7 – Blog 33 – Return to Ithaca

By the time we get to the Dorchester, Siouxsie is semi-coherent, confused why she isn’t waking up in an opium den.

“You two need to get a room,” Mike observes.

The front desk is on alert with a finger on the alarm button. We will not get a room from them.

Amar and Emile run off to confront Popa Mustafa about breaking curfew.

We ride up to the penthouse. Bowie answers the door. Siouxsie comes out of incoherence, gasps, and passes out in front of her longtime idol.

“What have you done to her?” is his surmise.

“We rescued her from junkies,” I answer.

Bowie checks and realizes we are all sober (mostly) and not dope fiends like the girl dressed in fishnets and bondage.

“Come in, but this is too radical for comfort,” Bowie steps aside.

Glancing at Jack, I know what he means. Any temptation to indulge myself is under strict doctor’s orders to abstain. Our pasts will remain just that, past memories, best forgotten.

We deposit Siouxsie on the couch in the front room,  while Bowie gathers a blanket and pillow.

“Nighty night,” we all sing to her.

She mumbles something, rolls over, and is out like a light again.

“You can stay with her, Laz, if you want,” Bowie tempts me. He may prefer not to be found to have a young punk girl alone in his hotel room. Ziggy would know what to do. I am not prepared for that aspect of my new role.

Bowie turns the lights down and we all go out on the balcony.  West London stretches before us. The night is not chilly. Bowie pours whiskeys for all of us. No ice but it goes down smoothly.

“Is it time for you boys to have girlfriends?” Bowie asks all of us.

“I’m totally gay,” Jack confides.

“I’m waiting for my dick to tell me what it wants,” Mike has it under control.

“Dr Jacques says my testosterone level is too low for sex,” is my excuse. Tonight may be the turning point in my recovery. I will see where that goes.

Duncan walks out, in his pajamas. “What’s up?” as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes. Then he sees Siouxsie on the couch. “Is she dead?”

“Dead to the world,” his dad answers. “She’s just sleeping.”

“Have you all been partying?” Duncan has been around.

“No, but she did,” I answer.

Duncan decides to sit in my lap. “Do you like her?” he asks. “You two can take my bed. I’ll sleep with Da.”

“It’s not polite to sleep with someone when they are already asleep,” I answer.

“Good, ‘cause Da snores.”

We all relax on the balcony before going back to our room. Mike and I whisper in bed about Siouxie and if I am going through puberty again.

“I don’t really remember the first time,” I contend.

“It’s like riding a skateboard; sometimes you glide along with no foot kicking; then, it’s a slog uphill and you want to give up; once you make the peak it’s all downhill.”

I laugh at his analogy of sex and sports.

“Do you even know what it’s like to have sex?” I ask him.

He sits up and looks me in the eye. “I haven’t gone through puberty because mean Joe Jackson had me castrated at 14.”

“What? That’s criminal. You can’t have sex?”

“No. My dick still works, just no sperm. It was so my singing voice will never change.”

“So, you can get it on. You just don’t get off?”

“The other fluids come out, just no sperm.”

“We are both hopeless eunuchs.”

“Don’t say that. You just need the right person. I just need hormones.”

“This is bad science fiction.”

“We have each other,” he looks me right in the eye.

“I am so lucky I met you.”

He reaches over and hugs me. That shiver I felt with Siouxsie goes right up and down my spine.

“You okay?” Mike asks.

“More than okay.” I kiss him on the top of his head. It smells funny. “You need to shampoo these dreds.”

We fall asleep.

Somehow, I always wake up early. London sunrise in July is at 4 am. I go sit on our little balcony, looking out at the park. I wonder if MacGowan is out there. The door slides open, and Jack sits in the chair next to me.

“I hoped you’d wake up early. Aren’t you hungover?”

“I only drank beer,” but I do feel slightly nauseous.

He hands me a coffee he prepared in the room.

“Thanks. How did you know,” I ask, forgetting he is not allowed to talk about me.

“I need mine also,” he shows me his cup.

Such a well-trained boy.

“Am I doing better?” he really is trying hard.

“Listen, Jack. I am not punishing you. Just protecting myself from having a meltdown and going into another coma.”

“The doctor said that?”

“He just recommended I not try to relive my old life. Soon I’ll have enough memories to feel I know what I want. I’m just winging it on stage.”

“You do great,” Jack beams.

“When I think about the past, I know I cannot reconnect with the people who really cared about me, like my parents. I have no feelings for them. They will be so disappointed, even angry that I don’t know them.”

“I’m trying to build our friendship from the ground up. It hurt so badly last night when you and Mike were whispering in bed together. I know you love each other.”

“Haven’t you ever had a best friend (and don’t say me)?”

He does not know how to answer without breaking my rule about the past. I see him struggle. I move over and hug him. He has a major meltdown, knowing he cannot respond.

“Let’s go look for MacGowan in the Park,” I get up and pull him out of his chair. We barely embrace. He starts to shake. He has it bad.

No MacGowan, but we wander over to Kensington Gardens full of ponds, flower gardens, statues of dead kings and Queen Victoria, and wide carriage paths for promenading.

“This is where JM Barry wrote Pater Pan, inspired by the family of boys who played here.”

“I thought Peter was his older brother who died before he grew up.”

“Maybe, but the lost boys were a widow’s family who played here, and they created
 all the imaginary creatures of NeverNeverland.”

“Bowie chose me to be Ziggy so he could get over never growing up.”

“On stage the makeup made him look more like you, while you killed it as Ziggy.”

I hug him which sets off the shaking and shivering again.

“You gotta stop that,” I order.

“I can’t,” he is embarrassed. “Just being with you and not allowed to show my real feelings is like having a panic attack.”

I have little sympathy for his problem and can care less.

“Well, you are doing better. If you stick around, we can use your guitar playing in the Boss Band.”

“Really. I’m on summer break. I can go on the tour,” he looks hopefully.

That reminds me that we have to meet everyone for breakfast and discuss the next move.

I grab his hand and we skip back to the Dorchester. Silly me. He does not have a meltdown but does hold my hand extra tight.

First, we go up to the Bowie’s penthouse. He and Duncan are having coffee. Siouxsie is still passed out on the couch. She looks a mess. Heroin does that.

“Morning, Boss. You look cheery. I can’t say the same for your friend,” Bowie points to lump on the couch.

“I’m not a fan of heroin. We rescued her from her band mates. They were so out of it they never noticed us carrying her out to the cab.”

“Wake her up. We have business to discuss at breakfast. Everyone’s meeting downstairs at 9. The Dorchester brunch is divine.”

“You wake her. It’ll be the thrill of her life. She has a big crush on you.”

“I thought you two were hitting it off?”

“We are, but you are her fantasy. I’m strictly reality.”

“London can be that way,” he laughs. “Well, here goes. If she bites, I’m blaming you.”

Bowie gently shakes her awake. She looks up and instantly rolls over on the couch.

“Go away,” she complains. “I’m having the nicest dream.”

“Time for brunch,” David informs her.

She looks at him and is horrified. “This is not a dream?”

“No, we need to decide if you can go on tour with us.”

She shakes her hair and pinches herself. “This definitely is a dream.”
The pinch has her more awake.

“Are you kidding me,” she asks.

“No. I loved the song you did with us last night. ‘Hong Kong Garden..’”

She jumps up and hugs Bowie, who looks distressed

She sees me laughing at her and runs over, shouting, “Ziggy.”

I guess heroin wears off quickly. She is acting like a big kid on Christmas morning. All her wishes have come true.

We troop down to the restaurant where a banquet-sized table is set-up. The buffet is nearby. Freddie & Queen, the Knobs including Claude (but no George Martin or Paul McCartney), the Berlin Turks, Henri and Popa Mustafa are all there. Amar and Emile are missing.

Popa Mustafa explains, “If you’re looking for the boys, they are on restriction for coming in late. None of their excuses made any sense. They are not capable of withstanding Western decadence.”

“Okay,” my questions are answered. The boys need Popa to approve future bands plans. I wonder if my dad was as strict as theirs. Not healthy thinking.

First, we get more coffee.

Freddie has all the Sunday newspaper editions spread out.

“We’re a hit,” he exclaims. “They all loved the show. The only criticism is it played out like a soap opera.”

I rush over to see our reviews. The Daily Mail even reviewed the Boss Band and Siouxsie’s performance, saying the one-sided single 45s we sold is destined to be collector’s item. The Times is a naysayer about all the young people in the show, saying it turned into Punk Rock chaos but was rescued by Queen’s theatrics. I am called a dead ringer for Bowie as the Ziggy Stardust replacement by all reviewers. The funds raised for charities is over one million pounds. It lists the main charity as ‘Save the Dolphins,’ with the Montreux Muslim Cultural Center as second recipient. My heart skips a beat thinking about White D. I know she has no need for money but stopping the fishermen from killing members of her pod will make our efforts worthwhile. I feel a twinge of regret thatmy life in Montreux can no longer be the same. London does that.

Freddie is eating up his reviews. Bowie, not so much. Maybe he performs strictly for his own pleasure and creative impulses.

“You’re not satisfied with the reviews?” I ask him.

“It’s great, but I already know that. You are a hit. My life as an alien from Mars may be history.”

“Ziggy songs are real rock n roll. The latest songs are more mature,” I attempt to review him.

“You are not happy as Ziggy?”

“Are you kidding. Being Ziggy is every fanboy’s fantasy.”

He laughs. “Well, milk it for all you can get, but don’t let it hold you back from being your real self.”

“You mean the person with four weeks of memories?”

“Not memorable enough?”

“Just makes me want to keep going.” I state. “What’s our next move?”

“That’s why everybody’s here,” Freddie interrupts. “We have some decisions to make first.”

“Has everyone met Siouxsie?” I ask.

She has been quietly drinking her coffee and looks up as her name is mentioned and waves to everyone shyly.

“The big question is how we organize the show we did in London to go on tour to promote David’s ‘Yassassin’ hit single?” I propose.

“It’s hardly a hit,” David demurs.

“Well, that’s the point, to showcase the song and promote tolerance of immigrants.”

“We can make a hit of anything,” Mike pipes up. “Look at ‘ABC’ – how simple can it be?”

Everyone laughs as he sings the first few lines

‘ABC, easy as 123.’

“If we play it live enough and make the shows fun and exciting people will learn to love it.”

“We aren’t political,” one of the Turks points out.

“What’s political about everyone being friendly to each other?”

“The real question is if we are going on tour and who is on board,” Freddie puts it to a vote.

Bowie and the Berlin Turks are on board. The Boss Band will be there even if it means we have different players.

“Does that mean Amar and Emile are too young?”

“No, but it is your decision. I understand they stayed out late last night,” Bowie asks Popa Mustafa.

‘They are good boys but I had to restrict them after coming home well past midnight. They went to a club where there was drinking and dancing; later, a party where people went off to do who knows what. This is the Western culture we Muslims try to protect our children from.”

“What if we only schedule weekend shows,” Bowie suggests. “You can be with them. I have to send Duncan to his mother’s but will have him on the weekends.”

Freddie laughs. “The decision to go on tour depends on whether we can babysit a 7-year-old and his 15-year-old friends.”

“We’re older, Freddie. Having kids in the show brings in the younger generation,” David notes.

I jump up and sing ‘My Generation’ – the Gen X version. Siouxsie joins me

‘Trying to Forget your generation

You know all the ways when in what I see

The ends must justify the means

Your generation don’t mean a thing to me

I say your generation don’t mean a thing to me

I say your generation don’t mean a thing to me

Might take a bit of violence

But violence ain’t our only stance

Might make our friends enemies

But we gotta take that chance

There ain’t no time for substitutes

There ain’t no time for idle threats

Actions are rather hard to place

‘Cause what you give is what you get

So, that’s your generation

It’s your generation

Well it’s your generation

It’s your generation

To the end justify the means

To the end justify the means

To the end justify the means

To the end justify the means

It time for generation


Lyrics © BMG Rights Management

About halfway through, I see the maître’d looking very distressed. This is not a pub, Park Lane is reserved for those who are reserved. We sit down.

“Thank you Ziggy and Siouxsie for reminding us not to act our age,” Bowie remarks, looking at Popa Mustafa.. “Does anyone object to under-aged kids in the show?”

Popa shakes his head but relents, “As long it is just on the weekends. But no more Friday shows or the Sufi group will not perform. We honor our sabbath on Friday.”

“That will keep us close to home,” I surmise. “The first show should be in Geneve.”

Before a final decision can be made, there is another ruckus in the dining room. The staff is attempting to stop a group of men from entering.

Mike gasps. It is his father, Mean Joe Jackson , with what looks like Pinkerton Security agents. Mike’s worst nightmare is playing out.

Mike gets up to run.

“Stop that boy,” Joe Jackson yells, making it seem that Mike is committing a crime.

I grab Mike. “Stay here. The hotel will not let them run over everyone.”

He is shaking from fear. I give him a quick hug.

The Maitre’D comes over and explains what we already know. Freddie leaves to call Miami Beach in Geneve. Unfortunately, we have no paperwork showing Mike emancipation from his father. Henri offers to speak with Joe Jackson. The Pinkerton Men have limited legal authority to order anyone held. The Dorchester manager does not work on Sundays. His assistant is unsure what role the hotel has in this ‘family dispute.’ Bowie insists that the manager be called in. Brunch is essentially ruined, and we are escorted back to Bowie’s suite. Jackson and his security detail are told to wait in a ground floor conference room.

I quickly summarize the decisions that were made before we were interrupted. We will tour throughout Europe with weekly shows on Saturday nights and possibly Sundays, staying home in Switzerland during the week. Popa Mustafa will remain the chaperone for all underage kids in the show. The only unanswered question is whether Queen will participate.

Freddie meets separately with the band members plus the Knobs without Claude.

“Okay,” Freddie has the decision. “Because we will be in Montruex except for weekends, we can continue to write and record new songs. The shows will be a break from studio time. The only question is how much will we be paid for the shows. Anything in the UK has to be for charity but we’ll end up charity cases if we are not paid properly at other shows. I’ll ask Miami to negotiate a proper fee when he calls about Mike.”

Mike, Siouxsie and I sneak down to our room. Jack looks despairingly at me when I tell him to stay with Bowie. Mike only wants to sleep and gets into bed. Siouxsie and I sit on each side of his bed.

“Amar’s father is a control freak,” I observe. “He lets the boys go off on their own for four hours and they are ‘grounded’ for who knows how long.”

“Yeah, but at least he doesn’t beat them,” Mike speaks from experience.

“My dad was an alcoholic who died when I was 14.” Siouxsie adds.

“Is that when you were in hospital and you saw Bowie on Top of the Pops and felt someone understood you?”

“It wasn’t that dramatic. But yeah. I was a kid and my dad understood me. Mum was too overwhelmed by his drinking.”

“I’m glad I don’t remember how my dad treated me. But not knowing anything about my parents is weird.”

“We’re all orphans in our own ways,” Mike concludes.

The fatigue of a long weekend overcomes us. We all go to sleep in the same bed.

Jack banging on the room door wakes us up. His urgency may betray a bad turn in the Jackson Family melodrama. It turns out he just wants to get in.

“Did Miami Beach prevail in Mike’s emancipation?” I ask.

“Yeah. Totally. The London Bobbies almost arrested Joe for trying to kidnap Mike. They had a private jet waiting at Heathrow to pirate him back to LA.”

“I’m Free. And freedom tastes of reality

And I’m waiting for you to follow me’

We sing, running up and down the Dorchester halls and up the stairs to Bowie’s penthouse. Everyone is sitting around bored until we burst in, run out on the balcony and scream The Who’s words, “I’m Free.’

“Are you free for dinner?” Bowie asks.

We had slept all afternoon. Crisis averted. Time to celebrate.

“I need to make a call,” Siouxsie looks anxious.

Bowie looks concerned. “Come into the bedroom. There’s a phone there.”

They both disappear and are gone about 20 minutes. Siouxie looks under the weather. What did Bowie do to her?

The three of us go out onto the large balcony.

“What’s up?” I ask, giving her a knowing look.

“Just my bad habit,” she answers. “I was going to call the band but Bowie made me admit I was jonesing.”

“Did he give you drugs?” Mike asks.

“No.” she is emphatic. “Well, yeah. Just methadone. It doesn’t get you high but I don’t feel sick neither.”

We both hug her. She looks relieved that we don’t look down on her drug habit.

It is the time to make my move (I have moves?)

I swing her into my arms, “Will you come to Switzerland with us?”

“Yeah. It’s so fun. We have swim lessons every morning and Laz’s girlfriend comes to swim with us,” Mike adds.

“You have a girlfriend?” she asks me.

“Yeah. He’s in love,” Mike crows. “With a fish.”

“She’s a white dolphin. I call her White D.”

“You are so weird,” she laughs.

“You’ll have a great time. There’s over a hundred kids who come to the Lake every morning where we swim. Bowie teaches guitar. The dolphins swim with us, just like ‘Heroes.’”

Naturally we have to sing

‘’I wish I could swim

Like dolphins can swim’

Jack and everybody rush out onto the balcony. Everyone is singing, especially Bowie. The song goes on forever. It is our rooftop at Abbey Road ‘Get Back’ Beatles moment

The answer, of course, is maybe she will come, but only with her full band, the Banshees. One shot of methadone never cured anyone.

“At least, no Bully Boi will there,” I rationalize.”

“You mean Billy Broad. That was his version of My Generation we sang earlier,” Siouxsie defends her Bromley friend.”

“Billy Bully, I call him,” I respond.

We all sing ‘Wooly Bully’, switch it to Billy Bully

Someone yells, “Stop singing from the penthouse.’

“It’s our Beatles moment,” I respond.

“You had your Beatles moment with Paul yesterday.”

“That was a Wings moment yesterday.

We end the rooftop concert with ‘Yesterday.’ Jack plays acoustic guitar.

We look down at Park Lane. There are about 30 fans camped out in hopes of seeing (me?). No, Bowie.

“Come over here and wave to your fans, David.”

Bowie looks down and gives them a big wave and smile. They all cheer. Fans are mindless clones. I join him arm in arm. The fans cheer again. I need a wire to fly down and greet them. Bowie holds me back. They cheer again. Ziggy lives another day. Duncan comes out. Bowie has to lift him up in order to see the fans.  He gets the biggest cheer.

Meanwhile, back in the suite Jack is writing me a letter. Does he not know I’ll rip it up if he whines about my forgotten life. Only he cares.

Dear Laz

I promise not to write anything about the past. I love being on stage in the Boss Band. This weekend has been so much fun. Not since…OOPs, Strike that thought.

I hope you will invite me to continue to be in the band and go on tour this summer. I am on summer break and will be a junior in college this fall. That life is so boring. I want to feel the freedom of the road. Maybe this is the life for me. My parents will shit kittens. Ha ha.

I hope we build new memories this summer. Once I learn never to say anything about the past or even feel sentimental, I want you to speak with your parents. They will always be your parents, even now when they believe you died. I can train them to follow my example and never speak about the past. It seems you have a new family with Freddie and all the gang in Montreux. Plus Bowie is your mentor. But don’t you think you need parents, people who love you regardless of anything and everything that goes wrong? It makes me sad that they do not know you have recovered.

You are a different person now. It is like you grew up and became an adult. Your birthday is next week. Can I organize a party for you? You will be twenty. Wow. We both are adults now. I can’t wait to see what is around the corner for you. And, also, for me. When I saw you Friday at the show, I had all these expectations. Now I have let them go. I will be a good band member and totally loyal. Please let me stay.


I read his letter as we fly back to Geneva. I hoped Jack would stay in London or go home or whatever. He is my Ghost of Christmas Past. I shut him down when he tries to get me to remember our mutual memories. I slowly am getting used to his hopeful looks and starry-eyed reminiscences. He does play great guitar and fits into our makeshift band. Amar and Emile are great, but they are kids, subject to parental supervision. My plan is to throw myself into the Ziggy Stardust role. The Boss Band is a joke with no ambitions to ‘make it.’ The music business is not for kids. Making rock and roll is what kids want to do. Showing them how to ‘rock’ pays the bills. Why complicate it? Saying goodbye to Siouxsie was easy. The moments we had and shared with Mike and Bowie will be important memories. I need to restart my memory bank and stock it with similar experiences. Fuck Jack. I don’t need parents. Maybe when I turn thirty. Bowie is 32 and needed to lose the Ziggy lifestyle. I’ll try to be the alien who does not need drugs. A little more testosterone, s’il vous plais.

Once we arrive at Geneva Airport, what to do with Jack is a problem, Freddie has no spare bedrooms, with the Queen musicians back as well as the Knobs in residence. If Mike camps out with me on the couch in the lounge, I can evade Freddie’s unspoken need to have me in his bed. Or, more accurately, Max substituting as my sex surrogate. Bowie offers to let Jack stay with them in Lausanne. Jack solves the problem by producing a credit card that allows him to check-in to a hotel in Montreux. Bowie has to bring Duncan for swim lessons every morning. The result is all of us will be together, just sleeping separately. I have to finesse Freddie, so his expectations are not so explicit.

“I read your letter,” I tell Jack. “You overthink everything. Remain open-hearted and things will work out.”

“What about your parents?”

“That’s none of your business. If you tell them, it will be a disaster, for them and for me. Is that what you want?”

He is embarrassed and shakes his head. He has a way to go to understand what I feel. His arguments are about what he feels.

“Listen, Jack. Forget about our past. Stay the summer and go on tour. Isn’t that enough to keep you happy. I am not responsible for your happiness.”

I walk away as his tears start.

Amar and Emile are chatting with Popa M. Restriction is lifted now that they are back in Switzerland (of course, the airport is in France).

“Did you guys have a good time this weekend?” I ask.

“It was so cool. Is Siouxsie your girlfriend now?”

“Kinda,” I answer. “We just met. I hope she and her band will come on tour.”

“I don’t like her bandmates,” Amar declares.  “Why does she want to be with them?”

Obviously Popa M has learned about the opium den. I do not want them to be prohibited from going on tour. I need to calm their dad’s anxieties about the rock n roll life.

“Is it enough that there will be no shows on Fridays to allow the boys to continue to be in the band?” I ask Popa M.

“I discussed it with the other Sufi dancers. We feel getting our message out about peaceful Muslims is more important than keeping the boys from misbehaving. They seem to have learned their lesson.”


“Swimming tomorrow morning?” I ask.

“Will Bowie be there?” Amar asks.


“Well, my sisters will definitely come. They are so jealous of me. I will have no rest if I keep them away.”

“Have them learn to swim.”

“They refuse to wear the ‘modest’ bathing suits my dad insists upon.”

“Sounds like a fashion problem. They did a good job on the whirling robes they sewed. Tell them to make outfits that are approved to wear when they leave home but under the ‘modest’ ones wear the outfits they want when they are at the beach and won’t be embarrassed.”

Emile breaks into his classic grin.

He always makes me smile.

We walk out of the customs hall and a decent sized group of fans waits for us. They cheer, proud that Swiss bands stormed London and return as heroes. I restrain myself from singing a Bowie song. Some kids know who I am and start chanting, ‘Ziggy, Ziggy.’

I am embarrassed but it feels great.

Jim loads the Queen members and their luggage into the Rolls. Henri has a limo for everyone else, including the Knobs who are relegated back to roadie status. Opening bands get no respect. David and Duncan ride with us as the Aston Martin is parked at Freddie’s Lake House.

“As the new Ziggy, do I get the Aston Martin?”

“You’ll never drive that car again, or, at least, until you learn to slow down,” Bowie laughs.

The Geneva fans cheer us as we drive off. Bowie yells out the window that the next show will be there ‘in Geneve.’

We first drop off the Sufis (Amar, Emile, and Popa M). The girls run out screaming at their idol Bowie. Their father quickly ends that drama. We promise to see them all at the Lake in the morning.

Jim has a late supper ready when we arrive.

“How come you didn’t come to London with us. We had so much fun; we’re a hit.”

“It is in the newspapers here. I need time occasionally by myself. I feel quite normal now.”

“Welcome to the funhouse,” I laugh.

He moans but smiles and gives me a wink. Someone has to keep it together. Jim takes Jack to the phone and soon he is off to his hotel. No tears when he leaves.

“Who is he?” Jim asks after Jack is gone.

“He showed up in London. I think he was an old boyfriend. He is restricted from talking about it.”

“So, you are gay?”

“I also have a girlfriend who may come visit.”

“Your dolphin friend?”

“No, an actual human, or least someone who lives in London.”

“You sound confused,” Jim looks concerned.

“No. I just live in the moment with no other memories.”

“You certainly are causing a stir. You got a lot of press from singing with Bowie,” Jim reveals.

“I’m a star?”

“You’re a child star.”


“Well, when you burn out, no one will be surprised.”

“I will.”

“Good attitude.”

Finally, everyone goes to bed. Even rockers get tired. Brian reclaims his bedroom. Mike and I are consigned to the couch. It is perfectly okay with us. Mike settles into my arms as we lay together.

“Well, no more worrying about what Joe Jackson wants,” I proclaim.

“What do you want?” Mike asks.

“Nothing more than this,” as I kiss the top of his head. “Maybe you could wash these dreadlocks?”

We fall instantly asleep together.

I dream I am flying about the stage at Earl’s Court. All the fans from the airport are on stage and shouting at me. Bowie comes flying out of the rafters and chases me about. My fans are in despair. When Bowie captures me, he cuts my wire. As I fall to the stage, all my ‘fans’ attack me, stripping off the Ziggy outfit and kicking me for trying to supplant Bowie.

Mike wakes me up as I am writhing and moaning on the couch.

“You’re having a bad dream.”

“I was being attacked by fans.’

“Welcome to celebrity.”