The Fiire Hero

 Back in the '80's the hair cuts of the new and popular started to become more elaborate. The spiky punk look began to mutate into something much more ornate. Doubtless inspired by the New Romantic's, pops latest fashion fad, backcombed and crimped men with frilly shirts, pirate trousers and make up began to litter the pages of the pop press. I myself had a new record deal and had just landed a part in a new play as a young new romantic/punk/biker. Obviously no such amalgam of styles actually existed but who am I to argue with one of England's most respected Theatre directors and his designer. So off we went to the hairdressers to the pop elite. It was a small and wacky establishment just of Kensington church street called 'Antennae'. Boy George, Steve Strange and the Thompson Twins all came here along with countless other pop hopeful's. The staff were always friendly and a damn good laugh even though their own increasingly experimental hairdo's made them seem at first both aloof and unapproachable. The speciality of the house was extensions. False hair weaved imperceptibly with your own. I rather liked the idea. After years of suffering curly hair abuse at last I could have a style that at least looked the same all day long albeit a style guaranteed to scare the shit out of pensioners and small animals. Instead of the frizzy, follicled Keegan nightmare with a life of it's own. So there I was hair shaved at the sides. The middle section plumped up and dyed red and 12 long thick plats called bobtails. I thought it looked great. I did find, however, that I started wearing the same kind of clothes that I wore on stage. Somehow dressing down with a mad hair cut that made you stand out all the more, best to go with it.

I spent a months run at the theatre in the new play 'Wedding Song' which, incidentally, involved my character sitting on a Motor bike snogging the very attractive Kim Thompson full on whilst putting my hand up her skirt. I did this to the sound of a track from my first solo record blaring out of the theatre PA. Every night for a month and twice on Saturdays. A tough job but hey someone had to do it.I kept the hair cut for sometime after the play had finished but the fact is I was stopped  by the police in my car at least two times a week whilst I had it. So off I went back to Antennae for a restyle and rethink. I chose something a touch more acceptable to the local constabulary whilst still remaining fashionable.   I had, as ever, left my rural retreat for the big smoke and was walking up Kensington church street back to my car when the whole drama began to unfold. As I started to walk up the road I saw a small crowd had begun to gather just off the pavement in front of me. Naturally I was intrigued as to the reason for all this gawping commotion. Arriving at the gathering it became apparent that they were all standing outside a betting shop.
'What's going on?' I asked.
'The place is on fire, look can you see the smoke escaping from those window slats there?' Indeed I could. There's something a bit disturbing in the crowd mentality's obsession with disaster and accidents. For every house burning down there's a crowd watching for a bit of real life action and entertainment. For every car crash a long line of rubber necking drivers trying to catch a glimpse of something unpleasant. With that thought I started to head off back to Hertfordshire. It was then that I caught sight of a solitary clenched fist weakly hitting the solid glass door from inside the building.
'Is there some one actually stuck in there?' I asked a touch panic stricken.
'Oh yeah, he's been hitting that door a few times now' Came the almost disinterested reply. 'Well why the hell isn't some one trying to get him out of there?'  'All right mate, calm down someone's called the fire brigade and ambulance' 'It's just gone 5 on a Friday afternoon in Kensington for Christ sake' I would like to point out here that what happened next had nothing to do with bravery. As anyone who knows me will testify bravery is not a word that springs to mind when my name is mentioned. A fact that would be confirmed by anyone using the back stage toilets at Crystal Palace bowl an hour or so prior to taking the stage will testify. Fireman, now they deal in bravery. The know the dangers and the potential pitfall's before they even put their helmets on. That's real bravery. As for me on that summers after noon in Kensington it was instict or adrenaline and a degree of ignorance and stupidity thrown in for good measure. Someone was stuck in a burning building and no one was helping, that's as far as my thought processes went. The others watching had stumbled into this incident and watched it unfold. They had time to weigh up what was happening and how dangerous it was becoming. Where as I had got there as the fire was raging. I just ran around the area trying desperately to find an object suitably heavy to break down a very thick plate glass shop front door. I ran into a mini supermarket a few doors up yelling at the man behind the till to help me. He bent down and produced a large crowbar which he doubtless kept as insurance against drunken late night customers. Armed with this weapon I began to smash it against the door. It just bounced off sending juddering vibrations up my arm. So more in desperation than anything I hurled it at the door with all the strength my adrenaline could muster. It smashed a hole in the door and the remaining glass above the hole came crashing down on to the floor. At the same time a tremendous wave of heat escaped through the doorway and damn near pushed me over. Within seconds the smoke had risen and I could see the legs of the trapped man some five feet inside the door way. I yelled for some assistance and a middle aged man came forward. The heat inside the building was horrendous and stifling and I managed to grab this poor blokes leg and pull him towards the door with the assistance of my new found volunteer. We dragged him up the road and laid him outside a neighbouring shop front. This was in fact my first real sense of panic since this whole thing had started. Would the hell do I do now. His face looked a mess. Do I give him the kiss of life? Loosen his clothing? And then like some cheap movie a man came barging his way out of the watching crowd. 'It's OK I'm a doctor.'

It was then that I became aware of the large crowd being ushered away to the other side of the road by a newly arrived Policeman. I wandered back towards the hairdressers pretty dazed. My hand was bleeding I had to clean it up. There were various staff members watching from the corner. They took me back in and cleaned the wound. I couldn't take anything in. I know they were exited and talking to me but have no recollection of what they were saying. At that point there was a big explosion and glass from the shop was sprayed across the road. That was also when the reality of what I had done and it's potential consequences finally began to dawn on me. The man outside the shop was still alive and now on his way to hospital and the fire brigade had the fire under control as I was lead to one of the ambulances. A fireman came and told me that I could easily have caught the full force of the explosion. I lay in the back of the ambulance shaking and began to cry. The whole thing could have gone up in my face.
A week later I was summoned to Notting Hill Police station and asked to make a statement. 'Can you describe the man you rescued?' asked the officer in charge of the investigation.
'Oh middle aged, small frame, west Indian probably' ' No he wasn't black. That was the smoke residue and charring'  And that was it. Stiff Records press department, rather tastelessly I thought, tried to get as much publicity as possible for my struggling single . Whilst I couldn't stop the articles I drew the line at TV appearances. This was no way to promote a career  in pop music. So I hoped the man would get better and recover fully from his injuries and fantasised that he was not only the owner of that shop but owned a successful chain of bookies and once released from hospital would show his appreciation in hard cash. Some months later I received a letter from the Metropolitan Police. It said that the judge at the inquiry in to the fire had singled out my bravery for special commendation and an example of  great public spirit. The letter continued. 'Unfortunately the man you saved was himself responsible for the fire and has since been tried and convicted of burglary and arson and was sentenced to 5 years at her majesties pleasure.'