by Adam Buxton
That summer holiday, in the sweaty gusset between the twin bummers of exams and results, my enthusiasm for Bowie received a boost. It came at the right time because though I’d enjoyed his appearances in Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence and the Jazzin’ for Blue Jean video, both Let’s Dance and Tonight suggested he was no longer the cool and captivating musician I’d originally fallen in love with. Nevertheless, I was still intrigued when I read that he was to be one of the performers at Bob Geldof’s charity concert in aid of African famine relief, Live Aid.
To the cynical 16-year-old Buckles, Live Aid seemed, at least from an ‘artistic’ point of view, like a bloated nightmare that needed to be avoided at all costs, and Bowie’s involvement was the only thing that was at all interesting about it. That Saturday afternoon Mum and Dad took us to visit some friends of theirs in West London, and while the adults sat in the sunny garden and drank Pimm’s, my sister and I joined the teenagers watching the coverage of Live Aid inside. Bob Geldof shouted at us, there was some famine footage, then Status Quo played ‘Rockin’ All Over the World’, at which point I decided I’d be better off going outside to steal a glass of Pimm’s or two.
But when we got back to Earl’s Court I went to my room, turned on the new Sony Trinitron TV that to my brother’s and sister’s annoyance I’d somehow wangled for my birthday, and at 7.20 p.m. that warm evening, there was David, stepping onto the stage at Wembley wearing a grin that made me grin. His boring feathery haircut and powder-blue suit made him look like an estate agent from Miami Vice, but when he introduced his band I perked up, as it included half of Prefab Sprout and Thomas Dolby on keyboards.
* * *
RAMBLE
Thomas Dolby’s 1982 single ‘Windpower’ was robot music with a heart, i.e. the best kind of music. Sure, I liked ‘She Blinded Me with Science’ and it was fun seeing eccentric TV scientist Magnus Pyke in the video, back when cross-genre migration was still a novelty, but it was hearing ‘One of Our Submarines’ and ‘Europa and the Pirate Twins’ being played in the evenings on Radio 1 that deepened my curiosity.
When I became friends with Joe it turned out he liked Dolby, too, and asked me if I’d heard his second album, The Flat Earth. Cornballs made me a copy, and despite parts of it sounding dangerously close to lounge music, it wasn’t long before I was under its spell. For a while it was a ritual to listen to the dreamy, hypnotic title track and think emotional thoughts last thing before I went to sleep in my study at school. I played it to Mum one day, expecting her to love it, too, but she shook her head. ‘It’s a bit soppy, isn’t it, Adam? I prefer Space Odyssey.’
Soppy or not, I went out and bought The Flat Earth and Dolby’s first album, The Golden Age of Wireless, and for the next few years I played them nearly as often as my Bowie cassettes.
And then there was Prefab Sprout. Their album Steve McQueen came out a couple of weeks after The Breakfast Club was released in 1985 and Joe and I were delighted to find that it had been produced by Thomas Dolby.
There was nothing robotic about the Sprouts, however – it was all pure emotion, but with so many surprising structural elements and lyrical ideas, it never felt gloopy.
A couple of years later I went with Joe to see Prefab Sprout live at the Hammersmith Palais. My first gig. I couldn’t see much because I was too short and I was disappointed it didn’t sound more like the record. Afterwards my ears rang for an hour. I used the cashpoint round the corner from the venue and turned round to find a jittery man showing me a knife and saying, ‘All right, Star, give me your wallet.’ My first mugging. I walked home feeling sorry for myself but faintly cool after being called ‘Star’.
* * *
With Dolby and assorted Sprouts on stage alongside Bowie at Live Aid, it was as if he was sending me a message and saying, ‘You know that music that your mum thinks is a bit soppy? Well, guess what, you and Cornballs aren’t the only ones who like it. I like it, too, because, as you correctly guessed, we’re kindred spirits who’d probably get on really well if we ever met.’
As if to further emphasise our psychic link, Bowie’s Live Aid set began with ‘TVC 15’, my favourite song from Station to Station, an album I’d only recently got into, which had kept me going through O levels. I’d never heard ‘TVC 15’ playing anywhere except on my headphones, so it was a thrill to see him do it with Dolby (filling in for Roy Bittan on keyboards, of course).
After just four songs Bowie introduced a video of starving African children set to the music of ‘Drive’ by The Cars. Presumably the organisers thought that the sight of children starving was not in itself sufficiently poignant to engage the emotions of potential benefactors and that what was needed was some syrupy synth-driven rock balladry. I resisted the urge to switch over in protest at such manipulative tactics, and while the sound of men in sunglasses holding down synthesiser chords oozed out of the TV, I watched as one starving child after another failed to brush away the flies landing on their faces.
By the time the video concluded I was crying, unable to tell for certain what had got to me more: those children, or a song I didn’t even like. I rang the number on the screen and got out my bank card. I wasn’t sure that £15 would make me feel better, so I went for £20, and with my new bank account depleted by 50 per cent, the sobbing subsided.
CHAPTER 14
FUN DAD
Although I’m perfect now, I was a selfish baby man well into my twenties, and never seriously considered having children for a second. After all, I’d read the Philip Larkin poem and I’d seen what having children did to my mum and dad. They just argued all the time and never seemed to have any fun at all. No thanks.
One sunny Britpop day towards the end of the Nineties, I bumped into my old girlfriend Lottie in South London. I hadn’t seen her since we were teenagers and I was surprised when she told me she was married with two young kids. My friends hadn’t started doing that kind of thing yet. ‘You should come round and meet them,’ said Lottie.
‘Sure, I’d love to spend a boring, noisy afternoon seeing how you’ve succumbed to your societal programming and thrown your life away,’ I thought. But I didn’t want to be rude, so I said, ‘Yes, that would be lovely! I’ll pop by tomorrow, if I’m not too busy.’
The next day I took a break from playing Super Aleste on the SNES (Super Nintendo Entertainment System) and cycled over to the small terraced house in Tooting where Lottie lived, arriving just as her husband Gavin was giving the two toddlers their lunch.
The first thing that hit me on entering the house was the overpowering funk of cheese with notes of vomit and poo, none of which I have ever enjoyed. Gavin (who seemed nice but a bit sensible) was feeding cheesy ravioli to the toddlers, and though they were certainly sweet, they had yet to embrace the concept of table manners. It didn’t help that Gavin would occasionally scoop up a handful of ravioli and dump it on the Formica tabletop in front of the younger child, whereupon she would spank the gooey pasta delightedly, then smear it on her face. I tried to laugh, but I’d begun to feel queasy and had to stop breathing through my nose.
I asked if I could use the toilet, and when the door was safely closed behind me I took a deep breath, then immediately regretted it. Over in the corner in an uncovered basket was a pile of dirty clothes topped by a pair of children’s shorts that had been dramatically soiled (at least, I assumed they belonged to one of the children). ‘OK,’ I thought, ‘so Gavin and Lottie are anti nappies, but are they also anti basket lids, clean air and civilised table behaviour?’ I said my goodbyes and cycled away, breathing fresh air luxuriously, resolving as I did so never to have children as it was just far too smelly.
A few years later I got married, and in all the excitement I forgot I was still selfish, immature and ignorant. When the subject of children came up I thought, ‘Sure, why not? It’ll be fun! My wife can teach them the important stuff and deal with the stinks (though cheesy ravioli will never be on the menu, the tabletop, the faces or anywhere else in the house), and I’ll get
them into music and films and be their best friend. Easy.’
Being pregnant for nine months forced my wife to make the transition from a life of staying up late, boozing and doing whatever else she wanted with her free time to an altogether more sober routine. I knew it would probably be good if I made that transition along with her, but I decided against it. I thought it was important that at least one of us should carry on having a good time. As a result, during our first few years of parenthood, we ended up leading lives that sometimes felt quite separate, and when we were together, much as I Ioved the additional company of our little sons and their sweet-smelling soft heads, I couldn’t help missing the days when hanging out with my wife would involve friends, alcohol and laughter, with shitting, puking and screaming reserved for special occasions.
Time with my wife in those toddler days often meant a trip to a large indoor space that smelt of feet where we took it in turns to ensure that our children didn’t eat too much of the faeces in the ball pit. Back home, our reward would be an episode of a box set after the angels had been successfully neutralised, but we’d be doing well if we got through 20 minutes before the ever-present baby monitor exploded into life, green lights flashing, as harshly distorted wails drowned out the screams of whoever Jack Bauer happened to be torturing.
And that was on the good days, when no one was ill, I didn’t have a tax bill I couldn’t pay and I wasn’t depressed after another brilliant Adam-and-Joe TV pitch had been rejected by some barely sentient TV executive because it wasn’t enough like Banzai.
* * *
RAMBLE
I thought I should check my recollection of these toddler times with my wife. She says: ‘Maybe I’ve forgotten about the bad bits in the rosy haze of middle age, but I don’t remember the early years being as crap as you do. I loved the early bit when they were tiny. The mundane routine was preferable to the office, any day. If I could have had ten more babies, I would. I probably still could. I also don’t remember you not liking it as much as I did, or going to nearly as many children’s play areas with stinky ball pits as you are making out – although I suppose you’re hamming it up in order to make this part of the book more entertaining.’
* * *
Of course, there was more to those early days of parenthood than bad smells, screaming and a vague worry that I’d made a terrible mistake. From time to time I got to be a FUN DAD. I would announce to my wife that I needed a break from mining nuggets of timeless comedy and was going to do the supermarket shop with the boys while she enjoyed a couple of hours of alone time. Choking back tears of gratitude at my thoughtfulness, my wife would hand me a hastily scribbled list and off we’d go to the Clapham branch of Sainsbury’s, FUN DAD and sons on a shopping adventure.
Within minutes of our arrival at the supermarket, the boys would be clapping their hands with delight as their FUN DAD spun them around in the trolley. When they’d start to lose consciousness, I’d lean on the handle and we’d chat as we cruised down the aisles, them being sweet and naïve, me funny and wise, ensuring that the humour and the wisdom were delivered loud enough for passing shoppers to hear and be delighted by. I imagined them thinking, ‘Wow, I wish my dad had been as fun as him. If only there were more parents like that, the world would be a better place.’
Back in the car, I’d reach back and give the boys’ hands a squeeze the way my dad used to when we were little. Then, unlike my dad, I’d connect my first-generation iPod to the stereo and play a superb selection of left-field music sprinkled with some mainstream classics as part of the boys’ cultural education. Sometimes, if a song came on that contained particularly strong language, I’d ride the volume knob and replace the expletives with something child-friendly.
The first time I did this was during the track ‘Range Life’ by Pavement, which contains a well-enunciated ‘FUCK’ towards the end of an otherwise very pretty song. This live censorship technique was the inspiration for a sketch I did in 2006 on a BBC Three show called Rush Hour, in which I played a dad on the school run singing along with N.W.A.’s ‘Fuck tha Police’ but replacing the most explicit and angrily racial lines with blandly pro-establishment, kiddie-friendly lyrics.
* * *
RAMBLE
This sketch might now be considered an act of gross cultural appropriation (or ‘hip-hopriation’? Pffft), but in a way, that’s what it was about. A white, middle-class parent excited by music that has no relevance to his own life but wanting to pass on his enthusiasm to his son. Meanwhile, Mum (played in the sketch by actor and comedian Kerry Godliman) looks on disapprovingly.
After the sketch went out in 2007, someone uploaded it to YouTube where it found an audience among the N.W.A. fan community, many of whom, unsurprisingly, had never heard of me and were unsure how to feel about the sketch, as some of the comments made clear:
THENOTORIOUSKRP
hahahaah very funny. I have the urge to slap the guy for taking the song and its message and changing it… But still, its funny
It hadn’t crossed my mind that people might be offended by the ‘Help the Police’ sketch. I thought it was clear the laughs were at the expense of the middle-class wannabe gangster dad. For some people, however, ‘Fuck tha Police’ is a protest song that articulates decades of fury and frustration with institutional racism and is too important to be bowdlerised (that’s right, I said ‘bowdlerised’), even for a solid-gold comedy classic.
13STYLEZ
gay. the men gay the boy gay the women ähh bitch coz NWA NOT Firndly to police
HALFLIFEGTA
FUCK THE POLICE not help em. This is gay as hell.
Comedy can be maddeningly confusing. Do I think people should help a racist cop? No. What about fucking a nice cop? I wouldn’t advocate that either. Either way, when it comes to deciding whether to help or fuck the police, I don’t think this sketch should be used to formulate policy.
Sub-Ramble
Back in the late 2000s a lot of people were still using the word ‘gay’ to mean ‘not very good’. Many of them would argue that they were not homophobic and that the word had simply acquired two distinct meanings. I was one of those people, until one day I described something a bit crap as ‘gay’ while talking to a friend of mine who is himself a homosexualist. He looked crestfallen and I squirmed. I like the guy a lot and the last thing I want to do is make his crests fall. To my shame, I was too embarrassed to apologise at that moment, but I’ve never used the word that way again. Disappointingly, I still haven’t received any kind of prize.
Meanwhile a professional football joins the YouTube discussion about my ‘Help the Police’ sketch:
PROFESSIONALFOOTBALL
the original is better
Hard to argue with that. In my defence, though, ‘Help the Police’ has not replaced the original version, which is still widely available.
GRE0006
if I was in nwa I wold kill him
Shit. gre0006 wants to ‘wold kill’ me. This is how gangs used to get rid of their enemies in the ‘wolden days’, i.e. take them out to a range of hills consisting of open country overlying a base of limestone or chalk and shoot them in the hillocks.
At this point, dookiefinder187 (the 187th of the proud dookiefinder clan) enters the discussion:
DOOKIEFINDER187
fuckin white fag, your not from the CPT, if eazy e was alive he come burn down your house with you in it and you be saying ‘i’m a pussy, police please help me’
Setting aside the casual homophobia and minor grammar issues, I understand dookiefinder187’s frustration. Compared to the average resident of Compton (the CPT), my life has been one of unearned comfort and opportunity and, yes, I would certainly call the emergency services if Eazy-E came back to life, got the train out to Norwich, found our house and set fire to it while my wife, my children, Rosie and I were still inside, but I don’t think I’d start the call by saying, ‘Hello! I’m a pussy, police please help me.’ I’m not sure how it works in the CPT, but in south Nor
folk the emergency services will usually respond even if you don’t humiliate yourself on the phone first. Luckily 2pac2590 comes to my defence:
2PAC2590 @ DOOKIEFINDER187
wow your so fucking smart dis is a fuckin’ joke. eazy e would probobly laugh.
Despite this reassurance from one of the extended 2pac family, dookiefinder187 is still worried:
DOOKIEFINDER187 @ 2PAC2590
I hope your fucking right cus this white fag could be making fun of this song
fender3924 also attempts to mollify dookiefinder187:
FENDER3924 @ DOOKIEFINDER187
Wow broham, shut the fuck up, its supposed to be funny, not serious… Chill out.
Thanks for the support, fender3924. And good to be reminded that if you want someone to chill out, the best way is just to tell them to ‘shut the fuck up’. At this point dookiefinder187 has had enough and signs off with:
DOOKIEFINDER187
man fuck you asswipes its no joke if a white guy is rapping.
* * *
One day I was on a solo supermarket mission and in the car park I bumped into Matt, an older friend of mine who also has a couple of children. Matt asked after my boys, then aged two and four. ‘Oh, you know,’ I replied, ‘they’re exhausting, but wonderful! How about your two?’
