That Close

by Suggs

  I remember one particular evening when my wife, Anne, said she nearly crashed the car. One of the links between two of the songs I was playing was just me opening a can of beer. She said, ‘You actually get paid for that?’

  Then Virgin asked me if I’d do five live shows a week, during the day. I said, ‘Look, I really can’t. I tried doing that at XFM and it just got too much.’ I was still trying to write music and be involved in other things. They said, ‘Tell you what we’ll do. You can pre-record three of the shows, and do the other two live.’

  It all went well, but it was quite difficult I must say, trying to pre-record a live show not knowing what was going to happen on the day of the broadcast. I couldn’t mention the weather, anything in the news, or anything relevant to anything. So I just had completely abstract conversations about electric cars and people’s favourite biscuits. This reached surreal highs.

  One day I had to meet my cousin off the train from Wales for his stag do with a load of his mates. I was late and I jumped into a cab. The cab driver looked up in horror and he said: ‘Hey, Suggsy, I love your show and I listen to it every day, but you’re cutting it a bit fine, mate.’ Before I had the chance to say anything he’d flown off in completely the wrong direction for Paddington.

  The radio was blaring and he said: ‘You’re on in five minutes. Don’t worry, I’ll get you there.’ I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was actually a pre-recorded show. So we screeched to a halt outside Virgin Radio in Golden Square and he said: ‘Run, Suggsy, run. Forget the money, just run.’ So I ran, rather half-heartedly, into reception, and hid behind the desk until he’d disappeared round the corner. Now I was trying to work out how the fuck I was going to get to Paddington in five minutes.

  Funnily enough, I did make it to meet up with my cousin and his six mates, and we went dog racing that night. We were all doing very badly and then I saw Jimmy White, the snooker player, arrive. He was sitting on the table next to us counting out huge wads of cash. So I said, ‘Jimmy, come on. What’s the SP?’ He obviously had the golden touch that night, so I gathered all the money we had left between us, put it on the last dog of the last race, and we all won. A lot of money.

  We carried on into the light fantastic in the West End, which culminated in someone’s room in Hazlitt’s Hotel down in Dean Street. At about 6.30 a.m., as the sun was coming up, I thought I’d go out and get a coffee as everyone else was sort of crashed out all over the room. I went down to the Bar Italia and there were a couple of firemen and a cab driver there, and I suddenly remembered that my family had gone down to Whitstable and I’d said I’d go down and meet them.

  So with £400 still in my pocket I said to the cab driver, ‘How much to drive me to Whitstable?’ He said, ‘A hundred quid,’ I said, ‘Great.’ I grabbed a croissant and a cup of coffee and off I bounced in the back of a very old black cab all the way down to Whitstable.

  LIVERPOOL AWAY

  Halfway through my Virgin Radio show one morning Dave, the head of PR, burst in.

  ‘Oh yes, my son.’

  ‘Oh yes, my son what, Dave?’

  ‘Wanna go to the second leg of the Champion’s League semi-finals?’

  ‘Yeah, course I do.’ Dave had managed to get four tickets for the return leg at Anfield.

  ‘That sounds great, Dave, but where are the seats? I don’t fancy being in the Kop.’

  ‘No, no, I double-checked. Neutral seats, middle of the ground. Oh yes, and not only that but the full executive first-class treatment. Hotel, the works.’

  Great.

  On the morning of the game me, my producer Mark, Dave and the boss, Paul, set off from Euston in high spirits. It was an early train.

  ‘Why are we going so early, out of interest, Dave?’

  ‘Well, that’s the only problem we’ve got. All the hotels are jumping with people wanting rooms, so the only way I could get us some rooms was on the proviso that we would check in by 4 p.m. If we don’t they’ll have to let our rooms go. People are going up the walls for somewhere to stay. Still, it’ll give us a chance to settle in and have a few drinks and a wander.’

  The train was trundling along and we were availing ourselves of all that first class had to offer, whilst poring over possible team selection and formations. When we got to the Runcorn Bridge the train slowed and stopped, and after twenty minutes Paul got up to find the guard and see what was going on. He came back looking worried because someone had lobbed a brick at the train window.

  ‘We’re gonna have to get off at Runcorn and change.’

  The train limped into the station and we all hopped off. The next train wasn’t until 3.30. ‘Shit, we won’t make it in time to secure our rooms, they’ll give them away,’ said Dave.

  ‘Oh great, a night on a bench in Liverpool.’

  The full first-class executive treatment! Paul frantically got on the blower to the hotel, and after a chat he told us that they were gonna have to let our rooms go. We were sitting in a dejected line on the platform bench, sipping lukewarm cans of Tennant’s, when Paul’s phone went.

  ‘What? Are you sure? Really? The hotel have had to let our rooms go, but they have a sister hotel just outside town in the Wirral and they can let us have some rooms there. They also have a courtesy car which will take us to and from the game.’

  Hoorah. We raised our cans and eventually climbed aboard the 3.30. At Lime Street we jumped in a cab and headed for the Wirral. Things were really looking up when, three-quarters of an hour later, we were pulling up at a rather grand-looking country house. The owner was there to meet us. He assured us there would be no trouble getting to the ground in time, and the driver would be outside and ready to go whenever we fancied. Perfect.

  I went to my well-appointed room, dumped my bag and headed down to the bar. The bar had double doors leading out onto beautiful manicured lawns and garden, so I sat on the veranda and the barman brought me a vodka and tonic. Twenty minutes went by and the others still hadn’t appeared. I phoned Paul’s room and he said: ‘Come up, we’re having a bottle of champers.’ When I walked into Paul’s room it was like walking into the Liverpool club shop. There were Liverpool shirts of every size and colour draped over the furniture and hanging off the wardrobe. Paul was wearing a 1998 away top and looking at himself in the mirror.

  ‘What d’you reckon?’ he said, doing a twirl.

  ‘Er … great,’ I replied.

  ‘What do you fancy?’ he said, waving his hand in the direction of some stuff hanging off the chair. ‘Have what you want.’

  ‘What? What do I fancy, what?’

  ‘What you gonna wear? We’re all going to look the part. Aren’t we, Dave? Gotta look the part.’

  Dave looked sheepish, and Mark was holding a glass of champagne and staring out the window. I went back down to the bar, and nearly spat out my drink when Mark came round the corner wearing a home Liverpool top and a white sleeveless hoody. A hoody. Followed by Dave and Paul in their Liverpool tops.

  ‘Hang on, Dave, did you say we had neutral seats? You do realise I am a relatively well-known supporter of Chelsea, what with “Blue Day” an’ all?’

  ‘Yeah, here, have a look for yourself,’ and sure enough the seat numbers were in the middle of the ground, well away from both partisan ends.

  The manager came in to say the car was ready and that we should think about making moves shortly. The three stooges traipsed out, Mark pulling his hood up. I finished my drink and followed them out to the courtyard. When I got there Paul and Mark were draped over the bonnet of a huge metallic-pink Bentley, having their picture taken by Dave.

  ‘What’s going on? What you doing? Careful you don’t scratch that. That’s gotta be two hundred grand’s worth,’ I said.

  ‘What d’you mean? It’s ours.’

  ‘All right Parker, where’s Lady Penelope, and more to the point where’s our car?’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying. This is our car. And look, here is fookin’ Parker.’ A chauffeur in full
regalia stepped out. I looked round the courtyard and there weren’t any other cars in sight.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ I said. Dave looked blank. ‘D’you think I am going to a highly volatile football match, in Liverpool, in a metallic-pink Bentley, with you three?’

  Mark and Paul slid off the bonnet and the three of them stood looking at each other, baffled but resplendent in their brand-new football tops and hoodies.

  I went inside to find the manager, thinking, I’ll walk if I have to.

  ‘Do you by any chance have another car? You know anything, and preferably something that doesn’t scream “I AM A PRAT!” Perhaps something a smidge less tasteless, like a lime-green Lamborghini or a turquoise Ferrari?’

  The manager looked as blank as the others.

  ‘Surely you’ve got just an ordinary car.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but our other cars have all gone already. It’s the only car we have available.’ He looked deflated. ‘We saved it for you. We thought it might go some way to making up for your inconvenience.’ He waved at it. ‘It’s the finest in our fleet.’ I didn’t doubt it, but wasn’t surprised that no other guests took it to a football match.

  ‘Yeah, sure it’s a lovely car … if I was going to Heaven in Charing Cross Road, but I’m not going to a gay disco, I’m going to Anfield. Do you have a number for a cab?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m afraid there won’t be any free now till after the game.’

  I was on the back seat, slumped as low as I could go, as we entered the outskirts of Liverpool, the cathedral spire and the top floors of hotels my only clue as to where we were. I phoned my mate Kevin, manager of The Farm, to see if he was about and explained my predicament. He was meeting his mates in a pub near the ground that he thought we would probably pass. The car slowed as we approached the ground. A kid pressed his nose against the window. ‘Here, look at these knobheads,’ he said.

  A small crowd of scallies were soon gathered at every window. I pulled my jacket over my head. ‘Here, isn’t that that fella from that band? What is it, Bad Manners? He’s Chelsea, ain’ ’e? Here, yer big twat.’ Someone started banging on the window. My compadres puffed out their chests trying to show their club colours more clearly. Fuck this, I thought, so I pushed the door open and dived out through the legs surrounding the car.

  We were nearly at the ground and it looked like what I thought was the pub Kevin said he was going to be in was just over the road. I disappeared into the throng and headed that way. It was like a sauna inside, literally steaming, packed with a crowd of people singing and dancing round the bar. A fella put his face right in mine and asked: ‘You that Madness fella?’ He had froth at the corner of his mouth and a bubble coming out of one nostril. ‘Kev’s over there,’ he said, pointing behind him but still looking at me.

  Thank God. Kev waved me over and I found my way to the relative safety of a corner of the pub he and some of The Farm boys had made their own. I got a pint and looked out of the window and there in the middle of the ambling crowd was the pink Bentley crawling along. Drinks were drinked up and it was time to head for the stadium. Roy, The Farm’s drummer, very kindly said he would help me find the section where my seat was. As we ambled along he asked to see my ticket.

  ‘You in the Chelsea end?’

  ‘Er no, I don’t think so. It’s in a neutral part of the ground.’

  ‘Neutral? There’s no such thing here, mate. This is Anfield. Let’s have a look.’ I showed him my ticket.

  ‘Oh, you’re in the Centenary Stand.’

  ‘What, is that bad?’

  ‘No, it shouldn’t be too bad, but it certainly ain’t neutral.’

  It started as soon as I got in the queue – good-naturedly at first. ‘Here, Chelsea boy, what you doin’ here?’ But the comments started growing in venom once I was inside and heading for my seat. By the time I got to my seat, small sections of the crowd were starting to pipe up behind me. ‘Yer dirty cockney bastard, yer dirty cockney bastard.’

  Paul, Mark and Dave were already in situ. ‘Great seats, eh?’ said Dave, enthralled. What an atmosphere! I felt a gob of spit land on the back of my head. ‘Yeah, great.’ In fairness the atmosphere was deafening. There was a huge contingent of Chelsea to our right but the other three sides of the ground were drowning them out. The game went off like a packet of crackers, and there was no love lost between the two sides. Most of the crowd were now into the game, but a small crowd behind me weren’t gonna let it go. ‘Who’s the wanker on his own, who’s the wanker on his own?’ Dave perceptibly shifted towards Mark. Another round of ‘You dirty cockney bastard’, and one more gob in the hair and I’d had it. And sure enough it came – I even heard the bloke behind me snarling it up his nostrils before it plopped on the top of my head.

  ‘Great seats, yeah, great. Thanks,’ I said, but Dave was oblivious and engrossed in the game. I got up and headed back up the stairs, past a phalanx of hands making the international gesture of farewell. The wanking sign.

  I found a steward inside and asked him if there was any chance he could fling me in with the Chelsea. I knew it was a long shot as Anfield was an all-seater stadium and the days of moving around a ground were long gone. But maybe, just maybe, someone hadn’t turned up, left already or been thrown out.

  ‘Let’s have a look at your ticket, mate.’ I gave it to him, wiping gob from my hair with my sleeve.

  ‘Sorry, mate, no chance, it’s rammed in there. And anyway this is a ticket for the Centenary Stand.’

  ‘I know that. All right, fuck it, maybe I’ll hang about and go back at half-time, see if it’s calmed down.’

  ‘Sorry, mate, can’t give you your ticket back now. There’s no re-entry.’

  ‘But I haven’t left the ground yet.’

  He shook his head and pocketed it. By now there were more stewards gathering and a copper poked his nose in. ‘You causin’ trouble, cockney? Anyway, you shouldn’t be in the Liverpool end.’

  I stormed off trying to find an exit but there wasn’t one, and there were still bands of urchins scouring the streets trying to find a way in. The whole place was tubbed up. I tried doors, emergency exits, nothing was open. Finally I asked a fella manning one of the turnstiles.

  ‘Sorry, lad, they only open one way.’

  ‘What? Let me out. I swear I’ll kick one of the doors out!’ He relented and let me out.

  On the street it was like a scene from 28 Days Later, that zombie movie where they all move really fast. ‘Got any spares, Mister, let’s have yer ticket, Mister.’ Much as I wanted to tell them to get lost, I wasn’t about to open my gob and reveal where I was from. The streets round Anfield are narrow and winding. I forged on past the urchins and turned the corner just in time to see, of all things, the pink Bentley pulling away. ‘Oi! Hang on,’ I shouted. I certainly had no qualms about getting in the horrible thing now. ‘Oi! Wait!’ Too late; it disappeared up the road and round the corner.

  My heart sank but I resolved to just get as far away from the ground as quickly as possible, and with no idea where I was headed I just started walking. It could have been ten minutes, could have been an hour, I didn’t know, but just tried to keep going in a straight line. By some miracle I hit a ring road with signs in all directions, one of which was the Wirral. A cab came past, so finally things were starting to look up. I hailed it and jumped in. The driver knew the hotel and said it was a fair distance, but I thought at least I could have a bit of dinner and watch the second half.

  We were not too far off when I had the idea to ring the hotel. Of course, I should have guessed, the hotel’s four stars did not include Sky effing TV. As we flew along the dual carriageway through the suburbs, a council estate loomed into view and I spotted a pub with a big Sky TV banner outside. ‘Hang on, driver, here, mate, d’you know what that pub’s like?’

  ‘No idea, son, I expect it’ll sell beer, and by the looks of it it has Sky TV.’

  ‘Very amusing. Could you just drop me here?’

/>   ‘We’re still a good five mile from your hotel, son.’ I got out, and the cab pulled away. I really was in the middle of nowhere, but at least I could watch the rest of the game. I should have known that a pub built into a block of flats does not get much passing trade. They’re very much local pubs, for local people.

  Inside the place was packed, and I walked through the door just in time to see Liverpool score on a huge screen. The place erupted with beer and beer glasses flying in all directions. No neutrals in here then, either. I pretended to do up my laces and backed out the door. Now what was I gonna do? There was nothing but motorway in either direction, so for want of a better idea I headed in the direction the cab had been taking me. I walked for about twenty minutes without passing another soul or car. Everyone was watching the game, except me!

  I was approaching a huge roundabout when my phone went. It was Anne, so I explained the situation, and there was a pause before she said, ‘I told you, you should have watched it on the box.’ I trudged on and phoned the hotel.

  ‘Is the Bentley back?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Just past the so and so pub.’

  ‘Well, go back there, and we’ll come and get you.’ I don’t think so.

  Eventually the pink Bentley appeared round the corner and went round the roundabout a couple of times before the driver spotted me lying in the middle of it.

  I’d had a couple of cold drinks by the time the others came back to the hotel. My sense of humour bypass wasn’t helped by the sight of the three of them swaying through the door of the hotel bar, grinning like idiots and waving scarves of the victorious Liverpool above their heads.

  MADSTOCK

  In 1992 we decided to invent our own festival. Cathal was working for Go! Discs, and having worked with a lot of great bands like the La’s, he also saw a lot of bands he realised weren’t as good as we were and started to get a bit frustrated by seeing what they had and we didn’t. After much enthusiasm and many phone calls, people joining in and unjoining, we did finally get back together. Eight years since the band had last played together. There’d been a growing sense that we’d never properly said goodbye to our fans.