Hola Fahrenhistas,

A slow start back to the year for us but never fear, we’ve got a load of great stuff primed and ready to go very soon.

As we’re not quite ready to press go on 2026 yet we thought that as 10th January marks 10 years since David Bowie’s death we’d help get you back into a Fahrenheit state of mind by republishing the article our glorious leader wrote when the news first broke back in 2016.

Kooks

A little blonde boy from an Irish Catholic council house in Glasgow lay stretched out on the carpet one night in the early 1970s, staring up at a massive valve-powered television cabinet.

And then, quite suddenly, everything changed.

David Bowie danced into my life, pointed straight at me from the TV screen, and nothing was ever really the same again.

So many people my age share this exact memory about Bowie that it’s become a rock ’n’ roll cliché. But clichés exist for a reason and I think the universality of that moment explains something fundamental about the tidal wave of grief and emotion that’s poured out following his death.

A few things happened to me that night as I lay in front of the TV. All of them left their mark.

None of them had anything to do with the music - I was just a kid. It took a while before I understood the songs, the ideas, the ambition, and the generosity Bowie offered. But once I did, it never truly left me.

That night was about something else entirely.

He was, without question, the weirdest thing that had ever been in our house.

My strongest memory isn’t even Bowie himself, but the tension that settled over my parents. If we’d had a remote for the TV back in the 1970s I have zero doubt that my Ma would have switched it over to another channel in a flash. For some reason Bowie, and Mick Ronson beside him, made my Ma & Da deeply uncomfortable. I didn’t know why, but I knew I was witnessing something powerful. You could feel their relief when it was over, and Ma could break the spell with tea and biscuits.

Later I crept into my big sister’s bedroom and raided her make-up bag. Lipstick, eyeliner, blusher, foundation - the lot. No plan, no finesse. I just started slapping it on. Red zigzags across my face and hands. Pastel blusher and eyeshadow smeared over every available surface.

I found a white silk blouse, ruffles, bows, absurdly too big, rolling up the sleeves and belting it kimono-style, probably with one of my mum’s Chanel knock-offs.

I pranced in front of the mirror, spinning, pointing Bowie-like at my own reflection.

I thought I was the cat’s fucking pyjamas.

That’s when my Da came to check on his youngest son, the golden apple of his eye.

I don’t remember the exact sequence of events. I remember rage. Then being hit. Hit hard - not the way any adult should ever hit a kid. Then the shouting and the tears and the shouting and the tears. Ma holding me, screaming at Da, my Da sitting, head down, on the end of the bed. Eventually I suspect we all ended up in a big sobbing Irish hugging mess.

I talked to Da about it years later. He couldn’t fully explain it, only that he’d seen me dressed up like a ‘wee poof’ and he’d lashed out without thinking.

Soon after that night, he marched me down to the local Miners’ Welfare Club and signed me up for boxing. For years I believed this was an attempt to knock that ‘wee poof’ out of me - his way of ‘making a man’ of me.

I was kinda right, but not in the way I thought.

Decades later, over a pint, he told me the real reason. He said he knew better than to try and change me, but he reckoned if I was going grow up to be a ‘nancy boy’ then I’d better know how to look after myself.

Complex fella, my Da.

I couldn’t articulate any of it at the time, but I learned a few things that night.

I learned I liked the power of provocation.
I learned I liked the feel of silk against my skin.
I learned I liked make-up on my face.
I learned I could take a punch.

Without a doubt, that was the night I began to embrace the life of the outsider and I’ve never looked back.

And that’s what David Bowie did for so many of us. Beyond the music, beyond the art, beyond the endless reinvention - he was our pied piper. All the little freaks & kooks & weirdos finally had someone showing us it was okay to step out of our lane.

In suburban bedrooms across the UK, strange little kids suddenly weren’t quite so alone.

We could dress how we liked, kiss who we liked, love how we liked, make the music we liked, and most importantly we’d kinda been given permission to make art out of our lives.

For the first time, I had a tribe.

David Bowie was our King Kook, our Queen Bitch, and our Court Jester.

He’s been an invisible ribbon of cool woven through every freak, weirdo, and outsider I’ve ever loved, held, or danced with. No matter the country, no matter the city, no matter the dive-bar - it takes seconds to spot one of our tribe. And before a single word is spoken, I know they feel about Bowie pretty much the same way I feel about Bowie.

Maybe I’d have ended up here anyway. Maybe we all would have. Who the fuck knows?

All I do know is that embracing the life of an outsider has taken me places and enabled me to experience things that little blonde boy in that Glasgow council house could never have imagined.

Since that night, David Bowie has been central to my own creation story. He took my hand and nudged me down a very particular path. Even in the very darkest moments, I’ve never regretted a single step.

As he said himself:

“It’s all been worth it. ALL of it.”

So thank you, David. For everything.

C.x

Nothing we can add to that.

Put some Bowie on your speakers this weekend and we’ll catch up with you all soon.

We kiss you.

xx