Meeting Bowie...

He's a bit like Concorde, actually. A lot smaller than you'd imagine. Not quite so pointy though, obviously. We meet quite by chance in HMV on Oxford Street. I'm there to claim a refund on a Rainbow CD I bought. Bloody rip-off - didn't even have the flipping theme tune on it, just a lot of dreary old heavy metal pomp pop. Probably Zippy hogging the limelight with all those interminable guitar solos... I'm just turning round to go and have a gander for that Krautrock/Lounge Lizard fusion compilation everyone's raving about when I realise I can't move. My gaudy faux-fur scarf is tightening around my neck and I'm starting to fear imminent strangulation when a slightly camp mockney barrer boy accent pipes up and says, "you wanna watch where you're dangling your satin and tat, mush - yer scarve's just got caught under me outrageous stack heel. Could do yerself a mischief the way you're carrying on - like the titfer, by the way? Bippety-Boppety, if I'm very much not mistaken...?"

And sure enough, there's the telltale trail of my glam rock accoutrement trapped beneath the aging Dame's extensive platform sole. "Terribly sorry, your majesty..." I mumble - there's a *very* strict pecking order in the Glam Rock hierarchy; him, Ferry, Eno, Sparks, Wizzard, Slade, Mud, Sweet, Sailor, Kenny, Slik, Lieutenant Pigeon, Alvin Stardust, Marc Bolan then, way, way down the list, your humble scribe. It's simply not *done* to talk out of turn. "You can get up now", he says, "or there'll be a scene. I hate scenes. Ever since I got snapped by the papers doing my Max Wall impersonation at Victoria Station, I've been *ever* so careful not to cause a scene. Bought the brown shirt and comedy hobnail boots especially too. 'Ere, did you know that the human brain was essentially schizoid right up to the pre-Cambrian era..?"

I mumble something pretentious about Wassily Kandinsky, then Bowie says "Seen this?" And brandishes a CD boxed set at me; "Doctor Hook; Re-mastered". "Cracking gimmick!", he chortles. "Must dash", he goes on, "Yentob's coming over with the Ludo board. Can't be late - he's on a *right* hiding...". And with that, he's away, scampering off into the chilly London evening to administer a boardgame drubbing to a podgy, bearded Television journalist, his days of cool canasta long behind him...


L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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