The Boys Are Back In Town. 1976.

2020. St Patrick’s Church.

Of all of them, I loved him the most. He was a decent man underneath it all, underneath all the bravado, underneath the unkind eyes, underneath the fear that walked into every bar a second after he did.

Last time I saw Johnny was the last time I came back here, the last funeral I went to. He was - who’d have guessed it?! - pissed. He still looked pretty good, still looked thin and sharp and hard, still looked like he was just back from Dublin or New York, like he was gracing us culchies with his presence. He was sitting in the back bar on his own, had a pint and a whiskey and a table-full of empty glasses in front of him. I was going to talk to him, but decided against it. He had that look about him, the look that said ‘I’ll argue with you about whatever you’ve got.’ I turned round and walked out. I don’t think he saw me.

Right up until she died, my mum sent me the local paper every week. I remember thinking about Johnny when I saw they’d bulldozed Dino’s and built flats. I surprised myself feeling so sad about the end of a shithole I never even liked. I suppose I was going through a bad time myself then: it was just before I had the baby. His baby.

When I get home after the service, I’m going to listen to our song on Spotify. Just the once, like. Just the once.

Sheena Is A Punk Rocker. 1977.

Greensboro, North Carolina. 2020.

Sheila. My name’s Sheila. I never understood why they changed it, but it’s fine. I’m actually from High Point, NC, as well - never saw a surfboard in real life until I was about thirty. Honestly, creative people! Oh yes, and I’d never been in New York either, except for the one time I’d hitched up there with my boyfriend, the one who ended up at Cumberland County Jail for felonious restraint. I was a punk rocker, though, in a way. At least I wore a lot of black eye-shadow and loved Lou Reed.

I actually only met Tommy and Dee Dee the one time, in Raleigh, after a gig. I’d been waiting around the back of the hall. I sort of jumped at them when they came out, told them I’d loved the gig. Dee Dee asked me what Raleigh was like. I told him I loved living there but the truth was it was full of snarky, sneery cool kids and scary junkies and I couldn’t wait to move back to High Point. Which I did, a few weeks later. We actually only had a really quick chat that night - I remember Tommy said, ‘We’ve got to go and see the Royal Ballet’s touring production of Swan Lake, it’s meant to be divine’ - but I could tell they were fascinated by me (I was a good-looking girl back then!) and it was such a wonderful feeling when I heard the song for the first time a few weeks later and realised it was about me.

So sad what happened to them - all dead now, all of them. But every time I see a young kid wearing a Ramones teeshirt, it makes me smile. And, if they look friendly, I tell them my story.

Where Do You Go To My Lovely? 1969

Croydon. 2020.

It’s so weird knowing there’s this version of yourself out there, all naked and public and exposed, all exaggerated and twisted and distorted. I used to wonder if this was how Dora Maar felt when she looked at Weeping Woman, or how Pattie Boyd felt when she heard Layla, or how Lee Miller felt when she saw Man Ray’s photos of her. The first time I heard the song, I took no real notice at all. Why would I? I lived in Croydon, always had. I worked in Budgen’s. I did a Pitman’s shorthand typing course. I’d never met an Aga Khan. I didn’t even know what one was. I didn’t like the Rolling Stones. I loved Motown, didn’t really like boys’ music.

Pete used to follow me around like a little puppy, telling me to listen to Jacques Brel, begging me to go to Paris with him, even though he didn’t have any money. I thought he was a bit intense but nice. And a bit snobby. I remember sitting in my mum’s flat once, reading a magazine, and asking him where Juan-Les-Pins was. I pronounced it ‘Jewann Lez Pinns’ and he tried to laugh but I could see he was appalled.

All my friends thought he was a bit creepy. He used to look at me - stare at me - and they all said they thought I shouldn’t let myself be alone with him. But he was harmless, I knew that. And I sort of loved him.

And then he recorded the song and it became a big hit and he stopped coming round, stopped phoning. I’d see him on telly, hear it on the radio constantly. I wrote letter after letter but he never contacted me again.

I was nineteen and so, so hurt. So I decided to change my life. A few months after I’d last seen him, I borrowed fifty quid from my boss, fifty from an old boyfriend, and flew to Rome and then down to Naples. I didn’t stay there long - it was horrible (he’d guessed right about that) - and I made my way, taking my time, to Paris. En route, I discovered I was an excellent pickpocket and that drunk men in bars are stupid. When I finally got there, I met up with some Irish hippies and moved into a squat in the 11th. I started stealing some nice clothes, some perfume, shoes, got myself invited to parties, openings, exhibitions. After a few months, I left the squat, rented a flat off the Boulevard St. Michel. The more I acted like the woman in Pete’s song, the more I became her. I drank a lot of Napoleon brandy, getting my lips wet every time (I’ve still no idea what he meant by that line). One weekend I went to St Moritz with the new lover and twisted my ankle on the slopes. They flew me home in a private jet.

It was great. For three years, it was great. But gradually it started becoming more and more dull and then more and more claustrophobic and I began to miss home - really, really miss home and, around Christmas 1972, I came back, moved in with mum, got a job in a typing pool in Caterham.

And now I’m seventy and I have my memories and my husband and my daughter and my grandchildren and I can still pronounce Juan-Les-Pins better than anyone else south of the river. I never did discover the scar that Pete thought Croydon had left on me: I love it here. And I still sleep like a log the minute my head hits the pillow, like I always have. I think he’d be disappointed, actually.

Hell Raiser. 1973.

Hayes. 2010.

We were both laughing about it the other day, but I could tell he hasn’t forgiven me, even after thirty-seven years. At one point he even said, ‘You weren’t a very good mum, really.’ Kids! I just wanted him to be happy, have a bit of confidence in himself. I didn’t expect him to get hurt by her.

I guess I should have known you can never really trust anyone with ultrasonic eyes. That’s what my own mum had always said to me, but did I listen?

Sometimes I still feel so bad about it. Poor boy.

Meeting Across The River. 1975.

Newark. 1978.

He always called me Cherry. ‘My name’s Cheryl’, I’d say to him, particularly when I was angry, but he never got it right. I think he reckoned it was the only part of our relationship he had some control over.

That night, I’d locked him out. Three chains, two bolts and a big chest of drawers just to make sure. It was about two in the morning, two-thirty. Bang! Bang! The knocking woke me. I knew it was him. I got up, walked over to the door, moved the chest out of the way, took all the chains off, undid the bolts, opened it. He had a huge smile on his face, waved a big wad of cash in his hand. ‘Done it darlin’. Me and Eddie done it. Twenty-five grand!’ He threw himself at me, hugged me, pushed me back into the room, onto the bed. I was angry with him and I was proud of him. He put the money on the bedside locker, kissed me, kissed me again. I couldn’t believe he’d got it right, couldn’t believe he’d saved us. We fucked and we dozed and then we fucked again and it was morning.

The sun was bright, bright for November. He kissed me, said ‘I’m going to get some cigarettes.’ I smiled, watched him get up, get dressed. Just before he shut the door behind him, he turned and winked at me. ‘I love you,’ he said.

I heard his footsteps echo down the hallway. I closed my eyes, listened to the traffic outside. I was happy. Maybe he was OK. Maybe we would be OK. I smiled again and then I heard the screech of brakes and a silence and a woman’s scream. I knew what had happened, straight away.

Saturday Night Beneath The Plastic Palm Trees

Tottenham. 2020.

Once a suedehead, always a suedehead. The wife says I should grow old gracefully. Fuck that. The world is still full of lies and violence and hate. Now it’s men younger than me fucking it up but we continue fucking it up anyway. Proper music helps you forget all that, move beyond it. And decent clothes make you feel good too, even at my age. Especially at my age. I’m alright growing old disgracefully. And she knows that I know she loves me for it really. ‘Let me make your broken heart like new,’ I said to her the night we met, and I could tell by the way she smiled she got what I meant straightaway. We danced to that song at our wedding. And at our silver wedding.

By the way: I’ve still never been to Balham. Never will now, not with…you know. Ah well. They tell me it’s gone upmarket anyway.

Down In The Tube Station At Midnight. 1978.

Chertsey. 2020.

I knew I’d fucking hurt him. I didn’t know I’d fucking killed him.

Turns out he was a Yid too. Season-ticket holder. Married to a Woking girl. Don’t know why that upset me so much, but it did. At the time, anyway. Fuck. Never used a knife, before or since. Never hurt anyone. Not physically, anyway, know what I mean? Sometimes I still think about it. That night. Avoided Waterloo for years. Avoided fucking people for years, to be honest. Went up to town last week and felt a bit shaky. After all this time. Didn’t tell anyone, obviously.

Still. My kids grew up OK. Their kids have grown up OK. There’s always good and bad, I suppose, ups and downs. That’s life, really, isn’t it?

Waterloo Sunset. 1967.

1997. I moved out of that flat. I had to. They got rid of us all, tarted the place up, flogged our old homes off to people from Berkshire and Shanghai and Moscow. I spent a bit of time in the Maudsley after. A lot of time, if I’m honest.

I saw her once, last year. At the station, of course. I knew it was her straight away. Time had lived hard in her and through her and over her; she was lined and bagged and worn now, but she was still beautiful. She was unmistakable, at least to me. She’d lost that sad, young expectation, you could see that - hadn’t we all? - but she still lived her spirit, that head-held-high way of wearing her clothes and her pride that beckoned you towards her, just far enough.

She was waiting under the clock, looking at her watch. I thought that was funny at the time, I remember. I stayed over by the sandwich place, watching her for about twenty minutes. He never came. I knew he wouldn’t. I reckon she knew he wouldn’t too. She gave up eventually and I followed her out into the early evening air, down the bustling steps, across the road, watched her disappear into the Hole In The Wall.

I waited. And waited. A couple of hours later, she came out, arm in arm with some young guy, must have been twenty-five at most. I wanted to punch him and I wanted to shake his hand. I rehearsed in my head, yet again, everything I’ve ever wanted to say to her, took a step towards them, and then stopped. She deserved this: she deserved a few hours back then, a few hours back there, back in our time. I turned around, hoping - knowing - he’d only ever spend this one night with her. I saw a kid then, guitar on his back, looking down at me from the top of the steps, smiling. I smiled back at him and headed up, past him, into the station.

Terry And Julie

This section of my website is a work-in-progress, dedicated to songs I love - and to what happened next…