I Know This Much: From Soho to Spandau

Chapter Fourteen: A Bullet from Disco Danny (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen: Embracing the Enemy (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen: Starmen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen: Barricades (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen: Falling (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen: Being Ronnie (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty: A Bigger Splash (#litres_trial_promo)

London, 30 April 1999 (#litres_trial_promo)

Into History (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

LONDON, 27 JANUARY 1999

There are moments in life when your entire confidence depends on the coordination between you and an inanimate object. Symbolically, and actually, the problem was a noose around my neck. Every time I knotted my tie the pointy bit was either above or below my waistband—too long and I felt like an accountant, too short and I resembled a Soho bartender. I rip it off again, wipe the back of my hand across my forehead and try to steady myself before another attempt. I’d earlier decided to go for the pink Turnbull and Asser shirt, freshly depinned, but I’d changed my mind and broke sweat struggling to remove my cufflinks in order to change into the more sober, white one. Pink had looked too presumptuous; a little cocksure. I don’t want to give that impression.

Unfortunately clothes had always been an obsession. As a boy there had been my snake belt and Trackers, with their compass-in-the-heel bonus, then tears spilt over desired Ben Shermans and Budgie jackets; two-tones; brogues; toppers; the thrill of my first Bowie loons; cheesecloth; plastic sandals; mohair jumpers; Smiths; straights; high-tops; GI chic; loafers; kilts; Annello & Davide ballet pumps, and all the madness that was the eighties dressing-up box. The event determines the clothes, but the execution of putting them on prepares you for it, and right now I’m suffering from nerves and in a bit of a state about the length of my tie.

I struggle with the knot in the mirror and wonder if any of this really matters. What the hell am I thinking about! My hair’s freshly trimmed but my face looks tired and drawn from lack of sleep. Last night I’d woken again to play out potential moments from the trial in my head and had not slept since 4 a.m. God, this isn’t working! A flush of insecurity pours into my chest and I feel sick down to my knees, but the doorbell rings (was that it earlier?) and I pull up the heart-shaped knot, throw on my jacket and coat and head downstairs. My tie will have to do. So, I hope, will my truth.

Ian Mill fills the room. Not just physically—he has a large, well-stocked frame, a picture of his own success—but also in terms of his character—a Pickwickian presence born of public-school confidence and class. ‘Spy’ should have drawn him for a Victorian issue of Vanity Fair. He picks up a handful of folders from his aching desk, buries them into his obediently open briefcase and, with a swipe of his hand, clears his barrister’s wig from the table, places it on the top of the folders and closes his case with a snap.

‘Gentlemen?’

I wonder if he’d put the tonal question mark after ‘Gentlemen’ for other, more suspicious reasons. Here, in the theatre of law, stands the last bastion of the class system. Accents are prepared and nurtured, polished and loaded, before being sent out to pronounce judgement upon the fools of the world. I gaze through the window on to the redbricked Inns of Court, survivors of the Great Fire of London and the Blitz, serving as historic reminders of the eternity of order. I find a certain comfort in all of this, and a genetically encoded forelock is being pulled as Steve Dagger and I follow Ian and our team out of the chambers and into the cold bright day that lights the Inns with a nostalgic beauty. As we walk towards the court I feel myself locked into a crashing inevitability and envy the otherness of passing people, on their way to meetings, coffee, loved ones. But Ian bestrides the Strand and it’s all I can do to keep up. We are about to enter his arena.

The Gothic, grey-stone edifice that is the Royal Courts of Justice could be the grand entrance to Oz, overdressed with multiple arches and varied ornate carvings, with a dark spire that points its righteous finger to heaven. But people don’t come here to ask for a heart or courage, just judgement, and, of course, some money. Outside, a pack of media jostle for a statement and some pictures, and I submit myself to the hungry lenses, suddenly relieved that I hadn’t gone for the pink.

We pass through security, and make our way to Court 59. I dread my first meeting with the others. Will it all seem ridiculous when it happens? Will they drop the whole thing on seeing me and realise how preposterous it all is? We arrive at a tiny anteroom and Ian vanishes, leaving Dagger and me, and my two young lawyers, feeling temporarily rudderless. He returns dressed for his performance: wig pressed snugly over his boyish blond waves; white barrister bands tight around his pink neck, and a flowing, long black gown. I feel sick again and wish I’d never read Bleak House.

He resettles his wig; it seems to be focusing his mind. ‘Try to sit at the front. Good to be seen clearly by the judge.’

Our Queen’s Counsel, Barbara Dohmann, arrives—a small, middleaged German woman whom I’m glad to hear is referred to in the business as ‘Doberman’—and we shuffle into the aesthetically neutered courtroom. I’m relieved to see that the others aren’t here yet and, following Ian’s thrusting finger, we slide on to the front bench. Dagger squashes up to my right. This is the man who’d helped to create Spandau Ballet; who has lived, breathed and dreamt it as much any one of us. The rejection he has suffered would have been just as painful, the accusations worse.

He prods me, and with a nod points out their barrister, our adversary, Andrew Sutcliffe. Sharp and feral, his thin nose hovers importantly over his opening statement and I wonder how much pleasure he anticipates from my destruction. Beyond him, in the public seats, I notice some familiar faces—long-term followers of the band: fans. They look excited as they settle into their spaces and arrange their bags between their legs. Next to them are members of the press, notebooks and pens appearing from mucky pockets, and I can feel them begin to scrutinise me and I wonder how you look when you’re about to be sued out of your home.

The courtroom door opens; a sudden hush of voices from outside, and, turning, I catch my first sight of what they call the plaintiffs, the men who’ve brought me here, the same men that I’d known as boys, that I’d embraced a thousand times, that I’d lived a young man’s dream with: John Keeble, Steve Norman, Tony Hadley—men who had been my friends. I want to say hello—it feels ridiculous not to, we’ve known each other since school—but they avoid my gaze as they sideways-step into the bench at the back of the room. I’m surprised by John’s rock-‘n’roll-flavoured peroxide hair, a recent statement of his commitment to the cause. I was probably closer to him than to any other throughout the whole extraordinary ride. I manage to catch his eye but he rejects it and sits between Steve and Tony. The press start to scribble. They can sense fear. To them, we must have the distressed look of people who’ve swum too far out to sea.

The fifth member of the band is missing—my brother. Only recently recovered from two brain operations to remove benign tumours, he is now—thankfully—forging a career as a successful TV star and has rightly chosen to avoid the court. But I have with me, in my heart, his blessing.

Two young clerks with over-gelled hair and oversized tie-knots arrive with trolleys teetering with box-files. Wheeling them to the front of the courtroom, they casually unload the fifteen or so numbered boxes across the long console table directly in front of me. I quickly understand what they contain. Within them lies my life: cuttings of articles interviews and photographs; letters and faxes; contracts—a yellowing, fading potpourri of our history to be judged by bewigged, gowned men from another world. All had come to this. Inside those dull boxes lay the innocent faces of five young working-class lads from London, living the greatest story they could have wished for, a story that is about to be told in the many different ways they remember it.

I suddenly realise how familiar this all is and feel sure now that it will drag itself through to the bitter end. This, after all, is another show. We’re finally back together again; and the music will be played, and hearts will race. Here, surrounded by a crew of helpers and advisers, with a stage to stand on and an audience to listen, Spandau Ballet is once more the headline act.

‘All stand for the judge.’

A stooped-looking clerk, the judge’s toadying roadie, makes the announcement from the dais and we noisily obey. The stenographer crooks her fingers over her keys as though she’s about to start a concerto, and Mr Justice Park, middle aged, thin and grey, but with gown flowing dramatically behind him, enters stage left and takes his central seat.

As I watch this powdered pomp begin, it occurs to me that the court is pure theatre. With its cast of goodies and baddies, it is improvised, emotional, and although without a predetermined denouement, as sure as in any good Greek tragedy there’ll be a grand judgement from above, a winner and a loser, and before then, an awful lot of dressing up.

CHAPTER ONE WAKEY WAKEY! (#ulink_33728a51-3bff-5348-8c7e-8299652b7f23)

It began with an unwanted Christmas present. The year previously I’d been given a lunar landing module—well, a six-inch one, but I could hover it over a grey plastic moonscape with such grace and stability that my ten-year-old mind felt the primal thrill of power rushing through it. You controlled the landing by aiming a fan-gun at the module’s attached balloon while issuing orders in a croaky American accent with lots of ‘beeps’ thrown in between the commands. What the ‘beeps’ in space-talk were for I was never quite sure, but they had something to do with adventure, bravery and the future that we now lived in. American accents were a must if any boy were to cut the mustard in an Islington playground and have any level of cultural credibility among his peers. Whatever the asphalt fantasy, it usually demanded you being an American, be it a Thunderbird, a superhero, or one of the Rat Patrol. I even did James Bond in American.

Apollo, though, was everything. The Christmas before, my family had all sat spellbound in front of our small television as Apollo 8 vanished into radio silence around the dark side of the moon, a phrase coined especially for a child’s imagination, and we waited, gripped, for its return.Man had never been so far from home and those men had taken my imagination along with them. Sitting in awe, new presents suddenly ignored, we listened to Commander Jim Lovell, floating in a black sea of risk, reading to us across the void from the book of Genesis. The following summer I was woken early to see black-and-white ghosts walk upon the moon. My father cried. We watched it over and over until the morning came and the magical moon faded from outside our window.

My lunar module also needed a bit of space to be successfully manoeuvred and in our front room that wasn’t easy. It would often catch its leg on the net curtains. But if I were careful with its flight I could edge it along the drinks cabinet, with its purely ornamental miniatures and solitary bottle of Stone’s Ginger Wine, over my father’sNews of the World as he read it, past the budgie, perched proprietorially on the paper’s edge, and down over the floral-patterned settee towards the moon surface in front of my father’s slippers, while trying not to go too near the heat of the glowing electric fire with its shadowy flame effect. The right side of the plastic coals had, sadly, broken, but the other side benefited hugely from the spinning device that created the ‘flames’ and added a greater sense of homeliness to our lives. One electric bar out of the two was always cold and ash grey whatever the weather, thus saving my parents the money to buy toys for their two boys, like Lunar Landing, or guns that shot ping-pong balls around corners.

But on this Christmas morning of 1970, no toys appeared for me. My younger brother Martin was rapidly tearing the wrapping off the presents that had been delivered soundlessly into the pillowcase he’d left at the foot of his bed.My pillowcase, on the other hand—and to my horror—was empty. My father winked knowingly at me and left the room while my mother helped Martin eagerly unwrap an endless procession of gifts. My toy was obviously so huge it couldn’t fit into any pillowcase, but my heart sank as Dad sheepishly returned with something clutched awkwardly to his chest: a guitar. He looked as though he were about to dance with it.

‘We thought you’d like this,’ he said, turning it around in his hands.

I found it hard to hide my displeasure. It wasn’t even wrapped.

‘We saw you playing with your cousin’s toy guitar and thought you’d like a proper one.’ He could see he had some convincing to do and held it out gingerly towards me.

My childhood felt over. Was this to presage a future of socks and underpants for Christmas? I accepted my fate, took the guitar and sat it in my lap. It smelt of polish. Furniture smelt of polish, not Christmas presents; this was something adult, belonging to a world I wasn’t sure I wanted to enter yet. My arms clumsily wrapped themselves around its curvaceous body with its two ‘F’ holes like mournful, drooping eyes. Scratches on its tobacco-brown skin revealed that I wasn’t the first. It had its own story and I immediately felt pity for the thing—it was made to play beautiful music, but it had found itself in the hands of a disappointed child.

Nobody in the known history of the Kemps or Greens—my mother’s family—had ever played a musical instrument. I had attempted the descant recorder for one term, until I found myself at a junior school concert standing in a pool of my own drool while playing ‘Sloop John B’. A dripping recorder does not do much for a young boy’s standing among giggling schoolgirls.

But we were the proud owners of a radiogram—an old-style record player-cum-radio that fitted my mother’s brief of looking like a piece of furniture. When this highly polished example of veneered technology was not in use, it became a plinth for chalk ornaments, frogs made from seashells, and a miniature glass lighthouse filled with coloured sands from the Isle of Wight, all placed strategically by my mother on lace doilies. Our record collection was sparse and mostly never played: a Frank Sinatra anthology that had lost its inner sleeve; a rollicking Billy Cotton album of innuendo-filled music-hall standards called Wakey Wakey!, plus some random Matt Monro, Patsy Cline, and Dave Clark Five singles, some of which had lost their centrepieces. To play these, one would have to place the record as centrally as possible upon the deck, and then suffer the wow and flutter as it gradually ellipsed in ever-expanding orbits around the spindle. The radio part of this dual wonder was more often used, and appears quite vividly in one of my earliest memories.

October 22 1962 was six days after my third birthday. My memory starts with my father leaning into the radiogram and tuning into the one o’clock news. He’d come home from work on his ‘dinner break’ but was agitated and I must have felt this as I’d followed him across the room, attempting noisily to get his attention. I watched as, hushing me, he stared hard at the amber-lit panel, hungry for the information its warm, authoritative voice was delivering. And then Dad said, ‘There might be a war.’

I can assume that his statement shocked me, even at that age, as why else should it be so deeply branded upon my memory? So real was the nearness of the last war that even as a three-year-old it was a concept I had already began to grasp—and fear. But I suppose what stunned me most of all was that first shocking experience of witnessing my father’s vulnerability. My superman, the one whom I thought I could absolutely rely on for constant protection, was frightened. Something one day might slip through the protection of our perfect world and destroy it, and even he couldn’t stop it.

It was the Cuban Missile Crisis and, of course, the man who could save the world had an American accent. Kennedy never joined the list of heroic characters that I tirelessly embodied in the playground, but his assassination the year after became another early memory, primarily because it stopped the TV and instead of Top Cat, The Beverly Hillbillies or Supercar, I was forced to stare at a photograph of him, silently being broadcast across the channels.

I was born at St Bartholomew’s Hospital within earshot of St Maryle-Bow’s bells on 16 October 1959. No one seems to remember at what time, for like all things to do with childbirth or war it was never spoken about and eventually forgotten. I was brought home to a house in Islington that was more connected with a Victorian past than any nuclear present. It belonged to an era of austerity that was yet to taste the ‘white heat’, or even the white goods, of the technological revolution. It seems hard to imagine now, but this central-London dwelling would not have electricity until 1960, when my father and his brother finally connected us to the modern world, so I must picture myself entering 138 Rotherfield Street by the yellow shroud of gaslight.

My father, Frank, had lived in this early nineteenth-century terraced house since 1945, when, as a fourteen-year-old, he had moved there with his father and mother and his brother, Percy. His two sisters had already moved into their own marital homes, while his older brother, Bill, was away fighting in Burma, a war from which he would never fully recover, or mentally leave, until his death in 2008.

I have a picture of my paternal grandmother, the wonderfully named Eliza Ettie Ruth Crisp, taken in 1912 when she was aged sixteen. Her large, moon face looks slightly bewildered by the photographic situation she’s been thrown into. She’s dressed in the high white collar, lace apron and bonnet of a girl in service—a maid. She sits, her hand resting awkwardly on a book—undoubtedly under the direction of the studio photographer—giving her the look of being caught reading during a break in work. I can just see the book’s title on the spine and I take a magnifying glass to discover what it might be. It leaves me a little saddened and with a feeling that she’s been slightly humiliated as the title’s two words enlarge into focus: Stickphast Cement. Of course, it would be a surprise if Eliza had ever read or owned a book other than the family Bible.

My paternal grandfather, Walter, wounded out of Flanders, had become disabled from his work at a veneering factory after a swinging tree trunk delivered itself into his shrapnel-softened leg. Jobless and desperate, he and Eliza created and ran a business from the kitchen of the rooms they rented above a mews garage in Islington. There, the two boys, Frank and Percy, along with Eliza’s father, Granddad Crisp—a hansom cab driver and a man whose photos prove that braces always need a belt for extra security—would bag up nuts and sweets and help Eliza make toffee apples to sell to the queues outside the nearby Collins’ Music Hall. It kept the Kemps fed and housed, but unfortunately, when the SecondWorldWar came, Eliza’s little helpers were soon considered to be in danger from the new threat of German bombing raids. Equipped with gas masks, the two boys made their way through crowds of weeping mothers to Highbury and Islington station and a two-year stay away from home.

One evening, during the London Blitz, a Luftwaffe pilot caught in ‘ack-ack’ fire evacuated his payload of bombs. Below him was Walter, tall and lean, quickly making his way home through the empty streets, the sky above alight with tracer. Within seconds the eight bombs had landed around him, sucking him into the huge hole they’d created in the road. Luckily the bombs didn’t detonate and, dazed, he crawled out and back to Eliza. But Walter’s nerves were forever blown apart. Afterwards, he became wrecked and sleepless, and my father would often see the red glow of his cigarette as he lay smoking in bed through many a long night.

Unfortunately my father and mother were experiencing another hell. Both tell similar evacuation stories of beatings, accusations of stealing, and destroyed or censored letters home. Sadly for my mother it would end at the age of nine, in a breakdown of bed-wetting, fear of noise and inconsolable night-crying. While they were both away, two bombs fell silently through the London night sky and destroyed each of their family homes and any evidence of their younger lives.