I met Jeffrey once in North London - in 1988 - I bought him a G&T - or he bought me one. I think this went on for a while. It was a nice bar. In Wood Green. A Boozeria. A good bar. He was a good guy. But maybe goodness is recycled hate afterall.
I think he went on about his admiration for his namesake (uh) Bernard Levin, how admiring he was of him. I think. Hannibal's Footsteps was out then, I'd read it, didn't really know Levin was a Sunday Times columnist, right-wing panda.
He had lovely hands - goyaesque in a non-goyaesque kind of way.
Smoked my packet of Parilaments in a jiff. I was a student. It was Jeffrey. I didn't care, even if I didn't really know who he really was.
I woke up thinking I'd met Quentin Crisp's hardnosed brother.
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