James Gorst

  • Review

    Jimi Hendrix and me


    It was either 1966 or 1967: In our uniform of army surplus great coats — the renegade troopers of the Bury St Edmunds counter-culture — we folded ourselves into Roderick’s mum’s Hillman Imp and made our way through the market towns of mid-Suffolk, laconic conversation accented by the sucking of ...