A couple of weeks ago I saw this chap on Carnaby Street, by the shiny shop actually, and thought how eccentric and marvellous he looked. Later on, in the evening, when I had perhaps had as much to drink as he had done for breakfast, I saw him sitting by the bar I was going to, and so I stopped to talk to him. He was, he told me, Lord Byron. Something that I adamantly explained to my friends later as 'probably true'. I had, after all, recognized him (in that sort of, three glasses of wine later recognition way, which isn't terribly clear eyed or crystal clean in any way) and we sat around musing what a charming, crazed character he indeed was.
Lord Byron is, of course, dead. Dead, done, gone. Who on earth this chap was, therefore, I'll never know. But hell, he had green gems on his fingers as big as the Ritz, and he let me take his picture, sat proud of his past, and glittered gladly on London's luminous streets. I don't give a damn who he was, I liked him.
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