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In a moment of wild, youthful dementia, I once dropped acid with a Womble. There, I’ve got it off my chest. It’s so long ago it can’t hurt anyone now.
He didn’t set out to be a Womble, just got lucky. When I first met him he dreamed of becoming a rock star. Didn’t everybody? Oh, it was just me then. And him.
Some years afterwards we literally bumped into each other as he wombled out of a door onto Notting Hill’s Westbourne Park Road straight into my path. Like a tatty, old winter coat emerging from hibernation, he looked a right two and eight, to employ the vernacular of the time. Desperately in need of a fix, he was dirty, dishevelled, and more than pleased to see me again, even though he couldn’t remember who I was. There are episodes of my life I would rather forget. This isn’t one of them. I dropped Acid with a Womble. I think it might be the start of a series.
Une fois. Encore.
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