Havard Havard Havard-Havard von Havard

RIP LEMMY Here’s my Lemmy story.

neil-gaiman:

The party was I think for either PJ O Rourke or Tama Janowitz, and I
think it was PJ O'Rourke -- every Pan publishing party of that vintage
took place in the same room upstairs in the Groucho Club, anyway -- and
when the party ended I wandered downstairs with the publicists and Roz
Kaveney and a lady named Maria who was then the books editor of Time
Out. We carried on talking and drinking, and when the Groucho closed we
moved, shedding a few people as we did so, to another club, and then
to another, and finally it was just me and Maria wandering the streets
of Soho, still talking, and Maria (who in five years would lose her
job, and twenty years later, her life, both mostly from booze)
desperate for that last final drink.

We were in the unpromising area at the top of Wardour Street, and I
blinked, and realised that I was standing next to a door I recognised.
My friend Dave Dickson had taken me there, years before. A downstairs
bar, semi-secret. Lemmy from Motorhead had been down there, playing the
fruit machines.

I knocked on the door. A suspicious face looked out. "Can we have a
drink?" I asked. "I don't know what you're talking about," said the
man, impassively. "Er..." I thought about mentioning Dave Dickson, but
didn't think it would work. "We're friends of Lemmy's," I said. 

"You should of said," he told me. "He's downstairs waiting for you."

And we went downstairs. Lemmy was still on the fruit machines, as he
had been two years before. I sidled over to him. "Er, just used your
name to get in," I said. "Good on yer," said Lemmy. And Maria got her
drink.

I never found it again -- never looked for it -- although I am certain
that if I was ever drunk enough and in Soho late at night, it would be
there waiting. And Lemmy, wherever he really was in the world or out
of it, would be down there playing the fruit machines.

And late night talk does burn brightly in the mind. Neverwhere came
out of a late night talk with the late Richard Evans, in Glasgow at
Eastercon in 1986, where I started rambling on about "Magic City"
books, like Winter's Tale or Free, Live Free, in which the city was as
much a character as any person in the book, and saying that someone
should do it for London. (Richard said "Why don't you" and I fumfed and
told him he should find a real writer and commission one, or
something.)

From http://www.well.com/conf/inkwell.vue/topics/292/Neil-Gaiman-Fragile-Things-page01.html#post22