Beautiful people.

Beautiful people.

12/29/2014

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Before somebody accuses me of male dominance I should say something about Samantha. I have to do it sooner or later. 

Where to start? Samantha has always been something of an enigma. Actually that’s putting it mildly. She’s unfathomable.

When I met her she was still having an off and on thing with Simon. They weren’t married at that point but Simon was working for Monty, Sam’s dad, so there was a certain amount of parental pressure. Sam’s mum, Alma, wasn’t totally happy about Simon’s non-Jewish status but being a modern woman she was learning to deal with it.

Where did I fit in? Driver, confidante and occasional bit of hanky-panky that was me.

I can already hear murmurs of gender discrimination so it’s probably best if I let her tell her own story. I don’t want any trouble with FEMEN. Over to you Sam.



Thanks Dick. Enigmatic? Well some men like to see women that way. It does us no harm. Isis, Ishtar, Artemis all rolled into one that’s me. Or it could be a reference to my bum. Think Venus of Willendorf.

I suppose I was a typical teenage girl. Bit rebellious. Well perhaps I did have something of an identity problem at the time. Couldn’t decide if I was a Jewish princess or a debby type with snotty parents in the country. Bit of both probably. I didn’t run away to London because I was already there. Grew up in Hampstead. Went to art school. Watched Fellini's films. I’d go to jazz clubs and places like the Marquee and Eel Pie Island. Pop music was just getting started. John Baldry, Rod Stewart, Eric Clapton, Syd Barrett, Brian Jones, Marc Bolan…..I knew all those people.

I smoked my first joint in Simon’s pad in Ladbroke Grove. He was just back from India and getting into rock writing so we were a good fit. He was an ambitious bastard but clueless when it came to clothes. I took him to the in shops. The girls were so much more in touch than the blokes in those days. Boutiques sprang up on King’s Road. Girls wore Mary Quant stuff at first whereas the boys were still wearing sports jackets…with ties! It didn’t take much to turn him into a groovy young man around town. 

Those were great days in the Grove. Hawkwind and the Mountain Grill. On again off again. Free love. What you’d call casual sex these days. Nobody worried much about catching anything. 

Simon wasn’t just another hippie. Peace, love, changing the system....actually I don’t think he ever believed in any of it. He had more personal goals. But like me he enjoyed the action and he saw the opportunities. He jumped at dad’s job offer. I’m not sure even now if anybody really knew how big the whole thing was going to get. Maybe Andrew Oldham had some idea but he burned out early. 

The clothes! So many changes. Everything happened so fast. There were so many groovy boutiques on King’s Road….Mary Quant, Granny Takes a Trip….Ozzie Clark. It was Biba’s one day, floral bell-bottoms and kaftans the next. That’s why I hate it when people call me a groupie. I’ve seen myself lumped with people like Pamela des Barres and the Plaster Casters in a few rock biographies. Very irritating. I wasn’t a complete nutter. In fact I functioned pretty well amongst all the chaos. I see myself as more the Jenny Fabian type. More of a mover and a shaker. Not just another freak hanging out. I couldn’t care less about the bloody books they keep churning out. 

And another thing I hate…when people ask me about what it was like having sex with pop stars. Did Jimi have a big one? What did Jimmy Page do with those whips? What was Syd really like?  etc. As if anybody knows what Syd was like. He had identity problems. Who didn’t? A classic romantic. He grew up listening to Radio Luxembourg and Goon show like the rest of us. I thought he was nice. Now we have to listen to Bono.

So I was one of the so-called Beautiful People. Had the right look. Modeled for David Bailey. Kept up with the fashions. Went to all the clubs. I was hanging out with rock stars and doing the latest drugs before I was twenty. I come from a show business family so I wasn’t a groupie in that sense. Fame didn’t impress me but I liked being involved in the action. All very exciting but God it all happened so fast. It was just a few years really. Crazy time. We all just got swept along. Swinging London. UFO was when things really took off. Suddenly there were lots of Americans in London. What’s your sign man? Want to throw some I-Ching? And lots of acid. Psychedelic was the new in word. 

Simon had a Mini-Cooper. We’d drive out to Rediffusion to be part of the crowd at Ready Steady Go. It was great mixing with the musicians and singers. I met everybody. The Beatles, The Stones, The Who, The Kinks you could find them all there. Ready Steady Go, Top of the Pops. The BBC didn’t know what to do about it. It was quite funny watching groups stoned out of their heads turn a TV studio to bedlam. Keith Moon never disappointed.

We’d go to clubs like Ad Lib, the Scotch and the Bag of Nails. Which is where I met Dick Headley. Dick was another diamond in the rough when I met him. (OK if you say so. DH) He’d just been fired from Arsenal for drugs and it was in all the papers. He was hanging around with a bunch of thugs at the time. Dick was a breath of fresh air. I‘d never met anybody quite like Dick. His dad was in and out of prison so he’d more or less been brought up by his mum who was on the game (True. DH). I don’t think he’d ever read a book in his life. I took him under my wing and turned him onto cultural things. It was fascinating to watch him at gallery openings and receptions. I loved the way he was completely unimpressed by ‘all that poncey stuff’. You always knew where you were with Dick. He was so different from Simon. (Nice piece of writing. DH)

Simon’s studied naturalness was easy to fall for but he was a devious bastard underneath it all. Very ambitious…and long-sighted. I can see that now. I knew he wasn’t happy with the kind of writing he was doing. Things like record reviews for the NME. A publicist is what he was, albeit a darn good one. He was selling out and he knew it. But he did enjoy being at the epicenter of what was going on. Deep down he aspired to be like Burroughs and Beckett. Of course it was much more complicated than that. Funny how he stayed in touch with his friend Arthur. Bit of a bumbler Arthur. Ran a sweet shop for years. Last I heard he was living in Thailand. Don't ask me what he gets up to there.

So many things happened. I can’t remember which years. Easy Rider. Isle of Wight. Antonioni made ‘Blow Up’ in 66 was it. Someone blew Biba’s up. Jimi Hendrix was found dead.

And then we had the OZ trials. Underground magazines were pushing the envelope faster than ‘respectable’ society could keep up. Jerry Rubin came over. Felix Dennis, Mick Farren and some others managed to disrupt the David Frost show. It was all a bit silly really. Funny thing is I went to work for one of Felix’ publications later on and I don’t remember any nudity in the office.

I used to go out to the EMI studios at night. That’s when the Beatles recorded. Often it would just be a bunch of stoned people sitting around. Very strange as we used to say. I was there for a few Sergeant Pepper sessions. Then suddenly the Beatles broke up. John and Yoko were going to change the world. Maybe they did a bit. You’re getting the potted version here Dick…excuse the pun.

I knew Germaine Greer quite well but I don’t think I was particularly political at the time. Women’s Lib was just getting started but the role of women didn't change much. It was great for guys of course. All the girls were on the pill and trying to be liberated so people were screwing like rabbits. Even at OZ magazine women still made the tea and did the typing: And were expected to have sex with anyone who wanted it, To refuse was uncool and people thought you were acting like a straight. Ask Marsha Rowe and Rosie Boycott.

Things started disintegrating in the late sixties/early seventies. Hard drugs. Altamont. Manson. It got heavy. We weren’t sure what came next. I was pregnant. Maybe that’s why me and Simon got married. A lifestyle change was called for. That meant cutting out the drugs and getting out of London. For me anyway.

The Sixties are really making the news these days. Nostalgia abounds. Everything from Abbey Road to Woodstock. Everybody’s writing their memoirs. Of course we’re all in our sixties ourselves now. Not much time left. The kids must be fed up with it but it’s fun to remind them what they missed. No point telling them a lot of it just seems plain silly in retrospect. Acid for instance…all those elitist freaks wandering around smiling like they alone had the key to life’s mysteries, what rubbish, as if it was all so groovy. There were lots of casualties too. I can still see Syd miraculously making it across the road at Notting Hill Gate in heavy traffic. Not recognizing me. Staring into space. Emily plays.

Phantom pirates.

Young narrators often ask me how I do it. How do you manage to sound so natural Dick they ask? Well there’s no trick to it really. I just narrate like I talk. Course that doesn’t always mean I know what I’m talking about but if I get the tone right nobody minds too much. 

That doesn’t mean narrating comes easy. Not at all. There’s the Phantom Pirates for instance. Every now and then I get a feeling I’m being followed. I catch a glimpse of black sails on the horizon or I see this figurehead looming through the mist. It turns out to be Kim Kardashian on the bow of a pirate ship and there at the helm a hideous grinning skull like creature somewhere between Johnny Depp and Richard Branson. I give them a quick broadside then heave about and show them my stern. Another narrow escape ... but they’ll be back. They won’t leave me alone. Why do they haunt me? Are they symbols of some lingering childhood trauma? Something Freudian? Maybe I did something wrong in a past life. Or is it the booze? Where’s the Royal Navy when you need them?

Merry Christmas…er I mean Happy Holidays. How about Seasons Greetings? Please feel free to enjoy whatever holidays may be appropriate to your religious predilections and ethno-cultural backgrounds however you choose, within socially acceptable boundaries.

Yellow fever.

Simon and Arthur are in the Tate Gallery looking at a Gauguin painting.

‘And how is Alice?’ Simon asks. He enjoys teasing Arthur about his escapist tendencies.

‘She’s fine. Fine. Putting on a bit of weight.’

That’s an understatement. She is ballooning. They still have sex but Arthur finds it increasingly difficult to locate the appropriate aperture. He doesn’t complain of course but his mind wanders.

This might be a good time to mention Asian women. They were something of a rarity in England in those days. To put it politely Arthur was drawn to their exotic qualities. It may go back to seeing a famous painting by Tretchikoff in a dentist’s office that sparked his interest. He had contracted what’s known in some quarters somewhat crudely as ‘yellow fever’. (The girl in that painting is actually a mysterious blue but never mind). Whatever it was he only had to glimpse an Oriental woman from a distance to find himself transported. Being married didn’t dampen his interest. What was it about them? The mysterious eyes? The silky black hair? From whence came the aura of some arcane knowledge Westerners could ever understand?

He’d mentioned it to Simon a few times only to be told that he should stop fantasizing and face reality.

‘All women are basically the same. You shouldn’t be so romantic. Do you like them because they are small and cute? Do you think they are more submissive or something?’

‘No it’s not that. I just find them mysterious.’

‘What are you doing with the rest of the day?’

‘Nothing much. May pop into Foyles.’

‘I’m going to Indica.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A little avant-garde gallery. Some Japanese girl is having an opening. Want to come along? East meets West.’ (Gastro)

Authors note: We would like to take this opportunity to bid a sad farewell to Mandy Rice-Davis a lovely girl with a dubious choice of friends.

Current location.

I haven’t been posting much about my own activities lately. That’s because there hasn’t been much to say. We’ve been anchored for a week or two off Culebra. Very nice place but don’t tell anyone. No phantom pirates. Good snorkeling. It will do nicely while I catch up on some reading. The girls are still complaining ‘No Starbucks, no disco!’ They swim around or sit on the deck taking selfies. 

Fine with me. I’ve got a Kindle. At the moment I’m reading Martin Amis’ new one ‘The Zone of Interest’. I found ‘Lionel Asbo’ a bit disappointing to be honest but this one’s a good read. Sort of a lighthearted look at life in a concentration camp….well not really lighthearted in a Mel Brooks kind of way. More your imaginative black comedy. Clever bugger that Marty.

So I’m in no rush to get to BVI. There’s a backlog of files from the author that need some serious narrating plus all my own anecdotes and observations need sorting. So we may stay here until the new year. Merry Christmas.

At the Tate.

I've got lots more Pattaya stories but you'll have to wait. The author isn't happy. These Pattaya stories are all very well Dick but what about Simon and Arthur? All these words, he says, are just an approximation of what we’re after. It's going nowhere. Well you started it I say. So you may as well keep going. Didn’t Samuel Beckett have the same problem?

I’m just the narrator. It’s all the same to me. Don’t know why I’m apologizing. It’s my bloody blog. I’ll write what I want. If I want to ramble on I will. It’s the way the fiction process works….don’t give me a hard time about it. 

You want more Simon and Arthur? Alright here’s more bloody Simon and Arthur. 

Arthur has done his best to slip into the routine without complaint and as far as the world is concerned he and Alice have become Mr. And Mrs. Tobacconist happily dispensing nicotine and sweets to unsuspecting customers. Newspapers too. Blaring headlines designed to shock and intimidate. 

Arthur gets up early to sort newspapers and organize the paperboy’s rounds. Lorraine stocks the shelves. Cynthia has started school and seems happy enough. Arthur’s beatnik days are well and truly over. He wears a brown overcoat in the shop and a pleasant smile to mask his anguish. Lorraine likes to watch TV and eat, especially chocolate. She is beginning to put on weight. Arthur enjoys reading. Telly upsets him. Especially anything to do with pop music. He finds  Pete Townsend singing about his generation particularly irritating. 

He knows there’s more to life but he can’t just abandon his wife and daughter can he? Being a tobacconist is dull and boring but it’s safe. People will always need cigarettes and sweets and Arthur has built up a nice little clientele over the years. 

Boring? Arthur doesn’t see it that way. He doesn’t feel as though he has much choice. He had made his bed and he’s lying in it. And things could always be worse. At least he isn’t languishing in a Turkish prison or living under a bridge. He’s his own boss too or so he tells himself. Alice is a good wife….yes things could definitely be worse. It’s only when he thinks about Simon that he feels any misgivings. Simon who always seems to know what he’s doing. Simon with his exciting life in town. But is it really so exciting…hanging around with glamorous pop stars? It’s a shallow kind of life when you think about it. 

Arthur does a lot of thinking. He has plenty of time for it. He plumbs the depths of his mind as far as he dares. There’s a point where the thoughts pile in on themselves and become too confusing. And a few places Arthur doesn’t like to go. Right at the bottom is a deep self-loathing. 

So Arthur tells himself he’s happy, or not unhappy among the Cadbury’s Caramel Bars and the Gold Flake. But is it contentment he feels…or obligation? Of course there are reminders of a huge unexplored world outside the shop but he prefers to ignore them. And of course he knows there’s more to life than stocking display cabinets and making sure the local kids don’t help themselves but he likes the security of the shop.  

One thing he does enjoy, on his occasional visits to London, is browsing in the Tate Gallery. He likes the Impressionists, their vague, ethereal way of looking at life, and he especially likes Gauguin. Those golden brown Tahitian women. What is it about them? The mysterious eyes? The silky black hair? They seem to possess some mysterious arcane knowledge. Did they really exist? 

He can’t remember exactly when his interest in Gauguin began. Reading ‘Moon and Sixpence’ maybe? Old Somerset Maugham had visited Tahiti not many years after Gauguin’s death. The paintings had captivated Arthur the first time he saw them. They were a way of escape. It didn’t take much effort to step into the lush tropical paradise, to hear the women’s voices on the beach above the distant roar of the surf breaking against the coral reefs, to enter the bamboo hut with its naked golden female form, to see the fireflies flicker and to taste the exotic fruit. Would anyone ever paint like that again? They make Picasso look like a cartoonist. And what’s all the fuss about Francis Bacon? Just blobs of paint smeared on canvas as far as Arthur can see.

‘Ah there you are,’ says Simon. ‘Thought I might find you here.’ 

They study the Gauguin together. ‘Beautiful isn’t it?’ says Simon. ‘Robert Fraser tells me art is a scam.’

Global warming.

Global warming.

12/4/2014

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Gav and Kev were back in the bar one day. We were talking about this and that. Football, beer, sex. The usual.

Gav says “Funny thing though, we came here to do a bit of shagging like and we seem to have got ourselves involved in something of a dystopia.”

“Well I wouldn’t call it a dystopia exactly Kev,” says Gav, “More like a parallel universe you could say.”

“Oh?” says I.

“Yes. It started yesterday. I was bonking this Thai bird and she metamorphosed into my ex-wife.”

“That is strange,” says Arthur, “how do you account for it?”

“Might be the booze,” says Gav, “but I don’t think so. Same thing happened to Kev.”

“Yes,” says Kev, “this bird was sitting on my face and next thing I know she’s me bloody mum!” 

“Interesting. Must have been a bit of a shock.” I said, by way of conversation.

“Bloody right Dick. I thought me mum was dead and buried. Got dressed smartish I tell you.”

“Don’t mind Kev,” says Gav, “he is given to a bit of hyperbole. It’s his literary side coming out. He loves stringing words together don’t you Kev? Specially after a few beers. So what’s on your agenda Dick. We were thinking of popping down to Soi 6.”

Suddenly Kev says, “Bugger me look at that, it’s snowing.”

Indeed it is. I can hardly believe my eyes. Snow is falling outside…not just small snowflakes either, bloody great gobs of it are drifting silently down causing considerable excitement among the Thais across the road. Some of the motorcycle taxi fellows have started a snowball fight. “Something to do with global warming I think,” says Kev. “We better get moving.”

There has been a noticeable drop in temperature and several inches of snow are settling on Soi Diana. I decide to close the bar and go out for a look. Gav and Kev seem like pretty decent blokes and it’s better than talking to yourself all the time. Also Pattaya hasn’t been feeling too safe just lately and I’m glad to have a bit of company. Sometimes you can’t hear a Harley-Davidson coming until it’s right on top of you. There are lots of other hazards. I’d been taking a quiet slash in a bar once when somebody dropped a hand grenade through the roof of the hawng narm (water room). Being an old Pattaya hand I took no notice…I knew it was probably a dud…still it made me think.

The balcony jumpers are starting to get annoying too. Nobody minds the odd one or two but lately it’s become a cascade. It’s disconcerting when you’re on your way somewhere and you keep tripping over bodies. I nearly got flattened once by a massive Scandinavian, bound and gagged as usual, landing just in front of me! In broad daylight! “Oh well, that’s life,” I thought, but one wishes they’d be a bit more considerate about where and when they take the plunge. There should be designated landing zones.

“Watch it Dick,” says Gav as another body hits the pavement.

“Bit chilly for jumping today you’d think.” Says Kev, “some blokes just don’t care.”

“This is Thailand,” Says Gav as a team of uniformed Thais lift the huge farang into a truck, “you’d think they’d have ramps built on the trucks by now wouldn’t you? Save their backs.”

 We trudge across Second Road where cars and motorbikes are being abandoned in snowdrifts. I’m wearing sandals (with no socks of course) and my feet are feeling it. 

“This is serious,” says Kev. “Look….even Sharky’s got his shirt on.”

“Bugger this,” says Gav. We decide to cut through Mike’s Shopping where Thais are scrambling to buy sweaters and quilted Chinese army surplus jackets. We stop to buy a selection of soccer shirts. We put several on at once. “How do I look lads?” Kev asks. 

“Lovely,” says Gav, “not sure about Arsenal on top of Spurs though. Better hope nobody notices.” 

Just a few Russians are left on the beach. Some of them are making skis out of deck-chairs and the vendors are doing a brisk business selling battery powered Speedo warmers. Gav stops to buy one. Further out in the bay figures are moving on the ice-flows.

“Katoys,” says Gav, “They club the baby seals you know. It’s all wrong.”

“There should be a law.”

“They don’t listen.”

“If a pre-op katoy has a post-op katoy up the council gritter,” asks Kev, “is that gay?” Nobody answers, “Don’t mind me,” Says Kev, “just something I saw on a message board.”

The snow is getting deeper. We finally arrive at Soi 6. where some Americans are parking their skidoos. Groups of girls are clustered round charcoal braziers. “Evening ladies,” say Gav, “nao nit-noi?”

“Nao mak.” Say the girls. (Very cold)

We do what most gentlemen of leisure do on Soi 6….I’ll spare you the details. When we emerge the snow has stopped falling but the streets are a mess. Fortunately an enterprising song-thao driver has harnessed a team of soi dogs to a makeshift sledge and we all pile on.

The sun comes out as we head back up Beach Road and by the time we get to Walking Street the icicles are dropping of the palm trees. As we pay the sled dog driver off Arthur remarks, “He won’t be needing the dogs anymore.”

“Probably run them to death then eat the buggers,” says Gav.

“Bastards.” Says Kev, “there should be a law. They don’t listen.”

“You already said that.” Says Gav.

“Well it’s true. So what’s next for you Dick?”

“I’m a bit knackered,” I say, “That snowfall was surreal. Think I’ll go home and stare at the ceiling for an hour or two. Relish the moments. See if I have any thoughts.”

“Good idea.” Say Kev and Gav in unison, “might have a lie down meself.”

At the Tate 8/12/2014

Ready Steady Go.

·        
Simon weaves his Mini Cooper deftly through the West End traffic. It’s Friday and he is on his way to the Rediffusion Studios on Kingsway. Things have been going well. Work is progressing nicely on the mews house. His reviews and interviews are being well received. In fact between Monty and some American music mags he has more work than he can handle. Plus the offer of a job at EMI. Yes, things could be worse.

He’s been told he looks like Martin Amis. He likes to think of himself more as a sort of Hugh Grant…without the carefully nuanced bumbling mannerisms. Which gives the editor a minor logistical problem. She’s a big Hugh Grant fan and she knows he was born in 1960. So he would have been about seven years old when all this takes place. She wisely decides to just let it go. She also decides to go with first person singular.

Things are still messy with Samantha. She keeps talking about some kind of ‘commitment’ whatever that means. Marriage? She may be ready but I’m not (thinks Simon). Doesn’t bear contemplation.

Look how Arthur got stuck in that bloody shop. Poor bugger. His life has been a series of events, things that happened. It’s not as if he made any conscious choices…things just happened. I certainly don’t want to get caught like that. I make my own decisions. 

Who would have thought pop music would explode like it did? Me for one. And by some quirk of fate I’m right in the middle of it. It’s turned into a money machine for those nimble enough to see the opportunities. Rock writing is changing fast too. Style-wise I mean. At first it was just a question of talking about the group a bit, the drummer’s favorite colour, does the lead singer have a girlfriend, that kind of rubbish. Now a whole new generation of writers is starting to emerge. They’ve grown up on Kerouac, Miller, Burroughs and they’re taking it to another level. Rolling Stone has tapped into a whole new audience, drugs are going main-stream and now you’re getting gonzos. There’s a whole lot of new readers out there. Some of them want solid information, studio details, technical stuff, and some of them want you to take them off on mind trips. 

One of these days I’ll do a piece about a typical day in a rock-writer’s life. Maybe some yank mag would be interested. It could be sort of Hunter Thompson style but more English. Wonder how James Joyce would have tackled it. Lots of clever word-play and internal monologue probably. Clever bastard. Still I should be able to bang out a few thousand words on something like that. But first I need to catch up on the gossip.

So here we are in the Rediffusion Green Room where all the young dudes are already gathered. Andrew Oldham is there with Keith Altham, Rod and his Faces mates are warming up with some birds. Looks like Pan’s People on leave from Top of the Pops. The Who are getting psyched up in a corner. This being ITV most people are on their best behaviour. But not Keith Moon. He’s swallowing pills by the handful and I can see he’s in a dangerous mood. Cathy McGowan sees me arrive and comes over for a chat. I mention Moon’s condition and she says not to worry, he’s been warned, how’s things? I tell her things are OK but to be honest I’m not in the mood for socializing. I watch people dancing for a while and give Fordyce a nod but I decide to leave early. There are times when it all just seems silly somehow.

And of course Sam shows up right on cue…expecting me to take her home I suppose. I need a holiday.

·          

My bar.

    

·         Since I posted that last piece I’ve been barraged with requests for more information about Pattaya. So here's what we know. It’s about 100 kilometers southeast of Bangkok. It used to be a small fishing village until some G.I.s started going there during the Vietnam War. Bars popped up on the beach. Thai girls popped up in the bars and one thing lead to another. Now there’s hotels and bars all over and the Thai girls keep popping up. It’s very popular with single males from all over the world. The Thais are very tolerant in such matters, especially when money is involved.

I    I keep meaning to write more about that bar. It was called Dick’s, for obvious reasons. It was just a hole in the wall really but I managed to attract a colourful  bunch of characters. All kinds of degenerates found their way to Dick’s. Defrocked priests, disgraced politicians, bank-robbers, retired policemen and of course lots of CIA agents and SAS men on secret missions. I’d even get the odd axe-murderer. That’s when I met Chuck Woww. He was hawking his book ‘Losing the Plot’ round all the bars and I agreed to take a few copies. This was before he was famous. I used to get all types in my bar. Mostly the same types though I must admit. Middle aged blokes living in Pattaya. It was a surprise when Arthur walked in one day though. Hadn't seen him for ages and I had to look twice. Small world. He was surprised to see me too. Maybe even a bit embarrassed. Same old Arthur. We had a bit of a chat, talked about Simon and the old hippy days in London. Then he wandered out again.

I suppose I should explain how I came to be in Thailand in the first place. That was Oscar’s doing. We went there from the Philippines. Ah, but what were you doing in the Philippines Dick? That was Oscar again.

I was living in Spain and doing OK. Building villas for retired English folk. Got a letter from Oscar. This would have been late 80s. No email in those days. I’m not talking about ARPANET. People still wrote letters. Oscars came from Manila and it was short and to the point. ‘Get your ass over here!’ it said.

So I did. I’ll be writing something about Manila soon. On second thoughts I may not. Don't want to alienate any readers.

Gav and Kev.

Dao was tired so Arthur took her back to their hotel. Leaving her to have a nap he wandered along the sois that run off Beach Road. After his near death experience on the beach he felt like a beer so he popped into a small bar that didn’t seem too busy. Just a couple of what looked like Arsenal fans sitting at the bar.

‘Here comes another one.’ Says the smaller of the two.

‘Don’t mind them mate. Welcome to Dick’s,’ says a large balding middle-aged fellow behind the bar. That was me!! Balding? Well perhaps I was getting a bit thin on top.

Arthur orders a Singha beer. He still prefers it to Chang in some ways. Couple of Changs and he tends to doze off.

‘Orroit mite?’ says one of the other clients as Arthur takes his first sip.

‘Fine thanks,’ says Arthur avoiding eye-contact. They seem pleasant enough but you can’t be too careful in Pattaya these days.

‘I’m Gav and this thing here is Kev.’

‘Arthur,’ says Arthur.

‘What brings you to Pattaya Arfur, Pearl of the Eastern Seaboard?’ Gav asks.

‘Little holiday,’ says Arthur, ‘I live up North.’

‘Orroit ’ere innit,’ says Kev, ‘plenty of the old you know what.’

Typical Pattaya types thinks Arthur. Beer and sex.

‘I’m thinking of starting a website.’ says Gav to no-one in particular.

‘Oh,’ says Kev only half-listening, ‘what about?’

‘Sex tourism in Thailand of course.’

‘Gawd. Don’t you think there’s enough of them already?’

‘Mine will be different.’ says Gav. ‘It will be aimed at the modern punter. The way I see it there’s just too many Thai pornsites. We’ve got to come up with something new. What we should do is get some bald ugly old git….some really burned out bloke on his last legs…and let the girls do what they want with him. You know …whips and strap-ons and stuff. Empower the girls. Let them get their revenge. Move with the times. We could stoke him up with Viagra and see what happens. I think there’s a good niche market out there. People are ready for it.’

‘You’ll never do it.’ Says Kev.  ‘Start a website I mean. Too much work.’

‘Don’t be so sure,’ says Gav, ‘It will have lots of pictures of girls. I would call it Streetmeat or something.’

‘That would be infringing on their privacy I think.’ Says Kev.

‘You are probably right,’ agrees Gav, ‘what do you think Arfur?’

‘Well porn is certainly popular,’ says Arthur non-commitally.

It’s the landlord’s prerogative to regale the customers with accounts of his own exploits. I do it a lot. Customers listen politely. Constructive criticism is encouraged. Or they go somewhere else. It’s all the same to me. I start to tell them about my own days in the porn business.

‘We should call you Dickens Dick,’ says Kev, ‘the Dickens of Pattaya. Are you much of a reader Arfur?’

‘Oh yes. I’ve got a bookshop in fact.’

‘Bugger me.’ says Kev. ‘I just finished ‘Don Quixote’. In Spanish. I’m thinking of reading War and Peace now I’ve got a bit of spare time like. Can’t stand that ’arry bleedin’ Potter.’

‘I see,’ says Arthur. Strange that. Kev hadn’t looked like the literary type. Just goes to show how wrong you can be about people thinks Arthur. He makes a mental note to himself …stop judging people by their piercings and tattoos.

‘I’m reading Foster-Wallace at the moment.’ Says Arthur.

‘Infinit Jest?’ asks Kev.

‘Well Broom of the System actually.’

‘You like a bit of the old post-modernism do you Arfur?’ asks Gav.

‘That seems to be my genre of choice lately yes.’ Says Arthur. ‘In as much as we have a choice in these matters.’

‘Ah yes,’ says Kev, ‘the old free choice. Now there’s a topic. Me and Gav ’ad a go at that one on the plane over didn’t we Gav. Gav the Chav we call ’im. ’Ee’s something of a determinist.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. And don’t get me started on reality. What is reality when you get right down to it?’ asks Kev, ‘you tell me.’

The conversation is getting a little deep for Arthur’s liking. He decides to finish his beer and bid farewell to his new friends. He starts to pay his bill but Gav stops him.

‘This is on us Arfur. Nice meeting you mite.’

‘Yes indeed,’ says Kev. ‘Enjoy your ‘oliday. And go easy on the old introspection.’

Tripping.

‘And how is Alice?’ asks Simon.

‘Fine. Putting on a bit of weight.’

That’s an understatement. She is ballooning at an alarming rate. The trouble is she can’t stay away from the Cadbury’s products. Smith’s Crisps, Mars Bars….she is starting to get enormous. Nothing Arthur says seems to make any difference.

‘Mars Bars?’

‘Mars Bars, Smiths Crisps, Tizer you name it.’

‘I hope she’s not consuming all the stock.’

‘It’s not funny.’

‘Of course not.’

‘I’m not sleeping well. There’s a genuine danger of getting crushed.’


Arthur is making one of his periodic trips to London. Usually he pops into the Tate….then he ends up visiting Simon. They have just taken LSD in Simon’s Ladbroke Grove bed-sitting room. It's a first for Arthur. He isn't not sure what to expect.

‘You feel anything yet?’ Simon asks when they are waiting for the train. 

‘Er…no,’ says Arthur, ‘not really.’ But something is happening. They’d got to Notting Hill Gate Station without incident and bought tickets from a machine that pulsated with chemical light. More so than usual Arthur thought. Colours were getting brighter, the rush of the train when it came, the swoosh of the doors which opened and sucked them in, the tube itself where everything became electric…even the multi-coloured passengers. Sitting across from Arthur is a Chelsea pensioner with the consistency of a Dali watch. There are vibrating walls, melting floors, unidentifiable lizard-headed creatures and all the other psychedelic special effects that are to make ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’ virtually watchable so many years later. 

The train is moving through a time tunnel. That’s obvious. ‘Real time has collapsed in on itself,’ says Simon, ‘seriously perhaps, who knows?’

‘It could be a spiritual experience.’ says Arthur. Simon appears to agree. His head is nodding precariously. ‘Perhaps we’ll see God,’ he says. Then for no real reason they both start giggling and don’t stop till they get to Tottenham Court Road. 

‘UFO,’ says a hand painted poster. ‘This must be the place,’ says a disembodied voice where Simon had just been. They ooze down a flight of carpeted stairs into a dark cavernous room full of people dancing, wandering around or just standing staring at a stage. On the stage are some musicians playing a rambling psychedelic symphony and behind them a backdrop of amoeba like shapes projected against the wall. The shapes seem to be emanating from a dark scaffolding construction. 

Arthur stands taking it all in. The music seems to be everywhere. So does the acid. People are getting hard to distinguish from each other…it is all one…patterns are starting to swirl around him. ‘It’s alright,’ someone says and it is. For the moment. He becomes aware of a frizzy-haired head-banded chocolate-brown Sioux maiden dancing in front of him. Dancing? More like swirling, writhing…like a gypsy on a beach. One hand waving free. 

Jiving, stomping, twisting…doesn’t matter what they called the latest gyration Arthur is hopeless at it. Most of his attempts at dancing are like folding a deck-chair in the wind. At this point the best he can manage is a sort of embarrassed shuffle. But during a lull he feels relaxed enough to mutter something about not being much of a dancer and the girl, an American, says ‘Hey don’t worry about it man. We’re all freaks.’ An answer Arthur finds less than re-assuring. There’s madness in the air and only he can see it. His anxiety is blocking the road to total abandon. And he knows it. His values, his parent’s values, are a burden. ‘I’m Marsha,’ says the girl.

Simon joins them and immediately gets into the groove. Simon, always comfortable in any situation. Fluid and graceful, Simon knows how to approach girls and hardly ever gets rebuffed. He gives himself effortlessly over to the beat. The three of them dance together separately for a while. For a few beautiful moments Arthur is dancing. Really dancing. Like magic. Dancing outside himself. Above the ground…free. Then he remembers something.

‘I’m off then.’ Says Arthur.

‘What!?’

‘I’ve got to sort newspapers in the morning remember?’

Suddenly out of nowhere a surge of warmth wells up inside Simon. He is almost in tears as he says, ‘You really are amazing Arthur, you know that?’

‘In what way?’

‘Oh never mind. Be careful how you go.’

Arthur buys a ticket at Goodge Street Station from a Francis Bacon octopus in a cage. Once on the tube, nerve ends still flashing and sizzling, he narrowly avoids fusion with a group of grotesque revelers wearing kilts. Somehow he arrives at Victoria in time for the last train back to the sanity of suburbia. Had he seen God? Hard to say. He’d certainly seen something. As he lets himself quietly into the shop he wonders what cultural undercurrent decrees that everybody should walk through Portobello Market on Saturdays wearing old military uniforms. On the kitchen table, gently throbbing, is a ham sandwich.

Simon and Marsha, meanwhile, have left UFO and taken a cab to the place where Marsha is staying. It turns out to be a Regency house on Cheyne Walk. There’s a spacious bedroom on the second floor. Soft lighting, Indian bed-sheets, Moroccan cushions, joss sticks, standard hippy décor, but there are some classier, expensive-looking touches too, deep sofas, Persian rugs, a Hockney swimming pool or two. Simon asks about the owner. Not here, says Marsha rolling a joint, don’t worry about him. So he doesn’t. The hash is the very best Red Leb. The acid waves keep rolling in. They surrender to whatever it is and immerse themselves in the mysteries of human flesh.

The Gods are Hungry.

Arthur leans back in his deckchair, which could be anywhere, but isn’t, and stares out across the Gulf of Thailand. He can do this for hours. When he lived on Samui he spent most of his day on Chaweng Beach…always on the same stool in the Coconut Bar…staring out to sea. But that was before Chaweng became a sort of tropical Skegness. He’d moved to Lamai, barely one jump ahead of the fish ‘n chips shops, and thence to Isaan, the undeveloped Thai hinterland which he had found much more to his taste. Isaan was slow, unhurried, with little in the way of tourist attractions. It was easy to slip into the rhythm of the place, wet season followed dry, hot got hotter, and days blurred into one another. 

The bookshop took up most of his time. One evening by the bug zapper, Dao, his wife of 7 years, had suggested a trip to Pattaya. Arthur had agreed. A change was as good as a rest…not that he really needed one, but he had always liked Pattaya. It was honest in its own seedy way; never pretending to be other than what it was…until quite recently anyway…when the local council started performing mental acrobatics trying to balance sin and safety.

In fact Arthur doesn’t care much what the Thais do with their cities anymore. Neither does Dao, who, sensibly, is in another deckchair, to his left, tucking into a plate of deep-fried prawns she just bought from one of the vendors that swarm like sand flies among the pink and red foreign bodies. This is Dao’s second visit to Pattaya and she loves it, doesn’t find it tacky at all. Neither, after a beer or two, and a bit of a paddle, does Arthur. He is content to just lie back and relax. Try to anyway.

Chewing gum? No thanks. Newspaper? No. Not even the Bangkok Post, thrust uninvitingly in his face by yet another vendor, can hold his attention for very long. Hang on a sec…he buys one anyway…somebody called Isis on the rampage in Iraq…hmmm…a mess to be sure…but Arthur is more interested in watching the clouds. He isn’t looking for omens or anything but he enjoys the constantly changing and evolving shapes.  Above him immense billows are forming faces of Obama, Putin and Bin Laden…potent images that dominate his thoughts these days…more and more he is seeing pagan gods among the clouds…vengeful old Egyptian and Hebrew Gods…Osiris, Anubis, Set, Moloch and Yahweh, Zeus programming a handful of smartbolts, Mars in his war chariot, criss-crossed by parasailers…and of course old Priapus is up there too, ogling the banana-boat-load of topless waving bargirls. 

It must all mean something thinks Arthur…these images from school history books surprisingly well etched into his memory, redolent of English summers, hours spent avoiding homework, lying on his back in the long grass listening to the sharp clack of willow bats meeting leather cricket balls. Then Sunday School and another kind of God…a stern but loving god who valued good table manners highly…who thought that children should be seen but not heard and whose first commandment was “thou shalt not pick thy nose or otherwise embarrass thy parents in front of the neighbours” and the second was “don’t play with your winkle there’s a good boy”.

Ukraine, Syria, people getting blown up left and right, it must all worry Obama surely…assuming he worries about anything. It worries Arthur. But he’s not sure why. All he has to do is lay back and let the sun shine down.

What is wrong with people these days? Where does all the anger come from? Has it always been this way or was life simpler before? Before what? Now it’s all Ishtar and Gilgamesh weeping in the ruins of Babylon and fighter planes and drones piloted by wholesome young men and women from Texas and Indiana eager to demonstrate that everything is manageable if you just punch in the right data. 

Well CNN can spin it anyway they want but they can’t fool Arthur. There will be no mass Christian baptisms in this ancient land...just the scowling, bearded Gods of Mesopotamia, impassive, enduring, trotting along on their little donkey carts...biding their time…or perhaps sullen and confused…annoyed and irritated at having their retirement years disturbed by strange clanking chariots…and what’s this glittering Grail-like object dangling before Arthur’s eyes…ah…a fake Rolex...no thank-you…

Meanwhile, up in the clouds, the gods are still hard at it…the sky is full of them today…jostling for his attention…inscrutable Old Chinese deities, a procession of anthropomorphic Hindu chaps. Buddha? Not that he was a god exactly but is he up there too? If so he is probably happy just to exist…probably doesn’t feel quite the same need to assert himself and vie for people’s attention as the other fellows…

Am I going to die here? Arthur wonders…in Thailand? People did die here…by ‘people’ he means foreigners of course…they die all the time…in accidents, from natural causes, poisoned by jealous wives. What happens to all the bodies? Does anybody really want them? Will Dao have his body burned or have the bloody thing shipped back to England? Whichever is most economical probably…Her Majesty’s Government were unlikely to want it anymore…no I do not want a bloody cigarette lighter thank you…not even that phallic one. Very irritating these vendors. They’ve grown much more rude and persistent lately…in fact the worse business gets the ruder and more persistent they become. How much could they make selling that stuff anyway…a hundred baht a day? Two? The woman with the cigarette lighters…she probably walks miles every day and if she’s lucky she might sell one…

Arthur likes to complain about how Thailand isn’t what it used to be but he has enjoyed the best years…long before the Internet and the tattooed midriff-raff…before the bargirls started calling him Papa. Could be worse Arthur old chap…at least you’re not under a bridge somewhere sniffing glue.

What dear? Oh yes, thank you …Dao has just dismembered a crab and she is offering him a prime morsel … “I very angry,” says Dao. She means hungry of course, it’s a long-standing joke they have…one of many based on language misunderstandings. Dao is enjoying herself though…she’s had a tough life and she’s been looking forward to this trip. Good to see her making the most of it.

He starts to think about England. But not for long. Somebody is waving something under his nose...a grilled chicken foot it looks like…er…no thank you…but I will have …let me see…a boiled egg and a slice of pineapple…

Meeting Francis.

   

Meeting Francis Bacon wasn’t too difficult. Simon simply wandered into the Colony Room. He knew he would have to take some abuse from the regulars but he figured he could hold his own. Bacon wasn’t there when he went in so he ensconced himself in a corner and waited. He got a few funny looks from Muriel Belcher but nobody talked to him.

Then Francis came in. Very drunk. Just sold a painting. Ordered champagne for everybody. Simon managed to introduce himself to no obvious effect. He was not invited to the ‘oyster nosh’ at Wheelers.

The pay-off came some time later when he saw Bacon negotiating the escalator at South Kensington Station. They walked together to the artist’s studio at which point Bacon asked Simon who the fuck he was and what did he want. Simon muttered something about being a friend of John Deakin. Totally untrue.

‘Deakin doesn’t have any fucking friends.’

Simon followed the painter up a steep narrow staircase to a kind of studio loft crammed with stretchers, paints, brushes. There were photographs pinned to the walls. Books, stacks of newspapers and magazines everywhere. The floor was covered with newspaper clippings, paint cans and boxes.

Simon found himself staring at a large screaming Pope.

‘Should make a few waves don’t you think?’ said Bacon, ‘Shock the bastards. People disgust me you know, but still I need to connect. One tries to get close to whatever it is. Painting helps. Sometimes they work but I generally destroy the bloody things.’

‘I’d love to own one,’ said Simon. ‘Any chance of buying a reject?’

‘Are you queer at all?’

‘Pretty sure I’m not,’ Simon said.

‘Pity’ said Bacon. ‘I could use a good whipping.’

Thus it was that Simon acquired his study of Henrietta Moraes.

Columbus Day.

Tomorrow is 28th October. The day in 1492 Columbus landed in Cuba.

To commemorate the occasion Ning and Nong start pestering me. They want to go shopping in Miami. Christopher Columbus never had this kind of trouble. No women on his ship that’s why. Course he may have been amusing himself with the cabin boy but I somehow doubt it. He was a funny bugger old Colon but I don’t think he swung that way. Could be wrong.

He ‘discovered’ America. The locals were pleased to see him at first. Until he started roasting them over fires. 

Nobody’s sure to this day where he came from. He said Genoa. But historians say he was Catalan. Maybe he was Jewish. He spent a lot of time on ships and studied map-making with his brother in Lisbon. He somehow got the idea of finding a new route to the Indies by going due West. Did he know there was land out there? Looks like he had a pretty good idea. How could he be sure he wouldn’t just drop of the planet? A lot of people thought the earth was flat. Not Christopher. He knew it was round. He just didn’t know how big it was. 

For instance, Columbus calculated that the distance from the Canary Islands to Japan was 2,400 nautical miles (about 4,444km. In fact the distance is about 10,600 nautical miles (19,600km), which is why so many European sailors and navigators thought CC was nuts to try it. He didn’t listen. To his dying day he’d thought he’d found the Indies. Stubborn old sod.

There was no GPS in those days either. He did it by dead reckoning, which works like this. You start from a known point and figure out how much distance you travel by measuring your speed every hour. You do this by tossing a log (on a knotted rope) off the bow and watching for it to go past the stern. There’s a chant that goes with it so you know how long it takes. Course you needed an hourglass that somebody turned every half hour otherwise you basically relied on the sun, and it helps if you sail in a straight line.

This wasn’t much help when it came to longitude. Tell the truth Columbus wasn’t too hot on latitude either. He used a quadrant a couple of times when he was in Cuba and got 42 degrees. Over 20 degrees off. He blamed the quadrant. No more readings till someone gets that fixed, said he.

Another funny thing was what happened to his body. Hope you don’t mind me going on like this? He died in Spain in 1506 but his journeys didn’t end. First he was buried in Valladolid then moved to Seville. Then his son Diego had him shipped back to Santo Domingo in 1542 until the French took over and he was moved to Havana. When the Cubans became independent they shipped him back to Spain but some still think he’s in Santo Domingo. The indigenous folk were just happy to get rid of him.

The box in Seville was opened recently. Not much in it. Few fragments and some dust. Somebody tried to take some DNA samples so they could match it with his brother’s. No joy. Back in the box you go Christopher. R.I.P.

His epitaph reads "Non confundar in aeternam" (in Latin). Some people translate that to mean ‘Let me not be confused forever.’ But there’s even some confusion about that. 

Here’s a picture of the man himself. Well not really. If was done in 1519 by Sebastiano del Piombo who never saw Columbus.

 s

Creative writing, part 2.

 I've completely forgotten about Arthur! What's he up to I wonder.

Well not much. You can’t beat old Arthur when it comes to procrastination. I may not be Stephen King myself but I get a few things done. It’s not that Arthur doesn’t have a lot to say. He just doesn’t know where to start. 

You may recall we left him in the Last Gasp Bookshop trying to decide whether to write a novel or not bother. The idea has been percolating at the back of his mind for some time. About thirty years give or take. He’s even written a few things that might qualify as literature whatever that means these days. There’s still time before Simon’s arrival to knock something together out of all the bits and pieces. Perhaps even come up with some kind of synopsis. Then what? Should he show it to Simon or not? He’ll probably just say it’s crap. He’ll probably be right.

Maybe he should write a book. But about what? Or why, or when, or how?

Arthur has lots of ideas for unpublishable books. It could be one of those books where nothing much happens for instance. Something along the lines of ‘Dubliners’, or ‘Notes from Underground’, or ‘Catcher in the Rye’. Some bloke just droning on about his life and sharing his deepest thoughts with anyone who’s interested. That might work. There’s enough bored people around these days, surfing the internet, they’ll read anything. 

It certainly won’t be one of those post-modern books where all the characters are versions of themselves. Arthur has read enough of those. It might jump around in time and space a bit but the story will be fairly straightforward. He’s got nothing against non-linear fiction but there’s a limit. It’s easy to get too clever and leave any potential readers wondering what’s going on. Where are we? Who’s speaking? What day is it? Sort of an inconclusive whodunwat. 

Keep it simple that’s the trick. There can’t be much to this writing lark. Colourful characters that’s what you need. Get them doing interesting things. Lively dialogue. Throw in a bit of sex. Just a question of getting started.

Arthur imagines himself with a laptop somewhere…typing words in, moving blocks of text around. It would be a lot of work. And pretty futile when you think about it. Why would anyone commit himself to something like that? More to the point why would anyone want to read it? They’ll probably just skim through it looking for the naughty bits. Should he try to appeal to younger readers? Those who missed out on the Sixties and Seventies for instance, but aren’t too bitter about it? Maybe throw in a few vampires and zombies for teenage readers.

What Arthur doesn’t mention for some reason is that he’s already posted a few of his literary efforts on a website for aspiring writers. The reaction has been quite encouraging. He uses the short story form but the hardest part is always coming up with a clever twist.

The strange thing about writing is that sometimes he just can’t be bothered. He has to force himself to do it. And there are other times when he can’t get the words down fast enough. At least until the doubts appear. Words, words, words….hasn’t the world got enough of them? As for the bloody internet, it’s a Tower of Babel.

More procrastination. Perhaps he needs a holiday. Sitting in that bookshop all day surrounded by other people’s writing can’t be the best way to get anything written. Let’s send him off to Pattaya for a little rest. He can take Dao with him. She’ll love it.