Bangkok 3, dangerous times.

Arthur is feeling a little unsettled. The day had started well but the email from Simon has changed everything. Simon coming to Bangkok? To make a BBC documentary? And he wants Arthur to conduct tours of the naughty nightlife? Hmmm. A minor disruption you might think but it has disturbed Arthur’s equilibrium.

He decides to skip a second beer and get something to eat. Took Lae Dee (Cheap and Good), a popular eating establishment on Soi 5, will do nicely. He can think about Simon over breakfast.


With that in mind Arthur ensconces himself on a chair at the Took Lae Dee. Not too crowded. Good. To his right a bright-robed West African entrepreneur, to his left a massive, lavishly tattooed, rather intimidating, bicep.

‘OK dude?’ it is the owner of the bicep speaking. American accent. Stephen Leather waistcoat over sleeveless plaid shirt. Body-builder type. ‘Got enough elbow room?’

‘Fine thank you.’ says Arthur as he surveys the menu. The specials look interesting, Bavarian meatloaf, Dixie sausages, Waiting for Godot Sandwich.

Arthur plays it safe and orders the American Breakfast. Then he quickly changes his mind, much to the irritation of the lady taking the order, who, used to the ways of falang, shows no irritation, and decides on the Dixie Sausages. So much for that. The decision has been made. Now it’s just a question of waiting.

Across the counter a Thai woman is squeezing oranges. She cuts them in half then presses them. Arthur becomes absorbed in the rhythmic movements of her hands. What bizarre instruments hands are, thinks Arthur, such versatility is only found in Nabokovian passages which some find pretentious and difficult to read.

‘Buddy of mine,’ says the colourful arm, ‘he’s a contractor in Eye-rak, killing sand-niggers, told me about this place.’

Let me guess thinks Arthur, you’re a Navy SEAL.

‘I’m a Navy SEAL.’

‘Really?’

Arthur doesn’t feel much like dialoguing today. Actually he feels like that most days. It interferes with his thinking. He has enough Houellebecq type information to deal with already. He knows people are just being friendly. He wishes they would be friendly somewhere else. Especially during the breakfast ritual. Tell the truth he feels almost detached from his physical self today. Amorphous almost. And he’s trying to remember something Anthony Burgess said about death.

‘Only problem with this place is they cram the customers in.’ says the arm again.

Arthur agrees. That is the only thing about Took Lae Dee he doesn’t like. The proximity of fellow diners. But there isn’t a lot he can do about it.

‘It’s clean though.’ says Arthur.

‘You can say that again.’ says the American.

Arthur certainly can. That is his prerogative. But he decides not to. It’s OK for Amis and Son to do the snotty limey thing but Arthur doesn’t want to risk it. Everybody is so touchy these days. Taking the piss can quickly backfire. Plus his Dixie Sausages have just arrived and he wants to give them his undivided attention.

‘Looks good,’ says the Yank, ‘my girlfriend here,’ Arthur gets a glimpse of cleavage and a little wave from a rather tasty looking tart to Hulk Hogan’s left. ‘dumb bitch, wanted to eat at one of them street places. No way would I take a chance with that crap.’

‘Very wise,’ says Arthur, ‘one needs to be circumspect these days.’

‘I got her in a place in Soi Cowboy. Mamasan’s a friend of mine.’

‘Good for you.’ says Arthur.

‘You English? Thought so.You gotta be careful right? Thailand is getting to be a dangerous place. Check out the websites dude. Some of those street hookers! Jeez I was walking around Sukhumvit last night. It’s a zoo.’

‘It certainly is.’ Arthur agrees. He should know. He’s one of the animals.

I should write all this down, thinks Arthur, maybe make a short story out of it. Arthur does write things down occasionally. He has aspirations. One day, perhaps, when he gets it all sorted out, he will take it down to Asia Books. Who knows? With any luck he might even get accepted into the Bangkok School of Fiction! But first he needs a piece of paper and all he’s got is a damp napkin. So much for that project.

‘They’ll kill you for a few thousand baht.’

How many times has Arthur heard that lately? He’s lived in Thailand a long time. Heard plenty of horror stories. Is Thailand getting more violent in recent years? Hard to say. There isn’t a lot he can do about it in any case. He wonders how long it will be before the conversation turns, as it inevitably does in Bangkok, to sex. Just as he is starting on his second Dixie Sausage most likely. But no. His breakfast companion is busy with his own ante-meridianal ruminations. He has just asked for, and received, with a smile, a second cup of coffee. Now he’s shaking out some pills. Steroids time.

‘Gotta love Thailand,’ he says, ‘in the US these days you gotta speak Spanish to get a goddam refill.’

Ah got it! The Anthony Burgess quotation about death has surfaced. Here it is: “It’s a good idea to think about death while you are still alive.” So that’s what Arthur decides to do. The sausages are very tasty. He’s enjoying them and thinking about death. He doesn’t see any contradiction in this. It’s the ultimate joke in a way. Sixty years, if you’re lucky, thinking your little life is important then it’s game-over. Or is it? Life is strange thinks Arthur. You just start to get the hang of it then your time’s up. So what’s wrong with joking about it? Rough, tough SAS men joke about it…why shouldn’t the rest of us?

The American is paying his bill and his girlfriend is getting up. They are on the move. Arthur wriggles his seat a bit to give them more exit room. The girl gives Arthur a flash of white teeth and a little golden wave. The American nods goodbye.

And off they go. Arthur is thinking if this story is going to get anywhere it will need a Le Carre twist. ‘Take care.’ Says Arthur.

‘Don’t worry dude. Nobody fucks with me.’ Then the American does a strange thing. He takes Arthur’s hand and guides it to a bulge in his belt. There, through the shirt, Arthur feels something hard and metallic.

‘Heckler & Koch MP5K ‘kurtz’ version?’ asks Arthur who has read a few Lee Childs novels, ‘designed in the 1970s, 9mm x19, short post front sight? Highly accurate in the right hands?’

‘You bet. That’s my big kahuna. One needs to be very circumspect indeed these days…dude.’ 

 

 

 

Journey to the East: Istanbul.

 

Maybe you think there’s too much sex in this blog. I wouldn’t blame you. There’s too much sex everywhere if you ask me. If it’s not the Kardashians with their bums it’s Miley Cyrus flashing her nipples. What used to be private is all over TV and the internet. People can’t get enough of it.  
Don’t get me wrong. I’m no prude. Just an old fart trying to stay relevant.
Enough of that. Write some more Dick. OK. What? I know you’re out there but I don’t know what you want. Swinging London stories? Naughty Thailand tales? Life on a small boat in the Caribbean? Here’s a bit from 1960 in Istanbul. It’s not Midnight Express but it could have been.


Arriving in Istanbul, a Muslim city, at night, had been a shock. They hadn’t known where they were. It was the early sixties and Turkey was still getting used to the modern world. There was nothing that resembled a bus station or a tourist information booth. Buses were loading and unloading in narrow streets, moustached Turkish men wearing cloth caps were piling in and out of old American cars. There were glimpses of minarets and Islamic architecture.
The Turks were friendly enough. One, who spoke good English pointed them up a hill to a group of 'Otelis'. They chose one called the Gulhane, the room had eight beds, the toilet was a hole in the floor, but they didn’t care.
Next morning they met Hoppy from San Francisco. Ragged, bearded, just back from India. He was squatting cross-legged on one of the beds scraping pieces off a large block of very dark hash. He asked them if they have any skins. They have some blue Rizla as it happens.
‘Great. Real skins. I scored this in Kandahar. People call me Hoppy.’
‘You think it’s cool to smoke here?’
Simon isn’t sure. None of them wants to take any chances so they walked up an old cobbled road behind Hagia Sofia until they reach an open stretch where old cannons are lined up along the battlements overlooking the Bosphorus.
‘Wow,’ says Hoppy inhaling deeply from the joint and passing it to Simon, ‘look at that man. That’s Asia over there. That’s where I was. Turkey is big man…took me a week to get through it. And Iran is even bigger. I hope you cats know what you’re getting into. The East will change the way you think.’
Arthur looks across the Bosphorus. Had Alexander felt any trepidation when he stood, perhaps in this very spot, looking across at his future empire? They sit on one of the cannons and Hoppy lights up another joint.
‘Dig the crazy cannon man. They use these things for hash pipes in Afghanistan.’ Seeing their quizzical looks he adds, ‘I’m not kidding. They have these massive clay pipes and they load them up with hash. Then they pass them round and everybody gets a pull. Those Afghan cats are really cool. You think you can smoke hash? Wait till you get one of those Afghan jellums. It’ll blow your heads off. Oh man look at the sky. Dig those clouds man! The great cosmic circus. We’re all part of it. And something is really happening now. Big changes coming man. Can’t you feel it? We are the agents of change man. This generation. It’s in us to change the world.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ says Simon, ‘that’s good hash though.’
‘Hey don’t bring me down man. OK I get it. You’re Limey intellectuals right. Arty types. Jerking my chain. But I know you guys. You’ve been brought up in nice little homes and had good educations...but you’re bored with it right. Now you want to walk on the wild side. You’re attracted to the random and the spontaneous types…you’re looking for kicks…like me. You know something’s wrong with the cozy material world but you can’t let it go. Am I right?  Krishna and Kali...Yin and Yang. You need to read Kerouac man...he’s a writer...he knows what he’s doing...him and Ginsberg and those cats...’
‘Howl and On the Road you mean?’ says Simon. ‘It looks to me like they want to create an American myth. It doesn’t really work in England.’
‘Shit man Blake was English wasn’t he? Those guys...they have tapped the spirit man...turned it into words that sing.'
'On The Road is OK', says Simon, ' but there's no plot. It's as if he got really stoned and just typed it out in a couple of days.'
'I'm not sure about that,' says Arthur, 'I think Kerouac had it all written in notebooks already but he needed to get a consistent tone.'
'Jeez you guys,' says Hoppy, 'Why so fucking critical? Can't you just go with the flow. Read Henry Miller. He’s the energy source.’
‘We met Henry Miller.’ says Arthur.
‘You what!?!’
‘In Athens. Outside the American Express. He told us to fuck off.’
‘Too much!!’ Hoppy is rocking with laughter. ‘Henry Miller told you to fuck off! Too fucking much. That cat is a god to me man. He taught me how to live. Turned me on to the life force. It’s in the air man. And it’s free. But you have to open yourself to it. Just talking is no good. You remind me of all the fucking intellectuals in Berkeley. Coffee houses full of hipsters and beatniks or whatever the fuck they call themselves sitting around smoking weed and analyzing their lives. I got out. Ferlinghetti, City Lights Bookshop, poetry readings. Too intellectual for me man. Shit I’m horny. Hard to find a piece of tail in Muslim countries. Haven’t got laid since Delhi. India is wild man. Cows in the street. They got gurus and sadhus and wild holy men wandering around naked covered in ashes man. Weird stuff. But the people are great…the poor ones especially…they got nothing but they feed you man. Hey, if you get stuck you can always go to the Sikh temples…they let you sleep there and give you food...just dal...but it’s free man. Some crazy cats out there man…I met a German guy who’d spent 10 years in an ashram...reckoned he could drink through his cock. Hey...you think these Turkish chicks are hip man?’
Simon didn’t think so. Some of them certainly looked ready and willing but he thought anybody getting too close ran a good chance of getting castrated by angry Turks.
But Hoppy was off again…‘Kerouac’s right you know. There’s a revolution happening man...a revolution of the soul...you can feel it and this is just the beginning...I’ll make a prediction man...in a year or two there’ll be thousands of guys and chicks like you wandering off to India. Looking for...’
‘Looking for what Hoppy.’
‘Shit man I don’t know. Looking for God, looking for enlightenment. Looking for themselves. Maybe just looking for dope. Oblivion...who knows.’
‘Where are you going Hoppy?’
 Arthur asked.
‘From here? I’m going to Greece...then hitching over to Spain I guess. Maybe down to Morocco. I want to stop hitchhiking for a while. It gets to be a drag...you know the worst thing about hitchhiking? You have to talk to all these people who pick you up…tell them some bullshit. You sort of feel like you have to entertain them...keep them awake. Or they start groping you. It can be a drag. But I love it man. Waking up in crazy places, miles and miles of desert then you hit a teahouse in a garden someplace in Afghanistan, sunset on the Ganges...it blows my mind. Don’t forget the water train from Zaidan in Persia. It goes once a week and you just get on and ride. It takes you right into Pakistan. Hey guys, I’m having a vision...dig the chicks.’
Two blonde girls dressed in anoraks and extensively patched jeans are approaching. Their names are Inga and Maj-Britt. They are from Malmo. Arthur thinks they look a little lost. They sit down on one of the cannons and things start to get confusing. Another joint is produced and everybody gets giggly. Hoppy goes into male display mode much to the amusement of the girls. There is a temporary scattering of optimistic pigeons. Simon says something about trying to find the Grand Bazaar. Somebody, Jorge Luis Borges was it? once observed that the linear nature of language – wherein each word occupies its own instant in the reader’s mind - distorts the things we would make reference to. Fair enough, but that doesn’t mean we should stop trying. The hash is strong. Arthur wanders off and finds his way into the Seraglio, an evocative word in itself, where he strolls through rooms full of dusty Turkish weapons and elaborate jewellery, the Sultan’s lavishly tiled throne room and the disappointingly silent and empty harem. There had been some vague agreement to meet back at the hotel for another smoke but when Arthur gets there he finds Simon alone, writing up the day’s events in his journal. They think Hoppy must have got sidetracked.
‘Doing those Swedish birds probably.’ Says Arthur wistfully.
‘You know, ’says Simon, ‘he could be the real thing...a genuine San Francisco hipster.’ They agreed there is something magical about the way he just appeared in their lives. The timing was impeccable. Whatever Hoppy is he doesn’t come back to his bed in the Gulhane that night. They find him next morning in the pudding shop eating a bowl of yoghurt and doodling in a notebook.
‘Oh man those Scandinavian chicks are something else man. I think I’m in love.’
‘Which one?’
‘Both of them of course. Don’t make me choose.’ Hoppy pushes the notebook over.
‘Look at that man. It’s what I do.’
The notebook is full of drawings, felt tip and coloured pencil...naked figures flying through swirls and patterns. It is easy to imagine Hoppy in teahouses, cheap hotels or stuck by the side of the road turning out all the images in his mind.
‘They’re remarkable.’ says Simon. ‘You’re an artist.’

‘Oh, those are just notes. When I get back to San Fran I’m going to work them up into posters and album covers. There’s a cat called Bill Graham there. Breadhead. In the music business. Music….that’s where it’s at. It’s going to be big man. But first I’m hitching to Stockholm. You cats got any bread?’

Health & Efficiency.

Young people often ask me how I got started in the porn business. They’re looking for tips I suppose. Well I had family connections. Growing up in North London in the Fifties I  had a fairly normal family life. Dad was doing a year in the Scrubs for receiving so it was just me and Mum. Living in Archway we were. We’d visit Dad when we could and I do remember him saying to me one time.  ‘Dick lad it’s time for you to get serious. You need to think about your future. Nicking lead off church roofs and playing a bit of footy is all very well but you need a trade. I think you should have a chat with Uncle Archie.’

So I went round to see Uncle Archie and that’s how my career in the porn business got started. In fact, now I'm getting flashbacks, I caught Archie and Aunty Doris on the job.

It was a family affair. Usually we’d set the equipment up in the living room. Chintzy sofas, garter belts, lampshades that sort of thing. Uncle Archie was the director and he’d work out a little scenario, who did what, who fucked who, but there wasn’t any sound so no need for a proper script. The plots were fairly basic. Usually started with Aunty Doris or some other tart reading a magazine then slowly she starts playing with herself and hallo who’s this? Bloody window cleaner innit getting his leg over the sill. Or a copper shows up with a big truncheon. Or hubby’s away so the missus has it off with the milkman. The camera work was shaky and the lighting wasn’t too fancy. Come to think of it, it was tame stuff really by today’s standards. Don’t know what they would have thought of the stuff that passes for porn these days. Silicone tits? Bondage? Golden showers? None of that, Not  that I recall. Course I was young then. Wasn’t supposed to watch really. ‘Up to your room young Dick we’re just finishing up here. Go and read your Beano comics.’ Bugger Desperate Dan. I’m off upstairs for a bit of Health and Efficiency.

‘So what do you think Dick? Beats driving a 79 through Wembley,’ says Uncle Archie. Later on he let me work the camera and move the lights around. Even gave me a few black and white still photos to flog at school.

Not blowing my own trumpet like but I was a clever nipper. Passed the eleven plus easy and got into Grammar school. Not that it did me much good. I soon got expelled, I tried a few different jobs, hod carrying, roofing, shoplifting, but always it was football that drew me. If I wasn’t watching the Gunners I was a kicking a ball around. Dexies were my downfall. More on that later.

Then Aunt Doris got nicked for living off immoral earnings and Dad still in the Scrubs me and Mum got by the best we could. Uncle Archie used to come round a lot to see how she was doing. He’d always slip me a couple of quid and send me out somewhere so I had a lot more personal freedom. Those were great days. Soccer up the gasworks…looking up girl’s knickers down the rec…trying to anyway. It’s all a blur now but I won’t forget the blokes in suits who hung around watching me and the other lads play. How’d you like to get serious says one? What you mean mister? I mean try out for Arsenal says he. Fuck me…you’re joking. Well would you? Would I? First I thought he must be a poofta but he meant it. Signed a contract and I soon had a few bob in me pocket.

One summer I borrowed Archie’s Standard Vanguard (and his driver’s license), and took Mum to Butlins. She loved it didn’t she? Skegness! Bloody marvelous. I helped her choose a cheeky postcard for Dad and on the way home I was so chuffed I give Old Bill a friendly wave on the North Circular.

I know…I know…times have changed.

Bangkok2.

I see I left Arthur dangling. That’s the trouble with all these tense and location changes. Some sort of guideline would help. Maybe even a synopsis. I’ll see what I can do.

So here’s Arthur in Bangkok in the present tense.

He’s actually feeling pretty good this morning. Things have gone well ever since he got out of bed. He’d got his underpants on without snagging any tackle and his trousers on without tripping, he’d located his shoes and socks much where he’d left them. He hadn’t dropped his toothbrush in the toilet; a fair-sized turd had emerged on time and reasonably solid. The nose cone had hit the water with a satisfying splash. Even the semi-colon feels right. It just might be one of those days when nothing the Thais can throw at him will make a difference. A good day for internal monologue and serious procrastination. Things could be worse.

Arthur hits the street and soon he’s weaving his way through the vendors and tourists and motorbikes and beggars and fake monks and sleeping dogs and burning pepper smoke etc.

If you don’t already know the Sukhumvit area is popular with expats. It’s a busy street, lots of vendors and lots of places to enjoy a beer. It’s easy to find someone to talk to if that’s what you want. Just don’t let them sit on your lap.

He makes it past the fried grasshoppers. Past the racks of Ronaldhino shirts, deftly dodging the porn DVDs, flick knives, knuckle dusters, cell-phones, batteries and the mountains of Gucci luggage. Amazing Thailand indeed. Arthur is amazed that he ever found it amazing. It’s hot. He needs to replace some of the liquid lost on the short journey from the BTS station. The Golden Bar will do perfectly. Not too crowded and there’s a table with a view of the street. Arthur settles in and looks around.

There they all are. Middle-aged expats and Thai girls mostly, talking, laughing and doing all the things people do. Humanity going about its daily dance. Is it all just hormones? Survival at its most elemental? Or is there some great plan behind it all? His own libido seems to have taken an extended holiday wherever libidos go. He sees nothing attractive about the girls….unlike a large farang who has just ensconced himself at the next table. Just in from the Gulf most likely and a man who clearly loves Thailand if the cluster of Buddhist amulets on a gold chain round his neck is anything to go by. The man wais the girls and they move in like friendly piranhas. He buys drinks all round, the music is cranked up, the girls wave their arms above their heads, it’s party time, happy-happy!

Arthur watches. No hint of judgment in his expression. Over the years Arthur has become quite adept at blending in. He has listened to more instantly forgettable bar room banter than he cares to remember. He can nod and chat, even guffaw, with the best of them. But today he just wants to sit and think.

A haggard looking woman with somebody’s baby on her back dangles a styrofoam cup in front of Arthur’s face, another small boy is doing a trick with coins, sticking them up his nostrils but Arthur is wise to that one, make eye contact and you’re lost. Another kid approaches a group of plump young Englishmen, cropped hair, football shirts. He shows them a round shiny object.  ‘10 baht,’ says the young salesman. A moral compass most likely thinks Arthur. People are always losing them round here. The feeding frenzy at the next table is over, the girls disperse in search of new victims.

Arthur lives in his own mind mostly. Sometimes his mind seems to have a mind of its own. It just wanders. Like most expats in Bangkok he’s working on a book. That means he thinks a lot and every now and then he’ll jot down some of his thoughts. Then he tries to think of a plot to hang them on. Writing requires a certain discipline. It’s not easy.

So that’s it for now. You’ve had a peek at the seamy side of Bangkok and you didn’t get sucked in. Very sensible. There is something mysterious about Thailand, something very attractive and hard to grasp that defies Western logic. It will show you things about yourself but it may drive you mad in the process. And you’ve met Arthur briefly. He’s an example of someone who did get sucked in. He may well be on the verge of madness. Watch him now as he wanders into an internet café full of Thai girls texting or tweeting or skyping or whatever it is they do….telling their farang boyfriends to send money mostly. All that internet and social network stuff leaves Arthur cold but he likes to check his email now and then…in fact he is about to get a surprise… an email from Simon who he hasn’t seen in 30 years awaits him! Simon is now a successful BBC producer and talk show host. He is coming to Bangkok soon to make a documentary. He wonders if his old friend Arthur is still there? If so would he be interested in a job as a consultant? He can expect to be lavishly compensated. RSVP.