by David Lines
Paul had written my life for me. He’d sung songs about my mum and my dad, about my brothers Chris and Phil, about my aunties and uncles, about my grandparents, about my friends and our neighbours. He sung about the man who delivered our milk, the man who owned the shop on the corner and the people who bought their daily bread from him. He knew me and I knew Paul – or rather I thought I did. Weller was as much a part of my world as I was, but he wasn’t there to share it any more. I picked up the bag, went out onto the landing and down the stairs, through the hall and out through the kitchen into the garden.
I sat down on the rockery and looked at the bag. The air was still and fresh and whilst I was indoors a thunderstorm came, tipped it down and left as quickly as it arrived. The skies were blue again, and the smell of wet moss filled my nose. I saw a raindrop on a leaf and watched a ladybird as it paddled in it like a pool. I stood up, walked to the garden shed and fetched a box of Swan Vestas, then emptied The Jam into the incinerator. I took out a match, struck it and lowered it inside and then I set fire to Paul Weller’s face.
It burned quickly, the flame licking around his hair. He wasn’t laughing at me now. I could hear him screaming as the fire whipped down his neck and onto his body, his clothes crumpling under the flame and then, with a whumpf, the whole lot went up with every cutting, every picture, my whole Weller archive burning out forever in a blaze of glory; my glorious revenge. I bent down, untied my bowling shoes, took them off one by one and dropped them deep into the heart of the roaring furnace. I took off my Lonsdale t-shirt and draped it, like a flag over a coffin, across the top of the incinerator. It sagged under the intense heat, and sighed, like it was breathing its last.
There was so much dense smoke from all of the paper that I had to stand back, quickly, as it belched up into my face. My eyes stung as much from crying as from the smoke and I placed the lid onto the bonfire and stood back to watch the bluey, dove-grey plumes coil up, out of the funnel and away through the branches of the silver birch. Hundreds of thousands of tiny black wafers of burnt paper floated up into the sky, propelled by the raw heat beneath and were carried away, dancing high over the garden fences of Garforth. I watched till the fire burned itself out and then I stood back. ‘Goodbye, Paul.’ I walked calmly back inside and ran myself a bath. I needed to make myself feel clean again.
11
Speak Like A Child
GOING BACK TO school for my retakes was like sitting down and having to eat a very large shit sandwich. Whereas before I was regarded as the cool mod, now I was looked upon as the school retard. Or that’s what it felt like to me. I’d been in the sixth form for months but still it didn’t feel right for me.
If I was worried about sixth form, it was nothing compared to how worried Dad had become about what had happened to Shergar. That horse had made him big money in the 1981 Derby, and when the prize stallion had been kidnapped from his stables in County Kildare, Dad’s world fell through the seat of his pants like mine did when The Jam split. We were both lost souls, thrown together by grief, a shared and desolate grief. ‘Shergar the Wonder Horse’ had been valued at £10 million, was named European Horse of the Year in 1981 and was retired from racing that September. Then he was kidnapped two years later, the year I took resits, and his capture entirely obsessed my dad, but my loss was the greater, believe me.
Dad pored over the papers whilst I mourned for The Jam. Apart from the football pools, Dad had never been a betting man but he had a love for Shergar. He kind of turned himself into a private eye and was always trying to solve the mystery for himself. ‘It’s the IRA. I’m telling you, lad, there’ll be a ransom note before too long – they need the money for the machine guns …’
Being back at school taught me what to think, not how to think. I was suffocating, lost forever in my own self-doubt and with no direction, no motivation, devoid of all inspiration. The one plus was the social side, and it went some little way to counteract my embarrassment at resitting O levels whilst everyone else was marching up the academic ladder doing their A levels. I was only too aware of my past failure. It didn’t help that Rik had secured himself a mighty ten O levels, all top-flight grades, with little or no revision. ‘I put it all down to the snooker, Dave – helps focus the mind – makes you see things from all the different angles. I think you just went in-off the black, that’s all … you were unfortunate.’
I didn’t know it at the time, but my misfortune was to shape my destiny.
I would put on a brave face before school each morning, and wear it like a mask. I kept it in my bedroom, on top of the dresser next to my hairdryer, and would put it on before I went down to breakfast. I was in classes with people I didn’t know, people I didn’t particularly like and I was studying things that didn’t interest me. Drama and English were the only subjects that I held dear, and once I’d got those under my belt everything else just went in one ear and straight out the other. The days without Paul were empty and long and only added to my sad and lonely time at school. I couldn’t help wondering what he was up to with his time now there was no more Jam. What was Paul doing all day long?
I was seeing less and less of Rik now that we were in different sets and I’m sure this added to my turning into a right morbid bugger. I decided to find a replacement for The Jam – a new group for me to follow.
It was a short-lived project – there was nothing out there to touch what had gone. All there was, was a bunch of foppish limp-wristed fucks with zero talent, no dress sense and no emotion. They meant absolutely one hundred per cent nothing. Who was out there? That tosser Martin Fry? Wanking around in his gold lamé jacket and floppy fringe? He wasn’t fit to breathe the same air as Paul Weller. Simon le Bon? Ponce. Marilyn? No thanks. David Bowie? Never wrote a half-decent tune in his life. Phil Collins? Looks like a bin man. Men at Work? More like Men Hanging Around Public Lavatories. Ultravox? Ultra shite. Modern Romance? Get me a gun – now. The Stranglers? Pub band. Shakin’ Stevens? Welsh greaser having a fit. My God, what was left – Keith Harris and Orville? Jesus, maybe Dad was right after all – maybe Frank Sinatra was the answer.
I was slipping at school, which was typical of me. If my heart wasn’t in it then it didn’t interest me – I simply could not be arsed. And it showed – I’d been called in to see Mr Johnson, Head of Sixth Form, to talk about ‘my progress’. I can remember waiting for him, outside his office. I was early, showing willing, and was idly flicking through a copy of Smash Hits that someone had left on the table next to the coffee machine. It was full to brimming with bollocks – a four-page feature about Boy George shopping for a frock, some nonsense about Le Bon’s new boat and a piece concerning itself with the new make-up Adam Ant was endorsing – like I said; complete and utter bollocks. I skipped through the pages and something caught my eye – the flash of a raincoat, a glare of white sock, the gleam of a polished loafer – my heart skipped a broken beat; it couldn’t be. Could it?
Before I had time to flick further, Mr Johnson appeared, in a whirlwind of fag ash and brandy breath. ‘Come in, Lines – we have much to discuss …’
I stuffed the mag in my bag and followed him through to his office. He wasn’t awful, in fact he was quite kind and he talked about how it wasn’t uncommon for bright pupils to lose their way a little and that with the right encouragement and guidance I’d quickly be back on track. I agreed with him, told him I was well aware that I’d let myself, my family and the school down and that all of my efforts were going to be put into getting the right results the next time round. Johnson told me not to be too hard on myself and just to get my head down and enjoy my studies. I couldn’t get out of there quickly enough – I needed to find out if that really was Paul in the picture.
It was. The magazine had little teaser ads dotted throughout, all featuring different images that could only be connected with Weller; the silver identity bracelet, the two-tone shoes, the back of his head. But what exactly was The Style Council? I couldn’t wait to find out.
The
Style Council seemed to me to be everything that The Jam were not. The first single, ‘Speak Like A Child’, certainly had a different sound – and Paul had a very different new look to match. Instead of finding it confusing like a lot of fans did, I absolutely got the whole thing straightaway – and I loved it.
‘Speak Like A Child’ was, to my ears at least, as fresh and vibrant and hopeful as a bright spring day. It suited the time of its release, March, and the daffodils danced in the garden to the fun new sounds spinning from my speakers. This was a welcome new world of music, and I embraced it completely – not just because it was Paul, but because I utterly dug it. The first single was a funky rush of horns and Hammond organ, backing vocals provided by unknown eighteen-year-old Tracie. I can remember now that I wasn’t shocked by The Style Council, I was shocked by the fact that Paul had gone on to do something else. Perhaps it was naïve of me at the time, but I honestly didn’t think that I’d see him again. I truly believed that without The Jam there would be no Paul Weller so when the Council came along I wasn’t just over the moon because Paul was back, I was over the moon because he was back with something that I thoroughly loved listening to. The Style Council were … dramatic. I think that was one of the biggest pulls for me. I’d become dramatic through school plays and now Paul was developing his love of clothes and films and Frenchness, just like I had through The Boy Friend.
The Style Council also saw the introduction of the mysterious and enigmatic Cappuccino Kid, identity unknown, who provided whimsical sleeve notes for the singles. I grew to love these almost as much as the music itself. Paul’s new partner in The Style Council was a certain Mick Talbot who Paul had been friends with for some time and who had played keyboards on ‘The Eton Rifles’ – he certainly brought something new to the party and the B-side to ‘Speak Like A Child’ gave big, brave clues to the new way Weller was heading. I lapped it up! The flip was called ‘Party Chambers’, and man, what a tune.
It was the sixties captured and bottled and put down on vinyl. I always thought it would have been just as good as an instrumental, with its crazy synths, piano and jazzy drumming – and I loved dancing to it. The video to ‘Speak Like A Child’ only reinforced how much Paul was enjoying his new band – I almost pissed myself laughing. Paul took the mick out of himself big style; the vid opens with PW sitting in a rocking chair on top of a hill and cuts between him and Mick larking around in a field, on an open-top London bus haring through the countryside with some hippy chicks playing the horn section like Cliff Richard in ‘Summer Holiday’. They’re pratting around with colourful umbrellas and leaping around like kids and the bus has ‘Really Free – Aren’t We?’ plastered down the side. The clip’s filmed in black and white and then bits of it are coloured in with what look like scratchy felt-tip pens and it is what it is, a bit of fun. Paul was sending out a message – ‘I’m not as serious as you think I am.’ The first time I saw it was on Saturday morning telly – I can’t remember the name of the show and I didn’t know it was coming – it just jumped out at me. I dropped my sausage sarnie and phoned Rik straight away. ‘Are you watching this?’
‘I am, Dave. And I think he’s gone mad … stark, staring fucking bonkers.’
The Jam didn’t really do videos but, as The Style Council broadened Paul’s musical output, so too did his videos. I adored the indulgent dress sense, the theatrical promo clips, his ironic view of the music business and the desperate need to disassociate himself from The Jam Army. Being in The Jam Army made you want to go to the coast and smack a rocker – but The Style Council just made me want to get my nails done. The Jam could never have made a noise like The Style Council, not even if they’d wanted to.
I was writing more and more short stories, poetry (despite never having had a thing back from Paul) and the sketches that I was collaborating on with Lizzie were getting really good. I was growing into the direction I wanted to go in despite being in a school which frowned on anything out of the ordinary. Paul was developing his new path and The Style Council encouraged me to find mine. It was the only support I got. Dad didn’t know what to make of my dreams and I think Mum found my work embarrassing to read – as for Chris and Phil, I think they just thought their big brother was more like a big ponce. I can remember the first time I saw The Style Council play live on the box. Peter Powell introduced them on BBC Two and Paul was wearing mascara and eyeliner with a pastel-yellow jersey draped around his shoulders. Mum took one look and said, ‘Ooh – he’s gone all weird …’
I vividly remember one night which helped push me forward when things at school had turned into a real grind. The studying for resits now held about as much interest for me as a jam jar full of warm wank and all I wanted to do was write, write and write again. All I could see before me was a huge, great wall. I’d sort of started seeing Hazel Rimmer, who I’d met through the musical and who’d left school and gone to work in a bank. It was a Saturday night in the Bird in Hand, which was like an extension to school at the weekends. Hazel was the same age as me and looked alarmingly grown-up. She had a lady’s handbag, blonde hair in a bob that looked like it knew when you were overdrawn and an agreeable habit of wearing her blouse a size too small with too many buttons undone. Curiously, she had a pretty but very, very small face. I always thought it was like French kissing a cat.
It was half-seven and the Bird in Hand was filling up quickly as I elbowed my way through the crowd to the long bar. I bought drinks for me and Hazel, with her money. She earned a decent wage and always paid for my cigarettes and our drinks and we’d been seeing each other for about eight weeks. I liked her, but she was very bossy and assertive and she was a massive Haircut One Hundred fan, which was the biggest drawback because she was constantly trying to get me to tuck my ski jumper into my jeans like bloody Nick Heyward. As you know, I absolutely loathed Haircut One Hundred. I thought that they looked like catalogue models.
‘There you are, Haze. Half a lager and black.’ I picked the glass up off the tray and handed it to her.
She looked worried. ‘Um, thanks. And just who are all the other drinks for?’
‘Us. It’s a scrum up there. We don’t want to spend all night waiting to get served, do we?’
‘No, you’re right. Good thinking. Was there any change from that tenner?’
‘Not really …’
Hazel sipped her drink and lit a John Player Special. I hated them, they were far too strong for me. I lit a Silk Cut and steadily worked my way through three Pernod and blacks, a pint of lager, half a cider and a rum and Coke. Hazel managed to make her drink last all through mine and launched into a fascinating conversation about variable base rates. I don’t know if it was just the drink but I felt very sleepy. Hazel told me about the people she worked with and the people she caught the bus to work with and how she’d get a staff rate on the loan she was going to take out to buy a Mini Metro. Just as my head felt as if it was about to drop off, Lizzie Marlow came into view, through the tap room and into the main bar. She saw me and started jumping up and down, waving rolled up scripts at me and she pointed at her watch and then at me, mouthing ‘In a minute’. I waved back and Hazel went to the loo and to get more drinks in. I watched her totter off, in her deep cherry-red miniskirt and her white high heels and I was picturing her without any clothes on when Lizzie sidled up next to me. ‘There you are, brush-head; our first scripts typed up ready for rehearsal!’
‘Thanks – well done, you.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
Lizzie rubbed my new haircut. It was cropped way short, like a crew cut that had just grown out, like Paul’s new look but with shorter sideburns. People kept coming up, scratching and rubbing it. I didn’t mind, it reminded me of a woman on the telly the previous night talking about how when she was pregnant everyone felt as if they had the right to stroke her swollen belly. It was the same with spiky hair – it was an open invitation for people to mess it up. Lizzie was dressed in denim dungarees – she looked as if she should be presenting
Play Away.
‘So, tell me how it’s all going with Hazel?’ She cocked her head on one side and beamed at me like a lunatic, like Animal, the drummer from The Muppets.
‘Why did you say her name like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like the way you just did? Like that.’
‘Easy, tiger. It’s just …’
‘It’s just what?’
‘It’s just that you and Hazel don’t seem, you know, you don’t seem suited for each other.’ Lizzie patted her pockets for her fags, couldn’t find them, so took one of Hazel’s.
‘And what, is that a bad thing?’
‘You’re just a very unlikely couple.’
‘So what’s the fucking problem?’ I snapped this back at her with some real venom and she looked shocked. Sod it, it was the drink, I didn’t mean to be rude.
‘Fuck, David. I’m sorry – right? I didn’t mean to upset you, I didn’t mean anything. I was just saying, that’s all. I’m going. Ring me about rehearsals.’ She got up, ruffled my hair again and gave me a peck on the cheek. I was glad, it showed me we were still friends. I was an idiot sometimes, I really was. Hazel came back with the drinks and I finished mine in one. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you home,’ I said.
Hazel was not happy and neither was I. We walked for five minutes; her house wasn’t far from the pub. She lived close to Kate and I asked if she knew her well. It was the first we’d spoken since we left the Bird. I didn’t even hear her reply because of the blood gushing around my head as I fell over, face down into her father’s semicircular flower bed. It wasn’t even nine at night and I could see two Hazels, two open front doors and two Mr Rimmers looking mightily pissed off. I lay sprawled across his front garden and the scripts lay scattered around me. Both Hazels helped me up, gathered the scripts and stuffed them into my hand. They leaned in close, I thought she was going to kiss me but she didn’t, she just whispered in my ear, ‘Don’t ever fucking phone me again – it’s over.’ I didn’t know how to react. I didn’t know what was worse; the fact that I’d just been dumped or that as she leaned in, the breath from her warm mouth and the heat off her tongue travelled down through my ear and straight to my balls. What kind of man was I who got turned on even when he’s being dumped?