The reason I ended up bleaching my hair like Andy McKay of Roxy Music’s was that I’d already tried and failed to make it look like Rod’s. The thick hairdresser’s fucking do that would later save me from becoming a cartoon spiky-haired punk character like Johnny or Sid (much as I wanted to be one) was never going to allow me to tease it up the way Rod did. I had to spray a gallon of Aqua Net on my head to get it to stand up even a little bit. If someone had lit a match near me I’d have gone up like a human torch. It must’ve look fucking ridiculous.
Luckily I could do a better job with the clothes. I used to find out where Rod had got all the gear that he was wearing on the album covers, then head off up over Chelsea Bridge and nick it from the shops on the King’s Road where he’d brought it. I’d usually get the 137 bus, my getaway vehicle of choice. Take 6 was the place working-class people who were doing all right would go to buy the little slim suits with the big kipper ties like the normal cunts dancing on Top of the Pops would wear. It was called Take 6 but I always used to Take 7. Dave Brubeck would’ve stopped at 5.
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