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Tuesday, May 31, 2005

U2, David Bowie, Lou Reed, Boris Karloff, Soho, Sleeping Rough, Big-Bosomed Swedes, Pigeons

Wembley Stadium, June 1987.


A hectic week. Go to two concerts in 6 days - U2 and David Bowie. I arrive for the U2 concert expecting the gig to start at two o'clock, forgetting about support acts, so I'm thinking I'm gonna be stranded in London for the night. Go to the toilets, and there's a queue of young women waiting to use the cubicle. Kinda difficult...er, performing, with females watching. I turn round and say, "What are you all looking at?"...Yeah, an embarrassing moment. I hear a Lou Reed record of 'Walk on the Wild Side', only it's not a record, it's Lou live. So, a surprise. U2 were good in those days. 'Help' has me blubbering. Nice atmos. Lose a binocular lens. Leave the stadium, and walk through Neasden trying about a dozen payphones, to call home, all knackered. Find some strange shop owner, use his phone, chuck him some money and scarper. Thought Boris Karloff had died...Walk to the centre of London, and find my coach ticket has gone, and I've no money to buy a replacement. I nod off on a park bench, thought I'd try this sleeping rough lark. Buy a red pencil in the morning and get away with a passable forged ticket. Home.

Bowie is next up. Walking through London it's chucking it down. My London A-Z is pulped. Bloke says: "There can't be much more to come from up there." Obviously not a prophet, with global warming and all that just about to make it big time. At the concert, get booted in the back of the leg by a drunken Australian, and Bowie does his 'Let's Dance' period, so no enjoy, really. Fancy another night on the tiles. Walk through Soho, out of curiosity, and get more than I bargained for. Some girl about 16 asks me: "Do you want a gel?" Not sure what a gel is, then the penny drops. I politely decline. Sad experience. Anyway, I'm off to Central London, fancy Green Park this time. Settle down okay, but see some bloke spying on me. A few minutes later a police van comes whizzing into the park, and a copper and WPC come out. Pleasant enough, ask me if I've got any tattoos, say I can't stay there, etcetera, what with Buckingham Palace being close by, and possible intruders. I find I've lost a tenner. The park bench beckons. Two big-bosomed Swedish girls say 'hello', and I end up back at their flat to fix their plumbing. I wake up finding myself tied up, with a satsuma in my mouth, in some grotty hotel. My last memory is of an old pigeon on my shoulder looking for food, and Ken Livingstone wants to ban 'em. Shame!