by Will Birch
Following Betty’s death and Peggy’s worsening condition, Ian tried to distract himself by going on the road, but a number of dates were cancelled because of poor ticket sales. On 17 December, he flew to Bilbao for a show with the Blockheads but when he returned, Peggy’s health had deteriorated considerably. She died on 20 December, aged eighty-four. That Christmas would be the first in a very long time without Peggy present at the family get-together. She had lived for Ian and been his biggest fan, collecting newspaper articles and pictures and following his progress. ‘He spoke very grandly of his mum,’ says Denise Roudette. ‘She held that unique position, and Ian was never ambivalent. He thought she was wonderful. Her gift to him was extraordinary.’
1994 had truly been Ian’s annus horribilis: within three months he had lost his first wife and his mother, two of the most prominent women in his life. Now he had the love and support of Sophy. Friends noticed that his attitudes started to soften during the grieving process, and the New Year would bring joy.
On 2 January 1995, Ian became a father for the third time when Sophy gave birth to her first child at the Royal Free Hospital. Denise Roudette was in attendance, at Ian’s request. ‘I’d never given birth before, and Denise had just had a baby,’ says Sophy. ‘I was going upstairs to the labour ward with Denise on one side and Ian on the other. Suddenly the baby started to arrive . . . I was holding onto their hands as I gave birth. Denise helped out a lot in the early days. We named the boy Bill, after Ian’s dad. Everything was really lovely, but emotions were mixed. Ian had to do Bill’s birth certificate and his mum’s death certificate on the same day. Losing Betty and his mum and then Bill coming along really focused him. It was as if he thought, “Oh shit, I’ve got to get my act together.”’
The old Ian was not too far from the surface though. His tour diary with the Blockheads was now a little fuller than in recent years, perhaps due to a downturn in acting and voice-over commitments – Ian had steadfastly turned down a TV commercial for a well-known brand of chocolate biscuits that required him to sing: ‘Hit me with your choccy bick!’ In January 1995, he undertook a mini tour of Ireland followed by a festival appearance in Las Palmas, Gran Canaria, an engagement instigated by the Blockheads, each of whom stood to earn a rather useful £600. Ian was reluctant to play ‘Atlantica 95’, but was persuaded by the group that it would be the perfect opportunity to warm up for their imminent trip to Japan. The concert took place on the beach, which was not ideal terrain for Ian. After the show, he returned to the hotel and commenced a heavy drinking session. By 2 a.m., he was so drunk that the barman refused to serve him. ‘We arranged our morning calls and shuffled off to bed,’ recalls Derek Hussey ‘Ian pissed in the lift.’
When the hotel concierge discovered the elevator ashtray full of urine, he exacted his revenge by neglecting to arrange the Blockheads’ wake-up calls. Mickey Gallagher stirred early, however, and with a 6. 30 a.m. flight to catch, rushed around waking up his colleagues. He remembers Ian ‘with his coat on from the night before, completely pissed’, claiming he would get a later flight. ‘I told him we had to get home, pack and be ready to go to Japan, but he said, “Fuck off! I’m not going to Japan!” We all got on the rickety bus to the airport and left Ian behind. Suddenly, this car whizzed past the bus. It was Ian, with the promoter, in a BMW.’
The car reached the airport ahead of the bus, Ian having persuaded the promoter to ‘drive like a maniac’. When the Blockheads disembarked, Ian was shouting, ‘You bastards! You left me behind!’ At the airline check-in, Ian continued to scream and wave his stick, in full view of security – ‘You fucking cunts!’ The Blockheads knew that, if any of the officials had attempted to pacify Ian, he would have screamed: ‘Oi! Assault!’ so Mickey Gallagher stepped in. He laid him down on his back, so he couldn’t move, at which point Davey Payne leaned over Ian and whispered, ‘The trouble with you, Ian, is too much easy money.’ When they boarded the plane, the Blockheads sat some distance from their singer, who had been ‘sent to Coventry’. Towards the end of the flight, Ian walked down the aisle to visit the toilet and, as he passed Gallagher’s seat, quietly uttered, ‘I want me car back.’
21
A Tricky Operation
Hampstead, London, November 1995. He felt the first nagging symptoms on the flight home from Los Angeles, where he’d been filming his part as Noah in The Crow: City of Angels, the ‘tepid sequel’ to the blockbusting scary movie The Crow. “Iggy Pop and me . . .’ mused Ian, referring to his fellow actor, ‘Iggy had this gun, he shoved it right up me nose.’ Ian was clearly excited to be back in movies after a lengthy break, but cruising past Hollywood’s Capitol Tower – probably reflecting on the songs his idol Gene Vincent once recorded there – he was unaware of the sinister developments taking place in his body
A couple of days later, while recovering from jet lag, he felt the pains again. He put it all down to air travel and tried to carry on as normal, but over the next few weeks the aches intensified. ‘He got progressively worse,’ recalls Sophy. ‘His digestion was poor; then he started throwing up everything he ate. There were some theories – irritable bowel syndrome was one.’
Ian was never one for consulting the doctor or undergoing any kind of check-up, preferring the do-it-yourself approach. Even toothache he treated with oil of cloves, although this had not been necessary of late; in 1994, he’d acquired a full set of dentures (which he would take out and show to friends as a party piece). Ian rarely bothered the medical profession but held them in high regard, believing passionately in the National Health Service. But he continued to rely on home remedies and put his trust in fate. By the beginning of 1996, his luck was running out.
For some months, Ian had been writing again with Chaz Jankel, following a reconciliation brokered by Derek Hussey ‘I dropped in on Chaz in his studio,’ recalls Derek. ‘I told him, “Ian is gutted, you know, he realizes he’s dropped a bollock . . . He told me that, without you, Chaz, it ain’t happening. Ian told me he loved you to death.” Ian didn’t exactly use those words, and I may have been telling a few porkies, but I was trying to make them rub up against each other again. Chaz came round.’
Things between Ian and Chaz were going quite well, so well in fact that Ian started to talk about the Blockheads going back on tour, possibly to America. But once again Ian overstepped the mark, needling Jankel with sarcastic remarks, specifically: ‘When we’re in America, Chaz, I don’t want you sloping off to see your uncle.’ Chaz was puzzled. He didn’t even have an uncle in America but, ever sensitive to Ian’s digs, he felt his only recourse was to instruct his solicitor to write and sever all ties. Sadly, Ian was in no fit state to consider Chaz’s position. His body was now in turmoil, and he was vomiting endlessly. He found the pain unbearable, telling Sophy that he felt his ‘gut was about to pop’.
When Mickey Gallagher knocked on Ian’s door he was astonished at how ill Ian looked. ‘He was grey,’ says Mickey. ‘He hadn’t even been to see a doctor.’ Unable to keep anything down, Ian relented and allowed Mickey to run him down to Harley Street for a private consultation with Doctor Adrian Whiteson. ‘You’re not thinking of getting on a plane, are you?’ Whiteson asked in all seriousness. ‘Because, if you do, you’ll burst.’
The investigation showed a massive build-up of partially digested food in Ian’s large intestine. He was immediately diagnosed with cancer of the colon. On 22 March at the London Clinic in Devonshire Place, surgeon Charles Akle performed keyhole surgery to remove the ‘doughnut tumour’ that had been constricting Ian’s colon. A post-op scan showed that the operation had been ‘a success’.
‘The procedure,’ Mr Akle informed Ian, ‘was to reconnect your mouth to your arsehole.’ It was a graphic description that very much appealed to Ian, now relieved to learn there was ‘a 90 per cent chance of a full recovery’. ‘It was an amazing prognosis,’ says Sophy. ‘If it had ruptured, he would have died from septicaemia within hours. They saved his life. He didn’t carry any medical insurance. H
e was quite socialist about it, but when you’re told: “If you don’t have the operation NOW, you’re going to DIE,” you find the money. Ian paid for it all himself.’
Ian’s lack of private health cover was often the basis of a lot of laughs, especially when he was presented with an itemized hospital bill, as Derek Hussey recalls: ‘Ham sandwich six quid, bandage ten quid . . . he didn’t like to shout about the fact he was getting specialist treatment because he realized he was lucky enough to have the cash to do it, but in a way it was embarrassing for him. He felt lucky, but he was busking it a lot of the time. He wasn’t always abreast of the costs. His finances would fluctuate from being drastically in the red, then an advertising job would come along and pay enough to dump him back into the black. He didn’t use credit cards, but he had a little failsafe that nobody knew about. He always kept a little brown envelope with a monkey [£500] in it. If the shit hit the fan, the bail-out would be there.’
Ronnie Harris suggested that Ian should recuperate by the seaside and recommended Pevensey in East Sussex. With its old-fashioned tea shops and beach huts, where the actor Peter Sellers once spent many happy hours shooting endless home movies – a piece of local trivia that was right up Ian’s street – it was the ideal location. With Sophy and fifteen-month-old Bill, Ian took up residence in a rented cottage and begun his convalescence. ‘He lost his voice and got very skinny,’ recalls Sophy, ‘but it was a very special time.’
During his six weeks in Pevensey, various helpers would take it in turns to drive Ian around local beauty spots like Beachy Head. ‘Smart’ Martin Cole took him to Eastbourne in his camper van, to find they were the only people on the pier, ‘except for a guy painting the railings, who told us that his dad used to go to college with Ian’. Mickey Gallagher hired a car throughout April, the Nissan having been ‘confiscated’ by Ian after the Las Palmas affair. ‘I offered to take him out for lunch, but all he wanted was a fried egg sandwich with a runny yolk. He said, “My doctor told me I can eat anything. ” Then he wanted an ice cream. He’d just had the operation and he had a big scar on his body, but he was still chucking the shit down.’ Derek, who also ferried Ian around, says, ‘His digestive system had accelerated because he’d had a length of pipe out. Once he’d mastered that and got his strength back, his cancer went into remission. He thought, “Well, that’s cracked it.” He went and had a couple of check-ups and he was all right, so it passed by.’
Mickey brought Ian and his family back to Fitzjohn’s Avenue. The summer would be a happy time for them after such a lucky escape. Ian threw himself back into his work with the Blockheads, performing outdoor shows and preparing to record a new album. However his elation was deflated in August when he received the news that his old friend from Dagenham, Alan Ritchie, was dying from cancer. It was an ominous portent: first Charley, then Betty and now Alan. Ian called up his old pal Terry Day, and on 8 August Mickey picked them all up so they could visit Alan and his wife Mary at their house on Eastern Avenue. Within a week, Alan was dead, causing Ian to reflect on his own mortality and write a new song about remembering lost loved ones entitled ‘The Passing Show’. In it, he noted: ‘When we’re torn from this mortal coil, we leave behind a counterfoil . . .’
In September, Ian consolidated material for his first studio album with the Blockheads in sixteen years. It would be called Mr Love Pants. Ian didn’t have a recording contract and decided to pay for the sessions himself, confident that a record company would quickly pick it up. Not since 1977 had he enjoyed a surfeit of songs from which he could choose a hot selection. He’d settled his score with co-writer Chaz, and they now had ample material. ‘We wrote forty songs and threw thirty away,’ said Ian. ‘It’s the first time I’ve taken so much trouble over an album since New Boots and Panties!!.’ Recording took place at AIR Studios in October, with Davey Payne overdubbing his saxophone parts at Mute Studios some weeks later. Partly to save money and partly to perfect his performance away from the studio glare, Ian chose to record his vocals on home recording equipment. But as he repeatedly listened to the backing tracks, he became convinced that the drums were ‘not happening’.
This wasn’t the first time that Ian, himself a frustrated drummer, had been dissatisfied with the grooves, although Blockhead Stephen Monti had done a sterling job. There was nothing wrong with Monti’s drumming, but Ian had recently befriended the legendary American funk drummer Bernard ‘Pretty’ Purdey. When Purdey was hired to play on a demo at Chaz’s studio, the only other Blockhead Ian invited was Norman. Ian never said a word around Purdey, but got it into his head that the whole album should be re-recorded with Purdey on drums. The Blockheads refused. ‘When you get beyond the hero worship, it wouldn’t have worked,’ says Mickey Gallagher. ‘It would have broken the band up. Just sitting in the van with Bernard for a couple of hours, you’d want to commit suicide . . . listening to him telling us about all the Beatle tracks he played on. Bernard played on everything apparently, even “Love Me Do”.’
Funding the recording of Mr Love Pants would make a big dent in Ian’s finances. The album was to be mixed at the high-end AIR studios by New Boots veteran Laurie Latham, and leading designer Storm Thorgerson was instructed to execute the artwork. Ian was under some pressure to find an outlet for the soon-to-be-completed album. His able business team, consisting of manager Andrew King, accountant Ronnie Harris and new lawyer Mark Krais, put some feelers out, but there was little interest in the UK. The best that could be achieved was a licensing deal with Arcade Records for mainland Europe. Arcade needed a single to trail the album and suggested remixing one of the tracks. ‘They asked my permission if they could Europeanize “Mash It Up Harry”,’ said Ian. ‘Girl backing vocalists . . . I said, “You can have my full permission, cock.”’ Ian’s one proviso was that the remixed version would not be marketed in the UK, containing, as it would, backing vocals of the ‘Ooh Harry, you’re so sexy’ variety. Following the Arcade deal, royalties on Ian’s back catalogue were reorganized by his advisers, enabling the Blockheads to share in the proceeds. ‘There wasn’t much consultation,’ says Mickey Gallagher. ‘Chaz ended up getting royalties for albums he wasn’t even on!’
During a break in recording Ian was a guest ‘castaway’ on BBC Radio 4’s Desert Island Discs. ‘It was wonderful,’ says Sophy. ‘He loved Radio 4 with a passion. We got him up really early – the cab was waiting for him. He’d worked on the list for weeks on end, discussing it with his mates.’ The show’s presenter, Sue Lawley, grilled Ian about his life. A dramatic moment occurred when Ian started talking about Betty, who had died two years previously. There was an audible sob and a pause in Ian’s speech as he gathered his composure.
‘On reflection I chose a load of really boring tracks,’ Ian told me a couple of years later. ‘Peter Blake said, “That was a funny selection.” I said, “You can talk – you had the Spice Girls!” But that was his second go at it. [When] Hugh Laurie did Desert Island Discs he chose what he said was “the second-best pop song ever written” – “Hit Me with Your Rhythm Stick”. I took that as a real compliment.’15
For years Ian had been bombarded with invitations to take part in charity work, many of which he accepted, but it was impossible to entertain them all. Most proposals were filed away in the ‘polio folio’. In February 1997, however, he received a letter that truly aroused his curiosity. It was written by two young colleagues at UNICEF (the United Nations Children’s Fund), Claire Williams and Jo Bexley Claire’s work involved raising money and looking after UNICEF’s corporate partners, such as the Sheraton Hotel Group, who were at that time funding polio vaccination programmes in various parts of the world. Her friend, Jo Bexley, worked in the press office, helping to generally raise the profile of UNICEF. They were both ‘Ian Dury fans’ and thought that it would be wonderful if they could get him involved. Together, Claire and Jo wrote:
Dear Ian, you gave our generation reasons to be cheerful. Now we’d like to give you one! UNICEF is on target to reach its go
al of a completely polio-free world by the year 2000. You made us feel whole as kids. You expressed what we felt but could never say. We want to give you the chance to feel that vital and that alive. We want you to help us kick polio off the planet. We guarantee your part in this will be an experience of a lifetime.
Looking back on the letter, Jo Bexley feels that it was a little naive. ‘It was almost like fan mail. I saw Ian on Top of the Pops when I was thirteen and I remember reading something about him having polio. He hadn’t been on the scene for a decade or more, and some people might have thought he was washed up, but in our eyes there was a lingering legacy of great records. He was a bit of a hero. I had this image of him as a good person, but on the edge, very un-UNICEF. Writing to him was a bit of a risk.’
But the letter paid off. Ten days later Claire Williams received a call from Sophy, asking what UNICEF wanted Ian to do. Sophy was told that they wanted to take him on a field trip to Africa, to witness a national immunization day when all children under five would be given a vaccine to fight the five major diseases, including polio. Ian was thrilled to have been asked, knowing that Danny Kaye had been UNICEF’s first ‘goodwill ambassador’. Ian had carried Kaye’s autograph in his wallet for years after his dad had chauffeured the famous entertainer back in 1958. ‘Then Audrey Hepburn did it,’ Ian told me, ‘Peter Ustinov . . . I thought these people were pretty good. They had skill and a kind of a vibe. The photographs of them in the situation with kids all around them are breathtaking. When they asked me, it all linked up with my old man. If only he’d known I was working for UNICEF, he would have been well pleased . . . and my mum, but especially my dad!’
Now that Ian had agreed to help, the next step was for Jo and Claire to sell the idea to UNICEF executive director Robert Smith. At this point, Jo started to get a little nervous and wondered if Ian would be considered an appropriate person to represent the organization. Robert Smith asked her to brief him. ‘I dug out some press cuttings, but of course everything was sex, drugs, rock ’n’ roll and a lot of swearing, with Ian sounding off about spastics,’ says Jo. ‘Robert was basically asking: “Are you sure this guy is an appropriate ambassador for UNICEF?” Then Robert asked to see lyrics from Ian’s songs! I got round it by saying: “Let’s meet him.” We invited Ian to UNICEF’s office in Lincoln’s Inn Fields to meet with Robert.’
