Letter From London - Humorous Gossip From London

Wet Suit Man - 7 May

Dear Lulu,

Is it in the (purified) water? First it was Queen-in-Waiting-Camilla who hit and ran. Now it’s Happy Harry H. He and an equally drunk/drugged/whatever friend fell into the back of a Jag at 4AM after all night at Raffles. The Jag clipped a parked Citroen, scraping it down the side, knocked off the wing mirror and dented it. The car stopped for a few seconds further down the road and then roared off, as they do because they can. One witness reported: “Harry was steaming drunk. There was a large bang when their vehicle hit a parked car…Harry was laughing all the time…they should have at least left a note.” Certainly not wanting to be labelled thoughtless, they did abandoned his friend’s brown suede loafer in the road. In actual fact, very little thought was involved; it fell off when Harry’s friend was climbing over Harry to get into the car.

In Camilla’s case, the other car was occupied and moving. If I remember correctly; last year Camilla forced a lone woman driver off the road and then sped off to Highgrove for a dinner party. “Oh PC Darling. I’m running a tad late. This stuuuupid commoner got in my way. Can you just imagine? It’s all so tedious. Have staff fix me a drink…straight. Tell Mark (Bolland) we may have to do a bit of spin. The woman might be drearily dead. See you in a mo….” There were no witnesses; or at least none who came forward to the press.

While on the subject of unresolved incidents, there is The Strange Case of the Man in the Wet Suit. No, not wetsuit. Wet suit. If you haven’t heard this story, you may well ask again: wet suit? Yes. A man was discovered on a beach in Sheerness on the Isle of Sheppey in North Kent. He was eveningwear-attired. He appeared to have come out of the sea. He was found walking in the darkness. His clothing was dripping wet. Initially it was thought he had attended a funeral. Apparently, inhabitants of the area don’t get out much or persist in strange pagan ways. He is six feet tall and presumably still has dyed blond - kind of post-punk hair. Now, here comes the first in a string of strange occurrences if wearing a dripping wet evening suit isn’t sufficiently strange for you. The labels have all been removed from his suit, tie, shirt and his shoes had been rubbed clean of all potentially identifying marks.

In a hospital ward he remained crouching in abject terror in the corner of his room, completely mute. A social worker gave him paper and pencil. Overnight he drew sad sketches of himself and a grand piano. In total - five grand pianos - all in great detail, which included the iinner workings of the instrument. His carers were a bit quicker than the original finders (funeral…really) and located a grand piano for him to play, which he proceeded to do for four continuous hours, when he attained a peacefulness for the first time. Returned to his piano-less health unit, he drew a keyboard and spent his time composing music. Those who should know, consider him an exceptionally talented amateur. He plays Tchaikovsky and the Beatles. Thus he has been named: ‘Piano Man’. The other day, an upright piano was been moved into his room.

He has stayed incommunicado for more than six weeks. No one can come physically near him. He washes, eats what is presented to him and refuses all clothing offered to him; he puts his suit back on every morning. If someone enters his room, he cowers in the corner covering himself with his blanket, hyperventilating. He never walks in a straight line. When he enters a room, he walks around it with his back to the wall, maintaining eye contact with anyone else in the room. If he is confronted with a room full of people, he runs away terrified. He has smiled only once. His carer: “It was because the room was too small and I could not stand in the middle to let him in. So I crammed myself in the corner so he could enter and that’s when he gave me a smile. In my 20 years as a social worker, I’ve never dealt with a case like this.”

He accepts any gifts that have to do with the piano. He keeps his manuscript with him at all times. A clinic lecturer in forensic psychiatry says: “What he seems to have is what we call a fugue state. The mind keeps relieving traumatic experiences and the past becomes the present.” Did he say, fugue state?

Various people have claimed him and he certainly is not in want of a name. A plethora have flooded in to hot lines after his photograph was published; 1000 so far. A mime – could this possibly be more ironic? – ‘artist’ (sorry, but it isn’t possible for me to combine the two words in a proper sentence or even a thought for that matter), Darius, a Pole living illegally in Italy approached police in Rome after seeing the photograph. He says this lost soul is Steven Villa Masson and they used to perform together in Nice. Nice, but he doesn’t look like a ‘Steven’. Okay, if pressed Steven with a ‘ph’, but never a ‘v’. Although he does look a bit French.

In Toronto they got really creative with their amnesiac. They called him Mr Nobody. (Is this not so crass, rude, insensitive? Nonetheless I am resisting all desire to comment. Still, I really doubt if this man had been found in Montreal, they would have called him ‘nobody’. M Personne perhaps….) Mr Nobody became a celebrity in Canada. Ready? He had dyed blond hair, was unusually gifted and – all the labels were removed from his clothing when he was found. The mind bends.

Then there is Philip Staufen, aka Keith Ryan, now Sywald Skeid who was diagnosed with post-concussion amnesia in 1999 after he walked into a Canadian hospital sans identification having been attacked. He has since gone missing after being freed from jail for immigration offences; are you with me here? Are these people mad? It has been reported that he may have just surfaced again, but not in Kent. In 2001, a London-based publisher claimed this guy was the spitting image of a gay porn model, George Lecuit. But the real M Lecuit had his French passport stolen in 1998.

As of late, Piano Man is Czech. Klaudius Kryspin, a former member of the Czech pop group, Ropotam, is sure he is his friend and ex-band member, Tomas Strnad. He hasn’t seen Tomas since 1996: “He still looks like the same guy I knew back then. The only things that are different are his hair colour and his sad face,” and he’s no longer playing anti-communist songs by his once favoured band, Prazsky Vyber. Kryspin’s twin brother from Ohio, (Ohio? This is a tangled web) last saw Tomas three years ago when he heard that the concert pianist had mental problems. Tomas’ parents also last saw him three years ago when he gave a classical recital in Prague from memory. It was said to be fantastic. Kryspin also says that his friend had a fascination with England and its music, especially Pink Floyd and Yes. Coming to England would have been a dream coming true. He thinks Piano Man cut the labels out himself to avoid his eastern European connection. There may have been mention of ‘identifying’ marks. The plot thickens.

In the UK alone 300 plus other names have been offered. Call 0500 700 700 if you have any suggestions. I’m thinking Rufus.

Hollywood producers are considering making a film on this sad, strange case. I can only assume they will pass a piece of paper under his door due to his stultifying fear of strangers, then in whispered attempts at the door jam: “Now don’t you worry, Piano Man. We’re prepared to give you .01% of the profits of the film. Just put an X right on the dotted line….” And just in case he should ever remember who he is and demand his just financial rewards, they can claim they don’t know who he is. End of story.

TTFN, Maggie

Wet Suit Man - 7 May

Letters From London