Groovy Bob.

Robert Fraser was born into a wealthy banking family. He was educated at Eton. He was an officer in the King’s African Rifles in Kenya. Chummy with Idi Amin so rumour had it. He lived in New York where he hung out with up and coming young artists. His dad helped him get a London gallery started.

Simon liked Robert. Everybody did.  He was always charming and not snobbish at all. Simon dropped in the gallery often when he was in the West End to say hallo and have a chat. Robert was always happy to talk about art. Especially Pop Art. Simon learned about Blake, Hamilton, Dine and Warhol.
‘Soup cans. Silkscreen prints. Buy one Simon. You won’t regret it.’ said Robert.
Poor Robert. He had it all, looks, charm, titled friends. He was a real trendsetter with an eye for art. And he loved the dark side. He got sucked into the Stones orbit. Deeply flawed was Robert. Drugs…..oh yes….one of the first people in London to do LSD and one thing lead to another. Moroccan houseboys, rough trade, coke he tried them all. He ended up with a heroin habit, gambling debts and AIDS. One of the first people to die of it in fact.
But those evenings in his flat were fun while it lasted. Well Simon thought so. On the face of it it was just a bunch of oddballs sitting around being cool but you never knew who might show up. Keith Richards was there a lot, so were Anita Pallenberg and Marianne Faithfull. John Dunbar, Dennis Hopper, William Burroughs, Terry Southern, Kenneth Anger were all frequent visitors. It was the place to be. Something was in the air.
“Mark my words,” said William Burroughs, “that boy is headed for a fall.”
William and Simon were sharing a pot of Earl Grey in Fortnum and Mason’s Tea Room. Shoppers, mostly women, were chatting away at other tables. Chandeliers, aspidistras, all very sedate and English. Everything was cool. Once William accepted that you weren’t queer there were no problems. 
“This whole public school thing is very strange to me,’ said William, “the English equivalent of Ivy League I suppose.”
“It’s not just Eton,” said Simon, “Robert is a misfit. He’s brilliant and fascinating. But weak too in many ways.”
Things were never the same for Robert after the Redland’s bust. Going to jail wasn’t as funny as he made it seem. More drugs, a trip to India, a new gallery that never really took off, AIDS, death. RIP Robert.