My Johnny Thunders Story

Part 1: Me and Two Legends

On Magenta’s sofa at Pindock Mews.

The other night I sat watching the UK Snooker Championship Final live on my laptop – I just love BBC iPlayer, love that feeling of not being tied to a television – anyway, John Higgins the Scotsman fought back from 9/5 down, to level the match and then in an exciting climax, take the final deciding frame.  Amazing stuff.  It’s what I love about sport, any sport, when players show true greatness against all odds and despite the odds being stacked so firmly against them.

It reminded me of another great frame of snooker back in 1982, in the match between Alex Higgins and Jimmy White. Possibly the greatest frame of snooker EVER. It was the semifinal of the World Championship and Alex was the ultimate Rock and Roll sportsman.  Unpredictable, sometimes brilliant, sometimes frustratingly hopeless but always compelling.  Drinking, out of it, mad, but you never quite knew what might happen next and there was always the chance you might just witness a moment of pure genius.

I’d watched virtually every match he’d ever played on UK television and still felt that frisson of excitement every time he came smiling on screen carrying his pint of lager. I’d been watching snooker, (which was completely boring and inexplicable to anyone who was not a fan) since way back in the first mews house I shared with Mj just off Portobello road back in 1979. It used to drive Mj mad with what he perceived as the dreary click of balls and a boring green baize filling the screen, whereas I was in heaven.  Mj resisted all my attempts to explain the intricacies of the play to try to draw him in. He was not having snooker.

Whilst I was in the process of putting Sigue Sigue Sputnik together, I even started playing snooker in a dingy basement club in Kings Cross, which used to be open 24 hours a day 7 days a week. Perfect. I played with my friend Mike Rossi the guitarist from Slaughter and the Dogs. And we’d dream of seeing Alex live one day or even talking to him. Dreams.

The night that Alex played the game of his life found me in another mews house – the former home of Sid Vicious that I now shared with my girlfriend Magenta DeVine. She, annoyingly (but inevitably) was also not a snooker fan.  That evening I watched Alex claw back from the brink, to level the match against an up and coming young player called Jimmy White. It was the match of Alex Higgin’s life and I watched in awe as he squared the match with a series of super human shots.  As I sat there, riveted to the screen, I once again attempted to explain the rules of snooker from scratch to an unlikely and yet surprisingly willing companion sharing the sofa in front of the television.

His name was Johnny Thunders.

I think he soon picked up the nuances of the game and the characters.  It took me some time to explain that it wasn’t just another version of Eight Ball Pool on a bigger table and why it was completely legal to replace the colored balls from the pockets and place them back onto the sacred baize, even though they’d already been potted.  I think that outraged him somewhat.  But Johnny was prepared to accept these strange English people and all their quirks, he was after all accepting our hospitality and currently sitting on the magnificent, giant, grey unbelievably uncomfortable sofa that Magenta’s mother had donated to us.

As Alex played more and more shots that seemed impossible to mere mortals, the New Yorker and I whooped and shouted on the edge of our (uncomfortable) seats, willing Alex on to his exhilarating victory.

Well, I have to admit that Johnny did miss quite a few shots forced as he was to take more and more unfeasibly lengthy trips to the bathroom after borrowing a tie from me. I did think when he asked me for the tie that it was brilliant how he had really entered into the spirit of a game which encourages the wearing of formal wear including waistcoats, shirts and bow ties. However, I did think twice as he sat there pupils pinned, as he nodded out from time to time towards the end of the match that it had less to do with sartorial elegance and more to do with bad old habits. As you all probably know, Higgins went on to win the match and ultimately the World Championship.

And I felt doubly blessed that evening, pinching myself repeatedly as I glanced from the man sitting next to me to the man on the screen and thinking “Christ a legend watching a legend”.  Yes, I was that much of a fan.

As the days passed I found Johnny was happy to watch anything with me on television as long as he had everything he needed to hand and could sometimes take the odd nap just to keep his strength up.  He would sit for hours and I would watch with a vague sense of horror as he dozed sitting upright with cigarette after cigarette melting slowly through his fingers, only leaping up to wake him when the smell of burning flesh became too obvious.  He was a very undemanding guest.

Two Years later, I was in a nascent Sigue Sigue Sputnik and the guest at a party at Peter Stringfellow’s Hippodrome Club. Peter had always been really friendly with the band well before Sputnik became famous, always happy to supply us with free drinks and meals when we were really struggling. The dance floor was packed and for once there was no one I recognised in the flashing lights until, in one of those surreal moments, the crowd parted and I gave a huge intake of breath…

And I found myself face to face with Alex Higgins.

We surveyed each other up and down with what I hoped was measured cool.  I felt that he obviously recognized a fellow snooker player lost on the dance floor, looking good despite the fact I had full length bright pink hair. A thousand questions and memories were flooding through my frantic brain as Alex leant forward to speak to me with a conspiratorial look on that lovely Irish face. What was he about to ask me?  His best shot ever?  The best snooker club in London, even better and beyond and my wildest dreams – did I fancy a quick game?

“Have you got any Charlie on you?” he enquired, shouted in my ear above the music.

Noticing my look of momentary bewilderment and before I could stammer my reply to the negative, he was gone.

My one chance to talk to the Hurricane and I didn’t do drugs. Damn.

I now suppose I ought offer an explanation as to why Johnny Thunders, the ultimate Rock and Roll guitarist with my favorite ever band, The New York Dolls and known partaker of every chemical substance on the planet was doing staying at my house when I didn’t do drugs……….

(To be continued…)