I didn't go to university. I could have. They asked me to read Humanities at South Wales. But I didn't. Instead I ran away and joined the circus. Or at least a club not far from Oxford Circus.
The first time this occurred, I was more bemused than star-struck. Sharing a chat and a Marlboro with Mack, I glimpsed a wide silhouette weaving on and off the curb as its owner approached. Only when the man wrapped a pudgy arm around Mack, did I realise I was in the company of a very drunk Mel Smith.
I knew his features well. The 'Not The Nine O Clock News' book had bookended the shelf of my long abandoned bedroom at my parents' house. Mack, being a polite fellow, introduced us and Mel shook my hand. His grip was weak and damp. He smelt of brandy and was so deep in drink he wouldn't have noticed if he'd been meeting Karl Marx rather than a callow DJ. His conversation was mostly unintelligible, even to Mack - and before long his expansive frame was off again, heading for Soho Square. An amusing distraction for me, and another night on the sauce for Mel. 'He drinks too much' said Mack, unnecessarily.
My next encounter, was a touch more sparkly. A tallish, swarthy chap in leather trousers and a white jacket, was striding purposefully on the far side of Greek Street when Mack called out to him. Flashing an impossibly pearly grin, he bounded over. Stone-cold sober and very animated, George Michael immediately launched into a list of reasons why he no longer felt comfortable at Peter Stringfellow's Hippodrome. The lack of security in the VIP area was one. Oddly, this didn't come over as egotistical or pretentious. He wasn't yet a world-conquering solo artist, but Wham! were one of the most successful pop acts in Britain. It wasn't hard to imagine a queue of lithe boys and girls queuing to bother George as he struggled with his cocktail. He asked Mack where he might enjoy the rest of his evening in peace, and I almost suggested he join us in the basement. That would have been a bad idea. I was planning to play the long mix of the Sisters of Mercy's 'Alice' in a few minutes. Probably not his cup of tea. What's more, we didn't have a VIP area. Indeed, we only had one toilet.
Allow me to explain. At eighteen, with my parents on holiday, I accepted a friend's invitation to fill a sleeping bag with clothes and hitchhike to London with little more than the vague promise of a room in a squat. Simultaneously, the singer in my slightly rubbish Derby-based goth band arrived in the capital with a glamorous new girlfriend and an interest in a tiny West End nightclub. This was fortunate. Having secured a squatted flat just off the Old Kent Road and emptied my sleeping bag on the floor, I didn't have much to do. So, when my erstwhile vocalist suggested I play the records at his venue, I agreed. I was well qualified. Playing records was something in which I had hundreds of hours experience. £5.00 a night, cash-in-hand, was to be my salary.
While £5.00 was worth more in 1983 than in 2012 (and topped up a giro by a factor of 25%), it was hardly a king's ransom. If my new gig behind the mirrored frontage of a booth in a Soho cellar was to be worth anything, it would have to deliver some fringe benefits. And it did. I was permitted a bar allowance of a pint and half of lager to lubricate me through a four hour session on the decks. Sometimes I was given the price of a night bus home. Oh, the glamour! The riches!
Then there was Mack. Mack was our Tuesday night doorman. With a hangdog expression and cheerily warm demeanour, he was hard as nails. He also knew the entirety of London's clubbing population. To me, it seemed that Mack worked the apron of almost every venue in the city. How he managed this when the week only offered seven nights, I couldn't really explain. But he knew them all - including many celebrities.
Around midnight, I would take the narrow, crimson carpeted staircase to street level and gasp at the fresh, cool air. The basement housing the club had no real ventilation and, once full, the temperature would rise as rapidly as the air quality plummeted (the New Year's Eve we hired a smoke machine almost resulted in suffocating catastrophe), so a break from the sweaty walls and cigarette plumes was mandatory.
These breathers gave rise to another bonus. When a famous body made its way down Greek Street, it would unfailingly stop for a natter with Mack. If this coincided with my brief emergence, I would be there to greet them too.
Around midnight, I would take the narrow, crimson carpeted staircase to street level and gasp at the fresh, cool air. The basement housing the club had no real ventilation and, once full, the temperature would rise as rapidly as the air quality plummeted (the New Year's Eve we hired a smoke machine almost resulted in suffocating catastrophe), so a break from the sweaty walls and cigarette plumes was mandatory.
These breathers gave rise to another bonus. When a famous body made its way down Greek Street, it would unfailingly stop for a natter with Mack. If this coincided with my brief emergence, I would be there to greet them too.
The first time this occurred, I was more bemused than star-struck. Sharing a chat and a Marlboro with Mack, I glimpsed a wide silhouette weaving on and off the curb as its owner approached. Only when the man wrapped a pudgy arm around Mack, did I realise I was in the company of a very drunk Mel Smith.
I knew his features well. The 'Not The Nine O Clock News' book had bookended the shelf of my long abandoned bedroom at my parents' house. Mack, being a polite fellow, introduced us and Mel shook my hand. His grip was weak and damp. He smelt of brandy and was so deep in drink he wouldn't have noticed if he'd been meeting Karl Marx rather than a callow DJ. His conversation was mostly unintelligible, even to Mack - and before long his expansive frame was off again, heading for Soho Square. An amusing distraction for me, and another night on the sauce for Mel. 'He drinks too much' said Mack, unnecessarily.
My next encounter, was a touch more sparkly. A tallish, swarthy chap in leather trousers and a white jacket, was striding purposefully on the far side of Greek Street when Mack called out to him. Flashing an impossibly pearly grin, he bounded over. Stone-cold sober and very animated, George Michael immediately launched into a list of reasons why he no longer felt comfortable at Peter Stringfellow's Hippodrome. The lack of security in the VIP area was one. Oddly, this didn't come over as egotistical or pretentious. He wasn't yet a world-conquering solo artist, but Wham! were one of the most successful pop acts in Britain. It wasn't hard to imagine a queue of lithe boys and girls queuing to bother George as he struggled with his cocktail. He asked Mack where he might enjoy the rest of his evening in peace, and I almost suggested he join us in the basement. That would have been a bad idea. I was planning to play the long mix of the Sisters of Mercy's 'Alice' in a few minutes. Probably not his cup of tea. What's more, we didn't have a VIP area. Indeed, we only had one toilet.
George was friendly, bright and looked as though he was thoroughly enjoying his pop life - but he wasn't someone I particularly admired, so the meeting only made the smallest of impressions on me. Such is the lofty arrogance of youth. However, when celebrity visited our door once more, the impact was considerable.
From Abba to Hawkwind, I've enjoyed the music of hundreds of bands, but I've only ever had one 'favourite' band. The Clash. And one misty evening in Soho, as Mack and I debated the great issues of the day, Joe Strummer melted out of the shadows to say hello. This was around the release of 'Combat Rock' (an LP sitting on the turntable back at my squat at that very moment). Joe had taken the plunge and shaved the sides of his head, transforming a quiff into a wide mohican. I've rarely seen a picture of the man with his hair bleached, but I vividly recall him being peroxide blond that night. He was also wearing a spectacular, deep pink zoot suit, black t-shirt and white, battered brothel creepers. By any measure, he was the picture of cool.
'This is the guy who does the music downstairs', said Mack prodding my right shoulder. 'Yeah? Good work.' Joe replied. He wasn't asking me a question, just being non-committal. As far as he knew, I was the worst DJ ever to draw breath. But I took it as a compliment. Well, I would wouldn't I?
It's hard to recall the rest of the conversation. It was all directed at Mack and concerned people I didn't know. I do remember I was due back at my post in the club, but made a conscious decision not move until Joe did. This was the closest I'd ever been to one of my few heroes and I wasn't prepared to sacrifice a moment in his presence, even if my £5.00 was docked down to £4.50. Naturally, I had a thousand of questions to ask. And a million affirmations of love for his band, his songs and his suit. But I held my tongue. Even then I realised it would all spill out in the most excruciating, sycophantic and pathetic way. All too soon, Joe and Mack slapped each others' backs and Strummer prowled off into the thickening fog on Dean Street.
'That was Joe', said Mack. Unnecessarily.
'This is the guy who does the music downstairs', said Mack prodding my right shoulder. 'Yeah? Good work.' Joe replied. He wasn't asking me a question, just being non-committal. As far as he knew, I was the worst DJ ever to draw breath. But I took it as a compliment. Well, I would wouldn't I?
It's hard to recall the rest of the conversation. It was all directed at Mack and concerned people I didn't know. I do remember I was due back at my post in the club, but made a conscious decision not move until Joe did. This was the closest I'd ever been to one of my few heroes and I wasn't prepared to sacrifice a moment in his presence, even if my £5.00 was docked down to £4.50. Naturally, I had a thousand of questions to ask. And a million affirmations of love for his band, his songs and his suit. But I held my tongue. Even then I realised it would all spill out in the most excruciating, sycophantic and pathetic way. All too soon, Joe and Mack slapped each others' backs and Strummer prowled off into the thickening fog on Dean Street.
'That was Joe', said Mack. Unnecessarily.
