I Blame Morrissey

by Jamie Jones

  With Sam taking the lead in the flirting stakes we ended up in the familiar 1.50am clinch. The party eventually moved back to Deano’s house, where it quickly descended into the host making everyone drink shots and him crooning along to Tracey Chapman’s debut album at 5am. He was our mate, we were used to it, but to anyone that didn’t know him they must have worried for his mental health. Sat on Deano’s sofa, with “Fast Car” pumping out of the stereo loud enough to wake the dead, Sam and I decided that we would put aside our recent bad experiences with long-term partners and the blindingly obvious differences in our personalities and ‘just have some fun’.

  Most of our friends, Claire aside, expressed their bafflement at our agreement to share emotions and bodily fluids. I knew that this wasn’t going to be one of history’s more memorable love affairs when Sam repeatedly told anyone that would listen: “We are nothing like each other at all. We are the odd couple, we don’t even really get on that well, but sod it, who cares?” I doubt that Elizabeth Taylor introduced people to Richard Burton in such a manner.

  Sam worked for a film production company and was full of ambition, vigour and desire for life. I was me.

  She worked in London and was in love with the metropolis. She would insist on us going to trendy bars, where the doorman would look at my Smiths “Rank” t-shirt and openly grimace. Sam would know most of the clientele in such establishments through work and for the first few weeks of our relationship she would introduce me to such people, stand back and expect conversation to flow. It didn’t.

  On a dank October afternoon, it dawned on Sam that I wasn’t “the one”. We had met a group of her media friends in Soho and gone to a fancy bar, the kind of place where you have to know a member and the secret password to get in. Sam was ridiculously overexcited to be gaining entry to such a place and was giddy at the thought that “Chris Evans might be inside”. Inside, it seemed to my non-media trained eyes to be just like any other poncey bar in central London, with overpriced drinks, high backed chairs and the unmistakable air of snobbery.

  All was going reasonably well for the first couple of hours as I sipped at my whiskey and water (they didn’t serve pints). I smiled when I thought the conversation needed it, and nodded when all eyes occasionally turned my way.

  The problem came when, at 4.45pm, I made what I thought was a reasonable request to the barman:

  Me: ‘Excuse me, is there a TV anywhere that I can watch the football results on?’

  Barman – A 3 second delay while he takes in the preposterous question that I have just dared to ask, before politely sneering, ‘I’m sure there is a television somewhere showing such things sir, but not in this bar. We don’t show any sports here.’

  Right on cue, the doorman blocks out the light over my right shoulder.

  Doorman – ‘Is there a problem, Piers?’

  Barman – ‘This gentleman wants to watch the football results.’

  Doorman – turns to me, with his face contorting into a menacing grin: ‘Do we have a problem, sir?’

  Me: ‘Not unless asking a civil question is a problem?’

  Doorman – ‘It would appear our establishment isn’t suited to your tastes. I think it may be time for you to leave sir.’

  Me: now laughing, loudly; ‘That suits me just fine my old mate, give me 30 seconds to tell my girlfriend, then I’m out of here.’

  I turned to see that everyone in the bar had stopped their conversation and was looking at me. Sam was stood with her mouth wide open and my first thought was that she looked like a sleeping Homer Simpson. As she regained her composure, and her voice, she looked more like a fuming Montgomery Burns.

  Sam: ‘Why did you have to show me up by asking for the football?’

  Me: ‘How the hell is me asking to watch the results such an issue to you or the soddin’ barman?’

  Sam: ‘I’m in the middle of a discussion about a new TV project and I don’t want to go yet. It’s the big league in here Jay, can’t you just enjoy it?’

  Me: ‘It’s not really me is it, this place?’

  Sam: ‘You are such an inverted snob, you know that, right? If a place doesn’t sell lager, crisps, and show the match on a big screen then it must be snobby and not for you.’

  Me: ‘You can call me what you like, but right now I need to find out how The Posh got on this afternoon away at York City. Look, I’ll find a proper pub, watch the results then give you a call in an hour…..’

  With a final shake of her achingly trendy, slightly too short hair, she turned back to her conversation and the hulking doorman was once again invading my shadow.

  I left without saying another word to either of them, convinced that I was the one in the right. I went for a couple of pints in the pubs down Berwick Street to calm down, then gave her a call from my first mobile phone, to see if she fancied coming to meet me. The call was very brief. I’m not sure if that was because she knew I was conscious that this new-fangled mobile technology was costing me 50p a minute, or if she just wanted to get rid of me and back to her media chums. Either way, she made it crystal clear that she was staying in the bar and enjoying herself, which suited me. It left me free to wander the record shops of Soho and stop off in a couple of pubs for a pint and a read of the paper.

  The Posh got a hard-earned 0-0 draw at York as well, so the day had definitely taken a turn in the right direction.

  In fairness to Sam, as well as the god-awful bars her media friends liked to frequent, she did also introduce me to the brilliant “Bradleys Spanish Bar”. I fell for this tiny drinking establishment, situated just off Oxford Street, as soon as I walked in, saw that they had an old vinyl jukebox and that “This Charming Man” was on it. I must have spent at least £50 playing songs on that jukebox that autumn while drinking pints of San Miguel and listening to Sam talk. That’s how our days out tended to work, I would listen to her talk and she would indulge me by coming with me to record shops and sitting in pubs that had a jukebox.

  As well as our trips to London, Sam and her mates would often come to Peterborough and, along with my mates, we would all go out as a group. Sam and I never did anything like go for a meal or a relaxing walk. Sam didn’t do quiet. So that we could spend time together, despite us living 50 miles apart, I would regularly finish work in Cambridge and drive over to her house for the night. On her dad’s orders, I would sleep in the downstairs bedroom and Sam stayed in hers. Prior to that, we would spend much of our time sitting in her room listening to Supergrass or Morrissey and talking. I didn’t mind a chat but never considered myself one of life’s leading conversationalists. Sam loved to talk. She talked more than anyone I’d ever met. Whereas I saw silence as something to enjoy and relax into, Sam saw it as a challenge. She would have to find something to prattle on about to fill any available space. At times her need to talk to me or, as often happened, at me, was quite endearing. In other situations, such as the one and only time that we went to the cinema, it made me want to ram the extra large tub of popcorn into her mouth to fill the chattering gap. Outside the cinema, as we waited for the bus, I stood and sang ‘Rabbit’ by Chas ‘N’ Dave over and over in an attempt to drown her out. I don’t think she even noticed.

  Sam was the first person I’d ever gone to gigs with that just wouldn’t shut up while the bands were playing. Going to gigs with Doody, Jacko, Amy or anyone else, meant that an unwritten rule came into play, namely that you could talk before the band came on and between songs but never during a song.

  If you needed to let your mates know that you were off to the bar during a song, you would nudge them to get their attention and use the universally recognised signal for “fancy a pint?”, by raising your hand to your mouth and shaking it. They would indicate their preference with a nod or shake of the head and that was that. No talking was necessary. It was a rule that everyone followed. Everyone except Sam.

  It came to a head when we went to see Travis at the Shepherds Bush Empire in October. It was a gig that I didn’t even wa
nt to go to but she had insisted on us getting tickets as Travis were “bad-ass”. The band came onstage and started with their best tune, “All I Wanna Do Is Rock”, so I settled down with my pint and a determination to enjoy the gig. Sam on the other hand just couldn’t shut up. I’d politely asked her twice not to talk during the first couple of tunes and as the band kicked into “Driftwood”, five songs in, I was joining in with the couple behind us who were issuing growled “Shhhhhhh’s” in Sam’s direction. By the time Travis were singing “Why Does It Always Rain on Me?”, Sam and I were outside in the pouring rain having a blazing row. She couldn’t understand my “pathetic indie geek attitude to just having a chat during a song”. I had lost the will to live. As we got soaked to the skin, screaming in the street at each other, the band struck up their final song, “Happy” and I vowed to never to go to another gig with her. Our relationship was already starting to hit the rocks, with us being such different people and enjoying very different social occasions. Whilst she was off to a party at some z-list TV celebrities house, I was back at the Empire watching Gomez with my mate, Jake. She rang me late that night, spangled, from the party, telling me what an amazing time she was having and that I was missing out. I was more than happy, standing and jigging my leg along to the storming “Whippin’ Piccadilly”.

  Some successful relationships are built upon the fact that the two people in it are polar opposites. Such couples work out how their differences can fit together to ensure they have a happy life together. It’s all about give and take. With mine and Sam’s relationship we didn’t care enough, we both just wanted to take and force the other to compromise. In many ways it was a relationship we both needed as it was our first serious one after splitting up with our long term partners. Sam had spent her university years with a bloke called Steve who, after a couple of years of her constant talking, had lost interest in their relationship and spent upwards of 8 hours a day playing Championship Manager. Eventually, he had decided that he needed to pull himself together and ditched virtual football management and Sam, just after they had both graduated. She was hurt by it all and still struggling to understand why he had left her. One night, when the Bacardi and Coke had calmed her need to talk constant piffle, she told me that Gene’s “Olympian” had been her and Steve’s special song. It was a cracking tune but I was slightly taken aback by her putting it on the stereo, promptly bursting into tears and then expecting me to give her a hug. I wasn’t a psychologist but I began to wonder if Sam was really over Steve leaving her.

  Autumn also brought the news that I had been hoping for. Morrissey was going to tour the UK to end the millennium. The dates included 3 nights at the Kentish Town Forum. It had been 3 years since I had seen him play live thanks to a lack of UK gigs to support “Maladjusted”. With The Forum only having a 2000 capacity, we knew that getting tickets would be tough but on the morning they went on sale, Jake and I had both taken the day off work and were camped on the phone lines from 8.55am. By 9.30am, after constantly hitting the redial button, we got through and secured ourselves two tickets.

  On 14th November 1999, we headed to London for what would be my last gig of the millennium. Morrissey was on sparkling form that night, with hundreds of disciples doing all they could to invade the stage and throw their arms around the messiah.

  With sweat dripping from the walls, he rattled through gems like, “Hairdresser on Fire”, “Sunny” and “November Spawned a Monster” as the floor of the venue shook with people jumping up and down in unbridled joy. The highlights were a riotous rendition of “Speedway” where every man and woman in the crowd seemed to be screaming the lyrics back at him whilst grasping at their Morrissey t-shirt, and the magnificent call to vegetarianism of “Meat Is Murder”. I was fed up of being vegetarian, sick of the difficulties life threw at me when not eating meat. I was bored of the mickey taking from my mates and having to explain in restaurants, parties and, most frustratingly of all, on holidays that I didn’t eat meat. For the first time since turning vegetarian, I was giving serious consideration to eating meat again. The sound of “Meat Is Murder” was all I needed to convince me to carry on.

  Despite being without a record contract or any interest from the music press, the tour sold out almost instantly and, on that final London date, Morrissey knew that, as he looked out across the crowd, he was still our “Masters Voice”. It was an emotional gig for Moz and the crowd, as it had been so long since we had got to hear those songs and to show our adoration. Jake and I stood at the end embraced in a huge man-hug, knowing that we had just witnessed something very special. Jake wasn’t usually one for emotions but that night saw us leave the venue high on life. It had been a magical night, a night that would’ve been the perfect end to the millennium.

  As we headed into December, the world was beginning to worry about the potential Armageddon that would be wreaked by the Millennium Bug. It was utter nonsense of course, and our computers just ticked over with the usual mechanical click rather than the thud of imminent worldwide disaster.

  The other event that had everyone running around in a frenzy was Millennium Eve. For Sam, it had to be the “biggest night out ever”. I couldn’t think of anything worse. I wasn’t a fan of New Year’s Eve in a normal year and this was the New Year’s Eve to end all New Year’s Eves.

  Sam and her mates had decided that the best way to welcome in the dawn of a new age was to stand in the freezing cold at the side of the Thames and watch some fireworks. Jacko and I hatched a plan to get into a pub in central London and stay there, but we knew that idea would be scuppered by the boundless enthusiasm of Sam and Claire. I made it bluntly apparent that I didn’t think Sam’s plan was a good one but she was a one woman millennium whirlwind who didn’t have time to bother with what I thought about the festivities.

  A week before Christmas, I overheard her talking to her sister about the big night out:

  ‘I know Jay would rather spend the evening sat at home with the curtains drawn, listening to music, eating takeaway pizza and drinking beer but tough, he can bloody well come to London and enjoy himself.’

  Fair play to Sam, she knew me better than I thought she did. She had described my dream NYE even if she wasn’t going to actually allow me to live it.

  The holiday period flew past in the traditional blur of presents, drinks and late night parties at Deano’s house. Before we knew it, the day was upon us. The plan was to meet at Hitchin station and get the train to London. Before we had even left, I had delayed us by insisting upon finding a member of staff who could give me solid confirmation on how we would get back from Kings Cross later that night. Sam and her gang had been happy to conclude “we will get back somehow”. I needed a firm plan in place and, fortunately, the station manager was on hand to assure me that trains would be running late into the night.

  The one concession that Jacko and I had won was that we would make an early start and get to London for 5pm. Our theory being that we could get everyone safely ensconced in a cordial old mans pub, in this case The Lamb & Flag near Covent Garden, and hope that after a few drinks everyone would want to stay in the warm rather than traipse to the river for the fireworks. Sam saw right through our plan and, as I handed her a 3rd drink of the night, growled at me through a smile, “You won’t win, I will get everyone to the river for midnight”. Which, as I had bought her a double gin and tonic, I thought was a little ungrateful, if very perceptive.

  After a few drinks had warmed everyone up, I tried a new tactic. With Sam’s planned 9.30pm pub departure time looming, I tried my best to be morose when speaking to her, in the hope that she would just explode and scream at me to “just sod off home, you miserable git”. She was wise to such a tactic and again hissed at me through her painted on smile; ‘You won’t ruin this for me, you will be coming to the river, Jay. You will have fun.’

  She was getting right on my nerves now. I was being a childish prat but that was a key element of my personality. Her boundless enthusiasm wasn’t infectious,
it was bloody annoying. I spent the next hour grumbling into my pint while unsuccessfuy trying to persuade the landlord to put “The Queen Is Dead” on the pub stereo.

  Before Tesco clawed its way into Covent Garden with its “flagship” store, nowhere in that area sold alcohol to take away. So, after leaving the warmth of the Lamb & Flag at the appointed hour, as per my girlfriends instructions, we spent the next half an hour wandering around trying to locate an off licence. Eventually, Jacko and I decided to walk back into Soho to a “Bargain Booze” emporium to pick up enough alcohol for everyone. I tried again to get him to join me in a coup to scupper the river and fireworks plan, but he had long ago accepted his fate and wanted to; ‘Just get on with it and try and enjoy the night. C’mon it might be a good laugh.’

  Loaded down with cans of Carling Premier and bottles of blue WKD, we made it back to our intrepid band of freezing adventurers and began the walk to the riverside. It was a bitterly cold night with a touch of sleet in the air and I dragged my feet at the back of the group, swigging from a can and eating my Smiths Square Crisps with the facial expression of a man consuming his last meal before being taken to the gallows at nearby Tower Hill. Up at the front of, Sam was holding her left arm up in the air and barking instructions, looking like one of those tour guides that escort Japanese tourists through airports.

  It came as no surprise to anyone, other than the eternally optimistic Sam, that we couldn’t get anywhere near the river due to the sheer number of people that had decided to waste their last moments of the millennium in the same bleak fashion as us. As with any big occasion in London, people had been camping out for days to get what they considered to be the perfect spot. Our group squeezed into a spot opposite the Oxo Tower which was at least 100 yards from the river, in a small wooded area next to a block of flats. It wasn’t exactly the view that any of us had envisaged but everyone got stuck into the alcohol to keep warm and raise their spirits. I cradled my can and realised that even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t now get out of the foul mood that I’d created for myself. I had gone too far this time.