One day back in the late 80s, I saw Freddie Mercury in the street. Appropriately, it was in Kensington High Street, close to his house and also to the spot where he and Roger Taylor had begun their now famous market stall. Freddie looked like he was arriving for a bash at the Roof Gardens. It was an early evening in summer. Suddenly there he was, a slight man, but upright and barrel-chested, and with a black moustache that seemed to take up at least half of his bony face.
Like many very famous people, there was a hubbub about him, and a sense of expectation. One of his pet hates was supposed to be getting recognised in public, but as the bystanders spotted him he gave everyone a small wave and a flash of those big old gnashers before gliding off. And then, remarkably, a round of applause broke out. Freddie looked back and smiled again, obviously pleased. This was post- Queen's Live Aid triumph and pre-AIDS, and smack in the middle of Queenʼs second golden era, a time when this seemingly unimposing man could hold football stadiums full of people in his thrall.
