Ace of Spades.

Ace of Spades.

1/1/2016

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It's a new year. 2016. I'm surprised to be here.

​We find Simon in one of his Chelsea mews houses. He's going through some old notebooks.​ Lemmy Kilmister passed away recently. Simon has been asked to write something about him for the Guardian. He isn’t sure where to begin…but he has a few old notes….


Once upon a time in another dimension, about halfway along Portobello Road, there was a café called the Mountain Grill. It was a working class café very popular with musicians and roadies (I was one such briefly) who liked to exchange gossip and drugs. Pills mostly, blues and dexies, but grass isn’t hard to find. The Bangers and Mash isn’t bad either. Good hash is still something of a rarity. Finding Red Leb for instance involves a mini-safari into darkest Westbourne Park where you have to take your chances with the surly looking rude-boys at the Rio.

So the Mountain Grill occupies a strategic, some might say symbolic, location where two worlds meet. Down beyond the Westway Flyover is Hawkwind country, Lemmy Kilmister’s end where things get seedy…down among the wheelers and the dealers and the basic riffs and rhythms. Up towards Notting Hill Gate you will be more likely to find students and weekend dropouts, trendsetters, entrepreneurs, assorted Jerry Cornelii, Lord Kitchener’s valets and even some Old Etonians.

Syd Barrett wanders into the Mountain Grill.
“You look a bit rough this morning Syd,” says Lemmy, “A bacon sandwich will soon fix you up.”
“Really greasy. Wash it down with a nice cuppa.” Suggests a wit.
Syd looks confused. He feels more comfortable in Holland Park to be honest. He finds it more attuned to his delicate Cambridge sensibilities. But here he is in the Grill so might as well sit down.
“Has anybody seen my dog?” He asks, “She's a collie.”
“Today’s Special.” Says another wag. “Shepherd’s Pie.”

Through the steamy windows it is possible to see VW vans recently arrived from the exotic East. They are disgorging bundles of Afghan jackets, scarves, incense, natural oils, colourful bed-sheets Kandahar shirts, Moroccan leather bags, Tibetan prints, rock posters, and tabla drums which recently contained mind altering substances. The fuzz are active but not yet equipped with sniffer dogs. Stalls are being set up in amongst the fruit and veg, the fake antiques and the cut-price crockery. Hairy young people are selling copies of International Times. The Hippy Trail is really just a state of mind…


All this is happening right outside the Mountain Grill. I’m inside transcribing the scene into a notebook. Discretely. I’m still not totally confident of my literary abilities but making notes has become a habit. They may come in handy one day. Like now for instance. If anybody asks me what I’m writing I mumble something about the underground press. I’ve noticed how the bands round here like to talk about being revolutionary but nobody says no to an appearance on Top Of The Pops. Look at Bolan. Hopping around on TV like some kind of psychedelic elf. Hawkwind haven’t been on Top of the Pops yet. Maybe they haven’t been asked.


Syd meanwhile, after much reflection, has decided against a hearty breakfast. Poor Syd. It’s all rather sad. One acid trip too many is the general consensus. Fried his brains. We watch him wander out onto the street in pursuit of who knows what strange hobby. Not even beans on toast can tempt him back from the outer reaches of the galaxy. I’d like to interview him but he’s too fucked up.

Simon reads through what he has written and decides it’s good enough for the Guardian.

He presses send and it’s gone.