The Fabled Story of Mr Fierce

A former transatlantic ad man turned thrower of illustrious and hedonistic affairs, Lucius Fierce was a well-known name but a lesser known individual.

His close friends called him Luci, an affectionate university nickname that followed him for most of his life. Arriving in London from his native homeland, he studied at King’s College, earning himself a degree in literature. His love of a good story leant itself effortlessly to a career in advertising where he’d excel, going on to tell some of the most admired stories where brand and audience would play protagonist and antagonist in equal measures.

A career spent working with products and experience-led brands, Fierce soon had all the right friends, this partly fuelled his reputation for long days, early mornings and occasional late night dalliances. His lifestyle meant that he’d always, for one reason or another, “happen upon” some of the most brash nightlife impresarios and entertainers from here to New York. Forever in admiration of their rarefied, laissez-faire approach to life, the business of entertainment and nightlife quickly became his passion, and Luci was never one to not follow a passion.

He soon turned from frequenter to host of the most gregarious parties from London to LA. For years his friends, knowing first-hand the roaring happenings the showman often hosted, would encourage him to bring together his two greatest passions – the dramatic intrigue of telling great stories and the lost art of having a ball. A thought he’d often preside over from Old Fashioned to Old Fashioned at the bar upon a Sunday evening, but there was always one question he’d stall on – the matter of where?

In between the parties, taxi rides and rare moments of heightened lucidity, Luci would ponder upon the manner of place that could possibly play host to wildly imaginative affairs. A place with a little history, some fine architecture with space to build other worlds and of course, a place where folks could sleep it off, if they needed to. But then on a particularly sunny day in January, following a swift one in his local walking up to the Dominion through Charing Cross Road, as fate would have it Luci happened to glance right, only to see a magnificently painted camper van parked up. Somewhat drawn to it, he passed by countless the record execs, aspiring musicians and excitable lyricists each and all hustling in their own right. As Luci walked up to the van, parked outside hotspot La Giaconda, he peered through the window and was startled by the sudden appearance of a tall, but slim man who introduced himself simply, but assuredly, as “Ziggy”.