‘It’s 12 noon in London, 7 am in Philadelphia, and around the world it’s time for Live Aid.’
Joey and Hettie were walking casually onto the Wembley pitch when these words by the Radio One DJ, Richard Skinner, opened the show. They both turned to each other and laughed, suddenly swallowed by the atmosphere and excited by the whole sense of history happening around them. Joey had been cynical about the motives for most of the acts appearing. It was fairly obvious that all would benefit from a significant boost in both sales and profile. But it would have been churlish to deny that Bob Geldof had indeed put together something that was uniquely special. He already felt certain that they would both recall this moment exactly in the same way as their parents recalled the assassination of JFK or Neil Armstrong’s first step on the moon. It felt momentous, and they were carried away in the mass euphoria that greeted Status Quo, the first performers, who took to the stage after the Coldstream Guards’ Royal Salute.
‘This is fuckin’ brilliant, isn’t it?’ said Joey.
‘It is, Joey, aye,’ said Hettie.
‘Ah wish Bobby was here tae see it,’ he said; automatically, and as if the last three years hadn’t happened.
‘Me too, Joey.’ She could see he was excited. She was too. Perversely, she’d rather have shared this moment with Gary than Bobby.
‘Ah’m gonnae regret bringin’ this coat,’ said Hettie. It was hot and she’d been forced to tie it around her waist. He had been carrying the rucksack since they had left the flat. She had two full changes of clothing in it, and toiletries. He had a spare pair of pants and socks. It would’ve been a bit much to ask him to take her coat too, so she wore it over bleached denim dungarees, until the heat became too much. As usual, Joey was dressed in black. Drainpipe jeans, a ripped Clash t-shirt and a black Levi’s jacket. They both wore Doc Martens boots. They looked like a cool, young indie couple. Appearances can be deceptive.
They worked their way closer to the front but they were still only at the halfway line when Paul Weller appeared on the stage: red jacket, white jeans … blonde streaks. The moment above all others that Joey Miller had travelled 450 miles to see.
‘Aw, ah love this song,’ said Hettie. She put her arm around Joey and danced with him. She smiled warmly, the sun shone brightly. It was a moment, for him more than for her. Music’s unerring capacity for capturing emotions otherwise buried. Tears formed. She swayed. She rotated and bumped into him, facing him.
‘Ah love you, Hettie,’ he said and kissed her hard on the mouth. It was unexpected and she pulled back, pushing him away with more force than she meant. She knew he had feelings for her but, in truth, she’d tried to avoid confronting them; to compartmentalise that part of her life that saw him purely as a friend, and still as her brother’s friend at that. Weller continued to sing ‘You’re The Best Thing’, but, immediately and rudely sobered, it didn’t feel like that anymore to Joey. He immediately tried to put it down to the moment, tiredness and too much canned lager consumed on an early-morning train. Hettie shrugged it off, but it felt suddenly awkward, like a door having slammed shut behind them, one which led to the calmer, safe place they had come from; one which they now couldn’t find. They had only been at Wembley Stadium for an hour, there were still over nine of the merciless fuckers left to go. She had just turned nineteen, he was nearly twenty-one. They had both witnessed death and marital break-up close hand, but still neither was quite mature enough for this moment. How to withdraw gracefully, so that feelings wouldn’t be hurt and their close friendship wouldn’t be tarnished. It was regrettable for her, but crushing for him, like being back at primary school, forced to select a girl from across a gym hall, for ‘social dancing’ one at a time, while classmates sniggered; a brutal and hideous experiment in child cruelty by way of state-promoted embarrassment. The pretty girls went early, sought out by those already demonstrating alpha-male tendencies; but for the shy suitors like Joseph, the more desirable ones with the better personalities carried equal risks of humiliation, just like now. He wanted the Wembley turf to swallow him whole as it had done to countless Scottish goalkeepers over the years.
They didn’t speak for about an hour, instead watching the bands, trying to absorb the consequences of his rashness. They both now knew that a relationship meant different things to both of them. A string of fairly unremarkable performances didn’t do much to help lift Joey’s mood. And then finally, a solo and inspiring Elvis Costello reminded everybody, rather prosaically, that all they needed was Love. Joey Miller already knew this, but it momentarily stopped him feeling sorry for himself.
‘Ah’m just goin’ to find a loo,’ said Hettie. ‘Will ye wait here, for me?’
‘Aye, no problem,’ he said, a bit too matter-of-factly.
‘Will ah get ye a beer, or a hot dog or somethin’? Ah’m quite hungry now.’ Normal conversation as a sticking plaster.
‘Aye. Okay. Just a beer though. Ah’m no’ hungry,’ he said. Petted lips had no place here, he knew that. There were bigger things; bigger issues. ‘D’ye need any money?’
‘No, it’s cool. Ah’ve got this.’
They caught each other’s gaze. Hers was apologetic. She was telling him she was sorry, but without uttering the words. He understood. Life is punctuated by such moments. This one would take a while to absorb, for both Hettie Cassidy and Joey Miller.
She was gone for so long he thought she might even have left the stadium. He stayed in the same spot. She could just be lost. They had planned for such an eventuality and said they’d meet up at the main gate at 6 pm if it happened. But she returned just as the live hook-up with JFK Stadium in Philadelphia kicked in. Four other people were with her; four men Joey didn’t know, but that Hettie clearly did. She was more drunk than when she’d left him and happier. Perhaps as a consequence.
‘This is ma pal, Joey … ma flatmate.’ she slurred.
‘Pal Joey,’ laughed one of her new comrades. ‘Is that not a movie?’ They all laughed, apart from Pal Joey.
‘Ye’se aw’right?’ he said, sizing them up.
‘Never better,’ said another. ‘What a superb atmosphere, eh?’
‘Aye, ah suppose,’ said Joey.
‘I’m Pete,’ said the oldest of the men. ‘Pete D’Olivera.’ Joey raised a hand. ‘And this is Grant, he’s Oscar and that little runt there is Rupert.’
‘Hey: “little runt”?’
‘Sorry Rupe,’ said Pete, theatrically. ‘I meant little cunt. My mistake.’
Hettie’s new pals laughed like braying donkeys. Hettie smiled broadly and then shrugged in Joey’s direction. Joey was still struggling to work out the dynamic. She hadn’t just met them, that seemed certain, but they were all older than her, and Pete – their apparent leader – looked over forty. He had the air and aesthetic of someone who hadn’t been able to leave the flower power era of Haight-Ashbury. He had that seasoned puffer’s ability to smoke a cigarette from one corner of his mouth, whilst exhaling from the other. A constant fug engulfed his head.
‘I’m Heather’s photography tutor, by the way. She’s got a fantastic eye,’ he said, more salaciously than Joey felt was appropriate.
Oscar whispered something to Grant. To Joey, it sounded like ‘And you’ve got a fantastic eye for her arse’.
Things were deteriorating fast for Joey. Jumping in and defending Hettie’s honour from these privately educated fuckwits would backfire if Hettie didn’t actually want her honour defended. But she seemed oblivious to the tensions that were now climbing all over Joey. She whooped and hollered with no inhibition. U2 had come on.
They were well into a song that lasted almost fifteen minutes before Joey realised that Hettie and the four interlopers had moved away from him and out of his sight. He was alone, and since she was now pretty smashed, he figured the chance of reconnecting with her later would be remote. The initial reaction from those around Joey Miller was that U2 had blown their big chance. He was beginning to know how they felt. Most of the acts were
getting a slot comprised of four songs, but ‘Bad’ was essentially the Dublin band’s set. In the midst of it, Bono pulled a young woman from the front of the crowd and danced with her on the Wembley stage. From his cramped viewpoint, Joey initially thought the girl was Hettie. It wasn’t. She was elsewhere, out of reach; with four older guys. The day was fucked. Joey Miller left Wembley Stadium before Queen appeared on stage, before David Bowie sang ‘Heroes’, and long before Paul McCartney’s microphone packed in. It was one of the most memorable nights in British music. At its UK conclusion, Hettie Cassidy was staggering back into the centre of London, heading to Pete D’Olivera’s hotel room. Joey Miller was already asleep on a sofa in the emotional war zone of Gary Cassidy’s flat in Bethnal Green. And the Youth Hostel room they had booked and paid for remained unused.
Chapter Twenty
May 1987. London, England
Joey Miller had retained his Labour Party membership. His dad used to talk about the apathy and cynicism that regularly descended, washing away youthful political activism. It usually occurred after a couple of bad election results – depending on your perspective, of course. But it always happened, ‘as sure as night follows day’, according to Joey’s dad. Joey was determined to be different. He didn’t see his father much these days, but with both of them living in Glasgow, their fragile relationship had definitely improved. Joey’s father grudgingly respected that his son was now at university, studying for a profession, no less. But it didn’t stop him being even more convinced that Joey’s politics would slide gradually to the right, the older he got, and the more money his chosen profession afforded him. Joey was intent on that not happening to him, and at the successful conclusion of his third year, instead of going off immediately to start a year out in practice, Joey signed up to work on the merchandise stalls for the second Red Wedge tour.
The Red Wedge agenda was specific: the ousting of Margaret Thatcher at the forthcoming election on the 11th June. The collective, formed of left-leaning musicians, had been established in the dying embers of 1985. Fronted by Billy Bragg, Paul Weller and Jimmy Somerville – the Glaswegian singer with the Communards – they coordinated a series of gigs and media engagements throughout 1986 in support of the Labour Party’s election campaign. Joey Miller had been to a few of the gigs, particularly the ones featuring cameo appearances by The Smiths and Elvis Costello. Although she had moved out of their flat at the start of the year, Hettie Cassidy went with him to one held at the Edinburgh Playhouse. The Blow Monkeys, Lloyd Cole and Jerry Dammers were amongst the contributors, and although the songs often sounded unrehearsed, the joy of the people on stage, collaborating in each other’s sets, gave the gigs a spontaneous vibrancy they otherwise wouldn’t have had.
Joey and Hettie’s friendship had been strained in the aftermath of the Live Aid concert. Hettie – who had been privately hankering after the attentions of her former photography tutor – had subsequently moved in with him. He no longer tutored her, Hettie having now shifted the focus of her course onto fine art. Her work was developing impressively. It was highly personal and largely figurative: expansive canvases filled with exaggerated, impressionistic images of the body. Like Lucian Freud – her biggest influence, and Jenny Saville – one of her classmates, Hettie’s paintings were direct, authentic and confrontational. Many were self-portraits and Joey felt uneasy looking at the nudes, especially as they seemed to reflect how she saw herself.
Joey had remained in the flat. Persephone Wilcox had filled the financial gap left by Hettie’s moving out by encouraging her friend from riding school, Lucinda Burroughs, to move in. Lucinda was a pretty girl but extremely distant. She looked down her nose at everyone, especially Joey. They didn’t communicate much, and he was convinced she was trying to have him evicted in order to move her sister in. Lucinda was adopted, Persephone had informed him, but by one of the wealthiest men in the west of Scotland. She reeked of ruthless entitlement and upper-class, Thatcherite attitudes. She was dismissive of the working class as lazy, workshy Neanderthals, and Joey Miller came to regard her as an inverse image of him in virtually every regard imaginable. Hettie didn’t like her, naturally, but since Joey positively hated Pete D’Olivera, he would regularly find himself defending Lucinda Burroughs purely for the contrary position it afforded him.
Joey was participating in the background support for the Red Wedge 1987 Comedy Tour, along with Gary Cassidy. When Joey dropped into Gary and Deb’s tiny eighth-floor flat in Bethnal Green on the evening of Live Aid, 1985, a tumultuous argument had just taken place. Furniture was on its side, a mirror above the mantelpiece was smashed and domestic debris lay everywhere. It was as if Bill Bixby had just been kicked out and anger had transformed him into The Hulk. The following morning, a returning Deb had confided in Joey that Gary’s violent mood swings were becoming a massive problem for the young family. While she stopped short of suggesting that there had been any actual personal violence, her growing fears it was somewhere down the slippery slope Gary was on were apparent.
Joey had stayed for a week. And he had returned faithfully at term breaks. He had initially visited Bethnal Green following Gary’s discharge, because he felt he simply had nowhere else to go. But subsequently, Deb welcomed him with open arms; and Joey Miller had a strangely calming effect on Gary Cassidy. Now, they were both off around the country, working and campaigning against Thatcher, selling t-shirts at comedy gigs involving the likes of Ben Elton, Harry Enfield, Lenny Henry and Craig Charles.
‘Who the fuck’s this?’ said Gary, dismissively.
‘It’s Porky the Poet,’ said Joey.
Gary stared at the Hammersmith Odeon stage. It contained a single microphone stand and a heavy-set young man, illuminated by a single spot light. He was delivering a poem entitled ‘Beano’. Joey Miller thought it was great.
‘This is fuckin’ pish, Joe.’ Despite his traumatic experiences defending a Margaret Thatcher-led incursion on the other other side of the world, Gary Cassidy thought the protestations of a bunch of smelly comics and ranting ‘studenty’ poets was embarrassing. Porky – or Phill Jupitus as he was known post- and pre-gig – was a support act on this particular evening. The hall was still pretty empty, and Gary and Joey were manning the merchandise stall at the rear, near the main doors. Gary found it hard to be upbeat about much, but, perversely, Joey’s mood always soared when they were together. They were Yin and Yang: if Gary was like a younger, Scottish Alf Garnett, Joey was like Else, Alf ’s long-suffering wife. Joey Miller craved companionship and was always prepared to adapt his outlook on life to accommodate a partner, even if their demeanour was often challenging.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ said Gary.
‘What?’ asked Joey. He had just returned from the bar with a couple of beers, so he had his back to the stage.
‘Some cunt’s just lobbed somethin’. It’s hit Porker oan the heid. Doon he went like he’d been tackled by Gordon McQueen.’
The downing of the unfortunate left-wing, bedsit raconteur did little to lift the prevailing downbeat mood for Gary. Joey was concerned about him; his tension was visibly mounting, even though Joey considered the comedy gigs to be a far less anxiety-inducing environment for Gary than the incendiary volumes and headache-inducing light shows of the Red Wedge music events.
‘Christ, that’s no’ good, man,’ said Joey. He’d been jostled at the bar by a group of muscle-bound skins, all wearing Fred Perry shirts. It was becoming increasingly difficult to differentiate the old ska kids, who still followed Madness or Jerry Dammers’ latest incarnation of The Specials, from those at the other end of the spectrum, who often appropriated similar clothing. It was beginning to look like the bouncers on the doors of that night’s gig had been having the same problem.
John Tyndall had formed the New National Front in 1980, and then changed its name to the British National Party in 1982. They, alongside the Conservative Monday Club, had campaigned against the increasing integration of the UK into the European Union. However
, Tyndall’s reputation – his brutal, street-fighting background and his open admiration for Adolf Hitler and the Nazis – was preventing the party from gaining any respectability. So they developed a policy of eschewing the traditional far-right methods of extraparliamentary movements, and were concentrating instead on the ballot box, increasing tensions in England in the run-up to the 1987 election.
The Man Who Loved Islands Page 15
