The age of Disco.
Towards the end of the the ’70s I lived in London. My brother was in love with a Qatari prince whose main occupations were shopping and clubbing. As an adopted member of his entourage and with all expenses billed to the royal account, no libidinous caper was beyond the wish of this healthy young man.
Before a night on the town, we would meet at Peppermint Park then go on to Tramp, Sombrero, The 100 Club or Ronnie Scott’s.
Hot to trot to Ronnie Scott’s . . .
holding her hand on a pretext
of slipping heels on polished concrete, always wet.
Me, dextrous as a thief, safe as a banker’s vault,
guided her pliant virtue to Peppermint Park
to hang like we meant it and slit our eyes at red skies bleeding dark,
thighs pricked by crushed green velvet, pink piping swivel stools,
we tipped like notables and hoovered cocktails
stuck with sparklers striking fireworks she snuffed with her nails . . .
At Peppermint Park, in a booth in the dark, Keith Moon knifed tapas and salad with Annette, Linda and Paul. That was the night he died . . . RIP Keith Moon b: August 23 1946 d: September 7, 1978 ~ Drummer, The Who
© Rod McRiven 2017