GUILTY PLEASURES (Part 5)
The King is dead.
Alvin Stardust is dead.
All dreams of him playing one day at the Exmouth Pavilion have now been dashed. Instead, on the streets of Exmouth his loyal disciples walk now in stunned silence. In pubs throughout the town, grown men (or at least, those old enough to remember) weep silently into their beer glasses, trying hard to accept that he is no longer with them. They drink to his name. They drink to his memory. Mothers at home sob into pillows, knowing their children will never now experience what they did as children. They will never know the joy, the thrill, the emotional frisson he could instigate by simply standing motionless, sideways on, microphone held level; just looking, cooing, singing.
What to do? What words of comfort are there?
Stalker of dreams. Haunter of childhoods. Black leather pop demigod. He of the black glove, the ruby ring, and the clutching hand. The exaggerated quiff. The sideburns. The raised eyebrow. The steely eye.
He has gone.
Here in Exmouth we were awaiting his return. His presence. His gifts.
But no more.
Who will lead us now?
This night, throughout Exmouth, candles are being lit.