3 Dee Time

‘I was looking at ‘SilverSingles’’.

He blew on his nails and gave them a faux-polish on the front of his tired-looking tweed jacket. It looked like it had been tailored, but not for him.

‘You arsehole! Now I’ll be getting spammed with “extra-special” offers from purportedly lonely people claiming they used to dance round their handbags forty years ago. That or catfish asking me to pay the vet bills for their non-existent pets...’

‘How do you know I was looking for women?’

I didn’t, of course. His smirk told me that he hadn’t been doing that kind of research at all – and that he knew that I knew it.

He finished the rest of his pint. Necked it in one, as we used to say. Then he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. There were still specks of foam in his beard, as though he’d just given a Hitler-esque rant from behind a podium. His cheeks puffed out.

‘What’s your interest in Simon Dee?’

Vint was picking at a wicklow. His nails were cleaner than I expected. He was by no means dirty, just… shabby.

I cleared my throat. ‘I thought I might write a novel centred around fame. About hubris, about downfall.’

He drummed his fingers on the wood.

‘Aren’t there enough of those?’

I concentrated on finishing my pint. I turned to look at Bruce behind the bar, but he’d already arrived at our booth, a Sheep in each hand. I didn’t know which shocked me most, the table service or the muttered ‘on the house’, as he took the empties away.

‘I was a gofer on 'Dee Time'.’ Vint smiled, an old man’s teeth, still straight but discoloured.

I revised his age upwards again. ‘You do know what Double Diamond is, then.’

‘Naturally. I was just ...’

‘Just what? Being an arsehole?’

‘Well I did work on that show. Got the job at 15, just after I escaped from Morpeth School. My second day, I got sent out for a new shirt for Dee, after he spilled whiskey on it. I had to get a taxi all the way to King’s Road from Lime Grove studios. Had to be a Tommy Roberts shirt. Mr Freedom, the shop was called.’

‘You could have Googled stuff and made the rest of that up,’ I sneered.

‘Isn’t that what you do for your writing?’ He was grinning by this time, pointing at the laptop. ‘So, research is it? Stuff you’ll be filling the gaps between?’

I was on my sixth pint, about four more than usual, otherwise I wouldn’t have told him,

‘I believe the girl in the kinky boots and the E-Type was my mum.’