September 22nd 2018.
Mik T has his left hand wrapped in swathes of bandage from his knuckles to his wrist. Typically of him it is messy & grubby & badly applied. He also jots betting tips on it in pen. He says he has a sure winner at the 4.30 at Brighton & it’s called, rather sadly, ‘Bob Dylan’s Dead.’
September 23rd 2018.
Tony B is ill. We are in a huge warehouse stocked with boxes that rise to the ceiling. He wants me to tattoo his forehead. I reluctantly agree. He reads words from a book (that he’s written?) & I mark them down in my neatest script on his head. Unfortunately I notice that I’ve spelled something wrong. I carry on but wonder what he’ll say when he realises.
September 24th 2018.
George NX always knows how to deal with situations. He has a gift for seeing the less obvious.
He is on the phone, blagging his way into a club or a meeting. He speaks in pigeon English, pretending he doesn’t understand. I am stood in hysterics at his side. Eventually I hear the tiny voice at the end of the line say, exasperated, exhausted, “OK! Just come!”
nickreeves 