There’s a ghoulish woodpecker nailed to the front door. I ring the bell. Paul Heaton answers. The singer’s 62 and looks remarkably unchanged from his Housemartins and Beautiful South days. The only thing missing is the trademark anorak. I assumed he slept in it.
His modest home in Withington, Manchester, is crammed with stuff. Not gold discs as you might expect of a pop star, but football badges, toothbrushes, crisp packets, shoe horns, beer glasses. There’s not much room for more stuff. He shows me his Batman cards. “These are probably the first things I collected, along with marbles.”
