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.