Lemmy has lived in Los Angeles for 15 years. “Home is in here,” he says, tapping his temple. “Where you live is just a geographical preference. I like it here because the sun shines a lot and you don’t get the cynical fucking English bitching about everything. I find the Americans quite refreshing. Everybody sneers at the ‘Have a nice day’ thing but it’s a lot nicer than having your change thrown at you.” He’s been disappointed in England “since about 1964. It’s never recognised any of its own talent, it’s never done anything to promote anything but the status quo. It’ll always be stuck with rotten politicians. England had a history once but now it’s got nothing.”
Is there anything you miss about it, I ask?
“Yeah, cheese,” he says.
“They can’t make cheese over here to save their fucking lives.”
Right. Anything else?
“A few people I suppose. But mainly the cheese.”
My former flatmate Jonny Coore and I, when we lived in Camberwell, would often ask strangers at social functions what their favourite cheese was. We were trying to get away from the whole “Hello, what do you do?” question that everybody asks to pigeon-hole people by.
My favourite cheese is Cheshire. I love its crumbly texture. What’s yours?