It was clear to everybody in the family that as a cripple I was a complete
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failure. I did no better at college, actually. I went to the Hornsey College
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of Art. Hornsey, with the emphasis on horn.
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But being at Art College in the mid till late sixties was quite an experience.
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Everything was changing in Britain: fashion, style, art, theater.
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But the thing I enjoyed most about Art College were the chicks.
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Exactly. Don't think of me as crumpet man, do you? Do you?
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But there was one chick in particular. She was in the sculpture
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department. She was a complete goddess. She was like one of these
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continental film stars. Her body was shaped like a Gretch country
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gentleman guitar. But like a Gretch country gentleman, she was too
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expensive for me.
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But ev'ry night I persevered. I carried her easel up the stairs to her bedsit.
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All these stairs to this attic appartment. But once I was inside her bedsit
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I'd sit down and talk to her about politics, art, literature,...revolution!
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The usual crap, do you know what I mean? And this girl would lean
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against the refrigerator, sip her cocoa and stare at me as if to say
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"You can talk all the bullshit you want. You ain't gonna get anywhere
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with me". And she was right, so I like to dedicate this next piece
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to that wonderful prick-teaser of my youth.
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Art School (Dialogue)
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| Ray Davies |
