Stories.

She got me a gig at Hull, me and Phil, 'Hundred End', we were called. It was a place outside Southport that used to have a station and now the train just slowed down in case anyone flagged it then it would stop. That's what Phil told me. We did this gig, proper gig, paid, music and poetry, magic, Phil was drinking Guiness and cider for one and tenpennce, pig in shit. I blew it when I started doing rip off Adrian Hendry, he'd been there the week before. Still, over all, great.

Elizabeth lived in Halls, the girls on the ground floor kept their windows unlocked so guys could climb in and nip up to their girls rooms. No men after ten p.m. In the morning I'd come out and see shoes cacked in mud on all the windowsills of the ground floor.

Elizabeth consumed my mind, she was in Hull and I was in Wimbledon, opposite ends of the universe to me. I was more or less a virgin when I met her, one incident standing up in a back entry at sixteen and a few dry humps was about it. My first day at Wimbledon, when I got my grant, I bought a scooter, an 'Innocenti', quite appropriate. I set  off up the A1 falling off at every roundabout, no helmet, no goggles or proper coat, after about ten hours I got to Doncaster and broke down, slept in a bike shed. Next day pushed it to a scooter and bike shop they took off the side panel, put the cap back on the spark plug, and off I went. I arrived in Hull with my hair standing straight up and bright red ringed eyes.

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In the photo, the lovely Irene, a Durham lass with a voice that would melt your heart. She thought all men only had one leg as a kid, because of her dad. They came to stay when I was at Kensington and we had a bit of a scene. Irene couldn't hack the girl on girl thing so Elizabeth was a bit left out, Irene went, that was the end of it. It threw Elizabeth's confidence for a while and arsehole me didn't help much. It was the 70's.