In the London autumn rain, he walked into the flamboyant fashion shop on Carnaby street - 1964. It was a London at peace with itself, pencils of the sun warming wet clothes. A strange clock chimed in the corners of infinity, a vast array of passengers perhaps nothing more than a thought in the eternal mind? John Oliver, a free spirit, child of the 1960’s rainbow, hearing girls whispers as he opened the shop door, “That’s him!” He was the king of that time, perhaps reigning for just a few months, little knowing that it would all end one day in an alcoholic unit on a dark long stay mental health ward! He was a note on an out of tune guitar fighting a war on an invisible battlefield. Nostalgia may have its place but it all ends in a game of kaleidoscope chance, a pattern that sometimes works and other times it leads on to chaos. What makes me think about John Oliver that day in this now drab world of un – creation? What would he make of this world of instant everything? Jungle drums and clone of the bone sub human incurable sold out dictators? He is of course no longer here to answer but, I hope he in some mysterious way, can look to a timeless possibility, where he can penetrate the impossible, and live once again in the London of 1964………………….
Chris Pitts March 2022