Bowid

I get on a train and there, to my right, sitting ahead of me, is David Bowie. He's no thin white duke in the dreamescape, appearing quite heavy, almost jowly, about the face with short, mussed spiky hair and wearing blue/grey rumpled suit. He wears gently tinted glasses that sit slightly too large on his face (although they are not in the true 'aviator' style). He doesn't resemble any recognisable period of Bowie at all (which, I guess, is the very idea) and I judge him to be in his mid-to-late 40's. Still, I know it's him and politely ask if I can sit down, knowing he has to move his bag/satchel to allow me to do so. I notice there is someone to his right, sitting by the window. The banks of seats all face in the same direction with a row of 2 ahead and 3 behind where I am sitting-

Beyond the two seats the carriage takes on a standard layout, the rows facing in towards each other. Of a group seated there 2 girls are peeking over at David and, more or less, discussing him quite openly. We all begin to joke/chat and David, in good spirits, makes light of the situation, stating he's he's quite happy to converse when recognised although often folk don't bother, even when they know for sure it is him. This really breaks the ice and he and I have an insightful conversation that examines the height of his fame. At one point I suggest, and he quite agrees, the idea of being able to make the decision to drop off the radar for a few years after making a record. He concurs and expands a little on that, adding something about everyone always being able to look him up in the phone book – I can see the finger tracing down the listings and stopping at the name 'Dixon' (?)-

Shortly after this we are confronted by a guy who, from looking over the back of his chair from further down the l/hand side of the carriage, decides to come over. He has short cropped hair, a round face and sports mirrored/dark sunglasses. He wears a bomber jacket, the sleeves pulled up on his forearms and tight-ish denims that are similarly turned up at the ankle. He walks confidently with something of a monkey-ish gait and, when talking to David, exudes and air of quiet violence. This smooth talking culminates in the guy grabbing David's neck and pinching his throat (all the while talking calmly about ?, referring again to Dixon(?) and what he calls Bowie's "Lazerus" period). I feel compelled to intervene, stating (laughably) that, “I'm a lover not a fighter, but...” I then make some statement about being from Glasgow (as if this gives an indication of my hitherto hidden hardman skills). The guy immediately releases David and lumbers over to me, saying that he too (in spite of his reedy, Newcastle accent) is also from Scotland-