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PATRICIA, BITCH QUEEN DESPITE HERSELF
Here's what happened to me, and it's really because it's just us that I'm confiding in you for the first time on this subject.
My parents had sent me to England because I was really lacking in English, but I was assigned to a family at 37 Great Pulteney Street, just two numbers from the famous Studio Trident. It didn't mean anything to me at the time, as you can imagine, I had no idea what this kind of place was and above all I was in London to learn the difference between be and have. But as chance had placed me in a family of alcoholics who spent their time getting into each other's faces and then making peace on the pillow, I spent a lot of time on their doorstep smoking fags.
As I kept going out to smoke, I was noticed, with my high socks and low pigtails, by guys with a strange look, clowns, with their platform boots and their extravagant outfits. It made me smile, even laugh, and it wasn't unusual for me to laugh out loud when I saw them coming out of the studio, drugged up to the eyeballs. As I was very pale, very blonde and totally out of step with the Londoners, with my Japanese schoolgirl appearance, the guys thought I was a full on junkie.
So they started approaching me to see if I could help them out with a bit of coke or heroin. Not only could I understand nothing of their words and accents, but for me the most prohibited drug at the time was Bidî (you know that little cone-shaped Indian cigarette made from a sepia-colored kendu wrapper containing chopped, dried and unprocessed tobacco strands).
We couldn't communicate a single word, but I could understand their obscene gestures, which made me howl with laughter. One day, the most colourful of them all, with his dark red hair, came up to me, held out his hand for me to take and when I had done so, he led me into the studio where he sat me down next to the console. I attended a recording session of a track where the lyrics were still missing. From what I could hear it sounded very Bondian, very John Barry. It was a change from the atmosphere of my host family, it was really nice to hear, wonderful even, but after a hundred takes, I was starting to get fed up and so were the musicians because their leader couldn't find the right lyrics. They returned to the control room and the pianist began to roll a joint the size of an organic baguette (with seeds). It smelled amazing. After passing my turn a few times, but at the insistence of the red-haired boy, I started to pull on it like crazy. A single puff, the first, propelled me into the depths of the cosmos. I got up and started dancing frantically before sitting down again a few minutes? Hours? later, convulsing like I was making a TikTok video.
And then I started laughing like I was watching a Farrelly Brothers film, before asking for a blank sheet of paper on which I wrote without stopping, before collapsing from exhaustion after filling it with black. I woke up the next morning with my face full of marks from the potentiometers he'd crashed into the day before. Opposite me stood the boy with the red hair. He stood staring at me in his emerald green rhinestone outfit. He gave me a look of contentment, his mouth at an angle as he tapped his foot on the floor. He explained to me in English, but with a few words in French, while presenting me with the sheet of paper I had written on, that he had phonetically reproduced my text to adapt his own, while telling his own story, injecting Carl Jung's concept of the Anima, the feminine representation within the human imagination. It was an archetype, a formation of the collective unconscious, which has its counterpart in women under the name of animus.
From then on, since I had, in spite of myself, managed to get him to finish the track that was to close his new album, the boy with the red hair asked me to go everywhere with him, convinced that I was not his muse, but the inspiration itself. He called my father to ask if I could stay in England for a few more weeks. But when he refused, he gave him an angry FUCK YOU before hanging up on him. He invited me to join him in the suite where he was staying at the Savoy, which was big enough for me to find a corner where I could be alone and not share his bed if I didn't feel up to it or didn't feel like it.
Of course, even though I didn't know the artist who had taken me out of reality, I realised that I was experiencing something unusual. And this was confirmed when, after a week in this suite, a face I knew all too well arrived in the room. It was Jagger. Mick Jagger who had come to visit the guy who was hosting me. From then on, everything became more hazy, more humid, even tropical. I remember lots of gin, champagne, fags, laughter and silk sheets. Even though I was drunk, I knew full well that I was going to lose my innocence with these two losers. But I didn't care, I was prepared to sacrifice myself in honour of the memories they would give me. But once I was in bed, they weren't interested in my starlet body, more interested in each other, greedy for each other's dicks.
A little offended, I got out of bed and sat down in an armchair to watch their drunken lovemaking. As soon as it subsided, they put another coin in the machine and started climbing all over each other like bonobos. A sort of leapfrog on drugs. Realising that I no longer had a place among their gallivanting, I took to the skies and headed for Paris with the firm intention of getting my cherry popped. Even if it was with Demis Roussos. Now that I was close to stardom, I couldn't live without it. But time did its work and thanks to it I understood much later that I didn't give a fuck about them fags and mirrors.
That's why, every January 8th, I think of that boy with the red hair. Not only because he managed to finish Lady Grinning Soul thanks to me, but also because I had no idea who he was at the time. It wasn't until I saw Labyrinth a few years later that I recognised David Robert Jones.