by Shane Filan
There was a real sadness mixed with the relief. We had so much and now we were ending it. We had decided to walk away from the life we had loved – living our dream, being pop stars, having total security. Why would anybody ever want to stop doing that?
And yet we did. And we knew we had made the right decision.
Even so, I knew that if my private life had been a living hell for the last two or three years, even worse lay ahead. We had a couple of beers after the show and then I went to my hotel room, walked into the bathroom, closed the door, stared in the mirror and exhaled slowly.
‘Jesus Christ.’ I told myself. ‘This is it.’
I didn’t sleep a wink that night. And I felt certain there would be many more sleepless nights ahead.
***
Back in Sligo, I was still attempting the impossible task of placating the banks who were queuing up to apply the thumbscrews. I would get some Westlife money in, put some to one side to buy food and pay bills for the family, and give the rest to the banks.
I was selling off all of the top-of-the-range cars I had bought when money was no object. I had once spent £180,000 on a James Bond-style Aston Martin DB5. Its value had soared and I sold it for £320,000.
Yet it was like trying to put a sticking plaster on a gaping wound. I wasn’t earning remotely enough to service what I owed. I felt – I knew – that Gillian, the kids and I were living in the shadow of impending disaster.
Amidst the impossible demands for millions of euros from Ulster Bank and the Bank of Ireland, there were other, smaller creditors such as architects and estate agents. And, there was Mr Hawkins.
Finbarr and I had continued to pay rent on his warehouse unit on the Sligo docks site, even after we had decided not to pursue the site for the development. Now Shafin appeared to be going to the wall, we had to bring this arrangement to an end.
When Finbarr broke the news to Mr Hawkins, he went crazy and wouldn’t accept it. He took out a court injunction for back rent, although we told him that the banks had pulled the plug on the company’s funding.
Then again, this was not the worst thing that he was to do…
Luckily, I had one invaluable release from all of this pressure – now we had decided to split, Westlife were enjoying being a band again.
We played a series of outdoor British and Irish high-summer shows and they were a joy. Then we went out to LA to record four new songs for the Greatest Hits album with John Shanks.
John and Gary Barlow co-wrote ‘Lighthouse’ for us, and Mark co-wrote a cool song called ‘Beautiful World’. Nicky and I collaborated with two songwriters on what was to be the final track on our final album, fittingly called ‘Last Mile of the Way’.
Around this time, ironically, our record label tried to extend our contract. A new head guy had arrived at RCA and called us in for a meeting, where he offered us a couple of million quid to sign a two-album extension.
It was flattering but we weren’t tempted. When they put the contract in front of us, it seemed a good time to tell Louis and the label that we had decided to split. Louis was upset – he would have liked Westlife to go on for ninety years. But he and the new RCA boss could see we had made our minds up and didn’t try to talk us round.
As the Gravity tour picked up again, we headed for Namibia and South Africa, where we did a great photo shoot for the cover of Greatest Hits. The band leaned against a fence and stared meaningfully into the middle distance (which, give us credit, was something we always did very well).
The last leg of the tour was in China and Southeast Asia and the gigs were some of the most enjoyable dates we had played in two years. We were in Asia for almost three weeks and, in that time, we became the best of friends again.
The tension and the sadness had gone. The four of us partied after the shows every single night. It was bitterly ironic that we had had to split up to rediscover our band spirit, but suddenly we were a gang once more.
We rolled through Hong Kong, the Philippines, Vietnam and Singapore to the familiar scenes of hysteria we had excited in that part of the world since day one. We were loving singing again, we were playing stadiums, and it emphasized to us that we may have lost our way at times but, yes, Westlife were going out at the top.
We flew back to Ireland and pondered how to break our big news to the world. We decided not to do a press conference like Take That had done when they had split or as we had when Brian had quit. Instead, we wrote a statement to go on the band website:
After fourteen years, twenty-six top-ten hits including fourteen number-one singles, eleven top-five albums, seven of which hit the top spot and have collectively sold over 44 million copies around the world, ten sell-out tours and countless memories that we will forever cherish, we today announce our plan to go our separate ways after a Greatest Hits collection this Christmas and a farewell tour next year.
The decision is entirely amicable and after spending all of our adult life together so far, we want to have a well-earned break and look at new ventures. We see the Greatest Hits collection and the farewell tour as the perfect way to celebrate our incredible career along with our fans. We are really looking forward to getting out on the tour and seeing our fans one last time.
Over the years, Westlife has become so much more to us than just a band. Westlife are a family. We would like to thank our fans who have been with us on this amazing journey and are part of our family, too. We never imagined, when we started out in 1998, that fourteen years later we would still be recording, touring and having hits together. It has been a dream come true for all of us.
Kian, Mark, Nicky and Shane
We were going to leave it for a couple of days before we put it out, but then we brought the announcement forward twenty-four hours. The day that our statement was getting released, and Joanne Byrne was contacting the media, we all called each other up. We were sad, excited and nervous all at once.
I was saying to Mark, Nicky and Kian: ‘Jesus, it is about to come out! Are you OK?’
We all were – sort of.
Joanne put our statement out and I sat with Gillian in Castledale and watched it hit the TV. Sky News had a flashing banner proclaiming ‘Breaking News’ and newsreader Jeremy Thompson, in his most serious mode, intoned: ‘News just in – Irish boy band Westlife have decided to call it a day.’
I recorded it on my phone. I still have it today.
I experienced every emotion you can imagine as I sat in Castledale and watched the coverage unfold. The next day, we were on every newspaper front page in Ireland, and most of them in England.
Westlife’s split seemed to be a seriously major news story. The strange thing was, the day it broke, Colonel Gaddafi was killed in Libya and his execution dominated every front page the following morning. Had we put out our news a day later, as we had initially planned, the papers would have all buried us at the bottom of page seven.
I was glad that never happened. Westlife deserved to go out with a bang, not a whimper.
14
‘I’M SORRY, SHANE, THEY SAID NO’
When the thing that you love, and that has defined you for your entire adult life, suddenly isn’t there any more… How do you process that? How are you supposed to feel?
Mark, Nicky, Kian and I knew that Westlife had to end, and we felt relief now that we had finally bitten the bullet, but we also felt bemused and disoriented. What is that saying again? Be careful what you wish for, because it might just come true. We had been emotional when we made the decision to split and we were confused and upset as it got made public. The four of us agreed not to do any media interviews or even discuss it on Twitter while we laid low and sorted our heads out.
It made sense to stay in ‘no comment’ mode while we were still trying to let the news sink in ourselves. However, it was impossible not to wonder what others were saying, and for a couple of days I was avidly reading fan websites and visiting Twitter.
Some of what I saw made me feel terrible and even, in a wei
rd way, guilty. Fans from all over the world were saying that they were distraught; they were devastated; they could hardly see to type their messages through floods of tears.
‘Why?’ They kept asking. ‘Why? Why are Westlife doing this? Why can’t they just go on as they are?’
It made me wonder: how would I answer that question, if these girls were here now and asking me in person? And I realized: all I would be able to say is that nothing goes on forever. All good things must come to an end.
Some fans were finding comfort in humour and saying that they would be crying so much at the farewell tour that they would have to take extra tissues to mop up all the running mascara. They began calling it the tissue tour. It trended on Twitter for quite a while: #tissuetour.
The media world also seemed to see it as a big story and a lot of newspapers and magazines produced retrospective special features and career histories. ITV asked Louis if we would film a one-off TV special to say goodbye: Westlife for the Last Time. We agreed to that.
Brian, who was by now living in Australia, obviously saw our news and he did one or two interviews in which he said he’d love to rejoin the band for the farewell tour. Our label even came to us and asked if we would be interested in doing this.
The answer was simple: no. No way. We had no malice at all towards Brian, not after all this time, but he had still walked out on us on the eve of a tour, with no warning. We had had to get through that, and we had survived and prospered and been a different band without him for the last eight years.
So, no, Westlife would go out being Westlife – just the four of us. There was talk of Brian maybe joining us for one song on the TV special, and we hemmed and hawed about that, but it never happened.
We had a short lull before the release of Greatest Hits in November 2011, and Finbarr and I tried desperately to breathe some life into Shafin Developments. We were still trying to raise private funds to finance at least one of our projects but the crash was in full swing and we were getting nowhere.
We did manage to put together a small group of investors who were willing to help finance the first stage of the docks development, which would have let us build the Tesco and a couple of other retail outlets and start getting some money in. But one of the retailers went into receivership twice as we put it all together, and our consortium got cold feet and pulled out.
Finbarr and I were doing our best but the bank demands and legal threats were getting ever more insistent. Every day my inbox was crammed with people demanding payment from a fortune that I no longer had.
Our main architect tried to take us to court for €500,000 he claimed we owed him. It was a pity – our contract with him had made it clear he got half of his money when we started work, and half when the development went ahead, which it no longer would.
Finbarr and I had given him his first payment in full. He had made €500,000 more than either of us had from the project.
People went to extraordinary lengths to serve court papers on us. One day a big flowery lavender box arrived at Castledale, dressed up to look like a present from a Westlife fan. Nicole saw it and was excited: ‘What is in the box, Daddy?’
It was a summons.
A few people were decent. When one project fell through we had to default on a €4,000 payment to an engineer. He called me up and simply said: ‘These things happen. You have paid me a lot. I hope you get it all sorted – good luck to you.’
Yet he was the exception to the rule. Far more typical was the creditor who knocked on Finbarr’s door and thrust a summons into the hands of his bemused sixteen-year-old son, Killian. It was a shitty trick – and it wasn’t even legal.
The bad news kept coming, thick and fast. The net was closing in.
We had to start thinking the unthinkable. After the kids had gone to bed, Gillian and I would sit downstairs and try to work out what we would do if, or when, we lost our home.
I had realized that I could go bankrupt. I was determined not to let it happen, and I still had a desperate, unfounded optimism that something would turn up to save the day. But at the same time, I had to look at the cold, hard facts.
I had debts of €23m, all to banks. I had no money and was selling anything I could lay my hands on to survive. And my sole source of income – Westlife – were calling it a day.
Talk about a perfect storm. As far as I was concerned, bankruptcy was not an option. It was too shaming; too disgraceful; too awful. But at the same time, as the storm clouds gathered around me, I knew I had to plan for the worst-case scenario.
My lawyers began putting together a plan for me to try to agree an Individual Voluntary Agreement, or IVA, with my creditors. Basically, I would offer to pay a certain monthly sum, or an agreed percentage of my earnings, over an agreed time frame.
It would be an alternative to bankruptcy. If the creditors all agreed, it would mean I could work like crazy to pay them as much as I could. I even dared to dream that we might miraculously be able to hold on to Castledale, although cold, hard logic told me it was impossible.
My creditors might be open to an IVA or they might not. It all depended if they wanted to work with me, or to drive me into the dirt. But as my legal team began to put it together, the lawyers had some serious advice for me.
They said that if we failed and I had to go bankrupt, it would be far better for me to be living in England than in Ireland. At the time in Ireland, anybody who went bankrupt had to surrender their income to their creditors for the next twelve years.
Twelve years! It sounded like a life sentence. In England, it was twelve months.
Aside from the emotional wrench of leaving Castledale, it would not be too hard to go. Gillian and I had had the house in Cobham, in Surrey, for eight years now; some years we spent almost as much time there as we did in Sligo.
There was also another good reason to relocate to England. If I had any chance of making an IVA work, I would have to be earning money after Westlife had split. There was only one thing that I knew I was any good at.
I was going to have to do the thing that I had thought I would never do, that had never held the slightest attraction for me, and that I had turned down vehemently when I was offered it in Westlife.
I was going to have to launch a solo singing career.
I had already tentatively discussed the idea with Louis after Westlife announced we were splitting. Ever Mr Positive, Louis eagerly assured me that I could do it, that he would love to carry on managing me, and that he would get me a deal.
He also said that it would be a lot simpler if I were living in London rather than Sligo. It would make all of the chasing around record labels, TV shows and interviews easier, and show a proper commitment to starting a new career.
At this time, Louis still knew nothing about my impending financial meltdown: his advice was purely professional and practical. Suddenly, everything seemed to be pointing towards a move to England.
So in October 2011, not long after the announcement that Westlife had split, Gillian, Nicole, Patrick, Shane and I all packed up and left Sligo to make Cobham our main home. The move was made harder by the fact that Gillian’s mum, Rosaline, was diagnosed with breast cancer just as we moved and we felt that we should be there by her side.
Luckily, Rosaline’s treatment was totally successful, and in many other ways, it made sense to be out of Sligo – because it was getting to be not a nice place for us to be.
Mr Hawkins from the docks reappeared, still demanding his monthly payment. Finbarr explained one more time: the development had not happened. The banks had turned off the taps. Shafin had no money. We were sorry, but we couldn’t give him what we didn’t have.
It would be fair to say that Mr Hawkins was not satisfied by this response. He seemed to think ‘yer man is a pop star in his mansion, he must have loads of money’. And he had had an idea.
Mr Hawkins sent us handwritten letters. If we didn’t pay him, he threatened, he would decorate the outside of his van with photographs o
f me, Gillian, Finbarr and Finbarr’s wife, Geraldine.
Hawkins said he would rig up the van with a loudspeaker so that as he drove around Sligo, he could tell the town how he felt about the situation. To emphasize the point, he emailed Finbarr a photo of what the van would look like. It carried a charming message:
ALL FLASH BUT NO CASH
I could not believe it. Nicole was now six years old: did he really feel it fair to put pictures of her mum and dad on a van and drive around town slagging them off? It was low and vicious.
Finbarr had by now opened a supermarket where we had grown up, in the old Carlton Café premises, and he decided to give Hawkins €200 per week from the shop takings not to do his van scheme. The low, vicious blackmail had worked. I was furious that anybody could stoop so low.
As the release of Greatest Hits neared, Westlife were back on the promotional treadmill with a vengeance. One November day alone we did BBC Breakfast, Loose Women, QVC and a Christmas special for Bliss TV. It was quite a schedule.
Yet when the ‘Lighthouse’ single was released, it only went into the chart at number thirty-two. Thirty-two! It was the only song we had ever released that Louis had absolutely hated. Clearly, we should have listened to him.
Greatest Hits came out the following week and charted at number four (although at least it was a number one in Ireland). This was our new sales pattern – good, but not great. It all seemed to confirm our decision to split.
The kids adapted to life in Cobham quickly, but at Christmas Gillian and I really felt the wrench of being away from Castledale. We felt like we were in exile. As usual, I tried to stay upbeat. It’s only a temporary thing.
It’s just while we sort ourselves out.
Something will come up.
Thankfully, something very exciting was about to come up for Westlife. We were to kick off the Greatest Hits tour, the #tissuetour, with ten days in China in the spring of 2012.
We played seven dates in the country, in Beijing, Hangzhou, Shanghai, Shenzhen, Wuhan, Chengdu and Guangzhou, and every night was hysteria. Every single venue was the size of the O2 in London, and every one was sold out.
