Los Angeles, 11th September 1996.

The Cock & Bull pub is showing Juventus v Manchester United in a Champions League group stage game.

It’s 12 noon.

Ex-pat Reds in safety boots/shorts combo drift in on their dinner hour to watch live on the big screen.

 

At three months in, you don't qualify as a bonafide ex-pat just yet.

Your housemate/landlord George, needed a chauffeur around LA so for now, you ended up his part-time driver.

The plan... always to find a way to stay indefinitely.

 

A 1-0 defeat sees most melt away.

You and George decide on an all-day English before the drive home to San Fernando Valley.

 

A familiar face at the bar orders the same.

His second one of the day, then returns to his partner at a table in the corner.

 

A double take confirms it's the same bloke you’d first seen perform as a schoolboy at International 1 on Upper Brook Street.

 

It was a night of firsts.

Your first proper gig.

His, as the band's new bass player.

 

He walked on, high-fiving the front row.

Propping the bass monitor with his foot as the crowd poured across the tiny stage as their new set list was unleashed.

Some things are launched into the universe, then stay forever.

 

He was different.

A North Manchester lad who wore it on his sleeve, his feet and his back.

As anyone originating from the Oldham/Rochdale Road corridor will attest,

there is a difference.

 

You instantly liked him.

Everyone liked him. 

He was everyone’s favourite Stone Rose.

You felt you knew him.

Everyone felt they knew him.

But he didn’t know you.

 

If you planned to break the ‘never meet your heroes’ rule, doing it five thousand miles from home whilst watching Manchester United seemed a decent excuse to do so.

 

Turns out he did know the mutual Failsworth friend you both had.

Turns out he and Imelda were on holiday and ‘Having a look round LA’.

George made the offer to spend an afternoon by our shared San Fernando Valley pool and all agreed.

His driver ensuring safe transit down the 405 in a cramped VW Jetta.

 

There’s a scene in the film Quadrophenia, where Jimmy’s sat in the back of a police van, surrounded by strangers, feeling lost.

The doors open and The Ace (Played by Sting), is thrown in.

They share a cigarette and all the chaos outside and still to come, simply fades away.

For a brief moment, all’s well with the world.

​

“Who you go the match with?” he asks.

 

A few names in, and ‘Wils’ comes up.

“Oh, I've known Wils and his shady little firm for time”, he said, followed by a finger pop with his right hand.

 

Poolside, you sit and talk of The Clash.

Of Wu Tang and Stapleton in ‘83. 

Of job offers from Primal Scream and the 

Koningin Beatrix.

Of Failsworth Pole, Chris Hillman and Tony Benn.

Of The Gardners Arms, semi-flared cords, One Summer and Magazine.

Chris White on live TV and the International 2 gig when it was snowing in March.

Of Coppell and Jordan.

Goodison Park ‘79, Jimmy McGovern, Trevor Hardy and The Bay City Rollers.

And how the world seemed to change in some tiny way after that night at International 1.

 

A day by the pool in the Southern Californian sun then a drive back down the Interstate 405 to drop them at their hotel in the early hours.

For a brief moment, all’s well with the world.

 

The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry and within a month, you were home.

The short trip back extending, week-on-week in an all-too predictable way.

​

By Christmas, you were on the 24 bus every morning, en route to your old job at Rochdale Alternative Press.

Any lingering remnants of California Dreaming now shot to pieces.

Confined to pub anecdotes, as a reminder to yourself that it did actually happen.

Every future encounter with Wils involved telling the ‘shady little firm’ story and of course, ending with the essential finger pop.

 

The distance of five thousand miles feeling further with each passing winter month.

​

The only thing to look forward to...football at the weekend.

 

12th September 1998.

United v Leicester City on a Saturday afternoon.

You’re late for kick off, speed walking across the forecourt towards the North Stand.

 

From somewhere in J-Stand queue, a voice calls your name.

They didn’t need to, but did.

A familiar face.

One who greets you with a bear hug and a mile wide smile.

One who introduces you as ‘the guy who looked after us in LA’.

For a brief moment, all’s well with the world.

 

Whoever said never meet your heroes…

Talking out their arse.

​

End