Cremation pt 2. Stickyfingers.

(For new readers: Arthur is in England for his mother’s funeral. Whilst having lunch with his old friend Simon in Sticky Fingers he suddenly needs a pee.)

On the way to the gents Arthur takes in more Rolling Stones memorabilia. There are photos on every wall, Stones in action, Stones in recording studios, on airplanes, hanging out with famous old blues men. There in a case is the actual bass guitar Bill Wyman used to hide behind on so many stages.

The toilet itself is immaculate. Arthur stands pissing against the tiles, slowly. Prostate playing up again. You can’t always get what you want...but if you try sometime…oh never mind. In front at eye level are more pictures of the Stones…Jagger in full strut, a debauched looking Richards, fag in mouth, wringing out down and dirty riffs. So this was Wyman’s reward for standing like a tombstone in the shadows thumping out bass lines every night. Not bad.

Back from the toilet Arthur finds Simon talking to a familiar looking figure in dark slacks and a white silk shirt. He catches the words ‘spirituality’ and ‘bollocks’. Bloody hell...it is Bill Wyman himself. He’s pulled up a spare chair and he's fiddling with a cell phone or a Blackberry whatever they call the bloody things.

“Bill,” says Simon, “This is a friend of mine. Arthur. We were at school together.”
“That’s nice, old boys reunion is it,” says Bill, “food OK?”
“Very nice thanks.” Says Arthur. “Nice restaurant.”

“Thanks,” says Bill, “It’s fairly lucrative. I can’t rely on Stones royalties to support me.”
“Arthur lives in Thailand.” Says Simon.
“That’s nice,” says Bill, “we were there. Can’t say I remember much of it. What brings you to England? Must be strange for you?”
Arthur says something about his mother’s funeral. Bill is sorry to hear that.
“Enjoy your lunch gentlemen,” says Bill and wanders off.
“Nice fellow.” Says Arthur.
“Bill’s alright.” Says Simon. “His son married his ex-wife’s mother you know.”

Arthur talks about Thailand. His life in the village. He tries to be honest but he can’t find the words. Never could. Simon for his part is wondering why he ever came to be friendly with Arthur in the first place. School of course. They were a bit different from most of the other boys in some way. Shared an interest in American Blues Music, very much a minority taste at the time. But why did I waste so much time on the bugger thinks Simon. How do we choose our friends? If we do make a conscious choice. He’s a loser. Nowhere Man. OK we were at school together but so what? We even hitchhiked to India together for God’s sake! What a waste of time that was. He’s just a drain. He just mooched around...silly bugger. No dress sense. He seems to think I have the key to some door he can’t get through. Perhaps I do but he’ll never get through it dressed like a tramp.

“And it suits you then does it? Living in Thailand. The climate and everything?” Simon asks.

Arthur wants to explain. But where to start? There was just too much of it. And bitter experience has taught Arthur that trying to explain about Thailand to someone who hasn’t lived there is not a good idea. He could stick to the safe stuff of course, food, climate, but was there any point in telling Simon about the feeling of freedom, the absence of Western hang-ups, the laissez-faire way of living? Probably not. People had seen too many TV documentaries about Thai bar girls.

Arthur decides to go with his stock answers. He could have mumbled something about wanting to ‘isolate himself from civilization’ a la Gauguin...but even that isn’t the whole truth. Self-disgust would be closer but being candid has its limits. He tries to tell Simon why he had moved to a remote Thai village. How he had hoped to lose himself, his Self, in such a place. He was tired of his own ego, fed up with sentences beginning with ‘I’, bored with desire…his own and other people’s.

“And did you?” Simon asks.
“Did I what?”
“Get your ego absorbed into the cosmos or whatever?”
“No, of course not. I’m still me.”
Pudding arrives. Hot Fudge & Pecan Nut Brownie smothered in Hot Chocolate Sauce, with Vanilla Ice Cream, £5, for Simon. Blueberry Cheesecake with fresh Blueberry Compote, £4.50, for Arthur.

“What about sex then.” Simon asks, “Are these...er...Thai girls all they’re cracked up to be?”
“In what way?”
“Well you know. Are they really as...er...submissive as we’ve been led to believe?”
“Well I wouldn’t say submissive exactly. But they’ll wash your socks.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. And clip your toenails.”
“Amazing. Hard to find that kind of service here these days.”
“You should come over,” says Arthur, “see for yourself.”
“I just might. And you could help me along? Show me the dos and don’ts?”
“Gladly. I could show you some shortcuts. If you’re going to have a mid-life crisis you might as well get it right.”
“But it’s a fantasy surely?” says Simon. Arthur chews quietly without responding. “So you’re going back to Thailand?”
“Nothing for me here.”

Arthur thinks he’d better change the subject. Does Simon still live in that mews house in Chelsea? Oh yes,” says 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. If you can find the right Russian oligarch to buy it. Had a house in the Cotswolds too. When the kids were small.”
“Let me guess,” said Arthur, “nice little village school? No wogs?”
“Hmmm, naughty, naughty Arthur. Let’s not go there, as our American cousins would say. Oh…and we have a farmhouse in Tuscany. I say we. Samantha uses it more than I do.”
“So you did OK then.” Says Arthur, wondering what it must be like to have houses worth millions.
“Not complaining,” says Simon, “amazing really to think that it was all done with words on paper. And that it all started back in the Swinging Sixties. I certainly had no idea things would turn out this way.”
“Good for you.”
“London’s changed a lot though,” says Simon, “It would be nice to live out of town. But even there I keep thinking I’m going to look out one morning and find half the East European workforce camped out in the paddock barbecuing someone’s Shetland pony.”
“Could be Chinks,” says Arthur, “those buggers will eat anything.”
“Hmmm. We don't actually use expressions like that anymore Arthur. But you're right. England has changed. And not all for the better.”
“I noticed,” says Arthur, “are you still into politics?”
“Were all middle class now. It’s a New Labour World. The Third Way.”
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t worry about it. The music is mostly shite too,” says Simon, “just a lot of one hit wonders. And don’t get me started on St. 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. These days I’m 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.”
“Do you still like music?” Arthur asks.
“Some of it why?”
“Sounds like rubbish to me.”
“It’s only rock and roll.” Says Simon. “Perhaps it wasn’t supposed to be around this long. Look at the rich old rockers, up there with the gods to all intents and purposes, on top of the world. Now they’re just trying to come to terms with the aging process. Another thing, I can’t believe the stuff the kids are listening to. It’s downright nasty. But I guess that’s the point. I’m not supposed to like it. Been there done that. Offend your parents. The funny thing is I know exactly what’s going on. And the kids know I know. It’s weird. Almost makes me believe in karma.

“You’ve achieved a lot.” Says Arthur 
“In what way?”
“Well in your writing.”
”Call it writing? It’s not bloody writing. It’s crap. Nabokov, Burgess, Amis...that’s writing. What I do is rubbish. I’ve got a novel or two in me probably but I never got around to writing them. Have you read Houellebecq?”
“No should I?”
“Up to you. One of his books is set in Thailand. Basically he thinks humanity is at an end...or evolving into something not very nice. He’s a piss-taker too of course.”
“I’ll give it a try.” Arthur says, “Are you working on anything at the moment?”
“The Beeb puts a bit of work my way,” says Simon. “And there’s always newspaper and magazine articles. Which reminds me, we’d better be off.” Arthur reaches for the bill but Simon has already picked it up. “The Bill from the Bill,” he says.

As they walk towards the cashier Bill Wyman comes up to them again. “I’ll take that,” he says removing the bill from Simon’s hand. “Thanks for dropping by Simon. Come again.”
“I will,” says Simon, “and I’ll get you on the show one of these days too.”
“Anytime.” Says Bill.

Out on the street they both agree that was nice, let’s keep in touch, yes let’s, and similar English parting phrases. Arthur watches Simon hail a cab and decides to walk back to Victoria. This might be a good time to have him beaten up by teenage girls but he’s had a long day so let’s go easy on him.

Cremation pt 1. British Rail.

Flashback alert. Talking of funerals. I wasn’t the only expat in Thailand who went home for one. Arthur did it too. It was a cremation in his case.

Arthur watched his mother’s coffin slide slowly through a curtain into the waiting furnace and felt nothing much at all. Outside the funeral home, in the windswept car park, Arthur confronted the handful of guests. The drizzle and the dripping rhododendrons helped him hit the right tone. None of the guests had lingered for long. Arthur couldn’t blame them. There wasn’t much reason to hang around. His mother’s empty house was depressing. He’d wasted no time listing it with a local estate agent and that was that.

Which left him with a couple of days before his flight back to Thailand. What to do with the time? He dialed Simon’s number and got him first time. ‘Bloody hell Arthur!’ said Simon. ‘I thought you were dead!’ ‘Not just yet,’ said Arthur, ‘but I did just get my mother cremated.’ Simon said he was sorry to hear that. His own mother had recently passed away. Arthur said he was sorry to hear that. They agreed to meet for lunch in London the next day.

Arthur managed to buy a one-way ticket to Victoria from the machine without too much trouble. A girl wearing a hijab directed him to the right platform. But the train which slid silently into Haywards Heath Station was unlike any Southern Railways conveyance Arthur had ever seen. It was certainly not the Brighton Belle. It had Dr. Who sliding doors and an Enid Blyton colour scheme. The style known as British Modern he supposed. Once inside he looked in vain for watercolours of Penzance, pictures of strange people in bathing costumes. Gone. Gone with the string net luggage racks and the leather straps that held the windows up. But there was a digital information screen which he soon got the hang of, and he had to admit the seats were comfortable. The view wasn’t bad either. Leafless oak trees, animals standing around in sodden fields, rows of brick houses, platforms appearing on cue, Three Bridges, Gatwick, Horley, people getting on and off, even the odd handcart loaded with mailbags, Redhill, Merstham, it was all pretty much as remembered. There were no steam engines or heaps of coal. And he didn’t see any children waving. Did they still do that he wondered?

Victoria Station itself hadn’t changed much but security was tight. Arthur got through the signs and announcements, past the policemen, policewomen, police-dogs and a maze of concrete blocks and traffic cones after which it wasn’t hard to find a hotel within walking distance. Fast food was obviously popular. Every other shop seemed to be a KFC franchise. Odd really. It was as if England was trying to be like America but without the space. Or the inclination. Most people seemed happy about the changes. Others were grinning and bearing it in a Churchillian sort of way.

Arthur didn’t feel quite up to venturing underground. Pedestrians were mostly all talking into cell-phones. After a couple of false starts he found somebody who spoke reasonable English and asked the way to Kensington. He got a heart-warming 'You’re standing in it mate.' Good to see amateur comedy still alive and well. Some things never change.

Arthur found his way to the restaurant, Sticky Fingers. And there waiting outside, in tailored, slightly flared, grey flannel slacks and a Lakers jacket was Simon. Older, silver haired but still dapper and lively. So far so good.

“So this is where the in crowd eat.” said Arthur, looking round the crowded restaurant.

“Not really,” says Simon, switching seamlessly to the present tense, “these people are tourists, Yanks mostly, Stone’s fans. Bill gets to display his souvenirs. The food’s not bad and I thought you might be interested.”

They start with Grilled Portobello Mushroom & Goat's Cheese served on a Crostini with Basil Oil. £5.25.

“So how are things?” Simon asks.
“Things are fine,” says Arthur, “bit strange being back in England after so many years I must say.”

Yes, thinks Simon. I suppose you must. He watches Arthur tackling his mushroom. In his crumpled clothes, straight out of a backpack probably, he looks as though he might be happier sitting on the floor of a bamboo hut somewhere dipping into the communal rice-bowl or whatever they do in those places. Same sloppy old Arthur. Still no sense of style. Looks like he cuts his own hair by candlelight. He’s talking a mile a minute too. As if he’s just come out of solitary confinement.

Not that Simon is paying much attention anyway. He’s thinking about an article he has to finish for the Guardian some time in the next few days. Something about spirituality and pop music they said. Is there anything spiritual about pop music? Andrew Oldham seemed to think so in ‘2Stoned’. Simon wasn’t so sure but if ALO could make a case for it so could Simon. Why not? Progressive vicars will be playing U2 music in churches soon. And there’s something spiritual about everything if you think about it long enough.

Simon likes that last line so much he makes a note of it on one of Bill’s napkins. He loves the way lines like that come out of nowhere. They make perfect springboards for elaboration and clever bits of wordplay. And maybe it is time somebody took pop music seriously. To most people it’s just a bit of candy for the kiddies. But we’ve come a long way from the days of teenage girls screaming and creaming the seats. Even they were trying to get in touch with something bigger than themselves. If you think about it.

Maybe Bill would have some thoughts on the matter. Is there any point in asking Arthur, the newly returned wise man from the East? Simon thinks not. He orders the Roast Rump Of Lamb With Herb Crust, Potato gratin and basil jus. £14.45. Arthur thinks he’ll try the Sea Bass Fillet Wrapped In Banana Leaf with Sticky Rice and Thai Green Curry Sauce. £13.95. Simon orders a bottle of Spanish Rioja Crianza Vega. Savoury, spicy fruit with supple tannin, £5.75/glass £22/bottle. Arthur tries, not very hard, to convert it into Thai baht.

“Something wrong?”

“No, no. I was just checking the prices.”

“Very reasonable here.”

‘This may sound pretentious,’ Simon scribbles between bites, ‘but a really good hit record can grab you by the balls and put you in tune with the cosmos. Seriously, I don’t care what it is, ‘Mandy’ say, or ‘Good Vibrations’, ‘Imagine’, ‘Satisfaction’, ‘Dancing Queen’, you hear stuff like that under the right conditions and you know you’ve been touched by a few minutes of magic.’ Surprising really how few people can see it.

Arthur meanwhile has been droning on. Something about the Burmese border, mumble, mumble. Now he’s asking a question. About Samantha.

“Sam? She’s fine.” Says Simon. “Fine. We still live together...separately if you know what I mean. It’s an open-ended relationship. No sex.”
“How are the children?”
“Fine, fine. Barnaby is still developing property. Big deal in Dubai currently. Freya has her own clothing line now and the twins are in a band. Satan’s Anus.”
“Sorry?”
“Satan’s Anus. That’s the name of the group Giles and Barnaby are in. They have an album coming out and they just got busted for heroine so it should do well.”
Arthur says nothing so Simon continues. “Don’t look so worried Arthur. The drug bust is just a publicity stunt. My grand-children are typical teenagers really. It’s a phase they all go through these days.”
“The whole bloody world is going through a phase if you ask me,” says Arthur, “will it come out the other end is the question.”
“Yes, well, who knows? Good old Arthur. Same old pessimist I see.”
“It’s from his father’s side,” says Arthur’s mother’s ghost.
“I need a pee,” says Arthur.

Bombed out.

 

I’m piddling about while we wait for Oscar to get his treasure hunt organized.  I also have to do something about Arthur. He’s stuck in Bangkok waiting for Simon to show up and make some kind of documentary about the naughty nightlife. Should be fun.
All in good time. Meanwhile here’s something self-indulgent that I wrote about my mum.

I was in my Pattaya apartment when mum died. Can’t remember exactly what I was doing. Getting me leg over most likely.

My daughter Jane phoned. “Dad? Is that you Dad? Gran’s dead.”

Put me off my stroke that did. I packed a bag and grabbed a taxi to Don Muang. Next thing I know I’m at Heathrow still smelling of knock-off Giorgio.

Mum died in a nursing home in Eastbourne. Choked on a boiled sweet and tripped over a Chihuahua. Probably for the best. She’d had arthritis for some time and it wasn’t getting any better. She’d never really been the same since they took Dr. Collis-Browne’s off the market. She liked a few drops in her stout did mum, got the habit off of Gran I think. Buried in Highbury. Just a few of her friends showed up. And a cousin or two I hardly knew. Samantha came with a bunch of flowers but we didn’t talk.

Mum was a good ’un alright. Adolf bombed us out of three houses but I never heard her moanin’. I stood by her grave thinking about the song she loved to sing…

Sometimes when I feel low
and things look blue
I wish a boy I had... say one like you.
Someone within my heart to build a throne
Someone who'd never part, to call my own
If you were the only girl in the world
and I were the only boy
Nothing else would matter in the world today
We could go on loving in the same old way

A garden of Eden just made for two
With nothing to mar our joy
I would say such wonderful things to you
There would be such wonderful things to do
If you were the only girl in the world
and I were the only boy.

Lovely song that. It was written in 1916 by Clifford Grey and Nat D. Ayer for a hit musical from the same year, The Bing Boys Are Here. Mum would have been a starry-eyed teenage girl at the time (this is long before nosh pits). A lot of artists have recorded it over the years, including Perry Como. Here's Violet Lorraine and George Robey singing it in 1916.

Sing along if you feel like it. Don't be shy. I do it all the time.

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Oscar's Island Pt. 5 Kawaii

This may be of interest to those readers who are like fashion.

“You’ve been to Japan right Dick?” asks Oscar one evening.
“Oh yes.” I reply
“Any idea why Japanese girls have knock knees and pigeon toes? And what’s all that school uniform stuff about?”

I admit to having been somewhat intrigued by Japanese fashions myself at one point. I’m not talking about things like sushi, Hokusai prints and cherry blossom.  It's a question most visitors to Japan ask themselves at some time or other. Oscar is certainly not the first Western male to be distracted by Japanese school girls and their mysterious ways.

“Well, as I understand it Oscar it has to do with something called kawaii. I will elaborate if you like.”
“Please do.”
“Kawaii can be loosely translated as ‘cuteness’,” I say,  “Another word for it is harajuku.  Anyway, knock knees, crooked teeth and pigeon toes seem to be all the rage in Japan among a certain subsection of the population. Research suggests that the reasons are less genetic than cultural, though there may be something called o-legs at work.  A treatable condition.”

“And do you personally find it attractive Dick?” Oscar asks.
I am reluctant to answer not wanting to risk my sensitive modern male credentials.  So I refer him to the contented traveller…..

Nor do I mention another Japanese fashion, yamamba, or hags from the mountain. It might upset him.
 

It is true however that Japanese children are introduced to cuteness at an early age.

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