The Fall of Singapore.

I’ve been reading about the Fall of Singapore. British, Australian and Indian troops put up a spirited defense but the Japanese swept down through Malaysia in a few weeks. 

The causeway from Johore to Singapore Island was blown up but it didn’t stop the Japanese. They had bombers and artillery. They landed on the island and after about a week the British surrendered. Lt. General Arthur Percival signed the surrender documents on Feb. 15th. 1942.

On 12th. Sep 1945 it was the turn of the Japanese to surrender.

For more information on the subject you can’t do better than ‘Singapore Grip’ by J.G. Farrell. It follows the fortunes of a leading Singapore family and it’s full of interesting facts about the rubber business and the ups and downs of colonialism. Farrell has a nice take on the human condition. 

And for those who are more interested in contemporary culture Kourtney Kardashian has been good enough to share a picture of her breast pump.

Back to nature.

 

Towards the end of the Sixties people were talking about getting back to nature. Simon and Samantha bought a nice little cottage in the Cotswolds. Good move. They got in there just before all the advertising executives and TV producers. Simon kept the Chelsea mews place of course.

I did it a bit differently. My girlfriend at the time was Suzy Creamcheese (not her real name). I met her in Portobello Road. She was promoting something or other outside Lord Kitchener’s Valet. Nice girl, from California, half-Mexican, long black hair, bit like Joan Baez, or Stevie Nicks. She had become detached from a Frank Zappa tour she thought. She wasn't sure. Free spirit, tambourine, one hand waving free, that kind of thing. For me it was lust at first sight. She talked me into buying a farm ion the Welsh border. 

Being a city boy it was a new world for me. I’d gone out of London before of course but living on a farm was a chance to commune with nature, to reconnect with my pastoral heritage and get some good olde Englishe mud on my wellies. I became a member of the landed gentry.

The place in Herefordshire was an old stone farmhouse in a valley with a view of the Black Hills in the distance. Bit rundown but that was OK. What I didn’t learn till later there was a pair of manic rural preachers with a farm up the hill at the back. Twin brothers they were who lived together all their lives. I could write a book about those two. Real nutters. I heard they slept in the same bed. They had a pig farm on the hill behind my place. I had to put up with the smell. Not to mention the effluent.

One day I wandered up there with Suzy Creamcheese to introduce myself. What a pair. Identical tweed suits and shirts with studs but no collars. Welsh miners boots. Oh you’re the new hippy are yo, they said in unison. We’ve yeard about yo. Doing music is it? Bands from London is it?

They showed us round their pigsties and introduced us to some of their favorite swine. They’d all got names. ‘This ‘yer be Boy George. And that be Phil Collins, yer’s little Cyndi Lauper, and this be the Foin Young Cannibals...Culture Club and Talking Heads are on their way to the slaughter house.’

I sensed they were making oblique references to the sounds that emanated from my property. Because I’d lived through the sixties and knew John Peel I became something of a guru. People I knew (and lots I didn’t) came to visit from London. Girls were always showing up on the doorstep looking for spiritual enlightenment. I got lots of free drugs and nooky (Suzy Creamcheese was very broad-minded) but not much peace and quiet. It was alright I suppose but the bastards kept on coming, more and more of them, camping in the fields and digging up my carrots. If I said anything they just stared at me like I was fucking Moses or something and complained about having nothing to do. Sod them I thought but it wasn’t that easy. There was another bunch who brought their electric guitars and amps with them. I thought of putting a fence round the place and selling tickets but Glastonbury was just getting started and I didn’t want to put them out of business. Somebody started converting one of the buildings into a recording studio. Everything was out of control...total anarchy...wasn’t my idea...just happened...

The people around didn’t like it much. Tell the truth they treated us like aliens from space. If we went in the pub the locals all huddled in the snuggery. And we got visits from the local plod...just sniffing around sir. Having a look see isn’t it?

So I’m leaning on a gate one day as rural folk are wont to do, wearing gumboots and a kaftan over Arsenal kit, chewing on a grass stalk and savouring the aroma of pigshit being wafted down the valley on the summer breeze (hey nonny, nonny, no) when along comes this bloke in khaki shorts and a rucksack on his back. Cheerful little chap, blonde hair and bright blue eyes. “Hallo,” he says, “I’m Bruce. I’m hiking through the area making notes for a book. You must be one of the local characters.”
“Yes and no.” I said, “I’m Dick Headley, one time Arsenal hopeful turned felon, sex fiend and occasional drug user. Promoter of quality punk rock, pornography, currently in the organic carrot business. At your service”
“That’s interesting,” said Bruce, “I have a friend who collects vintage pornography. Haven’t got a first edition Fanny Hill by any chance have you?”

“No sorry. But I’ll make a prediction. One day there will be a book called ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ It will be hugely popular and sell in the millions.”

“Tell me more.” said Bruce.
“Well, it will be published by Vintage. The hardcover edition will be 514 pages and the ISBN number will be 0345803485. One day there will be a company called Amazon selling books online.”
“Excuse me a minute while I write that down. I must say you certainly look rustic Dick. And something of a prophet to boot. I’m looking for local colour to put in my book.”

So we chatted about this and that and I mentioned how I’d crossed the Sahara Desert with William Burroughs.
“Really?” he says, “that would make a fascinating travel book. Why not write it?”
“What me?”
“Why not?” Well I could think of a few reasons. But talking to Bruce did get me interested in the fiction process especially the myriad ways in which reality and the life of the imagination become interlocked. Reality, we both agreed, tended to be untidy, unresolved. It needed fiction to bring out the meaning.

I told him to drop in on the Pesticide Brothers, which he duly did. Naturally I was curious to see what he made of them.

“So how did you get on with the twins Bruce?” I asked upon his return.
“Very interesting pair aren’t they Dick,” said Bruce, “They didn’t show me the bedroom but I met some of the pigs. In fact I gave Phil Collins a pat on the head and he almost took my hand off. The brothers had a good chuckle about that. It was one of those Howard Hodgkin moments Dick. Oh, they did say if you do something about the noise they might do something about the smell. And I got a mini-sermon on the evils of organic farming. Should be good for a chapter I think.”

Case you’re wondering things got out of hand on the farm. My fault for not being firmer. Should have established some guidelines instead of letting it go to pot. 

One night in Bangkok.

Arthur watches the dancers, one saucy little vixen in particular, he is in Bangkok on his way to Australia. In a gogo bar. It’s Christmas. Sounds, smells, a flashing smile beneath a Santa hat, fragments of dialogue that trigger memories from nowhere. Well they must come from somewhere. Anywhere. Wherever all these bits of history cache themselves. A girl sits next to him. She isn’t wearing much. She puts her hand on his knee and asks him to buy her a drink. So it begins.

Her name is Duan and she explains the barfine system to Arthur.

‘You like me? I go wit you. You pay bar.’

She makes it sound so uncomplicated. Do it Arthur says a voice. Why not? You’re a free man. Nobody will know. She certainly is cute. No tattoos, no piercings. Could it really be that easy? Pay the bar-fine and off you go for a bit of how’s your father? Would the hotel management complain? What about disease? And would he feel guilty afterwards?

Duan informs him that she only recently started bar work and she has no money.

Back in his hotel room Duan says ‘I take shower you.’

What? Does she mean they should shower together? Yes that is exactly what she means and she knows how to handle a bar of soap.

You can probably imagine what comes next so no point in a detailed description. Arthur is only in Bangkok for one night. He has time in the morning for breakfast with Duan in the hotel coffee shop. He notices quite a few foreign men having breakfast with Thai girls. He wonders what sort of relationships they have. A lot to do with money no doubt. Then it’s off to the airport for a flight to Sydney. Duan comes to the airport in the taxi with him. He gives her all his left over Thai baht. She is very grateful and he promises to return. He feels as though a whole new world of possibilities has opened up.

Black and white.

This may come as a surprise to regular readers but I’ve been feeling strange lately. Hard to explain. I seem to have lost the desire to communicate. Maybe it’s the internet that’s done it. Too much information. Words lose their meaning. I need to get away from everything for a while. But I am away from everything. It’s a problem. I may even stop blogging.


On top of all that I saw that black boat again. Off in the distance. Same bloke up the back. Beard, all over tattoo, one foot on the wheel, reading Easton Ellis most likely, couple of witchy tarts tanning themselves on the deck. They looked happy enough sailing the dystopian sea.

Why would anyone want a black sail? Black with a white skull on it. No crossbones, just a skull. Is it a statement of some kind? Look at me it says, but don’t get too close, I’m badass. We’re all dead.

There’s a lot of these Satanic types around these days. Sign of the end times. Something in the ether. The planet is fucked up. A fermenting mass of wants and needs on the point of exploding. Humanity is a cancer. We’re all doomed. I get all that. What puzzles me is the need to revel in it.

Who are these bloody people? Ozzy Osborne fans?
Maybe it’s the Beach Boys. 

Down Under.

I’m going to fast forward with Arthur. He’s just so bloody boring. Stuck in that shop there were times when Arthur wished he’d stayed in India. Had he really hitch-hiked all the way there with Simon? His passport bore some exotic stamps…Spin Boldak…Amritsar…Panjim. Why had he gone back to England? Because Alice got pregnant that’s why.

Alice got pregnant with Cynthia and a marriage was arranged. Arthur still can’t remember how or by whom. Arthur’s parents probably. They died soon after the wedding when their Standard 8 rolled off a cliff at Dover. They’d been eating egg and cress sandwiches and forgot to put the handbrake on.                                                                     
Alice helped Arthur run the tobacconists, which they inherited. They were not unhappy. Life was measured in newspaper sales, bars of Cadbury’s chocolate, Woodbines, Senior Service, cups of tea. Much TV was watched in the 2-room flat (plus kitchen and bathroom) above the shop. There were occasional picnics to Woburn Abbey and Chessington Zoo. Cynthia grew up, left school at 16, worked in a bank for 6 months but she obviously wasn’t cut out for it. She dyed her hair purple.Pimply young men were knocking on the door at all hours. There were tantrums in the bathroom.

One evening they were watching telly when Cynthia said, ‘You might as well know. I’ve just had an abortion, It’s OK. Done. And I’m going to Australia.’

Stunned silence.

‘But why Cyn….?’

‘To get away.’

‘From Crorley?’ From us?

‘From everything.’

Arthur is tempted to tell Cynthia that there is no getting away.  But he says nothing. Perhaps he just doesn’t want to sound patriarchal.

Anyway Cynthia packed up her Sex Pistols albums and off she went to Australia on the ten pound scheme.

Alice took it badly. She got bigger and bigger and one day she just died. It was tragic. She had been huge towards the end, bloated, unable to get out of bed. Arthur didn’t understand how it happened. He put a lot of the blame on Cadbury’s and the constant barrage of promotional material. Alice couldn’t resist trying all the new products. Too much sugar. She got hooked.

Alice’s health rapidly declined. She died. Some kind of stroke they thought. Not a total surprise. They had to grease her and remove the door-frame so that four strong men could get her downstairs and into an ambulance. Poor woman. Woody Allen might have made a joke out of it but for Arthur it was a turning point. He sat staring at cardboard boxes for a month then he sold the shop to a family from Bangladesh who turned it into a 24 hour proto-mini-market. The funeral was a small affair, just Arthur, an uncle or two, some neighbours.

That left Arthur at a loose end.  Cynthia sent some flowers with an address in Melbourne. He had nothing particular to do he decided to go and visit her.

With a stop over in Bangkok.

Sir Francis Drake Channel.

After a few days of Foxy’s beach party I’m ready for a some peace and quiet. I like Foxy but his place was a bit much for me. Too many boats, too many people. I needed somewhere quieter. I was even thinking of marooning the crew and buggering of somewhere on my own. Perhaps Nyum fancies a little daytrip somewhere? Leave the somtam club in Margaritaville for a while. Do them good.

My idea was to sail back around Tortola and look at some of the smaller islands in the St. Francis Drake Channel. Maybe see if I could spot Oscar’s place from a distance. So that’s what we’re doing.

Very nice round here it is. You can see the attraction for the old pirates and chancers. A lot of those blokes knew they had a date with a rope whatever they did. So why not have a bit of fun? Make your own rules. Help yourself to some loot me hearties. Ha, ha. The Lesser Antilles is just the place for it lads. Lots of unguarded merchant ships moving about and lots of small bays and islands where you can hide a sloop.

Rackham, Dampier, Stede Bonnet, Calico Jack, Bart Roberts and Henry Morgan all sailed through the Sir Francis Drake Channel. Edward Teach alias Blackbeard marooned 15 blokes on Dead Chest Island just over there. Yo, ho, ho. And there’s Norman Island where Robert Louis Stevenson got the idea for Treasure Island or so they say.

Stede Bonnet was a funny character. He’d been a successful planter in Barbados but he must have got bored. Some say he just wanted to get away from his missus. Nobody knew about Pattaya in those days so he bought a ship in Bridgetown and hired a crew. Not the usual pirate way of doing things. Then off he went plundering. But he wasn’t very good at it. Too much the gentleman maybe. He teamed up with Blackbeard for a while but the bugger tried to nick his ship. Stede ended up dangling from a rope in South Carolina.

All those blokes were amateurs beside Sir Francis Drake when it came to piracy. Francis was the biggest pirate of the lot. Thanks to some nifty footwork with QE1 he even got it legalized! Her Majesty gave Francis some impressive looking documents which freed him and the lads to plunder the Spanish Main without needing to feel guilty. Not that they thought twice about it. Frank was always ready to have a go at anything Spanish and the money was good. And Frank knew his ships. He sailed through the Straits of Magellan and did Peru. Takes bottle that does.

He captured treasure galleons off Peru and ambushed the Spanish supply chain in Panama. Ended up with more loot than he could handle. He had to split the proceeds with Liz of course but they both did alright. She invested 1,000 crowns in him and got 47,000 back. Enough to pay off England’s foreign debt and keep the country running for several years. She let Francis keep 10,000 crowns for himself. He bought Buckland Abbey near Plymouth but he didn’t stay there long. He went back to the Caribbean several times and died eventually of fever. He was buried at sea in a lead casket off Nombre de Dios, which was founded by Diego de Nicuesa (the Royal Carver) in 1510.

It’s not easy, living like I do, to keep up with all the major events in the art world. But I try.

Whenever I get a chance I like to check on what Tracey Emin’s up to. It’s a way of keeping up with the Zeitgeist. And Tracey’s been a busy girl it looks like.

You may recall that she was quite upset about the public reaction to the warehouse fire at Saatchi’s. Well who wouldn’t be? Apparently some people sniggered. People can be such Philistines sometimes.

But she didn’t let it get her down. She got to work on a film about teenage girls committing suicide in Margate. I always liked Margate myself. Had a few laughs there.

Then the bosses at UKTV Gold asked Tracey to make a piece after they heard ‘The Bill’ was her favourite program. So she stitched a piece called ‘Tracey Emin Loves The Bill’. You can see it in the ITV1 studio canteen.


And guess who just bought one of Tracey’s creations?  Posh Spice that’s who. No it’s not an old bed it’s a nice neon heart for David. Set her back about 80,000 quid. Money well spent I’d say.

A lot of the smaller islands round here are privately owned. I could see Oscar’s but the house must have been on the other side. Didn’t feel like visiting him today anyway. I’ll go tomorrow maybe. Or the day after. 

Foxy's, Jost Van Dyke.

The island of Jost Van Dyke is named after a Dutch pirate. We headed round to Foxy’s beach and found a lot of boats already there. The moorings were all taken so we dropped anchor in the sand. You have to be careful where you drop your hook in BVI these days because they try to protect the coral.

First time I saw Foxy was with Samantha on our honeymoon. He was just a bloke with a guitar singing calypsos on the beach. His wife Tessa was selling lemonade from a makeshift stall under a palm tree. Hang on…come to think of it I was the one suggested he open a proper bar. Now look! They’ve got a bar spread across half the beach. Bareboaters everywhere eating and drinking. It looks like a Jimmy Buffet concert.  Business must be good.

He’s got an amazing memory too. He spots me in the shallow water and comes running down the beach. Dick!!! How are you man…long time no see!!

I could get all nostalgic and soppy here if I’m not careful. Hard not to with Foxy hugging me and Tessa waving from the bar.

 The memories come flooding back.

“How are you then Foxy?” I ask when he’s got me sitting back at the bar. “Who’s this?” I point to a life-size model of Foxy playing his guitar.

“That Epoxy Foxy Dick. He takes care of the place when I’m not around. So how’s life Dick? You

looking good.”

“Very nice Foxy. Got a good boat. Good little crew.”

I can’t fool Foxy. And he’s too smart to ask about Samantha. But I’m not.

“Was she here?”

“Oh she been a few times Dick.”

I think it’s safe to say that things started going wrong between me and Sam almost straight away. I still don’t understand it. We just started going separate ways. I wasn’t fucking around or nothing. Well not much. No more than she was. We didn’t hate each other or anything like that. We didn’t even fight. It was just the times.

“It is clear in retrospect that various narcotic substances including LSD, hashish, amphetamynes, peyote, and even heroine coupled with long hair, colourful clothes, fleeting sexual encounters and ‘far out’ music all contributed to the breakdown of the relationship.” I read that somewhere. I can’t argue with it but I wouldn’t have put it quite so formal. Seems to me we were living in a daze. Nothing stayed the same for 5 minutes. In those days if we weren’t crashed out on mattresses we were raving around on tube trains or jumping in and out of taxis. Life was either a long slow hash buzz or a jagged speedy race to nowhere. Or it could be a flashing, pulsating acid or a mixture of all of the above. This was life in Swinging London in the Sixties. One big blur. You’re getting the potted version. Pun intended. Skip it if you want.

I can’t remember when I got interested in modern art. Perhaps I never did. It could have started when I started going to gallery openings with Samantha. She loved all that stuff. Standing around nattering with wine and cheese. One opening does stick in my mind. Indica Gallery in Mason’s Yard.

                   

A Japanese girl had set some stuff up. There was an all-white chess set and a white ladder. You were supposed to climb the ladder and at the top there was a magnifying glass attached by a chain. You looked through the magnifying glass at some small words on the ceiling. They said “Y E S.” I watched John Lennon climb up the ladder. Yes, he said.

Well I didn’t think too much of it at the time. Then some weeks later we were at the EMI Studios on Abbey Road. A lot of people were recording there in those days, or nights I should say. Beatles, Stones, Pink Floyd. It was the place to go late at night if you were stuck like, and you never knew who would show up there.

Studio One I think it was. The big one at the back. There was lots of people in there and of course Sam knew everybody. I got sharing a joint with a bloke who said he was Marianne Faithful’s ex-husband and somebody called Stash. A prince he said he was. Nice fella. Slipped me a bit of blotting paper. Things got funny. No one I think is in my tree, I mean it must be high or low. That is you can’t you know tune in but it’s all right, that is I think it’s not too bad.

Nobody I knew I don’t know what happened next Samantha told me later she ‘had’ to go off and do an interview with somebody or other. Would it be cool if she popped off to Jane’s? That would be her mate Jane Asher I supposed who may have been having it off with McCartney at the time. Not sure so don’t quote me on that. By this time me and Sam were at the point where we would go out together and come home separately. Nothing was real anyway and nothing to get hungabout. It didn’t matter much to me.

Anyway she’s gone and next thing I remember I’m out in the car park on me jack looking at a puddle full of soggy leaves.

Hello says this big bloke standing by a car. I’m Mal. You want a lift somewhere? Scouse accent. I notice Samantha’s took the Mini-Cooper so I say alright and hop in. Where you off then I ask. West End, says Mal, ‘Bag ‘O Nails’ most likely.

“Bag o’ Shite’” says a voice from the back. I turn round and fuck me there’s John Lennon and his missus Cynthia sitting there. Hello Dick, he says.

That was a strange night. We got shown to the best table in the Bag. Down near the stage where some bloke called Jimi Hendrix is about to give his first live performance in London. That’s what the announcer said anyway. Across the way Steve Marriott is dancing on a table showing off as usual… pop royalty scattered around the place.

Hendrix starts playing. Cynthia is on John’s right and I’m on his left. There’s an amp going right next to us. “Well Dick, says Lennon, “How’s the world of sport?” Alright, I say but tell the truth I can’t hear what he’s saying. It’s a historic occasion you could say, but all he wants to do is talk about his love-life. I’ve got ‘Hey Joe’ in one ear and this bloke going on about fucking women in the other. He’s reached a crossroads he says. Got to make a choice between the past and the future. I can’t remember what I said. What can you say to other blokes about that stuff? I’m stoned out of my pod and I got my own troubles anyway. Always, no sometimes, think it’s me, but you know I know when it’s a dream. I think I know I mean a ’yes’ but it’s all wrong, that is I think I disagree. Mostly I’m wondering. Why me?

Several years later Mal got shot by police in Los Angeles.

Anyway that’s enough of that.

“Doing great Dick.” Says Foxy. “Got me own rum brand. Few gigs in the States. Busy all de time.”

Rakin’ it in man. Happy fellow Foxy. And good luck to him. The bloke’s no fool either. He must know people well by now too. He sees all kinds here. Probably knows me better than I know myself.

“Life is a funny ting eh Dick?” he says.
“Yes Phil it certainly is.”
Not many people know his real name is Philicianno.

Here’s the man himself….

Narration.

I’d like to take this opportunity to say a few words about narration. It’s a very misunderstood branch of literature in my opinion.

This is how it works. I keep getting stuff from the author….usually via the editor. They send it to me in emails, I narrate it and send it back. It’s my nonchalant tone they’re after I think. Easy enough for me. I don’t even try and I don’t worry about where it all fits in. I assume it’s all part of some larger pattern but that’s their business.

I know a lot of narrators develop identity problems. It’s an occupational hazard. Not me. I just sail my boat and try not to pay too much attention to world events. I’m well out of it. And I probably have another 10 years or so doing it if I’m lucky. I’ve got no plans. Bit of money in the bank. Live pretty much day to day. Live where I want but I prefer somewhere warm with a nice view, no bedroom tax, no IKEA and no automated phone menus. That’s about it.

What’s this novel about then you ask? Assuming it ever gets written. Well I’ll tell you what it’s not about.

It’s not about a funny awkward girl who falls in love with some cool rich dude with his very own helipad and a dungeon full of sex toys. There may be a pirate or two but no zombies. Nor will there be any cute little dragons called Zork who want to be like all the other little dragons but can’t breathe fire. There will be no breakthroughs in cruise missile technology and no startling revelations about the Illuminati, no psychopathic serial killers in rural Texas complete with mandatory vivid torture sequence, no oversize sharks and no bullet-proof transformer-type robotic creations crashing through foliage under the weight of extraneous features, no zombies and there will definitely not be any misunderstood vampires. Nor is it the heart-warming story of two Afghan lesbians overcoming all odds and finding fulfillment in Essex. It has nothing to do with a runaway Haitian slave who joins the US Cavalry only to change sides at the battle of Little Big Horn or the adventures of a 16-year-old concubine at the court of Genghiz Khan. Notes and false starts to those and other abandoned projects do exist somewhere but they all, let’s be frank, turned out to be beyond the author’s literary skill level. They didn’t excite me much either. Sorry about the rant but I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.

The point is narrating gives me something to do and it frees me up to ramble on about my own life.  I can keep this post-modern stuff going ad infinitum. They probably delete most of it but I don’t mind. It makes as much sense as all the other things people do. Well it does to me. And that’s what counts. Who else gives a toss?

So why do it?

Why not?

Miss Perfect part 4. (Climax)

After two hours fighting the fog round Doncaster in low gear I’m ready for a welcome break. What I need is a good nosh. So I pull into what used to be a greasy spoon before it became Fortes. Now it’s a fast-food village staffed by illegal immigrants. I park my lorry-load of half-dead broiler hens going north beside another one going south. Don’t laugh, the money’s good. I got my old job back, found a place to kip but I can’t stop thinking about Thailand and Nok and Chuck and all the rest of it. Was I really there? I have to check my passport sometimes to be sure.


Another thing, I find it hard to talk to people since I got back. You mention Thailand and they give you funny looks. Like you’re Gary Glitter or something. I want to tell people about it but what’s the point? My mind’s still back there. Sometimes I find myself looking at Asian women and wondering if I can just give them a smile and start talking. Could get myself in a right mess like that.


Or I imagine myself walking along Sukavit and it’s exactly like I’m really there. I can feel the heat. I see it all. The sounds, the smells, the people, the traffic. Every day is an adventure. You never know what’s coming next in Thailand. Thais are a funny lot. Look at how they walk for instance. The way the vendors stick their bloody stalls right across the pavement so you’ve only got a bit of room for walking anyway and the Thais dawdle along, stop right in front of you. What a dozy bunch. And don’t get me started on the bloody Indian tailors.


Your moods change fast when you live there. Up and down all the time. Towards the end of my time there I thought I was going fucking nuts. Days were running into each other and I’d lost track of the date.  One night I had a dream. I woke up sweating and I couldn’t get back to sleep. I’d slept a lot in the day. I was scared shitless of something but I didn’t know what. In the dream I’d lost control of my senses. I was driving a lorry on a motorway, the rain was belting down and the wipers couldn’t keep up, my foot was jammed in the accelerator pedal somehow and it didn’t matter how much I pumped on the brakes nothing happened I just kept going faster and faster.


I wanted to tell Nok about the dream but she was sat on the bed clipping her toenails and suddenly she throws the clippers down and says ‘Booa!’

‘Booa? What’s that?’

‘I very boring.’ She says.

OK. Fair enough. We’ve been in the room all day. I ask her if she wants to go to a movie or something and off we go on the Sky Train to BMK. The movie had Brad Pitt in it but I can’t remember much because I couldn’t relax. The Thai bloke who took our tickets said something to her when we went in but she wouldn’t tell me what. Smarmy little bugger he was. He’s lucky he didn’t get a knuckle sandwich.


Then she disappears for a few days so I go looking for Chuck. He isn’t too hard to find. Golden Bar. Same seat.

‘How goes the battle?’ Chuck asks.

‘Not too good.’ I say.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘I’m all wound up. I feel like punching someone out.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘I don’t belong here.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘How about you? ‘

‘Me?’

‘Do you belong here?’

‘Hard to answer that. I belong everywhere and nowhere.’

I wonder if he’s taking the piss.

‘It’s Nok. She hasn’t been showing up for work. I go there and I get the old ‘Nok go village.’ Stuff. I’m pretty sure it’s bollocks but what can I do? Four days now! I’m going fucking spare.’

Chuck isn’t much help. It may be true about the village, he says, but the odds are against it. She’s probably in Samui with a sponsor would be my guess. A looker like that would have 2 or 3 sponsors on the go.

‘What’s a sponsor for fuck’s sake?’ Aren’t I paying for everything?

Then I get an idea. Maybe Chuck can keep an eye on her when I’m not here. I’m not sure I can come right out and ask him. First I need to butter him up a bit. Blokes like him love talking about themselves.

‘What’s it like being a writer then?’ I ask. ‘Why do you do it?

‘Words. Getting them out. It’s a compulsion,’ says Chuck, ‘I don’t understand it myself. It’s just something I need to do. Fact and fiction can get mixed up. I tried my hand at journalism but I prefer fiction these days. It’s all fiction anyway after a few beers. Writing helps me make sense of things. I like the way groups of words appear out of nowhere. Felicitous syntactical conjunctions.’

He’s barmy. That’s the trouble with the educated types. Too clever for their own bloody good. But I’ve met worse. Maybe that’s the way you get if you stay here long enough. ‘You stare at the street a lot I notice.’ I say.

‘Yes, I see it and I don’t if you know what I mean. I find it hypnotic.’

‘I was wondering. When I go back to England could you keep an eye on Nok? She’s promised to wait for me. Just pop in once in a while and have a beer.’

‘No way.’ Says Chuck. ‘No offence but I don’t like getting too involved with other people’s romantic liaisons.’ More posh talk. Why can’t he keep it simple?

‘I’ll pay you.’

‘How much?’

So me and Chuck trot off to Nok’s bar and of course she’s not bloody there. That doesn’t stop a couple of other tarts from coming over asking for colas. They soon start the old ‘How long you stay Thailand?’ nonsense.

‘Let’s skip it,’ says Chuck, ‘there are other places.’

So we go to a few more go-go bars but it doesn’t do much for me. I’m just not in the mood for it. We end up in this place in a basement. Thermi Coffee Shop or something. Sort of a pick-up place. Lot of girls hanging around a jukebox. Chuck seems to have a lot of friends down there. I follow him around for a bit. It looks a bit dodgy to me. Japanese blokes. Even some Arab types. But Chuck seems to like it. He tells me he comes here a lot. Used to be great in the old days he says. Always talking about the ‘old days’ is Chuck. You could get a girl long time for 100 baht, beer was only 10 baht etc. etc. Sure, sure. Not much help to me is it?


We find a place to sit and it’s not long before a couple of girls join us. I’m not sure if Chuck knows them or not. I’m not interested myself but he seems happy with his so I buy everybody a drink. My treat. Chuck rattles off a bit of Thai and I take a peek at the girl sitting next to me. Shy type. She does have a pretty smile I must admit. But not as nice as Nok’s.

‘I think she likes you.’ Says Chuck.

‘Wouldn’t be right.’

‘Still thinking about Nok?’

‘Of course. These girls are all on the game right?’

‘And Nok isn’t?’

‘She’s different.’

Chuck gives me a funny look and scribbles something on one of his scraps of paper.


I think he’s getting bored with me. It’s not like I do much and I don’t have anything interesting to say. One day I asked him straight out. ‘Am I getting on your tits?’

‘No not really,’ he says, ‘well yes a bit. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I’m trying to do something a bit different here but it’s not easy coming up with a new angle. I’ve been reading and writing about Bangkok for too long maybe.’

I know bugger all about writing so I’m not much use.

‘What I'm aiming for,’ says Chuck, ‘is a sort of steady drone, like the sound of Bangkok traffic. I want to go beyond Private Dancer. Perhaps it can’t be done. And perhaps you have to be totally jaded to appreciate it.’

Then he says he’s taken this thing as far as he can. Time to call it a day.

‘I can keep it going but the readers will complain.’

‘Sod the readers,’ I say, ‘what about me? You can’t leave me like this.’

‘I’m not sure you’re cut out for Thailand. I’m sending you back to England.’

‘Sod that.’

‘It’s for your own good. You need to go home and think about things. You can always come back. Maybe try Pattaya next time.’

I’m not happy about it but he’s right. And it is his story after all. He said he wanted to get back to basics. He didn’t want his main character to be too complex…an ordinary bloke like me. Bit rude really but what can I do? I hope he’s got what he wanted.


Later we’re sitting on plastic stools out on the street eating noodles. Girls and farang are walking up and down. It all looks a bit rough. A lot of the blokes are well pissed and some of the girls look downright desperate.

‘Wonderful isn’t it?’ says Chuck. ‘This is life stripped to its essentials.’

A girl comes along the street spots us, big smile. ‘Hello Nim,’ says Chuck. Then he gets up, pays his bill and says, ‘Right, I’m off. See you around.’ And off he goes with the girl, just like that, leaving me alone with my thoughts. And that was the last time I saw him.


So here I am back in England. Eating a fry-up on the Motorway. Filthy cold grey weather outside, gloomy people inside, and sod all I can do about it. I’ve tried calling Nok but the cell-phone number she gave me doesn’t work. Wonder what Chuck’s up to? Seeing him nearly every day I got to know him quite well. Can’t say I understand what makes him tick but he certainly made me think. Why would anybody would want to write about somebody like me? I’m just another farang. Same old story. Beats me how he’s going to come up with a new twist to it.

Performance.

Simon and Arthur? Well Simon’s doing OK. (We’re back in the Sixties again now)Everything is ‘weird’ these days. It’s the word of the year. The so-called underground is a weird thing in itself. Simon certainly looks the part but he seems to have slipped into ‘the movement’ by osmosis. On one level you get a bunch of freaks all grooving around stoned out of their pods. If they are political at all they talk about ‘freedom man’ by which Simon presumes they mean artists and musicians controlling the means of distribution. A real revolution. Does he believe that stuff himself? It all sounds a bit Utopian to him. On another level are the hip-capitalists, the hustlers and the bread heads…the opportunists looking for personal enrichment. Is he like that? Or does he fit somewhere in the middle….aware of the dream but keeping one eye on the main chance.

He’s writing lots of reviews and articles NME, Rolling Stone even one or two in the Guardian. Rock writing has evolved. It’s become more sophisticated. Readers have gone beyond wanting to know their idol’s favorite colour. Now they want analysis. He’s got a few screenplay credits and he gets himself on TV a bit. Being married to Samantha hasn’t slowed him down much.

So Simon balances making money with being ‘alternative’ and he’s gathering material for all the biographies he will be writing one day. Accumulating a nice little art collection too.

The British press helps to keep the ball rolling. They disapprove of all the loose behavior of course whilst giving it extensive coverage. There have been a few high profile drug busts thanks to Detective Sergeant Norman Pilcher. Simon manages to stay out of serious trouble.

Does he ever put a foot wrong? Well there was that time when he worked his way onto the set of Performance and got caught taking snaps of Mick Jagger’s tackle. He got kicked out for that by Donald Cammell. Didn’t do any harm in the long run…..most people hated Cammell (he was one of those Satanic types that pop up periodically like Grigori Rasputin and Aleister Crowley).

Trying to get between Nick Kent and Sid Vicious in the 100 Club wasn’t a good idea either. He got the end of a bike chain on his head and needed a few stitches.

But generally speaking the trajectory has been upwards.

Arthur? Well that’s a different matter. He’s stuck in the sweetshop. He also has an unhealthy wife and a rebellious daughter to deal with.

Miss Perfect part 3.

 (More real life adventure from the sleazy underbelly of Bangkok. If you’re new here you may want to go back to Miss Perfect Part 2)

Happy New Year. I’m still here if anyone’s wondering. Basically I just can’t face going back to England in the winter. I know what it will be like. Also let’s be honest I can’t leave Nok. I know I’m not doing myself any good but she’s got under my skin. I can even see her for what she is, a little Thai tart from the country come to Bangkok to make some money. I’m not daft. I can see it all right but it doesn’t help. She’s part of my life.

We don’t talk much. Well we can’t can we? Her English is pretty basic and I only know nitnoi Thai. Just a few words I’ve picked up…sabaidee, kopkun and that. So conversation is limited. I’d like to know more about her family but when I ask she just sort of clams up. What about her mum and dad? They live in a village that’s all I know. I ask her what her father does and she says he is sick. Needs medicine every day. Today she tells me he wants Panasonic. I offer to get some from the pharmacy on the corner but she says no, same-same TV. Oh I see. Her dad wants a new TV. Fair enough. I hope he doesn’t expect me to buy it.

One thing I will say she’s no slouch when it comes to bed games. She seemed to have lots of energy and tell the truth I have a bit of trouble keeping up with her. It’s a relief when she stops sometimes. The part I like best is just lying there with her head on my chest stroking her beautiful black hair. That’s when I wish time would just stop and we could stay like that forever.

Time is funny here. I don’t know what the day of the week it is and I’ve forgotten the date. Which reminds me. I must do something about changing my return flight.

I walk around a bit but I still find myself with time on my hands. I mean how many times can you shuffle along Sukavit looking at T-shirts? Drinking beer is OK but even there you have to watch it. Can’t be staggering around drunk all day like some blokes I’ve seen. So when Nok’s off somewhere I often just lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. I’ve done more thinking since I came here than I’ve ever done in my life. But it’s funny. None of it seems real. I haven’t thought about Lorraine at all. She did OK out of the divorce. She got the lot really. So she’s got no reason to complain. I do think about the kids a bit but they’ll manage. I wasn’t much of a dad come to think of it. Probably better off with me out of the way. If I wasn’t driving lorries I was always in the pub with the lads anyway.

Me and Nok had our first little fight today. Well not a fight exactly more of a misunderstanding like. We’re on the Sky train right and she catches me looking at a Thai girl sat opposite with big tits hanging out of her tank top. ‘You like?’ Nok asks. So I give her a bit of a nudge and say ‘Oh yes, very sexy.’ or something like that. Should have kept my bloody mouth shut. Later in the room she’s obviously upset, won’t let me look at her tits.

‘Nom Nok small,’ she says, ‘no sexy.’

‘No, no, no,’ I say, ‘they’re lovely. Just right. Come here.’ But she’s not having it. The damage is done and anything I say just makes it worse. Women. They take every little thing you say and build it up into something else. You can’t bloody win. She’s OK after a bit of shopping but it shows how careful you have to be with them. Look on the bright side…if something like that upsets her it means she’s serious about me. Trouble is she thinks I’ve got an endless supply of money.

I saw that Chuck bloke again today. He’s sitting in his usual position in the Golden Bar staring at the street. He looks happy enough and the girls seem to leave him alone. He chugs away at his Singha and every now and then he writes something on a scrap of paper. Strange people writers. Wonder what drives them. He seems friendly enough though so I sit down.

‘Oh hello,’ he says, ‘how’s things?’ Hard to tell if he really cares or not. He acts like he’s seen it all before. I tell him I’m doing OK.

‘And how’s Miss Perfect?’

‘She’s all right I think. I never know what’s going on in her head tell the truth. Seems happy.’

‘That’s good.’

I tell him I just got my flight changed. Got another month here.

‘Ah,’ he says, ‘Sounds like you’ll be doing a visa run.’

We talk about the options. Down to Malaysia on the train doesn’t sound too bad. Or a bus trip to Cambodia. Not a big deal says Chuck. Expats do it all the time. You’ll get used to it. Then he says,  ‘You’ve read Private Dancer right?’

‘How did you know?’

‘It says so in Part 1.’

‘Don’t tell me you wrote that.’

He laughs. ‘No, not me. Stephen Leather wrote it. The bastard didn’t miss much either. Other Bangkok writers hate him.’

Professional jealousy I suppose. I’m not really much of a reader but I might have another look at that Private Dancer book. See if I can relate to any of it. Perhaps I missed something. I do seem to have a bit of time on my hands when Nok takes off. It will be something to do. That Chuck’s a funny one. I bet he’s wondering how to spin this story out a bit longer.

Henry James.

“If you write fiction you are, in a sense, corrupted. There's a tremendous corruptibility for the fiction writer because you're dealing mainly with sex and violence. These remain the basic themes, they're the basic themes of Shakespeare whether you like it or not.”

Anthony Burgess said that. He was talking about himself of course but he could have added something to the effect of Henry James being a minority taste. Poor old Henry. He  liked to use long sentences and excessively latinate language. He avoided violence and he  found the sexual side of human relations somewhat distasteful.

He did have some kind words for Guy de Maupassant, who could be quite saucy, and he had a few lady-friends… but he didn’t let them get too close. And in case you’re wondering there is no evidence of gayness. He didn’t care much for Oscar Wilde’s lifestyle either. So it’s probably safe to say Henry saved his sexual energy for his writing.

Be that as it may what Burgess says is true. We writers start out with lofty intentions but quickly degenerate. Of course it also has a lot to do with what people like to read.

For those of you who come here for the naughty bits, I haven’t forgotten about Miss Perfect. Part 3 is coming up. Why not read David Lodge’s excellent biography of Henry James  ‘Author, Author’ while you’re waiting?

Virgin Gorda.

One of the islands is named Virgin Gorda. There’s a place there called The Baths. They are big granite rocks with a maze of pools and grottoes. Geologists aren’t sure how the rocks got there. I'm not sure how I got there either but it’s a special place for me. Last time I was here was on my honeymoon.

                

I got Ning and Nong sitting on the very same rock where my wife sat forty some odd years ago. I did it deliberately to see how I would feel. It was strange to see what time had done. What you could call a bitter-sweet moment.

I met my first wife, Jane, in a TV studio. She was one of the beautiful people. There was her and Chrissie Shrimpton, another beautiful person, and me and Screaming Lord Sutch. It was a panel discussion for Swinging Londoners. “So Swinging Dick. I hear you were in Carnaby Street recently. See anything you fancied?” “Lulu’s new single is out and I hear it’s fab.” and so on. After we all went for a nosh somewhere and ended up back at her place in Hampstead.

Lovely wedding. Keith Moon was best man and we had a bunch of Swedish models for bridesmaids. London was crawling with them in those days. Keith was importing them by the case. Rod the Mod showed up pissed and sang Maggy May. David Bailey took some snaps. Looking back I think she was going through her footballer phase. She’d done a bunch of pop stars, couple of photographers, and she thought it might be fun to try a footballer.

She liked showing me off to her friends I think. Why was that? Maybe I was more ‘real’ or something. Her very own authentic working-class yob. Look everybody how we’ve broken down the class barriers! Bollocks. We got married for several reasons I think but she did it mainly to piss her parents off. They were posh, big house in the country, dogs and horses and all that. I think they were handicapped though. We went to their place after the wedding and I didn’t hear them say a word the whole time I was there. Very quiet people. Somebody did come up with 2 tickets to BVI which was nice. It seems like another lifetime now.

Jane wasn’t Samantha. More of a consolation prize. I know, I know, nothing worse than listening to blokes going on about their ex-wives.

 
Anyway the girls looked sweet sitting on that exact same rock. It might even have some deep significance.

What happened with Sir Julian? Glad you asked. He showed up on my boat around mid-morning looking not too bad considering. I said, “Morning Julian. Sleep well? Where’s the missus?”
“Ethel went into Road town. To get her hair done.” Well that won’t do her much good, I thought. Needs a new face to go with it.
“So you’ve got a bit of time to yourself then Julian?”
“Couple of hours I’d say,” says he, looking at his watch. I’ve already sent Danny, Nok and Nyum off to the beach but I can hear Ning and Nong giggling in the cabin. So can Julian.
“Come on out girls.” I say, “Mai tawng ai. Come and say hallo to Khun Julian.”
Out they pop in their little tank tops and panties and give the old goat a wai like I told them.
“Delightful,” he says. “Absolutely delightful.” He still can’t believe his luck.
“I’ll leave you to it then Julian,” I say, “You’ve got a few berths in there to choose from and the cabin door locks from the inside. Make yourself at home.”
“Jolly decent of you Dick….hardly know how to thank you.” he mumbles. “One hesitates to broach the subject of renumeration but….”
“Don’t broach it then mate. Us Bangkok warriors have to stick together.” Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. And that was it. Sir Julian was gone for his oats. I didn’t tell him about the mini-cams but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Bomba's.

So after a nap and a bite to eat I leave the crew watching “Survivor” and take a taxi out to Bomba’s Shack where I find Julian waiting. Turns out he’s a rum drinker so we order up a bottle of Pusser’s Original Old Navy. Sailors in the old days used to get a pint a day of this stuff every day. Extra before battle. Even the gunners.

“That was quite a shock seeing you today like that Headley.” Says Sir. J.
“Call me Dick. Yes funny how things happen isn’t it?”


I’m guessing this is Julian’s first time in Bomba’s. It’s an odd place. Made out of driftwood and old hubcaps. There’s graffiti all over the walls and bras and panties dangling everywhere. I spot Bomba in his usual place behind the bar. He’s a big black bloke. I give him a wave but he probably doesn’t remember me. He meets a lot of people. Me and Julian talk about this and that. London in the sixties, Arsenal, boats and the sailing thereof. I notice he’s tucking into the rum so I order another bottle.
“Like the Pusser’s do you Julian?”
“Love it,” says he, “can you keep a secret Dick?”
“Course.”
“Well between you and me I have been to Bangkok. More than once.”
“Really?” I’m glad I brought the tape recorder now. This is going to cost the bugger. “On business I suppose?”
“Well yes and no. I went to a conference in Hong Kong the first time and some of the chaps wanted to look do a little side-trip if you know what I mean.”
“To Bangkok?”
“Yes. See some of these dens of iniquity one hears so much about.”
“Like Patpong and that? Get your winkle wet did you?”
“Oh indeed I did Dick. You know how it is there I see. Well of course one thing lead to another and, to be perfectly frank, I developed a bit of a taste for it.”
“It can happen Julian. Similar thing with me really…..” and so on. I let Julian do the talking. It was like he had all the stuff dammed up inside his head and I was his best mate. Somewhere along the line he mentioned my crew.
“I must say Dick those are some saucy little vixens you have on your boat. You’re a lucky fellow. I’m stuck with Ethel.”
“Yes I noticed. Tell you what Julian. I could fix you up with one of the girls if you fancy it.”
“Ha, ha. Good one Dick,” He’s well pissed by now.
“I’m serious. Have a couple if you like. They like a change. Borrow my boat. Get ‘em up the foc’sle.” Got him thinking now I have. This is the best thing to happen to him for some time. He’s half-cut but not quite all the way yet. He’s probably wondering how he can get away with it. It’s that legal mind at work.
“This is awfully decent of you Dick. Can we talk about it tomorrow?”
“No problem mate. Bring the missus if you like.” After the third bottle he was in the mood for a bit of a sing-song but I didn’t want to wake up everybody in Soper’s Hole. Got him back to the Marina OK and put him on the right boat. Hope I did anyway. Or somebody’s going to get a nasty shock in the morning.