BY JAMES BEMBRIDGE It’s 11:30 am, the telephone is calling for attention again. Of what and with whom I did last night, I can remember not a sodding thing. I reach with trembling hands for the whisky. After nights of drink, I feel the need to pour another just before negotiating with the mirror, and, as I do, I tell myself I can’t live on … Continue reading Lost Boys
BY JAMES BEMBRIDGE ‘You seem an odd choice for a guard,’ I told the chap on the door to no reply. He stood pressed against the railing, dressed in Victorian finery and smelling of mothballs. His silence I put down not to rudeness but to his being a stuffed bear. ‘James!’ some lovely voice called from inside. ‘Oh, you’ve met Monty! I’m so pleased.’ This … Continue reading Bear Magnet
BY JAMES BEMBRIDGE It is 1 am, and a woman is rubbing her rear cheeks against my front ones while asking if I like what I see, but they are so large that I can see very little. This is the Soho strip club, one of the few places left where one can get a drink at this hour. Late-night drinking has become the object … Continue reading Soho After Midnight
