Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

30. Montagu Square: Part 1

Carnival of Light

30.

The International Times launch party was billed as a Pop-Op-Costume-Masque-Drag Ball, inviting guests to 'bring their own poison' and Tara brought just about every poison he could think of. We popped a few pills in the taxi to Chalk Farm, a north London neighbourhood I would never have ventured to if it weren't for the promise of an all night rave at a former railway engine servicing hub, and by the time we arrived at the Roundhouse I was shivering happily in my little black boots.

The ceilings were high and the room was dark and hazy, the air heavy with herbal smoke from vast quantities of pot being passed around. A sea of stoned bodies in fancy dress bumped up against a stage in the middle of the room, where the Soft Machine were playing a freak-out-style cacophony of psychedelic organs and chanted harmonies while Scorpio Rising was projected onto the wall behind them. You could taste the disorganised cultural revolution brewing in the semi-darkness — it tasted a lot like grass, and smelled a lot like an overflowing loo.

I grinned at Tara, who had come dressed as a lion, his face painted glittering gold and his blonde hair coiffed into a mane. My concession to the fancy dress theme was a beret, a black polo neck dress, and a cigarette holder. I was French, I explained to an exasperated Tara when he saw how little effort I'd put in.

We bumped into Hoppy and Suzy Creamcheese first, both of them dressed like California flower children and already tripping. Then Nigel and Jenny from 101 Cromwell, who offered Tara a tab of acid, which he giddily dropped on his tongue. We said hello to Dunbar, who was smoking a joint with Syd Barret whilst sulkily eyeing up Mick and Marianne across the room. Mick was dressed in psychedelic ruffles and velvet and Marianne was wearing a nun's habit she'd cropped so it just about covered her bum. They were holding hands, a new development and the source of Dunbar's ire.

"Where's your costume?" Marianne demanded by way of greeting me.

"I'm French," I explained, taking a drag off my cigarette. I leaned toward her, grinning. "So you settled on Mick in the end?"

Marianne shrugged helplessly, looking very happy. She may have blushed a bit but that would have been most unlike her.

Sue bounced up to me and threw her arms around my neck, high as a kite on god knows what with flowers in her hair and painted on both of her cheeks.

"Where's your costume?" she laughed.

"I'm French," I grinned.

Miles and Paul were behind her, Miles also dressed like a hippie, Paul wearing a kaftan over his normal clothes, which I judged to be almost as lazy as my beret. He wasted no time slipping his arm around my waist and ducking down to kiss my jaw instead of my cheek. It was dark and smoky so I leaned into him, encouraging him to nuzzle my neck before I tried to pull away, but Paul drew me back to him.

He bent his head to speak in my ear. "You're looking very French."

"Oui," I looked up at him impishly. "That's the idea."

Paul offered me a smirk and squeezed my arse.

Even at a counterculture event of anarchists, socialists and avant garde artists, Paul inspired heightened interest. Everyone wanted to speak to him, including numerous stoned young men who felt the need to tell him how brilliant Revolver was. Paul spoke to them happily, pulling my hand into his when Mick and Marianne wandered off to explore and Sue and Miles were distracted by the anarchist writer Jeff Nuttall. Tara shot us a smirk and went to find Suki, leaving us on our own.

Michaelangelo Antonioni arrived with his Italian cinema star lover Monica Vitti, who kissed Paul on the mouth when Antonioni introduced them. We had a chat and a smoke, and by the end of it Paul's arm was draped across my shoulders, but I couldn't see how it would matter if Antonioni knew we we're seeing each other, and I quite liked having Paul's arm around me. My judgement may have been impaired by all the speed I'd taken.