The Modfather: My Life with Paul Weller

by David Lines

  It was an early summer breeze which blew me slightly sober. There was a dampness in the air and I stumbled through the streets, not knowing where I was going. Another pub for another drink? Back home to bed? No, I ended up just walking past the big, redbrick houses with their big cars spilling out of their big drives onto the streets. Jesus, even the wing mirrors on the BMWs had their own hanging baskets. I wanted to read the scripts so I sat on someone’s front wall and looked at them underneath the lamplight. I sparked up a cigarette and whistled smoke from my lips, watching it cloud the night’s sky. It blurred out the stars in front of my eyes and I started to shiver. I was cold and my teeth chattered and I was suddenly washed away by a tide of depression. I’d been dumped, I’d upset Lizzie, I hated school, and I felt lost. It was down to the drink, but a stupid idea came into my head – I decided to set fire to the scripts to keep warm. After all, what was that ridiculous idea wanting to write? I took out my Bic lighter and flicked the flame free, drawing it to the edge of the first page. ‘Is that you, David Lines?’ There was a voice behind me, out of the night, and now I knew where I was. I recognised the voice with its soft tone of the Tyne and its tenderness warmed me from six feet away. It’s a lovely feeling when a voice smiles at you. ‘Yeah, it’s me, Mr Blyton.’

  Kate’s dad looked genuinely appalled at the sight of me, covered in mud, stinking of booze, shoes caked with soil. He screwed up his nose and peered out at me from behind his steamy spectacles. His hair was made even whiter by the slight sheen of the rain and he looked like he might want to give me a lecture, but he didn’t, instead he just knocked his pipe out on the back of his hand and said, ‘I was thinking about having a wee Scotch – care to come inside and join me?’

  ‘Thanks. I’d like that.’ I spluttered the words out in a half sob, they tripped over themselves and I disguised the fact that I felt like crying by adding, ‘A very kind offer.’

  ‘Good. I’ve been meaning to ask Kate how your writing was coming along. Right, then – let’s get inside where it’s warm.’

  I moved to follow him and he pointed at my scripts on the pavement, the rain splodging the words, merging them into one wet, inky mess. ‘What’s that? Looks important …’ I picked them up and we ran out of the rain.

  The kitchen smelled of chicken soup and freshly ground coffee. There was a photograph of Kate held against the fridge door by a magnetic letter K. It had been taken on a beach with mile after mile of golden sands stretching out behind her and I wondered where it was taken. She was much younger in the picture, in her very early teens, I guess, and the sun had brought out her freckles. Kate was waving a Cadbury’s 99 flake the way Groucho Marks did with his cigar. She looked happy.

  ‘How about some coffee with a wee nip inside? That should warm us up.’

  ‘Lovely.’ I didn’t know what to say next, so I just sat there. And grinned. I liked being in Kate’s kitchen, I could feel her here as well as see her on the fridge. I smiled back at her.

  ‘Tell me, how’s your Big Dream coming along?’ He poured the coffee, didn’t put any milk in, but unscrewed the top of his bottle of Scotch and slopped in a nice, syrupy-coloured slug. I could smell it and it smelled good. It reminded me of Grampa Lines.

  ‘My Big Dream’s turning into a fucking nightmare, to tell the truth, Mr Blyton. Oh, sorry.’

  He took a mouthful of his drink and started packing Condor Ready Rubbed tobacco into his pipe.

  ‘Call me Jim. In what way is it turning into a fucking nightmare?’

  ‘God, I don’t know, I just feel really … lost. Do you mind if I have a cigarette?’

  He laughed, and his eyes danced and sparkled from the light of his match, just the same way Kate’s had with the fairy lights reflected in them.

  ‘Do I mind? Look, when this old briar gets going we’ll need to open windows. Go ahead and smoke your cigarette with pleasure, but tell me why it’s a nightmare and why you feel lost.’

  I lit up and with the cigarette, the bitter coffee and the Scotch nicely burning my throat, I lit up a bit inside myself as well. ‘I don’t know why I feel lost. I just can’t seem to stay focused on anything. It’s all gone a bit … wobbly.’

  Jim patted the tobacco down inside the bowl, put the match to it and sucked, drawing the flame in like a willow bending in the wind. He smiled sweetly at his briar and nodded at me to go on.

  ‘Oh, I suppose it’s because I should be doing my A levels now and I’m not. I’m having to do these bloody resits and the plan’s gone wrong. I’m not on target, I’m not motivated and I’m basically all at sea. I suppose the truth is that I’m distracted by what I want to be …’

  ‘Hmm. So what’s this?’ He pointed his pipe at my papers, prodded at my scripts.

  ‘It’s for the sixth-form review. I wrote some sketches with Lizzie Marlow.’

  ‘Can I have a look?’

  ‘Sure, if you can read them. They’re a bit wet. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s not me you should be apologising to. It’s Lizzie. Show some respect for your work or it’ll go nowhere. Shuffle them over, then.’

  I passed him over the wet, sorry pieces of paper and he read them for a few minutes, a smile here, a titter there and then he burst out laughing. Someone was laughing at what I’d written – what an amazing feeling.

  ‘This sketch here is hilarious! The one about a man who takes his right hand out for dinner because he feels guilty about wanking so much, he wants to give himself something back!’

  ‘I know. It was the cheapest date he’d ever had – and however badly the evening went he’d still be certain to pull.’

  We howled like dogs, and from behind Jim’s shoulder I could see Kate, laughing back from behind her freckles on the fridge and it was then, right then, that it hit me straight between the eyes. I made a pledge with Kate, a promise to be kept forever, and what’s worse is that I made it right there, at that very kitchen table. How could I dream of giving up? How dare I doubt myself?

  Jim stopped laughing, extended his long, thin arm and pointed his pipe at me. ‘You’ve got to stay on your path. You’ve got to keep to it and you absolutely must not stray off it, not for a moment. That’s what my Kate’s doing – she’s on her way now, and you could be as well – just don’t you dare take your eye off the ball. You do that and you’re done for. This is funny stuff you’ve written. How about I drive you home and you get a good night’s sleep and then work on some more. If it’s in you, if the talent’s there, then all you have to do is to tease it out. But you’re not going to do that getting pissed every night, understand?’

  I was about to ask him just what the hell he knew about it all, but then, as he topped up his mug with Scotch, I thought that perhaps he’d been there, seen it and that maybe it wasn’t that far behind him. I wondered if he’d had the same conversation with Kate?

  ‘Point taken. How’s Kate doing at college?’

  His face beamed a smile as wide as the Tyne. ‘My little girl’s doing just fine, thanks.’

  ‘That’s good to know. Tell her I said hello?’

  ‘I will. Now, let’s get you home to bed. And don’t forget what I said – it’s the way the world works …’

  We drove back to my house, I got out of the car and got straight into bed. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

  12

  A Paris

  A PARIS WAS the first EP released by The Style Council, and it was unleashed into an unknowing world on a balmy summer day: 18 August, 1983. Since the first single, ‘Speak Like A Child’, they’d also released ‘Money-Go-Round’, a highly political rap oozing with funk and spunk, guile and bile. It only went to prove Paul’s point about his lack of respect for the music industry – it was a deeply uncommercial sound, a breathy attack on a country gripped by Tory rule, featuring a taunting, sarcastic trombone played by Annie Whitehead. Orange Juice’s Zeke Manyika played drums on it. Paul donated his royalties to Youth CND and, despite it not being tailor-made for the charts, it gained a great
feat in peaking at number eleven. ‘Money-Go-Round’ (which took its title from an old Kinks song) also featured backing vocals by DC Lee – ex-Wham! backing vocalist. She didn’t know it then, but DC was going to play a big part in the rest of Paul’s life – both on the record, and off.

  It was a day devoid of cloud, in late August, and in the early autumnal mists, the greyness of my winter days settling in at the sixth form seemed but a distant memory away. I was in the back garden, wearing a beret and busy tucking into a plateful of snails.

  The Style Council’s music and muse had shifted in a distinctly European direction of late, and in particular Paul had looked to all things French for inspiration. Both his music and his clothes were culled from Parisian bars, clubs and cafés and – quite literally – I’d followed suit. A Paris had been released two weeks earlier and I simply could not believe my ears – I’d died and gone to heaven. Paul had adopted the fantastic French style of the Sorbonne which I had so fallen in love with during The Boy Friend and there it was right on the record sleeve – Paul and Mick posing for the camera looking incredibly cool, wearing the most stylish outfits topped-off with colourful cashmere sweaters tossed casually round their shoulders in the shadow of the glorious Eiffel Tower.

  Likewise, I’d thrown a sweater around my shoulders and myself headlong into full-frontal Frenchness. As soon as I’d seen what Paul was doing with this look I immediately switched my brand of cigarette from Silk Cut to Gitanes and, consequently, spent the next six months peeling bits of tobacco – and skin – from my bottom lip. I was sporting a very high maintenance short French crop and had started cycling to the baker’s early each morning for freshly baked croissants or continental pastries.

  ‘Now then, lad – what can I be gettin’ ya?’

  ‘Deux pains au chocolat, s’il vous plait.’

  ‘Maureen! Come quick – it’s that simple lad – he’s back again!’

  My new obsession was rapidly taking over my life. ‘Mum – where’s Dad? I haven’t seen him for ages.’

  ‘Try the greenhouse – it’s your best bet.’

  ‘What on earth’s he been doing down there for the past four days?’

  ‘It’s probably you and your sodding garlic with everything. You’ve literally driven the poor man out of the house with the stench …’

  Mum uncorked a bottle of white wine and poured herself a glass. It went down in one gulp. I reached for the bottle and poured myself one as well. ‘Ridiculous behaviour. I mean, moving into the greenhouse just because of a few herbs. Some people will never realise the true value of cross-cultural pollination …’

  Mum poured herself another glass and this one went down as quickly as the last. ‘Your tea’ll be ready in five minutes.’

  ‘Lovely. What I really feel like this evening is something vaguely Provençal, something nice and light – maybe a sardine and anchovy salad?’

  ‘It’s Findus crispy pancakes and oven chips. Tell your father I’ll bring them down to him before Nationwide starts, there’s a good boy …’

  I loved A Paris so much. Even though it only contained four tracks, I listened to it endlessly, hour after hour. The numbers were all stunning, yet as different from each other as could be – it was as if they were from the four corners of the universe and The Council had drawn them together and released them as one. Again, the hilarious sleeve notes were provided by the shadowy figure that is the Cappuccino Kid and here they revealed that these recordings were made in Paris between the 12–17 of June and that they were recorded there because they felt that they all had a similar ‘blue mood’ and a certain French flavour about them. That’s an understatement: this record was so French it had to have been pressed through a garlic crusher. The songs are: ‘The Paris Match’, which, according to the Cappuccino Kid, he originally wrote for leading French chanteuse Suzanne Toblat, who recorded it with a French lyric but it was yet to see a release. (Could that possibly be Mick’s sister, then?); ‘Party Chambers’, which I’ve already talked about, albeit with a special arrangement from Suzanne’s fictitious brother; ‘Le Depart’ – which I’ll come to with arse cheeks suitably clenched with embarrassment in a bit; and finally there’s ‘Long Hot Summer’, the current single. This was perfect for oozing out of portable trannies on beaches and, on that particular day, its lovely, sexy, hypnotic chords wafted out of the French windows of our dining room, over the patio and mingled with the sticky, buttery garlic I’d just fried my snails in.

  I had unearthed the six sorry snails by searching for them in the gap between the potting shed and next-door’s fence. It was foul down there, wet and dark, the dank environment providing me with more should I get a taste for the slimy, crunchy critters. I plucked the snails out of their shells with the late Grampa Lines’s pickle fork that only used to come out at Christmas. Then I fried the fuckers in a small saucepan, along with some Anchor butter and two cloves of garlic. Before then, garlic didn’t exist in our house – I had to go to the grocer’s near Kate’s to get my grubby little mitts on those alien bulbs.

  I sat outside at the table on the patio with a glass of white wine to wash down the snails. Mum, Dad, Chris and Phil were inside the house having cheese on toast and watching me, pointing and laughing like insane people. I popped a grey, leathery coil into my mouth and crunched down on it, trying to ignore the warm, wet juice as it burst into my mouth and oozed down my gagging throat. Then, just in time and with as much – or as little – dignity as I could muster, I quickly took off my black felt beret and used it to catch my own hot vomit. Chris was laughing so much that he fired molten Cracker Barrel out of both nostrils.

  After I’d recovered from my unholy tea I cycled round to Rik’s to watch the video for ‘Long Hot Summer’ for the first time. Rik was just back from a week in Cap Ferret where his parents had a timeshare in a static caravan. We switched on the television. When Paul and Mick appeared there was a silence in the air, a terrible, violent silence. Rik dropped his Ovaltine in his lap. Time stood still around us and my jaw dropped, a bacon sandwich suspended midway between my hand and mouth. Our eyes were wide open, our hair stood on end and it felt as if we were frozen forever to the brown, Dralon sofa. I’ve just watched it again – and I can see why.

  The video opens with Mick and Paul punting around on the Cam like a couple of prime fairies. Weller’s stretched out on this punt, open-shirted, wearing sawn-off denim shorts and is happily touching himself up, his fingers fluttering over his chest and stomach, pausing at the top of his shorts. Mick’s in white flannels and a blazer, and is gaily biting at the willow which weeps from the bank of the river down into the water as he steers Paul through it. Throughout the video, an unknown Frenchman playing bongos pops up and waves at the two boys, then disappears off somewhere to let them carry on enjoying themselves. Then, they moor up, throw down a gingham picnic rug and dance around in the summer sun. Paul’s now got his top off, the curious Frenchie’s hard at it on his bongos and now Weller and Mick are laying head to head on the rug, fondling each other’s ears, giggling, licking their lips and generally at it like a couple of rampant homosexuals. This is the ex-lead singer of The Jam?

  After what seemed like a lifetime Rik finally broke the silence. ‘Dave, what does it all mean?’

  I knew exactly what it meant – and I loved it. What it meant, was that Paul was getting himself further and further away from The Jam Army. This thing he’d created, The Style Council, felt to me like theatre. If The Jam’s had been a pint of mild, The Style Council stuck an umbrella and a cherry in it and they didn’t have an army, they had a flower arranging class who met once a week in the village hall. ‘It’s a joke, Rik. That’s all – he’s just enjoying himself, being free of The Jam. They’re being, you know, ironic.’

  ‘Well, I wish he wouldn’t be quite so queer about it.’ And then he stood up and took his trousers off. I have to admit to being a bit worried but then I spotted what looked like third-degree burns on his knob area from the Ovaltine spillage. ‘Do you
think they’re going out with each other, Dave? Do you think he’s gone over to the other side?’

  ‘What, like boyfriend and … boyfriend?’

  ‘Yeah. Exactly. Do you think him and Talbot are at it with each other?’

  ‘I sincerely doubt it. They’re just having a giggle, Rik.’

  ‘Hmm … well I’m not laughing.’

  ‘I can’t imagine Bruce and Rick having a threesome with Paul, can you? I mean, who’d be doing what to whom?’

  ‘Linesy, stop it. You’re saying things which’d get you burnt at the stake a hundred years ago.’ Rik disappeared into another room and came back wearing an alarming pair of his sister’s hot pants. ‘Dave?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you think they bum each other?’

  This was getting out of hand. ‘No, Richard, I most certainly do not. And anyway, who cares if they do? It’s a bit of fun, chance for a bit of publicity.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like fun to me. It looks like he’s been having a go on Mick’s blue-veined flute.’

  ‘Enough now. Let’s watch it again. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you imagine.’

  Rik rewound the tape and we checked it out again. It was just as we saw it the first time. We weren’t dreaming and Rik was not at all convinced. I could see his point, the ex-front man of Britain’s biggest power-pop trio of all time openly having sex with some bloke who looked like our milkman. But I thought it was inspired! Weller was destroying everything and starting again from scratch. What magnificent balls he must have had.