Okay, the Dennis Nilsen thing.

Deep breath, strap in, it's a bit of a read.

Here goes.

So, from age 11-18, my journey from school was from Thamesmead into central London, back out to Dulwich. So at a very early age I got used to wandering round West End etc on my own and loved it.

And at 12, 13, I fell in love with punk and new wave music, so was drawn towards King’s Road and Soho like a moth to a flame. It was wonderful.

Early 1982 there was a train strike, coincided with one of my favourite bands playing in the West End, so I hit upon a genius idea.

Tell my school I couldn’t get there because of the train strike, tell my parents I would stay with a friend in central London (which in fact I did), but go to the gig instead.

Which I did, and from what I remember it was a good night out, and I met a friend there who worked on Carnaby Street (which was shit then) and we arranged to meet when he finished work next day.

So, 4.45pm I am wandering around Carnaby Street … and some copper comes up and starts quizzing me. And when he starts going through my bag, finds books marked, “Property of [name of school].”

Now, I’m 17 at the time. Knowing what I do of the law now, I could have kicked back, but then in SUS days … ? Not an option.

So, he has taken down details of my school, my parents’ address and telephone number etc … I am in deep shit, and seriously thought I would get expelled from school (I didn’t).

Disconsolate, I start heading through Soho towards Charing Cross, because (trains still on strike) I knew I could get a bus at least towards south east London from there.

And, on my way through Soho, I stopped at a pub called The Golden Lion to have a drink and gather my thoughts.

As I said earlier, I looked young for my age. And I was always getting hit on by guys in Soho. But I just sat there, with my pint, wondering how much shit I must be in.

Then this guy came over, and asked me what was wrong – it must have been written all over my face – so I opened up, and he was a really good listener.

Maybe we spoke about how I was born in Aberdeen, and he was from just up the coast in Fraserburgh? That bit I can’t remember.

But, he seemed very kind, he listened to me, bought me a couple of pints, and then we went to the … Wendy’s at the time, or was it already McDonald’s? … on Shaftesbury Avenue, and he bought me a meal.

What I DO remember though is that over that burger, he suggested that it might be better for me to stay with him that evening, to give my parents a chance to calm down.

Somewhere in my head, an alarm bell started ringing.
We walked out of the restaurant, and he started becoming more insistent about me going back with him; meanwhile, there was a voice in my head screaming “DANGER” and I listened to it.

A double-decker bus with an open platform at the back went past and – as only a kid who grew up in London can do – I jumped onto the platform and got away as fast as I could, while he looked at me heading away.

A year later, when his face was all over the papers … well, I may be shit at names (sorry) but I never forget a face. And thank god date rape drugs weren’t a thing at the time.

Over the past almost 40 years, I’ve had this pushed to the bottom of my mind. There have been three times it’s really come back, and all fairly recently.

First, when he died. Secondly, when I found myself at that pub again. And third, last night, when I walked in on that TV programme.

I only caught the last few minutes, but when the verdicts were being read out, and the names of the victims, I was in tears, as I am now.

It could so easily have been me, and I will remember those young men forever

I was lucky.

End of thread.