Monday, 1 June 2009

I Love 1989.

Saturday was Patti's last day in London and we pretty much did the same thing we did the day before. We just wandered around Belsize Park talking about how exciting it was to move to London for the first time in 1989. Living in a beautiful flat in Hampstead, hanging out with famous people and being the envy of everyone. That was how I wanted to live, but didn't. I lived in Finsbury Park and then Walthamstow, vaguely knew the ex-lead singer of Iron Maiden and had the pity of everyone. I knew that I had arrived in an exciting and interesting city back in 1989 when my landlord walked through my bedroom wall to collect rent. My second landlord, in Walthamstow, used to delight in letting his dog piss in my flat. But Patti lived in Belsize Park and rubbed shoulders with the wealthy. One of them was Joe, a nice bloke we had lunch with on Saturday.

Joe is the son of Sting and Frances Tomelty and was 12 when I met him. At the age of 32 he somehow looks exactly the same but looking very youthful is not why I'm jealous of him. I'm not jealous of his good looks, his band, his house on The Heath or his regular trips around the globe. I'm not jealous of his new album that he's currently mixing or his lovely long hair and certainly not his bicycle crash helmet. I'm jealous of his eccentricity. I'd love to be an eccentric, it would so suit me. Can't you just see me walking around wearing a crown, leaving Sherlock Holmes novels out for the birds and writing letters to The Sea? I'd love all that. Joe is utterly charming and funny but, my God, there's such an air of the brilliantly odd about him that I can't quite put a finger on. He dressed half as a postman, half as a soldier when he met us. He sat on his knees, ate cheese from other people's plates and told us that he only got an hour's sleep the night before because he just woke up "and remembered Primrose Hill". I often forget Primrose Hill too, perhaps that's why I sleep like a baby. Sadly, Joe is very classy at being an eccentric and I doubt I would be. Writing your own name in shit while wearing a tutu won't make you Salvador Dali, I've found out.

Then Patti left. Such a shame she doesn't live here because I selfishly want her to. I haven't seen her in years but anytime we meet in never really feel like time has past. We're still just as immature and thick.

And then it was back to normal life. Luckily, normal life for me yesterday was getting a bit drunk and scaring my dog by chopping down a tree in my garden and setting fire to it. I did this all in the midday sun. I'm taking my first steps into eccentricity. Cheers, Joe.

I've been thinking a lot about 1989 over the past few days and what a great time it was. I was drunk all the time, spent all my money on crap, spent too much time trying to get into The Comedy Store and generally went around London annoying people. I don't know how I did that, certainly couldn't do it now. Still, I looked great back then.

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