My Unplanned Obsolescence. By Thom Topham. Chapter 10.

13 May

Poverty, Promiscuity, Paranoia, Parables… and Princesses.

TT 1979

“Sat. 6. 7. ‘79.

£5 to last the rest of my life!

The future of humanity will not manifest itself performing under The Westway.  Stories… tales of the shitty city.  A fenced-in expression of society’s disgust.  I should, I could have got up on that stage and shouted it out, but the bedraggled audience were too scraggy and insignificant to make it worth my while.

At least, on this occasion, it was possible for any no-hoper to get up and scream out his pain/ego/demons/traumas (delete where applicable) to a raggle-taggle hotchpotch of old hippies, Hells Angels, tourists, freaks, punks, leather-queens, gender-benders, chick-with-dicks, proto-anarchists, members of campaign groups such as Rock Against Racism and Legalise Cannabis… and me.

The DJs seemed to be running the show, with a rather irritating and unnecessary, vaguely Rastaaaafariii (mostly white) running commentary on the mic’, echoing around the arch beneath the motorway to the two or three hundred people drifting around, or sitting on the stony ground getting drunk and/or stoned.

Chain-link fences, barbed wire, concrete, graffiti, rusting corrugated iron, struggling saplings, and rubbish everywhere.

A tube train rattled by and at first I thought that it was part of the music. Hey, I confess that I broke one of my own rules by having a daytime joint,

Punk is so dated already, so last year; but I have a certain admiration for the whole ghetto-gang shabang. Hippies and punks, gays and football hooligans, Rastafarians and trustafarians, rude boys and rent boys and all the variants thereof. The un-united tribes of London.  Everything sub-cultural and ‘minority’ eventually gets absorbed into the mainstream (which is so typically British), from the Westway to the West Coast of the US. Perhaps it gets subjugated and absorbed into the blandness of it all, exploiting its inherent weakness, finding cracks; the San Andreas Fault, searching for eccentric Americans who’ve discovered irony living under a rock.  Intelligent neurosis is soft-centred… and a harder nut to crack.

Sunday 7. 7. ’79. < < < Three sevens! Wowee?  Full moon? I hope so. I enjoy a bit of mystical madness.

Slept and slept and slept. Am I cracking up? William played god today – gave me a fiver. The phone is not working – has it been cut-off again? Is there anything else left to go wrong? Oh!  The gas is still on, at least. Feel like getting drunk.

Monday 8. 7. ’79.

Yep, that was a good idea. I actually felt confident and relaxed and had a good time at the dreaded Bellstaff in Earls Court – England’s oldest gay pub (usually with a clientele to match – but this time it was different, if you ignored all the old leather- queens discussing opera and musical theatre), as I met a bouncy Yank who was both a music teacher and a gymnast – a near-perfect combination. His name is Mike and he has hard muscles and baby hair. Made me feel alive again – so much so that I couldn’t sleep. I guess that’s the price you pay on the rare occasion when you meet what appears to be a truly desirable man:  chunky, hunky, funky, spunky, punky… great sex, warmth and intellect too!  He thought I was Spanish or Italian initially – so do lots of people.

What am I going to do for four days before I see Johnny and Thomas? Arghh! No money.  Must try and relax – but how? I’m in the danger zone again and my Wurlitzer is virtually unplayable – there’s something wrong with the mechanism behind the notes. And I want Alfred.  HELP!

Now I’ve been round to see him and I don’t think I want him anymore.  How refreshing to be wrong.”

I put down the book, and try to remember who Johnny, Thomas and Alfred were – or maybe still are.  Thirty one years eh? William, I can still vouch for as a talented screen-writer and conceptualist who never really ‘made it’ (sound familiar anyone?) who now runs a video shop in his native Scotland, somewhere near Inverness, I believe, so I never see him, although we still crack jokes with each other on People Pages. ‘Home-made’ ones, as it were, as opposed to the ‘have you heard the one about the whatever’ variety, which tend to spout from ‘blokes’ whose mates repeat some racist or sexist joke ‘down the pub’ and viralise it, fueled by a pint or six. Shudder. A truly redundant form of recycling, without any apparent benefits to anyone, apart from the malignant, macho morons of this world.

In my diary, however.  I was evidently having a terrible time of merely surviving, despite having a music-publishing deal.  The phone was regularly being cut off, due to my non-payment of the bill (although it makes me chuckle to recall that I’d usually get it put back on using a different name).

Back in the 70s there were red phone boxes on many street corners. A story springs to mind. The nearest one to me when I was still living in the dingy basement at St Dukes Road in 1979 was outside the wonderful Spanish deli that used to be next door to the local pub on Westbourne Grove, the name of which I’ve forgotten (it’s probably been renamed The Royal Trustafarian now). One sunny afternoon I raided my ‘change pot’ to use the phone box (copper coins were acceptable in those days), which was occupied when I got there. I only realized this when I tugged open the door (they are quite heavy, as anyone over forty might remember) to find myself almost walking straight into a beautiful young, mixed-race man, wearing khaki shorts and a white vest, which displayed his muscular limbs to perfection.  I apologized profusely. He smiled, looked me in the eye, cupped his hand over the receiver and said, softly and sweetly: ‘I won’t be long’, then continued to smile at me whilst talking on the phone as I waited outside, smiling back at him.

Something was afoot!

When he came out I patted him lightly on the shoulder and said “Oh bugger the phone call, I’d rather bugger you!’ Or… probably  something less crudely forward.

My ‘gaydar’ had indeed been correct and we ended up having a wonderful time… and beautiful, fabulous sex.  Better still, he was actually an apprentice footballer with West Ham. Phwooooar!  Fantasy, or what? Sadly, I never saw him again.  I used to look out for him for years whenever The Hammers were on TV, to no avail.  I guess I’ll never know what happened to him… unless, of course, he’s reading this.

The iPhone ‘tings’ and I pick it up see that I’ve had a missed called from my French friend Marcel. The signal here in Cornwall is so pathetic that you have to go outside and walk up the Cleave for about thirty yards to even text someone.  It’s not only my mobile broadband dongle suffering from unplanned obsolescence: albeit temporarily. Both sim cards are on O!U, whose nearest mast, as you might recall, is ten miles (over the hills and far) away.

I call back Marcel on the landline. He answers ‘Allo…’ slightly questioningly, as he obviously doesn’t recognize this Cornish number. French accents are always so pleasing on the ear, I find, especially when the participants are being mischievous, or telling jokes. The French also ‘get’ irony, it would seem.

‘Marcel, hey, it’s Thom – I’m at the cottage in Cornwall – you called mon petit ami straight?’

He chuckles at my Franglais.

Oui, mon vieux queer Anglaise… how is ze wethurr down there?’

‘It’s parfait, mate, beacoup de soleil, et je suis un petit brun!  How are you – what was the call in aid of?’

‘I’m good mon ami.  Well, I have this French friend who came to visit London for the first time and he wanted to go – can you believe it? – to The Hard Rock café…’

‘…The HARD ROCK CAFÉ?  NO-one in London EVER goes there!  Only tourists!’

‘Exactomundo!’ Says Marcel ‘but he really wanted to go ; anyway, after queuing for about half an hour – big yawnz – we got a table for two right in the middle of the restaurant by the central pillar, underneath your album Mediums…’

‘No! What? You’re kidding me?’

‘No I’m not!  My friend was very impressed when I said that I knew you. The depiction of your album on the pillar is like a glass painting of the cover, an etching perhaps, and it’s back-lit, just above head height.’

I don’t believe it!’ I say, doing a Victor Meldrew; ‘but… that means it must have been there for over thirty-six years! I simply don’t believe it!’

‘Well, you do ‘ave one foot in ze grave!’

Yes, hmm, well, let’s NOT go there right now…

 ‘I’ve been FRAMED – and I didn’t even know!’

Oui, oui, c’est vrai, mais ce n’est pas mal!’

‘I guess not.  Sometimes you get happy mediums when you least expect them.’

Oui oui! Like my hamburger at the Hard Rock – I asked for mediums rare…’

‘… and they brought you a well-done, old friend on the pillar! Cha boom!’

‘Ze mediums is ze message!’

We both laugh.

‘Well, thanks for letting me know – I’m genuinely shocked.  And the weird thing is that it was reissued last year on Grapes Of Wrath Records.  I think I might have to write a song about it called You’ve Been Framed!’

‘Nice play-on-words Thom. I’ve got to go – le touriste wants to go to Madame Tussaud’s…’

‘…Is it still THERE? At least Madame Tussaud was French.  Now if you can persuade him to go somewhere that’s cool AND Franglais, you should take him to The Café De Paris.’

‘Ah hah! That’s a good idea. Didn’t you play there with your band… with the famous drummer?’

‘…BiJingo.  Yes, in 2007. Our one and only gig.’

‘Well, c’est la vie.  I ‘av to go!’

Au revoir. A bientot!!’

You’be been framed  hovers in my mind like a word-cloud which is about to produce light, summer rain – in the form of arcane, poetic lyrics. So, I instinctively pick-up my current notebook and start to write.  It comes pouring out just like the epic title track of my first album ‘Mediums’ (that has famously, of course, been on the central pillar of The Hard Rock Café for over thirty-six years), which was written from ‘spirit’ and was actually about what the lyrics pertained to – automatic writing – just like when I wrote intuitively about the secret garden and the oubliette dungeon in the environs of the cathedral in Ibiza town back in ’88.

 You’ve Been Framed

Look out for the hidden messages…

No nothing will ever be the same

You are the flotsam and jetsam of the past.

And people who refuse to play the game

will be guaranteed to always be the last

In the queue where no-one knows your name

you are forgotten like 80s ghetto blasters,

it’s so cynical and clinical, oh the shame

like a roller-coaster ride that’s always going faster…

You’ve been framed – like a Jimi Hendrix Stratocaster,

You gotta play the game to please your masters.

Hung up on a wall for ever after, in the hall of fame of tears and laughter..

You’ve been framed, you’ve been named.  It will never be the same.

In the middle of London’s Hard Rock Cafe – look out for the hidden messages….

Seen in every portrait, there’s a truth and there’s a lie

and everything that you were taught is an idea coming from on high,

Look out for the hidden messages….

by the spin doctors of phoney thoughts,  religions based on power,

hypocrisy from twisted minds who would crush anything that flowers.

Look out for the hidden messages….

In the queue where no-one knows your name,

you are forgotten like 80s ghetto blasters,

it’s so cynical and clinical, oh the shame

like a roller-coaster ride that’s always going faster…

You’ve been framed – like a Jimi Hendrix Stratocaster,

You gotta play the game to please your masters.

Look out for the hidden messages….

Hung up on every wall for ever after, in the hall of fame of tears and laughter,

You’ve been Framed, you’ve been named. It will never be the same.

In the middle of London’s Hard Rock Cafe – look out for the hidden messages.

You’ve been framed.

 (Words and music by Thom Topham ©  Copyright Control.  All Rights Reserved).

The Interior Of London's Hard Rock Cafe

The Interior Of London’s Hard Rock Cafe

Joyce the cleaner pops her head around the door and says brightly: ‘Right, that’s me all done, I just need to put the Hoover back in the cupboard under the stairs. Well, it’s not a Hoover, it’s a Henry – isn’t it funny how we call all vacuum cleaners Hoovers?’

‘…even Dysons,’ I interject, with a chuckle, ‘and all ball-point pans are Biros, regardless.  Well, that’s the power of good branding I guess.’

She puts the Henry back in the cupboard under the stairs in the corner, then nods in the direction of my open notebook and asks: ‘Writing a song then?’

‘I think so.  It looks like it’s going to be called You’ve Been Framed – a bit of a play on words.’

‘Sounds interesting… do you think Amy Winehouse has been framed by the press, what with them hounding her all the time? Do you know her? I think she’s so talented, but somehow so screwed-up.’

‘Well, she’s certainly a rich source of stories for the tabloids – partly her own fault, I guess, with what appears to be her addictive personality and her apparent lack of self-esteem.  I think that she’s incredibly talented and deserves every plaudit that comes her way. I don’t actually know her, but I do know her bass player and guitarist – both of them have played at my jam sessions on several occasions.  I’m particularly friendly with Dave Daleham – he’s her musical director. He played bass on three of my BiJingo tracks’

‘Ooh – I love your BiJingo stuff as well! But what about that awful, junkie husband of hers – he went to prison didn’t he?’

Love Is A Losing Game indeed – that’s my favourite Amy song.  Well, they divorced last year, thank god. She’s a got a new boyfriend now, he’s a film director, I believe.’

‘I hope she cleans-up her act, otherwise I think she might kill herself with all that excess…’  She trails off, then shakes her head and adds brightly: ‘Anyway, I must  be off!  Lovely to chat.  Hope to see you again soon!’

‘I’ve got to get the train back to London at 4, or should I say sixteen hundred hours? I always hate to leave, especially when the weather is so wonderful. You take care!’

I’m about to go and sit on the sea wall in the sunshine, perhaps for one last time, when a cloud obscures the sun, and a  sudden, silvery drizzle forms a gossamer curtain out in the bay.  I go out to the front door and watch as it approaches; then a huge rainbow suddenly appears above the village. The mythical pot of gold is up on what I call the Field Of Gravity, I muse to myself, then wonder if it’s a sign of sorts.  My fantasy of a potential, magical festival…

 There’s still a while before I have to get the bus back to Raleigh, so I make myself some more minty tea in the kitchen, then decide to dip-back into the roller-coaster year of ’79, wondering if the fortunes of my twenty seven-year old self had improved yet. It’s July the fourteenth, I observe, as I open the notebook. When did Leonardo, the Italian Count, eventually take me to New York? Was it in September of that year that I suddenly had some rocket-fuelled success? I don’t want to’ cheat’ by fast-forwarding; I’d like to understand my mind-set-of-the-time more fully.  After all, this is the first time I’ve read this notebook in – gasp! – over thirty years!

“Sat. 14. 7. 79

I have to thank the weather and various angels for helping me out this last week.  Beautiful sunshine and sultry summer nights. The last few days have been unusually carefree, apart from the ever-present paranoia about my relentless poverty.  On Thursday I waited for over three hours to see Stirling Johnson – my music publisher – who was getting pissed with someone who is vaguely famous and not very talented.  Eventually I got to play the arrogant bastard my new songs and he said that he really liked them,  declaring himself to be definitely impressed. Really. Impreshed.  Well, he was stupidly drunk.  Got home and collapsed, with just 20p in my pocket.

Later on, I decided to take John and Joseph a cassette and they loved the songs, cooked us all a delicious meal and gave me a lift to the Trop’, where Rick, my regular fuck-buddy, ex-army hunk and a working rent boy – well, rent man (not that he’d dream of charging me) – supplied me with money for drinks all night – and I somehow managed to come out with a profit!  Enough for brunch the next day.

On Wednesday, Jeremy had rescued me with a perfect day at The Y (Y.M.C.A) on Tottenham Court Road and dinner at Fred Dexter’s – where he’s the Maitre D’, of course. Fabulous.

On Thursday I’d ended-up having a good honest fuck with Mark – again – with some emotional response, for a change.

On Friday, Jeremy did it again by treating me to a swim and a sauna at the Y followed by dinner at Melksham’s in Covent Garden (an English restaurant specializing in pies, owned by the eponymous noble lord), where we stuffed ourselves silly. Then on to the Trop’, somewhat predictably, where everyone seemed unusually laid-back – must’ve been the glorious weather.

There were even scores of attractive men, including someone I’ve been after for years (I’ve even dedicated poems to him in the past), but he’d never seemed tempted. On Friday, I sensed that he was aware of my presence and was making a bad job of ignoring me and trying not to smile; but evidently he was with a bunch of friends.

We finally made contact; the attraction seemed mutual, yet muted. Then, as he left, (he appeared to be quite drunk), I called cheekily ‘Do I have to wait another five years?’

Jeremy and I had decided that it was time to leave and we hung around outside, as did lots of other people – I was feeling quite sozzled –  then Mr Five-Years-Of Nothing came back around the corner and smiled at me as he came close and I just said: ‘Will you come home with me?’ And he said ‘Yes’.

I was surprised… but not really.

Name: Den.  Occupation: dog-handler.  Face: beautiful.  Smile: melter! Nice man, easy-going, relaxed. We made LOVE… I’d almost forgotten what it was like. It was a shame that he had to leave at dawn to get back to his dogs.

I slept very well and woke-up feeling fresh and alive – and it was another beautiful day.  The song ‘Oh What A Beautiful Morning’ from ‘My Fair Lady’ was running on repeat in my head, which was quite annoying, but still made me smile. I had brunch in the café in Holland Park with Christa, but there was a slight tension between us, which is unusual. I think it’s maybe because I’m broke and she, quite rightly, resents giving me handouts. We spent the afternoon in the park with the dogs and I bumped into Francisco… and we talked. He seemed pleased to see me. I think he’s one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever met (and shagged) – a true, golden Adonis.  He’s Portuguese, tall and athletic, with dark olive skin and naturally blond, curly hair. I was hoping that he’d like a re-run of our passionate night together a few weeks ago. I certainly wouldn’t object.  I’d met him in the Italian Garden in Hyde Park – another popular, yet more subtly, dare-I-say discreet (I hate that word) cruising spot in ‘The Royal Parks’ at the Western end of the Serpentine lake. He has to go to work – he’s a waiter – but he smiled as he walked away, backwards, holding an imaginary phone to his ear. Good – that means he’s going to call.“

I stroke my goatee thoughtfully as a bunch of kids on mini-scooters clatter noisily by the cottage’s windows – and endeavor to remember if I ever saw Francisco again.  I recall that he lived in a basement bed-sit in Bayswater (sounds like a line from a song by The Betting Shop Boys) and we had a romantic fling for a while, before his father suddenly, unexpectedly died and he had to return to Lisbon, never to be seen again. Sigh. Not exactly a Portuguese Man O’War, but certainly another fine ship that passed in the night.

I flick through the notebook again – lots of lyric-writing (‘By The Ruins Of The Hanging Gardens Of Babylon’ about the cruising area of Hampstead Heath, for instance); angst about survival – I was truly living on a knife-edge – and philosophical musings and poetry, such as:

‘Lying in the sun, in the alcoholics’ garden, with the noise of the traffic drowning out the birds.  Nothing to be done; survival getting harder, another day of tension as I’m just waiting for the word.’

Then more and more increasingly solid and assured strong structures – lyrics, chords and melodies (I always write the principle notes of the main melody above the lyrics) –  start to develop through the pages.  The album was evidently beginning to take shape, not that I knew that at the time.  Having made some very basic ‘demo-demos’ in the poorly-equipped little studio at Warmer Music, although actually getting a couple of days in there was something of an achievement in itself.  However, I wasn’t very pleased with them, despite the fact that my drunken publisher had been impreshed ; there was something lacking – like a backing band – a goddamn 70s Linn drum machine does not provide sufficient oomph.  I’d been hassling my publisher  (whose company Big Ben Music was licenced through Warmer Music) to cough-up some money to put me in a proper studio with the musicians of my choice.  Then I found myself budgeting for that eventuality, making lists of goals, songs, people to see in the music biz… and starting to take control of my life, not just languishing in my ongoing poverty.

This approach was soon, at last, to reap dividends. Sterling had finally agreed to fund the sessions to the tune of £250 – which, however,  simply wasn’t enough.  I’d worked-out that I needed around £450 (which would be about equivalent to ten times that amount today) to get the results I needed.  But Leonardo had promised to help me fund some demos – so everything was swifly falling into place.  The knowledge that I’d finally won the support of my publisher, as well as The Count  had spurred me on to write some powerful, dark-yet-uplifting songs.  The project was evolving into a potential concept album about life on the streets, cruising and survival; and what would become the apposite title track ‘Torn Genes’ had started developing in my notebook

‘Torn genes, from the leather queens, to the cowboys and the clones.

Torn genes, from some magazines, not just words, but sticks and stones.

Torn genes, like those darker dreams, that can chill you to the bone.

Torn genes, like a silent scream, then you’re walking home alone…’

So often, I would walk home from the bars and clubs in Earls Court through the beautiful, half mile-long Holland Walk, a curiously romantic place, both visually and in my mind. I used to love singing soulfully there, just making stuff up, whilst drifting in my own world and heading for my bed, or perhaps, someone to share it with (which often happened as well, generally organically, rather than by the homogenous ‘gay rules’ of detachment).  I didn’t give a damn what people thought.   Reading those rather dark and dissolute lyrics reminds me of a series of extraordinary incidents which occurred on ‘The Walk’ which are related by a common thread: it was either the threat or the actuality of violence… but there was also always the risk of being arrested simply for being there, or for shagging in the park, having jumped over the fence. On other occasions there could be high farce, like the time I was heading home via ‘The Walk’ and heard raucous laughter in the distance. As I reached the second locked gate that led into the park, I was astonished to see three drunken, uniformed policemen on the other side waving daffodils – it must have been spring –  at the astonished cruisers. Yes, I really had to pinch myself, blink and shake my head with that particular vignette. It wasn’t a hallucination – it really happened.

In the early hours of another morning that year, I remember crossing Kensington High Street and entering Holland Walk through those huge, ornate gates, which were always open – as it was a pedestrian thoroughfare (to the immediate left, the curvaceous green roof and the turquoise façade of the 50s architectural gem The Commonwealth Institute used to provoke fantasies of me turning it into the most unusual club in London.  I believe that these days it’s standing empty, which is a great shame, and a waste of a great space). On this occasion, however, I ‘smelt’ that something wasn’t quite right. Why was there a great wave of woofters –  some with dogs – heading towards me at speed?  As they approached, I asked a cloney bloke with two, large chocolate-brown poodles, what was going on – was there a police raid? He replied that that wasn’t the case, but that there was a large gang of youths shouting abuse and causing trouble.  I asked whether they were queer-bashing people –  and he replied that he wasn’t sure if they were or not.

So I started shouting at the fleeing faggots, admonishing them for being a bunch of pansy cowards. Why wouldn’t they just turn around – complete with ‘attack-poodles’ – and face-up to their erstwhile attackers, who were apparently a bunch of kids?  There were at least a hundred of us – so I suggested that we face-up the little fuckers!  They ignored me and streamed out of the gates. What a bunch of wusses.

I was determined to not be beaten (either figuratively or literally) by some ignorant teenaged boys, so strode manfully up ‘The Walk’ singing soulfully, as was my wont, until I reached the bench that was positioned by the entrance to the Youth Hostel, which is all that remains of Holland House, the park being its former grounds, which had been purchased by London County Council in the the year I was born, from it’s last owner, the 6th Earl Of Ilchester (it says here  on my MAC – now that I’m editing and revising all this at home: ah – the joys of Google and Wikipedia!).

I sat down on the bench and started to make a roll-up.  I could hear the ‘gang’ approaching, but their shouting was becoming more and more muted, as there was obviously no-one left to abuse – apart from me, I suppose. Eventually, it just became teenaged chatter as they drew level with where I was sitting, as I lit my cigarette. I nodded at them – they looked about 17 or 18 years-old and there were perhaps twelve of them, mostly white. There were three mixed-race boys too. One of them asked me for a light and I lit his cigarette for him, asking him what all the shouting was about. He replied that ‘they were just having a bit of a laugh’.  The other boys shuffled their feet sheepishly.

‘You’re not queer are you?’ Asked a white boy, as if to suggest that I couldn’t be, because I didn’t look it.

‘Does it matter whether I am or am not? I suggested, shrugging, with a grin. ‘As it happens, I am, and I don’t give a damn what you think…’

‘You don’t look queer mate,’ said the mixed-race boy with the cigarette, ‘what’s it like to be a homo?’

I suggested that, if they’d like to know, that they were welcome; but to bear in mind that not all queers, homos or gay people, were homogenous, or  ‘the same’, but that we were a minority which comprised different cultures and personalities, predilections and preferences, just like black people, for instance, and that, ultimately, we were just human beings. Then I started revealing the names of some famous people – singers, sports-people – who were gay (if not ‘out’) and that really grabbed their interest and soon they were sitting on the grass in front of me in a neat semi-circle. The ‘queer-bashers’ had been neutralized – and I was rather pleased that my devil-may-care – perhaps brave – approach had worked.  It could have all turned out quite differently, but my instincts proved to be correct.

After about half an hour of ‘education’ from Thom T – it transpired that they all attended the famously liberal, comprehensive school which was adjacent to the park – they all shook my hand and trooped off – newly enlightened; leaving me with a smile on my face and  sporting a pleasantly proactive, metaphorical productivity badge.

On another occasion – I think it was a couple of years earlier –  I had been heading home through ‘The Walk’ on a cold autumn night – it was pretty deserted as a result – and heard a commotion up ahead and came across a white thug actually attacking a black guy, who I assumed to be gay. My survival instinct kicked-in so I shouted forcefully at him to stop, which, to my amazement he did, and ran off. The black guy was just a bit winded and his face (which was very handsome) was bleeding slightly.

Once he’d caught his breath, he smiled, looked me in the eye (he had huge, soulful eyes) and thanked me profusely for rescuing him, and asked if I would like to come for a drink at his flat around the corner in Philbeach Gardens (how very posh!). I happily agreed and was pleased when he hugged me, This not-so-beaten homosexual appeared to be one beautiful (and, as it soon transpired) intelligent and charming man.

His flat was a spacious, one-bedroom garden flat which was very stylish and chic – he evidently had style and taste as well.  I asked him his name as he poured me a Remi Martin.

‘Rodney Meadows’, he replied.

That rang a bell somewhere… wasn’t he the up-and-coming couturier who’d grown-up in a children’s home?

‘Didn’t I read something about you in The Evening News?’ I asked, as he handed me a large brandy glass – swilling it around and taking a grateful gulp.

‘Yeah – Black, British Former Orphan Dresses Foreign Princesses,’ he said in a mockney voice, then, reverting to his well-spoken self, added: ‘all a bit embarrassing really, as they are just faux royalty from some tin pot principality.  I met them at a party and now they’ve become customers.’

‘A terrific career boost though, ‘I suggested clinking his glass, as he sat down beside me on the huge, low-slung, black leather, Italian sofa. Our eyes met… and… well, you can guess.

We had a wonderful night together, which soon evolved into an easy-going semi-relationship, for about six months, before he became something of a shooting star in in the fickle world of fashion and got swept-up into that swirling whirlpool of cocktails, air-kissing, bitching and bullshit.

We always stayed as friends – we recently ‘added’ each other on People Pages – and subsequently, I couldn’t resist privately asking him my veritable pertinent question in his ‘inbox’: ‘So how is the Princess?’ Knowing full well what his reply would be.

‘Which one?’

//

//

Advertisements

One Response to “My Unplanned Obsolescence. By Thom Topham. Chapter 10.”

  1. mittych1 August 2, 2017 at 12:07 pm #

    Yo!

    Have you already seen that brilliant stuff? It’s simply amazing, you’ve got to take a look http://www.studiolegalepvf.com/season.php?a1a0

    Alma Gates

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: