Meeting the Dame
A chance encounter with David Bowie when I was fourteen.
Bowie bragging is a subtle art so let me first lay my cards on the table. I did not go to the Hammersmith Odeon ‘farewell’ concert, though it took place less than a mile from my house. No regrets about missing that epic display of showboating, either — sacking the band on stage was poor form whichever way you slice it.
I cannot claim that my life was transformed by the Starman moment: when the Dame draped his arms around Mick Ronson. I assume I saw it on Top of The Pops — what else would I be doing on a Thursday evening?
Pretty sure, it wasn’t that much of a big deal, though. People forget that we had already had two years of T Rex. Marc Bolan was fey camp personified — Bowie looked like a bank manager in comparison.
Nor was I traumatised by David/Ziggy moving on to other projects. The singles kept coming and I kept buying them. Everyone was happy — except his wife Angie, of course. And the long list of ex-bandmates, manager, friends and so on. But that was all way above my pay grade.
So I can claim no cultural significance for my youthful Bowie fandom. Apart from the fact that I hung out with him one afternoon after school.
Did I mention that?
