The Alternative Hero (16 page)

“Billy, sorry—no. Next time. Once we get going. There’s just a bit too much riding on this first one. Please let me do it by myself. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

I felt pretty rotten. But sod it. I had an interview with Carter! How many other sixteen-year-olds could claim that? And the fact that they were on the cusp of some serious cult stardom (I knew this; I’d read it somewhere) meant I was officially going to be one of the hippest guys in my year. Schoolwide fame, popularity and gaggles of previously unobtainable girls were surely just the other side of the carol service. A state of affairs I sadly found too thrilling to keep to myself.

“You’re gonna do what?”

Guess who.

“Interview Carter,” I breezed, ladling some custard onto my sponge pudding. “Tomorrow evening.”

“Where?”

“Oh, up in town. Before their Marquee show.”

“What for?”

I grabbed some cutlery and mooched off with my lunch to an empty table near the back of the dinner hall. I didn’t even need to
look back. As if I was pulling him by a string attached to his nose, Alan Potter followed, and put his tray opposite mine. Oh, the power.

“What for?” he repeated.

“Oh, for this fanzine I’m starting next month.”

“You’re starting a fanzine?”

“Yeah. Carter are going to be the first cover stars.”

I tucked into my curried something-or-other while Alan looked helplessly around him, frowning with the bewilderment of a dog who’d just had its ball taken away.

“What’s the fanzine called?” he asked, finally.

“Vorsprung Durch Peanut,”
I enunciated, after swallowing what I had in my mouth.

“That’s a bloody silly name for a fanzine, man.”

“All fanzines have bloody silly names. That’s the deal.”

He stared down at his suddenly unappetising plate of chips.

“We wrote them a letter, the manager phoned back,” I continued. “They like doing fanzine interviews, apparently. More than they do for the proper music press.”

“Who’s we?” Alan enquired, with a suspicious glint in his eye.

“Me and … you know, the others involved.”

“You’re not doing it with that dweeb, are you?”

“Who d’you mean?”

“That knob in your year, with the glasses and the hunchback.”

“He’s not got a hunchback,” I protested.

“Yeah, he has. Quasi-Flushing. Billy-modo. So he’s doing it with you, yeah?”

“No. He’s helping out a bit, you know, providing some of the paper. But he’s not
part
of it.”

The shame of it. It gets worse, unfortunately.

“So, what are you going to ask them?”

“Well, a few things. About the album. About, you know … how far they want to go. About the lyrics. And stuff.”

“You must have a list of questions,” Alan improvised, forking some chips into his mouth, his appetite regained. “You’ve got to have your strategy worked out, man.”

“Strategy?” This was a concept that hadn’t occurred to me. I was interviewing them, not trying to beat them at chess.

“Yeah, sure,” Alan rambled, like the expert he wasn’t. “If they smell a rat, if they think you’re not for real, they’ll be out of there.”

“Really?”

“Of course, man.”

“But this is Carter. They’re, you know …”

“One of us?” Alan laughed.

“Yeah!”

“Don’t believe it. That’s how they come across, but if those guys want to get anywhere they’ll be complete bastards like everyone else. Especially to the press.”

It was my turn to look confused, as my mental picture of two chummy, wacky-haired men-of-the-kids drifted down the gutter.

“Don’t let that put you off, though, man!” Alan beamed, slapping me on the shoulder. “I’ll come along if you like, give you a hand.”

Without a second’s hesitation, I nodded vigorously.

“Okay, yeah! That’d be great.”

Hmm.

Well, the next day and a half passed with agonising lack of speed until, at last, we were alighting from the train at Euston. At this point in my life central London was a relatively unknown quantity to me. I fancied that I possessed passable awareness of its rough shape and contents, but in reality this consisted of little more than Trafalgar Square, Harrods, Piccadilly Circus, Regent Street, Oxford Street and whatever other snippets had engraved themselves on my cranium
from the occasional half-term shopping and “culture” trip with members of my family. Plus, as I acknowledged to myself with a hefty slab of guilt when Alan and I emerged from the tube at Tottenham Court Road, the bit of New Oxford Street that was then home to Billy’s beloved Forbidden Planet. It was a mildish November evening, which I was glad about; I was dressed in a black, long-sleeved Thieving Magpies T-shirt but had forgone any sort of jacket as none of mine was remotely what one would wear to meet a pair of fledgling alternative superstars. Alan, on the other hand, looked irritatingly cool in a Red Hot Chili Peppers
Mother’s Milk
T-shirt and a black leather jacket (which I later discovered was actually his brother’s). We sauntered down the rapidly emptying shopping strip and came to a halt at the corner of Newman Street, on which, Alan had assured me, resided the boozer in question.

“We’re a bit early, man—let’s walk round the block a bit.”

Alan’s standoffishness towards me had thawed considerably on the journey up (just as it had materialised on the way back from the first Magpies show). Rather than being pleased about this, I was actually pretty pissed off. Was he so surgically attached to school etiquette that he felt unable to communicate with me in a civil manner within a ten-mile radius of the place? How “alternative,” then, did that really make him? I planned to firmly ask him, as soon as the interview was behind us. But for now we nattered amiably about the musical concerns of the day.

“When’s it out?”

“Monday.”

“You gonna get it?”

“Dunno, man. I’m not really that keen on it.”

“Me neither. I prefer the other side.”

“You heard it?”

“Yeah, Janice Long played it.”

“I was thinking of just buying it on seven-inch so it gets a good chart placing.”

“Ian Brown reckons it’ll be number one.”

“He would. He’s full of it, that guy.”

“So what d’you reckon it’ll get to?”

“Top ten? Maybe.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Pisses me off, though, man. They’ll beat the Magpies to it.”

We rounded the corner and found ourselves outside the pub itself. Two minutes to seven. There was a moment’s awkward silence; I was feeling pretty wretched with nerves, and it wasn’t easy to tell whether I felt better or worse for Alan’s presence. On balance I think I probably felt worse. I was certainly going to be even more self-conscious with his seemingly unflappable confidence next to me, and was foreseeing all sorts of horrific tripping-over-word scenarios. So you can imagine how much better I felt when, just before we entered, Alan was the one to say it.

“I’m shitting it, man. I hope they’re nice to us.”

“We’ll be fine,” I smiled, and pushed open the door.

The first thing we noticed was the pub did not contain Carter. The second was that it was fairly hard to imagine it ever doing so. The youngest person there was about fifty-five. The barman looked about seventy, and more important, far from the sort of guy who’d be relaxed about the drinking age. Most people in the room looked up as we entered, then returned expressionlessly to their pints. A raddled old mess in the corner nursing half a stout looked like he’d recently died.

“You sure this is the place?” Alan whispered.

“What are you asking me for?” I hissed back. “You led us here.”

“But they definitely said the Blue Posts, right?”

“Yes!”

The decor was plain, unadorned dark wooden panelling, and probably hadn’t changed since the war. It was a good few years before the benefits (and the irony) of visiting such an establishment would occur to younger folk, and as we gingerly approached the bar the landlord smiled dubiously at us.

“Looking for McDonald’s?” he gruffed.

Alan coughed anxiously.

“Um … can we have a couple of pints of cider and black, please?”

“And you are, of course …”

“Eighteen,” we chanted.

He gave us a long, hard stare, then to our amazement started to pour our pints.

My drinking career still being in its infancy, there was quite a kick to be had from sitting in a pub with a pint. I hadn’t much affection for the bittersweet red liquid which I now sipped; it was simply a relatively palatable way of ingesting alcohol. (Lager made me gag after a few gulps, wine was considered far from appropriate and the only other drink I could tolerate was Southern Comfort and lemonade—although this was solely reserved for the purpose of getting pissed.) Still, I felt pretty pleased with myself as we occupied our table in the corner, and I almost forgot what we were really there for. After ten minutes or so, the novelty for Alan was clearly wearing a bit thin.

“Dunno, man …”

He took a large swig of his drink and frowned around the room. Everyone seemed engaged in dull conversations about work or sport. The pair of men nearest us were discussing the trials and tribulations of being employed by the Royal Mail, which had a large sorting office across the road; it’s likely this pub was the de facto company bar.

“I’m not convinced, y’know …”

“They’ll be along in a minute,” I asserted.

“It’s just that … I can’t think why they’d want to come and drink in a place like this.”

“Maybe they like the prices?” I mused. “That was a bloody cheap round …”

“Yeah, but …”

“… and there’s nothing wrong with it,” I continued, lowering my voice. “It’s not unpleasant. Just a bit … you know, old.”

“Yeah, but I’ve seen the sort of joints these people go for, man. Are you sure he said the Blue Posts?”

“Yes!”

“And you don’t think he was winding you up?”

“No!” I exclaimed, starting to get a bit irritated. “I had a long conversation with him. He was totally genuine. He went on and on about fanzines being the backbone of the independent music industry, all that stuff. Carter are a bit different, you know. We’re not dealing with Bon Jovi here.”

“Hmm. Maybe it’s something else, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe they’ve forgotten, or something better came up.”

“Bollocks,” I stated, quite enjoying bossing him around a bit. “It’s only twenty past seven. The sound check might be overrunning. It could be anything. Just relax. Shall we have another pint?”

Of course the answer was yes, but as the bottom of that next glass came into view even I was beginning to have my doubts. Fifty minutes seemed pushing it. I stood up and fished around in my pocket for some change.

“What you doing?”

“Thought I’d give my folks a quick ring,” I replied. “See if they’ve phoned to cancel or something. I dunno. Just an idea.”

I didn’t let on, but I’d also allowed myself to slip into the unfortunate habit of speaking to my parents halfway through an evening out
to tell them I was okay, a policy I vowed to discontinue as soon as I hit seventeen. I ambled over to the pay phone at the end of the bar, recognising the still relatively uncommon feeling of booze kicking in, my legs feeling a bit light and my eyesight blurring a little around the edges. I dialled and pushed in a coin at the sound of the pips. Although the ensuing exchange with my mother was unremarkable, the ancient landlord started to eye me strangely towards the end.

“Yeah, I will … No, I promise … Well, I can’t have much more anyway, I’ve only got two pounds left … No, I’ve no idea … We’ll just wait a bit longer, I suppose, and then I dunno … come home or something … No, the Blue Posts … as in signposts … What was that? … What did he ask? … Of course there isn’t another one. How could there be another one? … Well, maybe, but not in the same area … I know … Well, they’re not pop stars yet, but … Yeah, okay, I will … See you later …”

I replaced the receiver and started back towards Alan when the landlord stopped me.

“Just a minute, my lad. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.”

“Uh … yeah?”

He’d finally twigged my real age, I was certain.

“Your father’s right.”

“My what? … Ah, yes. I was just, er …”

“There is another Blue Posts around here.”

I gaped at him.

“Is there?”

“Yes,” he laughed. “We call it the Teenage Posts, although it’s actually older than this pub, strange as it seems. But full of teenagers, y’see. Snotty little place, in my opinion, but I guess you’d prefer it.”

“What? Oh, shit!”

This met with a stern frown.

“Sorry, sorry! I don’t suppose you could tell us how to get there … Alan!”

A minute later we were sprinting back the way we’d come, veering left and left again into the alleylike Hanway Street, where we slowed to a fast walk. There was a palpable shift in ambience as we hurried past a few unnamed drinking dens and characters of questionable occupation. A skinny woman lighting a cigarette in a doorway asked us if we wanted to come in and play with her Lego.

“Fucking patronising cow,” Alan growled under his breath. “I’ve been going out round here for ages.”

But not, as it turned out, long enough to be aware of the funny-looking pub at the Tottenham Court Road end of the street, with a wonky Courage brewery sign bearing its name. It didn’t look like many London boozers I’d ever seen, the outside resembling a narrow shop or funeral parlour rather than a pub. But it did look suitably old and tatty, and the colourful movement we could detect through the frosted glass suggested a place considerably livelier than the one we’d just left. It was also infuriatingly close to the tube exit we’d surfaced from a little over an hour ago.

“Hang on, let’s get our breath back,” I commanded, leaning on a lamppost. Alan was frowning, looking up and down the street.

“Shit, you know … I think I have been to this place.”

“Yeah,” I replied, unconvinced.

“D’you reckon they’re still in there?”

“I guess we’re about to find out.”

“Fuck, man. What are we going to say?”

“The truth,” I shrugged. “That you got the wrong pub.”