In 1982 I took time off from working the door of the Bains-Douches to visit friends in London. They ravved about the Camden Palace and and the New Romantic scene. We were granted entry, but once inside I realized that at 30 I was the oldest person in the club. Leigh Bowery was on stage. I felt extremely out of place in my declasse New Wave grey suit and retreated to the bar.
After sipping my gin-tonic someone lisped to me, “You look like you could use a friend. Want to come to the bathroom and do some blow. My name is Steve. Steve Strange.”
“But of course.” I replied to the foppishly attired Romantic.
Passing through the crowd, everyone called his name.
“I’m no one, I just run this place.
Inside the toilet stall, he hauled out Bolivian flake and we huffed lines.
Someone banged on the door.
“Oh fuck off.” Steve sounded like a wicked 007 and I laughed, as we exited to face a well-built square. He looked like a copper, but said, “I’m a Royal Marine. I know what you were doing. Cocaine. I should arrest you.
” “Wouldn’t you rather do a bump with me?”
“Sure.”
Steve waved me off saying, “See you at the bar in ten.”
And I felt so at home.
I danced to Boy George and stayed till closing, after which Steve’s entourage retired to his flat and finsih off his blow.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to move on you. You’re not my type.”
Ah, the 80s.
Lovely man, Steve Strange, a friend to strangers.