Sunday Night Northern Line
Swaying to the rhythm of a Sunday night Northern Line train after a night in Soho listening to laid back singer song writers Simon and I regale our footie mate Nick with stories of our long ago hitch hiking trip across France. We got started on this in response to Nick’s tale of hitching in France and having a van roll over and him and his mate spat out the back door onto a motorway verge. That was quite a while ago. We all look like the years have taken their toll but there again I think we’re all rakishly handsome. Maybe it’s the beer goggles gone mad. Nick leaves us at Oval and as we start swaying again Simon and I hug our goodbyes.
Simon’s still got those deep green eyes that mesmerise folk it’s just a pity they’re defective as he’s colour blind. He’s pretty trim due to cycling and cold water swimming with chiseled face and with his excellent dress sense, deerstalker and sixties lurid shirt tonight, he still cuts a dash. His country squire hat is well needed on a cold January night like tonight to guard against the chill wind on his shaved pate. And maybe if he wasn’t colour blind he wouldn’t’ve worn the lime green and purple patterned shirt. My reflection in the glass of the tube door as we rush through the tunnel southward are of a timelessly stylish English lad about town. Gun grey 8 hole DMs scuffed at the toes, baggy second hand jeans turned up, green Animal hoody fraying at the edges and old school Harrington jacket with Occupy London badge as my nod to 21st Century resistance. My reflection shows my hair flopping over my forehead looking part non greased quiff and part 80’s pop singer redeemed by short back and sides partly done as that’s the kids style today but mainly to hide the grey.
As he leaves at Stockwell Simon says how he can’t remember half the things that happened to us on our trip across France and down to Morocco and wonders how I can. As I watch him saunter up the platform turning people’s heads and looking like he’s the lead role in Hound of the Basketcases I think about my memories of Morocco. Some are crystal clear and others fading into vagueness and did that really happen. Surprised that I can remember so much given my extremely vague if not non-existent short term memory I determine to write down what I can remember of that trip 3 decades ago. The following may be memory or fantasy but as no one will be able to say any different you’ll have to take it as the gospel truth...