I always thought his art was pure crap, a rubbishy gimmick, but time has proved me completely wrong, as far as commercial value is concerned. One afternoon, Andy’s minion Fred Hughes rang up to invite me to dinner with Bianca Jagger and artist Cy Twombly at “the world’s most expensive restaurant,” in Fred’s words. I was keen on a young Barbara Allen at the time, who was also going, so I agreed. Andy never touched his food, sipped some mineral water, and never opened his mouth. I got totally wasted and paid the bill when I realised that no one else was going to make a move. Warhol thought it hilarious. Somehow he also managed to write in his diaries exactly what followed. Barbara locked me out from her apartment, and when I broke down the door thinking she was inside with another man, I found her fast asleep, having taken a Quaalude fit to numb the Minotaur. Andy’s diary made it seem much funnier than it was. Both Barbara and I swear to this day we never talked to him about it.