Phil Speys gets off way too easy in his Mea Culpa: Cool and the Gang in your last issue. I remember Phil, his antics, his poor taste in night companions, his catatonia on early a.m. buses goggling in fear of strangers heads, his desire to be cool.

He tells us now Cool is over for him: he has found ‘inner grace’, yeah right. Phil is always finding inner grace, he found it once in the seminal sculpted form that are milk bottles after one spectacularly soused night on Absinthe. Don’t get me wrong, I want to believe: want to support this newer finding of peace for Phil and maybe others who can believe his tosh, but I’ve been here, there before with him;

Winter of  2014 cold rooms in the city, warmed only by a gas fire tapped into the supply by hopes and wishes.

Phil expounding on his new idea for the spring: pyjamas. Deckchair striped pyjamas to be exact. For some reason unfathomable to Phil these stayed on charity shop shelves like pigeon poop on Victorian street furniture. He could make a killing by buying them up then with a few stitches on the fly to avoid draughts and embarrassment, would turn them into the latest spring street fashion.

Stripes abounded that winter, carpet disappearing under flannelette as bedtime in residential care homes, his smile growing longer with the suns appearance.

I made myself scarce for a time, knowing models to start the trend were needed, others less astute than I found themselves braving April showers in garments that turned transparent or stuck to the leg when wet.

Apparently, comment from builders on scaffold, office workers taking the air were fairly similar, the new fashion was a flop, and not just around the crotch either.

But like all autodidact messiahs Phil knew change was his and gained mention in a local freebie newspaper. Suddenly the killing (to be had) floor was his, opinion, schm’opinion, words of fashionwear wisdom tumbled from pearly whites and into the rag, even though the tabloid had yet to see the would be rag trade magnate’s couture gems.

A party was arranged for photo opportunity, nibbles to be had, wine to flow. Night club scammed for free-all good publicity y’know, music provided: ditto. Flyers distributed, hung wherever snappy dressers bought and sold.

I was up for this, up for it in the largest way wondering when and how this newer bubble would burst.

The night came, cameras seemed everywhere, the prettiest of Phil’s ex’s togged in nightwear and fixed grins, the chunkiest of mates fortified by stiff drinks and promises of folding, I was in a corner taking impressions and increasingly larger free cold liquid refreshments.

Watching newspaper types making sudden realisations they were springing buckshee booze and public opportunity on Phil’s bozo chums dressed in second hand, though nicely washed old people’s hand me down kit.

It was like the first time as a kid getting the emperor’s new clothes gag, only they were making realisation for themselves and not wanting to appear dumb as your hat were holding straight faces.

Emotion played there like Death on skeleton glockenspiel, fast furious and beat everywhere but on the bar. They took it well, taking their beating like white bread, straight up, flat, though desperately needing something to add taste.

Then the fighting started. Some 90% cotton cat spat over who Phil had slept with last, a soda siphon sprayed and melee was begun.

The photographs were incredible, orange juice staining stripes, transparent flannel sticking to flesh: the incontinence ward made plain. The plug promptly pulled, punters ejected into cool evening air, pyjamas pasted, plastered unkindly to legs in place of form.

& just where was Phil?

He had a ‘headache’ was planning to turn up showboat late in triumph, instead arrived to find space, sticky patches on the floor, newspaper, photography people irate and needing scapegoat: he ran.

His triumphs later made quietly into donation at ‘Resteezee’ rest home and nothing more said.

I write, tell you this in warning, for if Phil turns up with new thought, some glint in his eye of ideas to be shared, run, run faster than he can encumbered in winceyette held up by frayed cord and safety pin. If you feel warned, I do this only in kindness.

Still a good, if cautious friend.

Yours,

Callum Inges

written for The City magazine, now gone from publication & memory

Neil Benbow

©neilbenbow 2024