by Will Birch
The Paradiso was noted for its very high stage, notoriously difficult to negotiate. It was not ideal for Ian, but back in the day, when he was like a matchstick, Spider would simply carry him up the ladder on his back. But now, Ian had grown in size and was bloated with chemo. There appeared to be no way of getting him up onto the stage until the promoter suggested the hydraulic lift that was used for loading the equipment. It was decided that the hoist would be positioned in front of the stage and that Ian would make his entrance from the back of the hall, with two big minders and then be put on the hydraulics.
As the Blockheads began ‘Wake Up’, Ian was placed on the lift and slowly raised into position. ‘He was completely drunk,’ recalls Mickey ‘and as the lift went up, the spotlight hit him. He was facing the crowd with his captain’s hat on, giving it the old Benny Hill salute. Beautiful. The crowd were going bonkers. Ian walked up to the microphone and couldn’t remember a single word of the song. He was completely gone. We were contracted to do ninety minutes, but after about forty we all realized it had gone terribly, terribly wrong. Derek was standing with his hand up Ian’s back, keeping him on the mic. Then Ian told the crowd, “We’re gonna have to leave you now.” We came off completely ashen-faced, in trauma. It was the worst gig we’d ever done. The next day, the reviews were fucking tremendous!’
The following year, 1999, would be a harrowing one, not least for Jemima and Baxter. Having lost their mother four years earlier, Ian may have been seeking to protect them from undue grief when it came to his own predicament. He certainly found communication with his grown-up children difficult. ‘It was hard to know what was going through his mind,’ says Jemima. ‘We were desperate to be part of his situation, but even the day he married Sophy he didn’t invite us back to the house. They got married in a register office and didn’t really talk to anybody. It was weird. He knew he had terminal cancer, but it was too difficult for him to face his family and tell them. He was finding it difficult to be close.’
Ian didn’t know how much time he had left and resolved to cram in as much as he could, believing that hard work would pull him through. ‘It was amazing to watch because he was refusing to die,’ says Baxter. Looking back, Ian’s achievements were remarkable. He became a vociferous supporter of the charity CancerBACUP, raising money for the cause at every opportunity. He once again offered his services to UNICEF, even though he was not really up to flying long distances and arduous daily travel. Voice-over work on TV commercials for the Sunday Times and the Halifax Building Society kept Ian’s ‘dark brown voice’ in the public ear and helped to pay his relentless medical bills. With Mickey Gallagher he came up with theme music for the BBC TV situation comedy Starting Out and, in April, convened with the Blockheads to record tracks for a possible follow-up to Mr Love Pants.
In May, the BBC filmed Ian for the TV documentary On My Life (one of two titles he had considered for his aborted autobiography, the other being It’s All Lies). The programme makers took Ian back to his roots, resulting in an outing to Essex, a journey to Ireland and a night at the dogs, raising money for CancerBACUP at Walthamstow greyhound stadium. In Up-minster, Derek drove Ian to Waldegrave Gardens, where Ian reminisced about a local girl he’d taken to see Baby Doll at the London Pavilion in 1957. In Ireland, at the Walker ancestral seat in County Donegal, Ian showed the cameras around Kilcadden, the country house that was home to his great grandparents, William and Margaret Walker, and their family.
Other than in his 1992 song, ‘O’Donegal’, it was the first time that Ian had publicly opened up about his Irish roots. ‘You know why?’ opines Derek. ‘It’s because he was Protestant. I think he would have liked to have been on the other side, with the Catholics. He had the IRA rule book for 1936 in his book collection. He liked the rascally side of it.’ Sophy was impressed by Ian’s ability to make all the travel arrangements for the Donegal trip, recalling, ‘It was us and the kids and Derek and his wife, Annie. We travelled to Belfast, got the van and drove to Donegal Bay. It was Albert’s second birthday. I was at my saddest because I realized what was happening and I could see that it was all coming to an end. He was quietly very ill.’
Ian was ‘quite chipper’ on 1 June when he and the Blockheads played the Hay-on-Wye literary festival; however his condition would quickly deteriorate. He was due to perform at Glastonbury at the end of the month, but was forced to cancel following two warm-up dates in Ireland. After a show at Clarendon Docks, Belfast, on 19 June, his complexion turned yellow. Later that night he awoke in his hotel bed sweating profusely, his left leg badly swollen. At 3 a.m., Mickey Gallagher rushed him to the nearest hospital, only to find the emergency department full of accident victims and drunken revellers. ‘There was blood everywhere,’ recalls Mickey. ‘Ian was saying, “That guy looks worse than me, let him go in next.” I said, “Ian, let’s see the doctor NOW!” Ian wanted to cancel the following night’s gig in Dublin right up until the moment the doctor said, “We’re going to have to keep you in.” Ian suddenly protested, “But I’ve got a gig to do tomorrow!” The Dublin show went ahead, but Ian’s liver was malfunctioning, causing him to go an even deeper yellow.’
Returning to London on the Monday morning, Ian went straight to hospital and learnt the awful truth. Ever since being diagnosed he believed he would beat the cancer, but the doctors were no longer able to do any more for him. ‘He was absolutely jaundiced,’ remembers Sophy. ‘We asked Dr Wardle if there was anything at all that could be done, and he told us there was only one option, which was for Ian to go to Egypt for gene therapy.’ Within twenty-four hours, Ian and Derek had booked their flights to Cairo, where a new, controversial treatment – illegal in the UK – was available. ‘He was so bad I’m amazed they let him fly,’ says Sophy, ‘but he got on the plane somehow.’
The Egyptian gene therapy involved a daily injection of serum for five days. Forty-eight hours in, Ian started to regain his colour. Cautiously elated, he and Derek decided to fit in a trip to the great pyramid of Giza for photographs. At the end of the week, Ian’s blood was measured to assess the behaviour of the cancer cells. ‘Everything had quietened down,’ says Derek. ‘We thought we might have had a little result.’
He somehow managed to continue recording with the Blockheads and also worked with Madness, contributing a vocal to ‘Drip Fed Fred’. ‘In the “Drip Fed Fred” video Ian looks like a skeleton because he was dying,’ says Sophy. ‘Ian and Baxter and Madness were all in a little theatre at the top of the road. It was very moving. He was yellow and skeletal but still found the energy to make the film with Madness, a great group of men.’
In recognition of their hit-making career, Ian and Chaz were awarded the Q Magazine ‘Classic Songwriters Award’ at a ceremony at the Park Lane Hotel in November. Anticipating that he would not be well enough, Ian taped an acceptance speech at home, but at the eleventh hour he summoned the energy to attend, along with Chaz Jankel. Due to his fragile state of health, arrangements were made for Ian to enter the ballroom via a service lift, unlike attendees Keith Richards and Ron Wood, who had to endure a big public entrance in the full glare of the media spotlight. Q and Mojo writer Paul du Noyer, a Kilburns fan of old, was tasked with looking after Ian and ensuring his needs were catered for. ‘Due I suppose to his illness he was quite terse and subdued,’ recalls du Noyer, ‘but he became much happier once we’d settled him into a corner table, his back to the wall, very near the stage. From there he gave his acceptance speech into a microphone hand-held by Suggs from Madness. I did a brief interview with him and recall praising the new CD edition of the Kilburns’ Handsome and finding Ian very unhappy about the music itself and his lack of involvement in the reissue. As the room began filling up, he clearly started enjoying himself and got into the spirit of things. I especially liked the way that he kept passing comment on each good-looking female who walked by.’
Ian’s outings were becoming extremely rare and most of his time he was confined to bed. Sophy stayed near to attend to his nee
ds and installed a television in the bedroom so that he could enjoy late-night showings of The Sopranos in between naps. He also listened to his favourite music and throughout that winter read the novels of Patrick O’Brian. He studied the whole of the Second World War, believing that what people had to endure during wartime was considerably worse than the pain he was going through. Friends like Humphrey Ocean, Wreckless Eric and Ingrid Mansfield-Allman would call round, often bearing records and books. A nurse by the name of Trish Owen called weekly to check for minor infections, and there were regular visits to the hospital for tests. ‘There was an emergency one night when his temperature was soaring,’ recalls Sophy. ‘He got in a cab and went to the hospital on his own – amazing.’
The great and the good collected at Ian’s bedside to pay their respects, Labour cabinet minister Mo Mowlam and Paul McCartney among them. ‘Ian said McCartney’s visit was like having the Queen Mother coming round for tea,’ says Sophy. ‘He turned up looking like an estate agent, but he was very sweet, it was a lovely gesture. Mo Mowlam invited Ian, me and Derek round to her house for supper. It was a brilliant evening, she opened the door in her pyjamas. Ian found it fascinating to meet a true politician in the best sense of the word, a person who wanted to change the world and make it a better place. It was a great meeting of the minds. It was great affirmation for Ian to get a nod from someone like her.’
One person who regretted not visiting Ian was Fred Rowe, but they did speak on the phone. Fred remembers a particularly sad call from Ian. ‘I asked him how he was, and he said, “I ain’t got long to go now, will you come up and see me?” I never went up. I don’t know why. I remembered him back in the old days when he was at number one, but he feared he wouldn’t come up to scratch. To see him like a little boy who didn’t know what to do used to make me ever so sad. I would cuddle him and tell him it was all right. He told me about his early life and said, “They never knew where to put me. There was never anything wrong with my brain but they put me in a nuthouse instead of a hospital.” Because he had a bad leg, people would say, “ARE – YOU – O – K?”’
As Christmas approached, Ian was looking forward to seeing his family, but Jemima was hurt and frustrated by the way she felt her father had been keeping her and Baxter at arm’s length throughout the year. ‘I was so pissed off with the situation, so fed up with all this constant rebuffing,’ says Jemima. ‘You could tell he was dying and I think he knew that we knew, so it was all very tense. I told him on the phone I wasn’t coming over for Christmas. He said, “This might be my last one,” and broke down in tears.’ Baxter adds, ‘It was a very strange thing; he couldn’t quite handle involving Jemima or I and possibly made the worst decision ever by just hiding away. He didn’t answer the phone, and Sophy didn’t answer the phone. I think he was realizing that he wasn’t going to come out of it.’ Jemima continues: ‘Baxter was phoning me, telling me I had to come, but by that point I was so angry with dad. But at the same time you can’t be angry. If I was dying I don’t know how I would relate to everyone. I said, “Of course I’ll be there.” He started to stop fighting so much and we did see a bit more of him.’
At the start of 2000 Ian was in no fit state to work, but there were still dates in the diary. These included a prestigious show at the London Palladium on 6 February (with a warm-up at the University of East Anglia two nights earlier). The ninety-year-old Palladium held great childhood memories for Ian, and he was determined not to miss it. The prospect of playing the legendary venue kept his spirits up throughout January, despite his being bedridden most of the time. Getting himself into an entertainment frame of mind required a superhuman effort.
On the day of the Palladium show Sophy wrapped Ian’s fingers in Elastoplast, his fingernails now brittle from huge doses of chemotherapy. She got him dressed, and Baxter carried him down the ten steep steps outside their front door that in earlier years had never been a problem for Ian. Derek’s car was waiting. Arriving at the Palladium, Ian disembarked in Great Marlborough Street and plonked himself into a wheelchair. He was pushed up a ramp to the stage door and taken directly into his dressing room. He hardly spoke a word all afternoon as he focused on the task in hand – to entertain an audience of 2,000, many of whom would sense it was the last time they would glimpse the diamond geezer.
Phill Jupitus warmed up the crowd with comedic banter, followed by a set from Kirsty MacColl, for whom Ian sent out for flowers and champagne. Anticipation was high during the interval, then, shortly after 9 p.m., Ian was walked onto the stage by Derek the Draw and Mick the Ted to a rapturous reception. His set with the Blockheads, billed as ‘New Boots and Panto’, was a little briefer than usual, but did include the demanding ‘Spasticus Autisticus’, which he delivered perched against a strategically positioned flight case. For much of the performance he sat, causing Chaz Jankel to reflect, ‘His pitching was note perfect. I suddenly realized after all those years that all he needed to do was sit down and he would have been in tune. But he used to like to stand with a straight microphone stand, like Gene Vincent.’ Ian’s family occupied one of the boxes overlooking the stage, from where they could see Mo Mowlam on the opposite side of the auditorium. ‘It was one of those moments,’ says Baxter. ‘You could tell by Mo’s face that she was in awe of the effort dad was putting into singing his songs that night.’
After the show, Ian sat quietly in his wheelchair until Sophy arrived backstage. Unlike the old days, there was minimal socializing, but Ian managed a few brief conversations with well-wishers. Old friends who had not seen him in recent months were shocked and distraught by his gaunt appearance. ‘He suddenly said, “I’ve got to go home now,”’ remembers Sophy. ‘He started dying from that night. He went to bed and was in more and more pain. His morphine doses were increased, but he remained quite lucid. All of the remaining dates in the diary were cancelled.’
By the end of February, Ian’s condition had worsened. Nurse Trish Owen now visited more frequently to assist Sophy, who slept with Bill and Albert in a double bed in the same room as Ian. He had no physical strength left at all, but his mind was still active; sitting up in bed one morning, he thought that now was the perfect opportunity to start writing his autobiography An Apple laptop was obtained, and Jemima showed her father how to turn it on and start a document. Ian sat in bed with the computer in front of him and began writing his story, but sadly couldn’t summon the energy to get past his first two words: ‘Hallo sausages . . .’
Baxter and Jemima remained on hand to nurse Ian in shifts with Sophy, who would take care of the boys and their school runs. In mid-March, Doctor Adrian Whiteson visited and noted how quickly Ian had deteriorated since his last visit. Palliative care was all that could be offered. ‘What should he eat or drink?’ asked Sophy. ‘He doesn’t need to eat or drink, just make him comfortable,’ advised the doctor. Sophy was devastated to hear that Ian didn’t need to eat any more and prepared herself for the inevitable. Accompanied by Baxter, she broke the reality to Ian that he was dying. ‘Shit,’ Ian replied.
Wishing to remain as lucid as possible, he refused further morphine. From now on, not so much as an aspirin would pass his lips. He sipped only water and sucked ice cubes to stay hydrated. He tried to sit up as much as possible, relentlessly fighting his pain, but found it hard to stay upright. Everyone prayed that he wouldn’t contract pneumonia. Ian’s words were few and far between, but he managed to tell Sophy, ‘You’ve got to keep the rhythm going.’
On Friday 24 March, Doctor Whiteson visited again and indicated that it wouldn’t be long. Sophy beckoned to Jemima, who handled the night shift, and they took it in turns to massage Ian’s feet to help him relax. Baxter came over to assist. The last weekend of March was a sombre time, with Ian now drifting in and out of sleep and who knows what colourful memories passing through his conscious and subconscious mind? When his eyes opened, he could see from his bed the sun shining through the trees and a last, beautiful glimpse of the old-fashioned garden that Peggy had tended wh
en she lived in the flat.
By the early hours of Monday 27 March, he was fast losing his fight. ‘He was letting go,’ says Sophy. ‘As his friend, I couldn’t wish for him to have lived any longer.’ Release soon came. At around 7 a.m., just as Jemima was finishing the night shift and Sophy was thinking about getting the boys ready for school, Ian’s breathing weakened considerably. There would be no school that day. Shortly after 9 a.m., with Jemima and Baxter sitting by his side, Ian slipped away. Gone . . .
In the hours following Ian’s death, his nearest and dearest experienced a strange kind of elation. They had managed to nurse him through a wretched illness, and their tender care allowed him to die at home, surrounded by those he loved. No one had panicked, and Ian had died peacefully. A calm ‘home death’ is how they saw it. Sophy asked the nurse what they should do next. ‘He’s yours, you can do what you like with him; you can even dress him up in a gold lamé suit!’ she replied. Jemima and Sophy gathered together Ian’s best clothes and dressed him, ready for the doctor to visit and certify his death. Ronnie Harris, who was in Israel, called and said, ‘Keep him. I need twenty-four hours to get back. I’ve got to say goodbye to him.’ That night, after Baxter left, Sophy and the boys sat with Ian, his coat pockets stuffed with chocolates, joints and goodbye notes. Ronnie Harris arrived just in the nick of time to bid Ian farewell.
