Lipstick, silver pants, Chinese rocks; the whole lot came about because Bowie wouldn’t make me pancakes. The limey fuck. He was quite happy to drag me over to England so I could cut a record; he even fixed me up with this gig. He’s done a lot for me and done it gladly. But as soon as I ask him for one thing, one tiny little favour, he blows me out. I’ve helped him out before. I lent him a fiver to get his platform boot fixed when the heel snapped off on the King’s Road. ‘Iggy, Iggy’, he wailed, ‘I’ve broken me shoe’. And what an almighty strop followed. Bowie, his platformless leg now shorter than the other, stomped round and round in an uneven circle, wailing about what this was doing to his image. So I subbed him a fiver and took his boot to the cobblers. But will he make me pancakes? Will he hell. It’s not like it was some prima donna demand from me either. I love pancakes, I genuinely do. It’s just that I can’t fix a decent pancake for myself, not for all the tea in China. When I cook them, the batter splits, the butter burns or I get the seasoning so wrong the damn things taste like salt-lick. Now my momma, she could make pancakes. Momma’s pancakes were soft and fluffy on the inside, crisp and savoury on the outside and always came with just the right amount of maple syrup and bacon. Man, put those pancakes and a cool glass of OJ in front of me and I could just eat all day long. But when I ask Bowie to cook me up a batch, he knowing full well that I can’t cook for crap, the jerk-off leaves me in the lurch.
Don’t think or a second that Bowie can’t rustle up a decent American breakfast pancake either. I’ve seen him make them and fair enough they’re not up to momma’s standard but they are damn tasty. Bowie’s made pancakes for Bolan. Bowie’s made pancakes for all of Mott. Hell, when Lou crashed over last week Bowie made him a three course breakfast, served in bed on silver platters. But when I want breakfast,Bowie can’t be bothered to get off his limey ass. I asked him politely as well: ‘David’, I said, ‘if it’s not too much trouble, could you fix me up some pancakes?’ This was at around 2pm, breakfast time for me. I had a gig to play later on and, as Grandma used to say, you should never play on an empty stomach. Bowie was leaning against the wall of the dressing room the nightclub had put aside for us. He shifted awkwardly in his electric blue jumpsuit, pushed a few strands of electric red hair out of his eyes and gave me a forlorn look. ‘I’m sorry Iggy mate, but I’m having this artistic crisis this week’, he moaned, ‘I need to save my energy so I can create.’ That was so Bowie. Breathing his rarified air, having artistic crises when all I wanted was a pancake breakfast. I wasn’t going to let the smartass fuck get away with it.
‘Dave, make me some pancakes’ I said.
‘Iggy, I’m not making you pancakes.’
‘Dave, make me some pancakes or I’m going to go on stage naked.’
‘I don’t care. I’m not making you pancakes.’
‘Dave, make me some pancakes or I’m playing the gig in lipstick and eyeliner.’
‘Don’t be a dick Iggy. I’m not making you pancakes.’
‘Dave, make me some pancakes or I’m going on stage in your best silver trousers.’
‘You’re pissing me off now Iggy. And it’s still a “no” to the pancakes.’
‘Dave, make me some freaking pancakes or I’m playing the gig smacked out of my nut.’
‘IGGY, I’M NOT MAKING YOU FUCKING PANCAKES!’
He never did make those pancakes. I got wasted and played the show, half naked and covered in siver spray paint and cheap makeup. Some guy in the audience took a picture and, hey fuckin presto, Bowie picks it for my album cover. Go figure that one out.