Silver Tooth of a Wildcat.

03JUN10

There’s a fine hairline between a beach bum and a sheepdog so a sprucing was a fine choice. There’s a little place next door to my work in Chiswick that shapes the curliest perm (fit for a 70s footballer) – which turns out dresses the hair of two times ballon d’or winner Kevin Keegan. Although, I still can’t work out why I’ve still got two left feet. It’s hard to put a name on my job title so there’s no point going into any nitty-gritty elaborations of what my work entails but rest assured, good charm and a Simon Cowell smile would relive any guilt of creative retardation. A perfect cup of tea and an abridged version of the local rag also help.

Teacher friends Frenchy and Mas were basking at the Royal Courts where war campaigners were renovating the rooftops and sixty year old hippies were grooming wise students. Frenchy, Baloo the bear from Jungle Book (always smiling), settled my Greenpeace heart with sweet fresh beer and stuck a crisp cigarette where my placard mouth should be. He had planned a night on a shoestring.

If it is narrow minded to say ‘I hate the French’ then is it narrow minded to say ‘I love the French’ and shouldn’t one just as condemned as the other? The Angel bars didn’t offer such the holiest of first introductions to blonde primary school teachers and a lover. It was more like a northern monkey taking to ice for the first time (no magic vines). This topped with an unexpected reunion with past school friends, only cemented my belief that you don’t need to strive to collect your change in mint condition.

A couple of hours later, with the help of a moment of clarity, I caught my reflection in the glint of a severely wiped flip knife. A silver tooth of a wildcat - the size of my middle finger. I nearly freaked until I realized the dangling Lucky Strike, cusped by my dry lips, had been given to me as a gift from a 7ft biker by the name of Longman. I had previously met him a bar (aptly named Ladybird) on Upper Street and had just questioned him about his ‘colours’ before he suddenly grabbed me by the elbow and carried me outside.

He told me ‘you make yourself whenever you teach yourself. No one can make who you are but only encourage to.’ With good charm and Simon Cowell smile, and a email address scrawled onto a torn page of Hunter S Thompson’s Hell’s Angels we both parted into the morning where God had posted novelty cards to roads in starting blocks - when cabbies and drunks shared that quiet moment of a contented haze.