Towards the end of the decade I spent much of my time in London. My uncle/brother was closely involved with a member of the Qatari Royal Family whose main occupations were shopping and clubbing so, 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 every 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 hands with the girl on the pretext of slipping, heels
and polished concrete, always wet. Me, dextrous as a thief,
safe as a bank vault guides her pliant virtue to Peppermint Park
to hang like we meant it, ignoring red skies going dark
in our crushed green velvet chairs, pink piping,
we tipped like notables and hoovered up cocktails
while sparklers struck 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 . . .
© Rod McRiven 2017 | Photograph from the Blitz series by Rivenrod published by Barre Meunier 1980
RIP Keith Moon b: August 23 1946 d: September 7, 1978 ~ Drummer, The Who