ΟΤΑΝ Ο JIM ΓΝΩΡΙΣΕ ΤΟΝ FREDDIE

'Freddie and I never talked about how long we'd be together.

We accepted that we were and would be. Now and then he'd ask me what I wanted from life.

"Contentment and love," I'd say. I found both in Freddie'

.
Freddie and Jim: A Love Story
Weekend magazine, The Guardian 22nd October 1994 (mr-mercury.co.uk)
It had been just another ordinary weekend towards the end of 1983. I'd spent much of it drinking in gay pubs and clubs with my lover, John Alexander. On Sunday night we'd ended up in a gay club called Copacabana. I suppose I was on my fourth lager and this guy came up to me. I was 34 and he was slightly older. He was dressed casually in jeans and white vest and, like me, had a moustache. He was slight and not the sort of man I found attractive.
"Let me buy you a drink," he said.
"No, thank you." Then he asked me what I was doing that night.
"You'd better ask my boyfriend about that." I said. The stranger could see he was getting nowhere and let the matter drop, going back to his friends.
"Somebody's just tried to chat me up," I told John when he returned.
"Who was he?" he asked. "Which one?"
"Over there," I said, pointing him out.
"that's Freddie Mercury! he said, although it meant nothing to me. If he'd been the managing director of the Savoy Hotel where I worked as a hairdresser it might have been a different matter. But I never kept up with pop music. Although I had it on the radio all the time, I couldn't tell one singer from another. I had never heard of Queen. John wasn't annoyed that Freddie had tried it on - on the contrary, he was flattered that a famous singer fancied his partner.
Four or five months after that night, John took me out to dinner at a swanky restaurant, September's. As we ate, John looking over my shoulder, said: "Oh, your friend is here."
"Who?" I asked.
"Freddie Mercury. The guy who tried to chat you up at Copacabana."
And indeed there was the same man dining with friends. I don't think he saw me.
Not long after, John and I moved to Sutton in Surrey where we rented two attic rooms at the top of a semi-detached house. It was a modest place: a bedroom, sitting room and basic cooking facilities on the landing. But after a while John and I began getting on one another's nerves. I didn't expect much out of life but I was desperate for a harmonious, loving relationship. I became too possessive of John and he eventually saw me as a ball and chain. In the spring of 1984, after two years together, we split up. I kept the rooms, and John moved out.
I led a quiet life on my own. Once in a while I might meet a friend in Sutton for a drink, but usually I kept to myself. I got into the habit of going out once a week, on Thursdays, as that was pay-day, to the Market Tavern, a gay pub in south London. I'd stand there all night on the exact same spot, drinking a few pints and taking in the atmosphere, oblivious to everyone else. I was kept entertained by watching a bunch of strangers enjoying themselves.
When the summer months came along, it became too dull for whole weekends in Sutton so I switched my drinking night to Saturday. I always thought I was out totally alone those nights. Not so, apparently. Many years later, after Freddie's death, I had a heart-to-heart with Joe Fannelli, a former lover of Freddie's and his live-in chef, confessor and confidant. Although Freddie had a flat in London throughout 1984, he was mostly living in Munich, Germany. Whenever he was back in London for a weekend he'd invariably end up in Heaven, the gay nightclub.
I don't know how, but Freddie discovered where I drank. On his way to Heaven he would tell his chauffeur, a guy called Gary, to take a detour via the Market Tavern. Freddie's old Mercedes would draw up and Joe was instructed to see if I was on my mark at the bar. Once he'd reported back to Freddie that indeed, this creature of habit was in place, they'd continue their journey to Heaven for the night.
If you're Irish, which I am, then March 17 is a date which never leaves your mind: St Patrick's Day. Paddy's Day, 1985, is ingrained in my memory, so I know it was the following Saturday, March 23, that I met Freddie again. The day started much like any other. I made myself some supper, then headed out dressed appropriately for the gay scene. The look at the time was "High Clone", jeans and white vest, and the obligatory moustache.
When the Market Tavern closed, I fell straight into the back of a minicab, driven by a regular face who was used to me slurring Sutton as my destination. That night I decided I wanted to go on partying and told him to drive me to Heaven instead. It was a very occasional haunt of mine: I'd always found it too big and impersonal for my liking. I arrived fairly late, legless and undoubtedly on another planet. Worse still, after paying the minicab I only had £5 to my name. At least I didn't have to pay to get in, as I discovered that a friend was on the door. I went straight to the downstairs bar and ordered a pint of lager.
"Let me buy you this," said a voice. I looked up. It was the chap from the Copacabana in 1983. Freddie Thing. I'd had a fair amount to drink. My tongue loosened up. My defenses were down.
"No I'll buy you one," I said.
"A large vodka tonic," came the reply.
There went my fiver in one go. If I was lucky I would be left with a little over £1 perhaps enough to get the night bus home.
He introduced himself as "Freddie". I knew he was Freddie Mercury, but still had little inkling who he actually was, or what he did. It didn't seem to matter. Freddie asked me to join his crowd of friends, who were grouped in the middle of the bar. Joe Fannelli was there, Peter Straker, the singer, with a couple of others. Joe was fair-haired, worked out and was in his thirties, with a cautious approach to people and life. I haven't got a clue what any of us talked about that night; I let them do most of the talking.
By about four in the morning Freddie decided he'd had enough and we were all invited back to his flat in Kensington - outside, the dawn was almost up, but everyone in the flat was in the mood to keep partying. At one point Freddie offered me some cocaine. "No, thanks," I said. "I don't touch the stuff." I'd had the odd joint of cannabis in my time, but never anything harder. Anyway, I was already happily tanked up and more interested in playing with Freddie's two cats, Tiffany and Oscar, than in putting anything up my nose. Despite a room full of noisy people. Freddie and I flirted all the time. There was a lot of eye contact with the odd wink, or not, or touch.
Eventually Freddie and I fell into his bed, too drunk to do anything more than fumble about. Freddie cuddled up to me affectionately. We both nattered away until we finally flaked out. Next morning we lay entwined, carrying on talking where we 'd left off. When we got around to discussing what each of us did for a living, I told him I was a hairdresser. He said, "I'm a singer." Then he offered to go ad make me a cup of tea.
Later, around noon, as I was leaving the flat, Freddie gave me his telephone number. "Fair dues," I said. "Here's mine." I didn't hear a word from Freddie after that night, and thought no more of it.
Then three months later, in the early summer, he did get in touch. I got home on a Friday and started cooking bangers and mash. I'd just put the potatoes on to boil when the phone went downstairs in the hall. My landlady answered it and called up for me.
I trundled down and the voice at the other end said: "Guess who this is?"
I tried a few names without success.
"It's Freddie," he said. "I'm having a little dinner party. Come over."
"I can't," I replied. "I've just started cooking my dinner."
"Well, turn everything off at once," he demanded insistently. "Come over. You'll have a good time, I promise."