UPON HAVING MY FIRST SOLO SINGLE OUT (Feb 1981)

I sat with a two-litre bottle of cider in one hand and a roll-up in the other, watching the video screen in my landlord Steve's living room. Roger Maynard, then a news presenter at BBC East in Norwich, was interviewing a young man. The young man, in his twenties, was dressed almost entirely in black, his thin face appearing more gaunt for a surfeit of smeared mascara. He lurched uneasily in his seat as he fielded the interviewer's questions. Did he think, asked Roger Maynard, that a record whose subject matter mentioned unemployment and drugs was relevant as an educational aid for youngsters? The young man stared vacantly at the camera: "We'll it's gotta be better than rock-climbing and Duke of Edinburgh Awards...annit? " he slurred. Then he laughed, lurching almost out of his seat.

Even I, by this time well-numbed with cider was slightly shocked as I watched the video recording of my first live TV appearance.

Everyone, apparently, had seen it. The pub, so Steve said, had been abuzz with it earlier. Even an uncle of mine in distant Buckinghamshire had witnessed it. Shortly afterwards, during the course of a telephone conversation he told me quietly, that he thought I'd let myself down.

It hadn't been the plan. I'd put a sharp black outfit together. A little bit rock'n'roll maybe. But smartish. It was on the train to the Norwich studio, that I noticed that my throat was swollen, my head ached and I felt slightly other-worldly. The meet and greet person at the BBC showed me into the Green Room (which they still had in those days) pointed to a large drinks cabinet and gave me one of those, you-know-what-to-do gestures. No sooner had the door closed than I'd sprung briskly up and mixed myself a whisky mac. Then quickly, another. Still no one came to collect me. So I had a third. I now felt confident, witty and erudite.

Thus began My So-Called Fucking TV Career.

A few days earlier, my mum had telephoned me at 7.30am and said, "You're in the Daily Mail. They say that a "dole and drugs record" written by a part-time washer-up has been sent out to hundreds of schools as an educational aid. And a Tory MP, Nick Budgen, has condemned you, publicly." She sounded rather more excited than alarmed about it. On Radio One, the DJ Dave Lee Travis was playing Young Jobless at lunchtimes. The record company informed me that my disc had been c-listed, which meant 'sporadic' airplay. The drive-time DJ, Peter Powell had played it too. For the next fortnight or so, I'd be washing up at the restaurant on a busy lunchtime session, and I'd suddenly hear Max Volume's guitar riff chugging in, as my record came on.

"Hey. That's my record again!" I'd squeal. The whole shift would come to a halt until it was finished. I was getting regular Radio One airplay. One evening they played it on Radio 4's PM news show. I never heard it of course. In those days I only ever listened to pop music stations. Because of that particular news item, some high-up at EMI Records had also heard it.

The next thing you know, along with Kris and Stuart from Offstreet Records, I'm sitting upstairs at EMI's Manchester Square HQ, negotiating a one-off, piss-poor, 4 percent record and distribution deal. The record was hurriedly re-released on EMI's Liberty label. Now we were motoring.

We sealed it with a luke warm bottle of Chablis, which I'd found while nosing around in their broken fridge, when instead, I should have been listening to what was being said.

In the bogs later, just along the corridor, I met Mensi, cheerfully ebullient singer of the Angelic Upstarts. "Do some fookin' work, yer lazy bastids!" he yelled in broad Geordie, as we passed back through the typing pool together. On the way back up to the meeting room, finding myself on the wrong staircase, I met a few glamorous-looking New Romantic types: tablecloths over shoulders, leather trousers and big 80s hair. They all had flutes of cold fizzy in their hands. I was informed that it was some kind of reception for Dexy's Midnight Runners. And there's me, Kris and Stuart crammed upstairs in an office with a paper cup of warm Chablis each and a song about the plight of Our Unemployed Yoof. Every expense spared, then. "Ooh Messieur, you are reely spoileeng us, weez your music biz 'ospitalitay."

I was introduced to their PR person. I think he was called Brian. He was to be in charge of promoting Young Jobless. We immediately got off on the wrong foot. "This record of yours, then. What's it all about?" he asked.

 I looked at him, slightly nonplussed. "Ah." I said. "It's called Young Jobless."

I pointed out of the window into the drizzly London afternoon and said, "You see that? Out there?" He nodded. I said, "Well that's what we call 'normality' and I've just written this song about young people, who, because of various political and sociological circumstances now can't get jobs. So, erm, basically, there are lots of young unemployed youngsters out there. Just in case you didn't know." He looked at me crossly and replied. " I was aware of it actually." I was only joking. Typical Newell, really. Always saying the wrong thing, to the wrong people at the wrong time.

In early 1981, in my mid 20s, I was un-versed in the ways of the media, what they are like and what they may do if they want to take advantage of you. Bear in mind that I was a straight-from-Central-Casting British rock'n'roll wazzock, who might easily have fitted into the mockumentary band Spinal Tap. I was chiefly interested in rock music and how I might make a living from it I had only the fuzziest ideas of what was happening in the wider world outside.

I had, however, one other disadvantage, which would take over three more decades for me to discover. Being slightly Aspergic. I couldn't read people's faces. I did not always know when people were taking the piss, or when they were lying to me. I also didn't know when I'd said too much, said the wrong thing, or sometimes even what to say at all. I mostly hid it by drinking. Naturally, the media corps made mincemeat out of me. I do not feel aggrieved about this. Not now, anyway. As I'm always saying:there are no victims, only volunteers. But I do kind of wish that back then, there'd been someone at my side as a guide. Or maybe even a referee to blow a whistle and stop play, when it became too cruel. Because my wisdom, such as it now exists has been hard-earned and a long time coming.