by
Alex Baldacci
In the Sixties, rock’n’roll defined the boundaries of living life to its fullest. The Stones, The Who, the Hollywood Vampires Club set up by Alice Cooper with Lennon, Nilsson, Dolenz et al. Creators; corruptors. It seems to have gone a bit stale by comparison, these days. The green energy commitments of Coldplay are all very laudable but — I don’t know — it’s not very Voltaire, is it? Not very Baudelaire. All a bit grey for my tastes.
And the gonzo journalists, the Thompsons, the Bangs — where are they now? We need that devilment back, that joie de vivre, that eye for the detail and the bigger picture and that essence of knowing when and how to rock when the time demands it.
On September 5th, 2025, Baby Wolf formally launched at El Vino on Fleet Street, nodding to our predecessors, our ancestors, walking in their footsteps, drinking where they drank, tipping our hats to those who came before us with both dignity and wild abandon.
The cast list for our launch party would have made John Le Carré green with envy. Attendant were: a Russian Spy, a Spanish Naval Aviator & Intelligence Officer, a Retired Royal Naval Rear Admiral, a Relicensed Vicar, a Leading Psychiatrist, a Former Rock Star and friend of Sebastian Horsley, a Senior Lecturer and Professor of American Literature, the former FT Mines, Property and Gas Specialist, the Education Guru responsible for the London Cycle Network, The Flaneur & Soho Face, the greatest Radio Producer of our times, Social Magus and London Legend, Paddy Renouf, an Editor from The Financial Times, a Leading Journalist from the Daily Mail, an Actress, Writer and Comedienne par excellence, and Author, Critic and Screenwriter, Nicholas Blincoe.
You don’t get that kind of human cocktail every day of the week. The conversations I overheard were superb, verbal fireworks everywhere.
Paddy introduced himself and said “I understand you were at Oliver Bernard’s funeral? As was I, in Kenninghall.”
I recounted the tale of Oliver (Jeff Bernard’s younger brother, a poet and lay Benedictine monk and terrific company) and I watching two Weimeranas being pimped out for semen.
The Weimeranas had to be held together for a few moments after sex to avoid the boy injuring his swollen glans in in the act of withdrawal.
As he pulled clear, a trail followed him. Oliver said, “God, it’s pink. It looks like dragon’s jism.”
Paddy laughed uproariously. “Yes, that’s Oliver alright.” It turned out that we must have drunk together in the Coach in Soho.
I discovered that I’d roadied for the Former Rock Star once in my callow youth. She was in The Fall when I set up for her at University.
I said, “Mark [E Smith, the singer] was so pissed, I had to open the door for him to get on stage. Yet, he launched into Mr Pharmacist without missing a beat.”
“You knew Sebastian Horsley, didn’t you?”
I didn’t, but I do know his friend and theatrical chronicler, Tim Fountain. We were at college together and have remained in touch.
“Ah, yes, I know Tim.”
“Yes, Tim, the reincarnation of Joe Orton, the man who once told me I had an arse needed a good poking. Probably the most unsuccessful chat-up line I’ve received.”
Marcia then told me of Sebastian’s party held at one of the grand London hotels.
“He couldn’t pay for it, but he did it anyway.”
I know how that goes.
Later, I talked with the Leading Psychiatrist, putting forward my ever-popular view that there is no such thing as empathy.
“Empathy is just sympathy dressed up as something it cannot be. I can’t feel what you feel because I am not you.”
He gently explained that I may need to expand my jaundiced view. Can’t really argue with that.
Characters were everywhere you turned. And that’s before we get to the Wolves themselves. My CV alone reads like a chapter of Candide, and I am not alone in providing colour. There we were, the debonair and the dissolute, the beautiful, the bold, the brave, sending our Baby Wolf into the world — a comet shot across the sky
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