Ah well, I threw all my work off New Cross bridge in 1972. Or was it ’73? And no-one noticed then either. Or so I thought. It turns out that one of my flatmates went down onto the railway tracks and “rescued” one painting. It was one of the few portraits I’ve ever done.
The sitter was a guy called Hilton who regularly took his clothes off in phone boxes around Peckham Rye where we lived in the real “Young Ones” house.
I heard that he and his girlfriend eventually built a huge pile of deckchairs on a beach near Brighton and set fire to themselves. Poor old Hilton. Weird, sad guy.
The ex flatmate started avoiding me and I’ve lost touch with him and Hilton’s painting too.