The girls were born in London but we’d been moved from the slums of Notting Hill to a council estate in Slough called the Britwell. It was split into two parliamentary constituencies: our part, Slough (Labour), and Beaconsfield (Conservative). When Jamie was 11 years old he told me he’d met Michael Foot on the estate, campaigning in the Beaconsfield by-election, and been introduced to the Labour candidate — one Mr Anthony Charles Lynton Blair.
Jamie was a beautiful child with melting eyes and a dazzling smile. He was fascinated by so many things growing up. He loved the planets and the stars and could describe every constellation. Magic was another of his interests. He’d wear a huge cape and subject us to a show every week. Then there was the author phase — he decided to work his way backwards, beginning with The Complete Works of Jamie.
We began playing tennis together when he was 9 or 10. We would play at every opportunity, winter and summer… sometimes on Christmas Day. I won every game for three years until another fascination of his — weight training — meant that I was suddenly confronted with this tall, powerful opponent who has thrashed me consistently ever since.
I taught him a few chords on the guitar when he was small, but as usual with Jamie there were no half measures. He was far better than I ever was, long before he’d had his first shave. Whereas I’d been a disciple of Bert Weedon — sitting in my room aged 10 with his Play in a Day book and my Tommy Steele guitar — the equivalent for Jamie was a Billy Bragg songbook and cassette with the Westone electric guitar I bought him. He was also crazy about Frankie Goes to Hollywood, buying loads of different versions of their recordings financed by his paper round and a job peeling potatoes in a fish-and-chip shop.
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Working his way through college, Jamie had been taken on by Kate Hoey [Labour MP for Vauxhall] to work in her constituency office at the House of Commons, which was great, as he was studying politics. Around the same time he began to work for Phil Manzanera, the Roxy Music guitarist, who owned a recording studio. Jamie was a gofer, making pasta and running the artists around. From then on he was always going to work in the music business. He used his time at the studio to learn how to engineer a recording. His degree has never been brandished before any prospective employers.
I still think Jamie will make it as an artist. He has had various projects, including a band called Johnson, who I went to see at the Jazz Cafe. A songwriting contract was secured at one stage, but the breakthrough hasn’t happened yet. In the meantime, he’s engineered for a whole series of artists including Paul Weller, Robert Wyatt, David Gilmour and, currently, Razorlight and Roxy Music. Jamie has had traumas in his life. His mother and I split up when he was a teenager but he handled it all brilliantly. He was best man at my second marriage, and at his mother’s. His older sister, Natalie, died of a pulmonary embolism seven years ago. He and Emma were hit very hard by that.
Now Jamie and his lovely wife, Jane, have become parents for the first time. It’s a great time in their lives. And if the baby keeps Jamie weak and exhausted, I might just invite him over for another game of tennis.
JAMIE: When I think of my dad, the thing I associate him with more than anything else is music, not politics. I remember him playing the guitar, him and my mum singing to my sisters and me when we were kids, and later becoming fascinated by their record collection. I’d spend hours staring at the album sleeves and leafing through Dad’s songbooks, particularly The Beatles Complete, which had a picture of a naked woman. It was like a glimpse into a world of music and fashion that I didn’t really understand.
I realised how important music must be when I found, on the dinner table, pages of lyrics to the first Police album, which had just come out. Dad had spent the night before writing them out because the record didn’t have them printed on the sleeve.
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He’d been in a band when he was younger, and among the records was a 7in single they’d pressed. This was the coolest thing I’d ever seen, and I don’t think I’ve ever thought about doing anything other than music since then.
Dad was a postman in Slough when I was growing up, and the union and the Labour party were a big part of my childhood. There were lots of marches, which were always good fun when you’re a kid; lots of shouting and feeling rebellious, and our house became the party committee rooms at election time. I was always more interested in it all than my sisters, and in between quoting Elvis Costello lyrics at me, Dad would explain why Labour’s election defeat in 1951 meant that PR [proportional representation] was a good idea and why I should read The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists to understand the redistribution of wealth — new Labour had yet to be invented. As with the music, he never rammed anything down my throat or lectured me. It was just that his enthusiasm was so infectious, I naturally developed similar interests to his.
We played a lot of games and sport together — chess, Subbuteo, football. He broke his ankle playing football with me and my mate Darren Speight. Dad was in goal. However, mostly we played tennis. We were both very competitive, but only over each point, not really over who won the match or who beat whom.
When I did go through a stroppy teenage phase and started throwing my racket around, he very quickly made me realise what a tit I looked and how much cooler it was to play like a proper sportsman.
I don’t think I would describe Dad as ambitious, at least not in an obvious way. I think he just thrives on doing well at something and on being sociable, probably quite good qualities for politics. My memories of him as a kid are of a very happy-go-lucky type of person, always ready to make a joke out of a situation. Both my parents were orphaned when they were quite young, though it wasn’t something I remember them talking about. I don’t think it left them with a chip on their shoulder or anything like that. They both grew up in pretty poor areas of west London, and when they married they moved out to a council house in Slough around 1970. Dad had left school without qualifications, but he took O-levels when he was in his twenties. I remember him getting the results. His union work took him away a lot and I think he grew apart from the family quite a bit. He wasn’t really a different person: he just had different horizons and aspirations.
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Dad had been my best friend when I was growing up and I took it very badly when he left home. I think I was really horrible to him for a while, but I felt for my mum and I was angry. But it is really unhealthy to stay that way for long. It sounds corny, but life does move on. And I can’t say I wish it hadn’t happened that way, because they’re both happily remarried, with different lives.
Apart from not seeing him as often, our relationship hasn’t changed that much. We’ll always make stupid jokes and chat about Queens Park Rangers and music. He still rings me to tell me about the latest CD he’s bought by some band I’ve never heard of.
I don’t think I’d like to work in politics: I’m too cynical about it all. But I think if you asked him whether he dreams of being prime minister or the lead singer of the Super Furry Animals, it would be the Super Furries every time.