Thanks for the feedback. You
know who you are. And while we’re on the subject of feedback I’ll take whatever
you’ve got. “Keep going Dick, you da man!” “Shut the fuck up you old wanker!”
Say what you want. I can handle it. Have you ever met someone who doesn’t give
a shit? You have now.
I believe. I was telling you about my days as a punk rock entrepreneur. Got sidetracked no doubt.
Well I can't say it was one of my proudest moments. You will recall I was touring the States with a group of young English louts. Doing OK too. Merkans loved it. Well some of them did. They love anything new over there and punk was hot. Somebody needed to capitalize on the efforts of Messrs. Rotten and Vicious. They’d got a niche audience nicely warmed up and ready for the next wave. Enter Headley and the Stench.
We’d cracked the one-nighters in the cowboy bars and trashed a few theaters. I’d done the odd talk show. We had a hit single “F*ck Everybody” and we were starting to get into stadiums. The money was coming in and I had a few record companies on the hook. If things went well I’d soon be able to piss off somewhere with the filthy lucre and leave the group to self-destruct. Worked for me a few times but nothing lasts forever.
Anyway there I was in Bakersfield, Calif. with my lads. We’d just done a gig at some dump and wham along comes a big lawsuit. It was our misfortune to cross paths with Pedro and Manuel Gonzales. Manuel was a bright young fellow from Sonora who arrived in the US in the back of a car driven by his brother Pedro. Manuel settled in quickly. He'd only been out of the trunk two days before he landed a job as a cleaner in a Holiday Inn. One of Manuel’s duties was keeping the parking lot tidy. He was sweeping up some broken TVs one morning when he got an idea.
Couple of weeks later we’re in L.A. packing up to go back to England. I’m just getting the groupies to sign their waivers when there’s a knock on the door.
It’s a lawyer representing a Mr. Manuel Gonzales, a citizen of Mexico currently employed as a parking attendant at the Bakersfield Holiday Inn. Seems his client got hit on the head by a television control knob! What!?! Not the fucking set mark you! A fucking knob.!! Furthermore, furthermore!, his client was unable to work for a month and had to undergo expensive medical treatment. And the lawyer had a sheaf of doctor’s bills to prove it. Even an X-ray showing a piece of Panasonic in Manuel’s arse. Course TVs were a lot bigger and heavier in them days but still.
In court Manuel identifies our bass player as the man who threw the TV at him, senor.
That cost us a million dollars out of court that did. As I said to Oscar, when we were walking along Malibu beach picking our way between the starlets, next time I’ll aim for his fucking head. Probably bounce right off Dick, says Oscar.
“Wetbacks and Jews? You didn’t stand a chance Dick.” Says Oscar. (I’m sorry if this offends anybody but that’s the way he talks. Comes from reading too much Elmore Leonard. I’m actually toning it down.) “Did you have any witnesses?”
“Just the lads. They’re always very careful where they throw stuff.”
I’d first met Oscar at the Altamont Speedway. The Rolling Stones free concert you may have heard about. He called himself a promoter at the time. When I met him he was promoting a dodgy brand of acid. The lawsuit had left me skint...well let's say I was down to my last half million or so which doesn’t go far in California. I was moving around a lot, staying with whoever would have me. Not the way I liked to live. The album “SHITE” wasn’t selling like we’d hoped it would. The Fukkers had fucked off, The Scum was breaking up and people had got used to the Stench.
I’d run into Mal Evans again. I was hanging out with him and Keith Moon and a bloke called Harry. Lennon showed up with a Chinese girl, May something and we all went on the piss together. Good laugh that was until Mal got shot by some police officers. I’ve heard different versions of the story, the gun wasn’t loaded, it was just an air rifle, Mal was just clowning around. Anyway he’s dead. Poor old Mal
Things got bad and I phoned Oscar for assistance. Told him I needed a place to get wasted, preferably with running Southern Comfort and soundproof walls. “Whatever gets you through the night Dick.” Said Oscar. “Come on over.” He gives me an address in Malibu.
I believe. I was telling you about my days as a punk rock entrepreneur. Got sidetracked no doubt.
Well I can't say it was one of my proudest moments. You will recall I was touring the States with a group of young English louts. Doing OK too. Merkans loved it. Well some of them did. They love anything new over there and punk was hot. Somebody needed to capitalize on the efforts of Messrs. Rotten and Vicious. They’d got a niche audience nicely warmed up and ready for the next wave. Enter Headley and the Stench.
We’d cracked the one-nighters in the cowboy bars and trashed a few theaters. I’d done the odd talk show. We had a hit single “F*ck Everybody” and we were starting to get into stadiums. The money was coming in and I had a few record companies on the hook. If things went well I’d soon be able to piss off somewhere with the filthy lucre and leave the group to self-destruct. Worked for me a few times but nothing lasts forever.
Anyway there I was in Bakersfield, Calif. with my lads. We’d just done a gig at some dump and wham along comes a big lawsuit. It was our misfortune to cross paths with Pedro and Manuel Gonzales. Manuel was a bright young fellow from Sonora who arrived in the US in the back of a car driven by his brother Pedro. Manuel settled in quickly. He'd only been out of the trunk two days before he landed a job as a cleaner in a Holiday Inn. One of Manuel’s duties was keeping the parking lot tidy. He was sweeping up some broken TVs one morning when he got an idea.
Couple of weeks later we’re in L.A. packing up to go back to England. I’m just getting the groupies to sign their waivers when there’s a knock on the door.
It’s a lawyer representing a Mr. Manuel Gonzales, a citizen of Mexico currently employed as a parking attendant at the Bakersfield Holiday Inn. Seems his client got hit on the head by a television control knob! What!?! Not the fucking set mark you! A fucking knob.!! Furthermore, furthermore!, his client was unable to work for a month and had to undergo expensive medical treatment. And the lawyer had a sheaf of doctor’s bills to prove it. Even an X-ray showing a piece of Panasonic in Manuel’s arse. Course TVs were a lot bigger and heavier in them days but still.
In court Manuel identifies our bass player as the man who threw the TV at him, senor.
That cost us a million dollars out of court that did. As I said to Oscar, when we were walking along Malibu beach picking our way between the starlets, next time I’ll aim for his fucking head. Probably bounce right off Dick, says Oscar.
“Wetbacks and Jews? You didn’t stand a chance Dick.” Says Oscar. (I’m sorry if this offends anybody but that’s the way he talks. Comes from reading too much Elmore Leonard. I’m actually toning it down.) “Did you have any witnesses?”
“Just the lads. They’re always very careful where they throw stuff.”
I’d first met Oscar at the Altamont Speedway. The Rolling Stones free concert you may have heard about. He called himself a promoter at the time. When I met him he was promoting a dodgy brand of acid. The lawsuit had left me skint...well let's say I was down to my last half million or so which doesn’t go far in California. I was moving around a lot, staying with whoever would have me. Not the way I liked to live. The album “SHITE” wasn’t selling like we’d hoped it would. The Fukkers had fucked off, The Scum was breaking up and people had got used to the Stench.
I’d run into Mal Evans again. I was hanging out with him and Keith Moon and a bloke called Harry. Lennon showed up with a Chinese girl, May something and we all went on the piss together. Good laugh that was until Mal got shot by some police officers. I’ve heard different versions of the story, the gun wasn’t loaded, it was just an air rifle, Mal was just clowning around. Anyway he’s dead. Poor old Mal
Things got bad and I phoned Oscar for assistance. Told him I needed a place to get wasted, preferably with running Southern Comfort and soundproof walls. “Whatever gets you through the night Dick.” Said Oscar. “Come on over.” He gives me an address in Malibu.
07/21/2014
Her
Majesty’s Consul has a general-purpose office in a bungalow in a leafy suburb
of Madras. It isn’t the Raj but he gets the occasional flashback. There is a
punkah but no wallah. He affects a Somerset Maugham persona in keeping with
some short stories he is working on. He keeps the rejection slips in a drawer
with the Foreign Office Seal.
The Consul looks across the verandah, past the banyan tree to the driveway where a figure is approaching. Oh God no….not another scruffy person. Looking for help most likely.
He had been hoping to do a bit of work on his book….a children’s story. He almost has it ready for submission. He had shown a rough draft to a publisher friend in London who had been encouraging. Other than that there issn’t a lot for a consul to do in Madras to be frank. Renew the odd passport, attend the odd reception, repatriate the odd misguided youth. Seem to be quite a few of those showing up lately. Wonder what they are looking for? Themselves? And here comes another one.
This one seems quite delirious, rambling on about ashrams and Rolls Royces and beatles and a pregnant girl-friend.
The consul is friendly but firm. He knows Surrey and Sussex quite well. He has an aunt in Sussex in fact. Near East Grinstead actually. Really? Yes. He is prepared to issue some temporary travel documents but all expenses must be reimbursed to HMG within six months of Arthur’s return to England otherwise he would not get a new passport. He would have to pick up his ticket in Delhi. Arthur agrees to the conditions. It ttakes an hour or two for the documents to arrive. Arthur mumbles something about a train ticket and goes back down the driveway.
That’s true about the consul having an aunt in Sussex by the way. Her name is Claire and she’s a schoolteacher. She wears a tweed suit and wool stockings. She has a black spaniel called Scamp and a bicycle with a basket on front, which she uses when she shops in the village. I know what you’re thinking. Peripheral character, no connection to the story, if you can call it a story. You have a point. The plane from Delhi to London took about 12 hours. Which meant that Arthur’s homecoming was somewhat abrupt and required numerous rapid mental adjustments. The consul meanwhile has decided to have another go at writing a children’s story...this is not the consul of Malcolm Lowry’s ‘Under the Volcano’…..this consul has a tight grip on reality….
‘Scamp was a lovely dog but he could be quite naughty sometimes. He loved to chase after rabbits and sometimes he forgot about everything and became (got?) lost. Once he was gone for two whole days! When he came back he was all muddy and covered with brambles/burrs. But he was so happy to be home it was hard to be angry with him...’
The Consul looks across the verandah, past the banyan tree to the driveway where a figure is approaching. Oh God no….not another scruffy person. Looking for help most likely.
He had been hoping to do a bit of work on his book….a children’s story. He almost has it ready for submission. He had shown a rough draft to a publisher friend in London who had been encouraging. Other than that there issn’t a lot for a consul to do in Madras to be frank. Renew the odd passport, attend the odd reception, repatriate the odd misguided youth. Seem to be quite a few of those showing up lately. Wonder what they are looking for? Themselves? And here comes another one.
This one seems quite delirious, rambling on about ashrams and Rolls Royces and beatles and a pregnant girl-friend.
The consul is friendly but firm. He knows Surrey and Sussex quite well. He has an aunt in Sussex in fact. Near East Grinstead actually. Really? Yes. He is prepared to issue some temporary travel documents but all expenses must be reimbursed to HMG within six months of Arthur’s return to England otherwise he would not get a new passport. He would have to pick up his ticket in Delhi. Arthur agrees to the conditions. It ttakes an hour or two for the documents to arrive. Arthur mumbles something about a train ticket and goes back down the driveway.
That’s true about the consul having an aunt in Sussex by the way. Her name is Claire and she’s a schoolteacher. She wears a tweed suit and wool stockings. She has a black spaniel called Scamp and a bicycle with a basket on front, which she uses when she shops in the village. I know what you’re thinking. Peripheral character, no connection to the story, if you can call it a story. You have a point. The plane from Delhi to London took about 12 hours. Which meant that Arthur’s homecoming was somewhat abrupt and required numerous rapid mental adjustments. The consul meanwhile has decided to have another go at writing a children’s story...this is not the consul of Malcolm Lowry’s ‘Under the Volcano’…..this consul has a tight grip on reality….
‘Scamp was a lovely dog but he could be quite naughty sometimes. He loved to chase after rabbits and sometimes he forgot about everything and became (got?) lost. Once he was gone for two whole days! When he came back he was all muddy and covered with brambles/burrs. But he was so happy to be home it was hard to be angry with him...’
Panama canal.
07/24/2014
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