advance. And when you do, he takes out a plastic bag on a long chain from a very inner pocket, and tucks the notes away, and says you must have a drink with him some time, but even when I’ve once or twice met him in a pub, he’s never offered it, of course. Also, if you make any complaint whatever – I mean, even that the roofs falling in, and the water cut off – he smiles that same smile and does positively sweet bugger-all about it. On the other hand, you could invite every whore and cut-throat in the city in for a pail of gin, or give a corpse accommodation for the night on the spare bed, or even set the bloody place on fire, and he wouldn’t turn a hair – or turn one if anybody complained to him about you. Not if you paid your rent, that is. In fact, the perfect landlord.
The tenants come and go, as you might expect, but among the regular squatters I have a few particular buddies, of whom I’d specially name the following three.
The first of them, on the floor below me (I’m on thetop), is a boy called The Fabulous Hoplite. I’m hoping you’ll not scoff at his name, because Hoplite would certainly not care for it if you did, as he’s a most sensitive and dignified character, who was formerly a male whore’s male maid, if the truth be told, but has now retired from that particular scene. According to report, the Hoplite has been in business with some of the city’s top poof raves, and was even more in demand by the gentry than the costly glamorosos he’d shacked up with. How I know him, is on account of his being a friend of Wiz’s who he admires (but nothing doing), and it was through them that I actually got my room. What the Hoplite does for a living now, apart from a bit of freelancing on the side when conditions get too rough, is act as contact man for various gossip columnists, because though you might not think this credible, considering his background, Hoplite gets around on the Knightsbridge-Chelsea circuit in quite an important way, no doubt owing to his being very handsome in an elfin, adolescent sort of style, and certainly very witty, or should I say sharp-tongued, but most of all, because he’s really very friendly : I mean, he really does like people, which a lot of people think they do, but which it seems, as a matter of fact, is really very rare.
Next, on the first floor, is in fact the best room, but I somehow don’t think he’ll last there, on account of really critical moments with Mr Omar, is a young coloured kid called Mr Cool (which I need hardly say is not his baptismal name, I don’t suppose). Cool is a local product, I mean born and bred on this island of both races, andhe wears a beardlet, and listens to the MJQ, and speaks very low, and blinks his big eyes and occasionally lets a sad, fleeting smile cross his kissable lips. He’s certainly younger than I am, but he makes me feel about nine or so, he’s so very poised and paternal, though what the hell he does to keep himself in MJQ LPs I haven’t an idea – I really haven’t. I don’t think it’s anything illegal, which is what you might expect, because the kid is always so skint, he’s only one suit (a striped Italian black), and no furniture to speak of except for his radiogram, so that either business, whatever it may be, is bad, or else, for reasons best known, he’s covering up.
I miss out various rooms and floors, and come now to my particular pal, who lives in the basement and really is a horror, called Big Jill. Now Jill is a Les. and, what is more, you may not believe this, but a Les. ponce, that is to say, she keeps a string of idiotic chicklets on the game, and just sits back in her over-heated, over-decorated, over cooking-smelling basement and collects. She’s in all day, and goes out as sun sets to an overnight club where she’s behind the counter, and holds her court among her little Les.-ette fans. And then, in the wee small hours, she has a way, when she comes home, of stopping in the area
The tenants come and go, as you might expect, but among the regular squatters I have a few particular buddies, of whom I’d specially name the following three.
The first of them, on the floor below me (I’m on thetop), is a boy called The Fabulous Hoplite. I’m hoping you’ll not scoff at his name, because Hoplite would certainly not care for it if you did, as he’s a most sensitive and dignified character, who was formerly a male whore’s male maid, if the truth be told, but has now retired from that particular scene. According to report, the Hoplite has been in business with some of the city’s top poof raves, and was even more in demand by the gentry than the costly glamorosos he’d shacked up with. How I know him, is on account of his being a friend of Wiz’s who he admires (but nothing doing), and it was through them that I actually got my room. What the Hoplite does for a living now, apart from a bit of freelancing on the side when conditions get too rough, is act as contact man for various gossip columnists, because though you might not think this credible, considering his background, Hoplite gets around on the Knightsbridge-Chelsea circuit in quite an important way, no doubt owing to his being very handsome in an elfin, adolescent sort of style, and certainly very witty, or should I say sharp-tongued, but most of all, because he’s really very friendly : I mean, he really does like people, which a lot of people think they do, but which it seems, as a matter of fact, is really very rare.
Next, on the first floor, is in fact the best room, but I somehow don’t think he’ll last there, on account of really critical moments with Mr Omar, is a young coloured kid called Mr Cool (which I need hardly say is not his baptismal name, I don’t suppose). Cool is a local product, I mean born and bred on this island of both races, andhe wears a beardlet, and listens to the MJQ, and speaks very low, and blinks his big eyes and occasionally lets a sad, fleeting smile cross his kissable lips. He’s certainly younger than I am, but he makes me feel about nine or so, he’s so very poised and paternal, though what the hell he does to keep himself in MJQ LPs I haven’t an idea – I really haven’t. I don’t think it’s anything illegal, which is what you might expect, because the kid is always so skint, he’s only one suit (a striped Italian black), and no furniture to speak of except for his radiogram, so that either business, whatever it may be, is bad, or else, for reasons best known, he’s covering up.
I miss out various rooms and floors, and come now to my particular pal, who lives in the basement and really is a horror, called Big Jill. Now Jill is a Les. and, what is more, you may not believe this, but a Les. ponce, that is to say, she keeps a string of idiotic chicklets on the game, and just sits back in her over-heated, over-decorated, over cooking-smelling basement and collects. She’s in all day, and goes out as sun sets to an overnight club where she’s behind the counter, and holds her court among her little Les.-ette fans. And then, in the wee small hours, she has a way, when she comes home, of stopping in the area
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