I Blame Morrissey

by Jamie Jones

  When we arrived at Knebworth, that Saturday lunchtime, I began to get a sense of how big this thing was when the coach park stretched as far as the eye could see. I had been to big gigs and festivals though, I knew the score. I hadn’t though considered the enormity of 125,000 people standing in a field. As we handed over our tickets at the turnstile, Amy and I looked in awe at the sheer overwhelming size of the place. We found a decent spot only about half a mile from the stage and sat down to watch the support acts, who did their best to fill this vast open air arena. Not all of them succeeded, with the Chemical Brothers banging dance beats and light show falling a little flat at on a blazing hot summer day in a field the size of Newcastle. The Manic Street Preachers instilled some atmosphere into the day later on with their shouting and rock anthems, before The Prodigy came on and rattled the grass to its roots with a teeth-shaking techno-pop romp.

  Oasis sauntered onto the stage in front of the adoring hordes as the sun began to set, and did what they did best by playing huge rock ‘n’ roll songs. It was a glorious hour spent dancing and hugging the girl I loved, watching the biggest band in the world do their stuff, and singing songs like ‘Acquiesce’ to each other before collapsing in a fit of giggles. This was a moment in time, a band that were on the crest of a wave, and maybe, just maybe, went over the top of the wave and “jumped the shark” that very night. As Noel stood back from the microphone, abandoning his attempt to sing the monster hit single that was “Don’t Look Back in Anger”, to a mass singalong, I noticed, to my right, that a huge brawl had broken out. I’d never seen anything like that at a gig before and I got a bit nervous after that as the fight got ever bigger and closer to us.

  I don’t blame the band but the facilities that day at Knebworth were bloody awful. It was well over an hour long queue to get a pint or a pie and the queue for the toilet was even longer. Amy had the patience of a saint, as I moaned and groaned my way through the queues. Aside from the bands and Amy’s sparkling company, I moaned about almost everything that day and although it wasn’t the last day out with Amy that I came close to ruining, it was certainly the first.

  My moaning was compounded by having my first ever panic attack when attempting to leave the field in the dark after Oasis had finished. These hordes of people that had seemed a thing of wonder earlier in the day, now appeared to resemble an army marching to the frontline in the darkness. With my palms beginning to sweat and my heart racing, I knew that I needed to get back to the safety of our coach as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, the vast temporary coach park didn’t have any lighting set up and, suddenly, all the hundreds, if not thousands, of coaches all looked the same. In my frenzied state, I took the easy option. I blamed Amy:

  “How can you not remember where our soddin’ coach is, or even what it looks like? Do I have to do EVERYTHING? You’re meant to be the intelligent one in this relationship for Christ sake, can’t you remember anything?”

  My twisted, panicked brain was ignoring two very obvious facts:

  1 – They didn’t teach “finding your coach in the dark” on Amy’s Archaeology course.

  2 – Why couldn’t I remember where the coach was?

  Thankfully Amy ignored my ranting, locked me in a bear hug and gently talked me down, like a concerned cat owner coaxing their errant moggy down from a tall tree. In a twisted mass of tears, snot and arms we eventually stumbled. We found our seats and settled in for the inevitable delays that we would face in returning to the real world. With my beautiful, kind girlfriend stroking my hair, I put my head on her shoulder and fell soundly asleep until we got home.

  1996 was, despite the general music malaise, an exceptional time to be an indie music obsessive and living in Cardiff. It felt like the musical hub of the whole world for a few months and we threw ourselves headlong into it. You couldn’t walk around the city centre without wandering into a Super Furry Animal or go to a pub without seeing Cerys from Catatonia having a pint and holding court, surrounded by devotees.

  The Super Furry Animals had first scorched into my life when they supported a band whose name I’d forgotten before they’d finished their set, at our SU club. After ambling onto the stage, this ragged, hairy mess of Welshmen blasted out 20 minutes of space-rock for the small gaggle of hardcore indie types that always made a point of watching the support bands. Their debut single “Hometown Unicorn” was a spectacular statement of intent. It’s chorus talk of going back to your hometown, struck a chord. One of us would put it on the jukebox in The Tavern for Amy, Lou, Neil and I to scream along, letting loose the feelings of homesickness that we fought to keep locked in our respective cages.

  The other place we would hear that tune was at the superb Clwb Ifor Bach. The club was located smack bang in Cardiff city centre and, on a Wednesday night, hosted ‘Popscene’, the only club night at which students and locals would happily mix. It had dance music on the bottom floor and a middle floor that was full of sofas, games consoles and chill out tunes. The top floor was our home from home. A space where they combined an indie disco with the very best new bands that Wales and England had to offer playing live sets. That small, dark, top floor space was a slice of heaven and one of the very few places in which I felt comfortable as soon as I walked through the doors.

  I would go and watch SFA, or any of the other emerging Welsh bands whenever they played in Cardiff or nearby in the likes of Newport or Swansea. Amy would get stressed about me going to gigs on my own, she saw it as further confirmation that I didn’t ever want to make new friends. I would get back from a solo gig, go up to her room to say goodnight and she would quiz me about any potential friends;

  Amy – ‘Did you see anyone you knew?’

  Me – ‘Yeah a couple of people from my course were there, and that weird couple who only speak Welsh from yours.’

  Amy – ‘Did you speak to any of them?’

  Me – ‘Does a nod count?’

  Amy – (giggling) ‘Oh Jay, what are you like? Did you speak to anyone tonight between saying ‘bye to me and coming back here?’

  Me – ‘Of course I bloody did.’

  Amy – ‘Ordering a pint from the barman doesn’t count!’

  Me – ‘Well in that case, no I didn’t speak to anyone.’

  Amy – ‘Please don’t trot out your, “I don’t need any new friends, I’ve got Doody and Jacko” line again. I know they are your best mates and you would ‘walk in front of a double decker bus for them’, but I’m sure they wouldn’t get offended if you made some new friends.’

  Me – ‘Lou and Neil, you even, could be classed as new mates…..’

  Amy – ‘So that’s it? You’re going to spend 3 years surrounded by 30,000 other students and you are only going to speak to us 3. I love you Jay but you’re mental.’

  With that she gave me a hug and I filed that conversation away with all the others we’d had about making new friends.

  As well as SFA, the other big Welsh prospects that autumn were Stereophonics. I knew that they were going to be big from the first time I saw them. That wasn’t me trying to be smart, anyone with functioning ears worked it out within 5 minutes of hearing them. In fairness, I did think that a lot of bands from that South Wales scene were going to be huge. After the release of their debut album ‘The Big 3’, I spent weeks telling anyone within earshot that 60 Foot Dolls were going to be bigger than Oasis. We first saw Stereophonics supporting a band in our SU club. I was so blown away by their set that I didn’t even hang around to watch the main act. The band were manning their own merchandise stall and I sauntered over to get my hands on their limited edition debut CD single “Looks Like Chaplin/More Life In A Tramps Vest”. I bought 3 copies and the bands handsome lead singer asked me “Why 3 copies mate?” I told him that I would play one and keep the other 2 in pristine condition as one day I would make a good few quid by selling them. He couldn’t stop laughing and shaking his head as he signed all 3 copies, and we wished each other well with our endeavours.

  Aside
from Oasis at Knebworth, the summer was dominated by the Euro ’96 football tournament, which ended in yet more heroic failure for England. I managed not to cry, unlike in 1990, when England again lost on penalties to the Germans in the semi-finals, so I figured that I was maturing. It was the first summer football tournament where Doody, Jacko and I were old enough to be out in the pubs of Peterborough watching the England games. When Gazza scored that goal against Scotland the whole of the Whittle Way in Stanground exploded in celebration. Unfortunately, after the Germany defeat, many of my fellow football fans lost their minds. We had watched the game in the ‘Posh Pub’ situated in the main stand of the Posh ground and on our way out, found the doorway blocked by a lad in a yellow Diadora shell suit, with a Union Jack draped over his shoulders.

  Him – ‘You pair of queers German or what?’

  Jacko and I (in unison) – ‘You what mate?’

  Him ‘You both got Adidas trainers on ain’t ya? They’re what Germans wear and we only want English in here. You wanna fuckin’ start do ya?’

  As he drunkenly lurched towards us, I resisted the temptation to point out that he was wearing a track suit made by an Italian company and a flag that was celebrating the United Kingdom rather than simply dear old England. Thankfully, as he got to within a couple of feet of us, Doody, who had long been our 6 foot tall guardian angel arrived on the scene.

  Doody – ‘You’ve got two seconds to do one, or I am going to knock you down those stairs…it’s up to you?’

  The Italian/British ruffian took one look at Doody and decided the game was up. He wouldn’t get the chance to give two ‘Germans’ a good hiding after all.

  I spent the summer working at Pearl and going to see Amy in Cambridge every weekend. With no Glastonbury on offer, we decided instead to get weekend tickets to the inaugural V Festival at Chelmsford. It looked like a star-packed festival with Pulp and Weller headlining and the likes of The Charlatans, SFA and Supergrass also on the bill. All of those acts played their part in making it a cracking weekend as the two of us cackled and drank our way around our first festival together. The difficult, mesmerising and emotional moment for a dedicated Charlatans fan such as I came when the band took to the stage mere weeks after the loss of their Hammond organ alchemist, Rob Collins. I cried like a big girl when I first heard the news about Rob’s car accident, and the tears flowed again in that Chelmsford park as the band battled bravely on with the show.

  The festival itself felt sanitised, corporate and safe. The safety element was ok, as I quite enjoyed not having that constant fear of rampaging gangs of lads robbing tents that we had at Glastonbury. The corporate feel and the strict rules about where you could camp, what you could do and where, were frustrating. On the coach back to Cambridge, I told Amy that I was glad we had gone as that would be the first and last V Festival, that nobody would put up with that kind of regime again.

  Squashed Slugs & Smashed CD Cases

  IN early September we returned to Cardiff and into our own house. No more Halls of Residence living, we were now adults all set to organise our own TV licence and gas bills. Unfortunately, the house that I had signed us up for was an old decrepit wreck with damp, slugs and the coldest bathroom this side of the Arctic Circle. The landlord hadn’t carried out any of the agreed renovations and it now looked even worse than when I had first seen it. My fellow housemates were not impressed as I showed them around their new home and I just about prevented a mutiny by promising to ring the landlord and demand that she at least give the place a good clean. Amy looked at me like a disappointed schoolkid who had begged their parents for a pair of Nike trainers in order to be ‘part of the gang’ but had instead been presented with a pair of Nicks with the justification that they were ‘just the same as Nike’s but a lot cheaper.’ Amy blamed me for us living in that dump of a house. I know she did because she told me on numerous occasions. I liked the house because it was cheap. My room was even cheaper than the rest as I had agreed to take the dreaded downstairs bedroom. Although this did mean that I would often be kept awake by my fellow students walking along our street, attempting to recreate an episode of Supermarket Sweep, with an abandoned shopping trolley, at 3am.

  We were still love’s young dream as we entered the house but I had insisted that we had separate rooms. We needed to study and I wanted my own desk to hide under and listen to Morrissey. I thought the space would do us good. It’s not as if we’d spent much time that summer in the same bedroom as I was in the spare room whenever I visited hers. Her dad had changed tactics and stayed up late into the night patrolling the hallway, making sure that I didn’t get the opportunity to corrupt his darling daughter. When Amy came to stop at ours I was meant to sleep on the floor of my room while she had the bed. As my room was right next door to Mum and Dads, that was usually how it stayed as well. Any passion that we wanted to fit in either had to be quickly concluded while my parents nipped to Tesco’s, or was al fresco in the fields that surrounded her village. Now we had two rooms in which to either be together or on our own. It seemed like the only logical arrangement. Despite an initial sulk, Amy eventually agreed.

  On only our 2nd night in Wyverne Road, things between Amy and I took their first backward step since we’d rid Matt from our lives. The 4 of us had gone to the pub as an impromptu ‘housewarming but out of the house’ that I’d organised to take everyone’s mind off the state of our new home. At closing time, full of the joys of student life and Fosters, we came back from the pub to find a large patch of rainwater on my bedroom floor and the unmistakable cloying stench of damp in the living room. This was not a good sign, and neither was the withering look that Amy cast in my direction. She shook her head, tapped her lips to mine as opposed to kissing me and stomped off up the stairs.

  In the middle of the night, Amy ventured downstairs to use the only toilet in the house. On the return journey, whilst crossing the kitchen floor, she stepped on something soft, but rather than turn on the light and risk waking me, she went back upstairs to her room. When she turned on her bedroom light she saw the squished remains of 3 slugs slowly dripping from her bare foot. She promptly threw up all over the floor.

  I was awoken by what sounded like an urban riot going on above my head and bounded up the stairs into Amy’s room to be confronted by a wailing banshee trashing the place. If Linda Blair’s character in The Exorcist had hailed from Cambridge, she would have looked exactly like Amy did that night.

  As she threw things around the room, she hissed at me; ‘This house is a shithole and it’s your fault that I live here and have slugs on my bloody feet. You fucking tight wanker, making us live here, just so you can save a few measly quid to spend on fucking CD’s by shit indie bands. You’re meant to love me ‘so much’, what a load of bollocks that is. If you loved me, you wouldn’t make me live here would you, WOULD YOU?’

  I didn’t say a word, which appeared to make things worse.

  ‘Well? Say SOMETHING!’

  I didn’t say a word, mainly because my brain was stuck on the thought that my copy of “Vauxhall & I” was on the shelf that was next in line for her to trash. If that CD got harmed there really would be trouble.

  Watching the woman you love weeping uncontrollably, with a combination of sick and squashed slug at her feet, her worldly goods scattered all around her, should provoke a mature response. I should have told her it would all be ok, cleaned her up, put her to bed and held her until she fell asleep. Instead, I was annoyed that she’d shouted at me and stormed out of the room. I ran downstairs, pulled on my jeans, my Billy Bragg “Don’t Try This At Home” sweatshirt, grabbed my Discman and left the house, slamming the door as I went. I got 5 yards before hearing her window fly open, and turned to see her leaning as far out of the crumbling wooden frame as she dare whilst cackling and applauding me. I didn’t turn back again. I pounded the early morning streets wondering if this was the beginning of the end or simply the end of the beginning. Couples couldn’t stay in that blissful state of the earl
y days forever, I knew that, but I hadn’t been expecting my mild mannered girlfriend to turn psycho on our 2nd night in a new home. By 4am, I was pretty sure she would be asleep so made my way back to the house, locked my door and crawled under the duvet.

  I woke at lunchtime, relieved that she hadn’t crept into my room in the early hours and put squashed slugs up my nose. I knew she would be at a lecture so, for a minute or two, wondered if last night might all be forgotten and we could get back to normal. That lingering thought was shattered when I opened my bedroom door, and in tumbled my smashed and torn copy of “Vauxhall & I”. She had leant it against the door so it would be the first thing I saw when I opened it. I was fuming and determined to get my revenge for such a callous act of cultural vandalism. I’d have rather that she’d come in and put the squashed slugs up my nose.

  Later that day, after visiting the library and the café to read the paper, I wandered into the poster fair that was being held in our SU building. Our SU seemed to be holding these fairs every week, and the poster was taking over from the band t-shirt as the way that students showed their allegiances. When I saw the huge Beth Orton poster, of her dressed in a Jackson Pollock inspired dress, I knew I had to have it. I’d had a crush on her since the release of the magnificent ‘Trailer Park’ earlier that year. Amy would take the piss out of Ms Orton’s Norfolk accent and question what I found attractive about her. With this in mind, I knew that buying the poster and placing it on the wall right next to my bed would annoy her. My revenge would be petty but it would be complete.

  When Amy returned from her archaeology lecture that evening, I greeted her with my usual cheery: “Alright Indiana?” but she didn’t respond. She went to walk straight up the stairs but upon glancing into my room, saw my new poster and burst out laughing. She pushed open the door and said: