RIXK WAYNE=I knew him back when his halo was clearly visible to the naked eye. Those were the days, my friends, when he was a beloved fixture at Nabba’s main bodybuilding events, when he handed out trophies onstage to the lucky winners, and dropped spicy jokes that had the packed theater howling, even a famous octogenarian millionaire in his reserved front row seat. He wrestled, he disc-jockeyed, he raised countless millions of pounds for charity and rubbed shoulders with royalty, all the while with a massive cigar clenched between his teeth. I could hardly wait to meet him after my manager informed me he’d agreed to have me as his guest on a BBC show he hosted. We had a great time talking bodybuilding, rock-‘n’-roll and my own recently released In My Imagination. I found him to be a most accommodating star, no artsy-fartsy airs, a fine gentleman who put a nervous young me at ease the moment we were introduced. Who knew our “lovely” Jimmy Saville would soon be sprouting demon wings?
