“Oh, we were just talking about his lyrics, you know …”
“Which lyrics?”
“The guy’s so fucking creative, man,” Alan explained. “He was telling us how he wrote the song as one thing, then—”
“… decided on the spur of the moment he wanted to do something different.”
“He’s indecisive, you mean.”
This from Dominic triggered two glares of unbridled outrage.
“Oh!” I coughed, unable to phrase my indignation.
“He’s an artist,” managed Alan. “It’s improvisation.”
“Whatever. Did you ask if he’d do an interview for Peanuts?”
“It’s called Vorsprung Durch Peanut, Browne,” I spat. “Or the Peanut, if you must shorten it. And no, I didn’t. That wasn’t the point.”
“Like he’d have said yes anyway.”
“He does do fanzine interviews actually. Give us a sip of your Coke, will you.”
“No. Why don’t you ask Lance Webster for a sip of his snakebite?”
“Like a Daydream” by Ride came jangling out of the speakers, to increased frugging from the room’s swelling crowd.
“Ahh,” sighed Dominic. “Now we’re talking about artists. This guy. Lance Webster’s a fucking ironmonger by comparison.”
“Bunch of wimps, man,” Alan summarised.
“Mark Gardener’s just a pinup boy,” I elaborated. “He does fuck all. The guitarist’s the main one. And anyway, they’re shit live.”
Neither of us really meant all this. We’d thoroughly enjoyed seeing Ride at ULU a few months back, but when it came to defending the Magpies we had ears and eyes for no one else.
Dominic sipped his drink and shook his head sadly.
“You two. You just won’t stop living in your little dreamworld of Magpies and Atomic Dustmen and bloody Wendy James. [Alan had a particular weakness for Transvision Vamp, something I didn’t completely share.] Aren’t you ever interested in something more mature?”
“Mature!” Alan barked. “What’s so bloody mature about The Darling Buds?”
“They’re exquisite. As are Soho, who you’re also unable to appreciate.”
“Pile of shit, man. And what was that wank you were listening to the other day, the dance stuff?”
“‘What Time Is Love?,’ KLF,” responded Dominic confidently. “It’s gonna be huge.”
“Well, I don’t like it, man. And The Shamen. It’s all a load of toss. And that fucking Gary Clail bullshit. If I wanted to listen to dance music I’d hang out with Jamie Eisner.”
Dominic put his drink down and squared up to Alan.
“You just hate stuff that doesn’t fit into your neat little boxes, don’t you?”
“No, I—”
“It’s okay, Alan, I understand. I realise it takes a while for your brain to allow all this horrible new stuff past your little elitist alternative checkpoint. It was exactly the same when I introduced you to Jesus Jones—”
“That’s utter bullshit, I discovered them—”
“Don’t worry, Alan. I don’t mind. But for the moment, if you don’t like what I play in my car, don’t fucking get into it.”
Thankfully The Heart Throbs took the stage at this point, because I thought it was getting a bit out of hand. Dominic wandered off to another part of the room, as he sometimes did, and after Alan calmed down we pushed forward, as we always did. There’s nothing quite like a slice of blissful, slightly dreamy guitar pop to take the edge off, and soon we were back where we started: watching a top gig, having just passed the time of day with our favourite musician. Only once did a nag of doubt resurface in my mind.
“You don’t think he’s gonna fuck off without us, do you?”
“Nah, man,” Alan replied. “I’ve had worse arguments with him before. I stole that bird off him at the See See Rider gig and he still gave me a lift home.”
Adequately reassured, I allowed myself to drift back, as the band swept into their finest tune, “Dreamtime.” One of those orgasm-points in gigdom followed, when everyone and everything seem to be as one: the Carlotti sisters’ harmonies, the guitars, the lights, the colourful, dancing crowd—all melted together, as I looked over to see (I mean, could life possibly get any better?) Lance Webster, looking pretty enrapt himself as he gently bopped next to the rather more animated Gloria Feathers. I felt fairly certain there were few places closer to the centre of the alternative-rock universe than where I was standing at that moment. I didn’t even wince with envy a little later when I caught sight of Dominic, who’d somehow got talking to a pretty girl in a Bomb Disneyland T-shirt.
A girl who later received a lift from Dominic in his convertible Volkswagen Golf; unaccompanied, I hardly need add, by Alan and me.
“Cock!” yelled Alan for probably the fourth time, as we sprinted down the dark street towards the station. “I’m gonna fucking crucify him on Monday.”
My luminous DM laces were flying everywhere as we pelted round the corner in time to see the 23:59 gently moving off in the direction of London.
“No!!”
We stood there hopelessly for a minute or so, trying to get our breath back. A recent regime of sitting in the park necking cider and vodka had done its work on our teenage bodies and we were now almost comically unfit.
“What an unbelievable arsehole,” Alan finally summarised. “When the hell did he leave?”
“No idea,” I responded, miserably doing my laces up.
“He was still there after they came offstage?”
“Yeah, he was there for ages, talking to that girl’s mates. I looked over at him while ‘Fatman’ was playing.”
“They played ‘Sheriff Fatman’?”
“No, ‘Fatman’ by Eat.”
Alan blew his nose loudly, turned and started walking slowly away. “Of all the fucking gigs to do this, man.”
“You sure that was the last train?”
Alan didn’t bother to answer this, but simply carried on up the street.
“Where do you think the motorway is?”
A bloody long way away, was the answer. We trudged along the dual carriageway, halfheartedly sticking our thumbs out, the sickly yellow streetlights the only reminder we were anywhere near civilisation, singing various songs to keep us going (“How was it for you, how was it for you?”… “I didn’t like you very much when I met you, and now I like you even less” … “You’re not the sort that I like helping out … look who’s laughing now,” etc.). My DM laces were perpetually giving me gip.
“You should get longer ones, man. Tie ’em round the top of the boot, like I do.”
I grunted in response. The inspiration for my outfit (black jeans, Ned’s Atomic Dustbin T-shirt, unbuttoned purple shirt worn as a jacket) was so far exclusively Alan, but there were certain things I was determined to avoid copying in the hope of remaining just slightly individual.
“Nice bird,” he volunteered.
“Uh?” I replied, looking around pathetically for any specimens of feathered wildlife. Alan giggled.
“Knob-end. I was talking about the blonde before.”
“Oh, right. Yeah.”
Alan and I had been pushing our precarious luck before we left the Square by attempting to join the Webster circle again, which had expanded to include three of the four Heart Throbs, a pair from the support band, indie DJ Gary Crowley, the ubiquitous Gloria Feathers and the aforementioned blonde girl, who was near the edge of the group and seemed the most likely to give us the time of day. But the stupid thing back in those days was that we rarely had a drink in our hands, either due to diminished funds or over-scrupulous bar staff (I’ve a feeling it was both on this occasion) so we always looked more hanging-around than hanging-out.
“I’m sure she was someone, man.”
“Someone?”
“The blonde.”
We were distracted briefly by the sound of approaching dance music. A throbbing Transit van roared past us, ignored our outstretched thum
bs and hurled a half-full can of cider in our direction.
“Tit!” Alan shouted after the Transit.
“There’s some left,” I exclaimed, bending to pick the can up.
“Don’t be a pleb, man.”
I shrugged. I’d have done worse if I’d been on my own.
“Anyway, I was saying. She’s a singer or something, I’m sure of it.”
Alan would later claim to identify her as Sarah Cracknell, soon to be of Saint Etienne—although God knows how he arrived at that conclusion. He didn’t have a chance to consider it for much longer back then, for soon the cider-flinging van was speeding back down the wrong side of the deserted dual carriageway towards us.
“Probably coming back for their cider,” chuckled Alan; although as the van neared we halted and stepped backwards nervously.
“Maybe he didn’t like being called a tit,” I suggested. The van spun round, came to a crazy diagonal stop in the middle of the road and stuck its hazards on. A bearded, mad-looking bloke with muddy dreadlocks stuck his head out the window and yelled delightedly above the pounding din.
“Where ya goin’?”
“Bushey,” Alan bellowed back, injecting as much rock ’n’ roll as possible into the word. “Where you going?”
“Where?” came the response.
“Yes, where?” repeated Alan, a little too enthusiastically, as events would prove.
“Cool, us too!” the guy shouted back. “Come on!”
“No, where!” repeated Alan.
“Tha’s all right, mate, we’re all goin’ same place, jump in the back, we’ll drop you by the Royal Oak or somethin’ in the town centre. That’ll do you, eh?”
“The Royal Oak! Perfect,” I grinned, at the sound of a pub less than fifteen minutes’ walk from my house. Alan looked a little stunned, then shrugged approval.
“Yeah, man, the Royal Oak’s cool. Cheers.”
What brilliant luck! There was nothing to this hitchhiking lark. We plodded round to the back of the van. The doors opened and we were met by two scruffy mongrel dogs on threadbare leads, held by two equally mangy dreadlocked geezers in New Model Army T-shirts. A small girl lurked further back, looking fairly spaced-out in a Spacemen 3 top that she’d fashioned into a dress.
“Come on in, don’t be shy,” beamed one of the chaps. “I’m Barry, this is Welpo, Liz over there, Si up at the front and this,” indicating the two dogs, “is Margaret and Steve.”
We climbed in and settled ourselves on the purple rug. Welpo slammed the doors and Si, after turning the music down just a touch—to earsplitting rather than brain-crushing volume—began to wildly reverse back up the road.
“Sorry I chucked the can at you,” he shouted. “You looked like you needed a drink.”
The makeshift lounge they’d created in the back was lit by an ultraviolet torch and surprisingly cosy, once I’d got used to Steve’s arse in my face. Alan looked content enough, having temporarily abandoned his concerns as to where the hell we were going. I accepted a swig from Welpo’s can of cider and tried to familiarise myself with the music.
“Who’s this?”
“You what?” Barry frowned, cupping his ear.
“Who’s the music?”
“The Shamen!” he exclaimed. I looked over at Alan to see if he would repeat his earlier view that they were “a load of toss,” but he was already being snogged by the spaced-out girl.
I’m still amazed we got as far as we did without noticing our ridiculous error. I remember remarking into Barry’s ear that it was quite a coincidence we were all from the same town, and being somewhat puzzled when he mentioned something about living near “the river.” Perhaps if the music hadn’t been so loud I might have asked him where the hell a river was in Bushey; then again, perhaps if Alan wasn’t having his faced sucked off he might have noticed from Si’s driving style that we were clearly not on the motorway. As it was, we only smelled a rat when the van stopped after fifteen minutes and Si announced our arrival.
“Already?” stammered Alan, breathlessly.
“Yup,” laughed Si, as Welpo opened the doors. “I don’t hang around.”
Alan and I gingerly peeked out and were greeted by the sight of a pub that was indeed called the Royal Oak but was blatantly not in Bushey.
“Where the fuck are we, man?”
“Where!” Barry responded, in surprised and slightly pained tones.
“Yes, where!” Alan repeated. “Where have you driven us?”
“Where! In Hertfordshire! W-A-R-E!”
Oh, the hilarity.
By the time we arrived home at around lunchtime the following day, after a tortuous, meandering train journey, a few significant decisions had been made: we would no longer (as if we had any choice) rely on Dominic Browne for gig transport, we would not accept a lift from anyone until we had made them repeat our town of destination at least three times, Alan would try to abandon some of his inbuilt prejudices concerning dance music, and I would make it my top priority—as I resolved through my near-hallucinogenic tiredness, having spent all night sleeplessly listening to Alan enjoying the sexual appetite of a tripped-out, twenty-something Spacemen 3 fan a few metres away from me—to lose my virginity as soon as possible.
Back in Alan’s office, I sip my coffee, nibble my muffin and continue flicking through the scrapbook’s heavily encumbered pages.
“So weird, isn’t it?” I comment wistfully. “If that happened these days …”
“We’d get a fucking cab and be home in time for last orders.”
“Yeah,” I nod—but the fact that I don’t necessarily consider this a good thing is lost on Alan.
Further research is abandoned at that point, for Alan’s three-year-old daughter, Jocasta, races into the room and delightedly begs us to play hide-and-seek, which in the enormity of Alan’s house is a game so riveting I’d almost choose it above, say, tenpin bowling as a drinking sport. Soon Alan’s businesslike guard is dropped and we horse about, Liz joins in, beers come out and it quickly turns into A Fun Afternoon. We play for a good hour, then sit around chatting for a bit, pizza goes in the oven, more beers emerge and it’s just about to turn into A Fun Evening when my mobile bleeps and I remember I promised Polly I’d have Sunday-night lasties with her. My work is done, though, for as I’m putting on my coat Alan mutters “Bugger it,” runs up the stairs and returns with the scrapbook, wrapped up in a strong transparent plastic bag, as though it’s some untouchable legal exhibit.
“Just be bloody careful with it,” he quietly asserts.
I smile gratefully. “I’ll make it worthwhile.”
“Yeah, yeah … get outta here,” he grins, giving me a hearty slap on the back that doubles as a friendly push out the door. “Good luck.” Then, out of earshot from his wife and child, he adds touchingly, “Try not to fuck it up.”
“Thanks. Vorsprung Durch Peanut …”
“Vorsprung Durch Peanut,” he counters.
As I wander towards the bus stop I have a brief moment of paranoia that he’s really given me the book because he can’t bear me coming round the whole time to look at it. But, deciding this is probably stupid, I board the bus and head home.
SUGGESTED LISTENING: The Jesus and Mary Chain, Automatic (Blanco y Negro, 1989)
What an extraordinary
way to behave
And now I am alone.
The funny thing is, I really am going to do this. It’s an odd feeling when you reach an absolute decision within yourself to do something rather peculiar and ill-advised, knowing nothing can change your mind. Alan’s probably thinking, “Oh, it’s just another of Clive’s loser-esque schemes. He’ll have forgotten about it by the middle of the week.” And yes, on the surface this is remarkably similar to the others. But—unlike the episode years back when I announced to everyone my intention to seduce the actress who played Lauren Carpenter in Neighbours, giving rise to a weekly trail round all the pubs in Fulham, where I’d heard she was living (a plan that was
also the product of an unusual dream, now I come to think of it)—the key factor this time is that Lance Webster really is here. On my street. I’ve narrowed down his whereabouts to the nearest twenty metres. No detective work is needed. All I need is a little patience, luck, some of the social skills and intelligence I must surely (surely?) have amassed over the last thirty years, and it really should be easy. Oh yes.
But how do you follow someone? I’m not the sort of slick individual who can lithely creep around unnoticed. I decide that I’d better do a little research. I pop into my local bookshop and glance at one of those absurd stocking-filler manuals called How to Do Difficult Stuff or something, but it only tells me how to escape from a straitjacket or how to have sex on a plane. The Internet is my next stop, and of course some knob has taken the trouble to write down his methods in some detail. “Prepare the proper attire,” he begins. “Black is a bad idea. At all hours, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb. Red attracts attention. Wear greys and greens. If the weather permits it, wear a hooded sweater or jacket.” All my clothes are grey and green anyway, but what does he mean, “If the weather permits it”? As in, if it’s not too hot and sunny? Clearly not written by anyone British.
“Spot your target,” he continues. “See which direction they’re headed in, and how fast they are moving.” Okay. I’ve already worked out I’m going to have to sit at the top of our basement steps until I see Webster emerge from his house (let’s hope he actually does, or I’m in for a boring weekend). The instructor then enters into a complex discussion regarding parked cars, outracing your target and making fake calls on a mobile, occasionally offering such use-free nuggets as: “If the weather isn’t cold enough to make a bent head plausible, keep looking down at your watch.” What the hell does that mean? My attention kind of wanders off after that bit.
I take a fleeting look at the “Things You’ll Need” section, which comprises little more than “the ability to lie convincingly” (I was once told my lying is so unconvincing that I’m actually convincing; I’ve managed to lap myself in believability terms), and finally a cautionary glance at the warning note:
Tim Thornton Page 6
