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.

Mountgay reflections.

We just got through a couple of hurricanes. I expect a lot of you were worried. Fay surprised everyone but we were ready for Gonzalo. I got 'Milly' out of the water in Santo Domingo and we moved into a hotel. Course there was no power but they had a generator for the bar so we were OK. They even had some Mountgay. Not that there's much wrong with the local stuff but when you have a choice go for it.

It made a nice break and gave me a chance to catch up on my email. Usual bunch of complaints from the author and the editor. What do they expect under these conditions? OK so I get my files muddled. Happens to everybody. And a note on the style. There won’t be any smashing through any literary frontiers. I’m not Chuck bloody Pahlinuk or however you spell it. And there will be no naked readings at literary conventions. Not even for purely promotional purposes. I’ve actually been to Hay on Wye so I know what it’s like. No thanks.

'Milly' survived. Just a few scratches thanks to the clumsy buggers in the marina. I did mention it to the harbor-master who said he was very sorry Senor. No point in making a fuss.

Gonzalo moved on to Bermuda. Which is ironic when you think about it. The Bermudian economy is based on re-insurance so they'll be well covered.

The Oz trial.

Simon went to the OZ trial at the Old Bailey partly out of a sense of solidarity but mainly to see who else turned up. The active elements of the Underground were well represented in the spectator’s gallery and revolution was in the air. He turned down an offer from Felix Dennis to participate in a planned disruption of the David Frost Show. Its effect on the system, he decided, would probably be minimal and it isn’t the kind of career move he needs at this stage anyway.

The editor’s job at Tin Pan Times is working out nicely. Simon now has his own office and he quite enjoys the power that goes with it. New young writers are being hired and Simon is the one who interviews them. He has a major say on cover design. The book about Rod Stewart…just a collection of photographs really, Rod in a kilt, Rod kicking a ball, Rod having his hair done, Rod in a Celtic shirt, Rod in compromising situations taken with a Polaroid camera by Rod himself (not used in the book), all interspersed with gossipy stuff about Rod, Rod’s clothes, what Rod has for breakfast, Rod’s favourite colour and so on…is selling like hotcakes. Similar books about the Small Faces and the Kinks are being rushed out and Monty has an idea for a magazine or two aimed at teenage girls. Good money in it he thinks. So all in all Simon is feeling pretty flush.

But he quickly realizes that his job at Tin Pan Times depends largely on his relationship with Samantha. Nobody ever says so in as many words but it is mutually understood. He likes Samantha of course but opportunities for infidelity are everywhere, which means he has to be careful. One weekend he takes Sam to meet his parents. While she is chatting with his mother in the kitchen Simon tells his father about the recent trip to America.

‘Oh, how was that?’

‘Bloody amazing. I went with the Stones. It was non-stop craziness. The Americans loved us.’

‘Us?’

‘The tour. The Yanks went crazy. It was as if we’d taken over the whole country.’

This was not strictly true. The tour had been badly organized. Many mistakes had been made. California had been crazy all right. No need for hyperbole. All those people driving on freeways, hanging out by swimming pools had struck Simon as quite bizarre. The tired palm trees, the stucco, the smog, the unchanging weather. There they were sitting on the edge of the Western world, with a fault line running through the middle. But in a strange way it worked. And it wasn’t all crass materialism. There was a definite spiritual side to it too. Californians were searching but for what? And what about that Leary character at Laguna Beach? Mr.Turn on, tune in, drop out. He certainly seemed to know what’s going on…or was he just another salesman?

His father resists the temptation to caution him about drugs and asks about Samantha instead.

‘Nice girl,’ he says ‘You seem keen. Are you two actually cohabiting?”’

He knows about Simon’s little pied-a-terre in the Chelsea mews. He should. He lent him the money for the down payment. Even claimed it on taxes. They hadn’t mentioned it to Simon’s mother.

‘Samantha’s on the pill is she?’

‘Think so Dad.’

‘Right. Only reason I ask is because sometimes life makes decisions for us. How’s the bolt-hole coming along?’

Simon tells his father about progress on the Chelsea mews house. All is well. Some excavating was done. A new damp-course was installed and the next step will be to get a I beam files this . Simon has filed the thought about pregnancy away for later.

On the drive back to London he raises the subject of birth control. Samantha asks why does he ask. Oh, no reason, just thinking.

The more he thinks about the ‘bolt-hole’ the more he likes it. He needs a bigger place anyway. His wardrobe seems to have grown considerably since Sam came into his life. It was Samantha who got him started on the unisex clothes. Velvet, satin, that kind of thing. Quite a selection. It’s the androgynous look as popularized by Anita Pallenberg whose authority in matters of fashion goes unquestioned. Anything Anita wears is OK with the beautiful people. Simon likes most of it but he draws the line at trailing scarves and Jimmy Page trousers. Sam chides him for being straight. He says he feels like a twerp. She has even tried to interest him in lipstick and a dab of kohl. It’s all good-natured domestic banter. There has been talk of Simon and Samantha getting a place together.

At the moment we find Simon in the process of getting ready for an expedition to the Speakeasy. He is seriously considering a bright red paisley jacket made out of some kind of upholstery fabric, recently inherited, he can’t quite remember how, from Brian Jones. It’s trippy but perhaps a little flamboyant. He looks at a denim jacket but it’s a bit on the scruffy side. He settles eventually for a lacy white shirt, navy-blue frock coat and quasi-military trousers.

How do I look he asks the girl on the bed who is not Samantha. “You look fab.” She says pausing momentarily in the search for her underwear.

Fab!! Did she say FAB? And without a hint of irony? She’ll have to go.

Fragments.

Alert readers will have noticed that this narrative is quite sketchy. That’s because it’s quite sketchy. It’s also because the narrator is an alcocoholic who can’t spell. Fear not. If this ever turns into an ebook there will be lots of detail. Everything will be nice and tidy and you can download it for .99cents. 

What happens when you’re narrating is an author will send you a lot of fragments that don’t belong anywhere.  Bridges we call them in the writing business. Like this email from Oscar for instance… I won’t bore you with all of it.

“Dick old buddy! Great to see you back in the Caribbean!!! What brings you here? Must be the brown sugar… blah….blah….”

Says he’s got a hedge fund and he just bought an island in BVI. Says I have to stop by. I’m headed that way so I might. Not hard to imagine what he's up to.

I might narrate some more about Oscar sometime too if I get some spare time.
I've got Simon in London, Arthur in Thailand, Samantha somewhere...Tuscany I think, there’s hurricanes coming and problems with the crew. It's not easy you know.

Mona Passage.

 

Between Hispaniola and Puerto Rico lies the Mona Passage. It’s a very dodgy piece of water where the Atlantic meets the Caribbean. It’s over 3000 feet deep in places and the tidal currents are very strong. Also it’s the shortest distance between Europe and Panama so it’s a major shipping route. There’s a steady stream of bloody great tankers and container ships coming through there all the time and they don’t always look where they’re going. Takes them miles to stop even if they want to. Small boats have to watch it. 

So anyway I decided, instead of doing it in one hop, to break the journey and have a look at Mona Island which is about halfway across. Discovered by guess who in 1493, it’s Puerto Rican territory but nobody lives there now.

It’s rocky scrub mostly but it has some nice beaches. We dropped anchor off one of them, took the dinghy to shore, and went for a walk around. People have tried living there at different times. We found the remains of a few old buildings. They left their pigs and goats behind which is why nothing much grows. What does do very well there is iguanas. Big buggers about 4 feet long that live in holes. We saw a few and they saw us. ‘Ooooooh klua’ said the Buriram girls in unison, clinging tight to Captain Dick. Then as we were looking for a camping spot on the beach another boat shows up.

‘Ola!!’ says a bloke who turns out to be a Puerto Rican park warden. He’s in charge of a group of young traveler types, I don’t know what you’d call them. Neo-hippies, new-age beach bums, wealthy young folk.

You won't believe what happened next.....

Something has got the girls excited. They are shouting ‘Justeen! Justeen!’ and running over to hug some young bloke. Bugger me it’s Justin Bieber and his bloody entourage!

They are setting up a picnic and soon there’s a soccer game going and my lot all join in. I’m tempted to have a go myself, show them how it’s done like, but I decide better just sit and watch. 

Always like watching a bit of soccer. Takes me back to the glory days. The mud the sweat, the roar from the stands. I believe I’ve already mentioned my problem with drugs that got me kicked out of Arsenal. No point discussing that again. It’s back in the archives if you’re interested. 

Sitting there on the beach on Mona Island, watching the kids enjoy themselves, it seems like it all happened in another world. The young people know nothing about those days really except for the songs and what they see at the pictures. It’s alright. But it would have been nice if one of them had recognized old Dick. Maybe come over and said hallo. That would have made a big difference. But they didn’t. Oh, I know what Justin and his pals are thinking. Look at the dirty old man sat there sipping his rum. Then the ball got kicked my way and Nyum came over to get it. Bless her heart. She gave me a little smile which cheered me up a bit.

That was before she delivered the bad news. She tells me she’s leaving me. Justin has offered her a job in his PR department. 

So that’s that. Lovely girl. Wonderful navigator and she could hoist a spinnaker without strangling herself. I’ll miss her. I’d offer Justin a swap for Selena Gomez but he’d probably just laugh. Oh well. I still have the GPS. And I still have Ning and Nong even if they get on my nerves at times. 

Now here we sit, in the Mona Passage, just a thin hull between us and deep, deep water….. …..it’s a long way down. I’m going to stop here. I’ve gone and depressed myself. Today has been a real roller coaster. I’ll be OK. Just a bit upset. 

Woodbines & Mars Bars.

Ah the romance of life in a small town newsagents shop where life is measured in newspaper sales, bars of Cadbury’s chocolate, Woodbines, Senior Service, cups of tea. Much TV is watched in the 2-room flat (plus kitchen and bathroom) above the shop. Arthur is a father now. Alice spends a lot of time with baby Cynthia. The shop takes all his time. Newspapers keep coming, headlines keep blaring…’CLAY BEATS LISTON!’, ‘BEATLES INVADE AMERICA!!’, ‘TEXAS SNIPER KILLS  12!!!’, ‘MINI-SKIRTS ARE IN!!!!’ They all have to be sorted. Shelves have to be stocked. Inventories kept.

Sweets and cigarettes and newspapers. Arthur’s life revolves around them.

Flying saucers, sherbert dips, gobstoppers, glow worms, jelly fish, black jacks, cherry lips, sugar mice, spearmint chews, jazzies, mintoes, teacakes, fizzwizz, Pontefract cakes, aniseed balls, bulls eyes, licorice torpedos….where is he supposed to put all the stuff? Too high and they can’t see it…too low and the little buggers just help themselves.

Very irritating too the way the sales reps keep coming round with new products. The problem is finding enough counter space. And it’s not easy to predict what the children will go for. Things like Mars Bars and Smarties are always popular but some of the newer confections just seem to sit on the counter for weeks. Nobody even wants to try them. 

And all the cardboard promotional material that comes with them just seems to add to the confusion. The cut-out displays aren’t always easy to assemble. And what to do with all the old cardboard boxes? It occurs to Arthur that recycling might be the way of the future.

He does get up to London sometimes. He’ll go to a museum perhaps or visit Simon.

Here they are now enjoying a quiet pint in a pub in Kensington.

‘So Arthur.’ Asks Simon, ‘What are you up to?’

‘Oh you know,’ says Arthur, ‘running the shop. Reading a bit. Watching telly.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Pretty much. There’s the occasional picnic to places like Woburn Abbey and Chessington Zoo.

 I know what you’re thinking. Why doesn’t he sell the shop? We’ve talked about it…but what would we do?’

‘Sounds as if you quite like the security and routine.’

‘In a way I do.’

‘What do you do exactly then?’ Arthur asks in a transparent attempt to keep the dialogue going.

‘I do rock writing.’ Says Simon.

‘What’s that?’

Simon explains. “It’s easy. All you have to do is say how much fun you had at so and so’s concert and what a great band they are.”

‘So what’s the point?’

‘Well the money’s good that’s one thing. And it’s exciting being on the cutting edge. Not to mention the crumpet of course. Lots of girls around. It’s not exactly literature but….’

‘I know,’ says Arthur, ‘it’s only rock and roll but you like it.’

‘Hey that’s a good line Arthur. Excuse me a sec…I need to write that down.’

‘I could try my hand at writing I suppose…but what could I write about?’

‘Anything. You hitchhiked to India…write about that. Or why not write about being a newsagent? You could be the next Harold Pinter. The times they are a changing Arthur. You need to get with it. Loosen up. Have a go. Just jump and the safety net will appear…you might want to think about changing your name to something…er… groovier. Arthur sounds a bit square.’

Arthur looks confused. He’s never liked his name much but he didn’t realize it was square.

‘I’m not really into music.’ 

‘What about politics? Where do you stand politically?’

‘Not sure if I’m Liberal or Conservative to be honest. I don’t like fascists. And anarchists scare me. Communists want to own things. I’m somewhere in the middle I suppose.’

‘Most people I know are anarchists. They’re just playing at it really. Have a look at this.’ Simon produces what looks like a sheet of pink blotting paper. Arthur notices that it has been divided into half-inch squares. 

‘LSD’, says Simon, ‘Owsley White Lightning to be precise. Want to try a hit?’

Arthur has read about this stuff in the Daily Mail. He’s in two minds. The moment of truth has arrived.