Nelson Galaxy

A typical lunch hour in London:

Walking onto Blackfriars Bridge, avoiding the closed pavements due to station refurbishment, I walk past Bobby Gillespie, singer in popular blues and electronica group Primal Scream. There is no mistaking Gillespie, he always appears incredibly greasy and gaunt, a man who has had an eventful life and could be very close to a sudden death.

I have seen him before outside the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel, probably getting something for a heroin addiction before meeting up with Peter Doherty for some heroin fun. Years ago, I helped with the music PA for Primal Scream in a club in Nottingham. Gillespie looked just as old, gaunt, greasy and near death then too.

He gave a small nod of acknowledgement and I strolled on towards the Millennium Bridge. As usual it was full of tourists and film crews.

I was surprised to see everybody move over to the left side of the bridge, leaving an inviting path on the right. This was the path I took. Suddenly, someone shouted through a megaphone, “Cut, man in shot, idiot!” Hey, that man was me and I was surrounded by people with walkie-talkies, film cameras and tasers, probably.

I walked past Peter Firth and Nicola Walker, which is a bit of a plot spoiler for anybody that watches Spooks and can remember what happened to Ruth. Firth is a short, stout man, his face was turning a very dark shade of red and I thought I could see steam exiting his ears as he gave me a deadly stare.

I don’t understand these Spooks types. If they operate covertly, stealthily avoiding public contact due to their nefarious spy mastering, espionage and clandestine liaisons, then why are they standing on the Millennium Bridge surrounded by a massive film crew with cranes, megaphones, spotlights and catering?

Spies, they were much better when I were a lad.