Bowie Memories

Bowie Memories
A little known period in david Bowies life was following his Himalayan cocaine mountaineering yet before his deep sea heroin submarine mission to Berlin. Bowie, strung out and literally mad and weighing just two stone, the shape shifting übermensch turned up in our wrestling gym in Keighley. The heady days of World of Sport were done. Boughs Grandstand had finally crushed Dickie Davis. Legends like MacManus, Kendo Nagasaki and Catweazle, once walked as gods, now humbled, signed on like the rest of us, in pre Thatcher Britain. Their stage wear now in tatters, they braved the northern winds. Heroes in spangled trunks, stumbled from black and white TV on to the streets. From empty WMC to sparce pub they'd ply their dated fair. Pagan deities in new Christian times. Victims of shifting culture. Even the titanic battles that echoed Greek mythology, Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks had fought only attracted the odd bunch of ironic students. Southerners who'd moved north, hoping for Eddy Waring and cheap accommodation, to scoff at flat caps and whippets, found only dissolution. Men fallen to earth. Here no one stopped the thin white duke in the street and all of us stuck together in keeping schtum. We understood Bowies dilemna. The journos drove him to drugs, finally the Pennines. The townsfolk collaborated to keep his secret, every one of the hundred odd times the three druggy cunts came knocking at our terrace house doors. We learned to tell which of his loony mates it was by the noise. Hidden behind the settee we'd hear ENOs experimental series of proto electronica morse code bell rings. Whole evenings would pass with Brian's wired buzzing as me and Bowie took the piss out of the arty cunt from behind the curtains, never letting on the Starman was hiding out in the low Pennines. Peeping through the letterbox, Bowies cocaine habit dissolved in a blur of hot knives, mushrooms and special brew. Lou Reed, wired to fuck, would bang on the door in amphetamine psychosis. After realising no fucker on our street would give away Bowies secret hideout he'd wander about in the rain, whistling his melancholy perfect day, till finally some helpful Asian lad pointed him down to manningham, where the good scag was. Most irritating of all was iggy pop. Naked in all weathers though glistening in marmalade and broken glass he'd charge from door to door till his speed ran out then you'd see him peeping, shamefaced from taxi backseats, dark sunglasses hiding his solemn Bowie loss. You'd have thought these upper glam scenesters might have found common ground with the fallen wrestlers. But their pomposity was a Berlin Wall. For sure, we'd have the sweet for tea any night of the week. Connolly knew the score even as he teased the media scum with Blockbuster. Chicory tip were in on it. Even Slade dropped in for a fish supper with me, Bowie and the lads. But we drew the line at yanks and art school knobheads.
One night Gary was playing St George's Hall. After the gig he was straight down Savilles. Something about teddy bears picnic. Any road, the rest of the glitter band were sound lads so, having bumped in to them at the Percy, we invited them back to Keighley. Soon as we got through the door it was clear Haystacks and Bowie had been bang at the bevy and shrooms. That'll put a smile on even the most suicidal cocaine come down. Haystacks had Bowie in an affectionate headlock as Daddy poured a Double Diamond eight can down Ziggys neck. I'd not seen the chameleon of pop smile like that since the cunt turned up. The Glitter lads like a belly full just like the next so we all tucked in to the mushrooms. Tripping bollocks the lot of them. Walking the moors that night, British glam and all in wrestling touched the gods. A meeting of minds. The Epilogue to the early seventies. Bowie lost it a bit and twatted both glitter band drummers but Haystacks pulled him off. Explained Bowie was shitfaced. What is most beautiful, despite their bust lips and black eyes, not a single glitter cunt said a word. Bowies secret was safe.
We talked about a triptych of depressing albums but, to be honest, we were all too happy in a joyous ale and fungi quagmire to get much down. It couldn't go on forever. Them druggy twats were in Berlin, blackmailing Bowie over his seventies male centred pursuits. Nagasaki wouldn't take his mask off. The beer ran out, shrooms wore off. The Wrestling legends got jobs.
The night Bowie left he looked back up to weight. A good nine stone featherweight. Me and Haystacks met him down the Raggles. Sat proud, smiling. Looked like a fucking hero, he did. We walked him down to the bus stop at Queensbury, shook his hand and rummaged in our pockets for change. Looking back, Bowie seldom bought a round. Still, as we waved him off, he sat on the backseat as the double decker rolled onward to Thornton, Bradford, the world, smiling back at us till night swallowed him. Me and Haystacks thought nowt of it. Sad to see him go.
"Skinny Fucker" Haystacks ruminated. "If he'd put his mind to it, he could have made it in the ring." Then his mind moved on. Time to twat Shirley Crabtree again.


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