Throughout the Seventies, David Bowie did not have fans. He had acolytes, disciples, obsessives; teens and 20s who would buy every record, watch every move, copy his clothes, his haircuts – the upswept flaming bush of Ziggy Stardust, the soul-boy quiff of Young Americans – his attitude.

Tony, a student friend of mine, idolised David Bowie. Back in the late Sixties, before the world at large even knew who Bowie was, Tony had even met him once or twice. Bowie was living in suburban Beckenham at the time – an aspirant pop singer, dabbling in mime, kabuki, the visual arts – running an arts project, and a couple of times Tony was invited back to Bowie’s home to hang out, smoke a joint or two and talk.

 

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