He makes it safely back to his unexciting hotel room conveniently situated behind Victoria Station with its ‘large and comfortable centrally heated rooms that are stylishly decorated with contemporary furnishings accented with tasteful artwork and soft colour tones. All the new rooms have en-suite facilities and feature Electronic Key cards, Direct Dial Telephone, Hospitality Tray, Hairdryer, and colour TV with remote control. Comfortable bedding and double glazed windows set the stage for a wonderful nights (sic) sleep. Newly refurbished bathrooms include individually thermostatically controlled heated towel-racks and bidet, Rooms from 100 pounds per person per night.’ It has a picture of the Queen Mother above the reception desk. One of Princess Di on the staircase.
Arthur washes his feet in the bidet and switches on the colour TV. First the news to see who’s bombing who then a quick flip through the other channels. Bunch of tattooed people insulting each other in a house. That would be reality show I expect thinks Arthur. Girls shaking their tits at each other. Ditto. What is he hoping to find? David Frost? Parkinson? The Goon Show? No such luck.
But what’s this? Simon! Hosting some panel discussion it looks like with a lot of people Arthur doesn’t know. They are talking about censorship, the greatest literary dilemma of our age according to one of the assembled pundits.
“Well,” says Simon, “I wouldn’t go quite that far. But it’s a problem. On the one hand we want total free expression but it means we have to put up with Penthouse and the other stuff.”
“Oh,” says someone a bit too archly, “you don’t approve of Penthouse, Simon?”
But they can’t catch him. Simon, sensing a political correctness trap, says, “well let’s just say it doesn’t do much for me.”
Arthur’s mind wanders back to the conversation in the restaurant. It had not been just like old times. Not at all. If was as if they had both wanted to recapture some of those moments from places like Aldermaston, Eel Pie island, Paris, Athens, Kabul…but neither of them was prepared to fake it. They had both gone too far along their separate ways. And now this, watching Simon on TV.
“Well I don’t give a flying fuck!” says a woman on the panel who looks like an older version of some groovy chick Arthur had met somewhere. UFO? The Stones free concert in Hyde Park? Isle of Wight?
“Ah Caroline showing your sixties side again,” says Simon provocatively, “dates you a bit darling doesn’t it? You’ve been very quiet lately by the way. Not doing any TV?”
“It’s the silence of Duchamp.”
“Bollocks.” Says Simon. “What about you Martin? Anything in the pipeline we should know about?”
“Memoirsh,” says the one called Martin. He seems to have a stiff jaw,” and dentisht.” And so on. Simon is clearly in his element. It’s a performance he’s obviously given more than once before. Amazing really the way he seems to give all the panelists a few moments in the sun whilst remaining the center of attention himself. And he does it in such a good-natured way. There is no hint of any inner turmoil. Simon is a pro.
Bloody TV, thinks Arthur. It will rot your brain. The funeral had been the main reason for coming back to England. Well that was out of the way. So now what? He’d had a few ideas before. A trip to Littlehampton perhaps to see if he can relive some childhood memories, maybe visit his old school. Sod it.
Arthur’s eyes start to close. Just before he falls asleep he thinks he sees a figure moving around the room followed by noises from the bathroom. Can’t be a chambermaid can it? No it’s his mother’s ghost again. Come to do a bit of tidying up. Soon she’ll be tucking him in.
“Well Arthur," says the apparition, "you must admit that Mr. Wyman was very nice,”
“What?”
“Fancy him paying the bill like that. What a nice man.”
Fucking typical thinks Arthur. Forty years ago she was calling the Stones a bunch of longhaired savages. Now they’ve got classy restaurants and knighthoods she thinks they’re alright. This is the woman who wouldn’t let her son have a banjo! Who used to cram him into a Sea Cadets uniform! Is there no escape? Face it Arthur, you’re still as confused as you ever were.
Arthur washes his feet in the bidet and switches on the colour TV. First the news to see who’s bombing who then a quick flip through the other channels. Bunch of tattooed people insulting each other in a house. That would be reality show I expect thinks Arthur. Girls shaking their tits at each other. Ditto. What is he hoping to find? David Frost? Parkinson? The Goon Show? No such luck.
But what’s this? Simon! Hosting some panel discussion it looks like with a lot of people Arthur doesn’t know. They are talking about censorship, the greatest literary dilemma of our age according to one of the assembled pundits.
“Well,” says Simon, “I wouldn’t go quite that far. But it’s a problem. On the one hand we want total free expression but it means we have to put up with Penthouse and the other stuff.”
“Oh,” says someone a bit too archly, “you don’t approve of Penthouse, Simon?”
But they can’t catch him. Simon, sensing a political correctness trap, says, “well let’s just say it doesn’t do much for me.”
Arthur’s mind wanders back to the conversation in the restaurant. It had not been just like old times. Not at all. If was as if they had both wanted to recapture some of those moments from places like Aldermaston, Eel Pie island, Paris, Athens, Kabul…but neither of them was prepared to fake it. They had both gone too far along their separate ways. And now this, watching Simon on TV.
“Well I don’t give a flying fuck!” says a woman on the panel who looks like an older version of some groovy chick Arthur had met somewhere. UFO? The Stones free concert in Hyde Park? Isle of Wight?
“Ah Caroline showing your sixties side again,” says Simon provocatively, “dates you a bit darling doesn’t it? You’ve been very quiet lately by the way. Not doing any TV?”
“It’s the silence of Duchamp.”
“Bollocks.” Says Simon. “What about you Martin? Anything in the pipeline we should know about?”
“Memoirsh,” says the one called Martin. He seems to have a stiff jaw,” and dentisht.” And so on. Simon is clearly in his element. It’s a performance he’s obviously given more than once before. Amazing really the way he seems to give all the panelists a few moments in the sun whilst remaining the center of attention himself. And he does it in such a good-natured way. There is no hint of any inner turmoil. Simon is a pro.
Bloody TV, thinks Arthur. It will rot your brain. The funeral had been the main reason for coming back to England. Well that was out of the way. So now what? He’d had a few ideas before. A trip to Littlehampton perhaps to see if he can relive some childhood memories, maybe visit his old school. Sod it.
Arthur’s eyes start to close. Just before he falls asleep he thinks he sees a figure moving around the room followed by noises from the bathroom. Can’t be a chambermaid can it? No it’s his mother’s ghost again. Come to do a bit of tidying up. Soon she’ll be tucking him in.
“Well Arthur," says the apparition, "you must admit that Mr. Wyman was very nice,”
“What?”
“Fancy him paying the bill like that. What a nice man.”
Fucking typical thinks Arthur. Forty years ago she was calling the Stones a bunch of longhaired savages. Now they’ve got classy restaurants and knighthoods she thinks they’re alright. This is the woman who wouldn’t let her son have a banjo! Who used to cram him into a Sea Cadets uniform! Is there no escape? Face it Arthur, you’re still as confused as you ever were.
Now she’s talking to someone in there! Must be another ghost. Arthur doesn’t believe in ghosts. Thai people do. Maybe living in Thailand for 20 years has addled his brain.
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