Chronicles.

So Bob got a Nobel prize for literature. Good for him. But he seems to be in two minds about it. More than two knowing Bob.

I came close to meeting him in London back in the Sixties but it wasn’t to be. I like his music. On the other hand he’s always come across as a bit devious. Like me. In interviews he seems to be hiding something all the time or wishing he was doing something else. Like he’s too intelligent to waste his time answering stupid questions. I can see how somebody in his position could get like that but all that dodging and weaving must take its toll. I was curious to see what he had to say in his book.

Samantha gave me a copy of  'Chronicles' before I left. So I start reading it on the plane and I can’t put it down. It’s much better than I thought it would be. I was expecting a lot of evasive stuff and double-talk but he plays it fairly straight. It’s bulging with characters, references and images. Thucydides, Milton, Judy Garland, Woody Guthrie, the Civil War, Jesse James, Harry Belafonte, Hank Williams. All Dylan’s influences are here in the book. You can feel the enormous creativity of the bloke in every paragraph.

And it turns out he was very sincere about folk music. He started singing in folk clubs in Minnesota, doesn’t talk about it much but the parts set in New York are great. It seems to be snowing all the time. I get these images of a boy from the Iron Range in his scarf and his fleece-jacket and motorcycle boots zipping between the coffee shops and folk clubs of Greenwich Village. Sleeping on people’s couches, talking about this and that, listening, learning, always with one eye on the ball. He hung out with singers like Mike Seeger, Dave Van Ronk, Ramblin Jack Elliot, John Hurt, The Clancey Brothers, the best, but the thing that set him apart was his own songs he wrote. The strangeness of them and the way they resonate in people’s minds. Written almost by accident he says. He jumps around in time and space in the book. Good for him. And the songs! Blowin' in the Wind, Mr. Tambourine Man, Positively 4th. Street, Love Sick. How did he do it? The book explains some of the process but here’s Dylan talking with Robert Hilburn………

"Oh, I'm not that serious a songwriter," he says, a smile on his lips. "Songs don't just come to me. They'll usually brew for a while, and you'll learn that it's important to keep the pieces until they are completely formed and glued together."

He sometimes writes on a typewriter but usually picks up a pen because he says he can write faster than he can type. "I don't spend a lot of time going over songs," Dylan says. "I'll sometimes make changes, but the early songs, for instance, were mostly all first drafts."

He doesn't insist that his rhymes be perfect. "What I do that a lot of other writers don't do is take a concept and line I really want to get into a song and if I can't figure out for the life of me how to simplify it, I'll just take it all — lock, stock and barrel — and figure out how to sing it so it fits the rhyming scheme. I would prefer to do that rather than bust it down or lose it because I can't rhyme it."

What an amazing thing. To condense a feeling or an event into a poem and set it to music. Blows ones mind it does.


Dylan denies ever being a spokesman for some generation. Load of shite, he says. He hated all the attention and the idiots trying to break into his Woodstock house. He feared for his family. Wanted to shoot the intruders, set fire to them. The only way to be free of them was to change the self they thought they knew. Throw out a lot of red herrings to 'suggest only shadows of my possible self'.

At one point he talks about changing ideologies like guitar strings…and why not? “What’s the difference? As long as my own form of certainty stayed intact, I owed nobody nothing.”

There are lots of insights into touring and recording. He tells what it's like to deal with audiences and other musicians, to sing the same songs night after night.

So has he cleared things up? Is Bob just a simple country boy? I’m not convinced. The motorcycle accident gets one line. Nothing on divorce (unless you count "....someone who is loved can inspire more fear than Machiavelli ever dreamed of.") OK it's personal, none of my business but I could have used a bit more blood on the tracks. Then again perhaps he tried to lay it out and maybe he doesn’t understand it all anymore than I do. The book is like his songs. I’m still confused but that’s OK. People are complicated creatures and it’s a great read anyway.

Dylan had a boat. Got wrecked on a reef off Panama. He mentions it in 'Chronicles'...a 65 footer, must have been a beauty...Jimmy talks about it too...

Jimmy Buffett, rock singer "Boat talk"
"I overheard the talk at the next table. Water Pearl was in the harbor, and everyone was talking about whether or not the owner was on board. She was a beautiful traditional Beguia schooner that had been built on the island and was a home away from home to a Minnesota boy named Zimmerman or to those who don't know, Bob Dylan ... 'The boss' was on board and heard I was in town as well and asked if I wanted to come out and see the boat and have lunch...
"We didn't talk music. We talked boats over lunch ... He gave me a tour of Water Pearl, and I can still smell that unique combination of pitch, canvas, and wood that is the essence of a traditional sailing rig ... I have seen Bob on a number of occasions since then, but that was the last time I saw Water Pearl. She foundered on a reef off Panama a few years later and went down." (Gustavia, St. Barts, 1980s)
(From "A Pirate Looks at Fifty," by Jimmy Buffett)

Robert liked a bit of country pie too....

Joe Eszterhas, screenwriter
"Whiskey, coke and women"
"I'd waited in the living room of a Denver hotel suite at eight one morning for Bob Dylan to emerge from his bedroom. A half-full quart of Jim Bream stood on the living room cocktail table, along with three or four broken lines of coke. A pair of black silver-toed cowboy boots was under the table. One girl came out of Bob's bedroom, then another, then another. They looked tired and sleepy and were scantily and hastily dressed. They said hi in a shy and embarrassed way and then they left. Five minutes later, Bob came out, bare-chested and barefoot, wearing jeans, his hair an airborne jungle, his complexion graveyard gray. He sat down at the cocktail table, took a long slug of Jim Beam, did a line of coke, smiled, and said, 'Howya doin?'" (late 1970s)
(From "American Rhapsody," by Joe Eszterhas)

And then there's James Damiano.

Full English Breakfast.

I'll spare you the details of our nocturnal coupling and skip to breakfast. Coffee and croissants. If I'd had my way I'd go for the Full English but Samantha won't hear of it. Bad for the old ticker.

She draws my attention to a picture on the wall of her breakfast nook.

"I think I've seen that somewhere before" I say.

"You probably did Dick. A print. Present from Simon. I'm thinking of selling it."

Sam comes with me to the station. We walk through Cambridge, along the old streets past the market the churches and the colleges chatting about this and that.

And I wondered what I was going to do? I could stay in England I suppose. Maybe Samantha would like that. But what about Millie? And Oscar? If I don’t help him get his treasure back we don’t have much of a story line. On the other hand I might just dump Oscar, he's served his purpose. And I fancy a slow bit of sailng through the Leeward Islands on my own. There’s a few islands I haven’t seen. Always fancied the Grenadines.

And let’s not forget Arthur. I got the whole story from Simon of what happened in Thailand. That will need some serious narrating. And now I have a Hockney print to sell. Anybody interested? Or shall I stick it on ebay? I could take it to the Caribbean I suppose but it may not like the climate. 

Fantan.

It looks like the sort of thing you might stumble across in a remainder bin in a used book store. Fan Tan. Ah hah I thought another obscure masterpiece cobbled together by some old alcoholic expat. Judging by the cover (never do that) it looks like a Harlequin romance set in the mysterious East. There's the exotic Asian woman in some sort of silk kimono thing and the besotted Western sailor on the ground wondering what he's got himself into. So imagine my surprise when on closer inspection the authors turn out to be Marlon Brando and Donald Cammell! Brando of course is the well known actor who spent his later years on an island near Tahiti. But what was Cammell's name doing there? Cammell was a film maker who directed `Performance' starring Mick Jagger...a destructive little shit according to Keith Richards in his autobiography `Life'. Intrigued I picked the book up....bought it and took it home. This could be good.

Well not exactly. It isn't a cliché ridden load of rubbish but it comes perilously close. The year is 1927. Anatole `Annie" Doultry is a middle aged adventurer serving six months in Hong Kong prison where he befriends a well-connected Chinese pirate. Once out he meets and falls in love with Madame Lai Choi San the pirate's beautiful boss. Together they sail around the China Seas on her sampan looking for treasure. They plan to attack a freighter full of silver, the biggest act of piracy the world has ever seen no less. One would think this might provide for some interesting character development. But Doultry is too much like Brando. He's a man of action but his mind wanders all over the place like Kurtz in `Apocalypse Now' and his philosophical musing isn't coherent. He has an aversion to authority of course, intellectual swashbuckling, that's his game but he can't stick to the plot. Here's Annie on his bunk meditating...

"However though he was once a Scot, it was not the future of the city that bore on Annie Doultry's brain, not the world's either; his own future it was, or would be. The reality to be expected, the facts of it. But was there such a thing as future fact? There was one for Mr. Wittgenstein, indeed."

Huh? There's a kind of surreal madness about the book that kept me turning the pages but a lot of the writing is pretty bad. Fortunately there are steamy sex scenes to make up for it. There's plenty of action including a typhoon, oriental intrigue and hand-to hand-combat. There's even a reference to the butter scene in `Last Tango' which should amuse movie buffs. It's a strange book, full of perverse little asides, and it all takes place against a background of the revolution in China when the Nationalists and the Communists and others were forming temporary alliances.

To be fair it should probably be described as a treatment rather than a novel. And it turns out that putting Brando's name on the cover is a publishing trick. Cammell wrote it. In fact the best part of the book comes at the end where film writer David Thomson explains how the book came to be written. Cammell had tried to get Brando for `Performance'. Brando was in hospital at the time after scalding his private parts with hot coffee. Anyway he turned the offer down. Later, with Brando weighing about 300lbs due to ice-cream addiction Cammell tried again. They had a complex, almost self-destructive, kind of relationship. The book did get written but getting it published was another matter. Brando baulked again. Maybe he was ashamed of it or maybe he just enjoyed tormenting Cammell. Anyway Cammell shot himself and Brando died. The twists and turns of the publishing process would make a good book in themselves I thought.

I should add that the author(s) owe a lot to "I Sailed with Chinese Pirates" by Aleko E. Lilius (The Mellifont Press - 1930 and Oxford University Press - 1991)

Facing facts.

Happy New Year. Ever get the feeling that one of these days you’ll switch on the telly and somebody will say...“We interrupt our normal programming to bring you Armageddon…”

“Oh gawd, not bloody Armageddon, they said it was ‘Eastenders’...”

I know, I know, it's no laughing matter but there's been a lot of talk about atom bombs and such lately so I expect some of you are wondering what the Big One will really mean to you and your family. What will it be like to watch your loved ones getting incinerated or dying a slow death from radiation poisoning? And what does happen after one dies a slow horrible death? Will it be Oblivion? Or The Rapture?

Is there anything we can do about it then Dick you ask? Will we get any warning? Will millions of the World Community die or just the brown ones? Who's finger is actually on the nukular button these days anyway? Who will win ‘Dancing With The Stars’? Where’s that pizza I ordered? These and other vexing questions will race through your mind in the final moments. Yes, it's all a bit of a worry I know but don't despair. There may be social chaos, severe ecological damage, and perhaps even minor changes in the earth's orbit but that doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world. Of course if you get caught in the actual blast you’re shit out of luck but a lot of unpleasantness can be avoided if you take the right precautions. Those with access to government facilities might even enjoy it.

As steerforth correctly observes: "There is nothing remarkable about this building on the outside. It looks like a poorly-designed 1950s bungalow, but once you enter the front door it becomes a different story..."

Lots of bulk between you and any nasty radioactivity is the key. You can’t get enough bulk. Well-equipped religious troglodytes should do fine but the rest of you (John Cleese voice) will just have to form an orderly queue at your local Tube Station or find an abandoned coal-mine or something. If all else fails you can huddle behind the closest available well-protected bulky person. Or just get digging.

Bilge.

I get barraged with questions about my writing. People want to know why I do it. It's such crap they say, why do you bother? Well it’s something to do basically and I find it therapeutic. If people like to read it so much the better. Also I don’t so much write as narrate.

I haven’t always been a narrator. In fact if you had told me 50 odd years ago that one day I would be narrating I would have given you a funny look. Tell the truth I don’t think I even knew what narrating was.

I met a real writer, Anonymous, in the British Virgin Islands. Place called Foxy’s Beach Bar. We got chatting and Anonymous asked me if I fancied doing a bit of narrating. I said why not? I’ll give it a go. I warned him it may get a bit politically incorrect but he said that’s OK. Just be yourself.

Anonymous has written a few books and he’s lead an interesting life….lots of changes. He’s met lots of people, lived in different places and he feels like writing about it. But he doesn’t want to write straight autobiography so he fictionalizes it. He doesn’t like talking about himself. He’s been interviewed a few times and finds the process painful. Some childhood trauma maybe? I don’t like to ask.

The truth is all relative anyway. We all have our own versions. Facts and fiction get mixed up over time so why not just write and see what happens. Truth is in the fiction. I think Kingsley Amis said that. Or maybe it was Martin.

So what am I working on? Today it’s the bloody bilge pump. It’s a used one I picked up cheap in Jamaica and it’s been nothing but trouble.

My narrating process is nothing special. The author gives me a basic outline and I add my own tone to it. Then the editor has a look through it and Bob’s your uncle. It’s not that difficult actually. My head is full of memories so I just let them out. Hopefully it all makes some kind of sense.

How does my narration differ from others of its genre? Good question. Somebody once called it Faction. I like to think of it as a post-modern exploration into the nature of reality. I’m no James Joyce or Vladimir Nabokov or David Foster Wallace but I do my best.

Punting.

Samantha is living in Cambridge now that the boys have left. She sold the farm and bought a place there. Why not pop up and see her? I’m sure she’d like it. Thus spake Simon.

So it was that Samantha agreed to meet me in the Fitzwilliam Museum.  I took the train up from Kings X. Things have certainly changed as far as train travel goes. Very fast and efficient. Stations have changed too. No blokes having a smoke among the mailbags. Everything is automated.

I had a bit of time on my hands so I take a bus up Cherry Hinton to a small side street. It’s the house where Syd Barrett lived with his mother until he died. 

She was on the steps at the Fitzwilliam. I got a big hug and we walked around the museum, past the old portraits, the Egyptian statues, the porcelain, and the armour.

" I love this place, ' Sam said, 'I come here a lot. I find it very soothing. Something about being surrounded by old things perhaps.'

‘Why Cambridge Sam?’

‘Nostalgia I think. I studied at Trinity Hall. Happy days. I like to go to Evensong.’

‘Simon told me you were here.’

‘Good old Cambridge. Crawling with Chinese tour groups now of course. What did you think of Simon?’

‘The wheelchair? It was a shock to see him like that. I knew he was going to see Arthur in Thailand but I never heard about the accident.’

‘I didn’t send you those chapters yet. Does Simon know I’m editing your book?’

‘My book? I’m just the narrator. You send me the stuff and I make it sound natural…..that’s what I was told anyway. I assumed you were writing it.’

‘Not me. It’s a mystery. Oh Dick. It’s so hard to stay cheerful. Simon in his bloody wheelchair. We don’t see that much of each other anymore but I still care. And all this Brexit and Trump stuff is really getting me down. I suppose at our age it doesn’t matter that much but it really is depressing to watch the way the world is going’.

‘Times change. Bugger all we can do about it.’

‘Yes you’re right. I used to thing we could but we can’t. Sorry to sound so downbeat.’

‘That’s alright. I’d better be going or I’ll miss my train.’

Then she said it.

‘Why not spend the night here? I’ve got a spare bed.’

‘Well if you promise not to rape me.’

So Samantha took me down to her place by the river. She fed me tea and oranges that came all the way from Tesco. We watched the punts go by etc.

Wheelchair.

Got an email from Oscar in BVI. He’s going frantic. Apparently Blackjack and his crew were spotted in Martinique and he wants me to help him sail down and sort them out. Bugger that.

I give Simon a call. He's surprised to hear from me.
“Dick! How are you? Where are you more to the point?”
I tell him and it turns out he isn’t far away. Holland Park. He gives me the address.
“It’s on the ground floor. You’ll see why when you get here.”
So off I trot. His flat is in a new three story block. A woman in a nurse’s uniform opens the door and shows me into a small conservatory. And there’s Simon. He doesn’t look good to be honest. Sitting in a wheel chair, very pale and thin and there’s that smell you get in hospitals. Medicine and disinfectant.
“Bloody hell what happened to you mate?”
“It’s my spine Dick. Accident in Thailand. Constant pain. Lots of bloody medication. It’s a bastard.”
“I’ll be buggered. Surely they can operate?”
“Not easily but I’ve got people working on it.”
“So I take it you sold your mews place?”
“Oh yes. Had to. Russians bought it. They were fighting over it. Sold the Bacon painting too. Got 47 million pounds for it. Fat lot of good it’s doing me now. What brings you to London?”
“Me…..I was in BVI. Having trouble with some pirates in the Caribbean. Long story. I thought I’d come here and look for the Zeitgeist.”
“Makes sense.”
“ Do you still do your TV show?”
“The Beeb wheel me out now and again. The wheelchair was a good gimmick for a while. I got a lot of sympathy.”
“How about writing?”
“I write the odd review if somebody asks me. It’s not so easy to get around.”
“What do you think of Tracey Emin?”
“Well between you and me Dick it’s rubbish. Can’t say that of course. She has a big following. I’d get lynched.”
Probably not a good time to ask about the Zeitgeist.
“Well I’m sorry to see you looking like this.” I say. “What happened to your back anyway?”
“Thailand. That’s what bloody happened  Dick. You remember Arthur….my old school chum? Well I went to Bangkok to make a documentary. Arthur was involved as a sort of research assistant.”

Clearly something bad must have happened but I keep my mouth shut and let him talk.. He obviously wants to.

“Arthur was living in a village up in the north of Thailand. We met up in Bangkok.”

I get a vivid impression of Arthur in the lobby of the Landmark Hotel waiting for Simon. Sukhumvit Saturday night. Thais and tourists coming and going. The street busy with people and vendors. Nana Plaza getting warmed up for another night of debauchery.

I'll sort this later.

                                                             

Closing time.

RIP Leonard. I can't call myself a big fan to be honest. I find him a bit preachy. But he wrote some great songs and this video is outstanding. You can find more about it here.

And Perla Batalla is very saucy.

Chiang Rai.

Remember the old clock tower in Chiang Rai? Back when the place was just a sleepy little market town? Well things have changed. Chiang Rai now has a brand new clock tower designed by famous Thai artist Ajarn Chalermchai Khositphiphat in an elaborate Lanna style. Chalermchai’s current incarnation is the creative force behind the famous White Temple or Wat Rong Khun situated just South of Chiang Rai. The temple is an ongoing project begun in 1998 where you’ll also find an exhibition of Chalermchai’s paintings showing a range of work based on Buddhist themes, impermanence, freedom from desire etc. along with more contemporary comments on things like globalization and nuclear war. Well worth a visit.

Apart from the clock tower Chiang Rai now has a new bus station a walking street and of course a Tesco Lotus ....even a Q Bar!. And, great news for cholesterol lovers, the All Day English Breakfast has found it's way up from Pattaya! Now you can enjoy a full range of exotic delicacies like Shepherd's Pie, Bangers and Mash and Beans On Toast while you watch your favourite premier League teams on flat screen TV. Life is change.

Saatchi.

Charlie Saatchi is having a big show of Rolling Stones memorabilia. I’m not really in the mood for it but I go anyway. Mainly because I haven’t seen Charles for a while and I’m curious to see how he worked things out with Nigella since he half-strangled her publicly in a restaurant in Knightsbridge.

The Rolling Stones show is called ‘Exhibitionism’. £17.00 for over 60’s is a bit steep I think so I pretend to be hand delivering a cheque. That does the trick and I find Charles in his office.  He’s quite surprised to see me.
“Ah Dick. I thought you were living in BVI. Back for the Brexit referendum no doubt.”
“Not really Charles. I’m looking for the Zeitgeist.”
“Oh Gawd not another one. I suppose you think I’ve got the bloody thing tucked away in drawer somewhere.”
He asks me what I think of the show.
“Bit too much Jagger/Richards for me Charles. Do they really need more exposure? I’m more interested in Tracey Emin. What’s going on with her these days?”
“She just got married Dick. To a rock.”
“An actual rock?”
“Yes in France.”
He shows me a photograph. It’s true. There she is with her new husband. Another powerful statement from Tracey.
“He looks dependable Charles,” I say.
“Yes. And he doesn’t talk back.”
We talk about all the usual things, art, women, money, ennui. Our chat had been illuminating but he’s not the only gallerist in London. The Zeitgeist can be anywhere and everywhere. I head to Mason’s Yard.
The place that used to be Indica, where John met Yoko, is now the Ongpin  Peppiatt Gallery. I ask the receptionist if she knows about Indica. Oh yes, she says, we get people looking in all the time. Looking for the Zeitgeist would be my guess..
The Scotch of St. James is still going strong and still attracting celebrity clientele.
White Cube has a show of Georg Baselitz. Georg, you may recall, is one of those German artists dealing with the trauma of World War 2. A major theme. So he’s right up there with Gerhard Richter and Anselm Kiefer. Powerful but controlled. Post modern you could say.
Georg also has a low opinion of female artists so it’s interesting to see him alongside some striking work by Tracey Emin. She’s best known for her conceptual work but she can certainly draw. Putting her next to Georg creates a dialogue. Galleries like to do that.
Round the corner I find the Helly Nahmad Gallery. It’s  in St.James Square. A very swanky address. Near Chatham House. Big money behind this. The name came up in the Panama Papers.
What happened there BTW? I thought we were going to get a major expose of offshore banking.  Did the media lose interest? Or were they told to back off?
Too many important people hiding their money would be my guess.
I ask Nahmad what’s going on but he doesn’t want to talk about it. and he shows me the door.
That’s enough art for today. I’ll give Simon a buzz.

Tsunami.

Due perhaps to frequent visits by Gav and Kev my bar garnered quite a reputation among the Pattaya literary demimonde. Writers and raconteurs started coming out of the woodwork. Basically I used to sit there all day listening to these blokes tell their stories. They like to talk. I’m a good listener. They buy drinks.

I remember one bloke who came in, let’s call him Frank. He’d just come up from Phuket. Apparently him and his missus, Stella, had been looking for a different kind of holiday. They’d been to the Costa Brava and Majorca a few times and they fancied something different. Frank suggested Thailand. Some mates at work had just come back from a two week trip and had a effing brilliant time.......




“Shagging those bar girls I expect,” said Stella, who had seen documentaries about Thailand on TV. “Knowing those blokes it was all beer and bunk ups.”
“Do you think it’s really that bad there then?” asked Frank.
“Why do you think all those blokes go?” asked Stella.
“Wouldn’t mind a peek myself. Just to have a look like.”
“Well if you think you’re going to Thailand on your own forget it.”

A few days later they went to see a travel agent and booked a package to Phuket. Then without telling Frank, Stella did a bit of research on the internet. She found one message board in particular very helpful.

Hello, (Stella wrote) we are planning a 10 day trip to phuket in may 2006.
Now we are looking for bisexual girls who wants (sic) to spend some time with us.
Does anyone know were (sic) bisexual girls can be found in phuket?
back came the replies…

just ask in the Bars, you will soon be pointed in the right direction. have fun
and
no problem. Just ask. The girls won’t be surprised.

she got some strange replies too. One fellow certainly wasn’t shy at all…

i had 2 who became regulars as they liked to play with each other while i taped the whole thing......great fun to watch and then join in later and of course watching the Video while i am in Farangland.....

Must have been a Ball , said another poster…. had a few Threesomes myself last trip. Pattaya is no problem to get action like this, Bankok (sic) neither , dunno about patong though (that would be the area on Phuket Island where the action is)

i’m still trying to think of a way to watch the Video while my Filipino GF does things to me.......but i think a no-no as i think she would be pissed off and it would be the end of our relationship........perhaps i'm a bit pervy but i do like to have a Girl watch me getting a BJ or a fuck from another Girl.......i do find it a turn-on........
Stella posted back: Thank you for your help. We've been reading that topic several times. We know much more now. Thanks again.

“I’ve been doing a bit of research online,” said Stella to Frank one evening, “I must admit I’m getting quite excited about this trip.”
Later she and Frank were looking through some brochures. The more they talked about it the more excited they got.
“Nice beaches it looks like,” said Frank. “What do you think the food’s like?”
“They probably eat snakes and stuff.” Said Stella.
“Hey here’s a bit about the nightlife. Lots of clubs it says in a place called Patpong.”
“I think that was on telly,” said Stella, “that’s where they do the naughty dancing.”
And so the great day came. Frank and Stella arrived in Phuket. They took it easy the first day. Walked on the beach a bit.
“It’s very nice here.” Said Stella.
“Bit hot,” said Frank, “but the people seem nice. Cheerful buggers.”
In the evening they sussed out the bars. It was bonkers alright. The music was loud and there were a lot of dodgy people about. Some of the girls looked like blokes and there was a fella with a big snake. He stuck it in Frank’s face for a laugh. They sort of got pulled into one place by some girls who asked them what they wanted to drink. They decided to give the local beer a try.
“Hello.” Said one of the girls, “my name Nut.”
“Hello Nut” said Stella, “fancy a drink luv? On us.”
Nut said she’d like a cola. Then Nut said, “You want I go wit you?”
“You go with us like?”
“Yes. We go boom-boom.”
Frank and Stella had a little think.
“Sounds OK.” Said Frank.

Back in the room things got off to a slow start. Frank felt a bit awkward to tell the truth. So did Stella. It was Nut who got the ball rolling. She helped Stella undress then Frank watched as she and Stella got each other worked up. Kissing and licking like nobody’s business. After they’d both had a climax or two they got to work on Frank. There was flesh everywhere. Hard to tell who it all belonged to and after a while nobody cared much anyway. The girls kept rolling around so Frank sort of slipped in wherever he saw an opening. It was an exhausting few hours. The time just disappeared and slowly one by one they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Stella was the first one up next morning. She went to the bathroom then stood looking at Frank. He was snoring peacefully still with Nut’s beautiful black hair draped across his chest. He must have sensed her standing there because he slowly opened his eyes.
“I’ll be buggered,” he said, “what happened?”
“It’s alright,” said Stella, “we’re in Thailand remember? Ready for breakfast?”
“I’ll be buggered.” Said Frank again.
“What about you Nut? What do you want to do?”
“I take shower.” Said Nut.
“OK then. I’ll see you lovebirds later,” said Stella, giving Frank’s winkle a playful tweek. I’m off for a bit of jogging.”
Frank must have dozed off because next thing he knew someone was screaming. He rushed naked to the balcony and found Nut, wearing just a towel, hysterical "OH MY GOD!!! WATER TOO MUTT!!!" Water was rushing along the street just below the balcony, cars, motorbikes, deckchairs, people all being swept along by a huge rush of water. Frank couldn’t believe what he was seeing. All he could do was stand helplessly looking… then shouting "Oh fuck! Where's Stella???"
Frank ran out of the room and down the corridor. He found the stairwell a gurgling mass of frothy brown water. Other people were running around yelling or just standing shocked into numbness.
Back in the room they watched as the water started to go back out to sea. It receded almost as fast as it came. As soon as it looked safe Frank and Nut ventured downstairs through the shattered lobby to the street now a shambles of debris, mud and broken glass. And a few people struggling through the mess many with broken arms and legs.

"Stella." said Frank, "where's Stella?"

"Go room better." Said Nut, "water maybe come back."


Days of confusion followed. Frank wandered the chaotic streets, the beach, but no Stella. The hotel became a sort of refugee camp. People were just sitting numbly on the soggy cushions, waiting. Some of them just quietly sobbing. Nothing but misery and confusion and outside the weather was still beautiful. It was madness. There was no electricity in the hotel, no food. Nut managed to find some bottled water. Frank and Nut got what sleep they could. Nobody knew anything.

Then someone said bodies were being taken to a central location. Many, many bloated twisted bodies. Eventually Frank and Nut found Stella among them.

Later in bed Nut said, “Hab new wife now.” What?? Was she serious? Surely she couldn’t be joking about something like that. Stella was dead for fucksake! But it certainly was nice to have another body to hold onto.

Mangosauce.

Does anybody remember a website called mangosauce? It was run by a bloke called David in Bangkok. I came across this the other day...

I met David once. I emailed him and we had coffee in a place off Sukhumvit. He looked a bit like Morrissey I thought. He was very guarded and so was I. Mainly we speculated on the people who commented on his blog.

Quite the bunch of characters....chuckwoww, dana, chopper harris, expat at large, main cunningham, farangutan....legends in their own right. Wilbur fought a brave rearguard action but it was hopeless.  We had a few laughs until David pulled the plug.

Tripping.

This may be a good time to repost this. Excuse me if you’ve read it. You may have to go through the archives to make any sense of it….
‘You feel anything yet?’ Simon asked when they were waiting for the train. 
‘Er…no,’ said Arthur, ‘not really.’ They’d taken the LSD in Simon’s Ladbroke Grove bed-sitting room not knowing what to expect. But something was happening. They’d got to Notting Hill Gate Station without incident and bought tickets from a machine that pulsated with chemical light. More so than usual Arthur thought. Colours were getting brighter, the rush of the train when it came, the swoosh of the doors which opened and sucked them in, the tube itself where everything became electric…even the multi-coloured passengers. Sitting across from Arthur was a Chelsea pensioner with the consistency of a Dali watch. There were vibrating walls, melting floors, unidentifiable lizard-headed creatures and all the other psychedelic special effects that were to render ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’ virtually unwatchable so many years later.

The train was moving through a time tunnel. That was obvious. ‘Real time has collapsed in on itself,’ said Simon, ‘seriously perhaps, who knows?’ ‘It could be a spiritual experience.’ Said Arthur. Simon seemed to agree. ‘Perhaps we’ll see God,’ he said. Then for no real reason they both started giggling and didn’t stop till they got to Tottenham Court Road.

‘UFO,’ said a hand painted poster. ‘This must be the place,’ said a disembodied voice where Simon had just been. They oozed down a flight of carpeted stairs into a dark cavernous room full of people dancing, wandering around or just standing staring at a stage. On the stage were some musicians pulsing music and behind them a backdrop of amoeba like shapes projected against the wall. They appeared to be emanating from a dark shape raised on some scaffolding.

Arthur stood taking it all in. The music seemed to be everywhere. So did the acid. People were getting hard to distinguish from each other…it was all one…patterns were starting to swirl around him. ‘It’s alright,’ someone said and it was until he became aware of a frizzy-haired head-banded black, make that chocolate-brown, girl dancing in front of him. Dancing? Swirling, writhing…like a gypsy on a beach. One hand waving free.

Jiving, stomping, twisting…didn’t matter what they called the latest gyration Arthur was hopeless at it. Most attempts at dancing were like folding a deck-chair in the wind. The best he could usually manage was a sort of embarrassed shuffle. But during a lull he felt relaxed enough to mutter something about not being much of a dancer and the girl, an American, said ‘Hey don’t worry about it man. We’re all freaks.’ An answer Arthur found less than re-assuring. There was madness in the air and only he could see it. His anxiety was blocking the road to total abandon. And he knew it. His values, his parent’s values, were a burden. ‘I’m Marsha,’ said the girl.

Simon joined them and immediately got into the groove. Simon, always comfortable in any situation. Fluid and graceful, Simon knew how to approach girls and hardly ever got rebuffed. He gave himself effortlessly over to the beat. The three of them danced together separately for a while. For a few beautiful moments Arthur was dancing. Really dancing. Like magic. Dancing outside himself. Above the ground…free. Then he remembered something.
‘I’m off then.’ Said Arthur.
‘What!?’
‘I’ve got to sort newspapers in the morning remember?’
Suddenly out of nowhere a surge of warmth welled up inside Simon. He was almost in tears as he said, ‘You really are amazing Arthur, you know that?’
‘In what way?’
‘Oh never mind. Be careful how you go.’
Arthur bought a ticket at Goodge Street Station from a Francis Bacon octopus in a cage. Once on the tube, nerve ends still flashing and sizzling, he narrowly avoided fusion with a group of grotesque celebrants. Somehow he arrived at Victoria in time for the last train back to the sanity of suburbia. Had he seen God? Hard to say. He’d certainly seen something. As he let himself quietly into his parent’s house he wondered what cultural undercurrent decreed that everybody should walk through Portobello Market on Saturdays wearing old military uniforms. On the kitchen table, gently throbbing, was a ham sandwich.

Simon and Marsha, meanwhile, had left UFO and taken a cab to the place where Marsha was staying. It turned out to be a Regency house on Cheyne Walk. There was a spacious bedroom on the second floor. Soft lighting, Indian bed-sheets, Moroccan cushions, joss sticks, standard hippy décor, but there were some classier, expensive-looking touches too, deep sofas, Persian rugs, a  Hockney swimming pool or two. Simon asked about the owner. Not here, said Marsha rolling a joint, don’t worry about him. So he didn’t. The hash was the very best Red Leb. The acid waves kept rolling in. They surrendered to whatever it was and immersed themselves in the mysteries of human flesh.

On Portobello Road.

​
I'm staying in an Airb&b in Notting Hill. I'm done with hotels. The big places are full of Saudi princes and their retinues.

While I’m in London I decide to visit some old haunts and see what’s happened to them…Portobello market? It’s totally buggered up. I mean really. Nothing but tourists looking for bargains. And getting ripped off in the process.

The area has been tarted up but I spot a few familiar places. There’s Colville Terrace. It  reminds me of the time I was working for Rachman. I was a trainee rent collector. Westbourne Park Road where Hawkwind used to play, Powis Square where they filmed ‘Performance’, tripping with Syd Barrett in All Saints Hall. Finches. Electric Cinema. I Was Lord Kitchener's Valet. Lots of memories. 

It’s all a bit strange what times does. Makes me wonder how different things might have been if I’d taken a different tack. I’m not saying it would have been better but think of all the different lives we could have had if we’d made this choice rather than that one. I could be one of those antique dealers on Portobello Road flogging fake Chippendale to Yanks. Or perhaps I would be running a little pub somewhere waiting to get bought out by a big brewery or I could be playing hide and seek with grandchildren in an English country garden.
​
​

​Not that I’m complaining. It’s been a good life and I’m not done yet. I miss Millie though. She’s been good to me.
​
Talking of grandchildren maybe I should look Simon up while I’m here. He must have grandchildren galore by now. Some of them could technically be mine. 

Wonder if he ever met Arthur in Bangkok?

Phun City.

Sorry about all this jumping around. The editor’s off in Tuscany again so I’m doing the best I can. Here’s that bit from Naked Tea where William Burroughs goes to a Pop Festival in Sussex....


I’m pretty sure it was Brion’s idea. Very simple, he said, you take a train from Victoria to Worthing, get off and look for a local bus. Just ask the first aimless looking hippie you see. Who knows, you may even get a piece of ass. And I strongly advise you William, he added, using his best mid-Atlantic phraseology, to shoot up before you go. The chances of finding any horse are slim to none and you don’t want to be caught carrying in Worthing.
Nobody packed me a hamper. In fact I wasn’t carrying much apart from my briefcase and the tape recorder. The train mainlined me deep into the lush countryside of Surrey or Sussex or Somewhere. Such a civilized country England. Uptight but civilized. On the way I skimmed through the promotional literature. Phun City. A festival it said. Phun. Pretty Things? Pink Fairies? Hmmmm sounds promising.
Just before the train pulled into a place called Brighton I cracked a tab of Methadone (1,1-diphenylbutane-2-sulfonic acid and dimethylamino-2-chloropropane) developed in 1939 Germany by scientists working for I.G. Farbenkonzern at the Farbwerke Hoechst. They were looking for a synthetic opioid that could be created with readily available precursors, to solve Germany's opium shortage problem.
People, all young, all with long hair, are sitting in groups around a stage. I notice some ominous looking scaffolding. Towers open fire. I get a whiff of hash smoke. Sweetish. Almost certainly Red Leb. There’s a light show. Music. Nobody pays much attention to me. Just the occasional ‘Who’s the old bloke in the suit with earphones?’ Words can hurt. It occurs to me that we could start a tapeworm club and exchange body sound tapes.
The word ‘free’ comes up a lot. There’s a group called Free (who refuse to play for free apparently), a free food kitchen (nettle soup), a hamburger stand (under attack) and even a sign flashing a message …“London has been nuked, you are now free”. I start to feel faint. Too much fresh air. Where’s Doc Benway when you need him? Next thing I’m coming to in a kind of tent. Everybody is very helpful. One of the organizers hands me a cup of lukewarm tea. I switch on the tape-recorder. They are complaining about gatecrashers, especially a group called the Swampies, a bunch sleeping rough in the woods. But there’s no gate to crash. No fence. What do they expect? Funny really how even in a situation like this a hierarchy quickly develops. Politics.
Outside again and it starts to rain. My trilby elicits some envious looks. I am approached by a girl holding a plastic bag. I make a modest donation. The rain gets heavier. I take a cab back to the railway station. On the train back to London I make a few notes. I’ll work them into something later…