Happy Hour Part 3. Like old times.

Simon, a well-known TV personality, and Arthur, a total nonentity, were at school together in the 1950s. The last time they met was when Arthur went back to England for his mother’s funeral. Now Simon is in Bangkok. So Arthur has come down from the remote village in Northern Thailand where he lives to show Simon around. They are having a beer in Nana Plaza, a popular tourist area of Bangkok. The conversation has been a little awkward to this point. Their lives have gone in different directions. They are not young anymore. Time has become finite. They have already discussed family matters and now they are working their way into the stuff they both really want to talk about, mainly to do with their early years. 

Simon asks Arthur if he has changed much over the years.

 “Well I do feel detached from reality.”

“Nothing new for you surely.”

“I suppose not. I feel tired a lot. Take naps.”

“It’s your age.”

“Drinking a lot too.”

“That’s OK up to a point.”

“Self-hatred. Regrets.”

“Perfectly normal.” 

“How about you.” Arthur asks “Do you still live in that mews house in Chelsea?”

“Oh yes,” said Simon, “I own it now. Bought it in 77. Good thing I did too. Never would be able to afford it now.”

“What’s it worth then?”

“Not sure. Millions probably. Got a house in the Cotswolds too. Samantha and the kids use it mostly.”

“Let me guess,” said Arthur, “nice little village school? No wogs?”

“Hmmm, naughty naughty Arthur. We don’t use words like that anymore. Oh…and we have a farmhouse in Dordogne.”

“So you did OK.” Says Arthur. Wondering what it must be like to have houses worth millions.

“Not complaining,” said Simon, “amazing really to think that it was all done with words on paper. And the way it started back in the Swinging Sixties. I certainly had no idea things would turn out this way.”

“Good for you.” Said Arthur.

“England has changed Arthur. And not all for the better.”

“I noticed.” Said Arthur. He had. There seemed to be gangs of young thugs on every street corner. And policemen with machine guns.

“The music is mostly shite too,” said Simon, “just a lot of one hit wonders. And don’t get me started on Bono. Hmm….I’m starting to sound like you.”

“In what way?”

“Oh I don’t know….cynical.”
”Perhaps living in Thailand has made me a bit cynical.”

“You always were cynical Arthur.”

“Yes I suppose I was….not cynical exactly…more like world weary. I’ve become totally fatalistic I think. I don’t feel as though I’ve ever had much control over events.”

“Well none of us do really. Except in small ways. We make decisions in our lives…or we think we do…what to have for breakfast and so on but the big stuff is sort of pre-ordained I reckon.”

“God, didn’t we talk like this at school?”

“You’re right. Some things don’t change.” 

“Amazing to think we hitched to India when we did.” Says Simon. “I’m glad we did it but God we were lucky to avoid the Midnight Express scenario. Imagine a Turkish prison! I wake up sweating sometimes after nightmares getting raped by gangs of hairy Turks. Never mind sitting for days on Indian trains stuck between a blocked toilet and a family of lepers.”

“Can’t imagine doing it now.”

‘Not possible anymore. How do you feel about that now...our Journey to the East?Did we learn anything do you think? India? It cured any impulse I may have had towards religion.”

“I’m still trying to work it out.”

“Me too. Could have been an important formative experience.”

“Could have been a total waste of time.”

“It’s never that.”

“We were brave though don’t you think?”

“Brave?  Naïve more like. We were searching for something.”

“I still am. Give me a few more years and I might figure out what it is I’m looking for. Sometimes I think I can see the past more clearly. The present baffles me.”

“We live in an age of unbelief Arthur. Harry Potter is perfect for the times. Either we are totally lost or we are preparing ourselves for the next evolutionary step. Take your pick.”

“Hmmm, I just consider myself lucky to watch it happen. It almost sounds as if you’ve found something.”

“Not really. I’m just good at sounding as if I have. That’s what keeps people tuning in to my show. They like hearing me say clever things. Course I throw in some self-deprecation for balance.”

“It fills the void.”

“Same old Arthur.”

“Can do better.”

“What?”

“Can do better. It’s what they used to write on my school report.’

‘Mine too actually. Those teachers. Strange bunch they were.’

‘They’d just been de-mobbed.’

“Some of them were shell-shocked. Remember old Bedward? He’d spent two years driving round North Africa and Italy in a bloody tank. Next thing he knows he’s teaching algebra to first formers.’

“Innocent in a way.”

“You’re out of touch with the real world Arthur.”

“That’s nothing new.”

Short pause.

“Remember Athens?”

“We went to Piraeus looking for whores with Henry Miller. You fell in love with one. What was her name? Merlina?”

“Maria. It was your idea to buy her a bunch of flowers.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“I do. You were having a Neal Cassady moment.”

“‘You’re either on the bus or you’re off the bus.”

Simon is referring to Ken Kesey’s now famous bus trip. Arthur has never felt totally on or off the bus. One foot on the bottom step mostly. Undecided. This is the kind of pointless banter they both used to enjoy so much. It’s almost like old times. Pause to order more beer.

“So what draws them to Thailand?”

“These blokes you mean?” Arthur indicates the other patrons, “sex I suppose. Some kind of escapist dream but sex mostly. It’s so easy here. They aren’t getting any at home or they’ve given up on loud pushy Western women. They think this is Wonderland. But they come in different shapes and sizes. Some get into relationships, some work, teaching English say, some just drink. Then there’s the backpackers, neo-hippies I call them, they’re looking for experience, adventure…”

“Like us at that age?”

“I suppose so. But it’s a different kind of traveling. These days they fly around with credit cards.”

“No hitch-hiking across Afghanistan?”

“Those days are gone. The only people going to Afghanistan now are NGOs and ‘security contractors’. Mercenaries. Rambo wannabes. They pop over here a lot too…for R&R.”

“What about the Thai girls? What’s in it for them?”

“Oh a lot of these girls will have Thai boyfriends…husbands even. Some have babies back in the village. The sensible ones send money home.”

“What about all the sex trafficking?”

“That’s a load of bollocks. Most of these girls are here out of choice. I thought you were immune to preconceptions?”

“I work for the Beeb don’t forget.”

“You must meet some smarmy buggers.”

“Oh yes. I may even be one. The girls don’t like being fucked by sweaty strangers surely?”

“It’s a job. Bless their hearts. They probably tried working in garment factories and didn’t like the hours or the wages. You won’t find any underage sex slaves here. They’re in the Thai knocking shops. A lot of these girls are here to find farang boyfriends…husbands if they’re lucky. I met my wife in a place like this.”

“And it’s worked out OK?”’

“Could be worse. Duan’s a decent sort. Looks after me.”

“No regrets?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Your suburban tobacconist period. I never understood that. Why did you do it?” Simon is referring to the 20 years Arthur spent running a small newspaper, sweets and tobacco shop in Surbiton. Until his wife, Lorraine, died and he sold the business to a family from Bangladesh. This is called a "moment of disclosure" in the television industry. It’s the point where the camera closes slowly in on the subject’s face. Done right it can produce the odd tear which viewers can relate to.

“Well Lorraine got pregnant…she inherited the shop. It just happened.”

“Bloody amazing. You had options didn’t you?”

“Not at the time. I wasn’t unhappy in the shop you know.”

“Sounds like something out of Pinter.”

“More Beckett I’d say, looking back.”’

I suppose I wouldn’t mind another shot at it, Arthur decides to think rather than say, then says, “I just bumbled along. Waiting for some kind of revelation that never really came. I’d do a lot of things differently. Some things I wouldn’t do at all.”

“Like what?”

“Not sure really. No point in thinking about the past is there? One day you just sort of wake up and realize this is all there is. What about you?”

“Those were good years for me,” says Simon, “the best. I was learning things about the entertainment business.”

“Did you know how big pop music was going to be?”

“Not really. I’m not sure anybody did. Some of us knew we had a tiger by the tail but the way it spread surprised everybody I think. It was a case of right place, right time for me. Look at me now.”

“I don’t know how you do it. Go on TV every night. Doesn’t it get boring?”

“It can. But that’s the real me…what you see on the box. Off camera I’m just numb. Maybe I shouldn’t be this honest. I’m trusting you Arthur. I’m running on empty. I feel totally drained most of the time. Emotionless. Unable to connect. I perk up when the cameras are on…but it’s an act. I’m a total fake. I’ll be interviewing somebody say but I’ll be watching myself interview somebody. Basically I think the whole thing is stupid…but the funny thing is I still enjoy it. Does that make any sense? A part of me is still having fun. The biggest problem is being ‘on’ all the time. It gets hard to switch off.”

“It sounds excruciating. You’re writing your memoirs of course.”

“Oh yes. A couple of major publishers have approached me to do something. If I do get serious it will be in a post-modern sort of way. Something chatty with short chapters. When it comes to writing I’m a sprinter. I don’t have the stamina or the patience for long descriptive passages, character details, intricate plots. Not me. I won’t be shedding any light on the human condition.”

“What about dialogue?”

“This kind of dialogue you mean? Comfortable, relaxed, conversational stuff. It’s fine.”

“Like talking to yourself.”

“Precisely.”

Just when it looks as though this conversation is never going to stop… 

‘Arfer!!’ .......to be continued.