Babyshambles
5 questions to Drew McConnell

Drew approaches me to ask for a joint I had just rolled up like a cake – in the absence of a real one I managed with the little candle. He’s more drunk than I can imagine and that makes me feel good. Drew reveals to me that he's freshly back from an evening at the Academy in Brixton: he's the bassist of Babyshambles, another sick creature born from the mind of Pete Doherty and thus a sacred monster even before being born.
The Babyshambles are the clearest example of the madness of the record market: without a single record they have a multimillion-dollar contract and dominate at all festivals (even at Benicassim, a formal giant of class). The British bookmakers rate the project’s failure at 2 to 1: no one believes in it anymore.

Drew shares with me his personal project: something called Battle or Bottle—I didn’t quite catch (and not because I don’t recognize the difference but because at that moment he didn’t recognize it himself). He is accompanied by the Lawyer, or anyway a shady character in a suit and tie who later turns out to be just a fool paid by the record company to keep an eye on the kids whom God Money has made into men too quickly.

— Battle or Bottle, I didn’t quite catch it.
— Do you know when the Saxons would go and beat the Normans until they kicked the bucket together? — apparently I should pass on the Bottle but instead, we toast to their health.

Drew tells me that last night they started two hours late, and in the end, they were so high on crack that they played three songs and then went back to smoking crack. He doesn’t even remember who the supporting act was, but he does remember there were 9,000 fools who instead of buying crack preferred three songs. The Lawyer laughs.

— And where was the Lawyer? — I ask him.
— He was in the toilet smoking. — The Lawyer stops laughing.
— I’m afraid the Lawyer needs a Lawyer. — I tell him — So, when is this album coming out, Drew?
— Ha ha… never, son of a bitch! Right now we’re too busy paying the Lawyer. And anyway in England, it's going better, in America we have this fat guy who spends all his time snorting coke and banging groupies. And he doesn’t understand a damn thing, my friend! Let me tell you!
— What kind of guy is Pete Doherty?
— A cunt [something untranslatable in Italian, you just have to be offended and nothing else], mate! He never shares his drugs — laughter — nor his girlfriend. — laughter — And fundamentally, I don’t give a damn!

I like Drew, he’s the best gift I could expect: an honest person who makes me feel human. Patricia – a dear girl who still puts up with me – laughs while the Lawyer is trying his luck with her.

— Hey Drew, your Lawyer is flirting with mine.
— But he’s a damn fag, he just wants to get high! — The Lawyer stops flirting and it starts to rain.

Drew tries to call Pete but drops his phone three times and by the third time, he’s already forgotten what he wanted to do with the phone.

— Where are you from, Drew?
— From Athens, Georgia. And you?
— It’s been too long, I’m not so sure anymore. But it seemed like I used to be happy, somewhere.

Drew gets emotional and kisses me, so I get emotional too and kiss him, we all want to kiss each other, even the Lawyer especially with Patricia.
I’d gladly invite him to the party tonight but I’m afraid in these conditions he’d end up accepting and who has the money to prepare the cake for the Lawyer – I could barely afford a little candle.