A year or so ago, I was on a Northern Line tube and I passed Brett Anderson as he stood on the platform at Old Street station. He was reading a broadsheet newspaper and was wearing a neat, beautifully cut, navy peacoat and slim trousers. He looked over the top of the paper as the train prepared to leave the platform and we had a moment of intense eye contact. Fuck me, is he elegant. He looks better now than ever — still slender as a reed, with sharply cut ebony locks and that unteachable knack of wearing a flipped coat collar to resemble David Bowie on the front cover of Low, as opposed to a fucking pink polo-shirt wearing, braying cunt in a rugby club bar (any). I imagine that in that fleeting moment, Brett Anderson pondered his future life with me and found it to be both wholly satisfactory and darkly compelling. I mean, he’s only human.
(For Sharmila — one of the Beautiful Ones if ever there was one. Xx)