Hull 1, Brighton 1 (Continued ...)

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Three hundred miles away in the beautiful south, Norman Cook is feeling his age. He is 35 and has just moved, with one small dog, into a £1 million white mansion with its own private beach. He is in the end house in what is known locally as 'showbiz alley'; his neighbours include Nick Berry and Derek Jameson. He has brought the fake tiger-skin sofa and smiley-badge collection from his previous residence, 'the House of Love' (where a crowd would party after his weekly DJ-ing sessions at the Big Beat Boutique), but the move is part of a 'calming-down process'.

He looks pretty fit for a man who recently drank Shaun Ryder under the table in Ibiza. 'Yeah, but I get the shakes,' he says. And sure enough, as he smokes his tenth cigarette in as many minutes, his hands start to shake uncomfortably. 'I've becme quite dedicated to the art of partying,' he smiles. 'But I can't keep up this pace or I'll collapse. I should take uo fishing or something...'

In his defence, Cook has had a lot of celebrating to do this year. Not only did his remix of Cornershop's 'Brimful of Asha' go to number one, not only has his single 'the Rockafeller Skank' been the most-played single of the summer, but he has suddenly, after years of being a kind of fashion leper, become hip.

Madonna him to remix her last single (he refused0; Tim Roth and the ultra-cool Spike Jones are competing to direct his next video; even his heroes, like the beastie Boys and Afrka Bambaata, think he's cool. How does he feel? 'Well having started my career in one of the most unfashionable bands in history, it's quite a nice feeling. It's mad in America because I've got no history there - so it's "the exciting new sound of Fatboy Slim".'

The Beautiful South, by contrast, have never been remotelt hip. Paul Heaton makes a wistful comment at one point about Cook's ability to make his records 'happening - if that's the word', but for the most part he and Rotheray are relaxed about their lack of street cred. 'It's not as though we've done anything naff,' says Heaton, 'we just haven't surfed the right waves.'

'Besides,' says Rotheray, 'if you look at music over the last 10 years, the hip don't survive, do they? it's a harder field to get into, the hip. And usually you get kicked out after a few months.'

This is true, as Cook recognises. Asked if he thinks he will still be cool in two years' time, he says flippantly: 'Nah, I'll probably do something really cack and blow it'. Then he looks anxious and touches the nearest peice of wood. Is this his genuine fear of losing his new-found status? 'Not fear, but that would be the end of my career, I think, because it's happened three times before [with his three previous bands, the Housemartins,Beats International and Freakpower, each of whom have had a big hit followed by accusations of naffness].Each time, I've had to go back underground and start from scratch, and to be honest, I don't think I've got the strength to do it again.'

Meanwhile, Heaton and pals plod on, making perfectly crafted albums which leave the critics cold and sell by the truckload. They've glanced at their album reviews for Quench (lukewarm praise, mostly), but are far more concerned about the reception afforded the bike repair shop (Blazing Saddles) that they've just opened in Hull's town centre. Don't they get upset at always at always being given three stars out of five? 'No, that's alright,' reasons Rotheray. 'It's more than half, isn't it?' He turns to Heaton: 'Another pint?'

Back in Brighton, Norman Cook lights another cigarette and watches the sun set from his veranda. Does he plan to settle down, have kids? 'Nah, nah.' he sys, half smiling. ' It's a regret sometimes. But this is the life I chose, and you have to sacrifice things. I've gone for this shallow showbiz thing, which is very glamourous, but there's nothing very spiritual about it.'

He takes a deep drag, and looks around his huge luxury home, perhaps contemplating invitations to DJ in Bali and Singapore, perhaps remembering the days when he wore cardigans in Hull. 'Still,' he sighs, 'never mind.....'

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