On Portobello Road.

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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.
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​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.
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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…

Gatwick Express.

The young custom’s officer at Gatwick is very pleasant.
“Dick Headley! Is it really you!!? I’m a fan.”
“No kidding.”
“Oh yes Mr. Headley. I’ve been following your blog for years. Welcome to the UK. How are things in BVI?”
“I’m a bit worried about Millie to be honest.”
‘Millie?”
“My boat. Oscar wants to use her.”
“I’m sure it will all work out Mr. Headley.”
“Thanks.” I say. When I left Oscar was installing a swivel gun on Millie’s bow. No point in going into detail about that. If he reads the blog he’ll know all about Blackjack and the treasure. I pick up my bag and it’s off to the Gatwick Express and London for me. 

The Gatwick Express has changed a lot over the years. Used to be Southern railways, then British Rail now it looks like something out of Star Wars. Same bunch of passengers more or less, quite a few English people. Not that anybody talks much, they’re all texting. This is the Brighton Line.

Outside the view is much as I remember….fields, trees, brick houses. It reminds me of beatnik days on Brighton beach. It also reminds me of the time I went to East Grinstead with William Burroughs. He wanted to check out Scientology and needed someone to help him navigate. Poor old William was a bit intimidated by the English way of doing things. Just buying a train ticket was traumatizing for him.
Horley, Redhill, Croydon, Clapham Junction, Metempsychosis….the stations rattle by. William went this way. Not on this actual train obviously but perhaps using the same set of rails. How long do rails last anyway? Hang on I’ll check. (40 years seems average but it depends on the amount of traffic and the quality of the steel). OK so maybe the rails have been changed but the scenery is similar.
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William did manage to get down on his own to that event Mick Farren organized somewhere near Hove if I recall. Phun City. It was one of the first pop festivals and a total fiasco.  I’ll post an excerpt if you like.