He entered rehab in 2009 and hasn’t touched drink or drugs since. Today, Norman Cook is a reformed character. On the back of a CD on his living-room table, he has laid out four lines of cocaine. We will visit a night called Mr Fabulous and Mr Mental Present: Fabulous and Mental!, among others.īut before we leave, Cook suggests a livener. The plan is that Cook will take me clubbing around Brighton as a backdrop to my profile of him. It is a Saturday afternoon in January 1998 and I have come to interview Cook for a magazine I’ve started working at, The Face. Cutting up bits of Dick Dale-style surf guitar with a thumping breakbeat and a looped sample (“Right about now, the funk soul brother/Check it out now, the funk soul brother”), the track is called “The Rockafeller Skank” and will soon become ubiquitous. In an upstairs back room, I’ve interrupted Cook tinkering away on a new song. “Whoever is DJing in Brighton invariably ends up here,” he says. Around the clubs of Brighton, the property is known as “The House of Love”, partly on account of its décor, and partly on account of its reputation as a place of hedonistic shenanigans. I can see that Cook manages his accounts on an outsized smiley calculator. There are smiley teapots, smiley mugs and smiley clocks. “I’m a useless party fiend who’s not a role model for anyone and who’s got nothing intelligent to say apart from ‘Let’s ’ave it’,” as he puts it.Ĭook’s house is covered in yellow smiley faces, rave culture’s adopted symbol. Opening the door of his home on a minor terraced street in Brighton, Norman Cook, 35 years old, tall, balding, and who makes music under the name Fatboy Slim, introduces himself with the following question: “Are you a caner?”Ĭook means: do I take drugs? Just off the train from London and with a head still nipping from the night before, I laugh and say, “I guess I’d put myself in that camp, yes.”Ĭook, famously, is a card-carrying caner.
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