The Fallen: Life In and Out of Britain's Most Insane Group

by Dave Simpson

The Fall have moved with their times but have sounded, as Peel once suggested, ‘always different, always the same’.

Once, in Belgium, Karl Burns had been given a load of Belgian francs to spend and given the impression it was an awful lot of money. Carroll and Smith, the terrible twosome, howled with laughter when the naive drummer returned 20 minutes later, exploding, ‘This won’t even buy me a fucking packet of cigarettes!’

Crucially, Davies lived in Prestwich, which often seems to be the only qualification needed to join Britain’s most parochial band.

‘Mark needs normal people to bounce off but after a few years in The Fall you’re no longer normal.’

Tales persist of hapless men dragged off to sea without any warning. Similarly, if you think about it, to how people end up in The Fall.

What greater slur can a man carry than admitting to listening to Phil Collins?