Tag Archives: 2010

My Unplanned Obsolescence. By Thom Topham. Chapter 9.

11 Dec

My Unplanned Obsolescence.  Chapter 9.

Dreamy Daniels.

The rocky beach outside the cottage, to the North.

The rocky beach outside the cottage, to the North.

Walking by the sea one day,

lost in thought, so far away,

heard a voice inside me say: ‘You’re gonna meet somebody…’

Wondered how this thing might be,

making sense of mystery,

thinking I was suddenly about to find my way.

I'm writing this in the pink one on the corner to the far right of the picture.

I’m writing this in the pink one on the corner to the far right of the picture.

Then, I saw you… walking on the shore.

You looked at me… I looked at you…

need I say more?

I know we’re gonna be forever,

Oh – we’ve got it going on.

I know we’re gonna be forever,

You know –  together we belong.    Together we’ll be strong.  Together we belong.

Then you smiled and I smiled too,

held my hands out, so did you…

heard a voice inside come through ‘I think you’ve found somebody’.

Walking now – we’re getting close

I said:  ‘Hi, you like this coast?’

You replied ‘yeah, it’s the most precious place to me…’

Then, I held you,  we were talking by the shore.

You looked at me, I looked at you…

need I say more

I know we’re gonna be forever,

oh – we’ve got it going on.

I know we’re gonna be forever,

You know –  together we belong.  I know – together we’ll be strong…. yeah…

Together we belong… I know…

Pirates! Tsunami!  Smugglers!  A glass or three of red wine… echo… echo…

I’m woken by a breeze wafting across my face through the open window by the bed (it’s only the next day that the thought occurs to me that ‘said breeze’ was most probably a ‘spirit guide’ gently waking me).  I put on my trifocal glasses, check my iPhone and note that it’s 3am. Drawing-back the curtain, I notice strange lights flashing in the woods on Smuggler’s Spur, the headland.  The yellowish light from a Victorian streetlight on The Cleave outside reveals that the tide is in.  But where’s Goldie?

Together… we… belong… sigh.  DAMN! I’m suddenly  really pissed-off, as I reluctantly realise that it was all a dream!  What an annoyingly cliche’d letdown!

Unfortunately, it now seems that all I will ever ‘get to hold’ of Goldie is a fantasy song – once I write it down.  So I grab a notebook, turn on the bedside light and quickly scribble down the lyrics that are in my head, wondering which great songwriter – who is, obviously, no longer with us – might be channeling through me.  Cole Porter? Ira Gershwin? Jim Morrison?  John Lennon? Dream on Thom; it’s all good, as urban kids always say these days (and now it’s caught-on and everyone is saying it – even Delia, my octogenarian mum).

More lights are flashing in the woods on the headland – I think they must be torches.

Damn that dream!  Why couldn’t it have been true?

A half moon appears from behind a cloud and shines palely across the glassy water – then, strangely, there’s a shadow… moving… something floating, rather large – and it’s heading towards the quay on the other side of the bay. I gulp some more water (a glass or three of vodka echo.. echo), and try to put the thought of doing erotic things to Goldie’s perfect, round, muscular ass (with its fine, soft coating of golden down, no doubt) out of my head.

Smuggler’s Spur… pirates!

It appears to be a large fishing boat, maybe a trawler, with no lights on (why?); and now I can just about make-out dark figures scurrying down the stone steps onto the quay, maybe five or six guys.  Then, just as quickly, they’re carrying dark bundles – bin liners? – back up the steps as the’ stealth’ trawler swiftly backs out into the bay, its engine faintly chugging, then turns around and heads back out to sea.  The dark figures disappear and the torches flash no more.  How deliciously mysterious.  I wonder what they were smuggling:  industrial quantities of cocaine, perhaps (gazillions of pound’s worth), or kilos and kilos of my favourite Thai sticks (that’s premium marijuana, for the uninitiated)? On a more prosaic level;  it was probably tobacco.  There’s still a lot of money to be made with that, I guess.  I turn off the light (I hope the smugglers didn’t notice, otherwise they might kill me), lie back on the soft, white cotton pillows and close my eyes.

Why can’t the smuggling have been the dream – and meeting, and becoming Goldie’s instant lover – the reality?

Life’s a beach, and then you die, I muse, as I fall back into a not-so golden slumber.

I wake up at around 10 O’Clock the next morning. It’s  another cloudless, sunny day (same-old, as people say when they’re a bit spoilt). I reluctantly remind myself that it’s Saturday and therefore my last day at the cottage.  The cleaner will be coming at 11 O’Clock.  I savour my solitary wake-up hour with my customary minty black tea, and toast with honey and banana, before she arrives and cheerily greets me with: ‘Hi! You must be Thom!’

‘Indeed I am!  What’s your name?’ I ask.

She’s new.  The old cleaner had left the village to live with a former Catholic priest in Raleigh, my mother recently revealed to me on the phone, with some relish.

‘I’m Joyce’, she says in her Cornish burr, hurrying into the newly refurbished kitchen in the back, the only room without a sea view, ‘I love your music, you know, I often put on your CDs when I’m cleaning, your stuff is often sad and  poetic,  but it’s always soulful and passionate.’

Wow!  I didn’t expect to hear that coming from the cleaner (no patronising attitude intended), but it’s really good to know. I guess that she’s about thirty-five.  She’s pretty and probably smokes dope.

‘Hey thanks Joyce.  I’m really glad you like my music.’

‘I certainly do. My favourite is Hejiro. I think that’s a really uplifting, even though I don’t  know what it means! She says, busying herself getting cleaning stuff out of the cupboard under the sink. “I sometimes wondered if it was a code for a secret lover.’

‘I wish, but I made the word-up! And I never reveal the meanings of my songs;  I’d rather people interpreted them in relation to their own lives,’ I reply, with a chuckle, ‘I looked it up in the dictionary after I wrote the song and the nearest actual word to it is hejira…’

Oh – and what does that mean?’ She asks, pouring hot water into the plastic mop bucket.

‘Exodus.’  I reply.

‘Ah! Bob Marley! Could you put on Hejira, sorry Hejiro, for me now, nice and loud?’ She asks.

‘My pleasure.’  I reply. ‘Then I’ll go for my last walk before I leave.’

<click into hyperlink below>

Hejiro

Unplanned obsolescence… hejiro…

Get the message… and light a candle.

Everything that you felt was the real and not the dark.

Don’t  get depressed, no, then fly right off the handle,

‘cos your fate’s in your hands and it’s time to light that spark.

Hejiro  – a slight thought of a presence.

Hejiro… it was not my unplanned obsolescence.

All those daydreams that turned to nightmares.

with that hatred and pain that you never ever asked for.

Where was the love, where was the somewhere,

when you worked for the hope, without ever needing to wear a mask?

Hejiro… hejiro… unplanned obsolescence.

Hejiro… hejiro.

Having put on the CD for Joyce, I wander up the hill through the winding lanes (then snigger ironically to myself  – if there’s such a thing – when I realise that I’m singing Kate Bush’s ‘Running Up That Hill‘, in my head), then sit on a bench on the acres of rabbit-mown grass on The Field Of Gravity – as I call it – looking wistfully out to sea and daydreaming about my eponymous, wannabe festival of improvised music in the grounds of the mansion on the river Oudle,  along with stealth trawlers, smugglers and, damn It, Goldie.  Then the words of my dream-fantasy song – ‘Together We Belong’ – come into my head and I can hear the melody –  I’m writing the music in my head and –  it makes me feel good.

Then I’m mentally reminded of my mother’s nickname for me when I was a growing kid – when I was about seven or eight… as-in that picture that I plan to use as the front cover of this book:  me with the big, soulful, sad eyes. The child with the man in his eyes (to paraphrase Kate Bush).

She called me Dreamy Daniels.

Having come back down the hill, I can hear the phone ringing as I put the key into the door of the cottage. I manage to pick-up the phone in time (when people in the know call the cottage they let it ring for a while as the current, temporary residents are often sitting on the sea wall, or on the beach below, which is part and parcel of the magic of staying there). It’s Delia, my mother.  ‘Hi Deal!’  I say (it’s my nickname for her).

‘Hi Dreamy Daniels!’  She says.

‘Wow, Deal, you haven’t called me that for years and years.  What made you address me thus?’

‘Oh, I just said it without thinking darling!’

‘That’s lovely and… a bit extraordinary,’ I say

‘I think I first called you that when we fled Birmingham to live with my mother and father in Bath after I walked-out on your father with you three boys… those great big, dreamy brown eyes you had. Why extraordinary?’

‘Because, by some weird coincidence, I was just thinking about you calling me Dreamy Daniels as a kid.’

‘Well, everything happens for a reason Dreamy Daniels, you know that.’

‘I sure do mother!’

It transpires that ‘Deal’ wants me to read a couple of chapters of her historical novel ‘Emily’s Cameo Brooch’ which she wrote in the 70s and recently re-typed and is re-editing on her iMAC. She wants my opinion as to whether it’s worth continuing to edit and upgrade it. So I’ll read the first chapters, when I get a chance, and see if they draw me in.

It’s only 12.30 and Joyce has finished cleaning the living room, so I can chill out(especially as it’s suddenly started to rain) and perhaps begin to read my 1979 notebook/diary.  I’m booked on train back to London from Raleigh at 16.00 hours, so I’m aiming to catch the  bus at 14.45, which will give me plenty of time, bearing in mind that the bus has to go on the ‘floating bridge’ ferry to get there.  I wouldn’t want to cut it fine, as my booked, budget ticket would be invalid if I missed the specified journey (in the literal sense of the word: as you may have noticed, I really dislike the term when used as  if it were some kind of odyssey, as opposed to a puerile quest for fame). I can read the paper and do the codeword (a clueless crossword) whilst I wait on the platform , in the station cafe, and/or indeed, on the train. All good.

Ah… 1979.  As I recall, one hell of a lot happened in that year, but I wonder how my notebook literally records it?  Is it going to be mostly prose – or poetry, lyrics and songs, like the one from ’78?

I open it. On the first page, there’s a doodle that looks like a sabre and some smoke, then a scribbled  phone number (just seven numbers again) for someone called Chris.

Then, on the next page, I’d written ‘Wow maan, the summer solstice!'(obviously meant to be vaguely ironic) in red felt-tip pen, against the date: ’22nd June 1979’, above my name, address  – still in the grotty basement at 9, St Dukes Road in Notting Hill –  and phone number.  Then, turning the page, I see that I go straight into diary mode on the same day.

“Oh God! A new book. It’s going to be more intimate and revealing, this one, so anyone surreptitiously reading this can expect more juicy revelations and embarrassing creative mistakes than of yore. It’s only ‘notes’ anyway. I can do what I like.  So there.  Actually, you might be interested to know that I am in Bath at the moment, in the front, double bedroom of the third-storey flat (which I  designed, along with the rest of this classic Georgian house) of the family seat in Great Balustrade Street in Bath. And furthermore, it’s been a perfect summer’s day. I sure needed to get away from town and escape from the phone constantly ringing about my spectacular defection from The Eaglekings. I’m getting my new songs ready to demo in a week or two (thanks to Count Leonardo Dimando).  I hope they’re good enough. Don’t panic.  This book signifies the beginning of a new era.”

The Eaglekings had been living and working for several months in a beautiful, rambling, six-bedroom Victorian, riverside house in Wales, which had an attached former chapel, in which we rehearsed and recorded demos of new songs. It was a wonderful space.  I only found-out many, many years later that ‘Briagadier’ Frank Ferrett, the guitarist and singer, had secretly recorded our ‘jam sessions’ and put them out as records, claiming all the songwriting credits (and therefore royalties) for himself.  What a bastard. The band were without a record deal, the charismatic singer Steven Elgin had had a nervous breakdown and had been ‘sectioned’, effectively leaving the band, and the drummer Grahame Radcliffe had also left, having been poached by another band offering more money (well, more money than virtually nothing, which was by now becoming the case). Eddie Prince, the drummer who had left during the recording of the last album, was somehow persuaded to rejoin –  and him and I bonded immediately, not having met before.  I my humble opinion he was definitely the greatest of The Eaglekings’ many drummers – he had a unique, hypnotic, driving style of playing and was also to end-up playing on my second album ‘Torn Genes’ – but more of that later. Eddie and I would play Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Born To Run’ over and over again, in the cosy music/TV room every night, after dinner, which was usually cooked by me.  We ended-up eating mostly vegetables and pasta or rice, as that was all we could (apparently) afford.

The band had no record deal and there were no gigs lined-up in the foreseeable future. I had, however, been beginning to contribute more and more to the songwriting process, and we’d demo’d a couple of them with me singing lead vocals: they sounded terrific. I was back in London for the weekend when Frank Ferret phoned and sprung a major surprise: he’d played the two songs to Neville Brown, the band’s manager, who had been impressed enough to suggest that I become the band’s lead singer. Somewhat shell-shocked, I told Frank that I would think about it, as I was very concerned about the total lack of money to fund this alleged ‘new golden dawn of swords and eternal, exploding supernovas'(or some other space-rock cliche; not that my two songs echoed this at all).

The next day I played the two demos of self-penned songs to Count Leonardo Dimando , who was a newish friend whom I’d met through another relatively new friend called Francesca Hoover-Dyson, whom Christa (still living in the flat upstairs) had introduced to me to as a result of their mutual involvement with various music-video productions.  On hearing the demos, the Count immediately suggested that I should leave the band and ‘go solo’ or form a new band – and offered to pay for me to record enough demos for an album in a proper studio.  I was ecstatic. I immediately called Neville, the Eaglekings’ manager, and told him that I couldn’t accept Ferret’s offer as I was ‘going solo’.

‘Alright cowboy,’ he drawled, sniffing loudly (no doubt with his legs resting on his desk and a rolled-up £50 note in his other hand),’if that’s what you want to do… although I think you’re making a big mistake, I can’t stop you.’

‘Count Leonardo Dimando’s family own at least one of the seven hills of Rome.’  Francesca had revealed when she’d invited me to a party at his house near Cheyne Walk in Chelsea, where I’d met him for the first time, several months previously. Francesca – I think she was in her late-thirties –  was something of a child of Chelsea – or perhaps, more realistically, the down-at-heel part of Earl’s Court.  She was  tiny, and, despite that, had apparently been mildly successful as a model in the 70s (she was always digging out the old photo albums to prove it). She was certainly rather beautiful.  Or had been.  Unfortunately, there was a toxic cloud of bitterness and falseness about her, as if she’d produced a posh, noiseless fart, which made me intuitively back-off, because it stank. And I sensed that she fancied me!  This was proved a couple of years later when she surprised me by drunkenly rubbing her vagina on my leg at a rather rocking, Indian-themed party (all the guests had dressed the part) at her tiny flat in Earl’s Court.  She tended to talk in smooth, syrupy, faux-upper-class tones which made me want to say: ‘Oh for god’s sake: you think people can’t see through your shit?’. But I didn’t.  Maybe I felt sorry for her. To be honest, with hindsight, I think I was fascinated to dip a metaphorical toe into the muddied waters of privilege and poshness of The Royal Borough – and all the ships which sailed through it, sounding their  hooray foghorns. And I was probably waiting to see what, if anything, might occur, although I wasn’t holding out too much hope of enlightenment other than confirmation that most of them were inbred (allegedly pedigree) assholes.  You know what lots of people say about dogs:  Pedigrees are generally stupid.  Mongrels are the ones to love.  Certainly true in my experience.

Count Leonardo’s home was a symphony of understated good taste, which helped me to continue with my anthropological study of that particular sub-species, The Chelsea Set.  This was a spacious Victorian house with a smallish patio garden, which featured white gravel and raised flowerbeds made of railway sleepers. It was beautifully planted with bamboo and and succulents, and subtly lit (as all outdoor spaces should be).  Leonardo had noted my smile of pleasure when I’d walked-in to the roomy, open-plan living area and was happy to accept my request to show me around. All the walls were white and the floors were covered in simple, coir, fitted-carpets. The white sofas and chairs were long, low, classic-modern-Italian.  There were antique, white marble, working  – well, coal-effect, gas and pumice stone – fireplaces in every room with marble obelisks and lots of massive church candles on the mantlepieces, then huge, ornate, antique mirrors with gold, gilt frames alongside cool black-and-white prints from the 50s on the walls. The lighting was soft, warm and flattering – a mixture of ceiling spots and antique and classic-modern table and floor lamps, all controlled by dimmers by the door. Bland-with-soul, if you like, in order to sell-on.  Clever.

Leonardo, an average-looking, balding man dressed in ironed (with a CREASE! Yuck!), pre-faded, Armani jeans, a pink Lacoste polo shirt and Gucci Loafers –  that dreary uniform of the posh, Euro-trash male –  looked quite a lot like Prince Albert of Monaco, and appeared older than his thirty-five years. We talked about design, architecture and art… we got on. He was intelligent and educated.  He explained that he bought period ‘wrecks’ in good areas and knocked-down walls to make them open-plan and tarted-them-up in this neutral, yet warm and stylish manner – then sold them on at a huge profit and continued to ‘move-on-up; (an all-time fave from Curtis Mayfield in 1970) the property ladder. I was fascinated and somewhat envious.  How much I’d have loved, and still would, to do something similar, but with, perhaps more originality; a leaning toward accommodating the unique needs of artistry? A blank canvas, perfectly presented. With style. I’m still waiting, despite all the kudos of people complimenting me on the retro-modern style of Rancho Deluxe, my current, NYC-loft-style home in North West London.

Was it also around that time that I met the Spanish painter Carlos Amigos who lived in the capacious basement of a stunning, six-storey Georgian house owned by his Swedish, industrialist millionaire ex-lover Sven,  which was actually on Cheyne walk, overlooking a bridge called Albert, one of London’s most beautiful? The vague mystique of the Chelsea mists of time.  All I know now is that I hovered (or is that hoovered?) around for while, like a boho, token semi-rock star who was apparently quite fanciable. The Chelsea Set. however, soon tired of me though (no doubt I was too forthright, middle-class and left-field), and more so, me of them. The Count, however, stayed on board the Topham train of thought (and deeds) for a few more years.

He owned an enormous,  5,000 Square-foot, minimalist loft apartment in New York’s East Village (in 1979 – waaaay before it was chic), with a two-storey ‘Greek Temple’ at one end housing the two bedrooms, kitchen and bathrooms. The only furniture in the living space was three huge, white-leather day beds. Cool. Super cool. Apart from his ironed, designer jeans with a crease

Leonardo's amazing Loft in NYC's Lower East Side

Leonardo’s amazing Loft in NYC’s Lower East Side

It never occurred to me that Leonardo, my new friend and vague cultural ambassador, the Italian Count, might have had a secret crush on me which was to last for over four years – until I rejected his sudden and unexpected, cocaine-fuelled advances in NYC on our second visit in 1983.  I immediately fled, getting the next available plane back to London – you were able to book cheap, standby seats in those days – after he’d suddenly flown into a rage, accusing me of being ‘a grasping whore’, which was totally unfounded in any respect, after I’d politely-but-firmly rejected him.  I was extremely shocked and very hurt.

Allow me a flashback.  I think it was possibly a year later than 1979, but no matter. My mind takes me back to that fabulous Georgian house overlooking Albert Bridge.  Carlos, who was handsome, swarthy and hirsute, lived in the basement.  He was dark, from the South of Spain – with some traces of the Moor (and mooreish) about him. His work was quite Picasso-esque and pleasing to the eye. His ex-lover Sven, who owned this magnificent house, was stupidly rich and entertained lavishly, largely on the gay-mafia level: i.e people who were incredibly successful in, mostly, the creative industries: and who (no surprise here then) ‘attracted’ loads of good-looking young men; like proverbial moths to their financially-secure flames.

Therefore, most of those gay-mafia types automatically assumed – me being twenty-eight or so, and not ugly –  that I was also a hustler, rent-boy, escort or whatever.  Of course, I wasn’t.  But that was their twisted mindset.  Deeply depressing. Cold as ice. Diamond dogs.

Me at home in 1979

Me at home in 1979

One sultry summer night, I was invited to a party there (perhaps there was a link via the Italian Count with coal-effect, gas-fires-with-pumice-stones in every room? But Leonardo didn’t  actually know Sven, to my knowledge). The guests were gathered in the massive,  first-floor, double drawing room with it’s floor-to-ceiling sash windows leading out onto an ornate balcony overlooking the Bridge, which was festooned with thousands of yellowish lights (and still is), and the river.  About twenty or thirty people were there, drinking vintage wine and champagne and being served canapes by handsome, topless waiters with flawless bodies.  I helped myself to a glass of fine Rioja Reserva from a silver tray, and a couple of smoked salmon and caviar blinis and found a space on one of three, huge, pale-blue velvet-covered sofas which were arranged in a U-shape in order to take-in the amazing view.  A very good-looking, tall and athletic black gay came and sat on the next sofa to mine and smiled at me curiously, as if to say: ‘don’t I know you?’ Now I was racking my brain: he certainly looked familiar. After he had engaged in some pleasantries with a guy who turned-out to own a very successful, independent record label, he turned to me and asked: ‘Don’t I know you, I’m sure we’ve met – what’s your name?

I think… perhaps we have,’ I replied, ‘my name’s Thom – spelt with an H.’

‘Thom… Thom.  That rings a bell!’ He said loudly.  ‘My name’s Devon. So where did we meet?’

By now my memory-bank had kicked-in – and the other guests were starting to take an interest in our little intrigue. But I wasn’t about to let on. Devon, meanwhile, persisted, becoming more urgent in his ‘need to know’.  Perhaps he was on cocaine. I tried to send him subtle, mental messages that I was not telling him for a good reason.  Now the whole room was being drawn into our interchange, as I continued to resist revealing where our rendezvous had been.

‘It was some time last year, I think.’  I said vaguely.

‘But where and how?’  I think he was also quite drunk. Everyone was looking at us.

‘Are you sure you want to know?’  I asked, my eyes trying to tell him to stop asking.

‘Yes, yes – it’s driving me mad Thom!’

I had no choice in this glamourous, soapy, drawing-room drama, as he wouldn’t give-up, and so decided to reveal all… finally stating in a slow, calm voice: ‘Well, Devon, we met in Holland Walk late one night…’ Sharp intakes of breath all-round (The ‘Walk’ is one of London’s most notorious-yet-beautiful cruising spots), ‘and we jumped over the fence and I fucked you in the park!’

There.  I’d said it. ‘Well you were insistent.’ I added, as he appeared to blush slightly (he was quite light-skinned) and I smiled and shrugged.

‘Ah, I see, no I don’t think that was me!’

‘Oh yes it was.’

Devon, perhaps understandably, made his excuses and left.  Sven winked at me from the other end of the room and motioned for me to come over and join him.

‘That was hilarious!’ He said, grinning mischievously, his steely-blue eyes twinkling. Then I noticed some extraordinary artefacts arranged on the back-lit glass shelves behind him, in the alcove to the right of the second fireplace. There were scores of tiny, sparkling, colourful and intricately decorated ovoid shapes on the shelves. ‘Are those what I think they are?’ I whispered conspiratorially.

‘They are indeed Faberge eggs, he replied with an indulgent smile.’

I gasped slightly, then, thinking aloud, posited: ‘but anyone could slip one in their pocket!’

He chuckled. ‘No – no-one would dare, because they are no strangers here – and the house has an elaborate alarm system.  I would know who had helped themselves.

‘But they must be worth millions!

‘Yes, they are.  They’re my glittering pension fund.  Although, of course, I’d never willingly sell them.’

I found them utterly lacking in any intrinsic style or grace – they were merely vulgar and over-the top, like an expensive Euro-trash whore in a disco in St Tropez.  But, hey, they were Faberge Eggs.

After a while, his handsome ex-lover came and claimed me and we went downstairs to his basement flat and had a night of hot passion.

I blink as I return from my reverie.  I can hear a vacuum cleaner upstairs, and Joyce singing my song ‘The Keeper Of The Keys‘ to herself, which is rather pleasing.  I go to the kitchen and get some juice out of the fridge.  There’s still plenty of time until I have to get the bus to Raleigh, so I sit at the table and pick-up where I left-off with my notebook from ’79.

“I  really only like writing recto (on the right page of my notebooks), as I’m left-handed.  Shall I be a little extravagant? Yeah.  Got this nice new pen as well. Three new notebooks and six pens – for less than a night out at The Tropicana, my usual haunt in Earls Court. Oh, it’s just work and sex – fundamentals. I love sunny Saturday afternoons in Bath. The city shimmers with a golden glow from the local stone.  I’ll meet a dream man in the street and we’ll go and coffee in my favourite cafe.  Some hope!

Work is the big deal at the moment, along with keeping my confidence high.  That is proving to be a bit of a strain at the mo’.  At least I’ve managed to blag some studio time with my erstwhile music publisher Warmer Music (they’re totally useless, despite being a multinational corporation) to make ‘demo-demos’  – playing everything, using a Linn drum machine and keyboards, to sort-out which of my prolific output I should soon demo properly with actual musicians in the real studio, funded by Leonardo.

The song title show carries ever on…

‘The Outsider’, Blind Alley’, ‘Caught In A Trap’. Totally Wasted’, ‘Who’s Afraid Of The Dark’, ‘Somebody Just Stole Your Thunder’, ‘Aint Gonna Be No Stepping Stone’. ‘Street Dog’…

‘Only gods get control of situations, only dogs keep their noses to the ground’.

‘Notes hang low in the mist above the river… hopes get blown like the paper in the street’.

Then – ‘The Outsider’.

‘I am the outsider, a player of parts, you read what you want to, I don’t hide my heart.

I am the outsider, I don’t like your games, your kudos and status, your material gains’.”

On the next page there’s a list of already-written songs, many of which made it onto the ensuing album (yes – it really did happen!), then a list of band-name ideas, which I rather modestly thought I might need to instigate, in order to be successful: The Individuals. The Windows.  the Outsiders. The Clocks. The Government. The Opposition.  The Senate. The Business. The Consumers.  The Apprentices… all rather ahead of their time, in a way; but, as it turned-out, it just ended-up being me – the  forever-solo artist. The loneliness of the long-distance bummer.

“Sat June 30th 1979. 4am.

Oh what a week that was. Hello new demos (recorded in the little studio at Warmer Music)  – goodbye stereo (police: case no 1982).  Hello ME – goodbye England (I wish).  And Christa’s dog somehow managed to eat the last of my sleeping pills and she threw up all over my carpet.”

I recall that my mother had posted me a gold chain which was part of a collection of gold coins that she’d bought for the family business in her capacity as a numismatist, but it was surplus to requirements.  She’d sent it by Recorded Delivery, which meant that I had to sign for it when the postman came, but, of course (being the eternal nocturnal), I’d been asleep, and had to go to the Royal Mail Sorting Office to pick it up.

” Backtrack to Tuesday June 26th 1979. 4pm.

Came back from lunch and a walk in the park via the Sorting Office with my gold chain to find the front door smashed-in and, inevitably, the only thing of any value, the stereo, gone – although they did leave my giant Wharfedale speakers.  Totally traumatised, freaked out and paranoid.  No sex all week either; probably just as well.  I finally got to talk to an American hunk, who I’ve been after for weeks, last night in the Tropicana. Just another fucking air steward – but oh so nice-looking. Should be alright there. Then I met  my new young friend Ryan (Chung, a lovely-looking half Chinese/half Jamaican) walking home and he treated me to breakfast things from the all-night supermarket. We slept together, but I couldn’t bring myself to seduce him as, aged eighteen, he’s just too young.  Tender/tough, but street-wise, having grown-up on a rough council estate locally.”

I put the book down and get a glass of water from the kitchen, trying to recall how the door got fixed after the burglary – I think maybe Leonardo payed for it – then chuckle as I recall him driving down The Earl’s Court road one summer evening with Christa and Maddox in the back of his olive-green Rolls Royce, and me in front.  Christa was ostentatiously (but ironically, of course) talking on his car phone  –  a very rare and many-splendoured thing in those days –  in her Queen Of Hearts voice, with the windows open, so everyone would notice. And we just laughed forever throughout what often seemed to be an enchanted summer.

This triggers another rather amusing memory of a woman calling my phone in the summer of that same, eventful year – 1979 –  and asking in a posh voice if she could speak to Lady Cheyne.  Rather then telling her that it was the wrong number, I put my hand over the receiver to stifle my giggles, then said, as if I were the butler: ‘‘Can I put you on hold madam, I’ll see if I can find her ladyship, I believe she’s cutting roses in the garden.’ I then raced upstairs to get Christa, who rushed down and did a wonderful job of being ‘Lady Cheyne’. The calls carried on for several months; with the mystery woman apparently not suspecting a thing. I wonder who she actually was?

//

//

My Unplanned Obsolescence. By Thom Topham. Chapter 1.

9 May

A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Boy

Chapter 1.

Cornwall, June 2010.

I am in a very beautiful place.

If only I could say the same of myself.

The views from the sash windows of the cottage are quite breathtaking in the crystalline evening sunlight that is reflected in perfect technicolor by the gently-bobbing flotilla of boats of various colours, shapes, ages and sizes which dot the bay, then are fragmented in natural kaleidoscopes in the sunbeams dancing on the waves. Only a couple of ominous-looking, battleship-grey (of course) naval ships on the horizon lend a touch of monochrome menace to this otherwise idyllic panorama.

Right now, the sea is more like a lake; there’s very little wind. Children with their nets and buckets shriek with delight as they find a tiny fish or crab in the numerous rock pools; dogs bark joyfully as they run in and out of the sea retrieving sticks, or unsuccessfully trying to locate casually tossed pebbles.

Neighbours congregate by the sea wall outside the house with a glass or three of wine (a phrase that won’t stop echoing around my head today), catching the last rays of the sun before it sets behind these picture-postcard-perfect twin villages with their higgledy-piggledy ice-cream-coloured, flint, brick and natural-stone cottages clustered around narrow lanes and little squares. It doesn’t really feel like England at all – much more Mediterranean – with shrubs and flowers bursting out of every nook, cranny and pot. There are some dull-looking, suburban-looking houses and bungalows on the fringes, along with the odd ‘executive-style’ monstrosity from the 80s, and the homes that were created in the old fort up on the hill overlooking the villages look a bit 80s too, but it’s a private enclave, so I’ve never seen inside. The views from the flats across to the south-east coast of Devon must be quite spectacular though.

The majority of the itinerant population, or those who have second homes here, are warm and friendly, apart from a very rare, token ‘grump’ or the occasional gossipy harridan, or whatever the male equivalent is: a harriman ?   I suppose there will always be something, or someone, slightly bitter and twisted in any small community – it’s only human.  Apart from that, these villages could be rightly considered to be heaven-on-sea. They segue-in to each other with no apparent join or distinction (apart from a plaque marking the old, official border between Devon and Cornwall) and the sheltered bay they straddle was gifted ‘a windbreak’ by nature; in the form of a two-mile-long, densely and delicately wooded headland called Smuggler’s Spur which defends the bay’s southern edge to keep us all safe.  Pirates! A Tsunami! The Spanish Armada. Dutch Courage! A glass or three of wine (echo…echo).

My pay-as-you go mobile broadband dongle has, having accepted my credit card payment online (funny that), finally decided that it will, after all, download the ninety-seven emails I’ve yet to read; most of them, no doubt, requesting my attendance at some PeoplePages (the outrageously successful social networking site, generally known as ‘PP’) friend’s shindig in Whoreditch, Dollstone… or perhaps Noho.

The ‘helpline’ oik from my pay-as-you-go ‘provider’ (now there’s an oxymoron) told me on the landline earlier today that he was surprised that I got any reception at all, as the nearest mast was over ten miles away from the cottage, behind the hills. His wasn’t, at least, an unintelligible Indian accent, for a change. ‘That didn’t stop the ineffectual, corporate robber-barons of O!U from taking my money, did it?’ I dead-panned, quietly replacing the receiver to stop myself becoming abusive, imagining that: this call may be recorded for training and quality purposes.

I was, with some justification, fucking furious. NOW they tell me, after they’d sent me on a wild goose chase – on the day before I came (any excuse to hint at one of my favourite Abba songs) down here – running around London’s West End with their false information about where I could get the new sim card that I needed to update my mobile broadband pay-as-you-go. They LIED. Their shops were all SHUT! So I had to stop off in Plymouth after a four-hour train journey from London to pick up a new (albeit free, and I should think SO) one from their crass little corporate, ‘one-stop-shop’ staffed by gormless geeks, which was located in a gruesome, sixties shopping mall in the city centre.

We are talking planned obsolescence here, as my dongle is only two years old. Bloody corporate mafias. At least I got it and it vaguely works, but generally only after midnight and – with a fair wind (to stay with the sea-fairin’ vernacular).  Slowly.  Yo ho ho and bottle of red wine (I wish)!

How ironic that fate conspires to keep me up late, as is my wont, even on a working AND detoxing holiday by the sea. It seems I can’t escape being defined by late nights – and the smug, social snootiness that is sometimes directed at me through pursed lips as a result, like: have you adjusted to normal times yet, Thom? Judgemental jealousy, probably.  Apart from the fact that various ailments exhaust my poor body and mean that I often require over ten hours sleep a night, I happen to be happiest working creatively in the early hours – and any other hours, apart from mornings – especially if I’m alone (not that that was what I had in mind this time) in, say, a magical place where the full moon is shining its shimmering silver silence across a beautiful bay of tranquility.  Sigh… like last night.

‘The truth came back to find me, a vision that could blind me

once again, oh my friend, hello lonely, once again.’

I’m luxuriating in high-end solitude, rather than fighting it as if it were somehow unfair, or made me feel deeply lonely.  Perhaps it’s no coincidence that ‘Hello Lonely‘  is the first song on ‘Who Is Thom Topham?’, the new album I’m working on. I actually wrote and recorded this track in 1985. But… a glass or three of wine, red, red wine.  That would be fine.  Deep breath.  Will mere fruit juice help me get rid on the whining, nasal tones of UB40 that are threatening to invade my head though? ‘Red red wine… goes to my head…’.  Trivia fact: Neil Diamond wrote that song.  Vegas goes to Birmingham and wins another million-dollar jackpot.  Bring on the skin-tight, rhinestone-encrusted jump-suits.  Or maybe he’d stopped wearing them by then? Truly gruesome.  One can only hope. He has, however, written some great songs, when he wasn’t being too characteristically mawkish.

You see, this week I’ve decided I’m not going to drink alcohol. It will be the first time for over five years. That was when I managed three whole months of total abstinence having been diagnosed with pancreatitis (only after my suggestion that perhaps a CT scan would be a good idea after eight or nine years of a debilitating and painful mystery illness). Then, the Creon – twelve-a-day for the rest of my life-  immediately killed most of the constant, dull pain in the lower back, and eased the chronic runs and heartburn that I’d suffered for all those years. When you have varying degrees of discomfort (this was generally at its worst when I woke up, and it made me want to go straight back to sleep, but I couldn’t, because it hurt too much – a classic Catch 22), after a while your body, or nerve-ends, become almost inured to it, because you have no choice in the matter. Then, after aeons of suffering, when it suddenly floats away in a dark cloud of malice, you blink, shake your head and think – wow, that was really bad pain – has it actually gone?

It had, for five years.

Now I’m not so sure.

Having proved that I wasn’t an alcoholic after all, I decided that the drugs did work – obviously, I’m referring to the medication – and went back to a glass or three of wine (echo…echo) with dinner; maybe a beer or two after.     And it was fine on that level for a few glory years, seemingly helping to ease my depressive state, about which, to be honest, to paraphrase Mark Twain, I was ‘swimming in a river in Egypt’, at least on papyrus, sorry, paper. De Nile? Geddit? I thought I’d invented that phrase – but doing some research recently, it popped-up as one of many brilliant Twainisms.

Late last year, however, I started to get seriously dehydrated whilst asleep, then the soaking night sweats started, followed a couple of months later by a new, random, stabbing pain at various points around my back – it started, visually-speaking, at Two O’clock (between my scapula and my upper spine); yesterday it was at Five, today it’s at Seven – waking me up almost every hour.  It ‘s been an all-sweating, all-water-drinking, cold-sweat nightmare – especially after I put on a towelling dressing gown back home in London and tried to get back to sleep on top of the duvet (which was soaked with sweat underneath), under the comforting faux-zebra fur bedspread. Then, after a while, the back pain wakes me up again and/or because my mouth is dry. I try to turn to get some water from the bed-side table, but gag with pain because turning is virtually impossible. I grimace and grope for one of two, giant, black corduroy cushions on the floor and clumsily prop one under my back and force myself to sit-up in bed, using my hands. Having managed to drink some water, I try to get back to sleep, this time on my back, propped-up high on the cushion. Ziggy Zee the cat, my gorgeous, enormous ginger tom, who always sleeps on my bed, miaows hopefully, thinking it’s breakfast time. I give him a reassuring stroke and try and snuggle-up to sleep. I only know if I’ve succeeded in grabbing some shut-eye if I remember a fleeting dream (usually totally scary and off-the-wall) whilst looking at the clock. Why is it always exactly an hour later? And so it goes on, night after night. Even, so far, here in Cornwall, although it does appear to be easing a little, night by night. This is not fun.

I’ve recently written and recorded a song called ‘How Do You Measure Pain?‘, with particular reference to the medical professionals who have to both believe that you’re suffering and trust that it’s true. Not being a drama-queen (or any kind of queen at all, except maybe an irony-queen), I tend to be stoic and crack dark jokes, which probably just makes them think that I’m OK – when I’m not. Uh oh,  I just blew it for myself there eh?  I think to myself.  I was only trying to help the professionals in their no-doubt constant struggle against self-serving morons, masochists, junkies and alcoholics – who just love to suffer.

‘That’s why I say ‘I hurt so bad, I cannot even think,

my head has turned to hades and I really need a drink’.

How do you measure pain?  Do you just believe what someone tells you?

Why does it still remain? Like someone obsessed, who can just smell you?’

I thought it was another mystery illness – after all, the drugs did work, didn’t they? Maybe it is, but all manner of tests – even one for TB and another CT Scan – revealed nothing new. Surely, it has to be the alcohol, if the pancreatitis has somehow worsened – although, that would have shown-up in the scan?  Maybe I’ve invented my own, unique  form of cancer.  Soon, hopefully, all will be revealed.

Yesterday was also the sixth anniversary – to the day – of my quitting smoking, which I’d done on the day that an Xray had shown that I had emphysema.  I just stopped dead, as it were, with the aid of nicotine patches and gum, gradually reducing over a three-month period. It worked. No nicotine has passed my lips since, I’m proud to say. Very character-building, albeit a bit late in life. One thing that helped me enormously was some sage advice from the fabulous Christabel Galway, one of my OLDEST friends (we’ve always made exaggeratedly silly statements about each other with great glee), of the wealthy, famous and somewhat notorious Irish Whisky dynasty. Although, it should be noted, she’s from the South African branch of the family and not in the slightest bit rich, or interested in a horsey/shooting/huntin’ n’ fishin’ lifestyle in some draughty, old country pile in Ireland or Gloucestershire.  Just before successfully dumping the cancer sticks herself, she’d advised me: ‘Always remember darling – the craving only lasts three minutes!’ That really helped get me through. I’m holding-off on introducing you to her properly, for now. Why? Because she’ll be all over my recounting of my many notebooks and diaries with her ENORMOUS… personality. She will, however, be dropping into this book to make her prodigious presence, prescience, perspicacity, purity and just plain LOVE of people felt, before I happen to come across her, so to speak, in my diaries.  I haven’t even randomly selected and opened the first one yet!

I’ll get around to that later.

You could say that my hard-partying (mostly in a professional capacity, I hasten to add) in the 80s and 90s had come back to bite me on the bum; but I could think of worse environments than here in Cornwall in which to ditch my drink habit and reluctantly don my virtual monk’s habit – minus the slightest vestment of religion – my ‘oath of silence’ easily broken by chatting on the phone, texting, emailing and chat-rooming (albeit at a frustrating snail’s pace). Then talking to neighbours and people in the village, like Maxwell and Lucinda Baxter, who run the funky little cafe-cum-deli a couple of hundred yards down The Cleave, the little lane that runs above the sea wall like a rustic promenade. They’re my generation – and cool baby-boomers, just like me (although they live in Cornwall). He makes colourful, almost cubist, but sixties-inspired collages and she creates naive-pop-art paintings. They have three handsome sons in their late teens and early twenties who have an indie-style band called – surprise! – The Baxters. They’re huge fans of a The Eagle Kings, a band I recently rejoined after a thirty two-year hiatus. I’ve jammed with the Baxter boys a few times on my last few visits, playing their (pretty annoyingly basic) keyboard, and once, even one of my own smaller ones – A Roland Juno-D – in the scout hut, in their house and in the bar which serves the campsite in the extensive grounds of the evocative, half-derelict mansion on top of the hill (some of which is used as artists’ studios), with its enviable, ever-changing sea-views. with a little more work and application The Baxters could ‘have it going on’. They might even follow my not-entirely-serious advice to call their first album ‘Soup’!

Their dad had casually pointed out, the last time that I was here, that I was actually mentioned in, and in the index of, 70s and 80s fashion icon Ossie Clark’s Diaries. I have some vague memory of meeting said legendary fashion designer in the mid-80s, or later, in the kitchen of a very cluttered and boho flat in Maida Vale. So I bought the book on Amazon, and found a misspelt reference to me (Tom Toppam) in the index, and decided to do the honourable thing and read the book until I came upon ‘my entry’ naturally. I’ve bought it with me and am about halfway through – in 1985. So ‘my bit’ hasn’t happened yet.  I’m sure it’s very minor and trivial. In another sense, it’s a mirror for my own diaries and notebooks. Evidently, we had quite a few mutual friends and acquaintances, but, obviously, had only met the once. Soon I will find out – it’s the perfect bedtime reading to offset against my own autobiographical efforts. From what I’ve read so far, he was obviously even more badly behaved than me and, mentally, a complete mess.  Plus, his writing abilities were average, at best, and he seemed to have an in-built resentment about just about everyone or anything who was more successful than him – particularly David Hockney.  Now, in a sense, I can relate to that, having not ever been in a position to own even a modest flat (but why would I resent anyone who was more successful than me – unless they were completely talentless.  Hmm, come to think of it. No… let’s not go there). Well, maybe in the 80s, but I blew it by enjoying myself and spending all the money I was earning on eating-out and taking taxis everywhere. And I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

I really feel that being bitter and twisted can only lead to, well, being even more bitter and twisted. Is this the curse of the queen? Hah! I should be OK then, as I’ve never subscribed to the so-called gay, cultural reference that ‘we’re all queens dear!’. Fuck right off (and I’m not uptight about it, I just resent the apparent, absolute inference that it’s a perceived, er, wisdom)!

I’m just a man who happens to be gay. Boom boom. Hello – is there anyone home? Is there anyone homo? It means MAN, and as far as I’m concerned (sorry girls). I’m not interested in making love with women – I gave that up when I was twenty-one when I realised I was homosexual, queer, a poof, a bummer –  before the term ‘gay’ was even, um, invented. This is definitely despite all the ancient Greek and Roman closet-cases evidently fucking (or being fucked by?) ‘pretty boys’ rather than having an obviously more natural one-to-one with an equally masculine man (unless you were a eunuch or a screaming queen, of course). No wonder Nero fiddled while Rome burned, or Alexander The Great – note that he was acknowledged as a great warrior – fucked some queen/man/eunuch/bi-curious (delete where applicable) guy before invading the rest of the known universe. Maybe he loved to get fucked himself. This is not something you often hear or read about in the so-called ‘classics’. Don’t even get me started on pervy, old tweedy, Oxbridge Dons. *Shudder*. I have read The Symposium by Socrates and, to be honest, it reminded me of that truly awful and excrutiating faggy film ‘The Boys In The Band‘. Just the same old ‘classic’ cliches, and, curiously, just like with Socrates, with absolutely no reference to love. Same old shit.

It’s always apparently ‘young boys’ getting fucked as some sort of ritual ‘coming (hah!) of age’. And still it continues in modern culture in… oh my god, where do I start? North Africa, anywhere Muslim, The Middle East, Saudi Arabia – any culture where you’re forbidden from fucking women until you’re officially betrothed. We are talking medieval. It’s perhaps akin to The Council Of Nicea which decreed the re-writing of the bible – removing all the honest and sexy bits (maybe the so-called Apostles were Jesus’s fuck-buddies?) like ancient spin-doctors – back in AD 325.

Ancient and modern hymns, or hims, like some misogynistic rappers, or fundamentalist preachers of hate, putting-down and oppressing what they feared the most – the queer, male fun-da-mentalists.

I’ll get into writing about ‘rave culture’ when I’m good and ready: suffice to say – many former football hooligans on ecstasy learned that getting their asses fucked and/or vice/versa, was not such a bad thing after all! You scored! Encore! Bravo, my brother!

Back to ancient Greece, Rome, and most of the rest of the world during that time, give or take a few hundred years, with all that ‘boy-loving’ nonsense: I believe it’s a historical cover-up, and, swords and sandals notwithstanding. I reckon that it’s time that someone did some serious unearthing of the actual truth! Don’t hold your breath – 0r your finely-crafted leather dildo. 

I started my self-imposed alcohol-free regime two nights ago, on the day I arrived. That evening was my first night without a glass or three of wine (echo… echo) with my dinner – with maybe a beer or two after and perhaps a vodka-and-tonic to help my creatively over-active brain go to sleep – for over five years.

I hadn’t, however, told my doctor or my specialist (the head of gastroenterology at St Martha’s in Maddington) that I was drinking more than ‘the odd glass of vino’. Imagine how amusing it would be to try and say ‘gastroenterology’ correctly when pissed! Gashteroh…enter…my holiday ! They might, however, have tried to pack me off to some bleak, rehab’ clinic where they’d no-doubt hold ‘soul-bearing’, group therapy sessions, should I have ‘confessed’.

That’s my idea of self-indulgent, breast-beating, melodramatic hell. Like being locked in a room-full of drag queens knocking back absinthe and bitters, having inadvertently necked shit-loads of GBH, thinking it was Ketamine. Almost certain death.  They would fall like dominoes onto the grey, swirly, institutional lino, their cheap, slightly matted Amy Winehouse and Lady Ga Ga wigs askew, legs akimbo, lipstick smeared into grotesque caricatures… dissolve to swirling-return-to-real-life visuals

Sorry about that somewhat disturbing dream-sequence. Anyway, what would there be to ‘bare my soul’ about? The relative merits of a vintage Aussie Shiraz over a Rioja Reserva? Ka!

As it happens, alcohol helps (or helped) me relax, chill, be creative and go to sleep, dammit! I admit that if you’re depressed, then, being a depressant, it will probably only make it worse – and it does fuzzy-up your head quite a bit the next day. Also, it affects your motivation and judgment adversely, when you have over-indulged: OMG! I didn’t send that cantankerous, drunken email to (delete where applicable) friend/ex-lover/someone-who-you-once-worked-with last night did I? Quick! Write a grovelling apology the minute you wake-up, blaming the drink, the drugs, the depression, your recently-discovered cancer, the death of the cat – anything to stop them sending a bunch of vigilantes to beat you to a pulp and steal your laptop and the last of your precious Thai Sticks.

Seriously though, I need to find out if the demon drink is responsible for this new wave of mystery illnesses – so I was trepidatious when I went to bed at around 1:am on my first night here – early for me! However, the balmy sea air wafting through the open windows and the always soothing sound of the waves provided a natural tranquilliser – which I’d sensibly backed-up with a real one – as I drifted-off to sleep thinking… this process of elimination will hopefully lead to a progress in illumination.  Nice.  The flickering lights out at sea turned into dreams of shipwrecks, scurvy, rats, sinking ships and half-naked, drunken sailors, whom I’d rescued from the raging seas, gratefully drinking my home-made vodka-based smoothies – laced with MDMA. Then the back pain woke me up. The sweats, at least, stayed away. It must have been the invasion of all those negative ions from the sea air (as opposed to the body-snatchers). I drank some water and thankfully returned to my reveries within a few minutes. The now-naked sailors were evidently enjoying each others’ company immensely and seemed pleased to see me return. Avast behind, me hearties!

Back online (ish), I see it’s 9:pm already and the gloaming is shrouding the bay and the headland like a gossamer fishing net, as the lights of the buildings and the boats start to reflect and twinkle on the water. It actually makes you sigh with pleasure… it would be even better with a nice, big glass of South African Cabernet Sauvignon. Yo ho ho and a bottle of…water.

Perhaps I need to catch-up with my myriad (well, one or two) potential lovers online, on PeoplePages and various gay dating-cum-shagging sites, where, being sensible, I only use the ones that are gratis, with unlimited messages and access. Why do dating sites charge people? They can surely easily earn from advertising and, perhaps, links to more, ahem, adult sites and naughty merchandise? But, of course, I’m a gay man who’s a bit blase about how easy it is to get laid; no doubt a more raunchy (and frankly honest) approach would be deemed improper by mainstream dating sites – as they’re aimed at middle-class professionals and the burgeoning ‘silver surfer’ market, which, unfortunately, I could be viewed as being part-of, in terms of, well, age.  I’m fifty-seven – fifty-eight in November.  I further confound their out-dated, homogenous demographic by living in gritty Hardesden in North London and I’m way too hip, bohemian and ‘off message’ to be of any use to their nonsensical, outdated and unedifying whimsies. Escorted tours? Coach trips? Cruises? The horror.

The baby boomers like me who were simply born cool (and, in my case, homosexual) didn’t suddenly discover a penchant for tasteless, cheap porcelain, hideously unstylish sofas sold (always ‘half-price’) in warehouses near motorway slip roads, plastic conservatories, nasty knic-knacks, anaglyptic wallpaper, polyester, bare (not even energy-saving!) light bulbs, white plastic outdoor ‘furniture’, floral-print plastic shopping trollies, frozen faggots (no comment!) and tasteless ready-meals, doilies and swirly carpets did we? That’s plain caravan-common, which is, of course, British for trailer-trash. You read it here first.

No, us cool BBs remain true to our icons, artists and gurus centered around fin de siecle Paris, like Picasso, Diaghilev, Monet and Stravinski – from Modernism, photography, film and philosophy in the late Twenties and the Thirties with Art Deco, The Bauhaus and the likes of Le Corbusier and Mies Van Der Rohe and great artists like Cole Porter and Cocteau; from the Forties, the birth of cool, the television revolution, the ‘new deal’, the ‘new look’, swing, Sinatra, and the end of austerity; The Fifties – Boho hip, beat poetry, abstract art,  space-age design, the birth of new technology, mass-marketing, Elvis, great inventions, Marylin Monroe and the rebellious teen; the Sixties, sex n’ drugs n’ rock n’ roll, pop-art, Warhol, The Beatles and the Stones and definitive UK style and, for some, prosperity – you’ve never had it so good; the Seventies – Kitsch, gender-bending, trash, riots, thrash and glam; the Eighties – soul, Thatcher, strikes, graffiti, protests, rap and the birth of the new UK clubbing generation (which I’m pleased that I was a pivital part of), in conjunction with an explosion of creative dynamism in fashion, culture and punk. Then… it all went a bit flat and drearily commercialised (TV commercials became mini-movies and people’s messy beds became art) in the Nineties, apart from socio-politically – like the fall of the Berlin Wall and The Velvet Revolution in Eastern Europe – along with a new industrial revolution known as The Internet. I guess that The World Wide Web initially sounded too James Bond-villain – or conspiracy-theory friendly, as-in The Illuminati.  Funny, that.

Mind you, in the early days, like around 1995, the media mostly maligned and mocked The Net, as it would later be generally known, as something merely for geeks and ‘anoraks’ As for the next decade, it might as well have been called the Noughty Netties, such was the impact of being online with broadband (Pirates!) on vast swathes of society.

Even shanty towns have makeshift internet cafes now, which is a good thing. And it also satisfied us human beings’ innate desire to twitch the proverbial net (muslin for the middle classes, naturally) curtains online – both from inside and out.

The Muslim fun-da-mentalists, meanwhile, just merely twitched before flicking their suicide bombing switches.  If you don’t allow ‘your people’ to possess audio or video cassetttes or CDs and DVDs – then how come you spread your gruesome hatred and frankly medieval attitudes via the net?  Fucking evil hypocrites. I’ve been told that must Muslim ‘fundamentalism’ is actually mostly political and territorial and mainly tribal warlords seeking power. Suicide bummers, indeed.

And guess who wrote one of the first weekly columns about the phenomenon? In 1996, yours truly reinvented himself as a journalist, adopting the pseudonym Webfoot to write the weekly internet column for 24/7 , London’s foremost and hippest, weekly listings magazine. My brother Danny was their nightlife editor, had been for several years, and had posted me the weekly rag when I was living back home in Bath with my parents in 1995, following my unwitting homelessness ( I wonder if wrote about that particular trauma in my diaries at the time?). I used to read the mag avidly, greatly missing living in the capital – and even managed to take-in its nascent internet column, which was almost apologetic in its dullness.

I’d started hanging-out in the city’s first internet cafe in a former bowling alley in the back of a pub in trendy, boho Walcot Street, possibly motivated by my great thirst for knowledge and expanding my horizons, not to mention my desperate desire to get laid (the city having only one gay pub, which was full of stereotypical, seventies-style fags who made me feel like I was in the wrong bar in the wrong decade; just plain wrong). Having read said dreary column I simply suggested to the editor (who I knew, having organised their 20th anniversary party for them), that I could do a much better job and would happily have a go at writing it. He agreed to let me try. I wrote my first attempted column and got the job immediately.

Thankfully, this enabled me to move back to London in early spring in ’96. In my various pieces over nearly five years, I correctly predicted most of what’s happening online now: social networking, gambling, porn, music and film piracy (but the latter bloated and arrogant industries naturally ignored my warnings. NO surprise there then), free downloads, political emancipation through people-power, the growth of cheap, online market research and… that internet advertising revenue would probably supersede that of television soon after the New Millennium – which brought howls of derision from the advertising industry in the 24/7 letters page. I feel quite smug about being right – right now – because it DID.

Overweight know-alls with oversized, red spectacles and novelty braces holding-up their too-tight Prada trousers. And women? Mostly in subservient positions, tending to their masters’ frivolities and foibles through gritted, but glistening teeth (Madmen, the Visually-stunning American contemporary TV series set in the 60s springs to mind). My column lasted until late 1999, when Tricia Cuthbert, my former landlady, a man-hating, PC-led, lipstick lesbian (when it suited her), became the editor and then immediately sacked me, slurring her words, slouched behind her desk, after one of her regular liquid lunches, saying it was because there were too many people complaining about me in the letters page. I later found out that it was, in fact, because she wanted her then girlfriend (they’d met, slept together and got a joint mortgage the next day) to write the column.

Tricia lasted three months – about the same time as her relationship. Shadenfreude? You bet. But the higher-ups at 24/7 forgot to invite me back and nor did I ask; anyway, the money was crap.

I’d been heading for a career catastrophe, but, luckily, the previous month, fate had intervened. I came downstairs one afternoon (as is my wont) to find a plain, brown, handwritten letter sitting on the mat. It contained a list of all the ex (or current) members of Eaglestorm (AKA The Eagle Kings from 1978 – 1980, especially in my case) who were eligible for shares of a settlement relating to a former record label that had been brokered by their former manager Neville (Nev) Brown and his wife Ellie. I hadn’t spoken to Neville for a few years, and he’d tracked me down through my dear friend Christabel, who’d used to run their office, and had suggested me for the job with what was one of The UK’s most legendary space-rock bands. 1978? I’m looking forward to that particular year and the next, in my diaries – then we’ll see who actually wrote what!  Ask Frank Ferret – singer, guitarist and bastard thief and bootlegger of Babylon, or at least North Devon.

Now all I had to do was sign my consent, Nev and Ellie would take a quite fair 10%, and a cheque would soon be in the post for over £6,000 – once everyone else had signed too. Just as well, as the same delivery had also revealed a more official-looking letter which revealed that my one-year lease on my little flat and self-created roof-garden would be ‘up’ in two months and the landlords were giving me formal notice to quit, for no other reason than ‘The flat is required for a member of the landlords’ family to use as a pied-a-terre.’ The slightly oleaginous Iranian who used to collect the monthly rent couldn’t resist telling me that it was, in fact, for one of the landlords’ mistresses.

‘How fascinating – with a free roof garden thrown-in for nothing?’ I’d responded sarcastically.

Didn’t the landlords have any other similar properties to offer me? It wasn’t as if I was behind with the rent or had smothered the flat in anarchistic graffiti or used it as a gay brothel.