Free Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys, Boys. by Viv Albertine

any level. This attitude makes her appear hard: she isn’t though, she’s very kind and generous. It’s just unusual for a girl not to use her sexuality when interacting with a man. I’m the youngest person on the staff and often feel out of my depth amongst all the worldly types who work here, so Brandi’s friendship gives me confidence. Neither of us take drugs – well, not hard drugs like some of this lot do – so we’re a bit left out. I’ve noticed that people who take heroin are very cliquey, you feel a bit of a loser if you don’t partake. At Dingwalls, a group of them are always disappearing off together, whispering in corners. It’s a passive pressure; nothing’s said, you’re just treated as if you don’t quite exist. Apart from Brandi, the person I hang out with most is a blond, tousle-haired boy with black eyebrows called Rory Johnston. He’s sweet-natured, and has a half-American, half-Scottish accent. He likes me even though I haven’t got much going on at the moment: Rory sees something in me. When he isn’t working at Dingwalls, he’s a barman at the Portobello Hotel, where lots of musicians drink. He’s also an art student at Hammersmith College of Art and Building and the unofficial, unpaid assistant to a guy called Malcolm McLaren who owns a clothes shop. Rory’s a very motivated person. He often takes me to the Portobello Hotel and I sit at the little bar whilst he works. It’s a tiny basement room, not very impressive, just a bit of wicker furniture and a couple of tropical plants dotted around. I like going there because I get to see people like Mick Ronson and the other Spiders from Mars and Ian Hunter from Mott the Hoople, drinking and hanging out.
    Dingwalls is full of characters, like the two girls Robyn and Shawn Slovo: their parents were world-famous anti-apartheid activists, their mother was assassinated because of it. Shawn and Robyn are very creative, they’re writers and are very confident when they speak. No one intimidates those two. I’d like to be like that. The other person who stands out for me is a waitress called Rose. She doesn’t take any shit. Once Captain Beefheart came in for a burger and called Rose over to tell her he liked the way she walked. It’s interesting he noticed that about her: she has a very specific walk, a cross between a swaggering docker and a ballerina, with feet turned out, very purposeful, not traditionally feminine, not trying to be all slinky and seductive. He liked her walk for being strong and militant. I’m very jealous that Beefheart noticed her. It was the talk of the club for the rest of the evening.
    I had my own ‘Beefheart Moment’ a couple of years later. I was in a cafe in Portobello Road and noticed Captain Beefheart was sitting across the room. When he left, he passed my table and to my astonishment stopped and said, ‘I love your hat.’ I was wearing a giant shocking pink silk beret with white polka dots on it that my mum had made for me. It had a fat pink stalk sticking out of the top. I looked back at him with a very serious expression and said, ‘I love your music.’ He looked surprised, he wasn’t a very well-known musician, not the sort who got recognised. He nodded and left.
    The bosses at Dingwalls aren’t like normal bosses. One’s called Dave ‘Boss’ Goodman, he’s a big cuddly guy who used to look after the group the Pink Fairies. Russell Hunter, who was their drummer, runs the bar. They’re both cheeky and irreverent most of the time but occasionally they take their jobs seriously and get strict with us, which is quite funny. I’ve got a crush on Russell – I like his soft voice – but he’s not interested in me. Once he asked me to go upstairs with him to the little flat above Dingwalls to collect some empty crates. Everyone jeered as we walked out because the flat is known as a bit of a shag pad. When we got up there he pulled me down onto the waterbed, and started to kiss me. I was so