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….