Alcohol is an equaliser. But it depends on who you are drinking with: a bully, a liar, a fraudster - or if you are being the recipient of the courtesy, gentleness and charm of a world-famous playwright.
London can be such an interesting city but, oh, so lonely! As in all cities, there is heartbreak and tragedy just below the innocuous, glitzy, unassuming surface. To spend time there is to taste the flavours of its orchards: they might be bitter or they might be sweet.
My game plan, back in the 1970s, was to try and get a book of poems published, even if it took miraculous intervention. A publisher's tale, which I had heard explained to me many times, was that poetry lists were very short and books were planned about two years in advance. Anyway, poetry did not sell and, most importantly, did not make money.
Behind the bar
While in London I had the problem of keeping body and soul together and earning a living. I knew from previous experiences in the hallowed court of St James that a job as a barman was a desirable prize providing food and accommodation and a little money. I worked behind the bar of the Irish Club in Eaton Square, the Cadogan on the King's Road, Chelsea, the North Pole Bar adjacent to White City, a hostelry in the borough of Hendon opposite the Police Academy, and the Mayflower in Rotherhithe with an idyllic view of the River Thames.
As time passed I had a succession of other jobs: dishwasher-cum-kitchen porter in the Cafe Royal, a job in the culinary care department of Springfield Mental Hospital, cleaner-cum-messenger with British Rail, road-sweeping with Westminster City Council at the height of a viciously cold winter. This last job included sweeping up outside Jim Callaghan's office, Carlton House, when he was foreign secretary before he became prime minister.
In the meantime, I made some progress towards getting the book of poems published through the good offices of the director of the National Poetry Society in Earl's Court. I showed a brief recommendation of my work by the poet and professor Brendan Kennelly to the society's director. At the time I was without a job, then through good fortune I received a double week's holiday social security payment. My problem was solved; I could now afford the publishing costs.
While in the vicinity of Chalk Farm one night, desperate for a bed, I met Anton Wallach Clifford, founder of the Simon Community. Anton, being a lover of the arts and a benefactor of the homeless, provided a settee for a month while I organised my publishing project. He also, through his many contacts, arranged an early morning interview on BBC Radio London to a million listeners and a press conference; such was the generosity of the man. Soon after, the great day arrived when my book of poems was launched at the London headquarters of the Simon Community on Malden Road, Chalk Farm.
It was not until a long time after that I learned the words of wisdom of Herman Melville, author of Moby Dick: "There is nothing less consequential in literature than the publication of a first book of poems." I was temporarily spared the truth. The book was out. A short time later my tax rebate check also arrived.
New-found wealth
On the way home one evening I ventured into the Roundhouse for performing arts. There was a Tennessee Williams play on that night. In the bar I ordered a drink with my new-found wealth from the Inland Revenue. Then I noticed a bespectacled, moustached man of average height dressed in a dark-brown khaki jacket. It struck me that he might be Tennessee Williams, as I had read his article in the Times the previous morning. There was one way to find out. "Are you Tennessee Williams?" I asked.
"I am", replied the friendly southern gent. "Can I buy you a drink?" I said. "No thanks, I have one, but I will join you in a moment."
After we had talked a little I commented on his article in the Times, which had told me something about his life and the variety of jobs he had done. "You describe them as `all good jobs'," I said. I had been amazed, thinking of myself pushing my brushes and cart through snowy streets in winter, the endless bottles which I had to put one by one in crates in the Irish pubs in which I had worked, not to mention the work as a kitchen porter in the kitchens of Soho. "All good jobs," he happily volunteered, through a toothy, charming smile.
A low ebb
I mentioned to him the bits of writing I'd been engaged in; then I volunteered a poem which somewhat reflected my angst while at a low ebb in the not-too-distant past. The poem was entitled I'm sorry I cannot help you. A few lines went: "You are homeless and have nowhere to live, I'm sorry I cannot help you./ You are suicidal and may kill yourself, I'm sorry I cannot help you./ You are on drugs and feel very upset, I'm sorry I cannot help you./ You are so alone, you are aloneness itself, I'm sorry I cannot help you./ I'm selfish and I keep extremely busy to cope with my loneliness./ I'm sorry I cannot help you."
At this point Tennessee Williams interjected in his slow, affable accent: "That's a mighty fine line." At the end of the poem he said: "That's a good one".
For me, meeting him was a benign signpost from a literary giant to a pilgrim on the road looking for directions. The play that was showing in the Roundhouse was The Red Devil Battery Sign - a later work, not an early classic like A Street Car Named Desire, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, The Glass Menagerie, Suddenly Last Summer, Sweet Bird of Youth, or Night of the Iguana. As he was about to take his leave, I said: "You must visit Dublin again". He replied, again smiling broadly, "I must go everywhere again."