The Lemmy I Knew--Virginia Woolf

So kind of L Greenlaw to hold forth about D Bowie on Front Row. It opens the gates for one. Outwards, presumably, and presumably for more than one though one is the only one of interest to one. So yes . . . naturally one remembers Lemmy. Leonard's treatlette, it was, Lewes Arts Centre, Judas Priest. Lytton, of course, positively garnished us with scorn, praising Napalm Death to the ceiling, the rafters, the coping stones, that bit about four inches above the coping stones for which I'll coin a term later. But there had been a change, a shift, a twist. Judas Priest could not attend. In their stead came Lemmy and his metallic-tinted persons, The Marauding Umlauts. Heavens, what a lark . . . and in Lemmy's case, what a plunge. He burst into my book-lined consciousness, threw Leonard out of the window and sent something flying from the rounded walnut table in the centre of my mind. The Reflections of Elizabeth Inchbold, was it? The Letters of Jane Carlyle? Series Two of Birds of a Feather? 'Drop yer knickers, darling,' he roared, 'yer've pulled.' How strange . . . how disconcerting, like the kiss of a wave, the plash of a wave, the yin of a yang. For I had pulled nothing. My knickers were still on. It was all wondrously back to front (unlike my knickers). Lemmy had confected an amuse-bouche of wordage for me and naturally I told him as much: 'I'll amuse yer bouche, love,' he Galahaded, and it was then I saw . . . heavens! The notion of the word writ down, writ plain, writ as one may say giddyingly ouverte. His wart! Can one say it?