Honda dream.

  Arthur turns back the mosquito net and hauls himself out of bed. Tui is still sleeping like a teak log. Should he make a cup of tea? Or get one in town? Perhaps potter down to the fishpond to get the juices flowing and see if Tui gets up in the meantime? Either way it looks like another hot one. Maybe a good idea to get the shop open early, not than anybody will be looking for books first thing in the morning but it’s good to be a bit disciplined. Expats have to keep busy in Thailand. Too easy to slip into bad habits. 

  He wheels the Honda Dream out to the track and gets the engine going. There’s old Somchai off to the outhouse. Soon Yai will be getting the charcoal fire going. Then she’ll be down to the pond to see if she can rustle up a couple of catfish. As neighbours they were pleasant enough. Tui popped in to see them now and again and they always had a friendly wave for Arthur. Not that he was ever quite sure what they thought of living next door to a farang and his new concrete house. Whatever it was they kept it to themselves. Not like some in the village. Gossipy buggers. Squabbles never far below the surface. But that was village life. Same everywhere. No getting away from that side of things.

  Yes, all in all, life could be worse. Arthur has a good wife and a nice house. Well it’s not really his house. It’s in Tui’s name because that’s as close as farang can get to owning property in Thailand. But he trusts her 100%.

  Arthur rides the bike carefully down the bumpy track and through the main street of the village. There is nobody about. Just a few chickens already scratching around and a whiff of wood smoke from Tui’s sister’s place. Nice that the dogs don’t bark anymore.  Nice too having the bookshop to go to. A quiet place to sit and think about things. Strange the tricks life plays. Funny to think that he should leave England, come all this way to a remote corner of Thailand and still find himself in the retail side of things. Not that his little bookshop in Sakorn Nakhon could compare with being a tobacconist in Carshalton, which is what Arthur had been in a previous incarnation, but there were some parallels. The retail trade was the same everywhere. There was the same responsibility to get the shop open every morning. The customers expected that. Not that he saw many.

   Maybe it’s time for another Bangkok expedition Arthur thinks. Tui had suggested a week in Pattaya. Why not? He could combine it with meeting Simon. When had he last seen him? London was it when Arthur was over for his mother’s funeral. Simon had taken him to a trendy restaurant. And now he’s coming to Thailand. Hmmm. It would be strange to say the least.

   OK, now Arthur is turning carefully onto the main road. This bit can be tricky. Arthur crosses a small plank bridge and turns sharp left onto the hard shoulder avoiding the raised edge of the tarmac. The hard shoulder has its own set of hazards, potholes, chickens, snakes, dogs, sharp discarded barbecue sticks etc. but it tends to be less perilous than the road itself. Today doesn’t look too bad. Hardly any traffic about. Just a couple of songthaos but no trucks or buses yet. Should be a nice little ride into Sakorn Nakhon thinks Arthur.

Sex and Sedition.

 

A few readers have said how much they enjoy the little historical references I throw in from time to time. Cut out the philosophy Dick, they say, and give us more stuff about Swinging London and life in the olden days. Some readers are even more blunt. Dick, they say, why don’t you act normal? Stop trying to be funny and write a proper blog.

OK then, if that’s the way you feel, I’ll try. But I’m not making any promises. And for the sake of my own mental equilibrium I will try to keep it in some kind of chronological order.

Let’s see here...late sixties, early seventies...it all gets a bit muddled. I could tell you about having it off with Princess Margaret. 'Ah, Headley, we’d like you to sign this form.' Never happened.

I was living in Chelsea, on the King’s Road. I kept noticing this shop...the name seemed to change every month or so. First time I noticed it the name was ‘Let It Rock’. After that it was something like ‘Too Fast To Live Too Young To Die’. About a year later it just said ‘SEX’ in big letters. That got my attention. For some reason that got changed to ‘SEDITIONARIES’ and I think it ended up as ‘World's End’ or something.

SEX! Naturally I went in for a look around. It was clothes mostly. Ripped t-shirts with slogans scrawled across them, boots, studded jackets. There was some bondage clothing too made of leather, chains, and rubber. It was unusual stuff at the time. The clothes had what we know today as attitude. The owners were Malcolm and Vivian.

Malcolm was an art student so you could say he was challenging the academic separation of "art" from "life". Basically I think he was trying to annoy people. Push the envelope as they say these days. Viv looked after the clothes. She was always coming up with new ideas...the more outrageous the better.

I don't know how Malcom and Viv made any money. They certainly attracted some odd characters to their shop. Most of the customers were always nicking stuff. One time I was in there and this bloke was trying to stick a safety pin through his nose. ‘What you fink Dick? Like me new look? Alright is it?’ 

Those early piercers were a tough bunch. People had to do their own piercing in those days of course. You couldn’t just pop down to the 7/11 if you needed a new nose-ring. Back then you did it yourself, at home, in front of the mirror. You could get a friend to help but mostly it was trial and error. And maybe a dab of Dettol if you were lucky.

Good musicians though some of them. I remember an article in "Sniffin' Glue". It showed a diagram of the three finger positions on a guitar..."Here's one chord, here's two more; now form your own band.”

So I hung around and got to know a few of them, one thing lead to another and next thing I know I’m managing a punk rock band.

I expect lots of people remember the Nipple Erectors and the Snivelling Shits but how many remember the Fab Fukkers? Not many eh? That’s what I thought. How about Scum? No? The Stench? That was me. Got a write-up in Trouser Press? Never mind. Anyway I was the one who took them over to the States. Organized a concert tour for them. America was crawling with British punk groups in those days. Like a swarm of spiky leather locusts. The trick was to do a few live concerts in the Bible Belt, start a riot or two and get the radio stations interested. Maybe get on TV. Then hopefully they’d push your single so you could sell a million copies. Then you’d sign a record deal and do a bunk.

Public relations was important and I was always very strict with the lads. Hotel rooms had to be smashed up before they got any drugs. Sometimes after a busy day the lads were tired and didn’t want to know…
“Right you lot. Look lively. I want these rooms trashed before you get any kip.”
“Aw Dick...”
“Don’t ‘Aw Dick’ me. Can’t keep the reporters waiting. Let’s have those TV’s out the window!”

Then came the big lawsuit.

Cannery Mall, Lahaina HI.

We made it to Maui with no trouble except for a little run in with US Customs and Immigration.

They came aboard and wanted to see our passports. I explained everything….how I’d swapped the boat for a bar in Pattaya how Ning and Nong (Thai passports), were helping me sail it and Nyum was the navigator. The young officers seemed particularly interested in Nyum. Who can blame them. She looks like Do Hai Yen.

Her situation is complex I said. She has various passport applications pending with the UNHCR but the Hong Kong authorities wanted to repatriate her to Vietnam which she was not thrilled about so I gave her a job.

‘Perhaps she can apply for refugee status here?’ said one young officer.

‘She really does look like Do Hai Yen.’ said an older officer, ‘I may be able to pull some strings. And you Mr. Headley remind me of Michael Caine.’

I get that a lot. I may look like him but to be honest I've never been a big fan of Michael Caine. He reminds me of every dodgy cabbie I've ever met in London. Also he’s one of those actors who always seems to play himself. But I have to say he gets better with age. Saw him in as the French ex-fascist in 'The Statement' and again in 'The Quiet American' (2002) he was perfect. Just right for Thomas Fowler, the aging expat journalist running out of options. Which brings me to the point. Do Hai Yen. She played the taxi-dancer who Fowler lives with. I haven't met many Vietnamese girls quite as passive as her but that was the point of the movie. One of them. She represented Vietnam, plaything of the Western powers. Do Hai Yen was the star of the film of course. And she didn't even have to do much. 

We made it to Maui with no trouble except for a little run in with US Customs and Immigration.

They came aboard and wanted to see our passports. I explained everything….how I’d swapped the boat for a bar in Pattaya how Ning and Nong (Thai passports), were helping me sail it and Nyum was the navigator. The young officers seemed particularly interested in Nyum. Who can blame them. She looks like Do Hai Yen.

Her situation is complex I said. She has various passport applications pending with the UNHCR but the Hong Kong authorities wanted to repatriate her to Vietnam which she was not thrilled about so I gave her a job.

‘Perhaps she can apply for refugee status here?’ said one young officer.

‘She really does look like Do Hai Yen.’ said an older officer, ‘I may be able to pull some strings. And you Mr. Headley remind me of Michael Caine.’

I get that a lot. I may look like him but to be honest I've never been a big fan of Michael Caine. He reminds me of every dodgy cabbie I've ever met in London. Also he’s one of those actors who always seems to play himself. But I have to say he gets better with age. Saw him in as the French ex-fascist in 'The Statement' and again in 'The Quiet American' (2002) he was perfect. Just right for Thomas Fowler, the aging expat journalist running out of options. Which brings me to the point. Do Hai Yen. She played the taxi-dancer who Fowler lives with. I haven't met many Vietnamese girls quite as passive as her but that was the point of the movie. One of them. She represented Vietnam, plaything of the Western powers. Do Hai Yen was the star of the film of course. And she didn't even have to do much.  

Full marks, by the way, go to Graham Greene for the original book and Christopher Hampton for a superb screenplay.

I asked the customs blokes if they’d seen the movie.

‘Oh yes,’ said the older officer. ‘One of my favorite movies.’

Turned out the officer’s name was Bert. We talked about The Quiet American for a while then I asked if it would be OK for me to take a taxi to the closest supermarket. I needed to stretch my legs.

‘That would be the Cannery Mall in Lahaina,’ said Bert, ‘we’ll hold your passport here while we check the boat. Take a couple of hours. Stay for the Hula Show if you want.’

When I got back Bert and the younger officer were in a good mood.

‘Everything seems to be in order here Mr.Headley. Did you find everything you needed at the mall?’

‘Yes thanks.’

‘Nice meeting you Mr. Headley. Fine boat you have here. You’ll be leaving Maui in the morning I expect?’

‘Right.’ So that worked out OK.

Journey to the East, Afghanistan.

            

 It is amazing in retrospect that they survived the journey across Iran and Afghanistan. But this was the sixties. The Shah had Iran in a tight grip, Afghanistan was enjoying a brief lull in the Great Game, foreigners were a rarity in the region.

Thus it was they arrived in Qum, a most religious city, and being thirsty and noticing a public fountain they decided to avail themselves of some refreshment. A particularly devout mullah started screaming and it wasn’t long before a crowd gathered. ‘What’s the problem?’ Simon asked a group of student types who had been watching the incident. ‘You are unclean unbelievers.’ said one helpfully. The gist of it seemed to be the infidels had defiled a holy fountain specifically reserved for pilgrims. Fair enough. But how were they to know? More mullahs began to arrive. Clearly there was nothing to be gained from an extended interfaith discussion so, making profuse unfaithful apologies, they withdrew in the direction of Isfahan.

“Shitting in the squat position is more natural don’t you think,” Arthur observed one morning as they stood beside a thin strip of tarmac which shimmered in the heat haze, “Puts you in touch with things.”

Simon agreed but only up to a point. “The flies certainly prefer but it can’t be easy on the old folk. And there’s always the danger of stepping backwards into one’s own deposit.”

“Yes, but that’s just it don’t you see,” said Arthur, “you can’t separate shit from life. As for wiping, rocks seem to work just as inefficiently as paper.”

“True,”said Simon. “In fact I think I’m starting to prefer them. When we get home I may ask mother to put a bucket of rocks in the bathroom.”

“I may take mine a burqa. Wonder what colour she’d like?”

“You can’t go wrong with good old black.”

And so they made their way ever eastwards, young middle-class English pseudo-beatniks, in the footsteps of Alexander, not his exact footsteps obviously but more or less, surviving on flat bread, goat’s milk cheese and a barrage of sights, sounds and visions induced by fatigue and occasional encounters with the demon hashish.

Their first Afghans were a surprise. Ferocious looking fellows with big beards and turbans armed to the teeth with daggers and swords. Some of them carried old Lee Enfield rifles stolen from dead British soldiers in the Khyber Pass no doubt. But the tribesmen were not without their sensitive side. Some of them wore kohl and occasionally they would pull out little mirrors and start plucking their eyebrows. Very strange. They also had a copious appetite for hashish and sweet tea. The infidels were invited to share great cannon-shaped jhellums. Arthur was quite impressed. He thought the Afghans looked like something out of Kipling. Simon saw nothing very romantic about fly covered kids playing with dry goat droppings.

“They’re stuck in the bloody middle-ages,” said Simon, “nothing but lawless bandits.”

“They are free and unspoiled by Western consumerism,” said Arthur.

“Bloody religious fanatics.” said Simon.

“Their weakness consists in their want of organization, their tribal jealousies, and their impatience of regular habits and of the restraint necessary to render them good soldiers,” said Arthur quoting from ‘For Name and Fame, or Through Afghan Passes’ by G.A. Henty, “but, when led and organized by English officers, there are no better soldiers in the world; as is proved by the splendid services which have been rendered by the frontier force, which is composed almost entirely of Afghan tribesmen.

“Their history shows that defeat has little moral effect upon them. Crushed one day, they will rise again the next; scattered--it would seem hopelessly--they are ready to reassemble, and renew the conflict, at the first summons of their chiefs. Guided by British advice, led by British officers and, it may be, paid by British gold, Afghanistan is likely to prove an invaluable ally to us, when the day comes that Russia believes herself strong enough to move forward towards the goal of all her hopes and efforts, for the last fifty years--the conquest of India.”

“OK,” said Simon, “but they still look like a rough bunch to me.”

They arrived in Peshawar on the roof of a lavishly decorated multicoloured bus. The Khyber Pass had certainly been scenic but something of a disappointment. Or perhaps they’d just picked a bad day. Nobody took potshots at them and they didn’t notice any British subalterns pegged out on anthills at Gundamuk.

                      

                 

Home again.

Simon lives in a mews house in Chelsea. He’d bought it in a dilapidated state in 1970 and it’s probably worth several million now. Simon just got back from a trip to the British Virgin Islands. He had needed a break.

He had a pleasant trip to BVI. The few days in Necka were especially relaxing. Sir Richard was his usual charming self. The perfect host. Tough as nails underneath of course. They chatted about old times when Simon sold his magazines on street corners.  Had a good chuckle over that. Now it’s back to gloomy London. The rain. Keep busy is the trick. Tonight it’s the Brit Awards where it will be Simon’s privilege to introduce a succession of foulmouthed young drug addicts and make a few sarcastic remarks...in a nice way of course. He hopes it won’t be too dreadful.

Only one bag so he goes straight from Heathrow to South Kensington on the tube, peasant class. Nobody recognizes him. Which is both a relief and somewhat disappointing. Short walk from the tube station along King’s Road and he’s back in the mews.

The house is just as he left it. Russian oligarchs on each side now but that’s OK. The renovations were definitely worth doing. He can barely remember what it looked like when he bought it all those years ago. Easier to imagine it in Dickensian times when it was used for coaches and teams of horses. His bedroom once held hay. The living room was for the tack. Another small room upstairs was perhaps a stable-boy’s quarters. Now Simon uses it for storing Francis Bacon paintings, Hockney drawings, Furry Freak Brothers Comics, back issues of OZ, first editions of Naked Lunch and other collectibles. Good strong lock on the door. Coming in off street level it’s always amusing to think of great draft horses munching on hay and pissing foaming streams across the Kerman Ravar.

He checks his email. Ah, one from Arthur. He is agreeable to Simon’s proposal. Same old Arthur. He can’t just say he’ll do it he has to ‘be agreeable’. Simon hopes he didn’t give him a heart attack. They’re both getting a bit long in the tooth. Seems like ages since they got together. Arthur was over in England for his mother’s funeral if Simon remembers right….he took him out somewhere…Sticky Fingers was it? Arthur’s been in Thailand a long time. Wonder what he gets up to there? Right. That’s enough musing. Time for a shower and a change of clothes and it’s off to Earls Court for the bloody Brit awards.

Celestial navigation.

 

So what exactly have you done with your life Dick I hear people ask? Surely you haven’t always been a narrator?

Of course I didn’t just go straight from chatting up Swedish models in the Scotch with Simon to owning a bar in Pattaya. Life isn’t like that. Getting the boot from Arsenal. Marriage. Divorce. Managing a punk rock band. Meeting Oscar. Making porn movies in LA. Marbella. Philippines. Thailand. Sitting in Sopers Hole, BVI with a laptop writing this crap. Obviously a lot of stuff happened in between.

I’ll admit it, when I sailed off from Pattaya with the girls I wasn’t sure what I was doing. Koh Pangan for the Full Moon Party I suppose. Sail down the Gulf of Thailand and then what?

I thought about going to the Caribbean. Bloody madness really. I don’t know if you’ve ever sailed across the Pacific from West to East but it’s not easy. Ning and Nong were useful when it came to cooking and other odd jobs but none of us knew the difference between a spinnaker and a flying jib. Fortunately we were lucky with the weather so we had a chance to learn a few things about sailing. We stopped in odd places like Sihanoukville, Nha Trang and Sanya depending on the visa situation. I decided to stay close to the coast….at least as far as Hong Kong. That’s where we met Nyum. She was from Vietnam, just out of an internment camp and hanging around the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club. Don’t ask me how she got in there. Same way I did most likely. Lovely girl and smart as a whip.

Nyum has had a very interesting life. Her father was a dentist in Saigon. He was also a Recividist. I looked it up. That’s someone who starts to have second thoughts about Communism. When the Viet Cong took over people like him got sent away for Re-education. I’m glad I wasn’t a Recividist in Vietnam. I would have hated being sent away for Re-education. Come to think of it I don’t think I would have made a very good Communist at all. Nyum’s dad didn’t like the idea of being Re-educated either. Somehow he managed to get himself, his wife and Nyum on a leaky boat. But it didn’t do him much good. His plan was to get to America and make false teeth for horses but he was drowned with Nyum’s mother in the Gulf of Thailand after being robbed and thrown off the leaky boat by Thai fishermen. Nyum drifted around for few days clinging to a packing crate. She thinks this is when she learned Celestial Navigation. A Russian freighter picked her up and took her to an internment camp in Hong Kong where she learned English watching TV.

I’d read a book about the Manila Galleons. The Spanish used them to run gold from Acapulco to Manila. Apparently the only way to get back was by going north to 38 degrees as Alonso de Arellano and Andres de Urdaneta discovered in 1565. I discussed this with Nyum. She did a few calculations, the girls did a bit of shopping, and off we went. Nyum figured we’d hit the California coast somewhere round Mendocino.

Bangkok3. On the Skytrain.

Right where was I? Let’s check in on Arthur. I’ve skipped a lot of formative stuff. School-days, snogging in the local cinema, Lorraine (Arthur’s first girlfriend), Simon’s job at a bank etc. etc. It’s all standard stuff and doesn’t make for interesting reading. But it does go some way to explaining how Simon became a TV personality what Arthur is doing in Thailand and why I’m sitting on this boat. We’ll get there.

We find Arthur sitting on the Bangkok Skytrain going nowhere in particular. He thought he’d spotted his mother’s ghost buying a ticket at Nana Station but he’d been too quick for her. He was gone before she even made it through the turnstile. Now safely squeezed between two Thai schoolgirls he’s thinking about Simon. So Simon is coming to Bangkok. Simon who he hasn’t seen for God knows how many years. They’d been at school together…hitchhiked to India together. They had been very close but inevitably they had gone their separate ways. And now apparently Simon is something of a TV celebrity.

Hang on! A bulletin just came in. Arthur has made a decision! The train is pulling into On Nut when he decides to email Simon agreeing to meet and discuss Simon’s documentary project….with one proviso. Arthur isn’t sure he is the right person to be conducting tours of the Bangkok naughty nightlife. So he may have a few questions.

The meeting is still a few months away. In the meantime he will be going back to the village in Northern  Thailand where he lives with his Thai wife Tui. He runs a second-hand bookshop in the nearby town of Af Makom. There, among shelves of well-worn paperbacks, he will wait to hear from Simon.

Good. This will give me a chance to describe his domestic situation. Tui, like most Thais, believes in ghosts. Arthur had always scoffed at such simple superstitions but lately he isn’t so sure.

Six months suspended.

Don’t know what’s got into some of the lads these days. Bunch of prima donnas. That Beckham seems to have his head screwed on but we were never like that. Well maybe a few of us. Course we had our share of piss-artists in my day too. Georgie Best springs to mind. But things have certainly changed. Russian oligarchs and …Italian trainers. Not naming any names here but where’s the flash? Too many blokes out there kicking the ball off sideways instead of going for the goalmouth. Importing players and managers from all over now too. We’ve been well globalized.

Everybody was getting TVs and soon they started televising the games. Playing First Division in those days was like being a pop star. The mud the sweat, the roar from the stands….like fucking gladiators we were. I was in the papers a lot. Got my face on bubble-gum cards and puffed wheat packets. And TV. They’d get us on chat shows with the Dave Clark Five or something and ask us what we thought about Jayne Mansfield. I didn’t mind. It was egalitarian one BBC bloke told me. Television was reaching out to the people. Top of the Pops, Ready Steady Go. Crumpet everywhere.

Some of you may remember the headlines. ‘Headley Does It Again!!!’ ‘Another Hat trick for Headley’ etc. ‘Headley Excels Himself’ ‘With a stunning virtuoso performance Dick Headley scores six goals against Liverpool in Arsenal’s first away game of the season …’ and so on…What the papers didn’t say was Headley was smashed out of his pod on lysergic acid and ‘pep’ pills. The crowd was singing Strawberry Fields, the ref was a mushroom and the Liverpool goalie looked like Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds. That poor goalie just gave up when he saw me coming. Who could blame him? Multi-coloured electric creature with 20 legs bearing down on the area at the speed of light. He didn’t have a chance. Or maybe he was stoned too. Lots of people were in those days. Then disaster struck.

Next headline was ‘Dick In The Dock!!!!’ above a picture of a sheepish-looking Headley on the steps of Marylebone Magistrates Court. What happened was I had a few friends over and the fuzz showed up. Caught us at it. The British Press were very nice about it of course. Pot Headley they called me. And there was no arguing with the beak.

“Richard Headley of Cheyne Walk, London, SW3 you are a disgrace to the sporting profession. By indulging in mind-altering substances you are setting a bad example to the youth of this country and…..”

“Fuck that your honour I………..”

“That will do Headley. Fortunately for you I am an Arsenal supporter. Six months suspended.”

Well it could have been worse. Two weeks later and they would have had me for the Great Train Robbery.

With my football career gone I was at a loose end. Did I miss it? Well let’s just say I had to make an adjustment. I'd done a bit of bouncing in strip clubs and I worked for Rachman, learning the property management business. So I got into restoring old houses. We were clearing out a squat in Fulham one day when I noticed all these young folk wearing torn clothes and safety pins, spiked jewelry and fishnet tights. They had rude things written on their T shirts with magic marker. Very offensive they looked. It gave me an idea….

Journey to the East: Somewhere in Turkey.

 

From Simon’s notebook:-

We made it out of Istanbul a couple of days ago. Bus to Ankara then started hitching. Bloody hell it was rough. Big American cars flying past. Dolmus they call them. Communal taxis full of communal Turks. Trucks. The map we have is pretty basic too. Ended up in Ersurrum, Konya. We had a look at the Tomb of Mevlana Rumi. Amazing colours. Beautiful tiles.

So here we are in Eastern Turkey. It’s winter. Bloody cold. I am writing this by candlelight. We are sitting on a rickety double bed in a damp room made of straw and mud or something. We arrived ‘here’ after about 18 hours in the back of a truck crammed full of terrified sheep. We had to stand for hours. The wind was howling down from Armenia or somewhere. The land around was bleak and dun-coloured. Not many Turks to be seen. I suppose they were all squatting round smoldering dung in their mud hovels, like this one, half buried in the frozen ground, chewing on raw turnips. What are we doing here?

From Arthur’s notebook:-

This place is rough. It’s a sort of hotel made of mud in the middle of nowhere. The bed is a thin mattress on an iron frame. There’s just a dirty threadbare quilt. Full of fleas most likely. There’s some Turkish kid, perhaps 14 or 15 on a mattress in the corner. We may have hit rock bottom. Oh well that’s what life on the road is all about. Experience.

From Ahmet’s notebook:-

The hotel is full. Even a couple of infidels showed up. Of course they put them in the cellar with me.

Still no proper job. I spent the day scrubbing turnips. Maybe tomorrow I’ll ask around the lorry drivers. They sometimes need young lads like me to clean the windshields and check the oil level. I could do that all right. Now I’m really tired but I have to listen to the bloody infidels talking…

‘My parents are weird.’ Says one.

‘They seem normal enough to me.’ Says the other one.

‘That’s what I mean.’

‘Well you can’t be weird and normal can you?’

‘My parents can.’

‘We’re two sides of a coin you and me.’

‘How so?’ 

“Narciss and Goldmund.’

‘You mean the polarization of Narcissus's individualist Apollonian character in contrast to the passionate and zealous disposition of Goldmund?’

‘Oh for fucksake.’

I couldn’t understand a word of it. I just wished they’d stop talking so I could have a wank and go to sleep.

From the author’s notebook:-

There were many moments for reflection and philosophy. Think allegory. S & A weren’t to know they were rehashing centuries old arguments and covering old ground. The Greeks had been this way before.

From Simon’s notebook:-

What a shitty night. The bed was cold and damp and the cellar where they put us was the same place they stored the dry cow dung. Ahmet spent the night wanking. Trying to keep warm probably.

And Arthur was distraught in the morning. His Hermann Hesse book was missing he was quite upset about it. We had a pretty good idea who took it but there was no going back. He’s decided to be philosophical about it. Some kind of omen he says. He's really serious about this quest business. But does he expect to find what he's looking for in a book? I suppose he does. Most people do. The Jews have their Old Testament, Christians have the new one...these Turks have the Koran. Believers. The more I see of religion the less I like it. These bloody believers are going to get us all killed one day.

At the moment I’m more concerned about being joined by a lively family of fleas. Or, God forbid, lice! Did Siddartha scratch much? Or were his problems all metaphysical?

From Arthur’s notebook:-

Couldn’t find ‘Journey to the East’ this morning. Simon thinks I must have left it in the ‘hotel’ inverted commas. I bet that young Turk nicked it. Oh well…hope he enjoys it.

Never mind, says Si, it’s hardly indispensable is it? We’ll get you another copy. But that’s not the point. These things don’t happen by accident. I was enjoying it too. It’s funny. I mean weird. It’s about a spiritual journey through space and time. I can even see parallels with what we’re doing now but I’m not going to mention that to Si. He’d just say something sarcastic.

From the author’s notebook:-

This isn’t working. The original idea was for a sort of spoof of Hermann Hesse  but it hasn’t turned out the way I wanted. It’s all Dick’s fault. He couldn’t hit the right formal Germanic tone

From Dick’s notebook:-

Formal Germanic tone my arse. Nobody reads that Kraut stuff anymore anyway.

From the Editor’s notebook:-

Sorry Dick. You can’t say that.

Earl days.

 

So I started at Arsenal. I was billed as a promising young striker. This was the Sixties you understand. Lots of things were happening. Michael Caine was a big star, so was Georgie Best, David Bailey was taking pictures of all the beautiful people. Class barriers were breaking down….well not really….same bunch still owned the shop but it was an advantage to have a working class accent. 

I bought a nice car and a flat for mum. Got my picture in the papers. Hung around with pop stars. That must have been when I first met Simon….Rediffusion studios… Ready Steady Go. I gave him a lift to the Scotch, St.James after if I remember right where we sat watching the dancers. Mostly Swedish models….there was Britt Eklands everywhere in them, I mean those, days. Most of them got snapped up by Rod Stewart and Keith Moon but there was plenty to go round.

Simon was writing record reviews for the New Musical Express and talking himself into a DJ job at Radio Caroline. He had his foot well in the door. There were no flies on Simon.

Me? I was serious about football. Well I think I was but late nights took their toll. I’d get bollockings for missing training sessions ….started taking Purple Hearts and Dexies to keep up. Wasn’t long before I was flogging them to the rest of the team. Until I got nicked.

Don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Part of the narrating process I suppose. Keep the storyline going.