Truth about Stringy’s hair

FAREWELL, Peter Stringfellow, who’s died at the age of 77. I remember bustling along to interview him at Stringfellows in the Nineties, full of feminist ire at his empire, his nerve, his pesky oppression of women.

Of course, I ended up adoring him; he was hilarious and fun, impossible not to like. On top of this, no one danced for his customers who didn’t want to be there. The Stringfellows’ girls made good money, an emancipation of sorts.

He explained he preferred loud clothes and wore his hair in that crazy pompadour so that everyone in his club could see him.

The Sheffield-born entrepreneur never lost his accent but, after decades of noisy clubs, had lost nearly all his hearing. The last time I saw him was about three years ago. I was just a face in the crowd at Gatwick when he turned up to catch an easyJet flight to Mallorca. ‘Where’s the queue for C-list celebrities?’ he cried, approaching the desk.

Now he’s gone to that roped-off area in the sky. A blessing upon him and his leopard-print soul.