Tony P.

One summer’s day, when I lived on Camberwell New Road, I was walking through the churchyard near Oval Tube Station and a couple of drunks sitting on a bench asked me for change. I had none but we chatted for a while and they seemed like nice people. They were very surprised when I returned a few minutes later with a can of Special Brew for each of them. They were surprised that I didn't want to drink one myself on such a beautiful sunny afternoon. It turned out that Rocco, who Tony P. would later tell me was losing his mind through drink (he was chuckling constantly) needed to use a telephone. Since none of us had a ten pence piece I invited them around to my girlfriend Jane’s flat, where I was sharing her room. Caroline, Eve and Jane were at home, everyone got along fine, Rocco made his call and soon they went on their way.

Shortly afterwards I received a letter through the post from Tony, inviting me to his house that following Sunday in Colliers Wood, South London.

I remember the journey there well. I was in the habit of always leaning out of the open window in between carriages (possible only with the low windows of the old style trains.) I would enjoy the wind in my hair as I listened to my walkman very loud. I was admiring the art deco fixtures and the unusual configuration of the platforms on some of those stations South of the river on the Northern Line where both North and Southbound trains share the same tunnel. The journey was not memorable because of this though, rather because whilst I was marvelling at the architecture a mad man tried to strangle me through the windows of the doors, from the neighbouring carriage. I hit him in the face and he lost interest. I hate violence and I found the need to punch the man disturbing.

When I got to Colliers Wood I found that Tony had cooked me a roast chicken lunch. His welcome was so warm and I found his cooking for me so touching that I didn’t have the heart to let him know that I am a vegetarian, and ate with him all the same. Neither did I have the heart to tell him that I wasn’t an alcoholic but since he had gone to all the trouble to buy eight cans of Tennents Super, we drank all afternoon.

I saw quite a lot of Tony after that. He introduced me to old friends in Brixton (where he wanted to be rehoused after having been forced to move away,) and we’d make journeys to the West End. We looked quite intriguing walking down the street I think, an immaculately dressed older Jamaican man wearing a Panama and a young, middle class white boy with a stupid haircut. In fact Tony’s daughter was quite suspicious of our relationship, especially since I was in the habit of sleeping on the sofa after not being able to contend with the mental cosh that is Tennents Super. Once we had both assured her that there was nothing out of the ordinary going on she remarked that I looked like Hugh Grant and said that I’d be quite handsome if only I cut my hair. Tony then rolled a joint. I hate getting stoned but I had a drag or two all the same. His daughter asked me if I had ever slept with a black girl. The grass was strong and so I found it difficult to react coherently when she suggested that I could sleep with her if I painted her kitchen which badly needed redecorating. I turned down the kind offer but I was so stoned that it felt awkward to turn it down politely.

"Oh Graeme," he would often say "when we touch down in Montego Bay, we'll pick the fruit straight from the tree." He was a very good man, Tony P. full of enthusiasm for life but life was just too difficult for him. He had been found asleep at the wheel of his car, an empty bottle of rum in his hand and the keys in the ignition a few years before I met him. They took away his driving license which meant taking away his job as a bus driver. He said that he had enjoyed driving buses, although the pre pneumatic assisted clutch had given him problems in the joints of his left leg.


He began to lose his mind, Tennents Super, a drink marketed at alcoholics, has odd additives in it that have this effect. Eventually I had to break ties with Tony P. He was just too much of a handful. The last time that I saw him was at my second flat in Stamford Hill. He was being very rude to Dino who had dropped by and, four times in a row, he couldn’t get down the stairs and into the cabs that I ordered for him. Eventually I had to get rid of him by giving him this acoustic guitar that I owned. He had been remarking all evening as to how he would very much like one and, after hours of him overstaying his welcome, I told him outright. Get in the cab, I’ll pay for it, I’ll give you an acoustic guitar, if only you get in the damn cab.

I know that a woman called Darlene wished to save him, picking him up and trying to take him to church once a week providing he was sober enough. He wasn't interested in the church but he liked Darlene. I hope something good came of all of that but, since we have lost touch completely, I shall never know.