Famous People (and places)

I don’t know why the following facts have popped into my head – I really should be doing something else, which is far more important and far more urgent than writing a blog post about famous people (and places) but… When inspiration strikes, it’s quite hard to resist sometimes. So here I am, dragging a handful of memories from the past and splatting them out into the internet. And of course, if you’re reading this, Hi.

Let’s go straight in and start with Loyd Grossman. Why? Well, my brother plays in a post-punk band with him, that’s why. No, really, it’s true. They’re called The New Forbidden and Loyd is the guitarist. That’s Loyd taking a solo in the picture above – a photograph I took from my seat on the balcony of a strange members-only club for rich people in Chelsea. I know, it could be a photo of any balding man in any venue but I’m serious. Honestly.

Loyd’s a funny man isn’t he? What’s with his voice? I hadn’t seen him on the telly for a long time before I met him and I’d sort of forgotten how he speaks. It’s quite unusual.
Anyway, when I went to this unusual event in Chelsea, I hadn’t seen my brother (Tom) for a while and it was a rare treat to see him – I was living in Canterbury at the time, and Tom lives about 200 miles away in Dorset, in a little market town called Bridport, and to add to your enjoyment of the following dialogue, I suggest you say that out loud.
“Bridport.”
Good. let’s move on.

Funnily enough, a few years earlier, Loyd had been the chairman of the University for Creative Arts in Canterbury, so between the three of us we made a tidy little triangle of connections: Me in Canterbury, Tom in a band, and Loyd in the band and in Canterbury. Funny old world isn’t it?
After the gig I had a drink with Tom and he introduced me to Loyd.

“Bleuddy heullll, you can teullll you twuoe are brotheurrrs,” he said, switching his gaze between our faces.

Yeah yeah, we do look alike, but never mind that, I’m sick of hearing it. And far more pressing was my amazement; I couldn’t believe he actually spoke like that. What is with his voice?! I said hello.

“Do you live in Bridgeport tooeu?” asked Loyd.

I stifled a big snorting laugh, didn’t correct his mispronunciation, and said, “No, I live in Canterbury.”

“Oh I leuvvve Ceanterburry,” replied Loyd, and added, “But Maidsteuone’s a shiiitheuole.”

And that was that. I ended up speaking to the bass player from the band for a while – he’s an estate agent and sells the big houses in Mayfair. He wore a yellow baseball cap. It was nice to see Tom. I still laugh about ‘Maidstone’s a shithole’ roughly every twelve-to-thirteen days.

*

BONUS STORY: The New Forbidden play at Glastonbury Festival most years. A few years ago, according to my brother, the crowd began chanting, ‘We love Loyd’s pasta sauce!’ – and who wouldn’t chant such a thing? I know I’m game.
Anyway, one of the band members said, through the mic, that it sounded like they were chanting, ‘We love Loyd’s testicles!’ …And so that’s what the crowd has chanted every year since. Over the top of the music. Endlessly. Really loud. Brilliant. It’s a shame, among other shames, that Covid has put the brakes on such occurrences.

****

Here’s a photo of the time when I met Gilbert O’Sullivan in Canterbury, after watching his show at The Marlowe Theatre. He was bloody excellent, he really was. Look at him there, standing on top of his piano, at the ripe age of seventy. It really was a magical evening.

I have a bit of history with Gilbert. When I was studying music at university, I wrote a dissertation on the subject of the Songwriting Process, and being a massive fan of Gilbert’s song Alone Again (Naturally) (because it is (in my opinion) one of the most perfectly crafted pop songs of all time), I made efforts to interview him about his songwriting process, in order to include his answers in my essay.

Getting hold of him was… Not as easy as the initial stages of getting hold of him. I went straight to his website (which doesn’t seem to exist anymore) and clicked ‘Contact’ (that part was easy) and I wrote a little message explaining who I was and blah blah blah.
And, soon after, I received a very friendly and helpful message from his sister Marie, who managed the website. I don’t remember what she said in her email and I can’t be bothered to check, but after much to-ing and fro-ing, we arranged for me to send her some questions so that she could send them to Gilbert so that he could send his answers back to her so that she could send them back to me. Simple.

But as my deadline loomed, I had an almost-finished essay and no news from any member of the O’Sullivan family, so I badgered Marie a bit and finally struck gold… Except… Well, Gilbert had replied, bless him… But the trouble was, he’d kind of replied with a set of short rhymes which, though lovely to read, didn’t answer my questions at all, and also didn’t make any sense. Fuck it. I included them as appendices anyway and that was that.

But then I got a really good mark for the dissertation – 75%! Boom. I wrote to Marie to say thanks, and asked if she’d pass my thanks on to her brother, and from there Marie and I chatted some more. Oh, if there’s anything to be said for Marie, let it be this: she sent a friendly email. She said to let her know if I was ever due to go to a concert.

And then I was due to go to a concert! So I emailed her! And I didn’t get a reply. But I went anyway and it was ace. They played an extraordinary version of Out Of The Question, which was packed full of overlapping lyrical lines and glorious musical flourishes, and was rather more pleasant to hear than the poor quality video I’ve linked to here. It was brilliant. And I remember rather fancying one of the backing vocalists.

Afterwards I queued for about seven thousand hours, behind many many people from a generation older than my own, and finally met the man himself. His daughter took the photo of us together, and I thanked him for his funny replies to my questions, and he looked like he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. I gave Marie a hug. I don’t suppose that sort of thing is allowed these days. I wonder if she’s still alive. Blimey, Covid’s really changed things hasn’t it?

****

In 2018, already doing my counsellor training, I started working part time for a company that sold white goods. I was the delivery driver, and although most of our customers operated from little huts on little industrial estates, one of my first jobs just happened to be the task of taking a tumble dryer to Buckingham Palace. There’s the delivery note, above this bit of text, for you to look at.

I’d been debriefed by my boss and my colleagues before leaving the depot – they expertly told me I’d be searched on the way in to the palace, so I took all the guns and bales of cocaine out of the lining of my jacket and stashed the various tools and plumbing fixtures that normally lived in the van’s glovebox safely in a bucket on the floor of the warehouse. After all, I didn’t want to be arrested for carrying a jubilee clip.

As you probably noticed when you closely examined the photo above, I was delivering to ‘Mick’, via the Side Door, and I had Mick’s mobile number so that I could call him when I arrived. A nice straightforward plan.
The only problem with this arrangement was that Mick’s number didn’t fucking work, and I was struggling to find anywhere to pull over outside the palace in my bright yellow Luton van – it’s busy round there, and people beep their honkyhorns at you just for driving, never mind for pulling over to phone Mick. So, with all this going on, and knowing that I might be inspected quite forensically by armed guards, I was a tad more stressed than usual when I arrived.

I parked up on double-yellows for a bit, and ran up to the gated side door to ask one of the massive police men if he’d let me in. He was very friendly, and thankfully did not point his machine gun at me. Instead, he simply opened the gates and guided me through them as I reversed in. Nobody searched me. Nobody set the sniffer dogs about me. Nobody waved a mirror on a stick under the van. Nobody even asked me who I was. I felt a bit disappointed.

And once I was in, they just let me wander around, trying to find Mick. I went through a door and found loads of posh people sitting at a big wooden desk. I asked for Mick. Nobody knew who he was. They suggested that I went and sat in my van while I waited for them to work out what was going on. I asked if I could have a wee. They pointed to a door, and I went through it and did a royal piss in a royal toilet. The toilet was a Royal Doulton. It smelled faintly of piss and shit, like most toilets do. On the wall it said, in marker pen, “Liz woz ere.” Most of this paragraph is true.

So I sat in my van, and after sixteen million hours, out came a man wearing an overcoat that looked like it cost more than you or I will ever earn in our entire lifetimes combined. I asked him if he was Mick.
In one of the plummiest accents I’ve ever heard up close, he replied: “No I’m not fucking Mick, and no fucker here seems to know who the fuck Mick is, so as fucking usual I’m the cunt who has to sort this fucking shit out.”

I was slightly taken aback at the language used by The Man Who Claimed Not to be Mick. I remember smiling and being patient and helpful while he swore a lot and tried to make a decision in his big posh brain. In the end he seemed to get tired of the whole debacle and told me just to dump the tumble dryer on the driveway, so I did. I remember it being a heavy one, made by Miele, for those of you who are interested in such details.

I drove away, wondering if The Man Who Claimed Not to be Mick speaks to the Queen like that. I now wonder if that’s how she speaks to him.

“Has my fucking tumble dryer arrived yet, you cunt?”
“Yes your fucking majesty, it’s on the fucking driveway.”

Funny old world isn’t it.

So there we go. A blog post about famous people and a famous place. I wonder what I’ll write about next week. As always, cheers for readin’ and please be nice to yourself and everyone else. X