Thank God there was yet no Internet and no Instagram to record my excesses. A few photographs survive, but they are the better ones that could be described as iconic rather than merely historical: in one, I am pictured with the beautiful television star Joanna Cameron, and it’s quite clear that I have fallen in love. In another I’m part of a group including Ursula Andress, fresh from the set of L’Infermiera , and the estimable West Indian cricketer Garry Sobers. I met thieves and singers, diplomats and princesses, and we talked of such high matters as post-figurative sculpture, the Second Indochina War and the transformative power of LSD. For the most part I am forgiven, as we all should be, those awkward years of pose and posture as I struggled to work out who I was and missed the mark. The art I made was good enough that I was also excused some of the nonsense that came out of my mouth, and if, as I say, El-Salahi was just more talented than I—well. Being a little less good than someone who is brilliant is a failure to be cherished.