Arrrgghhh! I’ve just deleted my work.




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.

WTF.


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