A glass is a glass

Clueless cunts and scruffy twats. And kids on footy messageboards that think they're grand and wonderful and so fucking special... and they bang a drum and seventeen miles away 75,000 people watch a cunt called Ronaldo. Those Mr Premiership Fans.

Switch on talk sport and spit my views on Steeeevvviee Geeeeeeee and how he's been wronged. A married man out at 2.30am and Emile Heskey and Craig Bellamy and rugger is the new soccer and Danny Cipriani is on the front of Arena magazine. And he is shite. He is no Dan Carter. He is no Barry John. He is no Stuart Barnes. Just another clueless cunt and scruffy twat whose threads cost more than Everything I Own.

And...

You sheltered me from harm
Kept me warm, kept me warm
You gave my life to me
Set me free, set me free
The finest years I ever knew
Were all the years I had with you
And...

I would give anything I own
Give up my life, my heart, my home
I would give ev'rything I own
Just to have you back again

But I am not Ken Boothe or David Gates or George O'Dowd.

And I am not Steeeevvviee Geeeeeeee and I am not in some shitty fucking nightclub called something with Lounge in it in some shitty town like Southport and I am not asking for Phil Collins or Coldplay. He should get ten years for asking for Phil Collins or Coldplay. But we can joke cos he's innocent until proved guilty. I mean he - or one of his party - only threw a glass or bottle (allegedly) and the kid that through a glass or bottle in that pub in Heywood is innocent until proved guilty but tell that to the partner of Emma O'Kane or her three children... But Michael Shepherd - for that is her partner's name - isn't Steeeevvviee Geeeeeeee and it doesn't matter does it?

It only matters if it's Steeeevvviee Geeeeeeee or some other overpaid wankfest of a footballer that the Mr Premiership Fans love so much. The man and his nail technician of a girlfriend or his £120,000 a week and his pay-offs to gangsters and her past and the transfer window opens in a few days and it's all so fucking great.

And all this time clueless cunts and scruffy twats check their footy messageboards and laugh and joke and accept that people kicking a bit of leather about can be paid £120,000 and they love it and they love the fact that the people they idolise can be in bars at 2.30am and aren't that bothered about glasses and bottles being thrown...

The Queen Anne Hotel in Heywood or the Lounge Inn in Southport. A bottle's a bottle... a glass is a glass.

Wish for what you want in the January transfer window you clueless cunts and scruffy twats...

Twenty Years ago : Lockerbie

But before then 34 years ago...


I’m sat in my bedroom dreaming of Loretta, Lorraine and Louise.

And Doreen who is a hunk of a man,and she can wipe every boy from the land.

And that is what London is about when you’re 14. Victorian vases and girls that are trying to stick their cosmic philosopher’s words into rhymes.

And it all smells of incense and patchouli oil and there are violins and glam make-up and wicker chairs and wicker men and Britt Ekland.

And it’s Jesus wellies and cut-off Wranglers and it’s Orrell ressies. But it could be Hyde Park and girls that could sweep, skip, jump and leap into a room full of clowns.

And the sun shines and in my mind I watch Loretta taste the wine and kick the actor from behind.

And I am now home sprawled across the sofa and Marlene enters my mind and as her make up starts to fade away I spy Ramona by the door calling me the perfect whore.

And I never lost control.

And for a while it was a very strange show.

And it got stranger as five years later I am in Hyde Park and there is no Loretta, Lorraine and Louise.

And there is no hideaway. No lady from a background of pearls. Just me spaced out in this human menagerie – fooling with bravado.

And on that great song and that great album there was a bass player called Paul Avron Jeffreys. They were/they are my favourite group of all time. Cockney Rebel. The first two albums are exquisite, better than anything they later did. But that's always the case with bands isn't it? Well maybe.

Steve Harley disbanded the first Cockney Rebel, wrote his side of the story in a little ditty called Make me Smile. Life went on... Paul played in a number of groups with varying success

In 1988 Paul Jeffreys married Rachel Jones and he was begining his honeymoon on the flight Pan AM 103 when it exploded in mid-air above Lockerbie. 259 people on the plane and 11 people on the ground died that day.

RIP all of them

I am 17 going on 50

I was on the way home the other Friday when two pretty indie girls bowled on the bus at The Conny in Skem. Vintage dresses, smelling beautifully, bottles of wine jangling in their bags and great big gorgeous smiles.

Sat behind me - I soon deduced they were going to the indie night in Wigan. And they brightened my journey. Talking and laughing about how Alex Turner was fit and Alexa Chung was horrible (I think they got that the wrong way around but…), the latest Kings of Leon album, visiting London in the spring and discussing what university they were going to. Along with snogging boys, dancing to Northern Soul, what party they were going to next week and a myriad of other subjects.

I enjoyed listening to their chat. So bright, so naïve, so lacking in cynicism and so in love with the world. And when I got off the bus I felt sort of strange as I got thinking about the girls. Then as I buttoned by coat up and hastened my step I was suddenly hit with sadness. A lump formed in my throat and tears came to my eyes and I so wished I were 17 going on 18 again. And I've never felt that before. I've always loved the fact that I was 18 when punk rock hit the nation. Loved the fact that I went to Wigan Casino. Stayed up long after tonight was all over. Loved the fact that I had worn original Ben Shermans as a 12-year-old and loved the fact that I'd seen Bowie and Rod and Roxy and Bruce and Marley and Luther and everybody else.

But at that moment walking through the cold dismal streets of Wigan WN5 I just wished I could be going to Café Nirvana that night. Dancing with pretty indie girls, planning on going to uni and getting so drunk that the room would spin later that night.

Between the ages of 16 and 19 the world is truly yours. I remember those days so vividly. Going to the pub with your mates. And nightclubbing and getting in and out of scrapes. Forging proper relationships with girls and getting to know your dad as a man. Learning to drive. Learning to drive with my dad and the two of us singing along to Al Green and Simon & Garfunkel on the 8-track cartridge player. Turning out on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Then playing football on a Sunday. And going to the cinema with the girl you met on the Saturday and buying clothes and records. And loving - absolutely loving - music just as the two girls on the bus obviously did. And like them dancing to Northern Soul and not giving two hoots about work or money and just being in love with the world.

When I got home I put the stereo on. Put Rod on. Rod singing Mandolin Wind. The saddest, most beautiful of songs. And I'm back in Pete Carroll's parents front room in Orrell with all my mates. All of us - 16/17 years of age talking about The Faces and Springsteen and Mott the Hoople and Johnny Cash. And Wigan and Everton and Liverpool. And Christine Macey and Anne Holmes and all the other beautiful girls we know before going to the Delph Tavern and a long time before going our separate ways in life.

And I am 17 again. And I don't need to be Café Nirvana tonight. And I've still got that lump in my throat and those tears in my eyes…

Always Fighting

Used to know this kid called Stevie G – got cut to fuck in Amsterdam in 81. Spurs had a go at Ajax. Got a bit messy.

Great lad wouldn’t hurt a fly unless it was football. Also used to play a bit. Had the best fucking shot I’ve ever seen. Used to play in his specs. Used to call him Bins cos of it – well some people did. Used to play on Hackney Marshes. Opposing players would see this kid in glasses and think: “Fucking hell were in here” – took ‘em ten minutes to realise they weren’t! And then we’d get a free kick and it would be in the back of the net. Or half way to Bethnal Green if it missed!

Ah, Bethnal Green. Went down there, regular like. The Carpenters and Green Man are two I can remember. Always fighting. Always Spurs.

Fuck knows – used to go The Lyceum on a Sunday and they were always fighting. Always Spurs. Soul and scraps. Chelsea and Spurs and Arsenal and QPR battling away. Wood Green versus Wanstead all to the sound of Lonnie Liston Smith.

And we’d mooch west to Stuarts or over the river to Moda. All Lois cords and Diadora Borgs. Fila and Forest Hills.

Football in Regent’s Park with trackie tops for goal posts and beers in Fitzrovia. Prince of Wales Feathers for strong continental lagers to go with our continental clothes. And daft fucking places like the Room at the Top and the Royalty and Crackers on a Friday afternoon watching the boys and girls dance. Oh and even dafter fucking places like some roller skating place at Ponders End. All to a soundtrack of Roy Ayers and Incognito and Junior Giscombe and Doctor Buzzard's Savannah Band. Oh and Spurs fighting. Always fighting.

Weekends in Caister and Canvey Island and Wembley and dim-lit pubs around the flats at Kings Cross, back of Saddler’s Wells where the posh go the ballet and the plebs drink in fucked-up pubs with fucked-up people like us. And we’d eat roast potatoes from the bar on Sundays. Jellied eels and cheese and biscuits. Putting us on until the Kentucky called late on Sunday night. When we’d wash it down with a can of brew and a bong.

Then Saturdays we’d go the football . Go our separate ways. White Hart Lane, Highbury, Loftus Road, Stamford Bridge. Me I’d go where Wigan were playing or if it weren’t possible I’d go down the Bush to watch the R’s. Then when Spurs were down there it would go off. Huge fucking mob – taking the piss. Went to Wembley with QPR against Spurs in 81. Sat in Wembley car park for hours after a dull, dull game. Back to Southgate for Pizza Hut and beers. Got up Sunday queued half way around the White City for a ticket for the replay. Then queuing for the turnstiles on the Thursday and Spurs came and kicked it off! Always fighting. Always Spurs. Hoddle won it with a penalty – both games were shit.

And White Hart Lane and the fear. As soon as you got off at Seven Sisters it was on . No hiding place there. No nipping up back streets or jibbing into a local pub. One long walk. Walking on Nike Wimbledons soles that were made in the USA and not China. Zip up the Tacchini get your head down. And West Ham are on the Shelf and Spurs try to move them and it’s bad. It was always bad. Bad and mad. KR’s coaches. Taking big firms up north. Set-to’s and Stanley knives. Moss Side and machetes.

The fucked-up eighties and Margaret Hilda Fucking Thatcher. Yuppies and brokers and jazz funk and Spurs. Nasty nights in dark alleys. A nasty decade in a nasty North London. And Spurs always fighting.

Meet at Topshop

Meet at Topshop, Oxford Circus. All the young lovers meet there. Boys and girls and boys and boys and girls and girls in this mixed-up muddled-up shook-up world.

I meet Janet there and she is late as normal. And I’m as mad as normal and she flashes me that big beautiful smile. And she takes my arm and I forgive her. Cos I always forgive her and we walk through the backs to Efes for kebabs and steaks. And beautiful dips and pittas for a beautiful girl.

We share our joy and pain. Sunshine and rain. We eat and I drink. Jan has a Baileys that she sips. And she keeps smiling and we talk about our friends. Mutual and otherwise. I tell her I love her and she tells me the same. But this love will not be consummated. This is platonic love and we both know that. We hold each other close in our hearts. We are mates and that will do me fine. Beautiful as she is – I don’t break up relationships. My morals are low but something deep, very deep keeps me from her. But no messing I love this beautiful girl from Streatham.

And this beautiful girl from Streatham loves Tom Waits and to a backdrop of the chitter and chatter of twenty-nine accountants and one secretary I slowly and quietly start singing:

“And you can ask any sailor and the keys from the jailor
And the old men in wheelchairs know
That Matilda's the defendant, she killed about a hundred
And she follows wherever you may go
Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda
You'll go a waltzing Matilda with me

And it's a battered old suitcase to a hotel someplace
And a wound that will never heal
No prima donna, the perfume is on
An old shirt that is stained with blood and whiskey
And goodnight to the street sweepers
The night watchman flame keepers and goodnight to Matilda too”

Through welled-up eyes and a lump or six in my throat. And she flashes me that big beautiful fucking smile. The suits are bewildered – twenty nine of the fuckers trying to chat up the secretary from Southgate who will lead them on and half-listen to their tales of accountancy and flow charts. Budgets and provisions, sports cars and salaries. When all you need to fall in love is Tom Waits and gorgeous Turkish food.

We talk about growing up and Jan tells me Tom Waits’ Kentucky Avenue is the greatest song about childhood. I tell her Springsteen’s Growing Up is the greatest song about… er growing up but she flashes me that me that big beautiful fucking smile and I know she is right.

Waits once said when introducing the song: “I grew up at a street called Kentucky Avenue. Well, I was born at a very young age, and eh when I was about 5 years old I used to... I used to walk down Kentucky Avenue collecting cigarette buts. And I finally got me a paper route. I used to get up at 1 o' clock in the morning so I could deliver my papers and still have time to break the law..."

But the song is more about his best friend. This friend had polio and he used to be in a wheelchair and they’d race to the end of the road. And Jan tells me this and she sings in her sweet South London voice:

“I'll take the spokes from your wheelchair and a magpie's wings
And I'll tie 'em to your shoulders and your feet
I'll steal a hacksaw from my dad and cut the braces off your legs
And we'll bury them tonight out in the cornfield
Just put a church key in your pocket, we'll hop that freight train in the hall
We'll slide all the way down the drain to New Orleans in the fall”

The suits don’t understand poetry. They don’t understand love. Don’t understand platonic love and the way that Janet’s big beautiful smile means more to me than anything in the world and they don’t know who Tom Waits is and it pleases me no end and it would please Tom Waits as well…