Well it was just a night in, last night, except that at 11pm I was on the Mark Radcliffe show on Radio 2 (heÂ’s doing it from Edinburgh for a few days) and the other guest on with me was Hugh Cornwell from off of
The Stranglers. After such a beautifully dull night in it was something of a jolt to find myself sitting in a little studio, listening to one of my punk heroes playing acoustically for seemingly an audience of just two. The first punk record I bought (and essentially the first record purchase of my adult life – I had previously purchased some of the work of the Wombles and Sweet) was “Looking at the Peaches” and though the Stranglers were not my favourite band, they were certainly up there. If you could have told the 14 year old me that one day this scenario would be playing out then I would have probably exploded in one way or another. But now I am 38 and so I played it cool and pretended that this was the kind of thing that happens to me all the time, but inside I was still going. “It’s him! It’s him! Ask him to sing “No More Heroes!” He’d probably really like that!”
I didnÂ’t do that though. Because I am cool. Even when Mark Radcliffe was talking about exactly this issue, in regard to a gig where heÂ’d had to introduce his childhood hero, David Bowie at the Hammersmith Apollo, and had to disguise his glee when asked his opinion on what the Thin White Duke should play. I still didnÂ’t go, I know what you mean, cos I am just as impressed about being here with Hugh Cornwell.
Because I am cool.
But if the 14 year old me would have been amazed at the mini-concert, he would be flabbergasted by what happened next. We all went down to the Holyrood Tavern for a pint. So I was sitting next to a punk legend and talking to him almost as if I was an equal. He was a very affable and amusing man, who really likes cricket. In a sense it is a shame that he is no longer an angry punk rocker who hates the world, but in most ways itÂ’s probably better that heÂ’s moved on. HeÂ’s quite old now. It might have been embarrassing. And anyway
The Stranglers were never quite as scuzzy and stupid as the others.
I walked home over North Bridge (the bridge I mentioned the other day, where it struck me that if someone wanted to kill me and read this weblog, they could just hide in wait for me at night and then throw me over the edge and everyone would think I had finally snapped – so just to stop that I promise I will never do that and if it happens, hunt down my killer) and bumped into the man who had edited my
Talking Cock book. “I’ve just met Hugh Cornwell…” I told him. There was a bit of a pause, “…from the Stranglers!” I added, in case he didn’t know. He did know and was suitably impressed, but all the other young comics I told during the rest of the day were less familiar with the name. Fame is a fickle mistress. Are there no more heroes any more?
