim. “I’m going to do it differently. Informally. He might not even know he’s being interviewed.”
“So what, you’re going to chat him up in a bar or something?”
“Maybe. Something like that.”
“Why do you want to interview him?”
I take a large gulp of beer.
“Because I think it’s time for the definitive story.”
“Of the Magpies?”
“Yeah, partly. But the whole scene as well. And I want to find out what really happened to him that night.”
Alan snorts. “No one knows what happened to him that night. I doubt even he knows what happened to him that night.”
“Well, I’m going to find out.”
“Right.” He shrugs and looks around the pub. At first I think he is impressed by my resolve, then I realise he’s probably heard me make these grand statements of intent before. “Well, good luck,” he offers.
“You could be a bit more enthusiastic. If I’d told you this ten years ago you’d be camping outside his house.”
“Let’s not have that argument again, Clive.”
He’s referring to a frightful drunken row we had a year or so ago when I accused him of becoming a total sell-out to consumerist society, with all attendant charges concerning lost youth, forgotten dreams, rampant global capitalism, blah blah. Not entirely unfounded, but not a conversation I particularly want to have again either.
“There must be a flicker of interest in there somewhere,” I insist.
Alan sighs. “The guy’s dead, man. I mean, the Lance Webster I used to know, we used to know. He’s old news. He’s the past. And … well, if I really think about it, I’m probably still a bit pissed off with him.”
“All the more reason to try and speak to him.”
Alan makes that weird noise he always makes when he’s a bit sceptical, sort of a cross between a scoff and a belch.
“I’m not really sure how far you’ll get.”
“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 anything.”
“That Jesus Jones ticket, man. Kilburn National, May 1990. Blur first on the bill, Ned’s second. That’s worth 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 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 scrapbook will be knocking around in your bloody 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.
“Arse. ‘Provide me with some evidence’—for God’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 scrapbook 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 scrapbook 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 album, 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 cum dining room, which can be one or two separate rooms depending on what mood you’re in, is bigger than our entire flat. The basement 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 albums on cassette 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?”
I can’t help giggling.
“Yeah. And a blueberry muffin.”
Alan laughlessly pads over to the corner of the room where he unlocks a large, battered and sticker-covered record box (some things thankfully never change) from which, with the greatest of care, he extracts the bulging, spiral-bound A5 notebook and solemnly places it on his desk in front of me. He looks at his watch and almost, I am convinced, says something like “You’ve got fifteen minutes,” but clearly thinks better of it and departs for the kitchen. Strange bastard.
But never mind all that. For the item now in my hot little hands makes everything worth it. Alan’s greatest labour of love (apart from his daughter, perhaps). A chronological record of every gig he attended between 1988 and 1995. A total of 284 separate events: where they were, who he was with, a list (where possible) of what songs were played, the ticket stubs, press cuttings, sometimes his own photos, even details of how he got home—all brought to the thin sheets in glorious Anal-Alancolor. It’s been almost half a decade since I held this masterpiece of indie-pop accountancy, so this afternoon’s rifling session is particularly satisfying. Aside from the first few pages (when I was probably sitting at home memorising French irregular verbs), I can open the book anywhere to be instantly assailed by the most vivid of memories: PJ Harvey at the White Horse in Hampstead, The House of Love at Cambridge Corn Exchange, EMF supporting Carter USM at ULU (“They were great, some cocks tried to attack the singer, though … Neil Tennant showed up”), Paris Angels at Manchester Hacienda (“I have seen the Paris Angels and I believe”), Power of Dreams at Camden Palace (“They’re amazing, why aren’t they massive?”), Loop at Our Price in Reading (“Without question the best thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life”), Madonna at Wembley Stadium (“Me and Clive were the only people wearing Ned’s Atomic Dustbin T-shirts in the whole place, which kind of made it worthwhile”), Bj?rk at Wembley Stadium, supporting U2 (“She was so good we decided to leave straight afterwards”), Nine Inch Nails at Wembley Stadium supporting Guns N’ Roses (“They were so good we decided to stay for Guns N Roses”), Jane’s Addiction supporting The Wonder Stuff at Brixton Academy (“I thought they were shit, Clive thought they were amazing—big row”). And of course, looming large throughout the volume, no less than eighty-six entries concerning the Thieving Magpies.
Although not the very first band Alan saw (that honour went to—oh, the shame of it!—The Blow Monkeys), the Magpies were certainly the first group whose live appearance Alan deemed worth commemorating. The opening entry was probably made a while after the occasion itself (he actually chanced upon a supporting set of theirs while seeing, as further disgrace and hilarity would have it, Status Quo) and in fact is executed in such an uncharacteristically girly way one would almost suspect Alan’s younger sister were behind it. Spread over two pages, an early, catalogue-esque photo of each band member is glued in and framed with multicoloured felt-tip flourishes, their names written lovingly underneath, the ticket proudly displayed above, with the Quo’s name blacked out and the Magpies’ logo glued over the words “plus special guests.” And, weaving its way around the pictures and assorted bunting, Alan’s hysterical write-up—again, one suspects, written with the benefit of hindsight:
Tonight we saw the group that’s going to change my life, weren’t expecting much when they walked on but oh my God they were brilliant. The energy was mind-blowing, they started with “Scared of Being Nice” and then roared through the rest. Lance took the piss out of the crowd, telling them Francis Rossi had an accident and was going to play in a wheelchair. All the songs were well good, “You’re Still Ugly” and “Have You Stopped Talking Yet” and “Siamese Burn” and “Marlow Meltdown” (B-side of Soapbox) were all WICKED. Brill bit in “Chopped Heart” when he started singing “Pictures of Matchstick Men.” I don’t think the audience thought it was funny. But f*ck, I’m going to see them again … loads … this is the beginning of the future!!!
Indeed, how prophetic. Although, as if to prove he hadn’t quite left mainstream late-eighties hell, the second entry was a very small passage concerning a Steve Winwood concert.
I skip to the end. It’s some token of the huge part the Thieving Magpies played in this music fan’s life that his tome is bookended by accounts of their performances: the first bursting with na?ve colour, fresh, exciting discovery and a fifteen-year-old’s unjaded optimism; the last, black as f*ck and weighed down to drowning point with bitter disappointment, as the last spluttering breaths of a golden era and its crowned champion went gurgling down the alternative-rock drainpipe. Alan must have used the entire contents of a permanent marker to blacken the two-page spread, the centrepiece of which bears the succinct description “TWAT” scrawled in red across a cheery snap of the man himself. Above, meanwhile, an advert boasting the Aylesbury lineup is roughly pasted, a neat rip straight through the heart of the very same band logo so proudly boasted seven years previously, and languishing below, the entry’s sole—and the scrapbook’s final—sentence:
CONGRATULATIONS, ZEITGEIST MAN, YOU’VE DONE EXACTLY WHAT THOSE BASTARDS WANTED YOU TO DO.
Alan had angrily ripped out the book’s remaining few blank pages.
But like all intense love affairs, Alan’s with Webster and his group didn’t end as instantly as his final instalment suggested. For many months afterwards he continued to scour the pages of the music press and expectantly phone the Thieving Magpies fan club for any sign that normal service would be resuming, and their final album remained in perpetual proximity to his CD player. But, as sales of (What’s the Story) Morning Glory? went stratospheric, while Tony Blair contacted removal men for his imminent arrival at Downing Street—and bands like Rialto suddenly discovered they had a career—something definitely withered and died in Alan. I suppose it would have died eventually anyway, few people are able to sustain the same level of fanaticism for something as frivolous as a pop group once real life kicks in, but for Alan, when Lance Webster stormed off that stage in a blaze of violence the proverbial dream really was over. The very next week he went and got his hair cut.
“Eurghh,” Alan cringes, returning with the coffee. “For Christ’s sake, don’t show him that page.”
“That’s the best bit.”
“The sentimentality of youth,” he frowns, handing me a muffin. When you ask for something to eat at Alan’s, you get it. Even if you were joking.
“So I’m just trying to find,” I begin, leafing through the book, “the gig that we spoke to him at.”
“Beef, I think. New Cross Venue.”
“The Heart Throbs at the Square,” I correct him.
“He was at that gig. But it wasn’t where we spoke to him the first time. Sorry, Clive, could you be a bit more gentle with the pages?”
“Sorry.”
“It was the Beef gig. I approached him halfway through that cover they used to do.”
“‘You Sexy Thing’?”
“No, the other one. ‘These Boots …’ and so on.”
I shake my head. “I’m sure it was at The Heart Throbs.”
“Depends which conversation you’re talking about. I’ve had more than one chat with him, you know—”
“Here it is,” I interrupt, triumphantly. “The Square, Harlow, the seventh of April nineteen ninety. ‘We spoke to Lance Webster!’—in very excited prepubescent handwriting, I must say.”
“Piss off.”
“ ‘We asked him what the real lyrics were to the bridge of “Me in a Room.”’”
“Oh, that conversation,” Alan huffs, tidying some papers.
“‘Dominic drove us, but finally was a wanker.’ Ha! I remember what that’s about.”
“He was never quite as useful as we planned, was he?”
We had befriended Dominic Browne for the sole reason that he’d just been given a car by his wealthy and spoiling parents. Driving the family jeep while holidaying in Spain meant that he was ready to pass his driving test practically by the time he’d finished breakfast on his seventeenth birthday. I was still sixteen at this point; Alan, much to his annoyance and embarrassment, had already failed the test twice. Credit where it’s due, Dominic had a fairly respectable alternative track record: he’d attended both Glastonbury and Reading the previous year, he’d used his new set of wheels to follow Claytown Troupe around the country during half-term and had already, we were envious to learn, been to a Faith No More show. The items that weakened his case to be a genuine gigging companion were that he excelled at sport and academic work, drank little, insisted on wearing a rugby shirt and proper shoes to indie clubs, was generally a bit full of himself and, we suspected, wouldn’t deliberate too long about screwing you over if it made his own life easier: a hunch that was conclusively proved correct that particular evening in Harlow.
The three of us had piled into Dominic’s convertible Volkswagen Golf (a car that further downgraded his indie credentials, we considered), ploughed up the M11 and, tradition dictated, necked a few cans of Strongbow before our arrival at the Square, an externally unpromising club that had nonetheless already played host to some pivotal musical evenings for me. We were standing around watching the support band, trying to think of witty chat-up lines for some of the tie-dyed lovelies scattered around the room—when Lance Webster ambled past, followed, as was often the case, by the pile of blonde dreadlocks known to most as Gloria Feathers.
“Did you see that?” I whispered to Dominic (Alan had gone to the toilet).
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “So?”
That was the other thing about Dominic. A fan of pretty much all the other bands we liked, he thought the Magpies were “a bit too commercial.” Whether he really believed this or just said it to endow himself with a highbrow opinion, I never quite worked out.
“F*ck,” I muttered to no one in particular. “I’ve got to try and speak to him.” Cautiously I looked over to where he and Gloria stood. A third party had joined them now, perhaps The Heart Throbs’ guitarist. As usual Gloria was doing all the talking.
Alan returned from the loo and instantly noticed the new arrival.
“The f*ck’s he doing here?”
“Dunno.”
“Maybe he goes to the out-of-town ones so he doesn’t get hassled,” Alan mused.
“Funny that, I was thinking of hassling him myself,” I commented.
“Forget it, man. You’ll never get past Gloria.”
The support band finished and the DJ, perhaps thinking it would serve as a welcome to the venue, stuck on the Magpies’ “Me in a Room.” I glanced in Webster’s direction; he had rolled his eyes and buried himself deeper into the conversation. Dominic feigned disgust and went to get another Diet Coke; Alan and I, normally happy to dance anywhere, self-consciously swayed a bit and tried not to mouth the words. I couldn’t relax, knowing who was a few bodies away from me. I needed to somehow reach out to him, give him some small indication of the happy turmoil he was helping my life plunge into; but without appearing to be some kind of gibbering Super Fan. Whatever I said to him needed to have a point. A minute later the angrily sung, incomprehensible middle eight of the song kicked in and the man himself gave me my answer.
“I’m going to ask him what he’s singing here,” I declared to Alan suddenly.
“Okay,” Alan nodded, without debate.
“Can you come with me?”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. In case Gloria hits me or something.”
We paused for a moment. I felt like I was standing outside my headmaster’s office, preparing to knock.
“I’m not sure, man,” admitted Alan. “He might tell us to f*ck off.”
“Part of me doesn’t care.”
“Shall we try and have a drink first or something?”
The DJ swapped the Magpies tune for “Sensitize” by That Petrol Emotion. A small whoop went up from Webster’s corner and Gloria skipped off to dance near the stage with some others.
“Now,” I commanded.
We nudged our way past a few people until we were directly in front of him. We stood there foolishly for what seemed like ten minutes until I remembered I was meant to be doing the talking; I drew breath to speak but then heard Alan’s voice next to me.
“Er, excuse me, man. Sorry to bother you … you can tell us to f*ck off if you like …”
Webster grinned cheekily. “F*ck off, then.”
We all laughed. Phew!
“We were wondering,” I continued, taking the reins back from Alan, “what the lyrics were to that bit in ‘Me in a Room’?”
“‘Me in a Room,’” Webster repeated, narrowing his eyes at me strangely. He’s short, I thought. He’s wearing a long, brown and decidedly non-alternative suede jacket. His hair looks scruffy and knotted. But—he’s Lance Webster.
“The bridge bit,” Alan added.
“Sounds like you’re singing ‘the system eyes all grind around the f*ck,’” I pointed out, laughing nervously.
“That’s probably because I am singing that,” he smiled. “I think it began life as something else, perhaps ‘I sit, I stand, I sleep, I drink, I f*ck,’ but we recorded it one night when I got pissed out of my head on Black Russians and had to keep doing it over and over … the more pissed I got the more I changed it, until it just became that. I can’t believe it, you bastards have picked my one nonsensical lyric!”
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“We never play it live anyway,” Webster sneered. “Shit song.”
“No, it’s great,” Alan and I chanted in unison.
“All right,” Webster laughed, “you really can f*ck off now.”
Class dismissed.
“Nice one,” stammered Alan, turning to go.
“See you at Rivermead,” I said stupidly, and followed.
We returned to where a smirking Dominic stood, clearly delighted at how short the exchange had been.
“So, what did he have to say?”
“What a geezer,” Alan began.
“Top bloke,” I added.
“Yes, but what did he actually say? For God’s sake, Beresford, your bloody hands are shaking.”
He was right. My adrenaline rush had reached its peak, coupled with the sweet satisfaction at having actually pulled off a Nice Little Chat with my hero. Just like three mates, we’d been, shooting the breeze in a bar before watching a great band. I was one of them. Despite the fact he’d essentially told us to f*ck off twice in the space of one conversation.
“Oh, we were just talking about his lyrics, you know …”
“Which lyrics?”
“The guy’s so f*cking creative, man,” Alan explained. “He was telling us how he wrote the song as one thing, then—”
“… decided on the spur of the moment he wanted to do something different.”
“He’s indecisive, you mean.”
This from Dominic triggered two glares of unbridled outrage.
“Oh!” I coughed, unable to phrase my indignation.
“He’s an artist,” managed Alan. “It’s improvisation.”
“Whatever. Did you ask if he’d do an interview for Peanuts?”
“It’s called Vorsprung Durch Peanut, Browne,” I spat. “Or the Peanut, if you must shorten it. And no, I didn’t. That wasn’t the point.”
“Like he’d have said yes anyway.”
“He does do fanzine interviews actually. Give us a sip of your Coke, will you.”
“No. Why don’t you ask Lance Webster for a sip of his snakebite?”
“Like a Daydream” by Ride came jangling out of the speakers, to increased frugging from the room’s swelling crowd.
“Ahh,” sighed Dominic. “Now we’re talking about artists. This guy. Lance Webster’s a f*cking ironmonger by comparison.”
“Bunch of wimps, man,” Alan summarised.
“Mark Gardener’s just a pinup boy,” I elaborated. “He does f*ck all. The guitarist’s the main one. And anyway, they’re shit live.”
Neither of us really meant all this. We’d thoroughly enjoyed seeing Ride at ULU a few months back, but when it came to defending the Magpies we had ears and eyes for no one else.
Dominic sipped his drink and shook his head sadly.
“You two. You just won’t stop living in your little dreamworld of Magpies and Atomic Dustmen and bloody Wendy James. [Alan had a particular weakness for Transvision Vamp, something I didn’t completely share.] Aren’t you ever interested in something more mature?”
“Mature!” Alan barked. “What’s so bloody mature about The Darling Buds?”
“They’re exquisite. As are Soho, who you’re also unable to appreciate.”
“Pile of shit, man. And what was that wank you were listening to the other day, the dance stuff?”
“‘What Time Is Love?,’ KLF,” responded Dominic confidently. “It’s gonna be huge.”
“Well, I don’t like it, man. And The Shamen. It’s all a load of toss. And that f*cking Gary Clail bullshit. If I wanted to listen to dance music I’d hang out with Jamie Eisner.”
Dominic put his drink down and squared up to Alan.
“You just hate stuff that doesn’t fit into your neat little boxes, don’t you?”
“No, I—”
“It’s okay, Alan, I understand. I realise it takes a while for your brain to allow all this horrible new stuff past your little elitist alternative checkpoint. It was exactly the same when I introduced you to Jesus Jones—”
“That’s utter bullshit, I discovered them—”
“Don’t worry, Alan. I don’t mind. But for the moment, if you don’t like what I play in my car, don’t f*cking get into it.”
Thankfully The Heart Throbs took the stage at this point, because I thought it was getting a bit out of hand. Dominic wandered off to another part of the room, as he sometimes did, and after Alan calmed down we pushed forward, as we always did. There’s nothing quite like a slice of blissful, slightly dreamy guitar pop to take the edge off, and soon we were back where we started: watching a top gig, having just passed the time of day with our favourite musician. Only once did a nag of doubt resurface in my mind.
“You don’t think he’s gonna f*ck off without us, do you?”
“Nah, man,” Alan replied. “I’ve had worse arguments with him before. I stole that bird off him at the See See Rider gig and he still gave me a lift home.”
Adequately reassured, I allowed myself to drift back, as the band swept into their finest tune, “Dreamtime.” One of those orgasm-points in gigdom followed, when everyone and everything seem to be as one: the Carlotti sisters’ harmonies, the guitars, the lights, the colourful, dancing crowd—all melted together, as I looked over to see (I mean, could life possibly get any better?) Lance Webster, looking pretty enrapt himself as he gently bopped next to the rather more animated Gloria Feathers. I felt fairly certain there were few places closer to the centre of the alternative-rock universe than where I was standing at that moment. I didn’t even wince with envy a little later when I caught sight of Dominic, who’d somehow got talking to a pretty girl in a Bomb Disneyland T-shirt.
A girl who later received a lift from Dominic in his convertible Volkswagen Golf; unaccompanied, I hardly need add, by Alan and me.
“Cock!” yelled Alan for probably the fourth time, as we sprinted down the dark street towards the station. “I’m gonna f*cking crucify him on Monday.”
My luminous DM laces were flying everywhere as we pelted round the corner in time to see the 23:59 gently moving off in the direction of London.
“No!!”
We stood there hopelessly for a minute or so, trying to get our breath back. A recent regime of sitting in the park necking cider and vodka had done its work on our teenage bodies and we were now almost comically unfit.
“What an unbelievable arsehole,” Alan finally summarised. “When the hell did he leave?”
“No idea,” I responded, miserably doing my laces up.
“He was still there after they came offstage?”
“Yeah, he was there for ages, talking to that girl’s mates. I looked over at him while ‘Fatman’ was playing.”
“They played ‘Sheriff Fatman’?”
“No, ‘Fatman’ by Eat.”
Alan blew his nose loudly, turned and started walking slowly away. “Of all the f*cking gigs to do this, man.”
“You sure that was the last train?”
Alan didn’t bother to answer this, but simply carried on up the street.
“Where do you think the motorway is?”
A bloody long way away, was the answer. We trudged along the dual carriageway, halfheartedly sticking our thumbs out, the sickly yellow streetlights the only reminder we were anywhere near civilisation, singing various songs to keep us going (“How was it for you, how was it for you?”… “I didn’t like you very much when I met you, and now I like you even less” … “You’re not the sort that I like helping out … look who’s laughing now,” etc.). My DM laces were perpetually giving me gip.
“You should get longer ones, man. Tie ’em round the top of the boot, like I do.”
I grunted in response. The inspiration for my outfit (black jeans, Ned’s Atomic Dustbin T-shirt, unbuttoned purple shirt worn as a jacket) was so far exclusively Alan, but there were certain things I was determined to avoid copying in the hope of remaining just slightly individual.
“Nice bird,” he volunteered.
“Uh?” I replied, looking around pathetically for any specimens of feathered wildlife. Alan giggled.
“Knob-end. I was talking about the blonde before.”
“Oh, right. Yeah.”
Alan and I had been pushing our precarious luck before we left the Square by attempting to join the Webster circle again, which had expanded to include three of the four Heart Throbs, a pair from the support band, indie DJ Gary Crowley, the ubiquitous Gloria Feathers and the aforementioned blonde girl, who was near the edge of the group and seemed the most likely to give us the time of day. But the stupid thing back in those days was that we rarely had a drink in our hands, either due to diminished funds or over-scrupulous bar staff (I’ve a feeling it was both on this occasion) so we always looked more hanging-around than hanging-out.
“I’m sure she was someone, man.”
“Someone?”
“The blonde.”
We were distracted briefly by the sound of approaching dance music. A throbbing Transit van roared past us, ignored our outstretched thumbs and hurled a half-full can of cider in our direction.
“Tit!” Alan shouted after the Transit.
“There’s some left,” I exclaimed, bending to pick the can up.
“Don’t be a pleb, man.”
I shrugged. I’d have done worse if I’d been on my own.
“Anyway, I was saying. She’s a singer or something, I’m sure of it.”
Alan would later claim to identify her as Sarah Cracknell, soon to be of Saint Etienne—although God knows how he arrived at that conclusion. He didn’t have a chance to consider it for much longer back then, for soon the cider-flinging van was speeding back down the wrong side of the deserted dual carriageway towards us.
“Probably coming back for their cider,” chuckled Alan; although as the van neared we halted and stepped backwards nervously.
“Maybe he didn’t like being called a tit,” I suggested. The van spun round, came to a crazy diagonal stop in the middle of the road and stuck its hazards on. A bearded, mad-looking bloke with muddy dreadlocks stuck his head out the window and yelled delightedly above the pounding din.
“Where ya goin’?”
“Bushey,” Alan bellowed back, injecting as much rock ’n’ roll as possible into the word. “Where you going?”
“Where?” came the response.
“Yes, where?” repeated Alan, a little too enthusiastically, as events would prove.
“Cool, us too!” the guy shouted back. “Come on!”
“No, where!” repeated Alan.
“Tha’s all right, mate, we’re all goin’ same place, jump in the back, we’ll drop you by the Royal Oak or somethin’ in the town centre. That’ll do you, eh?”
“The Royal Oak! Perfect,” I grinned, at the sound of a pub less than fifteen minutes’ walk from my house. Alan looked a little stunned, then shrugged approval.
“Yeah, man, the Royal Oak’s cool. Cheers.”
What brilliant luck! There was nothing to this hitchhiking lark. We plodded round to the back of the van. The doors opened and we were met by two scruffy mongrel dogs on threadbare leads, held by two equally mangy dreadlocked geezers in New Model Army T-shirts. A small girl lurked further back, looking fairly spaced-out in a Spacemen 3 top that she’d fashioned into a dress.
“Come on in, don’t be shy,” beamed one of the chaps. “I’m Barry, this is Welpo, Liz over there, Si up at the front and this,” indicating the two dogs, “is Margaret and Steve.”
We climbed in and settled ourselves on the purple rug. Welpo slammed the doors and Si, after turning the music down just a touch—to earsplitting rather than brain-crushing volume—began to wildly reverse back up the road.
“Sorry I chucked the can at you,” he shouted. “You looked like you needed a drink.”
The makeshift lounge they’d created in the back was lit by an ultraviolet torch and surprisingly cosy, once I’d got used to Steve’s arse in my face. Alan looked content enough, having temporarily abandoned his concerns as to where the hell we were going. I accepted a swig from Welpo’s can of cider and tried to familiarise myself with the music.
“Who’s this?”
“You what?” Barry frowned, cupping his ear.
“Who’s the music?”
“The Shamen!” he exclaimed. I looked over at Alan to see if he would repeat his earlier view that they were “a load of toss,” but he was already being snogged by the spaced-out girl.
I’m still amazed we got as far as we did without noticing our ridiculous error. I remember remarking into Barry’s ear that it was quite a coincidence we were all from the same town, and being somewhat puzzled when he mentioned something about living near “the river.” Perhaps if the music hadn’t been so loud I might have asked him where the hell a river was in Bushey; then again, perhaps if Alan wasn’t having his faced sucked off he might have noticed from Si’s driving style that we were clearly not on the motorway. As it was, we only smelled a rat when the van stopped after fifteen minutes and Si announced our arrival.
“Already?” stammered Alan, breathlessly.
“Yup,” laughed Si, as Welpo opened the doors. “I don’t hang around.”
Alan and I gingerly peeked out and were greeted by the sight of a pub that was indeed called the Royal Oak but was blatantly not in Bushey.
“Where the f*ck are we, man?”
“Where!” Barry responded, in surprised and slightly pained tones.
“Yes, where!” Alan repeated. “Where have you driven us?”
“Where! In Hertfordshire! W-A-R-E!”
Oh, the hilarity.
By the time we arrived home at around lunchtime the following day, after a tortuous, meandering train journey, a few significant decisions had been made: we would no longer (as if we had any choice) rely on Dominic Browne for gig transport, we would not accept a lift from anyone until we had made them repeat our town of destination at least three times, Alan would try to abandon some of his inbuilt prejudices concerning dance music, and I would make it my top priority—as I resolved through my near-hallucinogenic tiredness, having spent all night sleeplessly listening to Alan enjoying the sexual appetite of a tripped-out, twenty-something Spacemen 3 fan a few metres away from me—to lose my virginity as soon as possible.
Back in Alan’s office, I sip my coffee, nibble my muffin and continue flicking through the scrapbook’s heavily encumbered pages.
“So weird, isn’t it?” I comment wistfully. “If that happened these days …”
“We’d get a f*cking cab and be home in time for last orders.”
“Yeah,” I nod—but the fact that I don’t necessarily consider this a good thing is lost on Alan.
Further research is abandoned at that point, for Alan’s three-year-old daughter, Jocasta, races into the room and delightedly begs us to play hide-and-seek, which in the enormity of Alan’s house is a game so riveting I’d almost choose it above, say, tenpin bowling as a drinking sport. Soon Alan’s businesslike guard is dropped and we horse about, Liz joins in, beers come out and it quickly turns into A Fun Afternoon. We play for a good hour, then sit around chatting for a bit, pizza goes in the oven, more beers emerge and it’s just about to turn into A Fun Evening when my mobile bleeps and I remember I promised Polly I’d have Sunday-night lasties with her. My work is done, though, for as I’m putting on my coat Alan mutters “Bugger it,” runs up the stairs and returns with the scrapbook, wrapped up in a strong transparent plastic bag, as though it’s some untouchable legal exhibit.
“Just be bloody careful with it,” he quietly asserts.
I smile gratefully. “I’ll make it worthwhile.”
“Yeah, yeah … get outta here,” he grins, giving me a hearty slap on the back that doubles as a friendly push out the door. “Good luck.” Then, out of earshot from his wife and child, he adds touchingly, “Try not to f*ck it up.”
“Thanks. Vorsprung Durch Peanut …”
“Vorsprung Durch Peanut,” he counters.
As I wander towards the bus stop I have a brief moment of paranoia that he’s really given me the book because he can’t bear me coming round the whole time to look at it. But, deciding this is probably stupid, I board the bus and head home.