THOBY'S ROOM

The morning of January the fourth, 1986, haunts me to this day. For two, at the time, seemingly unrelated reasons. First was the sudden disappearance of my “lodger” Thoby. He was an old school friend who had managed to live rent free with me for the previous two years. Thoby was always on the brink of some life changing breakthrough that would drag him from obscurity into the life he deserved. Truth is, he made Walter Mitty look like a jaded pessimist. Luckily, like many ex-public schoolboys, he had lots of old pals with a spare room!

Most mornings, he wouldn’t emerge from his room until long after I had left for work. The only evidence of his existence was the near seismic level snoring rattling his bedroom door. On that morning in 1986, all was deathly quiet. So quiet that I began to think he might have passed in his sleep – he had been drinking particularly heavily the night before. I often thought that a rock star death was one of his options for immortality. A ticket from obscurity that required the minimum amount of effort on his part. Believe me, stuff like this was not beyond dear old Thoby.

Fearing the worst, I went in. The first thing that struck me was the wall behind his bed. Something was missing. Correction. Someone was missing. A certain John Henry Bonham, the late drummer of rock legends, Led Zeppelin. All that remained of ‘Bonzo’ were four blobs of dried-out Blu Tack that had held the poster in place. A quick scan of the room left me in no doubt that Thoby and all his possessions, including a mysterious little black book were, like Mr. Bonham, also well and truly gone. Reason number two!

The little black book in question was the subject of some discussion since its discovery, wedged behind a heavy chest of drawers in the kitchen of a ramshackle villa in northern Spain the week before. The villa belonged to the parents of Rupert, an old school friend (of course) and had been empty for years. Rupert’s father was an entertainment lawyer and had a list of clients that read like the roster for the Glastonbury Music Festival. In 1969, he had famously defended, unsuccessfully, Doors’ front man, Jim Morrison, against charges of indecent exposure in Miami. After my break-up with the love-of-my-life, Calypso, and tiring of my morbid self-pity, Rupert had suggested I get away from it all and duly handed me the keys. Not one to miss a free lunch, breakfast or dinner, Thoby nobly offered to keep me company.

The week we spent in the villa was much like every other week in the London flat. Only a lot warmer. We ate well enough, drank way too much and, as a result, spent way too much time in a semi-comatose state to really get away from anything but consciousness itself. That is, until that little black book came into our lives. Its discovery was purely accidental and the direct consequence of the loss of my car keys, which were eventually found behind the aforementioned chest of drawers. Right next to them was the book. Judging by a generous coating of dust and cobwebs, it had been there for years.

On the long drive back through France, Thoby poured over its contents, which were mainly random pencil doodles and some disjointed poetry, his imagination working overtime. What if this had belonged to someone famous? Rupert’s dad knew all the big stars! Maybe some of them stayed at the villa? This could be worth something, man. He was in full Walter Mitty mode long before we reached the ferry back to Dover. I, on the other hand, was knackered from the drive and more than a little tired of his fantasy. Chances are this was a nothing notebook that belonged to a nothing person that was almost certainly worth absolutely nothing.

With an air of resignation, I took one last look at the four bits of Blu Tack on Thoby’s wall, closed the door and headed out into the morning air for milk and the morning papers. I say papers because, in pursuit of a more balanced view of the world, I would often pick up a copy of both The Sun and The Guardian. The Sun’s front page headlines were generally a source of great amusement to me. Usually some clumsily constructed alliteration about a man eating a hamster or an Easter egg painted with the face of Jesus that wept real tears. Mad stuff. Or so I thought. Turned out, The Sun’s front page was about to reach a level of madness I could never have imagined.

It simply read, TWENTY GRAND FOR DEAD DOORS STAR’S DOODLES over a picture of the late Jim Morrison.

I folded the paper under my arm and smiled wryly to myself. At last, Thoby had the life he deserved and I, once again, had a spare room.