Caribbean geology.

We have gone as far as we can on the golf carts then Oscar puts the hand brake on and we get off and start unloading the stuff.

After a short walk we need to get our breath back. Breaths I should say.  Our respective breaths.  It’s already bloody hot and the sun is blazing down on us.

So we sit on a rock and look out towards Sir Richard's place. I notice Oscar has brought his high-powered binoculars along. I decide to mention it.

“Oscar,” I say, “I notice you have brought your high-powered binoculars along.”
“Yes Dick.” Says Oscar. “That is correct. I have indeed brought my high-powered binoculars along.”
“Any particular reason?” I ask.
“Yes Dick. I am hoping to catch some of the goings on over at Neckar Island. A flash of celebrity tit perhaps or even a glimpse of Sir Richard’s you know what. They swim nude over there you know.”
“Really. I’m surprised you can make out that kind of detail.”
He passes me the glasses. “Here Dick, have a look at that.”
At first all I can see is a swimming pool surrounded by lush jungle foliage then I notice a figure on a diving board. A male figure, bollock naked!
“That’s amazing.” I say.
“Told you.” Says Oscar, “you won’t see things like that on Lifestyle of the Rich and Famous.”

A large iguana scuttles past. Large by local standards.  Iguana delicatissima I think. Anyway it scuttles past.
“This is like waiting for Godot a bit,” I observe.
“Yes and no.” says Oscar. “Just can't stop making literary references can you Headley? Is it that you want to show off your cultural acumen? If so I'm not impressed. It's nothing like Becket. How can you compare 2 rich old farts staring at Richard Branson through binoculars with one of the world's great modern existential playwrights? Hmmm? Answer that if you can.”
“I’m at a loss for an answer.” I say.
“That’s what I thought. Anyway that’s enough idle banter, let’s get on with the digging.”

So we start digging in what we hope is the right spot.

​

This may be a good time to mention when me and Oscar aren’t blind drunk we like to do a bit of online research on various esoteric subjects. We were up all last night studying the geology of the Caribbean. Our reasons are twofold. To improve our general knowledge of the region of course and to find out what sort of strata we might encounter when we start digging. The tectonic plates are very complex. As are the numerous accretionary wedges.

So I’m swinging the pick while Oscar shovels. At first it's fairly easy going. The soil is loose and sandy but after a while we begin to encounter larger rocks and soon we are sweating and heaving on bloody great lumps of schist.
“Hell with this schist.” I say. “I need a rest.”
But Oscar will have none of it. “Look Dick,” he says excitedly, “see how there are obvious indications of a pit. Somebody, at some point in time, has dug a shaft down through the coral then filled it in with rocks. Note how the sides are undisturbed. We are on the right track Dick. Don't stop now.” To be continued….

o

Jep nes'

​

‘I have an announcement to make,’ says Oscar one morning.
‘Let me guess. You’re thinking of getting a sex-change operation.’
‘No Dick. Today is the day of the treasure hunt. The golf buggies are packed and ready to go.’
OK I think. Let’s get it over with. I’m halfway through Peter Carey’s new one. ‘Amnesia’. He writes well, and I’m learning a lot about Australian flora and fauna, but there’s not much plot.


Oscar’s made these little roads on his island so he can drive around a bit. The island is mostly rocky scrub. There isn’t much flat land at all and the vegetation consists of cactus and other prickly stuff. On the way up we get a good view over the lagoon and I notice the flamingos huddled together in a corner looking for brine shrimp.

“What got you interested in pink flamingos Oscar?” I ask by way of conversation.
“I trace it back to my upbringing Dick.” Says Oscar. They remind me of my roots. The place where I grew up.”
“Some languid lagoon somewhere was it Oscar? Some tropical paradise?”
“No Dick. It was a trailer park in Oklahoma. Pink flamingos have always held a strange attraction for me.

 As a child I was fascinated by the exotic creatures people put in front of their humble homes.

I was also most impressed with the John Waters motion picture of the same name.”
“Is that the one where Divine fucks a Hungarian sheepdog?”
“The same. Did you know Dick that film has been compared to ‘Un Chien Andalou’?”
“No, I didn’t know that Oscar. I heard it was compared to an exploding septic tank. Variety refused to review it.”
“Try to see past the petty, jealous critics Dick. It was ahead of its time that’s all.

If it hadn’t been for Pink Flamingos we probably would never have had Deep Throat.”
See what happens when I try to raise the conversation an intellectual notch or two? It always comes back to sex.

Looking for the place where the treasure is supposed to be, quickly turned into a nature walk.

 We go as far as we can go on the golf carts then starting walking, stumbling I should say,

through the undergrowth. I feel a sharp pain in my leg.
“Probably a Jack Spaniard.” Says Oscar, “ Polistes cinctus. Mean bastards.

 The locals call them Jep...it’s a wasp that usually builds its nest underneath leaves.

There’s an expression ‘Jep Nes’'. To stir up more trouble than you anticipated. I meant to warn you about them.”
“Bit late telling me now innit? Bloody hurts that does.”

“No pain, no gain Dick.”
​
He shows me a piece of earth, about a yard square and points out how the soil’s been disturbed.

It looks like all the rest to me but he gets excited.

“That’s where we dig.” Says Oscar.

We? 

Villains

​If this was a novel or even a normal literary endeavor I would have inserted some unsavory characters by now just to keep things balanced. It's all very well me and Oscar drinking and bullshitting but there has to be some kind of action. I think I’ve mentioned Blackjack, the second-rate villain in the pirate boat that shows up now and again, and there’s something a touch sinister about young Lambert the graffiti artist who looks like Jean-Michel Basquiat.
As the day for the treasure hunt draws near the excitement builds.
“I’d watch out for that young Lambert if I was you Oscar,” I venture.
“Don’t worry Dick. I’ve got Lambert’s number,” says Oscar,” he was here once you know.”
“Really.’
“Yes he came across from Tortola with some of his Rasta chums. Wanted  to sell me some paintings.  He was asking too much or I would have bought a couple. He’s got talent but he’s derivative. And I didn’t like his attitude. He thinks he’s the Caribbean answer to Jean-Michel Basquiat.  Just another graffiti artist if you ask me. He left in a huff.”
Bad move Oscar I’m thinking.  Lambert will be very pissed off.  I know artists.  They can be touchy.
Lambert, it so happens, has been hanging around the Soper’s Hole marina selling dope and looking for loose pussy. It was inevitable that he would run into Blackjack who was resting after a profitable run from Cartagena to Pensacola, a city in West Florida with an interesting history.  It has flown the flags of five different countries since its founding by Tristan de Luna in 1559. Not that Lambert and Blackjack care much about history. Dodging the DEA is their main preoccupation.

​

Ace of Spades.

Ace of Spades.

1/1/2016

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It's a new year. 2016. I'm surprised to be here.

​We find Simon in one of his Chelsea mews houses. He's going through some old notebooks.​ Lemmy Kilmister passed away recently. Simon has been asked to write something about him for the Guardian. He isn’t sure where to begin…but he has a few old notes….


Once upon a time in another dimension, about halfway along Portobello Road, there was a café called the Mountain Grill. It was a working class café very popular with musicians and roadies (I was one such briefly) who liked to exchange gossip and drugs. Pills mostly, blues and dexies, but grass isn’t hard to find. The Bangers and Mash isn’t bad either. Good hash is still something of a rarity. Finding Red Leb for instance involves a mini-safari into darkest Westbourne Park where you have to take your chances with the surly looking rude-boys at the Rio.

So the Mountain Grill occupies a strategic, some might say symbolic, location where two worlds meet. Down beyond the Westway Flyover is Hawkwind country, Lemmy Kilmister’s end where things get seedy…down among the wheelers and the dealers and the basic riffs and rhythms. Up towards Notting Hill Gate you will be more likely to find students and weekend dropouts, trendsetters, entrepreneurs, assorted Jerry Cornelii, Lord Kitchener’s valets and even some Old Etonians.

Syd Barrett wanders into the Mountain Grill.
“You look a bit rough this morning Syd,” says Lemmy, “A bacon sandwich will soon fix you up.”
“Really greasy. Wash it down with a nice cuppa.” Suggests a wit.
Syd looks confused. He feels more comfortable in Holland Park to be honest. He finds it more attuned to his delicate Cambridge sensibilities. But here he is in the Grill so might as well sit down.
“Has anybody seen my dog?” He asks, “She's a collie.”
“Today’s Special.” Says another wag. “Shepherd’s Pie.”

Through the steamy windows it is possible to see VW vans recently arrived from the exotic East. They are disgorging bundles of Afghan jackets, scarves, incense, natural oils, colourful bed-sheets Kandahar shirts, Moroccan leather bags, Tibetan prints, rock posters, and tabla drums which recently contained mind altering substances. The fuzz are active but not yet equipped with sniffer dogs. Stalls are being set up in amongst the fruit and veg, the fake antiques and the cut-price crockery. Hairy young people are selling copies of International Times. The Hippy Trail is really just a state of mind…


All this is happening right outside the Mountain Grill. I’m inside transcribing the scene into a notebook. Discretely. I’m still not totally confident of my literary abilities but making notes has become a habit. They may come in handy one day. Like now for instance. If anybody asks me what I’m writing I mumble something about the underground press. I’ve noticed how the bands round here like to talk about being revolutionary but nobody says no to an appearance on Top Of The Pops. Look at Bolan. Hopping around on TV like some kind of psychedelic elf. Hawkwind haven’t been on Top of the Pops yet. Maybe they haven’t been asked.


Syd meanwhile, after much reflection, has decided against a hearty breakfast. Poor Syd. It’s all rather sad. One acid trip too many is the general consensus. Fried his brains. We watch him wander out onto the street in pursuit of who knows what strange hobby. Not even beans on toast can tempt him back from the outer reaches of the galaxy. I’d like to interview him but he’s too fucked up.

Simon reads through what he has written and decides it’s good enough for the Guardian.

He presses send and it’s gone.