A day in the life.

Get up, get out of bed, drag a comb across my head. Brush my teeth, have a pee, that's better. Right, who am I? Ultra hip young mover and shaker that’s who. Cutting edge rock writer. Making money hand over fist and doing my bit to raise the genre an intellectual notch or two.

Who would have thought pop music would explode like it did? Me for one. And by some quirk of fate I’m right in the middle of it. It’s turned into a money machine for those nimble enough to see the opportunities. Rock writing is changing fast too. Stylewise I mean. At first it was just a question of talking about the group a bit, the drummer’s favorite colour, did they have girlfriends, that kind of rubbish. Now a whole new generation of writers is starting to emerge. They’ve grown up on Kerouac, Miller, Burroughs and they’re taking it to another level. Rolling Stone has tapped into a whole new audience, drugs are going mainstream and now you’re getting gonzos. There’s a whole lot of new readers out there. Some of them want solid information, studio details, technical stuff, and some of them want you to take them off on mind trips.

One of these days I’ll do a piece about a typical day in a rock-writer’s life. Maybe Wenner would be interested. It could be sort of Hunter Thompson style but more English. Wonder how James Joyce would have tackled it. Lots of clever wordplay and internal monologue probably. Clever bastard. Still I should be able to bang out a few thousand words on something like that. But first I need to drop by the mews house I bought in Chelsea and see how Dave is getting on with the renovations.

I find the lads hard at it. They’ve bashed out the windows and there’s a healthy pile of rubble in the street. Inside the front hall and garage/stable are piled high with bricks and lumber, bags of plaster and cement. Craftsmen are coming and going. It looks confusing but Dave assures me everything is under control.

‘We’ll do the outside first. Roof and windows and re-pointing. Pop the old double-glazing in. When that’s done we’ll do inside. Start with the stairs. Leave the kitchen and bathroom till last. Lot of serious plumbing needed in there mate.’
‘A lot?’
‘Well there’s a cast iron down-pipe for starters…even some lead. You’ll want that out. Everything’s PVC these days.’
I like it when Dave gets technical. Makes me feel like one of the boys.
‘By the way,’ says Dave, ‘there’s a bit of paperwork for you. Bills and that.’
Which is a roundabout way of saying the lads need paying. I ask Dave if he fancies a pint. He does. But first I need to make a quick wardrobe adjustment.

One of the bedrooms is doubling as an office. It makes a useful little bolthole and it’s a place to keep my best clothes…away from all the dust. I decide against the red Paisley jacket I got from Brian Jones. It would go OK with a pair of maroon flared slacks I suppose but I settle on the black velvet suit with a salmon pink open neck shirt by Mr. Fish. Boots by Annello and David. Not too much is it? Do I look like a pufta? Does anybody give a toss anymore after all of Bowie’s ch,ch,ch,changes? A few wolf whistles and ’ello dahlings from the building site on the corner are par for the course. Fucking idiots. They’re probably still going Ballroom Dancing at the Palais in their drape jackets and drainpipe trousers.

As I walk along the mews towards Kings Road with Dave a gap-toothed figure in a silk dressing gown appears from the house next door.
‘I say,’ he says, ‘bit noisy what? Can you ask your chaps to keep it down?’
‘Sorry Terry,’ I say, ‘we’re doing our best. Should be done in a few days.’
‘Good show.’
As we get out of earshot away Dave says ‘Wasn’t that….?’
‘Right. Terry Thomas. He’ll be OK as long as the plonk deliveries keep coming.’

The pub is crowded, smoky and loud. Amis and his chums are in the lounge bar as usual picking the carcass of some poor novice writer. Normally I might join the feast but Dave is from Fulham so we sit with the plebes. I like Dave. Down to earth sort of bloke. Not what you’d call a hard man himself but he keeps me up to date on events in the underworld. Maybe I’ll do another house when this one’s finished and get Dave to help. Perhaps we could form a company.

Dave goes back to his labours while I ponder my next move over a late lunch. Guiness and a pork pie. There’s time to see the bank manager so I stroll down to Sloane Square along King’s Road where trendy boutiques are sprouting like psychedelic mushrooms full of the latest clobber. The scene, whatever that means, is exploding. Everybody wants to be part of it. Hair, clothes, music, minis, maxis, crushed velvet bellbottoms, kaftans belts and beads. We’re all groovy now. Lots of tourists showing up these days too. American girls, Swedish, French even…looking for the action.

The bank manager obviously isn’t happy with my outfit. Or the length of my hair. Sod him. I give him an update on the building work and hit him up for another 5000 quid.

It’s Friday. That means Ready, Steady, Go. So it’s out to Wembley in the Mini-Cooper and the Rediffusion Green Room where all the young dudes are already gathered. Oldham is there with Keith Altham, Stewart and his Faces mates are warming up with some birds. The Who are getting psyched up in a corner. This being ITV most people are on their best behaviour. But not Keith Moon. He’s raving and I can see he’s in a dangerous mood though I can tell. Cathy McGowan sees me arrive and comes over for a chat. I mention Moon’s condition and she says not to worry, he’s been warned, how’s things? I tell her things are OK but to be honest I’m not in the mood for it this week. I watch Pan’s People for a while and give Fordyce a nod but I leave early. It all seems silly somehow.

I stop for egg and chips in a Greek Place on the Edgeware Road. Greasy the way I like it. Slice of apple pie and custard all washed down with a nice cup of tea then it’s over to the EMI studios on Abbey Road to see what’s happening.

The boys are working on a new album. George is the only one with time for a chat. I ask him how it’s going. ‘Alright,’ says George, ‘if you don’t mind night-work.’ ‘Make sure you ask for double time,’ I quip. Pink Floyd are locked in another studio. Incomunicado. Jagger and his entourage arrive through a side door. Stash tries to get something going on a congo drum but the energy level is low. The boys in the control room start packing up.

Outside in the car park a group of people are sharing a joint beside a car. I join them. ‘Bag of shite then I suppose,’ says Lennon. ‘Right,’ says Mal Evans, ‘all aboard.’ So I make a quick decision to leave my car where it is and hop in with the others and it’s off to the Bag ’O Nails.

One thing about arriving with Lennon. You get a good place to sit. Needle, who used to deal ounces in Ladbroke Grove, shows us to the best table in the Bag. Down near the stage where some bloke called Jimi Hendrix is about to give his first live performance in London. That’s what the announcer says anyway. Across the way Steve Marriott is dancing on a table showing off as usual. Toni Basil joins us, a few other pop royalty scattered around the place. Cynthia seems none too happy. I wonder if the rumours about John and the Japanese artist are true. It’s bedlam down there. And then Hendrix lets rip.

He is bloody amazing. I make some quick notes: An amazing debut at the Bag last night. Something new and wild. Move over Townshend, and you Beck…you too Clapton…the real thing just hit town. Shit I can’t say that…they’ll lynch me. How about ...

But it’s hard to concentrate with an amp right by the table and that guitar going in my ear. It’s all too much to take in. And I need a slash. I scribble a few notes in the washroom and head for the door. On the way I bump into Samantha and we have a little chat. She tells me she might have a job with Stanley Kubrick but I can’t really hear what she’s saying.

The rain has stopped so we decide to walk over to Robert Fraser’s place on Mount Street. It’s funny how I feel more relaxed with Sam than I ever did when we were together. I can sort of take it or leave it. She’s wearing a bottle green cordurouy trouser suit with a red feather boa and a large floppy black hat. We must make a striking couple. Not that there is anyone around to be struck. Just a young copper on the corner of Berkeley Square who can’t take his eyes off us. From the look on his face I can tell he’s wondering if he made the right career decision. ‘Evening officer.’ I say. He cracks a little smile. It’s morning. Now he thinks I’m taking the piss.

So we get to Robert’s and there they all are…the beautiful people… Keith & Anita who seem to be an item, Dunbar, Stash (again), Jim Dine, Dennis Hopper, Kenneth Anger, the usual suspects, plus a few hangers–on…am I one of those? Stop it. Everybody is sitting around among the art objects, Dubuffet, Klein, Warhol etc. smashed out of their pods and of course everyone is being super-cool. This is the epicenter.

I’ll say one thing. Class barriers do seem to be breaking down. Not that new ones aren’t being erected. The pop stars are the new aristocracy. And a lot of it is thanks to Robert. I like Robert. He’s not your obvious queen and he’s not snobbish either when you get to know him. Quite the opposite. But he’s living dangerously. I don’t know what it is with Bob. He went to Eton, did a year or two in a Guard’s regiment, father’s a highly respected banker but Bob seems to be drawn to the dark side. He has a real eye for the newest trends in art too. But I’ve heard he’s dabbling in the hard stuff. Shame if it’s true.

I surprise Burroughs and Ginsberg in the kitchen cooking something up. They give me a cheery grin. Well Allen does. William has some fresh meat in tow. Pulled from the Men’s at Piccadilly Circus most likely.

I think Sam is expecting me to take her home. But I leave alone. It’s over between us. No point in kidding ourselves. I walk down to Park Lane and find a cab.

We’re turning onto Redcliffe Gardens when I see it’s closed off. Flashing lights, coppers everywhere, ambulances the lot. There’s a car crashed into a lorry. Lotus Elan it looks like. The cabbie is obliged to back up. ‘Nasty one that,’ he says.
‘He probably didn’t notice that the lights had changed.’ I say.
‘Drugs,’ says the cabbie, ‘they’re all on them.’