THE LEATHER

You wanted to be with him, to hear him, to be animated by his electricity.

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It was in the basement of Dillon’s bookshop on Gower Street that I first spoke to the Leather. I was in my second year of university in 1976, reading philosophy at King’s College, London. I had seen the Leather around, in classes and at the bar, and thought he had a sexy swagger and interesting hair, though more like Ronnie Wood than Keith Richards. He was wearing bondage trousers, eyeshadow, and a little lipstick, perfect for a lecture on David Hume at ten o’clock in the morning.

In Dillons, the Leather invited me over and asked if I had heard of Allen Jones. I hadn’t, and he led me upstairs into the art section of the shop and showed me Jones’s images. I was impressed by these surreal, transgressive and sexy paintings; women on their knees in brothel clothes. Then, the Leather asked to borrow a tenner.  I handed over the money, believing that the word ‘borrow’ might have some currency with him.

We started hanging out, and, after a morning of tutorials, would begin a day of drinking and conversation; first in the King’s College Bar, later in the bar at Birkbeck College, and then finishing off at the LSE bar across the road. He had read the same books, listened to the same music, but was ahead of me - an enviable trove of knowledge.

Like me, the Leather was an outsider in Britain, unsure of his social place. His parents were Czech refugees, and he spoke Czech at home. His foreignness contributed to his enigma and charm. He had the progressive look of the day, which was feminine without being effeminate – hence, the Leather.

The Leather would nod to the rugby players from medical school whose drink nights he attended. He would raise a fist to the politicos who picketed Grunwick, and as President of the University Theatre Workshop, he knew theatre people, small magazine types and rock bands who threw the best parties. He introduced me to the work of leading artists and writers as he interviewed them for the college magazine he ran, Blurred Edges.

His vitality and curiosity about film, theatre and literature enthused me. He was what I had come to London for. I suppose it could be said that he had charm. You wanted to be with him, to hear him, to be animated by his electricity.