Other than a couple of years on the Charity Committee at St Mary’s whilst in the Sixth Form, I had reached my early twenties without giving too much thought or time to the well-being of others outside my immediate family set. In 1987 philanthropy and altruism were a long way down life’s list of priorities. At the time, I had just finished Rock: Day By Day for Guinness and had sold, or was in the process of selling the idea of Bits and Pieces to Penguin. Either way, the advance I received would not keep me in booze for six months, so some sort of employment was necessary. My mum spotted the sign in Cuffley Motors as she walked by to her own job every day, so in January 1987 I became a pump-jockey serving petrol to Cuffley’s finest all-day. In many ways it would be one of the best jobs of my life, but today I want to focus on the man who shared the job with me. The rota was split in two – 7am-1pm and 1pm-7pm six days a week, alternate weeks. My oppo was a local chap, well-known to many though not previously to me. His name, Richard Gentle. Of him, we will learn much more in due course but today is about me. Today is about how, by October of 1987, Richard had left the garage and reopened the Youth Club across the road. It’s about how he persuaded me to leave behind my selfish past and start to do things for other people. Actually, that last bit isn’t strictly true at all. I was earning £100 a week on the pumps (Though there ways to supplement that income, nudge, nudge, wink, wink) and Richard offered me £17 a week on top of that to come and play pool with the youth club members for a couple of hours each week. Remember when local authorities had money?

And so I started off as a Youth Assistant one evening a week. It was actually 2.5 hours if I remember correctly. The ‘kids’ weren’t much older than me. This was actually quite fun. So much so, that a few weeks later and I was doing a second night down the club, unpaid. The following year we did our first pantomime; soon we arranged the first trip to Talbot House; there were sponsored walks; all sorts of events and activities. By the end of the decade I was sucked in head and foot. And in fact, I became entirely voluntary. At the time, to get our session fee paid, we had to complete a horrible computer form. We had to shade in boxes demonstrating how much time we spent “Interacting with the young people” and such like. I couldn’t be done with it and told Richard to take me off the books. I would still come, just not get paid for it. The only problem with that was, a few short weeks later, Richard had somehow charmed me into filling in his computer forms every week so I had all the bureaucracy and none of the money!

I became completely addicted to working at the Youth Club. I was computer specialist; compiled a newsletter (There’s a copy of Issue 1 from Spring 1989 by the side of me as I write); helped produce the pantomimes; run holidays. I even used to work with this strange Toc H group who invaded our centre with some regularity. Finally, I even ended up on the committee. And up until the day Richard died, that’s the way it was. Then John Burgess reeled me in and Toc H started to get the fruit of my dedication.

 I can’t tell you how much this changed my life. As well as volunteering for more than 20 years now and for perhaps 10 different organisations, I have worked professionally in the sector since 2005 and still deliver training on different aspects. I’ve met so many wonderful people through volunteering and learnt so much. And all of this, so I could get an extra £17 a week playing pool.

The first obvious way my drink problem developed was through my lunch hours. When I was working for GRRR Books in High Holborn, lunch pretty much became a liquid affair between 11am (When the pubs opened) and 2pm (When they shut, back in those dark regulated days). I had my own personal pub-crawl circuit that stretched from Soho to Smithfield; from St Giles High Street to High Holborn.

The professional alcoholic through, likes to keep it simple and my drinking often began in the closest pub to me. Exit front door and turn right. One minute later arrive Endell Street and the Oporto. Next to the swimming baths, it was a small and narrow pub with little remarkable about it. The bar was nearly always run by a middle age woman. I knew nothing about her and rarely tried to engage her in conversation. All that mattered to me was that she kept serving me. I was a well-behaved drunk so as long as I had cash being served wasn’t normally an issue.

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about the Oporto for me was its other customers. It was ten yards across the street from St. Mungo’s which was one of the best known homelessness hostels in the country. There were probably any number of people staying at St Mungo’s who used the pub from time to time but there were two that I remembered above all others. A few years back, someone on facebook named them for me but I can’t find that post. I think they may have been known as Jerry and Little Legs – it’ll make sense shortly.

They didn’t seem to have the same desperation as I did. I would be often be, literally, waiting for the door to open at 11.00. Jerry and Little Legs would roll-up a bit later. Jerry was a larger man (I was starting to get fairly big myself by now) and was almost a stereotype old the old-fashioned man of the road. His bulk was wrapped in an old raincoat, tied at the waist with a bit of string. He presumably had some money as he never asked me to buy him a drink.

Although I liked to sit at the bar, Jerry preferred a table so I would often join him along the window. There was only room for the bar and a line of small tables along the edge of the room. I think the glass was smoked so we didn’t get to see out. We chatted about nothing and everything. I don’t remember to be honest. He may have told me a bit about his life but I was knocking back 15 pints in a lunchtime so not much of it stayed. What I do remember is that his hands were covered in some of the largest and discernible warts you were ever likely to see. All I could do was put my hands on his; touch his warts; try to show him that it didn’t matter. It was a small thing but it was all I could think of.

Little Legs was a different matter. He had dwarfism and displayed both the height and features you would expect with the condition.  He would lollop up to the bar where I was sat and use me as a ladder to haul himself onto a bar stool. He was full of mischief and humour. I think he used to take the mick out of me but I was still quite naïve in those days so I didn’t always get it.

I was comfortable with those guys. Yes, I came from a pretty stable and secure white-upper working class background. I was certainly not at risk of being made homeless. I lived with my parents and at that point my drinking was still controlled. They had no idea that I was on the piss all day whilst at work and I was able to hide the extent I’d been drinking long enough to eat some tea before heading off down the pub for the night.

It was in my head that I was breaking down. I knew way back then that my drinking wasn’t normal. I knew that I was pissing away the talents I had been born with. I knew my potential was not so much unfulfilled as unbegun. In my head at least I was one of society’s misfits; one of its rejects. I was happy with Jerry and Little Legs – they accepted me for who I was.

The Oporto belongs to the Craft Beer Co. now. Even if I drank I don’t think I’d ever be accepted in there.

In 1985 after I was made redundant from Tim Rice and GRRR Books, I was approached by Guinness to write a title for them. They had themselves been propositioned by a publishing design house to put together a chronology of rock and roll and need someone to write it. Of course I jumped at the chance and shortly afterwards had a meeting with Bart Ullstein and Bruce Robertson. I adored them from the start. Bart was about as Jewish as you could get without the full Orthodox or Hasidic regalia. He reminded me of my great uncle’s business partners around Stoke Newington. Smart people with a wicked, self-deprecating sense of humour. Tim’s agent, David Land, in a garret above whose office I started out, was cut from the same cloth. They were good business men too. I don’t just mean wealthy business men, successful business men, smart business men – I actually mean good business men.

Bruce, on the other hand, was what Father Christmas did between January and November. A large man with a full white beard to match. A huge striped shirt barely contained by broad red braces. He was the creative genius.

I did actually get one over them that first day. We had just agreed a weekly amount for my writing (Always a better option than a fixed fee) and they asked me how long I thought it might take to write. I very nearly came right out and said six months, which would have been an honest appraisal. But the devil popped up on my shoulder and I replied about a year, which is what it eventually took. I didn’t stretch myself.

And the remainder of this story is really about my once week trips for the rest of that year. Each Thursday I would jump on the train to Kentish Town and visit the Diagram Group’s offices at 195 Kentish Town Road. I would hand in my latest batch of work, pick up some proofs for correcting and get my cheque for the week. Then I would pop across the road and bank the cheque, draw some cash from the hole in the wall, and make my way to the pub. It may have been the Abbey Tavern from looking at Google Earth. It’s hard to tell as everything has changed so.

In my day, at 12 noon on a Thursday in the mid-eighties, it was a quiet pub. The clientele were mostly Irish and there were about two of them propping up the big London counter bar. There must have been some sort of skylight as I remember great pillars of light encapsulating the dust and smoke as they streamed down on the bar. I sat on a stool ensuring we were nicely spaced out from each other and got my own Guinness. Then I pulled a Marlboro Red from the packet and lit up. Supping, smoking, and contemplating. That was how the next hour or so of my day would pan out.

There was a fruit machine I’m sure but no-one else was playing it and it seemed rude to break the atmosphere with the savage kerching of money going down the pan. So drinking, smoking, contemplating, maybe scribbling a few lyrics down as I often did when I was in the pub on my own.

There was one more player on this stage though, each Thursday lunchtime, in the mid-eighties. Not the barman, they were taken for granted of course. No, this player was in a small booth somewhere near the entrance to the pub. She was a woman, possible in her fifties. Maybe younger but had lived a difficult life. Her skin was certainly etched with the trials and tribulations of a working woman. I don’t believe anything she had, had come easily to her.

There was ample skin to see too because her entire existence for the next 45 minutes was to shed her clothing – of which there wasn’t too much in the first place – and reveal what lay beneath. She was the stripper. Thursday lunchtime was when she rehearsed. At least, I truly hope she was rehearsing because if this was her main performance we were doing her a great injustice. Her entire audience of three were all just sat at the bar smoking, drinking, contemplating, and a little lyric scribbling in one case.

She didn’t seem bothered. She just got on with it. Popped her CD into the player. Oh yes, a CD player in 1985. She was clearly a progressive stripper. My memory is pretty sharp despite the drinking, and I am quite convinced that she danced to just the one piece of music. It was Drive by the Cars. Already welded to my psyche by Live Aid, this drivel was now going to be locked inside my head as a stripper song too.

In the beginning I wanted to feel sorry for her. A woman past her prime, reduced to dancing for money in a seedy little pub in North London. Then I contemplated myself. A drunk, scratching a living writing for other people whilst pissing what I earned up the walls and making my lungs itch.

There was no-one to feel sorry for. We were just players in life’s rich pageant. A stripper and a drunk; a drunk and a stripper. Play on!

It was through my work with the Toc H South East Region Project Committee (Serpc aka Harpic aka whatever else seemed funny and ridiculous at the time) that John Mitchell roped me in for this project in Regent’s Park. It was still the early days of recovery for me and I tended to throw myself at everything going. Thus on a summer’s day in 2002 Toc H were to provide marshalling facilities for the annual Aga Khan Foundation Partnership Walk. Sounded good to me and one evening a few days before the walk itself, I was at the Foundation for a pre-project briefing and the chance to meet some of the Muslim youth groups walking and some other helpers. I expected to know most of the Toc H volunteers, and I did, except one. I first spotted her outside on the pavement whilst we were waiting to go in. She struck me as being tall and spindly. She wore her hair short and dyed and clearly didn’t adhere to the ‘norm’. Always a plus point in my books though I wasn’t necessarily smitten with immediate effect. That happened when we streamed into the ornate building that was centre of the Foundation’s work in the capital, and this Toc H volunteer stormed the organiser’s desk demanding to know why they didn’t have a hearing loop in operation. Feisty! That was when I first noticed the hearing aid. It was all making sense. But apart from exchanging a few words of hello, that was all the evening held for us. My mate Dominic and I headed back to the Badlands of Hertfordshire and Essex, the other Toc H volunteers left for the Toc H Volunteer Diaspora, and feisty girl left for Brixton. Because I found out that much about her – she lived in Brixton, oh, and her name was Hazel.

Come the day of the walk itself, I swang into action. My friend Jo was assigning work rotas, so I immediately ensured that I got assigned with Hazel. And there we were that Sunday at the end of July 2002, stood by a zebra crossing on the Inner Circle in Regent’s Park. There was a ten year age difference but we seemed to have enough in common for that not to be an issue and we chatted; we giggled; we had a laugh. And I must have flirted. I must have revealed my intent because the next thing I know, Hazel has dropped her girlfriend into the conversation. Not the friend who is female but the girlfriend! I am told! No uncertain terms. Back off boogaloo.

Thing is, I didn’t know at first if she was even telling me the truth or just using it as an excuse to save her having to say she wasn’t in the least bit interested in me. Thankfully I didn’t have to live with that uncertainty for too long as she produced the photos of the girlfriend shortly afterwards. So, yes, Hazel was a lesbian and currently seeing another woman. So much for that avenue of adventure.

And as far as I was concerned that really was it from a romantic viewpoint. I wasn’t some macho dork who believed he could straighten Hazel out. I wasn’t even the type to try and steal her away from another. If she was seeing someone, then that was it as far as I was concerned. Instead we became friends. More than that we became volunteer colleagues and started working on a project together to take a number of adults with learning disabilities to Lindridge House in Devon. We saw each other regularly. We even became quite intimate. After all, being of differing sexual persuasions there was no danger of any of that messy, squishy, lovey-dovey stuff happening by accident so no harm being all touchy-feely then.

In fact, when the project rolled around, Hazel had a stinking cold and was feeling a bit fed up. She couldn’t face sleeping in the dorm room with the guests, so ended up squeezing into the ‘driver’s bed’ with me. Like I said, there was no danger of any naughty stuff going down. What could possibly go wrong?

We’ve been together almost sixteen years as I write this. The Dyke and the Drunk.

What could possibly go wrong?

 

It’s normally mid-December as I celebrate my ‘birthday’ when I reflect upon my time at Farm Place. I came out in late February 1998 though so this as good a time as ever to revisit the old country house in Sussex where things somewhat changed for me.

First some context. From the moment I started drinking regularly with my mates at the age of 16, I drank more than everyone else. Eventually I drank more drink, more often, more secretly, more over I didn’t know why. There were ten years between admitting I had a problem and going into Farm Place. In that decade I attempted numerous traditional counselling options. I saw a Sikh psychiatrist who told me that my addiction was a lion roaring in my belly and I could control it; I went to the local county drugs and alcohol service who were on trend and sought to prove I had been sexually abused as a child; and I spent time with a lovely Japanese lady who taught me to wind down my car window and throw my stresses to the wind before driving home. About all they ever did for me was make me drink harder, faster, and sooner.

Anyway, to get to the grist. I was off sick from my job as IT Manager at Fitzpatrick Contractors Limited with a ‘bad cold’. Of course, no-one wore that but it was what it was. My boss, Penny Fitzpatrick, called me and said she wanted to come over and see me. Clearly she was bringing my P45. Frankly I didn’t care.

When Penny arrived that evening, what she actually had with her was a prospectus for Farm Place, a 12 Step Rehab Clinic in Sussex. We’ll skip then to Tuesday 16th December 1997, when with a can of Guinness in my hand (not my first of the day), one of my engineers drove me to Farm Place with my suitcase in my hand and left standing in the plush entrance hall suitably decorated for Christmas.

Things began with being checked-in. And there was something I should have mentioned earlier. At home – where I still lived with my parents due to pissing every penny I earned up the wall – we shared our personal space with numerous animals including several neighbours cats. That is, to be precise, the several cats of a neighbour rather than the cats of several neighbours! Sherry (such irony) had a vicious little streak and didn’t much like being handled. I, when drunk, didn’t much care for common-sense so needing love before committing myself to rehab, I had tried to pick Sherry up for a cuddle. The outcome was all four claws wrapped around my left arm leaving behind gridiron of red streaks as she rappelled to the floor.

So back to the check-in and the question about whether I had ever considered self-harm. I answered ‘no’ because it was the truth but the nurse spent an inordinate amount of time staring at that left arm.

And then checked-in, I discovered Tuesday night was film night. I didn’t feel in the mood for a movie so I took myself off for a bath and an early night. I soon learned that film night was not optional and over the coming weeks I learned the joys of Days of Wine and Roses, Less Than Zero, Postcards from the Edge and Leaving Las Vegas.

Even so, the routine I discovered the next day was not too trying. I was of course dosed up on Heminevrin and trying not to throw up on people I had just met so it was pleasing to find myself in a lounge talking to a young man writing a pantomime. Mark was British but had lived in America a long time. His interest in the pantomime was waning fast. Which is how, whilst Jonesing like fuck, I find myself rewriting Cinderella on a 12 Step Programme in a country house in Sussex with a Portuguese alcoholic; several British and American junkies; an Irish co-dependent; a Greek anorexic and a other assorted misfits like me!

It was a surprising success. My cast were delightful – even those from countries where the concept of pantomime was unknown. Somehow, after years of drinking myself into a pit of despair where I believed I was a failure; quite hopeless; untalented, I had in less then a week become the author of Farm Place.

I think we performed to a cast of tens on Christmas Day. Our fellow addicts, some staff, a few family members. I was ecstatic. Another seven weeks of rehab was going to be a doddle.

Then I woke up Boxing Day and the gloves came off.

The highlight was peeing next to Paul McCartney in Abbey Road Studios. Well, clearly not in the studio itself but in the urinals set out for the intended purpose. I don’t know why peeing next one of the most well known faces in the world was the highlight of an evening where I got to meet Billy Fury and where I caused Andy Summers some degree of consternation but it seemed to be at the time.

The time was October 1982 and the occasion was the launch of the Guinness Book of 500 Number One Hits, the first title to be published since I arrived at GRRR Books the previous November. We – I officially worked for Tim Rice in a team that included his brother Jo, and the DJs Paul Gambaccini and Mike Read – had spent several months organising this party at Studio Two, Abbey Road and were buzzing.

We had invited at least one representative of every act to reach number one in the UK singles chart and were expecting quite a crowd. I had done much of the organising alongside Tim’s new PA – Judy Craymer (Of course, that’s gonna be another post entirely) and was looking forward to the fruits of my labour. I was there with my oldest friend, Andi Maskell, and one of my newest friends, Goffs Oak’s own number one, ‘Buster’ Meikle.

My first job of the night was literally standing at the door meeting and greeting the stars as they arrived and taking them down to the studio. This allowed me to have such ‘witty conversations’ with the likes of Paul and Linda McCartney along the line of, “I better show you the way”. The Beatles had of course recorded most of their 17 number ones in the studio which is why we were holding the party there, so I think Paul knew the way but hey, I was 19 years old, callow and still quite shy. Stunning conversation was not yet a forte.

They were though two of the first I led down to the temple that is Studio 2. Later that evening, Linda was the one person I actually spent talking at length too. We were showing videos of all the number ones and John Lennon was getting more than a few spins. Linda was quite emotional. I won’t betray the confidences of our conversation except to say I was glad to hear that Paul and John had found some common ground before John died. Wouldn’t it have been unbearable if they had not.

Another person I tried to engage in meaningful conversation with was Andy Summers. They were a bit naughty really. We only invited one person plus guest from each band (Beatles excepted) but all three of the Police turned up. Stewart had his mates and was with them; Sting was a star. He went and kidnapped the policeman who stood on duty outside Abbey Road and brought him down to the party. He then posed for photographer Richard Young wearing the copper’s helmet. The guy knew how to make publicity.

Andy though, looked like a man lost. He seemed to me to be alone and unloved; unsure where to go. I was one of the organisers of this party and it was my duty to make him feel at ease. So I strolled up to him and using every skill in small-talk I had thus far developed said “So which of the Dantalian’s Chariot singles did you play on?”. He looked me up and down like the anorak I was, replied abruptly “All of them”, then turned on his heel and walked away from me as fast as his little legs could carry him.

That might have been it but the next night my new mate Linda invited me to the launch of her latest photography book at a gallery in Mayfair. Andy Summers also wangled an invite. I swear he spotted me from two rooms away and ran off into another part of the gallery. I didn’t see him again all evening.

I mentioned earlier that Billy Fury was there. He held court all evening with many of his colleagues hanging on to his every word. He was only 42 years old but a lifetime of a heart condition meant he looked 20 years older. I’m glad I met him; he was dead within three months.

Another we had moved heaven and earth to get there was Ronnie Lane. His multiple sclerosis was well established and he had just been to Texas to try out some radical, literally ‘snake-oil’ treatment. I think his girlfriend Boo felt that many of his friends had stopped ringing so she was determined to get him to the party. I liked Boo! We got him there even if he had to be carried down the stairs by the taxi-driver. He had a great night!

 

Others who had a great night must have included the little girl from the St Winifred’s School Choir. She was paraded around by her teacher/nun and looked so happy I almost forgave her for helping vomit up one of the most saccharine number ones of all.

A little less sugary – though not much – was Johnny Logan’s 1980 Eurovision winner What’s Another Year. At that time it was all Johnny was known for and he was as gauche and uncomfortable amongst all the celebrities as I was. My mate Andi and then I spent some time talking to Johnny and his manager. We even swapped phone numbers and promised to visit if we were ever in Ireland etc. Of course we never did. I think Andi still has the phone number in his autographed copy of the book. I wonder what became of his manager? What was his name now? Walsh? That’s right Louis Walsh!

There were others of course and one day I must go through Andi’s copy of the book and see all the signatures. The one I must mention before we close is ‘Buster’ Meikle. I had invited him along to represent Unit 4+2 as he was born in Goffs Oak and I reached him through his mum. He travelled up with Andi and me. At some point during the evening we lost him. By all accounts he was found by a security guard in some control room deep in the bowels of Abbey Road around 4am. They sent him home. I didn’t lose him again for many years and spent a number of enjoyable evenings on the lash with Buster or watching him play.

I’ve always loved a good biography and a well-written autobiography is even better. This is neither! Surely you must claim some degree of celebrity to be the subject of a biographer or to take the time and effort to write about yourself? Well, perhaps not. Publishing is so cheap and easy now that we can all put ourselves out there if we choose. And nostalgia is big business. Sometimes people just like to read about others’ experiences just so they can say “Omg, I so did that!”

So, I’ll do it. Not the full cradle to grave life story but a handful of stories plucked from along the way. Related as honestly as possible; if I have to embellish them I might just as well not bother. Perhaps you who are reading this were on the particular journey with me and will find yourself in the paragraphs along side me, or maybe it’s one of those favourite stories I’ve told you before. Better yet, you might learn something about me. If you have only known me for part of my life, then perhaps the revelations will help you see another side.

Or you might just be utterly bored. Disgusted even by my arrogant belief that someone else would contemplate reading about my life. Well that’s OK; just scroll on. That’s why its so easy now. Easy to get it out there and easy to ignore. Good heaven’s, I might even end up ignoring myself.

 

So where to begin? You know music has always been important to me right? Ever since as a child I serenaded nan with my version of Solomon King’s She Wears My Ring, or when I wrote a song called Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) which Cher picked up but cheekily credited the writing to her husband.

It was important enough to me to start a band. I think it was just for a few months in the spring of 1974. Our last few weeks at Primary School. Goffs Oak JMI by the way, later to be the school of one Victoria Adams but that will probably crop up in a different memory. This memory is that we really started the Honeybugs as a way of getting off the cold playground and into a warm classroom where we could rehearse. There were other equally shallow reasons for the band. It featured me (Steve Smith), Steve Syrett, Steve Kidman, and Andy Fry. This meant we could do a twisted version of Sweet’s Ballroom Blitz intro (Are you ready Steve? – uh ha; Steve? – yeah; Steve? – mmmm; Andy? OK fellows, let’s go) So maybe it didn’t scan quite as freely but it worked.

Our limited repertoire also included our version of Snoopy Versus the Red Baron, recently a smasheroonie in the UK charts for the Hot Shots (Actually the Cimarons in disguise). We only did it because we could sing the word ‘bloody’ and get away with it. No really, that’s why we did it. That’s the shallow 10 year old boys that we were. It was an important song to me though. I had a solo. You know the bit where it goes “Snoopy fired once, and he fired twice. And that Bloody Red Baron went spinning out of sight”? Well I got to shake my maracas – twice!

Maybe I didn’t mention that. I played the maracas in Snoopy but actually I was lead Kazooist. Rhythm Kazooist too. And bass Kazooist I guess. If there was any kazooing to be done in the Honeybugs then I was your man; your go to guy.

Steve Kidman wielded an acoustic guitar. He probably knew a chord or two. He wasn’t Guitar George, who knew all the chords but wait, Dire Straits are still three years away, let’s not complicate the rock’n’roll timeline this early on.

Steve Syrett must have done the singing which left Andy Fry on drums entirely due to the fact that he was the only person with a drum kit! This, would cause problems later.

The only other song I recall was Hey Rock’n’roll from the songbook of the freshly minted Showaddywaddy. And that was it really. We formed to rehearse. We had no reason to rehearse as we had no bookings but it kept us in the warm. Eventually we did get booked to play at the leaving do. What a way to go. Our final day in the old school before moving on to big school and we get to play to our peers. Surely we must throw Alice Cooper’s School’s Out into the set list after all we were singing nothing else on the playground that week. What a gig this was going to be. Except it wasn’t. It didn’t! I don’t recall the precise circumstances but I think it ended with Andy Fry throwing a strop and taking his drum kit home. I told you it would cause problems.

No drums; no drummer; no gig; no Honeybugs. We split up there and then. I went to St Mary’s; Steve Syrett went to Goffs; Steve Kidman and Andy Fry to Cheshunt. Our paths rarely crossed again. It could have been so different.