The day I’d left Ireland for good, a few weeks previous to signing the contract, Pete Townshend was on my plane. In those days the Aer Lingus planes had pairs of seats facing each other, like trains do. He was sitting opposite me. Either the Who had played in Ireland or there had been some massive gig he’d been attending. I had made my mind up before boarding the flight that I wouldn’t even look behind me out the window when we took off. I took Townshend’s presence as a sign I had chosen the right path and focused on his face as we slipped toward heaven. I hated Dublin. Everything reminded me of my mother. The shops were full of hats she would have loved but I could never now give her.
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