In the summer of 1974 Des walked into the tiny bar of the Clavadel Hotel in Guildford, England. And into my life.
He has been my friend for 44 years.
We hit it off immediately. Music, the passion for records, the love of lyrics, the mindblowing musicians of the ’70’s, we loved it all. We spent hours and hours poring over record sleeves and lyric sheets, soaking in the names of the players, the instruments, the words. We laughed. We drank. We laughed some more.
When I had my worst breakdown, in 1994, we spoke for hours and hours. When he rang me from a railway bridge in 2012, I called the police and drove across London, and got him down. When he asked me for money, I gave it to him. When I asked him for help, he held me.
On Sunday night, my brother called to tell me that Des was in hospital. On Monday morning I was on the doorstep of the hospital, bleary eyed, exhausted. They let me see him. He was yellow, haggard, thin, old.
He had no idea I was there.
Years ago, he sent me a list of people to be contacted ‘in » Continue Reading.