I can see how people approached it as another bitter and twisted Mad Mark album, considering the climate of the period it was put together in. But, strangely enough, it began as a personal album; the events of the times led it down another path. As it should be. Some things start off one way and then spiral elsewhere.
In the end it came together like a collage: bits here, bits there. I see it as part of a trio of LPs – Real New Fall, Fall Heads Roll and Reformation. There’s a lineage there of sorts, a moving on. You’ve got the build-up – the comeback album – and then you’ve got the settled middle, and then the obliteration.
I’ve seen it all before.
It won’t be long before the vampires start talking again about things going to my head. I can hear them now.
1. The Power of my Childhood Days
When I was five I used to go and sit with my next-door neighbour, Stan the pigeon guy, in his back garden. He was a Teddy Boy, and in those days, before everyone had phones, the Teds used to send pigeons off to their girlfriends in Blackpool or wherever, with little messages attached.
Sometimes he’d have three pigeons, each with a girl’s name on it. I’d say to him, ‘Why you doing that, Stan?’
‘So at least one of them will get through.’
Meaning that one of the pigeons would get there and come back with a message to meet a girl in Blackpool or New Brighton – First World War style.
When desperate he’d send four pigeons out, and only two would get there because the other two would have been shot down with an air rifle.
His mother was like our auntie, but she wasn’t related, though it was always ‘Auntie Hilda’. When I was about fifteen I asked how exactly Auntie Hilda was related to us, and my mam just said, ‘She’s not related to us at all, neither’s Stan.’ But when you’re five or six you don’t know these things.
I used to have Irish ‘aunties’ as well. They were people you could go and talk to and have a cup of tea with, not child molesters or anything, nice people – war widows, mostly.
There was a lot of pretence floating around; not just with aunties and all that but with emotions and how people saw you. They had a point. There’s a lot to learn from that generation – the stoic approach. I think it’s disgusting how they’ve been forgotten about in this way. It’s the American hippies’ fault, they saw an in there, a way of making money out of bad moods. That’s all it is most of the time. You can’t expect to feel cock-a-hoop every minute of every day. My mam and dad’s generation understood this. They were just thankful the bombs had stopped threatening their lives. They just wanted to get on with living.
I liked primary school, but I didn’t have any friends there. I was the only Manchester City fan in the class, everybody else was United. I set a long-jump record as well; it still exists, I think. That was a major achievement at the time.
One of the funniest incidents that happened to me when I was a kid was when I went to the premiere of Zulu in Whitefield with my dad. I was only five or so. One of my relations had been at Rorke’s Drift: ‘Hooky’, the skiver. James Booth played him in the film. He was a relation of my dad’s.
It’s an embarrassment to the family actually. My dad was there in his overalls – he didn’t know what was going on. We had to sit in this big special box. And there were relations of relations of relations in these four other boxes; all boring bastards shouting at the screen, ‘There’s my great-grandfather – Officer Bromhead’: the Michael Caine character with the cut-glass accent and the brand-new uniform. And I’m going, ‘Dad, which one are we related to?’ And there he is on the screen, pissed, laid up in bed; on the skive with a boil on his arse. The thing was, my dad was a soldier and my mam’s dad was too. It wasn’t very nice for them seeing this. Hooky wasn’t that bad, though. He was quite a brave man. He was a proletarian soldier. He’d been in the army a long time and he was just trying to keep himself alive. He had a lot of sense; if you watch the film, he tells people to stay where they are instead of wearing a red tunic and walking out and getting shot. Most of them hadn’t seen combat before.
Queen Victoria looked after all those fellows. Nobody liked it because she insisted that they get four quid every year or something. And if they died then the relatives would get it. She insisted they all got Christmas cards and money for a long time afterwards. Do you think the government is sending money to the families of kids from Bury who’ve died out there in Iraq?
Worst thing was, when I was about six I went blind. I had an eye disease that nobody could understand. I just woke up one morning and everything looked like it was in Hebrew or Greek. It’s like being thrown into a foreign country. Teachers said I was skiving: ‘You could read last year so why can’t you read now, you’re playing the donkey.’ That’s what they used to call me.
For half a year everything looked upside down, like ancient letters, hieroglyphics. My mam, God bless her, went to the doctor but he said, ‘He’s just putting it on.’ Hospital said the same.
But she was very persistent: took me to a specialist, which was hard in those days, because she didn’t have any money. And he said, ‘I can’t see anything wrong.’ She went everywhere.
Her argument was that he could read when he was five, so why not now?
Eventually she went to a clinic in Prestwich, and there was a matron there. They don’t have these places any more, it was called a local clinic and you could just walk in. This matron said I’d got a lazy eye. That’s all it was. I had to wear a big patch for two months. But these people were talking about eye surgery, and taking me to a home for people with reading disabilities. My mam was having none of it. It was terrifying. One year you’re as good as anybody else in the class, if not better, then in the new term you can’t even write ‘the’.
You find out who your friends are in those circumstances. I distinctly remember everybody stopped talking to me at school. It didn’t bother me, because I had a lot of Irish mates who didn’t give a fuck about reading or writing. I used to stay with this Irish family in Salford. They were helping my mam and dad out. They were lovely people. Always singing Elvis songs and these old Dublin ballads. But they never knew the lyrics, they’d just make them up. Their version of ‘All the Young Dudes’ was fantastic, better than the original – ‘I’m going to Woolworths, I’m going to shag a cow to death …’. Proper lyrics.
In a way, as a result, I skipped out on the eight-to-ten period, when teachers really start to influence you.
I wasn’t really into girls either. I couldn’t even stand my sisters. Sometimes in the school holidays when I was about twelve, and my mam and dad were at work, I’d be looking after five fucking girls: my three sisters, this adopted kid, and another whose parents were abusive to her. They were about four or five at the time.
I devised this thing called ‘Japanese prison camp’. I’d make them sit in this room under a table with a big cloth over them because the air force might be coming. I’d be the Japanese guard. ‘You can’t go out. You must stay under there,’ I’d tell them. Then I’d shut the door, say I was going to the bridge on the River Kwai, have some pop, go out with my mates and, half an hour before my mam and dad came home, I’d return, saying, ‘Japanese prison camp is now over.’
If they escaped, the punishment would be ‘No lemonade’. They used to love it. Throw sweets under the cloth. Good laugh.
Occasionally I’d let a couple escape. I’d leave the back door open. They liked that: running around the back garden. Then I’d lock the doors and they’d be pleading to get back to the prison camp. ‘You’ll have to wait for your mam to come home,’ I’d say.
They always remember it, my sisters, when they get a bit pissed: ‘We remember Japanese prison camp, you don’t fool us, you pop star.’ And my mam’s going, ‘What’s Japanese prison camp?’ Today we’d probably get investigated by the social services. What can you do? It’s hard work bringing up kids. Japanese prison camp was the perfect solution.
Sometimes it comes out, though, li
ke with their ex-husbands who say, ‘I blame us splitting up because of the way you treated them.’ And I’ll go, ‘What you talking about?’ And they’re like, ‘I’ve heard the stories about Japanese prison camp.’
The other game was Auntie Nowty. Our aunties never used to come round, so I’d say, ‘Your auntie’s coming round and you have to wait for her.’ They’d all get dressed up. And I’d bang on the stairs with my mam’s shoes, like in Psycho. And they’d go, ‘Mark, what’s going on?’ and I’d say, ‘It’s your auntie, your Auntie Nowty – she’s got a bad temper – you’ve got to be very well behaved.’ And leave them in their room. Go downstairs, read my dad’s paper, look at the racing and football results. And then they’d start screaming and run out, asking where she is. I’d say she’s very nowty, she’s gone to town without you, she’s sick of waiting for you. They were safe, weren’t they? You couldn’t have them roaming around the streets.
I was one of those weird kids that passed their 11-plus but still wanted to go to school with my friends. St Joey’s Secondary Modern School – it had one of the worst academic records in the whole of Britain. You had a choice. When you were fourteen or fifteen it was your choice, not like now; it’s all about the parents now.
But I ended up at Stand Grammar all the same.
Twelve going on sixty, that’s what people used to say about me; a twelve-year-old wanting to be a sixty-year-old man.
I couldn’t stand music when I was that age. I hated it, thought it was vaguely effeminate. I remember seeing Peter Noone and pictures of Black Sabbath, believe it or not, which sort of got me intrigued. But I wasn’t that bothered. Most of my mates were into soul and James Brown. I didn’t mind a bit of Northern Soul; but nothing else really.
Music to me was something your sisters did. My three sisters all had posters of Cliff and the Osmonds over the house. I was more into causing trouble, forming gangs and things like that. I used to have a few – Psycho Mafia, the Barry Boy gang. We’d fight other gangs. It was quite interesting; there used to be Irish gangs and Orthodox Jewish gangs. But the Psycho Mafia was a real melting pot, and I was the vice president.
If there was somebody from another gang on the same paper round from another newsagents we used to set his papers on fire. Or put notes inside saying, ‘Piss off missus – your paper boy!’ Things like that, little things.
We had a camp in St Mary’s park, Prestwich – a little tent behind some trees, where we’d put knocked-off Kit-Kats and Lion bars, and copies of Playboy; made a lot of money flogging porn mags, selling them to the suckers behind the bike-sheds. The Irish lads would be like, ‘Who the hell wants to look at some woman with no clothes on, I can see it every day with me sister?’ But the fuckers would still buy them. We used to sell it per page. But Playboy was quite literary in those days, so some kids would say, ‘Have you got them four pages of Playboy?’ And the front page would be a Playboy bunny, and the other three pages an interview with Norman Mailer: ‘His Life in Question’, or ‘Hunting and Fishing in Nevada’. Sometimes we’d even substitute it with pages from Woman’s Own, some romance story.
I feel deeply sorry for a lot of kids nowadays. They’re missing out on things. I walk the streets at 11.15 at night when you can’t get a cab, through the so-called rough areas like Cheetham Hill, and it’s so quiet. But you couldn’t do that when I was a kid because there were so many gangs around, more than there are today. But there’s something sad about this false idea of kids being outside – if they’re out they’re going to hit you or mug you. It’s a consolidated effort by the government. That computer trick’s the best one – every house should have a computer for the kids! It’s ridiculous, it’s like brain damage. When I was younger it was everybody should have a book to read – ‘Harold should have a book to read every day.’ And lads would be at home just staring at this thing, this book; and they’re not reading it at all, probably having a wank instead; which saved the government work, and the police, because they’re inside – much like today with ‘Every home should have a computer.’
When I was twelve, thirteen, I was into reading imported American comics. It’s a good visual medium for a kid, comics. But now you see them with their daft computer games – running through mazes. It’s soulless, zapping people; makes Desperate Dan and Dennis the Menace look great, like modern art.
I was never a TV person either. I’d be upstairs. My mam and dad never watched it either. This was the time when TV was coming in. We were the only country in the world that took it that seriously in the 60s and 70s. It was like a family ritual, with everybody sitting on the couch. But not in my family.
As for school – Stand Grammar – I never really liked it. My main ambition when I was fourteen was to get out. I just wanted to sign on. Couldn’t understand these lads and girls who wanted to stay around and be told what to do. I just wanted my own place. You could do that then, sign on and live, but not now.
I started writing around that time as well, when I was fourteen, fifteen. I wasn’t particularly influenced by anybody, just used to write short stories and little pieces to amuse myself.
I spent a lot of time in the library. Solitude. I was living in a small house with six or seven other people. It never bothered me much, really. But it’s the same as when I go on stage – I need to carve out my own space now and again. I can happily sit on a bus with twelve people, that’s the way I’ve been brought up. But if I’m doing anything, I need room.
The thing about school was, I couldn’t get my head around any of the prescribed books – The Hobbit, for instance. The master used to read us The Hobbit – can you believe it? That’s all we used to talk about – small men in holes. We had a protest about it, against him. He used to room with J. R. R. Tolkien, and that’s all he’d ever talk about, his days with J.R.R. The prefects actually backed us up; because we were saying this is supposed to be English literature and we’re reading this shit, this fairy story, when we’re supposed to be reading Shakespeare and medieval poetry.
I liked Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge. I did that for my O level; great book.
Another thing I objected to was the way they tried to tell you which university to go to, or if you didn’t want that, they already had a job worked out for you when you were thirteen or fourteen. For instance, I was a two-O-level boy who was supposed to go and get a job in Kendal’s, or if not that then go and work in the Civil Service or the army. Unbelievable.
Outside of school there were always the cider gangs and all that. But all my mates were Irish, and they didn’t really drink. I like that about the Irish with their kids – they’re dead strict. There was always a big lock on the drinks cabinet.
My mam wouldn’t even let me take an aspirin. I appreciate that now. She had it around, but she’d be like, ‘No, not for you.’ It’s that wartime-generation thing, where you’ve got to be bleeding to death before you get aspirin. I remember being at school when I was eleven and the kids would have aspirin in their pockets to take during the day if they got a headache, but I never had anything like that.
I started smoking when I was about sixteen. I don’t think you need it really before then. I couldn’t see the point to it. You can’t appreciate it then. We used to write our names on walls and garages with Capstan Full Strength cig-ends; they were that strong, like black chalk; better than a pen.
I took acid before I had a packet of cigarettes in fact, at fifteen. I was on acid before I even had any pot; pot was for hippies. I had no problem with the acid because it was proper LSD. I remember my sister giving me a copy of ‘I Can Hear the Grass Grow’ by The Move; a second-hand copy. And I listened to it on acid. Couldn’t believe it – knocks all that other psychedelic shit into touch. ‘Night of Fear’ is a good record too; with that bit from Tchaikovsky in it. Apparently, Carl Wayne, who was the frontman, hadn’t a clue what he was singing about. (He married Diane out of Crossroads afterwards as well.)
If anything, I was doing acid to get away from the cider clubs an
d the sherry clubs. Kids of about fourteen used to nick their mam’s ‘British Sherry’ and be sick all over the house. You could tell where they lived by the drink and vomit stains on the carpet. But the bikers were doing a lot of acid, and I was vaguely connected to that scene. My sisters had boyfriends who were bikers. And around Victoria Station there were a lot of biker pubs. And the bikers, of course, wouldn’t wear helmets – this was a big deal; so they’re getting stopped all the time for drink driving. And they’ve all seen Easy Rider, so they’re all shoving big tabs of acid down their throats with half a pint of Tetley’s, and I mean real acid. Uncontaminated.
Imagine being on a motorbike on acid … I suppose it concentrated your mind. You knew where you were going – safe as houses in that Robert Crumb land; faces coming at you, red lights. Look at the pavement and it’s like a snake. You weren’t out of your head though, you just felt like the Master Race.
That was my ambition at the time: get a flat, take drugs, and not work. But I needed to be earning. My dad never gave me any money. I used to go to work with him in the summer holidays. Everybody else would be out playing or doing whatever, and I’d be cleaning toilets and drains out. I remember sweeping up and hearing The Move and The Kinks on the radio; good education.
My dad was very tough: a hard-case. Not in a violent way, but mentally. It must have been hard for him. I appreciate it now, though. He reminds me of the copper in Life on Mars, the Gene Hunt character. He’s great, that fellow. It’s a fantastic representation of that sort of bloke – there’s a reason why that show’s doing so well. Characters like that were quite fair-minded in their own way. I’m not saying they’re a perfect type, just that they have a lot of instinctive common sense.
Renegade: The Lives and Tales of Mark E. Smith Page 2
