The Alternative Hero (37 page)

“Oh, my
God
, Clive! You
freak!
This is too much! What have you turned
into
, man?”

“I know.” I sigh, chuckling sadly. “It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s
desperate
, that’s what it is, mate. We need to sort you out! Cheryl, two more here,” he instructs a passing waitress. “So, anyway—are you saying he’s emailed you since then?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d it say?”

“It was weird. It said he didn’t like being lied to, and he’d spent lots of time and money escaping from what he used to be …”

“So he was in therapy, basically.”

“Was he?”

“I dunno, I’m guessing.” Billy shrugs.

“Right. Then it said something about the past being dug up, and now he wants me to help him bury it, and to ‘be ready.’”

“Oooooh!” screams Billy, his campest utterance yet. “Wow! This is great! Why don’t things like this happen to me? That sounds spoo
ooky
!”

“Yeah. But there were no further instructions.”

“Aw, come on. Sounds like he wants you to get back in touch with him.”

“No.”

“He must do, man! It’s obvious! Why would this guy, after all that’s happened, give you his own fucking email address?”

“Dunno.”

The next round of drinks arrives. Billy busies himself with the straw, and I get a brief flash of what he used to be like with a milk shake.

“Hmmm,” he ponders. “Lance Webster. Did they ever find out what happened to that crazy bitch?”

“Gloria?”

“Yeah! The one he was shagging.”

“They were
never
shagging,” I state firmly, to a stern look from Billy.

“Oh, Clive. Wake up, man!
Everyone
knows that! Even
I
know that, and I was never into the bloody band!”

“Well,
I
don’t believe they were.”

“You’d defend their honour to the death, wouldn’t you?” he sniggers. “Christ, Thieving Magpies, eh? I remember you guys … you and that cock Potter, in your little indie uniforms. Sorry, dude, but you guys were so
sad
. I mean, you probably thought
I
was a total loser at school, but you were like fucking football supporters with that band …”

“Yeah, I s’pose,” I grumble. “I was never into football, so they were like my surrogate football team.”

“So, are you gonna reply to him?”

“I dunno yet. There was something else he wrote, a weird bit about thanking me for all I’d done.”

“For looking at his writing?”

“No,” I frown. “This was written to Clive, not the other guy.”

“But you
are
the other guy.”

“Yeah, but this was … different. I can’t quite describe it, but it was blatantly written to Clive, and not ‘Alan.’”

“And
did
you ever do anything for him?”

“Well … not really. Apart from writing a load of stuff in my fanzine, back when he was freaking out, and some letters in
Melody Maker
and so on. Y’know, supporting him. Telling everyone to leave him alone. Nothing he’d have known about, though.”

Billy giggles and shakes his head.

“Clive, I don’t mean to belittle you, man … but I do feel kind of sorry for you. Christ, I mean … you’re such a nice bloke, you always were, but you do end up sticking your neck out for people who probably don’t deserve it. Isn’t it time you put yourself first?”

“Well, I kind of am, really.”

“How so?”

So I spin him my usual yarn about Webster being forgotten, and how vindication for him would be equal vindication for me. I try Billy with my theory that all those druggie northern bands continue to bask in reverence while all the southern “booze” bands—particularly my beloved Magpies—are quietly swept under the carpet, and how I want to redress the balance. Billy waves all this away.

“What can I say? Sorry, Clive. Thieving Magpies were
boring
. Everyone knows that. Lance Webster’s one of the most boring men to sell a million records.”

“He’s not!” I argue hopelessly. “He’s got mystery. Who else had such a public fall from grace that’s never been explained?”

“Where’s the mystery in that? He was just pissed off his career was going down the pan.”

“But that’s the point,” I insist. “It wasn’t. Not yet.”

“Well, I dunno. He always seemed pretty dull to me.”

“He wasn’t dull in interviews,” I point out.

“Who remembers interviews? It’s all
words
. People only remember actions—visual stuff.”

“I don’t agree.”

“Yeah, well … no offence, Clive, but you’re not the sort of person that counts. Yes, you love Lance Webster’s witticisms, Carter’s puns, but God, how far down the food chain d’you think that shit goes? Do you know why I don’t get too involved in movie adaptations of my stuff? Because I can’t bear how much they have to cut
out
. So I just leave ’em to it. At the end of the day, audiences don’t wanna think. People like songs for the choruses and catchphrases. They like films for a cracking good story with some laughs, a few bangs and crashes and a bonking scene. They like interviews for quick sound bites, and rudeness. Not intelligence.”

“What about Morrissey?”

“Morrissey was in The Smiths,” he shrugs, indicating no further explanation is necessary.

Something about Billy’s directness is both appalling and refreshing. I expect I’ll come away from this experience feeling rather like I did the few times I’ve ever been to a gym: that I enjoyed little of it, but it was precisely what I needed.

“You hate Liam and Noel for being mouthy, arrogant assholes,” he continues, “but they’re loved by a billion people for precisely the same reason. Yes, Ian Brown says fucking homophobic stuff in interviews and gets away with it, gets arrested for plane rage, and people still love him. But what do you want? Everyone loves a bad guy. I know it’s not fair.
You
know it’s not fair. But fuck it, that’s life.”

He takes a fortifying swig of his Bloody Mary.

“But don’t think you’re the only one. I fucking love heaps of stuff-music, comics, films—which doesn’t get anywhere
near
the sort of
recognition it deserves, even from the ‘alternative mainstream.’ But I ain’t crying. You talk as though you’re the only person who still likes Thieving Magpies, or any of those bands. That’s bullshit! I’ll give you two scenarios, right? One: an alternative radio station, tomorrow lunchtime, plays ‘Wonderwall.’ Or ‘I Wanna Be Adored.’ Or, I dunno, that fucking Verve song. What happens? Nothing. Scenario two: the same station plays ‘Look Who’s Laughing.’ Or ‘Sheriff Fat-man.’ Or ‘The Size of a Cow.’ What happens? Twenty, thirty people phone up and say, ‘Oh, that song’s so amazing, haven’t heard it in years, reminds me of going to the fucking student bar’ or whatever. They’re
loved
, man. Rather than just part of the fucking wallpaper. And in the States? Let me tell you. If Thieving Magpies re-formed tomorrow—God forbid, but let’s just say—where would they play? Madison Square Garden.”

“No …”

“Madison fucking Square Garden! Guaran-
teed
. People in the States, and in Europe, they
remember
. But I’m telling you, the British press sends out a warped fucking viewpoint on culture, man. What’s big and what isn’t. Particularly for music. Dunno why. And when I say Britain, I really mean England, and perhaps Wales. Scotland and Ireland, they’re fucking on the continent by comparison. You’ve no idea. England’s a weirdhole. Thank fuck I left.”

I remember the Irish girls who accosted Lance outside the art gallery. Goddammit, the man might be right.

“But Clive … this is all just the gravy. Why you’re sitting here still thinking about all this shit is beyond me. You’re thirty-three years old, boy. The only way
you
can get ahead in your life is to forget all that shit, and get on with what
you
want to do. You want to meet this guy? You want to finally get that story out of him? You’ve fucking got to
go
for it. You email him back,
demand
he tells you what you want
to hear. Make sure you lay it on really thick, all the guilt tactics, tell him you stuck your neck out for him, back in the day, tell him he
owes
you, then
drag
those fucking sordid details out, whatever the hell they are … and then you
move… the… fuck… on!
You want to write for somebody? Come to New York, I’ll hook you up. You want to sit around on your arse dreaming of 1990? Stay right here.”

Stay right here.

We stay right there for another hour, blethering about this and that, returning to our main subject every so often. We put away a delicious brunch, have a few more drinks, then the natural time to go approaches and Billy calls for the bill. I’m not quite sure why, but I’m a little taken aback when it arrives and, having captained the entire experience—drinks, conversation and meal, right down to ordering my own food for me (“I know the best stuff they have here, dude”)—Billy announces, “So we’ll split it, yeah? It’s eighty-two quid, so that’s forty-one each, plus tip is forty-five … forty-five pounds and ten pence each.”

“Er … sorry,” I splutter. “I haven’t … um, I’ve only brought twenty along with me …”

“Oh,” he frowns. “Damn. Well, there’s a cash machine up the street.”

“Ah, right,” I nod, and put my jacket on. “Well, I’ll be back in five minutes, then.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, already starting to text somebody.

Billy waits until I’m almost through the terrace door, then howls with laughter.

“Ha ha
haaa
!! You
goon!
Of
course
I’m paying for the whole thing!”

“Wha … uh?”

“This isn’t even a proper bill,” he continues, scrunching it up. “I
don’t
get
bills here, man! I
own
half the bloody club. Ha ha
haa!
! Your face was so
classic!”

“Okay,” I smile, dripping with embarrassment. “You got me.”

Suddenly Billy’s smile vanishes, he reaches out and shakes my hand with startling firmness.

“Now
that
was for Spike fucking Island.”

Fair enough.

And so I leave the cosseted world of the extremely successful and mooch off into the warm, sleepy Soho Sunday afternoon. As usual at these junctures, the temptation to install myself at a nearby pub, phone a friend and let the rest of the day take its long, boozy course, is compelling. But Billy’s pro active words are ringing loudly in my ears and I’m driven by some invisible energy back up to Oxford Street and straight onto the bus. By the time we hit King’s Cross I’ve mentally composed three-quarters of my missive to Webster, and even consider jumping off somewhere to get it done in an Internet café before I forget. But I stay on, repeating “You
owe
me” like a mantra as we lurch up the Essex Road.

Once at the flat, I storm through the kitchen (where Polly is drinking Pimms, wearing a bikini and midway through a jigsaw), settle myself down and begin to write what feels like the email of my life. And oh, it’s a good one. It’s beautifully written, sincere but not too cheesy, impassioned but steering clear of the stalkerish vernacular which doubtless screwed up my previous effort, well-argued, well-intentioned (I only say “you owe me” once, and make plenty of references to it being for his own good), there are even a few laughs (I think) and, crucially—for this is a bad habit of mine—not too long. I finish it, step outside for some air, come back and edit thoroughly,
remembering to add appropriate heartfelt apologies for having misled and repeatedly lied to him. It takes me the better part of four hours, no further alcohol touches my lips (but our kettle works overtime), and then, just when I’m scanning one last time before guiding my mouse to the send button, my computer dies.

No. It
really
dies.

It quite literally does
nothing
. It’s like it has suddenly refused to accept electricity into any of its circuits any longer.

“Polly!”

I am so pissed off, so knackered, so unable to even
consider
writing the whole thing out again from memory, that I grab Polly’s laptop, open up my email page, hit reply to Webster’s original message and simply type this:

I add my mobile number to the bottom of the email, hit send and watch the little dial go round and round in the corner of the screen, counting down the milliseconds I have to stop the thing from leaving. I exhale as the confirmation page appears, shut the machine down and join Polly in the kitchen for a large Pimms. The email
vacates my head for the rest of the evening, not returning until I’m halfway to work next morning, at which point I chuckle heartily at life, with all the funny twists and turns that propel one to send abrupt emails to ex-pop stars on random Sunday evenings in June. But the even funnier thing is—it works.

It happens on a Thursday morning.

Thankfully, as it turns out. For several reasons.

But we’ll get to that.

It’s the usually underwhelming arrival of a text message that kicks it all off, while I’m engaged in that noblest of activities: taking my recycling to the recycling bank (I say “my” and not “our” because Polly decided some months back it was all claptrap and now throws everything rather ostentatiously into the council litter bins). I ping the last of the green bottles through the black plastic brush thingies, wipe the remnants of stale beer on the back of my suit trousers and stride over to the bus stop feeling rather pleased with myself. Then the phone bleeps and my world, frankly, stops.