Shang-A-Lang

Gosh has it really been that long? Been sort of completely busy all the time and was half hoping my journal might learn to write itself, like that thing people always say about chimpanzees coming up with the works of Shakespeare if they're left to it for long enough. To be honest, I don’t really fully understand it when people do say that but you hear it a lot so its deep profundity must be lost on me. I pretend to get it though: I nod and go “Haha!” or (depending on who it is and whether I want to impress them) sometimes even throw back my head and go “HAHA!” like the village idiot. I don’t put my finger on my nose and point back at them though. I hate that.

There are a wedding and a funeral and a birthday to talk about, which you have to admit is pretty tidy. All human life is here. And a Duckie photo session which we’ll do first because photo sessions are the most boring thing in the world. Brick Lane, couple of Mondays ago. Monday night! I could have wept, getting all done up in slap and putting on slightly stale-smelling boxing gloves just as the finale of America’s Next Top Model was about to begin. After the hurried schlep East from where I work (West, inconveniently) I tried hard to be positive and “in the mood” but the truth is I just never am in the mood for photo sessions. At my arrival I even declared, diva-like, that while I would wear the gloves I would not under any circumstances be cajoled into boxing against Jelly.

But inevitably. The photographer - who was completely lovely by the way and sort of famous and acclaimed with books out – soon tired of us just standing about and suggested movement and action which really meant we start fighting each other. My heart sank, even if it was always going to happen. And I had to say my rehearsed ”Thank you but no, we’re not performers and I don’t particularly hold with the sport of boxing and it has been a very long day…” Rotten old killjoy I’m turning into but I like to think Quentin would have agreed with me - ”Boxing isn’t your styyyyyyyyyle”. One good thing: you could see the shots come through, live, onto the screen of a Mac laptop and, side on, I looked slim.

Coincidentally, it was another photographer, my friend Brian, who got married to Jen a month or so ago. Ran away to Scotland and did it and this was his London friends bash in The Bull pub up at Highgate. It takes a lot to get me off the sofa on a Sunday but I’d have gone just about anywhere for dear old Bri who is not only a genius snapper (he took that picture of me I used to have up on here) but also one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. Among other things it was Brian who came up with the concept of a reality TV show called Child Vs Swan - real children fighting real swans on primetime. Haha.

Someone at the wedding pointed out that Rod Stewart had been born in the block of flats directly opposite so everybody, me included, kept on rushing forward to look at them, as if Rod himself would pop out onto the balcony and start waving. Great people, and we all got gently sloshed in the chilly sunny afternoon. I drank Guinness, as did Fints but soon switched to sundry other beers when somebody suggested a pint of the black stuff contains as many calories as a roast dinner. This isn't true, surely? Moggy, who looked hot, always looks hot, gave me a great book (she's always giving me great books, too). This was the autobiography of Cherie Currie from The Runaways and this copy was obvioulsy stolen at some point from a library in Canada. Devoured it: they were all Bowie mad, that lot. They played Bring Me Sunshine and Honky Tonk Women and we even flicked through some of Jody’s Your Cat magazines going “Aaaw”.

The funeral, well, it’s old-sad news now about Tallulah. Thanks for the messages from everyone but he wasn’t a massively close friend – just a bit of a hero and a lovely funny man. I never blogged it at the time, because the police hadn’t yet contacted all of his nearest and dearest, but it was a shocking morning. On the way to work Ritchie had texted Jelly who’d texted me and – standing dripping in the rain outside South Ken tube station - I rang Ritchie back for confirmation. He said he’d heard late the previous evening because he just so happened to be standing next to Paul Burston in The Tavern when a text came through to him.

Not a mistake then. All I could think about was whether Our Jimmy Brown knew yet – Tallulah was Jimmy’s oldest London friend and neighbour and annual holiday companion to Los Angeles – but I knew in my heart of hearts that he didn’t know or else he would have phoned me. So I went and stood in the stairwell at work and summoned up the courage from somewhere – a horrible thing to have to do – and we were both in shock, I suppose, because I kept saying ”I’m really sorry I had to tell you” and he kept saying, “I’m really glad I found out from you” over and over again. Sounded like a right pair of nutters I expect.

But life’s not a race, is it, and Tallulah packed a lot into his 59 years as evinced by the cracking turn out to the wake in Soho. All these faces from the city’s clubland past standing about in the street smoking and chatting and laughing - really, really laughing. Even Molly Parkin was there and nobody had a clue Tallulah knew her. Anyway, Tallulah’s ashes are being scattered over the golden sands of California by Our Jimmy on Monday. He’s over there now. Must be a bit odd for him without his pal.

Jeepers, look at the time! That’s lunch break over. Wanted to say I haven’t given up on this. It’s just been a busy time primarily because of this project I’m doing for music for my sister’s 40th. That’s really been eating all the spare time at home recently but I feel I’m finally getting there. Half way through the '70s now and the ‘60s and the ‘80s are all done and most of the '90s. But roll on Spain in June. I need a holiday.

Mary Cigs! Do you have an email? I can send you the 70s lists because they're too big for here. 1974 was 12 Volumes! Mwah!