Something is happening here.

Simon is back in London. He's living in a house near Primrose Hill, what would later come to be known as a squat. The house is one in a row of terraced houses across from Regent’s Park it had been purchased by a real estate speculator called Harry and scheduled for renovation. In the meantime a motley group of people were living in the empty rooms, fucking, writing poetry and doing their best to avoid Harry when he showed up for the rent. Lots of interesting people came through….Gregory Corso in transit….Private Eye types….Establishment and various embryonic practitioners of social satyr

The front door is never locked…nobody wants the responsibility…so people are free to come and go at will. At first it worked quiet well. A sort of polite anarchy prevailed. There was a communal kitchen which somebody, nobody was sure who, kept reasonably clean, and everybody got along. It could have been London’s version of the Beat Hotel but unlike 9, Git le Coeur there was no Madame Rachou to establish a modicum of order… to Later of course cliques were formed, bathrooms got filthy and strange groups of people could be found shooting up in corners. Harry got called a capitalist pig one time too many and had the place boarded up.

When he first got back from India Simon noticed a lot of ch, ch, changes. Hair was longer for one thing. Especially men’s hair. Girls wore short skirts and kinky boots….trousers were flared. Trendy boutiques were popping up all over the King’s Road. One day he was watching TV and somebody like Rod Stewart came on. Shit! It was Rod Stewart! Looking every inch the pop star and singing a song called Maggie May.

What, he wondered, is going on here?!? There are freaks everywhere…head paraphernalia sold openly on Portobello Road…. comics and magazines, OZ, International Times….Allen Ginsberg reading poetry at the Albert Hall , yes, yes, we met him in India. Is this some kind of revolution? 

Where do I fit in?

Panama Canal.

Transiting the Panama Canal in a small boat is a pain in the arse. They make you feel like a bloody nuisance. You need, lines, tires, an advisor and it all costs money. You also get stuck overnight in Gatun Lake. Still I suppose it beats sailing round Cape Horn.

I had thought about Aruba but there was just no way with that headwind so we stopped in at Bocas del Toro. Pleasant enough place if you don't mind a few mosquitoes. It even has a modest little yacht club. We can wait for a change in the wind. Perhaps stop in at other places along the coast. Long time since I saw Cahuita or Bluefields but we'll probably give Limon a miss.

Come to think of it I may head straight to Cuba. Been there before of course and enjoyed it very much. Not Varadero so much, where the package tourists go, but Havana is great. Probably park the boat at the Marina Hemmingway and stay at the good old Hotel Nacional. Is that little place across the road still open? "Monsieur" I think it was called. Up the hill towards the Capri? Let’s hope so. They had an excellent restaurant with a bar attached.

The consul.

Her Majesty’s Consul has a general-purpose office in a bungalow in a leafy suburb of Madras. It isn’t the Raj but he gets the occasional flashback. There is a punkah but no wallah. He affects a Somerset Maugham persona in keeping with some short stories he is working on. He keeps the rejection slips in a drawer with the Foreign Office Seal.

The Consul looks across the verandah, past the banyan tree to the driveway where a figure is approaching. Oh God no….not another scruffy person. Looking for help most likely.

He had been hoping to do a bit of work on his book….a children’s story. He almost has it ready for submission. He had shown a rough draft to a publisher friend in London who had been encouraging. Other than that there issn’t a lot for a consul to do in Madras to be frank. Renew the odd passport, attend the odd reception, repatriate the odd misguided youth. Seem to be quite a few of those showing up lately. Wonder what they are looking for? Themselves? And here comes another one.

This one seems quite delirious, rambling on about ashrams and Rolls Royces and beatles and a pregnant girl-friend.

The consul is friendly but firm. He knows Surrey and Sussex quite well. He has an aunt in Sussex in fact. Near East Grinstead actually. Really? Yes. He is prepared to issue some temporary travel documents but all expenses must be reimbursed to HMG within six months of Arthur’s return to England otherwise he would not get a new passport. He would have to pick up his ticket in Delhi. Arthur agrees to the conditions. It ttakes an hour or two for the documents to arrive. Arthur mumbles something about a train ticket and goes back down the driveway.

That’s true about the consul having an aunt in Sussex by the way. Her name is Claire and she’s a schoolteacher. She wears a tweed suit and wool stockings. She has a black spaniel called Scamp and a bicycle with a basket on front, which she uses when she shops in the village. I know what you’re thinking. Peripheral character, no connection to the story, if you can call it a story. You have a point. The plane from Delhi to London took about 12 hours. Which meant that Arthur’s homecoming was somewhat abrupt and required numerous rapid mental adjustments. The consul meanwhile has decided to have another go at writing a children’s story...this is not the consul of Malcolm Lowry’s ‘Under the Volcano’…..this consul has a tight grip on reality….

‘Scamp was a lovely dog but he could be quite naughty sometimes. He loved to chase after rabbits and sometimes he forgot about everything and became (got?) lost. Once he was gone for two whole days! When he came back he was all muddy and covered with brambles/burrs. But he was so happy to be home it was hard to be angry with him...’

Malibu, meeting Oscar.

 

Thanks for the feedback. You know who you are. And while we’re on the subject of feedback I’ll take whatever you’ve got. “Keep going Dick, you da man!” “Shut the fuck up you old wanker!” Say what you want. I can handle it. Have you ever met someone who doesn’t give a shit? You have now.

I believe. I was telling you about my days as a punk rock entrepreneur. Got sidetracked no doubt.

Well I can't say it was one of my proudest moments. You will recall I was touring the States with a group of young English louts. Doing OK too. Merkans loved it. Well some of them did. They love anything new over there and punk was hot. Somebody needed to capitalize on the efforts of Messrs. Rotten and Vicious. They’d got a niche audience nicely warmed up and ready for the next wave. Enter Headley and the Stench.

We’d cracked the one-nighters in the cowboy bars and trashed a few theaters. I’d done the odd talk show. We had a hit single “F*ck Everybody” and we were starting to get into stadiums. The money was coming in and I had a few record companies on the hook. If things went well I’d soon be able to piss off somewhere with the filthy lucre and leave the group to self-destruct. Worked for me a few times but nothing lasts forever.

Anyway there I was in Bakersfield, Calif. with my lads. We’d just done a gig at some dump and wham along comes a big lawsuit. It was our misfortune to cross paths with Pedro and Manuel Gonzales. Manuel was a bright young fellow from Sonora who arrived in the US in the back of a car driven by his brother Pedro. Manuel settled in quickly. He'd only been out of the trunk two days before he landed a job as a cleaner in a Holiday Inn. One of Manuel’s duties was keeping the parking lot tidy. He was sweeping up some broken TVs one morning when he got an idea.

Couple of weeks later we’re in L.A. packing up to go back to England. I’m just getting the groupies to sign their waivers when there’s a knock on the door.

It’s a lawyer representing a Mr. Manuel Gonzales, a citizen of Mexico currently employed as a parking attendant at the Bakersfield Holiday Inn. Seems his client got hit on the head by a television control knob! What!?! Not the fucking set mark you! A fucking knob.!! Furthermore, furthermore!, his client was unable to work for a month and had to undergo expensive medical treatment. And the lawyer had a sheaf of doctor’s bills to prove it. Even an X-ray showing a piece of Panasonic in Manuel’s arse. Course TVs were a lot bigger and heavier in them days but still.

In court Manuel identifies our bass player as the man who threw the TV at him, senor.

That cost us a million dollars out of court that did. As I said to Oscar, when we were walking along Malibu beach picking our way between the starlets, next time I’ll aim for his fucking head. Probably bounce right off Dick, says Oscar.

“Wetbacks and Jews? You didn’t stand a chance Dick.” Says Oscar. (I’m sorry if this offends anybody but that’s the way he talks. Comes from reading too much Elmore Leonard. I’m actually toning it down.) “Did you have any witnesses?”
“Just the lads. They’re always very careful where they throw stuff.”

I’d first met Oscar at the Altamont Speedway. The Rolling Stones free concert you may have heard about. He called himself a promoter at the time. When I met him he was promoting a dodgy brand of acid. The lawsuit had left me skint...well let's say I was down to my last half million or so which doesn’t go far in California. I was moving around a lot, staying with whoever would have me. Not the way I liked to live. The album “SHITE” wasn’t selling like we’d hoped it would. The Fukkers had fucked off, The Scum was breaking up and people had got used to the Stench.

I’d run into Mal Evans again. I was hanging out with him and Keith Moon and a bloke called Harry. Lennon showed up with a Chinese girl, May something and we all went on the piss together. Good laugh that was until Mal got shot by some police officers. I’ve heard different versions of the story, the gun wasn’t loaded, it was just an air rifle, Mal was just clowning around. Anyway he’s dead. Poor old Mal

Things got bad and I phoned Oscar for assistance. Told him I needed a place to get wasted, preferably with running Southern Comfort and soundproof walls. “Whatever gets you through the night Dick.” Said Oscar. “Come on over.” He gives me an address in Malibu.

The consul.

07/21/2014

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Her Majesty’s Consul has a general-purpose office in a bungalow in a leafy suburb of Madras. It isn’t the Raj but he gets the occasional flashback. There is a punkah but no wallah. He affects a Somerset Maugham persona in keeping with some short stories he is working on. He keeps the rejection slips in a drawer with the Foreign Office Seal.

The Consul looks across the verandah, past the banyan tree to the driveway where a figure is approaching. Oh God no….not another scruffy person. Looking for help most likely.

He had been hoping to do a bit of work on his book….a children’s story. He almost has it ready for submission. He had shown a rough draft to a publisher friend in London who had been encouraging. Other than that there issn’t a lot for a consul to do in Madras to be frank. Renew the odd passport, attend the odd reception, repatriate the odd misguided youth. Seem to be quite a few of those showing up lately. Wonder what they are looking for? Themselves? And here comes another one.

This one seems quite delirious, rambling on about ashrams and Rolls Royces and beatles and a pregnant girl-friend.

The consul is friendly but firm. He knows Surrey and Sussex quite well. He has an aunt in Sussex in fact. Near East Grinstead actually. Really? Yes. He is prepared to issue some temporary travel documents but all expenses must be reimbursed to HMG within six months of Arthur’s return to England otherwise he would not get a new passport. He would have to pick up his ticket in Delhi. Arthur agrees to the conditions. It ttakes an hour or two for the documents to arrive. Arthur mumbles something about a train ticket and goes back down the driveway.

That’s true about the consul having an aunt in Sussex by the way. Her name is Claire and she’s a schoolteacher. She wears a tweed suit and wool stockings. She has a black spaniel called Scamp and a bicycle with a basket on front, which she uses when she shops in the village. I know what you’re thinking. Peripheral character, no connection to the story, if you can call it a story. You have a point. The plane from Delhi to London took about 12 hours. Which meant that Arthur’s homecoming was somewhat abrupt and required numerous rapid mental adjustments. The consul meanwhile has decided to have another go at writing a children’s story...this is not the consul of Malcolm Lowry’s ‘Under the Volcano’…..this consul has a tight grip on reality….

‘Scamp was a lovely dog but he could be quite naughty sometimes. He loved to chase after rabbits and sometimes he forgot about everything and became (got?) lost. Once he was gone for two whole days! When he came back he was all muddy and covered with brambles/burrs. But he was so happy to be home it was hard to be angry with him...’

Panama canal.

07/24/2014

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Ashrams.

With Simon gone life on the road got more serious. Arthur felt utterly alone. Yes, he was free to look at India through his own eyes without Simon’s cynical observations but he was still obliged to ask himself what he was doing in India. He had never envisaged being there on his own. Should he go back to England? Or should he press on in the hope that some kind of destiny would reveal itself?

India itself was becoming a blur of blue elephants, pink monkeys and brown faces. Crowds gathered quickly. Whenever he stopped moving there was a crowd of people staring at him…somebody would always ask, “Where are you coming from sir?” “Why did you come to India?” “Are you looking for God?” Reasonable questions, not unlike the ones he was asking himself. But they never stopped coming. Everywhere he went, in public parks on railway stations, in restaurants he attracted attention just by being.

Should he look for an ashram to take him in? A quiet place where he could seek the meaning of life in solitude? Or perhaps he should go to Goa and sit on a beach before that idea got too popular. Maybe he should go south to Madras, see if he could get over to Malaya somehow? So many decisions…  Perhaps he should just abandon the whole project, if indeed it was a project, and go back to England?

Perhaps, perhaps not. He had amoebic dysentery. He had just been robbed. He had no passport and no money. He did have a letter from his mother informing him that she and his father were separating and another letter from Lorraine to let him know she was pregnant. Clearly some kind of decision was required.

With some minor adjustments to the chronology it wouldn’t be too hard to imagine Arthur arriving at an ashram near Rishikesh. One can see him being shown into a simple white-walled room…a mat, a bed-sheet and a jug of water. He likes it. It’s wonderful to get away from the realities of India. The best time is the evening when cool breezes waft down from the Himalayas along the Ganges Gorge and the air is full of a gentle chanting from neighbouring ashrams. Not much happens. He is able to turn off his mind, relax and drift downstream. Meditation? Well he almost stops thinking about himself at one point. He might have been actually meditating. Hard to say for sure. Whatever it was it didn’t last long.

One morning Ram (ashram official in charge of accommodation) approached him outside his bungalow and told him the time had come to leave.
“Where are you going?” Arthur asked.
Ram chuckled. “No Arthur not me. The time has come for you to leave us.”
“You mean I have achieved enlightenment? It seems….”
“No, no, no, Arthur. We need your bungalow. We have a big group coming.”

Thus it was that Arthur started walking back along the dusty road to the town of Rishikesh. In the fields on either side farmers were watering and weeding their crops. The road itself was empty except for the ubiquitous cows and a few women on their way to market. Suddenly there descended upon Arthur a blinding light…a vision from the future in the form of a fleet of air-conditioned limousines and psychedelic Rolls-Royces sweeping down the road bearing the likes of John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, Mia Farrow and, Mike Love all stoned on high grade hash and garlanded with marigolds. And lo, behind it all a large bus labeled ‘Press’ in which Arthur caught a glimpse of a familiar figure. Bloody hell it’s Simon!

But it wasn’t real of course. Never happened. Just a vision from the future. Instant nirvana. Some kind of parallel universe thing. A book in itself really.

Panama.

People often ask me what it’s like sailing across the Pacific with 3 girls. Well….it’s a bit cramped but it has its compensations. They don’t call me Captain Dick for nothing.

Six weeks at sea had left the girls as fresh as daisies. I on the other hand was worn out, nut brown and leathery, a cross between Michael Caine and the Ancient Mariner. We hit the California coast off Mendocino as predicted (good job Nyum) but decided not to make landfall. Our experience in Maui with US Customs and Immigration had made us wary. Instead we headed for Baja and points south making our first stop in San Blas. Franciscan friars led by Friar Junípero Serra headed out of San Blas on their quest to colonize the Californias.

 Puerto Vallarta, Zihuatanejo, Acapulco, gold, la mordida, the wind blew us gently down the sloping coast of the Americas until we sighted Darien and the fabled city of Panama. Big office buildings and stuff. You wouldn’t know it now but Henry Morgan really did a number on that place in 1671.

“An old Negro with mackintosh, solar topee and rolled umbrella and gaiters limping along the dock wharf – why are there always these old men limping along wharves?.....Hot rain, coconut palms, pelicans.” From Through the Panama,  Malcolm Lowry.

 

India proper.

The Punjab was hot and humid. The sky hung like a damp grey turban. Punjabis worked in the fields, drove taxis and rode bicycles. Small Punjabis played in puddles. Punjabi dogs curled up in odd corners. Simon and Arthur had a look at Amritsar. They met an elderly Sikh who took them around the Golden Temple. We are meat-eating people explained the elderly Sikh, very warlike.

In yet another nameless mosquito ridden hotel somewhere in Old Delhi they met a Frenchman. ‘I was in ze Himalayas,’ said the Frenchman, ‘I studied wiz a wise man. I can drink wiz my paynus and eat wiz my an-us.’

‘Really,’ said Simon, ‘care to show us?’

‘Fuck you,’ said the Frenchman, ‘I don not a comedian.’

‘Of course you don,’ said Simon. Later, over masala dosa, they both agreed, they had been right not to invite the Frenchman out for lunch.

In Calcutta colourful effigies of multi-headed elephants and/or monkeys were being born through the streets by crowds of pink drummers. People were throwing powder and petals at each other with great gusto. ‘Looks like we arrived on Red Powder Day,’ said Simon.

Somebody took them to see God. He turned out to be a fat, naked Brahmin covered in butter sitting on a cushion in a house in a back street. And surprisingly young, barely in his teens. God asked, ‘Why did you come to India?’ Arthur started to rattle off the standard explanation about self-knowledge, meaning of life etc. but Simon cut him off. ‘You’re God,’ said Simon, ‘you tell us.’ There was an uncomfortable silence followed by a hurried exit.

An English Grammar school education hadn't prepared them for travel on third class Indian trains. After 20 hours wedged between a reeking toilet and some skeleta creatures with hideous infirmities they were more than ready for the luxury of a second class waiting room. DAK bungalows were paradise.

They seemed to spend a lot of time in railway stations. First class waiting rooms were by far the best. Especially the ones with showers. ‘All in all,’ said Simon in one such waiting room, ‘perhaps the British didn't do too bad a job in India. Don’t get me wrong I’m not defending imperialism but look at the infrastructure, the trains, the system of government…that’s all because of us.’

On one train they met some Americans, Allen (who seemed vaguely familiar) and Peter. They were more than willing to discuss mantras and meditation and such. Allen’s attitude was that meditation took too long. Why spend seven years sitting in a cave when you can get the same effect from LSD. What’s LSD Arthur asked. Lysergic acid, said Allen, a psychedelic drug. Perhaps you don’t have it in England yet but you will, you will. He offered Arthur a place in his second class sleeping berth. Arthur declined.

One day in Bombay they decided to visit Grant Road to see if it was true about the girls in cages. One should at least have a look don’t you think? The cages were empty but there was a whole street of shops with girls outside beckoning to men. Simon wanted to have a look inside. Arthur wasn’t so sure. He found a place to drink a lassi under the scrutiny of the usual crowd of curious spectators while Simon conducted his research. Later Arthur asked how it had been. ‘Interesting.’ said Simon. ‘They put me on a sofa and tried to get me to choose a girl.  It was a bit embarrassing really. Then I went with one of the girls to a stuffy cluttered bedroom. She took her clothes off casually and lay on the bed. I just stood there. Couldn’t do anything. The baby on the floor didn’t help matters. Yours? I asked. Yes, she smiled sadly, no papa. That’s all she said.’ Arthur listened quietly. Simon had only been in there half an hour so it could have gone one way or the other. Best not ask.

They were allocated some floor space in a Sikh temple where they were quizzed about their motivations. Plates of dal were provided. Big bearded men with swords at the temple entrance were clearly more than just decorative. They felt safe. But there was a three night limit so they soon found themselves homeless again.

A family of beggars made room for them in the doorway of a shipping office. Sleep was difficult and it was hard to imagine sinking any lower. ‘Well it could be raining,’ said Arthur and suddenly it was. They sat all night in the doorway watching torrential rain sluice debris from the street…cow-shit, cabbage leaves, marigold petals, pink powder, newspapers, betel nut juice, dead rats, a corpse, you name it…away it all went out into the bay.

‘Sod this,’ said Simon as it grew light, ‘I think we’ve hit rock bottom.’

‘Good place to look for wisdom,’ said Arthur.

‘I think I’ve accumulated enough wisdom I’m phoning home’

A plane ticket promptly became available for pick up at the BOAC office and Arthur was on his own. 

The Brit Awards.

The Brit Awards turn out better than I expected. Somewhat awkward at first. I feel like a relic from the Age of Aquarius but it passes. Nobody runs naked across the stage. Even Jarvis seems restrained. My jokes go down well and I actually start to enjoy myself. Obviously a lot of the audience hate me but that’s par for the course. What were they expecting? Russell Brand? Still I get a good round of applause and everybody seems to have a good time.

As usual the action is all backstage. That hasn’t changed. No stink bombs. Minimal dry ice. I mill around chatting amiably with this group and that, trying to remember their names. Lots of grinning entrepreneurial types in power suits, rock-writers trying to pin down elusive Zeitgeists, energetic surfer dudes looking for the next wave. Everybody is bright and outgoing and optimistic and nobody misbehaves. It’s all good clean family fun. I find Pete Dougherty having a cup of tea with Amy. Self-destruction temporarily on hold. ‘Outrageously’ coiffured young presenters keep coming up and screaming what a pleasure it is to meet me. Bullshit. They’d dance on my grave. Oh well…that’s the way it goes. The son kills the father or tries to…but they haven’t got me down yet. A person called Gaga or Google or something smears lipstick on my suit. A young lady called Lily is much more polite. She offers me an exclusive which is nice of her. Of course she may have been taking the piss. And that Duffy is quite tasty. I give the Gallagher Brothers a wide berth but even they seem subdued. All I get is a surly scowl. So the whole thing goes quite smoothly. The British music industry has finally got the award show it always wanted. Structured, safe and no embarrassing moments.

So what was I doing there? Letting the buggers know I’m still on the ball I suppose. Suss out the up-and-comers. But I mustn’t be grumpy. I’m glad I did it. It was interesting just to see if any other old farts turned up. Silly really but you’ve got to keep up with the trends. Disappear for too long and you’re dead. Piercings? No thanks, and I’ll pass on the nose-rings thank you. I did think about getting my ears pierced once, well one ear anyway, but it wouldn’t look right. Simon’s just trying to be hip they’d say. I feel sorry for them in a way. They’ve got no taboos left to shatter. They’re inhibited too but they won’t admit it. Brainwashed by decades of political correctness. Scared to say anything in case it offends someone but wanting to push the envelope at the same time. Meanwhile the audience has become unshockable anyway.

I meet a young photojournalist from Tokyo who seems up for it and I invite her back for a nightcap. Her name is Kiyoko. She is trying on one of Yumi’s kimonos when Mick shows up. He’s with his new girlfriend, another leggy American model, no visible tattoos. They’ve just come from India where they stayed with the Maharaja of Jodhpur. Mick offers his appraisal of my performance. He thinks I handled it well. Wouldn’t do it himself, he says, the resentment is almost tangible these days. We talked about this and that, who’s dead and who’s still living. The current fascination with the living dead. He’s thinking of buying a place round the corner he says. Six million quid after a few renovations. Simon Hurst is doing it. I wished him luck. Kiyoko serves cups of Horlicks ceremoniously much to Sir Michael’s obvious amusement, though his American companion is nonplussed. They just don’t get it.