Tuesday, 26th October, 2004

Sad

johnpeel story hitching

I wrote this ages ago, I was saving it for a day when I couldn't think of anything to write — but it seems more than fitting to tell it today.

...

The John Peel Story™

(c) Siobhan Curran, 2004

I used to hitchhike a lot. And when I say "a lot" I mean "a lot". This is the days before I had the most beautiful Punto in the whole wide world, but after I had the most beautiful (if unreliable) Mini, ever.

It seemed to be the most easy way to travel — you write a bit of a make-shift sign on the back of a cardboard box that you've liberated from a skip, stick your thumb out, and off you go ...

(Also available in this series BTW: "The 12-hour Journey to Belfast Story"; "The Fred Talbot Steals My Hat Story"; "The Spliff In The BMW Story"; and "The Time I Hitched From Bournemouth To Lancaster And Got Wasted On Mushrooms Story")

...So, anyway. I think it was the summer of '92 (could have been '93), and me and my just-recently-exed girlfriend were travelling down to London to see a gig that The Cure were playing in. It was a promotional gig for the launch of XFM (are they still going?) in Finsbury Park, and I think we'd got tickets from some bloke on campus (I was at Uni then) for not much money.

And continuing the "not much money" theme, we decided to hitch — I mean, why spend money on transport when (a) you have none, and (b) other people are probably going the same way?

So, we managed to get someone to drop us off at J33 of the M6, and we stuck our thumbs out and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I think we were there for a good couple of hours, and not one single bugger stopped for us — which is OK if you're more than half-way there, but not if you've only just set out.

At one point, a Lambourghini went past (whooo!), and I remember thinking at the time that if I was on my own then that would be the perfect lift ever. (a) I wasn't on my own, and (b) the perfect lift was about to happen.

Eventually someone picked us up and said they could drop us off at the services, 2 miles down the road. Well, 2 miles out of 250 is better then none — and you stand a better chance of being picked up if you're stood at a service station, so we got in...

...and about 5 minutes later, got out.

It was about 2 and a half hours since we'd set off, and we'd got 2 miles. This wasn't looking like it was going to be the most promising journey ever.

(I've had less-promising ones BTW — including the Evil Lorry Driver The Wouldn't Let Me Get In His Cab Because I Was Wet, but that's part of the "The Time I Hitched From Bournemouth To Lancaster And Got Wasted On Mushrooms Story". so I won't divulge)

(No really, he was evil. And selfish. And nasty...)

We'd been stood for another half an hour, when suddenly, a blue Merc pulled up. It struck me as odd, cos it was a left-hand drive one. But the guy asked us where we were going, and when we told him "London", he told us that he was too, and that he'd take us. He popped open the boot and we went round and dumped our bags.

The thing was, all the time I was thinking to myself "I know that voice", and, half-way through putting my bag in the boot, it suddenly dawned on me who it was. I turned to [insert Siobhan's ex-girlfriend's name here] and, in an shakey whisper, through a very open mouth, said

"OMG. It's John Peel"

Now, I don't know whether or not you know who John Peel is. I'm presuming you do, but if you don't then can I suggest you Google the man, and then come back full of a sense of outstanding impressedness that Siobhan has met the singlularly nicest bloke and most celebrated DJ in the world. (And then, later, go listen to "Home Truths" on the BBC Radio 4 website. Cos it's fab)

So there we were. In John Peel's Mercedes. And not only was this fab in its own right, he was also taking us the whole way from Lancaster, to London. The Holy Grail of hitching — to get a lift the whole way...

I think though, that it's important at this point to mention that I did not do the typical "OMG You're John Peel!" thing. In fact, not once along the way did either of us acknowledge who he was. We talked about his family, the farmhouse he lives in. What he thought of the (at the time) Conservative government. What he and his mate (Andy Kershaw) did the week before at the TT races on the Isle of Mann (which was why he happened to be going through Lancaster in the first place)

All in all, he lived up to his reputation of being a truely wonderful man. OK, so he made it quite clear that we weren't allowed to smoke in his car, but apart from that (everyone has their faults...) it was the most wonderful lift I've ever had. Much better than Fred Talbot...

I also discovered he was a vegetarian. We stopped at Hilton Park services, just north of Birmingham, to get something to eat. We had some sandwiches with us, so we sat in the car and ate them, but only our cheese and pickle ones, not our ham ones. Then we popped in for a coffee. I remember sitting at a table, drinking coffee with him, and all around you could see people staring, pointing, and asking "Who's that sat with [insert Siobhan's boy-name]?"

(You know, that joke only works well when I tell this story in real life)

Anyway. Eventually, we got to London, and he dropped us outside Broadcasting House. I remember, very clearly, shaking his hand, thanking him for the lift, getting our bags from the boot and watching him drive off into the car park.

And then we screamed the scream that we'd been bottling up ever since we'd clocked who he was back in Lancaster.

That took us about 10 minutes.

The rest of this story is a bit incidental really. We'd arrived in London, and hadn't actually sorted ourselves out with somewhere to stay that night. So we went and found a friendly porter at one of the universities who let us stay in a vacant room. For a tenner.

That night, I rang someone back in Lancaster and asked them to tape John Peel's show on Radio 1 for me. I must confess I had ulterior motives for this: I told them it was because he was going to be talking about the gig we were going to the next day, but in reality, I just wanted to annoy them. It was someone I wasn't getting on with at the time. Apparently, while they were listening to his show, and he said "I just want to say hi to [insert Siobhan's boy name] and [insert Siobhan's ex-girlfriend's name] who I gave a lift to today and who are going to the XFM gig tomorrow", they almost wet themselves with envy.

The gig was good BTW. Oh, and I've just remembered — she wasn't my ex at the time, we were still going out with each other. It was the U2 gig that we went to just after we broke up...

I've been bandying around this story for years, and each time it gets longer. The thing is, at the back of my mind I'm wondering does he remember it? I doubt it, but I'm sorely tempted to start a discussion about hitching (like "isn't it sad that no-one does it anymore?") on Home Truths, and quietly slip it in that he gave me a lift once.

If you ever listen to it, and you hear someone talking about this, then you know it's me.

...

I can't believe he's dead. I dunno, I guess you just expect some people to be there forever. I think the world is a little bit of a sadder place now he's gone.

Grebo writes:

That's a lovely story about Peely. I must admit I had a bit of a cry yesterday and then played Teenage Kicks!

Linda writes:

Hiya Siobhan hugs Lovely piece about John Peel. You're right, the world is a little sadder for his loss. Tc

Collette writes:

Wonderful story Siobhan, thanks. Just felt gutted and cold when I heard the news (thought and wished he would go on forever) But it must be wonderful to be as universally loved and respected as he was (and is)

p.s. thanks to for getting me fired up for another trip to see Pauline at The Birdcage (love the garden gate pic!)