David Bowie at 66

The guy is Zoot suited and Chelsea booted. He is drinking a South African red of a bad year that had travelled via Oslo on waves as tall as the barman’s tales.

Standing on a floor that is bubblegum sticky, in a cloud of Marlboro blue smoke he inhales deeply.

Attempting to tap his feet to the cut-price turgid tinned jazz, performed by Berliners who are so obviously on the make, or on the break from an Ompah nightmare. A long gone, smashed wall.

Checking himself in the muddy, warped mirrors behind the bar at random, his wigged black, heart attack hair leaves light inclement weather from his fingerprints on his fast emptying glass.

This man has been here many years before, in the days of Kenneth Williams and the Daily Express scandals of marijuana dipped ministers. He had loved that world he inhabited and ruled.

He so desperately wants to love it always.

His tanned weather-beaten face is at odds with his energy, for he is a Tommy Steeler and a Marty Wilder even now.

Drinking his fourth glass; looks at his ever failing watch, the one he bought in Berwick Street market on the day that England won the World Cup.

He resigns himself to the cold fact that she is not coming, never was. He accepts chance with the nonchalance of a young Brando.

He eyes two secretaries discussing the merits of Viagra in the broken halogen non-lit corner.

He is still a contender.