The co-conspirator of Pete Doherty in the reunited Libertines has recently released his (really rather engaging) book, Threepenny Memoir and self-titled debut solo album.
He spent a lot of time on communes as a kid.
My mum was a hippy, and a lot of people who live in communes or similar gatherings used to get together, especially in summer, and put on these camps. I went every school holiday and most weekends from the age of five to about 14, at which point my mum decided I should have a more regular life. I used to go back to my dad smelling of woodsmoke and looking a bit grubby, so he wasn’t too pleased.
He’s a massive Charlie Chaplin fan.
As a child I was amused by Laurel and Hardy and slapstick in general, but when I got older I read his [Chaplin’s] autobiography and realised he came from a place of love. He pretty much conquered the world with love, and in all his longer films there’s always a tear, as much as there is laughter. They’re pretty much ageless and he’s the one person I can cite as a hero. He had his bad aspects – with younger women, for example – but everyone’s got their thing.
He once worked at the BBC.
I got the job initially through an agency, and was there for about six months in 2001. I don’t really know what my job was; it started as data entry, but then it turned to dealing with invoices from freelancers who were complaining about not being paid. I was always sneaking about in places where I shouldn’t be and never being where I should be. I coveted the blue badges proper employees had; I had a day pass every day and it used to really wind me up.
He did kick-boxing three times a week for at least six months.
I think I was doing it as a counter to the drugs and partying and being worthless. It’s not that weird, because literature is full of people like Hemingway and Fitzgerald with their wrestling and boxing and mano a mano stuff. It was the punishment and endurance thing for me, I think. You know that if you put your hands down, you’re going to get kicked in the face, but you just can’t keep your guard up. I could never connect the energy of aggression with what I was doing; I couldn’t channel my anger through it.
He and Pete Doherty once kept their money in the fridge.
It was more me, really. Pete would never want to put his money in the bank – he always wanted cash. It was fifties, because they were so big and waftable. We didn’t have that much – it’s not like you opened the door and it was full – we had one pile and it slowly went down. Once or twice I’d run the iron over them and then put them in the fridge. I like the feel of cool things on my face. Maybe it’s because I had eczema as a kid.
He’s rubbed shoulders with some of London’s theatreland giants.
I worked as an usher for three or four years at the end of the ’90s. I loved that job; I knew everything about every theatre I worked at. My first job was at the Aldwych, where I met Harold Pinter and Michael Gambon, but my favourite was the Old Vic. Kevin Spacey’s reign over London theatre does irk me a bit, because he’s American, but he does an amazing job. I beat him at pool once, when I was an usher. I don’t think he liked me after that.
