From my perspective it’s difficult to know where it all went wrong. The natural inclination is to lay the blame elsewhere. It helps you to cope, absolving your responsibilities and passing the buck. But ultimately you have to accept ownership. Ownership of the problem.
When I was a kid growing up in London, it was rare for a policeman to knock on your door. Wherever you went there were “bobbies on the beat”, so if you committed a minor transgression you’d be dealt with long before you made it back home. Life was hard, and you made your own luck. If you didn’t work, you didn’t eat. Pride and dignity were values instilled in you — standards that are sadly lacking today.
Life for me centred on football in the winter and cricket in the summer. When I went into the Army, everything about it appealed to me: the comradeship, the sport, the physical challenges and the mental toughness. Suddenly this kid, whose farthest excursion had been to watch Queens Park Rangers play at Coventry, was hauling himself out of monsoon ditches, standing near the top of Mount Kenya, shivering in the chill of an early African sunrise or in the even chillier temperatures of a Belfast sunrise, awaiting whatever fate.
The military family system is unique. Living in service housing in far-flung places has many drawbacks, but also many advantages. Soldiers and their dependants are subject to military as well as local laws, which leads to a safe, disciplined environment. But this tends to make some family members feel claustrophobic and somewhat isolated from the rest of society. The military — and my corps in particular — is very much a family. And I have been a part of this family for more than 30 years.
I am a major, but this conjures up a stereotyped and jaundiced view. For most people, the army officer is from a privileged background, with a clipped British accent — like the major in Fawlty Towers or, indeed, the pompous Mainwaring from Dad’s Army. Nothing could be farther from the truth.
As it is for most fathers, the arrival of a son was, for me, something to be heralded. I believe that while your kids are dependent on you, you have every right to set the ground rules and call the shots. Once they reach adulthood, it’s a different kettle of fish. You become mates. It’s not like The Waltons, but I have friends whose adult children ring up on a regular basis and who go to football matches together.
I was a strict disciplinarian at work, and this was a trait I instilled in my children. Part of the kids’ development, as far as I was concerned, was to teach them the value of money and to develop a strong work ethic. To that end both Peter and (his sister) AmyJo had paper rounds during two of our postings.
I was always involved in sport and used to coach football. Peter loved playing football, but eventually turned his attention more to his studies. His final few years of schooling were spent in Warwickshire. He was developing academically and, although he lost interest in playing football, he became ever more obsessed with following QPR. He decided to create his own fanzine called All Quiet on the Western Avenue. Armed with an Amstrad computer he wrote, edited and printed it and, with the help of his cousin, Adam, flogged it at QPR’s games. It was his pride and joy and everyone was impressed by his efforts.
I started to run car boot sales on camp to raise money for both the unit and local charities. Peter and I would go to the local auction and buy shed-loads of books. Once he’d taken what he wanted, he would sell the remainder at the sale. He’d spend all his time reading and chatting with the punters. Peter was fascinated by a number of classic poets and writers, especially Oscar Wilde. I have no doubt that Wilde’s selfdestructiveness and penchant for mind-altering additions to his diet were prevalent in Peter’s mind. Wilde had always harboured a desire to take opium; he had also developed a love for music.
In the summer of 1997, Peter moved up to London to stay with his gran as he’d been given a place at a London university. I had watched with pride and excitement as his band, the Libertines, developed and received more airplay, write-ups in NME and even mentions in the national press. He became a celebrity and, of course, in the small military community his fame grew. Once he played at a small venue in Cologne , near where (my wife) Jackie and I were living. It was a private affair, laid on for the benefit of the German rock’n’roll media. We spent some time on the tour bus with Gary Powell, the drummer, and John Hassall, the bassist, while Peter and Carl Barât were giving interviews. When they came on stage, the energy they generated was incredible, they obviously had something.
Afterwards, we chatted for a bit. But Peter was distant, vacant; I thought he was p****d at the time. After that, the Libertines went straight to America and I suppose it was downhill from there. From what I was reading on the various websites that had sprung up, things were going from bad to worse: public fall-outs, cancelled tours and private gigs in his flat that would incur the wrath of not only his neighbours but the law. I watched frustrated from afar as the public drama of his turbulent world heaved between drugs and brushes with the law; periods in Pentonville and rehab.
His mother kept in contact with him. I dealt with it as only I could. One time he attempted to get well and came down to our house in Dorset with his possessions in an assortment of bags and boxes. We talked long into the night, lots of tears and promises and looking forward to new dawns. He was determined to put his life back on track. It never happened.
Peter’s greatest misfortune was to become famous. I watched as he was voted one of the most influential rock heroes of all time in NME. People seem hell-bent on perpetuating his wretchedness — a pathetic, limp figure. And so I have to sit back and remember all those old, far-off things, taking solace from some of the qualities that Peter has and the pleasure that he gives to so many people.
As parents we seem to have given him a number of these qualities, so it’s frustrating that he has never had the strength to fight off this wretchedness. I hope that one day he does.
Extracted from Pete Doherty: My Prodigal Son, to be published by Headline on September 11 at £16.99. Available at £15.29 with free delivery from Times BooksFirst. Call 0870 1608080
