The Idler

Conversations: Keith Allen

FROM IDLER 11, SEPTEMBER 1995

Damien Hirst had suggested we interview Keith Allen. This was at the time when Damien, Keith and Alex James had recently made friends and were hanging around together, making videos and drinking. It was the Cool Britannia era.

Keith was wilder and crazier than Damien, but again, inspiring and fearless. At various points in the evening, he took off all his clothes, lay on the snooker table, and put his tongue in my mouth. On the evening we did the interview, we also met Alex James, who went on to be a contributor to the mag.
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We arrive in Soho at seven: Gavin the art director, Michele the photographer and me, Tom the editor. Keith Allen is drinking with Damien Hirst and Alex from Blur. They have all been working together on the video for Blur’s single “Country House”, and are pretty excited about it. We get in taxis and go down to the Carlton Snooker Club in Shepherd’s Bush, a huge and fantastically appointed hall, with rows of tables, elaborate cornicing, and little phones to order drinks from. Snooker tables are huge. Going for corner pockets, I can hardly see the other end. It’s embarrassing. Everyone orders pints bar Alex, who is on his one day a week of not drinking. After a couple of games, Damien goes “just get the fucking interview done, Keith, I can’t stand the tension.” So we go up to the terrace.

IDLER: How was Glastonbury for you?

ALLEN: Glastonbury? Glastonbury? It was my eighteenth. Oh yes, I’ve a relationship with Glastonbury. It’s changed commercially in the last four or five years. There was a time in the late Eighties when to see a burger was unheard of. You could always get meat there, you could always get meat. But to see sausages and chips and those pictures of meals. That was the change.

IDLER: Didn’t you think it was extra brilliant this year?

ALLEN: I think they always are. A lot of it’s drugs.

IDLER: But there’s something else about it, you come back and it’s like …

ALLEN: Why can’t life be like that?

IDLER: You think, I’ve turned into a hippie.

ALLEN: But that’s fucking bullshit, we met Michael Stipe the other night. Somebody said something about Glastonbury and Stipe said, oh that hippie festival. I said you’re fucking daydreaming. He said, oh yeah, really, some people said they had a rave tent last year. Now just hang on a minute here – in 88 when Hawkwind were playing with the travellers, they had laser shows and raves then. The people doing Glastonbury were the people doing Shoom. I was really offended by him saying it was a hippie thing. In 82 – 83, I was being touted as the punk comic. I was at Glastonbury, I used to sell beer there in the back of the van. A pound a can, and a free snort of amyl every purchase, that was my game. I was always kind about it, I didn’t make loads of money. I remember all these fucking twats from the NME and Melody Maker would be walking round in their little suits and raincoats, going round for the hippie angle, and it really confused them when they met me. I was going, this is fantastic, don’t you get it? When the whole rave culture started, the people who were clubbers and football fans got into Glastonbury – and it was through the drugs really. It’s interesting that you can still find a little niche there that doesn’t offend you vis ?� vis commercialisation, because it’s so big, there’s something for everybody, and that’s what I love about it.

IDLER: You come back from it, and you think that really is the way to live.

ALLEN: Bollocks, don’t fall for that. That’s a load of cack, it’s just shit. What you’re talking about, is being that relaxed, that’s the way to live. Well I’m that relaxed all the year round, you understand? You can’t live like that, don’t be so ridiculous, you wouldn’t be able to drive your fucking car, the traffic lights wouldn’t work.

IDLER: It’s that way of thinking.

ALLEN: Well it is for me. It’s a logical progression. It’s everything that Billy Butlin was trying to sell the world after the Second World War. Go and have a good buzz. But when you leave, don’t forget it. Don’t put it in a compartment, and say “oh that’s my weekender holiday.” I can get all those drugs here, but I can’t camp. I can’t fall out and stumble across people at three in the morning.

IDLER: It’s like learning from taking E.

ALLEN: Yeah, transfer the knowledge. Once you’ve experienced E, you can meet people who are on it, when you’re not, and because you’ve experienced it, you know what they’re going through, immediately you’re ten points more relaxed than you would be if you didn’t know what was gong on.

IDLER: So how do you carry that relaxed feeling over into everyday activities?

ALLEN: It’s ever since I came into the big world and had to get my fucking knickers washed and buy cornflakes. I realised very early on that you can do anything you like, anything as long as you have some kind of ingenuity about yourself. IDLER: Isn’t it something to do with controlling your time? That’s why people like holidays. Because for 50 weeks of the year, most people haven’t got control.

ALLEN: I don’t like holidays. But I think that’s fairly patronising POV – for the lumpen proletariat, yeah, you’re dead right, because they’re always going to be forelock tugging, cap-doffing shit-cunts anyway. Well, forget them, although I suppose they’re the larger mass of society, and I suppose you’re trying to affect them … and it’s working by the way. I’ve always said this: any government figures vis ?� vis drug abuse, times it by ten and you’re close to what’s going on. I’ve known builders, shopkeepers and their wives who’ve been doing dope since 1974. E is massive, you just better know it. I can take massive amounts of drugs when I want to, I do what I like, I will never ever be a victim. I do it 365 days a year. Holidays mean nothing to me because I think I’m on holiday all the time. The weird thing is, I’m not the best actor in the country. I’m not the best comedian, I’m not the best writer, I’m not the best director. Having said that, I’m not a jobbing actor, comedian or writer, but I still make a fucking living. And that has got something to do with not being a victim.

IDLER: Have you always been like that?

ALLEN: I don’t know – I’m reactive. I need an event to react to. I become creative by reacting. I have to have the world around me in order to exist. Some people, like Van Gogh, can go into their own world and become oblivious. I need the world. I realised I was like that when I was about 25.

IDLER: And maybe before that, you think, oh is there something wrong with me, am I lazy, why do I feel guilty? Then you realise no, it’s not because I want to get on with things I enjoy doing. Quite simple.

ALLEN: Listen man, I enjoy my life. Having said that, there are a lot of people who enjoy themselves but feel guilty. It’s about how you structure time. It’s a bit like Kafka; you could say he was a victim, but having read his stuff, you think, actually he wasn’t. When I was 25 I’d done fucking loads of things. By the age of 21, I’d been expelled twice, been to public school, comprehensive, I’d run away from home to France. When I was 15, I was a ligger for Geno Washington and the Ram Jam Band, Jimmy Jones and the Vagabonds. The police came to pick me up twice and they put me in Stanford House, just down the road here, in need of care and protection, cunts. Did a bit of thieving, went to Borstal. When I was 17, I was earning ��180 a week cash, in my hand, touting for fishing boats in Tenby. I was brilliant at it, I could fill up a boat. The cry was POLLOCKS! I said pollocks madam, you naughty girl. I’d done my ‘O’ levels, got educated in Borstal, in terms of meeting people and having conversations, I’d never had a conversation before. Went to college, took a couple of ‘A’ levels, met my guru, who was my English teacher. Made all the mistakes in the world, came to London, fucked around. In the interim, I’d been a coal miner, butcher’s assistant, apprentice lathe operator, lithographic printer. I’d done it. I never ever – even when I was inside – felt like a criminal. Some of the guys in there, they hadn’t done as bad things as me, but they were already feeling like criminals, feeling naughty. I never once felt like a criminal. Once you know that, you turn it into something for your own good. I was the first ever borstal trainee to be taken on by Community Service Volunteers. I ran a children’s home at St Hilda’s in Bethnal Green. I took all of them out thieving from building sites. We stole paving stones, sacks of cement, to build the playground. Anyway, I had a lot of information. Went to drama college, fuck that, which was top shit. I only went cos there were loads of women. But I ended up playing football, I was an apprentice pro for Southampton. I spent two years playing football. Loved it. Fucked loads of women, bought a Morris Minor, summer job with my old man on the water board, another fifty quid a week. Came up to London, squatted Eaton Square, squatted it for two years – two ballrooms, everything. People would say “what are you doing”? Fuck off, I’m just having the best time of my life. Became stage manager at the ICA Theatre, when fringe theatre was big. Saw every fucking fringe company go through our theatre. Suddenly I’ve seen everything, and of course it’s all information, I’m taking what I want. Got sacked, met two guys who worked at the ICA, both doctors, one of genetics, one of biology, they left Aston University and became master printers. I started to silkscreen, did all the Clash posters, Buzzcocks, The Police, for Miles Copeland.

I’ve got so much information, it’s painful. So I’m buzzing on this, I’m going into the West End, pissing myself up. I’m doing everything except acting. But I know what acting is. There were two things I learnt early. One was, find out what you want to do. Do it. Then find out if you can or can’t do it. If you can’t do it, stop. Do something else. Really doesn’t matter. The other thing I’d learned, I’d seen all these theatre groups, and I’d seen all these depressing motherfucks. You knew that in 15 years time, they’d have stretch marks, an ugly kid, still be voting Labour maybe SDP – get lively. I knew that what defines you as an actor is never what you’re doing either in front of the camera or on stage – it’s what you’re doing when you’re not on stage and not in front of the camera – that’s the stuff. That’s what makes you good.

IDLER: How do you convince other people.

ALLEN: Fuck other people. Who cares? You’ve either got it or you haven’t. I’m terribly sorry. A lot of people have got it, and then they fuck up big time. I worked with Harvey Keitel. What a cunt, what a wanker, what a buffoon of the highest order. Oh a buffoon. Of the highest order. Went for dinner with him, shared a cab back with him. Monosyllabic twat – but not because he is a monosyllabic twat, it’s because the pressure of what he does makes him a monosyllabic twat. That is death, you’re killing yourself. Good communicator, still doing it – CAN’T COMMUNICATE. Can’t be a human being. Michael Stipe is still a person. That’s their battle in the fame game – how do I sell myself now? But the key is, never sell yourself, EVER. Just give. Just fucking give. And that’s the way it is, you understand? And I know, that’s why I get away with what I get away with. Because I haven’t got an ounce, a fucking nano-ounce of protective layer about me. In the end, it’s the right way. Do what you feel. Be as you are. Don’t do anything else, because it will come back to you.

IDLER: That sounds quite spiritual.

ALLEN: It is. But you’ve got to play the game. How you define your life is the level of compromise you’re prepared to entertain in the 24 hours of a day. You gotta compromise – don’t be ridiculous. But just give.

IDLER: You were saying you don’t have a bank account.

ALLEN: I had a bank account years ago, as a student. Then I never had one for years. I got married and had one for about six months, and they made the great mistake of giving me a credit card. I went to France with a mate of mine for a weekend and spent four grand. All new tires … I just thought, I can’t have this, can’t deal with a cheque book. I can’t trust myself with any of that stuff. Don’t need it.

The horror was when I realised, after that trip to France, that they’d extended my credit without any question. I thought, fuck, are you serious? They own you. And then they kill you. That’s sick. I’m one of only ten people who are allowed credit at Groucho’s. I’m known for being at Groucho’s, I love it there – and one of the reasons is I can drink there and eat without any money. They allow it to go so far, then I get a load of money and I pay it off. But you can’t do that in the real world. I can’t go to pubs because I often don’t have cash. It’s lucky that I have Groucho’s. Luckily, my ex-wife was very good with money.

IDLER: So you’ve never had any desire to accumulate huge amounts of money?

ALLEN: Don’t be so ridiculous. It’s funny – the child support agency, the tax people, come to me all the time, and they’re astonished, but it’s true: I have no house, I have no car, I have no material goods, I have nothing, nothing at all. I love it.

IDLER: That’s quite an achievement.

ALLEN: Fuckin’ is, I’ve worked hard at it. I have nothing, it’s fantastic, all I’ve got is some clothes. It’s true. Ha ha ha. They try and bankrupt me, and I go TAKE IT. What do you want, my shoes? And they’ve been through all my fucking history. But I still pay for my kids – all that’s taken care of. I’m in debt permanently. And I love it. And I’m not being a smart motherfucker who’s just saying, I’m going to die in debt, you cunts. It’s just that my outgoings are so massive – it’s mostly about children. But I’ve never ever needed money, I don’t want money. If I got loads of it I wouldn’t know what to do with it. If I can drink, if I can eat, and wear what I want when I want, then … you can’t stop me loving my kids. My life might seem chaotic, but it’s not. I am where I am because I want to be where I am. I don’t leave a lot to chance, but then I leave everything to chance if I want to. All my peers and contemporaries, their work ethic is utterly dictated by materialism: the amount of compromise they will make. I’ve seen them all, from the beginning. I was famous before all of them. I see them now, and I swear to you, they are the living dead. Their work is dead. They have no sparkle about their lives, about themselves. They’re just treading water – they’re not even treading water, they’re treading fucking syrup. Bad syrup.

IDLER: So how do you inject a culture where people will be free to avoid that?

ALLEN: Don’t bother. Don’t even think about injecting cultures. The sum of the parts is far, far greater than the whole. Let’s talk music over the last ten years. I’m not talking about the chart show or Chris Evans or any of that shite. I’m talking about deep, meaningful, life-enhancing music to people down here. Things that make sense of your everyday life. There was a magnificent movement with garage and house music. For once there was a real, effective underground music. The tunes became bigger than the personalities and it scared the record companies shitless. There was a taxi driver in San Francisco writing a club hit that was selling thousands on import. That was a major fucking change. And then you reinvent songsmiths – Pulp, Blur, Oasis. It’s funny how it’s come that full circle.

But that change was culturally more profound than anything punk ever was. It affected people in a real way, not in a market-orientated way. But I was so proud to have written the lyric of that song with New Order, because that song was epicentral to the whole thing about club culture, football, yobs – it was a powerful fucking anthem. In terms of the effect, the moment.

When it comes to the point of selling, then you have to get involved with the most perverse, guilt ridden arguments. I’m not an MD because I don’t want to carry that guilt on my shoulders. I don’t want your fucking money. I don’t want your houses, I don’t want your cars, I want none of it.

Distribution is the game. Distributors are the censors. They are the censors. I really want to get The Clash back together again without record companies. I want to book Wembley Arena and get The Clash to sell it out three nights. Record it, sell the album. FUCK! Fantastic! Mick Jones is one of the greats and so is Damon Albarn, by the way. Damon is one of the most important lyricists. But the record companies – they’re all cunts. Cunts.

IDLER: One of the challenges is how to keep your dignity – whether you’re signing on and dealing with that, or a pop star dealing with record companies.

ALLEN: I’ve never lost mine. But Blur will come up against it, they’re a great act. They’re an important act. They’ve got ideas. The difference between me and them is … I had a band and could only play talent contests. The Atoms – good band by the way. I had my theories about the nature of spectacle. Talent contests were the most ripe available area to go in and affect people without them knowing. It’s free, they’re only there incidentally. Because they’re not being obliged to criticise, the atmosphere is entirely changed. The best parties, the best nights are the ones you never plan. I know that. You have to sit on that information. I’m a top performer, I’m really good. But I know that, and those moments are pure gold. We released a single called “Max Bygraves Killed My Mother”. We sold 2,000 copies that I pressed. And I pressed all the covers myself. You’d start singing and then suddenly you’d go in with a song like “Beatle Jacket”, which was about your parents buying you a Beatle Jacket that you didn’t really want. What I’m saying is you come up behind people’s back, and that’s far more effective than the spectacle.

Now, I’m talking about the difference between my work and Blur’s work. They’ve got a pump action shotgun of music. This album will be the first step. The next album, I bet you will be one of the greats of all time. I’m not like that. I am a cult figure, but I’m also big enough to be a star. But a lot of my work is underground. I’m responsible for a lot of things that people have heard, but they don’t know it’s me. That’s my game. I can do what the fuck I like. And I love it. But I’ve worked at it. I haven’t just arrived here. I don’t do television, I won’t do commercials. But I still eat, I still drink, I still get respect, and I still give.

You were saying why can’t life be like Glastonbury. And the answer is, because you have to have a lumpen proletariat to work in order to earn these shitcunts money in order for them to tell the lumpen proletariat that that’s the way it should be. Well kiss my fucking cunt, is what I say.

IDLER: It takes courage.

ALLEN: Well, you call it courage. I just say fuck you. I’ve been on the dole. I’ve walked the streets. When I was married and had no money and had nothing, do you know what we’d do? We’d find out where the parties were at the weekend. I had a Pakistani mate in Westbourne Grove. we’d go round the parties and fucking farm out the beers when they’d run out. We made money like that. Well, we lived. But you’re still having a laugh. Career to me is anathema, but I know it. I did NOTHING till I was 28, NOTHING. But I had a fucking great life. I loved every second of it. And I love every second of it now. At the moment I take six kids camping at the weekend. I love it. I won’t be tied down, is what I’m saying. Years ago, I used to say, if the world was full of bank clerks then I’d be a bank robber; if the world was full of bank robbers, I’d be a fucking bank clerk. Heh heh. And that’s a fact. Ha ha.

IDLER: So you’re unusual in that you’ve had the courage to get on with things. But everyone should be able to do that.

ALLEN: People need heroes. Simple as that. At the 1990 World Cup semi-final, Germany vs England … Half time. Nil-nil. Or one nil to them. I was in the special area, with the English FA. In the pen are three thousand guys. Got a fag on board, can’t get a light. I go to the pen, to get a light. They come down, cos thay know me, from the song. The Yob, all the rest of it. Got a light guys. They give me light and they go, [scouse accent] Keith, Keith, you’re the only one. You’re the only fucking one who tells it for us, y’know what I mean? You’re the only one. And I know what they mean. You understand? But I’m not playing to the gallery. It nearly made me cry. Because I know what they mean. I went up for a light, and all I’m getting is, don’t give up, you’re the only one left. And I know that. Let’s get back to the snooker.

I hang around drinking pints on the edge while the others play snooker. We order a bottle of champagne. Everyone’s smoking like mad. Michele is taking pictures. Finally we do the cover shot. Keith refuses to do anything except for take off all his clothes, lie down on the snooker table, cover his crotch with snooker balls while saying “Come on Damien, put the ball right up my arse” and grinning satanically at the camera. We settle up the bill. Michele and Gavin go home. I join the others to go back into town. We get a cab. I’m amazingly thirsty, so I ask the cab to stop so I can get some water. Keith abuses me for my wimpiness and the other two join in, which I think is pretty unfair, me being the only non-celebrity in the cab. Back in Soho, I am given a tequila and a sea breeze. Keith takes down his shorts about three times. He snogs Damien, then Alex, then me. We go to Browns a sort of celebrity nightclub. It is cold and pretty empty. Alex leaves; Keith and Damien have gone into the loo. What are they doing in there? It’s three o’clock. I decide to scarper.