Marty, it's been a long time coming.
You're telling me.
How are you?
Better. Got myself a flat above a dry cleaners in Finsbury Park. There are cracks in the ceiling shaped roughly like Belgium, but it's mine, and it isn't a sewer — which, as someone who spent three years in one, I can tell you is a genuinely meaningful distinction.
Let's talk about those years. What was it actually like?
[pauses to drain mug] Character-forming. And by character-forming I mean absolutely horrifying. You try living off pigeon and Special Brew for eighteen months and come out the other side with your dignity intact. Actually, your dignity is the first thing to go. Mine went sometime around Christmas 2001 when I had to fight a rat for a Twix.
Who won?
[long pause] We came to an arrangement.
And Si? Was he still there at this point?
Si was having a difficult time. Look — the man had gone from being a genuine pillar of the community to rolling around in his own filth with a bottle of White Ace for company. Of course he wasn't coping. And I stayed. I am his best mate and I stayed by him. I fed him. I clothed him — in leaves, because we had nothing else, yes, actual leaves — and I told him it was going to be alright. And what does he do? He legs it to Southampton without so much as a goodbye.
That must have stung.
[very long silence] The morning I found him gone, I sat in that sewer and thought: I clothed that man in leaves. I shared my Brew with him. I told him it was going to be alright. And he left me a note on the side of a Tennants can. "Got a job, Mar'ee. It's all going to be different now. Get yourself sorted." Very thoughtful.
Are you still angry about it?
No. [pause] Maybe. [pause] Slightly. But look — he's done well. FM Music is legitimate. He's back to being the pillar of the community. He's got the Falcon dream breathing again. I'd be a miserable bastard to stay angry at that. ...I'm still a bit angry about the leaves, though.
The cartooning. How's that going?
[brightens considerably] Really well, actually. I've been doing a strip about two men who used to run a record shop. Entirely fictional, no resemblance to anyone living or dead. One of them has curly hair, a very large opinion of himself, and the emotional vocabulary of a golden retriever. The other one is intelligent, talented, and considerably better-looking. Pure fiction.
Purely. Can we ask what happens to them?
In the current storyline, the curly-haired one arrives at work one morning to find that someone has replaced every CD in the shop with a copy of Aqua's Greatest Hits and superglued his Chardonnay glass to the counter. He spends six pages weeping. I find it very therapeutic.
Musical tastes these days?
Anything Si doesn't play in that shop. No, I'm joking. The Chilli Peppers remain gods. I've been going back to basics — underground metal, some hardcore, finding my roots. I also went through a period of listening to a lot of Nick Cave, which I attribute entirely to the sewer years and what they do to your general outlook. There was also a brief and regrettable flirtation with French chanson which I will not be discussing further.
And 'Im?
[sets down mug, folds arms] He's still out there. He knows it. We know it. Si seems to think that being sober and successful is revenge enough, but Si's always been an optimist in that particular way that's indistinguishable from naivety. I've got three years of sewer living and God knows how many cans of Brew to process. Let's just say the next strip features someone very recognisable encountering a very large industrial fan and his own CD collection simultaneously. I think it says something important about consequence.
Final question. On a scale of one to ten, how do you rate the Special Brew years?
[thinks for a long time] Four. It was genuinely delicious. I just wish I'd been choosing to drink it rather than depending on it for survival. Also, after the eighth can it does catastrophic things to the digestive system, and I had enough to contend with in that sewer without adding that particular dimension.
Marty. It's been a genuine pleasure.
Get the next round in.