A Gambler Born and Bred 14

Richard had an SLR camera so we spent evenings cutting out arty snippets from the books I’d collected and photographing them at his beautiful apartment on Boulevard Montmartre. Again, it was amateur quality but we were getting our message across.

I had to leave the flat I was in because I hadn’t paid rent or bills for a few months, so I snuck out and stayed with a pal for a week before finding a flatshare near La Bastille.
It was Christmas time again. 1992 would be our year.

Although the parties were going well, I wasn’t exactly loaded. Richard gave me half of the profits but without the use of the cheap and cheerful cave the parties were more expensive to run.

Valerie and I were fighting. She’d get jealous and chase me around the flat with a knife in her hand. She could be diabolical.
One time, I was forced onto the roof through the window with only a pair of boxers. She had a wicked temper. Another time, she nearly ran me over, stopping inches from my knees. Afterwards, she gave me a blowjob in the car, pleading to take her back. She was a constant contradiction of herself; sometimes lovely and then awful for no reason.

If I wasn’t out promoting (drinking and drugging), I’d be doing artwork and arranging the next party.
I got myself a very part-time job with Le Figaro in their weekend magazine, Figaroscope, writing about the music scene and certain DJs who were coming to Paris. Valerie translated it. We got 500 francs a pop. It only lasted a month or two but it was fun. It proved that I could do it.

Karen at Time Out would always give Sweet Power a star-mention in the club section, but she never let me write for her. I used to hate asking her if she had any features that needed writing. I wanted to be seen as the Gatsby party-thrower. She saw me for what I was; a chancing, vulnerably-housed pied piper, lost in the city of light.
Other magazines and newspapers were slowly cottoning on to us.
That New Year’s Eve, Valerie and I went to a houseparty thrown by one of her friends.
We took the metro but the party was vile, French bourgeoisie at its worst, picking holes in people, not even pretending to be friends with one another.
When they played ‘Highway To Hell’ and ‘The Final Countdown’ for midnight, I’d seen enough. They were a mess, falling over one another but still managing a quick stab, half-conscious.
We walked all the way home. It was a nice walk.
When we were almost there, I saw that the window of an antiquey shop on Boulevard de la Republique had been smashed and wondered whether I should steal the bust that was sat there.
Valerie said no.

As we approached the flat, we heard loud music coming from the basement. Walking through the courtyard, I saw an open door. We took a peek and walked down the steps to a cave.
I bumped into the owner. He owned the whole building. I didn’t know, but this was my landlord.
I told him that I lived upstairs and organised nice little soirees for the English and Americans, and he was kind enough to buy us a drink and show us around the place.
It was perfect, a long cave, then a bar-area, then more cave with seating. When he took me upstairs, I knew this was the place.
The front of the building was a shop. He only stored bits of antique furniture there, and maybe used the phone. He couldn’t remember. I think he had lots of fingers in different pies.
He agreed to a party on Valentine’s Day, six weeks away, for 5000 francs.
The next day, when Valerie had gone back to hers, I stole the bust from the shop window and took it back to the flat.
Being skint, I decided to keep myself busy by spraying red paint through a syringe over the bust’s face. I finished it off by writing ‘NO RELIGION, SVP’ in red at the neck.
My first art-piece.