It was summer 97, a beautiful warm evening. I was working in A&R at Warners, driving to a gig in west London, Sinéad was outside a pub with a couple of friends and we locked eyes and she waved. I’d met her a couple of times before but we’d never really chatted. I popped in, got us a drink and it was like we were old friends. She was wearing baggy torn jeans and a white vest, her beauty was captivating but in no way intimidating, she exuded warmth and kindness. We talked about Abba and what we listened to in our teens. She loved me telling her about all the early Smiths gigs in Manchester. I never made the gig that night. We would instead sit on her sofa and talk until the early hours and soon found ourselves falling in love.
I only recall a couple of times when she even mentioned her own music. She was very proud of her version of Don’t Cry for Me Argentina, I remember her playing me that, almost apologetically. (Check out her version with full orchestra on YouTube, it will break your heart.)
Really, though, I never saw her as a rock star. Even when we would get paparazzi chasing us down Westbourne Grove going for morning coffee it was more funny than anything, like a Benny Hill sketch – and certainly the nearest we ever got to going for a morning jog. She just played it down, laughing, mildly embarrassed.
She invited me to Majorca as her friend Lynne Franks had a place there. It was a lovely holiday and Lynne was most welcoming. Sinéad and I both had a penchant for hemp at the time and were invited round to Howard Marks’s place where we sat in his garden and happily said not very much, just happy to get high and listen to Howard’s warm Welsh voice.
Then I went to Jamaica as I was working on a record with Sly and Robbie. When they came over to London to do Top of the Pops I brought them over to her house for tea. She was beaming with happiness, almost unable to make a pot of tea she was so nervous. She later ended up making an album of reggae covers with them, Throw Down Your Arms in 2005.
The year we were together she kept her workload to a minimum. I remember a low-key show in Ireland and being on set with her on Neil Jordan’s The Butcher Boy. I have a photo of her in full Virgin Mary outfit, big eyes, smiling serenely, smoking a joint. She was a natural actor: the scene where she appears as a vision and talks to the boy was one take. Surprisingly she was not remotely nervous. I recall her being considered for the lead in Luc Besson’s The Messenger: The Story of Joan of Arc and going through her lines with her.
I can’t even begin to express how much she loved Father Ted. It’s like it was made for her: a comedy based around three dysfunctional priests in remote rural Ireland. Friday night was Father Ted night, takeaway curry, cold beers, and a bag full of chocolate and sweets. There was an episode where Clare Grogan plays a feminist singer who sings a song called Women Rule the Land of Tir Na Nog, clearly a well-meaning pisstake of Sinead. She loved it.
There was no dramatic ending to our relationship. She moved back to Ireland the following summer and it just fizzled out. We had both effectively put our careers on hold for a year so had to get back in the real world.
When I heard the news about Sinéad I was blown away by the coverage. Sky News played the whole Nothing Compares 2 U video uninterrupted. I don’t think that even happened with Bowie or Prince. It was a little surreal as “rock star Sinéad” was not really who she was to me. But it’s right that her influence and importance was being recognised. This is a woman who in a single action on live television, out of principle, was prepared to destroy her own career in America. Artists like Tori Amos and Fiona Apple would not be who they are today if it wasn’t for Sinéad.
The next morning, I heard her song I Am Stretched on Your Grave on the radio:
I am stretched on your grave
And I’ll lie here forever
If your hands were in mine
I’d be sure they would not sever
My apple tree, my brightness
It’s time we were together
For I smell of the earth
And am worn by the weather
All the while torrential rain hammered down outside. In July. It felt like the heavens were grieving too.
• The author is donating the fee from this article to Papyrus UK Suicide Prevention.
