Beautiful people.

Beautiful people.

12/29/2014

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phantom pirates.

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

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

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

Yellow fever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Nothing much. May pop into Foyles.’

‘I’m going to Indica.’

‘What’s that?’

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

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

Current location.

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

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

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

At the Tate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Global warming.

Global warming.

12/4/2014

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

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

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

“Oh?” says I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There should be a law.”

“They don’t listen.”

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

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

“Nao mak.” Say the girls. (Very cold)

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

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

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

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

“You already said that.” Says Gav.

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

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

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

At the Tate 8/12/2014