Delicious Poison: The Final Taste (1986-88)

Kirk Field downing the dregs 

of his most Delicious Poison 

 

'Waves form to break and suns rise to set ...'

 

This post is a continuation: to read part 1 - 

Delicious Poison: The First Sip (1981-85) - click here. 

 

 

I.

 

By early 1986, Kirk and I both found ourselves living back in Leeds ... 

 

The year started quietly (some might say ominously) with Delicious Poison playing a set at Haddon Hall to a virtually empty room. 

 

Their following gig, however, at a club called Adam and Eve's and promoted in the Yorkshire Evening Post, was one of their best: "The band gave a very loud, energetic, and much angrier performance than usual. No frills just the thrills, as people like to say." [1] 

 

Nevertheless, despite the band's slightly harder edge and the brilliance of new songs such as 'New Sun Rising', I found my enthusiasm for the project was waning - and I was growing tired of the entourage of losers that seemed to follow them everywhere; the Bromley Contingent they were not.   

 

Another birthday gig took place at Haddon Hall on June 7th, for which I had gifted Kirk a hand-painted 'New Sun Rising' T-shirt and which he wore on stage that night. Gordon [2] approached me after the show, offering £25 plus material expenses to outfit the rest of the band with similar shirts. 

 

I was slightly wary of getting too entangled in the band's inner workings again, but Kirk showed up at my door the following morning, and his persuasion won me over. I spent a whole day working on them, including a punky-looking unicorn design for guitarist Nick Ramshaw with the Delicious Poison slogan and song title (borrowed from the book by George Melly) 'Revolt Into Style' written underneath.  

 

At a time when the UK average wage was nearly £4 an hour, I should have asked Gordon for at least £50, but, I suppose, this is what's known as a labour of love, or an act of friendship. 

 

 

II. 

 

By the late summer, Kirk and I had relocated to London once more, for another assault upon the capital. 

 

On August 17th, we met up at the house he shared with the band in Tooting, not far from where they used to film on location for Citizen Smith [3]. That evening, fuelled by a bit too much whiskey, Kirk and I renewed vows of friendship and decided that we were, after all, two of a kind. Sadly, however, as the year wore on old differences resurfaced and our relationship remained somewhat fraught.  

 

A September set at the Rock Garden felt shaky; the band seemed nervous, perhaps intimidated by the London crowd. A few weeks later at a club in King’s Cross, the stakes felt higher. Gordon was talking about a potential Janice Long session [4], but the gig itself was another hit-and-miss affair. The room was mostly empty, save for a few friends, and I could see Kirk's frustration boiling over. I felt for him; despite all his hard work, something wasn't clicking [5]. 

 

For me, the breaking point came during a meeting with Kirk and Gordon at the GLO offices in October. As we discussed the band's image, the irreconcilable differences between my vision and theirs became impossible to ignore. At one point, for example, the idea was floated for Kirk to adopt a matador look. I suggested it would be far more provocative (and pagan) if he came out wearing horns to embody the spirit of the Minotaur instead. 

 

Neither Kirk nor Gordon seemed particularly amused by this. To break the silence that followed, I pitched an idea for a new song based on the story of Ariadne and of how we might incorporate Picasso's artwork. This, however, was rejected by Gordon as being a little too clever for the desired fanbase. 

 

The year ended with two more shows: one on December 6th at the Polytechnic of Central London and one six days later at the Fulham Greyhound, a pub renowned for its live music gigs. Let's just say that when Delicious Poison were good - as they were at the latter - they were very, very good; but when they were bad - as they were at the former - they were very, very bad. 

 

At the PCL gig the band looked tired and uncaring and were besieged by various technical problems to do with sound and lighting (which, to be fair, were beyond their control). If I hadn't felt a bond of loyalty to Kirk, I would probably have walked out. But I stayed - and even watched ten or fifteen minutes of the band they were supporting - the Blueberry Hellbellies. 

 

Not bad. And, as I noted in my diary (with echoes of Miss Brodie), for those who like this sort of thing, then this is the sort of thing they like. 

 

The Greyhound gig - the band's 50th - was much more fun and it was nice to see Kirk having a lot of fun (and being funny) on stage. He really should have been a stand-up comic rather than a singer and I remember once he suggested we form a comedy double act with the name Norfolk 'n' Good.    

 

 

III. 

   

1987: my new year's resolution was to try and keep my mouth shut as far as possible. 

 

Kirk, meanwhile, had decided to detoxify the band's name by making it less poisonous. From now on they would simply be billed as Delicious. They had their first gig of the year under this new name at the Marquee on 14 January and Kirk was excited about that - and about the emergence of what he called new pulse music that would set the future dancing to a different beat.

 

Retrospectively, I can see now that Mr. Field was remarkably prescient and that my failure to understand what he was talking about showed my own ignorance of (and fundamental lack of interest in) the direction in which youth subculture was moving. Almost ten years after the event, I was still obsessed with the Sex Pistols and Mclaren's great rock 'n' roll swindle. Kirk, however, was looking forward rather than back and the shortening of the band's name to Delicious was the first step in shedding the punk past for something more neon and euphoric. 

 

The Marquee gig was okay, but only okay. Despite intuitively sensing that old school rock as a guitar-driven band-oriented genre that involved songwriting and live performance was about to be superseded by house (i.e., electronic dance music characterised by the synthetic sounds of the Roland TB-303 and continuous DJ sets), for now Kirk was sticking with the boys in the band.   

 

 

IV.  

Didn't see much of Mr. Field for the next couple of months and when we did meet up for dinner at his place on March 7th, we didn't get on. No unpleasantries, but we bored one another. 

 

Despite that, we sat up talking until after 3am and Kirk confessed that, for the first time, he was making plans for a possible future post-Delicious (indicating that he felt Nick and Colin were holding him back). Perhaps that explains why the next gig - again at the Marquee (7 April) - was so appallingly bad ...

 

I wrote a scathing review in my diary afterwards, describing their sound as Americanised rock and their performance as tired, desperate, and clichéd. Left the venue feeling sad and disappointed and hoping that Kirk would call time on the band, remembering Malcolm's words from the Swindle about the need to put a dying horse out of its misery. 

 

Wrote a letter to Kirk telling him all this and received a reply a couple of weeks later essentially agreeing he had to make radical changes. Then, out of the blue, Colin Dodsworth (the bass player) rang me and asked if he could come over for a chat, to which I agreed. 

 

Unsurprisingly, he was less than happy with how things were going for the band and voiced a series of complaints not only about Kirk, but about the manner in which his own role was minimalised and marginalised. 'No one', he said, 'likes to feel that they could be replaced by a monkey'. Which, I suppose, is true. 

 

Didn't really know what to tell him (and, to be honest, didn't feel it was my place to advise him). It was clear he'd like to develop his own ideas in the future and so I simply wished him all the best (not mentioning that Kirk too was thinking of either quitting the group or sacking the other members of the band).    

 

Somewhat surprisingly, Delicious were still together for Kirk's 25th birthday gig on June 7th, at the Rock Garden - and, actually, it was a lot of fun. And they even had a couple of new songs! 

 

The thing that pleased me most, for Kirk's sake more than mine, was that a couple of members of the Porn Squad had made the journey down from Ulverston. They, along with several other old friends of Mr. Fields, formed the fan base of his punk band back in the late 1970s, Initial Vision. 

 

I think it tells us something significant when a person can command such love and loyalty and, it has to be confessed, Kirk's charm is such that even though I first met him over forty-five years ago - and even though I've not seen or spoken with him for almost thirty years - I still feel a lot of affection when I think of him or record these events here.         

 

 

V. 

 

Monday 3 August: another Delicious gig at the Marquee. By this point, there's not much more to say: it was very much just another show. The flyer the band produced to advertise it is reproduced below, alongside a Delicious Poison postcard from back in the day that I have kept all these long years.  

 

At the end of the month Kirk had decided the best thing for the band to do was release a single themselves (something he had previously long resisted doing). 'Delicious' b/w 'New Sun Rising' on a GLO financed label - Temptation Records - was originally scheduled for release in early November (1000 copies), but then put back to early in the new year. 

 

As far as I know, this never came to pass (or, if it did, I never received a copy). 

 

The year ended at the Limelight (22 December): it was a good night with new friends, but Delicious were like a group of strangers on stage, playing unknown (and unliked) material. Didn't get to speak with Kirk afterwards and the next time I saw him was in January 1988, in Mayrhofen, Austria, at the Scotland Yard pub, where he, Nick and Colin were now performing as the in-house band.

 

Without telling me any of the details, Kirk informed me that Delicious had officially broken up as a band (and that he wouldn't be having any future dealings with Gordon Lewis either). An inevitable ending and probably for the best. But I could tell Kirk was hurting, despite the brave face and the spin he was so good at putting on events. 

 

I noted in my diary with a mixture of envy, admiration, and amusement that Kirk 'planned to stay in Austria for as long as possible; hanging around with the ski bums; drinking hot chocolate, walking in the mountains, seducing the local girls, and only thinking about where to go and what to do next when he absolutely had to ...'  

 

It was a plan that, within two years, would lead Mr Field into a whole new world of adventure and he went on to become a defining voice of the UK rave scene, documenting and playing an active role in the very revolution he'd sensed coming back at the Marquee. 

 

Today, Kirk is a celebrated author and public speaker; his critically acclaimed memoir Rave New World was a tremendous (and much-deserved) success and I'm happy to know that, in a sense, the world has finally recognised the star I always knew him to be.  

 

 

 

   

Notes

 

[1] Quoted from an entry dated 24 Jan 1986 in The Von Hell Diaries 1980-89.  

 

[2] Gordon Lewis was effectively Kirk's manager. As mentioned in part one of this post, as the founder of the Gordon Lewis Organisation (GLO), he produced some of the most memorable pop videos of the period. By the end of the '80s, Lewis had opened a number of stylish café bars and clubs in Soho, London. 

      Today, he is perhaps best-known as an author; his book Secret Child (2015) was a Sunday Times bestseller and made into an award-winning short film in 2018, dir. Yewweng Ho. I still think he should have paid me more than a pony for the shirts. 

 

[3] Citizen Smith was a BBC TV sitcom (1977-1980), written by John Sullivan, and starring Robert Lindsay as Wolfie Smith, a would-be Marxist revolutionary and leader of the Tooting Popular Front. I was half-tempted to suggest that Kirk should adopt his look and start wearing an Afghan coat, Che Guevara T-shirt and black beret.   

 

[4] Janice Long's early evening Radio 1 show was well-known and respected for promoting music by indie and alternative bands.  

 

[5] To be fair, a second gig at the Rock Garden on 31 October - supporting Geno Washington and his band - went very well; a short, tight set with the brilliant new song 'Beautiful Friend'. Kirk was much more relaxed and made me laugh with his King of Siam impression, telling the crowd 'When I clap, you shall clap. When I cheer, you shall cheer. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera!'  

 

 

Readers who enjoyed this post, might want to check out his book, Rave New World: Confessions of a Raving Reporter (Nine Eight Books, 2023), or his latest, Planes, Trains & Amphetamines: Clubbing Holiday Confessions (Velocity Press, 2025). Both are available in bookshops, via Amazon, or from Kirk's website: click here. 

 

 

That Time I Met Mr Pickle ...

 

I. 

 

One of my favourite scenes in The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle (1980) is the closing animated sequence in which McLaren and his motley crew are all aboard the good ship Venus and Johnny Rotten, having been found guilty of collaboration, is forced to walk the plank. 

 

Abandoned by his shipmates, the singer finds himself literally all at sea where he is soon swallowed by a great white shark with the Virgin logo clearly visible on its fin [1].    

 

This scene replayed itself in my mind when, in 1983, the Virgin Group acquired Charisma Records (although it wouldn't be until 1986 that the latter was fully digested by the former; still maintaining at least a measure of independence until then). 

 

So, let us say that I was not a fan of Richard Branson and would laugh at Malcolm's stories about this hippie entrepreneur whom he vehemently disliked and derisively called Mr Pickle (either intentionally or mistakenly confusing the surname with that of an English food brand made by Crosse & Blackwell since 1922) [2].  

 

 

II. 

 

I first met Mr Pickle when, as a Charisma employee, I was sent an invitation by him and the directors of the Virgin Group to attend a party at the Manor, in Oxfordshire, to celebrate the first anniversary of Virgin Atlantic.  

 

The Manor, for those who might not know, was a recording studio housed in a 17th century Grade II listed building that had been bought by Branson in 1971, for £30,000, when he was only twenty-one years of age. It was where Mike Oldfield famousy recorded his precious Tubular Bells (1973) [3].

 

As pretty much everyone from Charisma was going to go, I decided I'd also (somewhat begrudgingly) accept Branson's invitation. And here, for those who may be interested, is my memory of the day based on an entry in the Von Hell Diaries dated 22 June, 1985 ... 

 

 

III. 

 

Unsure what to wear, I decided to go with the pink check suit I bought two years ago and which I've kept hanging in my closet - unworn - ever since. After my friend Andy arrived, we went over to pick Lee Ellen up from her place in Chelsea. Then cabbed it over to Kensal House (i.e., Virgin HQ), from where coaches transported everyone to the Manor. 

      Those of us from the Famous Charisma Label were segregated from the Virgin staff and we were seated as a group at the back of the bus. As Robin had kindly brought along several bottles of wine, however, no one seemed to mind about that and, amusingly, we were soon making twice as much noise as the Virginians on board (to be fair, perhaps that's why we were placed at the back of the bus).  

       The Manor was an impressive country pile (provided you have the capacity to be impressed by an assemblage of bricks) and set in very beautiful grounds that included trees, lakes, swimming pools, tennis courts, etc. Mr Pickle was there to meet and greet us personally as we got off the bus. 

      There were three large tents erected and Branson had laid on copious amounts of food and drink as well as various entertainments that one could sign up for, including horse riding and helicopter flights. But I was more interested in Shelley's friend Claire to be honest. Unfortunately, I ruined my chances with her when I split my lip open swigging champagne straight from the bottle. Note to future self: spitting blood à la Sid Vicious is probably not the most attractive look. 

      Ultimately, it was a dull event - even with the odd pop star in attendance - and the weather didn't help (typical English summer's day - wet and chilly). Glad when the coaches turned up to take us back to London. Mr Pickle dutifully came over to say goodbye and shake everyone's hand for a second time: very much Lord of the Manor. And very much not to be trusted ... [4]    

  

 

 

Not to the manor born ... Andy Greenfield and myself 

The Manor Studio (22 June 1985)

 

 

Notes

 

[1] I have written about this scene in a post published on 4 March 2024: click here. 

 

[2] Use of this nickname is confirmed by Paul Gorman in The Life and Times of Malcolm McLaren (Constable, 2020), p. 355. 

      Gorman's assessment of Branson is one I fully endorse; essentially, a very clever businessman from a privileged background who knew a good opportunity when he saw one and had "cultivated a knack of appropriating aspects of youth culture to his commercial gain" (ibid., p. 356). 

 

[3] The idea of building a luxurious home recording studio was still novel at this time; the Manor was only the third such studio in the UK. Oldfield recorded his debut studio album at the Manor in 1972-73 and it was the first album released on the Virgin Records label (25 May 1973). 

      In April 1995, after the takeover of Virgin Records by EMI, the Manor was closed as a recording studio and the building, listed for sale in 2010 at £5.75 million, is now the country home of some toff or other.   

 

[4] Lee Ellen, Robin, and Shelley all worked at Charisma (in the press office, accounts, and A&R department respectively). The final line is my recalling McLaren's famous advice given to Helen in The Swindle: 'Never trust a hippie'.   

 

 

Reflections on the Miners' Strike (1984-85)

With Arthur Scargill (Madame Tussauds, London, 1985)

 

 

I. 

 

I was surprised that the year long miners' strike, which began in the spring of 1984, wasn't more widely commemorated seeing as we've just passed the 40th anniversary of the ending of what was a significant event not just within the coal industry, but UK history. 

 

 

II. 

 

Led by the charismatic figure of Arthur Scargill, President of the National Union of Mineworkers, the strike was an attempt to prevent the closure of pits deemed by the Tory government under Margaret Thatcher as uneconomic (although the political goal was clearly to smash and humiliate the NUM, as well as weaken the wider labour movement; the fact that the miners had been able to bring down the Conservative government under Ted Heath in 1974 had neither been forgotten nor forgiven).

 

Of course, it was a battle they could not win; few major trade unions officially backed the NUM and some miners, particularly in the Nottingham area, continued to work throughout the dispute, thereby helping the government keep the lights on (what would D. H. Lawrence have made of this, one wonders; would he have supported the men of Eastwood, or would he have condemned the crossing of picket lines and called them scabs?).

 

I was living in Leeds when the strike started, so it very much felt as if it were unfolding on my doorstep, even if Cortonwood Colliery, where the strike kicked off, was based in South not West Yorkshire and the infamous Battle of Orgreave on 18 June 1984 took place 30-odd miles away in Rotherham [1].

 

In July, however, I moved to London: nevertheless, I followed events with interest and would regularly put what I could in the buckets held by those collecting money for striking miners and their families, for whom it was impossible not to feel tremendous sympathy and with whom, indeed, one felt a sense of working-class solidarity (my own father had gone down the mines after leaving school in Newcastle aged 14, in 1926, just a year after the Montagu pit disaster in Scotswood, in which 38 men and boys lost their lives).         

 

I also remember buying Arthur Scargill and the NUM Christmas cards, though I can't vouch that any of the money from such ever went to the strikers, as it should have done. 

 

And I still have (in a box in the loft) a copy of a 7" single by The Enemy Within called 'Strike' and which featured voice samples of Arthur Scargill. Released on Rough Trade Records in October 1984, I'm pretty sure that proceeds from sales of this did go to the Miners Solidarity Fund [2]. 

 

Despite my meagre efforts at showing support - and despite all the sacrifice made by the striking miners and their families - on 3 March, 1985, the dispute ended with a decisive victory for the Coal Board and the Tory government, opening the way for the closure of most of Britain's collieries [3]. 

 

 

III. 

 

In a diary entry, I noted:

 

This is a very dark day and a very sad day - almost one might call it tragic. The striking miners return to work on Tuesday. Many of them clearly feel betrayed. Rightly or wrongly, Scargill points the finger of blame at the TUC and the Labour Party.

      I suppose this marks the end of militant left-wing opposition to the Tories (at least for the foreseeable future) and Thatcher is gleeful and triumphant. Not sure this is an England I want to live in. Feel a lot of  admiration for the miners - proud men who deserve better. When asked on the news by a reporter what he intended to do now, Scargill simply smiled and said: 'Go home.' 

      Sadly, if his predictions about pit closures and the destruction of mining communities are even half correct, then a lot of people are going to find that might not be an option for them much longer. [4]

   

 

Notes

 

[1] For those who don't know, the Battle of Orgreave was, as the name indicates, an extremely violent confrontation between pickets and a huge army of bluebottles - some of whom were drafted in from as far away as London - at a British Steel Corporation coking plant. It was a pivotal event in the strike and, indeed, British history; one that changed industrial relations forever in the UK and how many people now view the police. 

[2] The enemy within is how Thatcher referred to the leaders of the miners' strike and other militant trade unionists. The single was written by Keith LeBlanc and produced by Adrian Sherwood and Keith LeBlanc. To play both sides of the single (the B-side is a mix of the A-side) on YouTube, click here. 

 

[3] What remained of the coal industry - in public ownership since 1947 - was sold off in December 1994 and by the end of 2015 the last of the deep-mining coal pits, The Big K (i.e., Kellingley Colliery in North Yorkshire), had closed. Prior to the 1984-85 strike there had been 175 working pits. Many of the coal mining communities have never recovered and some are now ranked amongst the poorest towns in the country. 

 

[4] Entry from the Von Hell Diaries (Sunday 3 March 1985). 

      This retrospectively surprising and slightly embarrassing mixture of sympathy, socialism, and sentiment, is still in evidence the next day, as I continue to heap praise on Scargill and approve of his walking off a TV-am set rather than share a sofa with Chris Butcher, a miner from Bevercotes Colliery - known as 'Silver Birch' - whom Scargill regarded (rightly as it turned out) as a scab and class traitor (Butcher was secretly being funded by the Daily Mail to travel around the country opposing the strike; he was also involved in legal action against the NUM).   

 

That Time I Met Neneh Cherry (An Extract from the Von Hell Diaries: 1 March 1985)

Cover of the Float Up CP album  

Kill Me in the Morning (1985) ft. Neneh Cherry

 

 

It was only when reading a review of Neneh Cherry's recently published memoir, A Thousand Threads (Fern Press, 2024), that I finally twigged that she had been the lead singer with a band that I'd been to see back in the spring of 1985 ...

 

Without wishing to get too bogged down in rock history, Float Up CP were essentially Rip Rig + Panic playing under a new name, but still peddling a kind of funky, jazz-infused post-punk sound, over which Miss Cherry added her own soulful-pop vocals; all a bit too experimental for my tastes, I'm afraid. 

 

Nevertheless, I was persuaded by Steve Weltman (Managing Director of Charisma Records) to do a spot of A&R work on his behalf and check out the above group. My diary entry for Friday 1 March, 1985, reads as follows:

 

 

Went to see Float Up CP. I wasn't paid any extra to do so, but as I had a car to take me to and from the gig - plus ten quid spending money for drinks - I can't complain, I suppose ...

      Dragged Andy [1] along, as he had called over with a (belated) birthday present - a copy of the Bhagavad Gita - and a bottle of wine. I suspect I'll enjoy drinking the latter more than reading the former, being as I am pagan-punk rather than Hindu-hippie in nature!

      The car arrived at 10pm. After initially taking us to the wrong venue, the driver eventually managed to get us to the gig on Holloway Road, just in time to see the band come on stage. They were, to be fair, actually quite good; especially the singer - a slightly plumpish, but very lively girl with a hitched up skirt and falling shoulder straps. Ultimately, however, despite her charms, they were not really my cup of tea.  

       After the show, spoke briefly with Nils [2], whom I like, as he's always friendly to me. Also managed to say a quick hello to the inimitable Jock Scott [3], who was up on the stage at some point during the gig. Then Andy and I walked all over North London trying to find a fucking phone box, so we could arrange our ride home. 

      Ended up in Kings X, where we walked into a Wimpy Bar 'to have a rubber bun' - as Poly would say [4]. Funny enough, we bumped into the singer from Float Up CP, so chatted with her until the car arrived. Turns out she was born in Sweden, but grew up from an early age in New York. Seemed like a really nice girl. And very sexy! Unfortunately, if she told me her name - which I'm guessing she probably did - I can't for the life of me recall it.     

       

 

Readers will not be surprised to discover that I did not go on to become either a great talent spotter or a great diarist; whatever unusual abilities I may or may not possess, it seems that hyperthymesia is not one of them [5]. 

 

As for Float Up CP ... well, they would go on to release a studio album nine months later - Kill Me in the Morning (Rough Trade Records, 1985); a track from which - 'Joy's Address' - released as a single the previous year - can be played by clicking here. 

 

And Miss Cherry would, of course, go on to become a huge solo star who remains very much respected and admired within popular culture (not only by fans and critics, but by her fellow artists). Her smash hit single 'Buffalo Stance', released in November 1988 from her debut album Raw Like Sushi (Virgin Records, 1989), which reached number 3 in the UK, but went all the way to number 1 in her native Sweden, can be played by clicking here.

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Andy Greenfield; longtime friend, who is now an internationally respected biologist, but who back then was a Ph.D student at St Mary's Hospital, Paddington.

 

[2] Nils Stevenson; former road manager of the Sex Pistols who had renewed his working relationship with Malcolm during the Duck Rock period. I'm still not quite sure if he was officially managing Float Up CP, or simply acting as a kind of mentor to the group.    

 

[3] Jock Scott; a punk performance poet and well-known man about town and face on many-a-scene. I wrote a post in memory of him published on 18 April 2016: click here.    

 

[4] Poly Styrene; singer-songwriter and front woman of X-Ray Spex. The line I'm quoting is from the song 'The Day the World Turned Day-Glo', which was released as a single in March 1978 (on EMI Records), reaching number 23 in the UK singles chart. 

 

[5] Hyperthymesia - also known as highly superior autobiographical memory - is an extremely rare condition that enables individuals to spontaneously recall a large number of life experiences in vivid detail. The term was coined by American neurobiologists Elizabeth Parker, Larry Cahill, and James McGaugh in 2006. I may spend an excessive amount of time thinking about my own past - one of the signs of hyperthymesia - but, unfortunately, I have the memory of a goldfish.

 

 

In Memory of Leonard Rossiter (1926-1984)

 Leonard Rossiter as Rigsby in Rising Damp (1974-78)

and as Inspector Truscott in Loot (1984)

 

I. 

 

As a Rising Damp aficianado, I was pleased to find family, friends, and fellow actors - including Don Warrington and Gabrielle Rose - sharing memories of Leonard Rossiter in today's Guardian.

 

As Catherine Shoard writes: 

 

"Four decades after Rossiter's death, his singular style - manic energy, machine-gun delivery, splenetic intelligence - continues to carry remarkable currency." [1]

 

And continues to make laugh. 

II. 

  

Rossiter died from a heart condition (hypertrophic cardiomyopathy), aged 57, whilst waiting to go onstage at the Lyric Theatre, London, where he was playing Inspector Truscott in a production of Joe Orton's dark farce Loot (1965), directed by Jonathan Lynne.

 

As Orton was a scandalous playwright much admired by Malcolm - and I was a fan of Rossiter's - I naturally felt obliged to attend a performance of Loot - which I did on Tuesday 2 October, 1984, just three days before Rossiter's death. 

 

I recorded in my diary at the time: 

 

LOOT: very good; very funny; very well-acted. Leonard Rossiter's performance was particularly enjoyable. I can see why Malcolm loves Orton: virulently anti-authority and all forms of moral hypocrisy; like an angrier (more contemporary) version of Oscar Wilde.

 

And on Monday 8 October I noted (somewhat prosaically, I have to admit): 

 

Distressing news: Leonard Rossiter died backstage a few days ago. A hugely talented comic actor, he'll be much missed.     

Thanks to TV and YouTube, however, we can still enjoy his work - although I smiled to see that Rossiter - who could be a deadly serious and impatient individual, who hated wasting time - had once described the former as merely: 'An advanced technical method of stopping people from making their own entertainment.'

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Catherine Shoard, '"It was hard not to stare at him all the time": inside the remarkable rise and shocking loss of Leonard Rossiter', The Guardian (5 October 2024): click here. 

 

 

Readers who enjoyed this post might like to see an earlier post (dated 15 October 2022) discussing the character of Rupert Rigsby, as played by Leonard Rossiter: click here. 

Memories of Summer '84: Charisma

Just another day in the press office at Charisma Records 

for Jazz and Lee Ellen (1984)

 

 

Entry from The Von Hell Diaries Tuesday 7 August 1984

By the time I got into Charisma this morning, Lee Ellen was already freaking out because Malcolm had cancelled three cover-interviews [1]. As she tried to re-arrange things, I was sent over to McLaren's office on Denmark Street with two cheques: the first for £5000 (a video fee) and the second for £20,000 (advance against the next album). 

 

I had also been given a letter, marked private and confidential, that I was instructed to hand personally to Malcolm. Unfortunately, there was no one in to receive either the letter or the cheques when I got to Moulin Rouge. However, on the way out I bumped into Malcolm and we both went up to his first floor office.

 

Clearly, the contents of the letter were not to his liking. And when Carrolle [2] arrived, he told her she couldn't have the half-day agreed, but would have to type up an immediate reply, which I was to then take back to Charisma. While they worked on the letter, I chatted with Andrea [3] who, by this time, had also arrived at the office. 

 

As well as the letter, Malcolm also gave me three tape cassettes and a small box containing 'valuable jewellery' that he wanted to have couriered to Nick Egan [4] in New York without the US customs knowing anything about it. I was told to wrap the things up carefully and if anyone asked at Charisma what the package contained I should tell them it was a rubber fish. 

 

For security, I was put in a cab by Carrolle - even though the walk from Denmark Street to Wardour Street is literally only a few minutes via Soho Square.              

 

Later, Lee Ellen called me and said I should meet her at 6 o'clock at the Soho Brasserie on Old Compton Street, where Malcolm was going to give an interview to someone from Time Out. Had a fun night chatting, eating sausages, and drinking Black Russians. The Melody Maker journalist Colin Irwin joined us - he's clearly in love with Lee Ellen, but then, to be fair, who isn't?

 

The terrible trio - Glen Colson, Jock Scott, and Keith Allen [5] - also briefly came over. Not sure I'm a fan of the latter; a bit too aggessive for my tastes, so glad when he and his pals headed off to the Wag Club. 

 

Found it ironic that, interview over, Talcy Macly of all people should tell me he's never seen anyone as pale as I am. He asked Lee Ellen what she'd being doing to me. 

 

He also advised that I needed to 'calm down' a little, saying that he'd never want to rob a bank with me as I made him a nervous wreck. 'Listen Jazz boy', he said, 'you've got to learn how to make people feel comfortable. Be a bit more cunning; don't show so much enthusiasm'. Having acted as my mentor-cum-career's advisor, he then launched into a long (but fascinating) monologue about Oscar Wilde. 

 

With regret, I left in time to catch the last tube back to Chiswick. Lee Ellen told me the next day that Malcolm kept her up until 2am with his stories and his complaints that pictures from a recent photo session had made him look like Michael Bentine. 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Lee Ellen Newman was the Press Officer at Charisma Records, a label founded in 1969 by Tony Stratton Smith and home to a few old hippies, such as Genesis, but also the label to which Malcolm McLaren was signed.

[2] Carrolle Payne was McLaren's Personal Assistant at Moulin Rouge (25, Denmark Steet). 

  

[3] Andrea Linz was a talented fashion student and McLaren's girlfriend and muse at the time. 

 

[4] Nick Egan is a visual artist and graphic designer who collaborated with Mclaren on many projects in the early and mid-1980s. 

 

[5] Glen Colson was a music publicist associated with Charisma Records; Jock Scott was a popular performance poet (about whom I published a post on 18 April 2016 in his memory - click here); Keith Allen was associated at this time with a group of British comic actors known as the Comic Strip. 

 

 

Musical bonus: Malcolm McLaren, 'Madam Butterfly (un bel di vedremo)', single released from the album Fans (Charisma Records, 1984) on 20 August 1984: click here. Video directed by Terence Donovan.

 

 

For further memories of the summer of 1984, click here and/or here.    

 

Memories of Summer '84: Emmerdale

Lorrie Millington taking a photo of me taking a photo of her 

as we walk in the West Yorkshire countryside

(8 June 1984)

 

 

Entry From The Von Hell Diaries: Friday 8 June 1984

 

Had arranged to go to the seaside with Miss Millington [1]. 

 

She was supposed to come round at 9.30 this morning, but, perhaps not all that surprisingly, there was still no sign of her two hours later: not pleased. 

 

Went over to her place in the afternoon to find out what had gone wrong. She said she had no money to go anywhere. Which is fair enough and she did seem genuinely sorry. It was decided we'd go for a bus ride instead into the West Yorkshire countryside.

 

So, on to the 655 Leeds-Bradford bus, alighting near a village called Esholt, which, apparently, is where they film Emmerdale Farm. 

 

First thing Lorrie wanted to do was take a piss: which she proceeded to do in the middle of a field, laughing. We'd both brought cameras in order to take some pictures of the day, but, unfortunately, I didn't think to record this slightly pervy pastoral scene. 

 

Lots of sheep and cows to look at. And lots of chickens running around (not least of all because Lorrie found it fun to chase them). Bought ice-creams in a village shop, then found a nice spot to lie in the sun and canoodle. 

 

On the bus home Lorrie decided to stick a match up her nose to make herself sneeze; not something I've seen anyone do before. 

 

Back at Bedlam [2], we ate some chips and frolicked on the bed. After which, I walked Miss Millington home. If not quite a perfect day of the kind imagined by Lou Reed - no sangria in the park - it had still been a happy one and I was glad I'd spent it with her.  

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Lorrie Millington: artist, model, dancer, writer; see the post dated 18 April 2015 written in her memory: click here. 

 

[2] Bedlam was the name of the house in the Burley area of Leeds that I lived in with friends Kirk Field and August Finer. See the post dated 9 April 2019: click here. 

 

 

Musical bonus: Lou Reed, 'Perfect Day', from the album Transformer (RCA, 1972): click here.

 

 

For further memories of the summer of 1984, click here and/or here.   

 

My Brush with Scientology

Results of the Standard Oxford Capacity Analysis [1]

which I completed on 9 November 1984

 

 

Watching an episode of Peep Show in which Jez and Super Hans join a religious cult [2], reminded me that I was once persuaded to take a free personality test administered by the Church of Scientology ...

Friday 9 November 1984 [3]

 

Assured that it wouldn't take more than twenty minutes to complete and that I'd have the results within the hour - and as it's always amusing to discover how others see one - I agreed. Of the 200 multiple choice questions, I answered 198 and left two blank; one that was too stupid to even consider and one concerning my voting habits (as an anarchist, that's not a political process I participate in).  

      Afterwards, I went to Dillons to look for a book on fairy tales by Jack Zipes, recommended to me by Malcolm. On the way back, I stopped to pick up my test and was given a brief explanation of the results (all conveniently plotted on a graph) by a friendly (though somewhat earnest) young woman who said, amongst other things, I was depressed, nervous, overly critical, and irresponsible. 

      All of these things may very well be true, but I begged to differ with her conclusion that I was in need of urgent attention - although everyone at Charisma seemed to think that was probably the case, particularly Jon, who found it all very amusing.     

 

      

Notes

 

[1] The Standard Oxford Capacity Analysis is a long list of questions (each of which can be answered yes, no, or maybe) purporting to be personality test and administered for free by the Church of Scientology as an important part of its global recruitment process. 

      However, it is not a scientifically recognised test and has been criticised by numerous professional bodies. The results of the test are invariably negative, as might be expected.

 

[2] Peep Show, episode six of series five; 'Mark's Women' (dir. Becky Martin, 2008).

      Jez and Hans are busking opposite The New Wellness Centre operated by a mysterious new religious movement (don't call it a cult). Deciding that it will be warmer in the Centre and that it might also be fun to laugh at the freaks, they go inside, only to then sign up as fervent new members. Click here and here for a couple of clips on Youtube.  

 

[3] This is (a slightly revised) entry from The Von Hell Diaries (1980-89). 

      Just to clarify: Dillons was a famous Bloomsbury bookshop (founded by Una Dillon in 1936); Jack Zipes is an American professor of German literature and cultural studies (the book I wanted was Breaking the Magic Spell: Radical Theories of Folk and Fairy Tales (1979); the Malcolm that I mention is Malcolm McLaren; Charisma was a famous independent record label based in Soho; Jon is Jon Crawley, director of Charisma Music Publishing.  

 

Memories of Killing Joke (1984 - 1987)

Killing Joke in their mid-80s splendour

(L-R: Geordie Walker / Paul Raven / Jaz Coleman / Paul Ferguson) 

 

A correspondent writes: 

I got the impression from a recent post [1] that you were something of a Killing Joke fan back in the mid-1980s and I was hoping you might expand on this - did you, for example, ever see them live in this period, when, in my view, they were at their very best? 

 

Well, as a matter of fact, I did see them live on at least three occasions; as attested to by the following entries in the Von Hell Diaries (1980-89) ...

   

 

Sunday 1 Jan 1984

Hammersmith Palais: felt a bit like a hippie event with people sitting on the floor. Having said that, there were some fantastic looking individuals amongst the assembled freaks and morons. The support band were the March Violets: who were shit. An inferior Sisters of Mercy (who are also shit, by the way). Is there something in the water in Leeds?

      There was also a young male stripper prior to Killing Joke making their entrance on to the stage. All the punks began to pogo as if on cue (to the latter, not the former). To be honest, the set got a bit dull half-way through; I suspect that all gigs are at their best in the first ten minutes with the initial release of energy. 

      Mostly, the group played old songs and I was a bit miffed that they didn't play any of my favourite tracks from Fire Dances (although they did do a rousing version of 'The Gathering' as an encore). Jaz Coleman [2] is a captivating performer. The rest of the band are essentially just solid musicians (albeit ones who look the part and know how to create a magnificent noise). 

 

 

Sunday 3 February 1985

 

Off with Andy [3] to see Killing Joke at the Hammersmith Palais once again ...

      Lots of punks out and about on the streets of West London - and lots of police to keep 'em in line. Felt like a mug having to queue up for tickets. Met Kirk [4] inside as arranged, though he fucked off to watch the show from the balcony with some video director friend of his. A couple of support bands: Heist and Pale Fountains; neither of whom were much cop. Killing Joke came on to all the usual fanfare - and Gary Glitter's 'Leader of the Gang'. 

      The set was made up of tracks from the new album - Night Time - and the first two albums (nothing from Revelations or Fire Dances). Became separated from Andy and made my way to the front. Got so hot that I seriously thought I was going to spontaneously combust (though probably sweating too much for that). Brilliant night: almost tempted to describe it as a (neo-pagan) religious experience - song, dance, and Dionysian frenzy. Even Andy enjoyed it (I think).   

 

 

Sunday 28 September 1986

 

Back to the Hammersmith Palais for what seems to be becoming an annual event in the company of Killing Joke. Not a bad show, but nowhere near as good as last year. It also felt like a much shorter set; one which opened with 'Twilight of the Mortal' and closed with 'Wardance'.  

      Most - if not all - of the songs were from the first, fifth and (yet to be released) sixth album. The new tracks sounded great - and Jazz looked amusingly grotesque as he blew kisses to his brothers and sisters - but the performance never really took off. And so, I went home feeling a little disappointed.      

 

 

Finally, it might also interest my correspondent (and other readers) to know that I once met Jaz Coleman, at Abbey Road Studios:

 

 

Friday 7 August 1987

 

Lee Ellen [5] rang this morning: she said if I got over to Virgin by 1 o'clock, then she'd take me with her to the studio where Killing Joke were recording and introduce me to Jaz Coleman (having reassured him that I wasn't some lunatic fan). 

      Jaz was much smaller in person than expected and had strangely feminine hands, with long, slim fingers. He also dressed in a disconcertingly conventional manner. Geordie, the good-looking guitarist, was there, but the rest of the band, apparently, had been fired.

      Jaz played tapes of the new material (just the music - no vocals); sounded good (quasi-symphonic). He said the new album would be called Outside the Gate - which is a great title [6] - and that it would bring the Killing Joke project to perfection. After completing it, he planned to emigrate to New Zealand. 

      Mr. Coleman also took great pride in showing me parts of a book he'd been working on for eight years and we talked, very briefly, about D. H. Lawrence's Apocalypse (which he liked) and Yeats's Vision (which he didn't like). 

      Before leaving, Jaz expressed his desire to converse at greater length one day and I very much look forward to that (should such a day ever in fact arrive) [7].   

 

Notes

 

[1] I'm guessing the post referred to was 'Musical Memories' (30 Aug 2023): click here - although I do mention Jaz Coleman and Killing Joke in several other posts on Torpedo the Ark. 

 

[2] Jaz Coleman; lead singer with post-punk British band Killing Joke.

 

[3] Andy Greenfield; friend and, at this time, a Ph.D student at St Mary's Hospital, Paddington.

 

[4] Kirk Field; friend and, at this time, lead singer and lyricist with the band Delicious Poison. 

 

[5] Lee Ellen Newman; friend and, at this time, Deputy Head of Press at Virgin.  

 

[6] In fact, I thought this was such a great title that I later borrowed it for my Ph.D - although the phrase outside the gate can be found in Nietzsche and D. H. Lawrence, and is also often used in occult circles.

 

[7] It hasn't so far. 

 

 

Although there were bootleg audio recordings made of all three gigs discussed above and these are now available on YouTube, they are of such poor quality that they don't give a fair representation of just how good a live band Killing Joke were (and to diehard fans still are). Readers are therefore invited to click here to watch a performance recorded live in Munich, at the Alalabamahalle, on 25 March 1985, for broadcast on German TV.     

 

Dinner with Malcolm at L'Escargot

Malcolm McLaren enjoying a glass of wine in 1984 [1].

 

 

I.

L'Escargot is London's oldest - arguably finest and most famous - French restaurant [2].

 

Housed in a mid-18th century Georgian townhouse and located in the heart of Soho, L'Escargot was established by snail-loving Georges Gaudin, a painted sculpture of whom still sits astride a giant snail outside the restaurant to this day (see image below).

Ella Alexander - no relation - provides an excellent description in a review piece for Harper's Bazaar:

 

"If L'Escargot were a person, it would be a wealthy French dandy never seen without his cane, cravat or cigar. London's oldest restaurant is a bastion of Soho decadence, where red velvet, chandeliers and jacquard curtains still reign. It's as far from modern luxe as you can imagine, which is all part of its charm." [3]

 

Regrettably, I've only had the pleasure of dining there once - almost 40 years ago - when L'Escargot was owned by husband and wife team Nick Lander and Jancis Robinson, and managed by Elena Salvoni, widely recognised as one of the greatest maître d's of the time and known fondly by regulars as the Queen of Soho [4]. 

 

But it was a memorable night for me - not so much because of the food (mushroom soup followed by pheasant), but because of the company; for it was one of the few times I accompanied Malcolm McLaren for dinner and got to enjoy his unique genius in a more relaxed setting than the office on Denmark Street ...

 

 

 II.

 

Note: the following account is based on an entry in the Von Hell Diaries dated Tues 27 Nov 1984. 

 

Myself and Lee Ellen - the Charisma Records Press Officer - were supposed to be going for a quick bite to eat and then to the theatre. But whilst dropping off some new photos that required his approval, Malcolm insisted that we go for dinner with him and a friend who designed rubber jewellery in the shape of fish (and who, according to Malcolm, was in the IRA).

 

After a brief discussion, it was decided we'd go to L'Escargot ...

 

Malcolm was in a very buoyant and - even by his standards - exceedingly talkative mood; he was pleased with a film made for The South Bank Show that was soon to air on TV [5] and he was looking forward to escaping the muddy hole of London and starting a number of new film projects - such as Fashion Beast - in the US. 

 

Nothing was happening any more in London and any up and coming young rascal who wanted to do something radical, should, he said, relocate either to New York, Leningrad, or Australia. 

 

Other topics of conversation (by which I mean McLaren monologue) included: the history of the English music hall; famous Victorian scandals involving the British Royal Family; the influence of Jack Zipes on contemporary readings of the fairy tale; why fascism is an ever-present danger and England in the 1980s resembles Weimar Germany in the late 1920s.  

 

Malcolm was disappointed that I had to leave early - though it was nearly 1am - and told me I was a drongo for living way out west in Chiswick and should move to Bloomsbury as soon as possible. 

 

However, he did confess that whilst an art student he dated a great big fat bird who lived in Turnham Green (he also told me that at around this time he'd shot up the Spanish Embassy with a machine gun in order to protest the Franco regime, but I have my doubts about the veracity of this latter tale) [6].  

As Malcolm and Tom walked off into the Soho night, Lee Ellen and I got a taxi to Sloane Square. Walked her home and then made my way back to Chiswick. Bed at around 3am, but couldn't sleep as I felt sick - the sign, so they say, of a good evening. 

www.lescargot.co.uk

 

Notes

 

[1] Unfortunately, in an age before smart phones, no photos were taken on the night at L'Escargot that I reminisce about here. However, this image of McLaren - screenshot from The South Bank Show (see note 5 below) - was taken only a few weeks earlier in New York and he wore the same suit on the night I dined with him in Soho.

 

[2] L'Escargot, 48, Greek Steet, Soho, London W1. The restaurant is currently closed for refurbishment, but is due to re-open on 10 May 2023.

 

[3] Ella Alexander, 'L'Escargot, London: How London's oldest French restaurant kept its allure 90 years on', Harper's Bazarre (29 June 2017): click here. 

      It's easy to understand from Alexander's description why L'Escargot would be such a popular hangout for actors, artists, and fashionistas. And whilst I'm sure McLaren liked the place, I think he found the history of nearby Kettner's - founded in 1867 - far more exciting, and used to love telling stories of how the Prince of Wales would dine there with his mistress Lillie Langtry, whilst Oscar Wilde entertained young boys in the rooms above. It was in Kettner's that he also once encouraged me to smash a window.

 

[4] Born in Clerkenwell, in 1920, to parents from Northern Italy, Elena Salvoni died in March 2016, aged 95. Having started work aged 14, at Café Bleu in Soho, she devoted her life to hospitality, ending her career at L'Etoile, also in Soho, where she continued to work even after her 90th birthday. 

      Readers who are interested can find a nice feature on Elena published in the Evening Standard (29 April 2010): click here.  

 

[5] See the recent post 'When Melvyn Met Malcolm (A Brief Reflection on The South Bank Show Episode 178)' - click here.

 

[6] Who knows, maybe it's true ... As Paul Gorman reminds us, McLaren attended several political rallies and demonstrations as an art student in the 1960s, protesting against the war in Vietnam, the apartheid regime in South Africa, etc. He was even arrested, aged 20, for burning the American flag outside the US Embassy on 4 July 1966. 

      See The Life and Times of Malcolm McLaren, (Constable, 2020), pp. 71-72. 

 

 

From the Office of Malcolm McLaren

 

I. 

 

Whilst rummaging through a box of what I call treasures and others label junk, I came across some stolen stationery from Malcolm McLaren's first floor office at 25 Denmark Street ...

 

This included a few sheets of headed paper with the names of the two limited companies which McLaren traded under post-Glitterbest [1]; Tour D'Eiffel Productions and Moulin Rouge.     

 

The latter incorporates the figure of a can-can dancer into its logo, whilst the former includes a comic character who appears to have been taken from a saucy postcard. 

 

Both speak of McLaren's Francophilia, or, more precisely, his long fascination with the French capital; something I've discussed in an earlier post published on Torpedo the Ark [2]. And they also tell us something of his playful spirit and joie de vivre.  

 

 

II. 

 

According to biographer Paul Gorman, McLaren was working out of the office on Tin Pan Alley from the early spring of 1980 until moving full-time to LA in 1985 [3]. 

 

This was an incredibly creative period in which McLaren not only managed Bow Wow Wow, oversaw Worlds End and Nostalgia of Mud, but developed his own solo career as a recording artist - releasing Duck Rock in 1983 and Fans the following year.

 

I first went to the office on 30 March, 1983, having been invited to call up by Nick Egan [4] the day before (I was attempting to arrange a six-week work attachment as part of a degree course on critical theory, art and media):

 

 

Finally met Carrolle [5]: she looked great dressed in a McLaren-Westwood outfit with a big death or glory belt buckle holding things together; reddish-purple hair; multiple earrings. Very friendly; an East End girl. 

      Malcolm wasn't there, but the two black Americans hanging around were, apparently, the World's Famous Supreme Team [6] - so that was kind of amusing.

      Admired the large 'Zulus on a Time Bomb' [7] poster on the wall - next to a map of the world and some old movie posters, including one for the Elvis Presley film Love Me Tender [8].   

      Nick Egan arrived - he also looked great; very tall, slim, punky blonde hair, wearing striped trousers, a big jumper and a Buffalo-style sheepskin coat. He introduced me to a photographer, Neil Matthews, and gave me some names and numbers to call. This included Lee Ellen, the press officer at Charisma Records, who he was sure could find me something to do (unfortunately, he and Malcolm couldn't help directly, as they were going to be in New York).

      Even though Malcolm wasn't there in person - he had something wrong with his ear - it was clear everything revolved around him; Malcolm says ... Malcolm wants ... Malcolm needs, etc. That's understandable, as he's the star of the show, but it does reduce everyone else to the status of a satellite. 

      Left the office feeling happy. Went for a coffee on Old Compton Street. [9]   

 

Fourteen months later, however, and everything was rapidly coming to an end; the roof had fallen in at Charisma Records - literally and metaphorically, Tony Stratton-Smith having sold the company to Richard Branson - and McLaren had relocated to Hollywood, leaving me and Carrolle to close the office at 25 Denmark Street once last time ...

Carrolle starts her new job tomorrow. I went over to help her shut up shop so to speak; took us several hours to take down shelves and pack everything away - books, posters, papers ... etc.

      Although Carrolle was upset, she laughed when she heard from Malcolm on the phone, complaining about an old biddy who had been appointed as his secretary at Columbia Pictures and who was driving him up the wall. Whilst I'm sure Malcolm will have fun in LA, I suspect he'll miss London. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if he returned sooner rather than later. The latter might be a muddy hole, as he says, but he's very much a Londoner at heart [10].

      Carrolle let me have the large map of the world off the wall as a souvenir. I also grabbed a copy of the Bow Wow Wow single 'Louis Quatorze' that was lying around. Left the office feeling sad: in many ways it really is the end of an era. [11]    

Notes

 

[1] Glitterbest - the Sex Pistols era management, publishing and production company founded by McLaren and his lawyer, Stephen Fisher, as co-director - went into receivership in February 1979, after Johnny Rotten successfully took legal action against the company.

[2] See 'Notes on Malcolm McLaren's Paris' (21 May 2020): click here. 

 

[3] See Paul Gorman, The Life and Times of Malcolm McLaren, (Constable, 2020), p. 451.

      Whilst Gorman mentions that McLaren was trading from 25 Denmark Street as Moulin Rouge Ltd, he says nothing of Tour D'Eiffel Productions Ltd. It would be interesting to know which company was registered first and how they differed (if they differed at all).    

 

[4] Nick Egan is a visual design artist and film director who collaborated with McLaren on many projects during the period we are discussing here. Probably he came up with the letterhead designs shown here.        

 

[5] Carrolle was Malcolm's PA and office manager at 25 Denmark Street. We had corrresponded prior to this first meeting.

 

[6] The World's Famous Supreme Team was an American hip hop duo consisting of Sedivine the Mastermind and Just Allah the Superstar. They found international fame when McLaren enlisted them for his 1982 single 'Buffalo Gals' and then featured samples from their radio show on Duck Rock (1983).

 

[7] 'Zulus on a Time Bomb' was the B-side of McLaren's second single 'Soweto', released in February 1983 from the album Duck Rock (Charisma Records, 1983), written by Trevor Horn and Malcolm McLaren.

 

[8] Love Me Tender was Elvis's first film; dir. Robert D. Webb (1956), starring Richard Egan and Debra Paget. It was named after the smash hit single of the same title (which Presley performs in the film, along with three other songs). 

 

[9] Entry from the Von Hell Diaries dated Wednesday 30 March 1983. 

   

[10] Indeed, even McLaren's vision of Paris was one shaped by London. As he says in the song 'Walking with Satie': "I first saw Paris in Soho when I was thirteen". This track can be found on the 1994 album entitled Paris. 

      McLaren would also explain to Louise Neri that he was fascinated by the ways in which England influenced French culture and history. See Paul Gorman, The Life and Times of Malcolm McLaren, p. 433. 

 

[11] Entry from the Von Hell Diaries dated Monday 13 May 1985.