Mum’s done amazingly well, but I do feel protective of her. When she got
nominated for an Oscar for Elizabeth in 1999 she went to Hollywood and they
had this big dinner. Yet Mum, who was the main producer, got sat on a table
away from the director, Shekhar Kapur, and Cate Blanchett, who she cast in
the film. They were seated with executives who hadn’t worked on it. I wrote
a letter about how f***ing angry I was. Now some of the top producers call
Mum and say: “Love your daughter’s album!” They’re all sycophants in that
industry, so it’s worked out quite well for her.
I spent years trying [to make it] from the age of 16 — people knocking me
down. When it started going well I felt very confused by the attention. I’m
in the newspapers every day, pretty much.
I don’t get it. I just want to make some money. I just bought a house, in
Queens Park. Maybe I could retire at 25. I’m only going to do one more
album. It’s a great job, but it doesn’t leave time for what’s important.
Like having a family. I’d like to live in the country and have a walled
garden, and chickens and pigs.
Mum is an inspiration to me. She is very, very strong. I’ve learnt to stand up
for myself and I’m quite a feminist as a result of being my mum’s daughter.
ALISON: I got married to Keith and got pregnant with Lily on our
wedding night, I think. We didn’t have much money, but it was a really
exciting time. London was fun, Keith was in the Comic Strip and it was the
birth of Channel 4. I was finding my feet, working in the booming pop-video
industry. My first child, Sarah, was five when Lily was born. I was about
23. A year after Lily, I had Alfie. The kids just came along with whatever
we did. We took Lily to Glastonbury when she was two weeks old: carrying
this gleaming-white baby above a sea of mud.
She was a delightful child, always exuberant and outgoing. But after I split
with Keith, when she was about five, she became introverted, more difficult
to get on with. It was hard for her. I was distraught, really frightened.
And Lily was so perceptive; she felt every ounce of my depression and
distress, and that was awful. She became “caretakery”, checking I was okay
all the time. I was producing my first movie, Hear My Song, and we were in
Ireland. She and Alfie went to this little Montessori nursery across the
fields. It was a strange, fraught period but also quite magical.
I didn’t see Lily’s talents emerging.
I knew she was mega-bright: in logic games she excels. But it didn’t translate
in academic terms. When she started singing and went to No 1, I’d say: “I’m
very proud, but who’d have known?” And people would say: “We knew. She’s
been like a superstar from the age of two.” Lily was about 11 when we
discovered she had a great voice. It was at a school concert and the teacher
said: “It’s taken us some time to realise we’ve got a little girl with an
extraordinary voice. Step forward, Lily Allen.” And Lily let rip with this
beautiful voice. I must have been a puddle on the floor. She’d kept it a
secret and presented it like a gift. Singing and music became her thing then.
In her adolescence we had a lot of screaming fights and, shall we say,
“selective borrowing” of my credit card. She was addicted to internet
shopping and she’d go on ordering binges. Weird things would turn up:
balloon-makers, popcorn machines. She’d always shop for other people — she
loves to give. I had to explain there were boundaries, even if the things
were for me.
She dropped out of school and was really depressed, staying in bed all day.
When people’s kids go into depression, if they haven’t experienced it
themselves, they think it’s for ever. I could say: “This is not the end,
things will get better.”
Lily could have been the most popular girl in the class — she’s clever, good
at sport, very pretty — but she just would never fit in. She was happier at
Bedales. But even there she felt frustrated around kids her own age. She
came back to London at 15 and went to a crammer. I’d drop her off, then find
she had smartly nipped back out again.
When Lily split from Lester, her first boyfriend, it was the only time I’ve
been seriously worried about her. She was on the verge of being suicidal.
Being with him was probably the first time she was really happy. She was mad
about him. Lily took an overdose and tried to cut her wrists. I took her to
casualty twice, and the third time it happened, when I brought her home she
immediately ran off saying: “I’m going to kill myself.” At that
point, I thought:
“I can’t cope.” I took her to the Priory, where they could keep a 24-hour
watch on her. She was in for four weeks, and she got a fantastic therapist
and it was a turning point for her. She was 18 then.
I see less of Lily when she’s with boys and in a love bubble. But if something
happens, she’s back with a vengeance. Lily’s very dramatic — more so than
me. And she’s resourceful: she can track me down anywhere. I’ll be in Harvey
Nichols and somebody will hold out a phone and say: “Lily Allen for you.”
She could always find her dad, too. I’d hear her imperious little voice on
the phone when she was six, telling a waiter: “If he’s not in his room, I
suggest you try the bar.”
Lily’s been lucky in that early on she’s found a life that fits her perfectly.
She’s fulfilled, she loves writing songs. She likes being recognised and
taxi drivers going: “Keep singing, Lil!” She no longer has to struggle.
She’s been able to relax and blossom. It would have been more of a surprise
if she hadn’t made it.
I worry as much as Lily about whether her record will be a success. I feel
sick if someone’s written something nasty. I’m connected to her viscerally.
When she was first famous she didn’t know the boundaries. You can only find
out for yourself, and Lily won’t be told. But she’s got good values. She
takes the perks of celebrity with a pinch of salt. What’s not to like if you
get a big box from “your friends at Chanel”? It’s heaven if you’re 22, a
pretty girl and the world’s at your feet. She enjoys it, and makes
sure everybody around her enjoys it, too. She’s terrifically generous.
Lily is her own person. What sums her up for me is the MySpace phenomenon,
which is all about how many friends you have. She was on her computer as
usual, and she shut the lid and she said: “Well, I’ve got the most friends
in Great Britain.” This little girl who found making friends quite difficult
finally had the most friends in the whole country
