Arthur and Simon could sit in Nana Plaza
forever drinking beer and reminiscing …..but I can’t. I’ve got to get my boat
over to Barbados. I’ve been battling the
wind from Grenada all the way across and I’m still not halfway. Ocean all
around me and underneath. Hurricane Irma. I’ll be glad to see Speightstown. There’s a place
there by the fish market does a nice rice and peas and I need to stock up on Mountgay..
If you’ve been reading this blog for a
while you’ll have a basic idea what it’s about. It started as two schoolboy
friends who read ‘On the Road’ and decided to be beatniks. One thing lead to
another. They hitchhiked to India in the Sixties, came back, and went their
separate ways. Arthur got a boring job running a tobacconist shop, Simon got
into writing art reviews and ended up with his own TV show. When Arthur’s wife
died he sold the shop and went to live in Thailand. Simon visited him there. It’s all in the archives.
Me? I’m the narrator. I live on a boat in
the Caribbean. And I’m getting fed up with narrating. So I’m going to skip a
lot of stuff and fast forward. I’m
finding the whole blogging business depressing to be honest so I’m going to
make a few more posts and that’s it.
So here’s the plan.
Bangkok. Simon really doesn’t care that
much about the BBC documentary he’s supposed to make. So he hands it over to
his production team and flies to Chiang Mai with Arthur. They go to stay in
Arthur’s village. Simon wants to see the ‘real Thailand’. Arthur hopes he won’t be bored stiff.
I continue on to Barbados to meet up with my 'friend' Oscar, semi-retired porn magnate, who is still upset about losing his treasure to Blackjack. We may be dropping in on Simon Cowell for some celebrity gossip. Sir Julian will be there on his so-called plantation. I could write a novel.
Things will happen along the way. With luck there will be a thrilling climax and we can all go home. How’s that?
This is a special post for all my Russian readers.
As you know I have long been a keen follower of Pussy Riot. I am especially fond of Nadezhda Tolokonnikova. She has come a long way since she stuffed a chicken up her vagina. That was an art project of course. I'd slip her some KFC myself given half a chance. And who can forget the famous cathedral dance which earned her a place in jail from Putin (boo, hiss) followed by appearances on American talk shows. She even got to meet Madonna and she has made several outstanding videos. In a recent one she appears bathed in blood, a powerful statement about something or other.
So I was sorry to learn that Nadezhda and Mariya Alyokhina are no longer besties. In an interview Mariya doesn't exactly spell out the problem but it seems the members of Pussy Riot have gone their separate ways.
Mariya has written a book about their adventures. I haven't read it yet but she talks about how it all began, their problems with Putin (boo, hiss again), Neo-Nazis and getting whipped by fake Cossacks. Good timing. Antifa types will love it so she'll probably make a few roubles.
It's the third member of the group I feel sorry for. Yekaterina Samutsevich. She can't get a job. So if there's anybody out there looking for an au pair drop her a line.
Time for a bit of the old depression I think...potential jumpers should probably skip this.
I’ve been battling the wind from Grenada to Barbados and I’m still not halfway.. Ocean all around me
and underneath. I’ll be glad to see Speightstown. This isn’t your ordinary Caribbean cruise you know. No three
meals a day and a dip in the pool with a
bunch of horny divorcees for me. I’m working.
Ever read much Baudelaire? Don’t. It’s not good for you. He knew all about Le Gouffre as it’s called in French. It’s a place that doesn’t exist. That’s the point. You wake up in the night and there it is. The pit. It isn’t even a place. More like a state of mind. Or no mind. Nothing. Once you go over the edge that’s it. You never come back. An endless drop. Having money doesn't help.
Windows show me infinity. Seeing
it, my hurt mind suffers from vertigo.
How I envy the sense of nothingness;
I’m never free of numbers or of beings.
Well let’s be honest. Baudelaire was neurotic. Very moody fellow. Rimbaud was the same way. Always going on about oblivion. We all get like that sometimes. Malcolm Lowry was more my type. Boozer. He knew about the ever-present ravine. But there was always another bottle.
In other news...and I could be wrong...but I think I've been hacked by Russians.
I was born in the right place and time, London. May 1941, well before Brexit. Goering was sending bombers over every night to demoralize the population. Didn't work but he kept trying. You'd come out in the morning and half the street was gone.. I don’t think there was any
doubt in my mother’s womb that Hitler would be defeated but the searchlights and the AA battery at
the end of the street must have been unsettling for a young pregnant girl…or
perhaps not….perhaps it was just an opportunity to flirt with the gunners on
the way to the munitions factory. Anyway she had me in the middle of it all. Maybe that's what gave me a taste for philosophy.
Most people don't bother with philosophy much I've found. Not me. I enjoy a bit of metaphysical recreation. There's nothing I like more than sitting in my boat pondering the meaning of life. I've read all the top blokes from Plato to Huxley... Tommy Cooper, Steve Martin, Rick Gervais you name it.
Of course they do go on a bit and to be honest I don't think they know anything for certain. It's all theory. Too deep for me. We're born and we die. Skepticism, rationalism, infinitism....when it gets to that point I reach for the bottle.
Compulsive readers (I know you're out there) will recall that Simon and Arthur are sitting in Nana Plaza reminiscing prior to visiting a gogo bar. The more beers they have the less likely it becomes. Suddenly...
"Arfer!!"
Oh no.
Two shaven headed, heavily tattooed young
men wearing full Arsenal regalia have threaded their way over to Arthur and
Simon and are preparing to sit down.
‘Well, well look who's here. Gav and Kev.' says Arthur tactfully. 'This is my friend Simon recently arrived from the UK. Simon knows everything
don’t you Si?’
‘Well, me and Martin Amis between us. I
certainly have an opinion on everything which is the same thing. You have to in
my business.’
‘Oh,’ says Gav, ‘What business are you in
then Simon? Not a copper I ’ope.’
‘TV.’
‘I knew it!’ says Gav, ‘you’re that bloke!’
‘Fraid so.’
‘Look Kev! It’s that bloke. Smashtalk.’
‘Hardfaceoff.’
‘Tough Shit actually,’ says Simon, ‘Channel
4. Thanks for watching.’
‘I’ll be buggered,’ says Kev. ‘I’ve got an
idea for a reality show. Bunch of blokes go to Thailand and meet some Thai
girls…’
‘And…?’
‘Well they interact like. Have a few
laughs. Never a dull moment. Lot’s of sex in it too…people will love it.’
‘Yes,’ says Simon, who has secretly
approached BBC2 about doing some kind of documentary of his visit to Thailand,
then thought better of it, ‘I can see a good audience for that. You might have
trouble selling the idea to the Beeb. Or maybe not. Everything’s fair game on
TV these days. People are hungry for diversion. Reality shows…so-called…the
public can’t get enough of that stuff. Did you hear about the Dutch TV show.
‘Swap A Kidney’ or something? Apparently there’s an alarming shortage of donor
organs in the Netherlands so someone at Endemol, big Dutch media production
company, had the bright idea of getting terminally ill people to donate their
organs. The audience got to vote on the most needy cases. I said something on
my show about getting Hannibal Lecter to host it. If no contestants were
suitable he could eat them. The actual operations could be done by naked Goth
girl surgeons. Without anaesthetic. And so on. Lots of controversy. Always
boosts the ratings. Turns out it was all a publicity stunt anyway. I’ve
suggested a cooking show where celebrity chefs hack away at each other with
meat cleavers. The winner gets to cook up whatever’s left. Hey this is just
like old times…’
Arthur wonders if Simon enjoys being
recognized. Simon senses Arthur wondering and considers elaborating on the
nature of fame but decides to save it for later.
‘Fuck me,’ interjects Kev, ‘are we still
doing dialogue? This sounds more like soliloquy.’
‘Sorry about that,’ says Simon, ‘I got a
bit carried away. Jet lag.’
‘Have another beer.’
‘Better not. You see Gav, and Kev, I’m a
communicator. That’s what I do. Communicate.
I don’t always say important and meaningful things but I do it in an
entertaining way. The hard part is keeping it going. You need to be motivated.
I do a show every week and I have a team of people working on it. I’m the
public face of it. I get my energy from the studio audience but mainly I get it
from the camera. Vanity? Sure that’s part of it but the thought of having my
face and thoughts in millions of living rooms is what tickles me. I know a lot
of people hate me too. They think I’m an arrogant prick but they keep coming
back. It’s all nonsense, I know that, but it’s fun too.’
‘That’s all right mate. Have a ramble if
you fancy it. Dialogue’s OK but after a while it’s hard to tell who’s talking
to who innit.’
‘Very true. If you leave out the he said,
said he bits it all tends to blend into an endless series of verbal exchanges.
It’s only the punctuation that gives it any meaning.’
‘Just a long drone interspersed with
inverted commas.’
‘It’s the author talking to himself half
the time.’
‘Total self indulgence.’
‘And so on.’
‘Quite.’
'Language is a virus.'
'But it's all we have.'
Kev mutters something about the BBC being
all poofters. Arthur looks a bit shocked.
‘Can we say things like that?’
‘Depends how it’s done. Ricky Gervais gets
away with it.’
‘Ricky who?’
‘You really are out of touch aren’t you Arthur.
Don’t worry about it.’
I'm sure you'd all like a little update on my activities. Me and Oscar took a minicab out to Maurice Bishop International Airport. Good WiFi connection. Maurice was Prime Minister of Grenada in 1983 but he wasn't revolutionary enough for Bernard Coard so he, and 7 others, got bumped off. Coard got cozy with Cuba. Then Fidel Castro built a long airstrip in an attempt to annoy Ronald Reagan. It worked. Needless to say Grenada got invaded. Coard and his mates dodged a death sentence and went to prison. Big building on a hill. You can see it from town. Grenada got a nice new airport out of it all anyway.
Oscar's flying to Barbados and I came along to see him off. He says he'll be staying with Simon Cowell in Sandy Lane. I have my doubts about it but I didn't say anything. I suggested he pop up to Orange Hill and visit my old mate Sir Julian Snagge. He's got a plantation there. You remember Sir Julian? I ran into him on BVI. He's the judge that got me a 6 month suspended sentence for dexies and ruined my career at Arsenal. You and Julian might get along Oscar I said. You're both assholes. Don't be like that Dick he said.
I'm staying here for a few days. Need to do a bit of work on Millie, Clarke's Court make a nice rum and I'm partial to the smell of nutmeg.
Simon, a well-known TV personality, and
Arthur, a total nonentity, were at school together in the 1950s. The last time
they met was when Arthur went back to England for his mother’s funeral. Now
Simon is in Bangkok. So Arthur has come down from the remote village in
Northern Thailand where he lives to show Simon around. They are having a beer in
Nana Plaza, a popular tourist area of Bangkok. The conversation has been a
little awkward to this point. Their lives have gone in different directions.
They are not young anymore. Time has become finite. They have already discussed
family matters and now they are working their way into the stuff they both
really want to talk about, mainly to do with their early years.
Simon asks Arthur if he has changed much
over the years.
“Well
I do feel detached from reality.”
“Nothing new for you surely.”
“I suppose not. I feel tired a lot. Take
naps.”
“It’s your age.”
“Drinking a lot too.”
“That’s OK up to a point.”
“Self-hatred. Regrets.”
“Perfectly normal.”
“How about you.” Arthur asks “Do you still
live in that mews house in Chelsea?”
“Oh yes,” said 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. Got a house
in the Cotswolds too. Samantha and the kids use it mostly.”
“Let me guess,” said Arthur, “nice little
village school? No wogs?”
“Hmmm, naughty naughty Arthur. We don’t use
words like that anymore. Oh…and we have a farmhouse in Dordogne.”
“So you did OK.” Says Arthur. Wondering
what it must be like to have houses worth millions.
“Not complaining,” said Simon, “amazing
really to think that it was all done with words on paper. And the way it
started back in the Swinging Sixties. I certainly had no idea things would turn
out this way.”
“Good for you.” Said Arthur.
“England has changed Arthur. And not all
for the better.”
“I noticed.” Said Arthur. He had. There
seemed to be gangs of young thugs on every street corner. And policemen with
machine guns.
“The music is mostly shite too,” said
Simon, “just a lot of one hit wonders. And don’t get me started on 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….not cynical
exactly…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.”
“Amazing to think we hitched to India when
we did.” Says Simon. “I’m glad we did it but God we were lucky to avoid the
Midnight Express scenario. Imagine a Turkish prison! I wake up sweating
sometimes after nightmares getting raped by gangs of hairy Turks. Never mind
sitting for days on Indian trains stuck between a blocked toilet and a family
of lepers.”
“Can’t imagine doing it now.”
‘Not possible anymore. How do you feel
about that now...our Journey to the East?Did we learn anything do you think?
India? It cured any impulse I may have had towards religion.”
“I’m still trying to work it out.”
“Me too. Could have been an important
formative experience.”
“Could have been a total waste of time.”
“It’s never that.”
“We were brave though don’t you think?”
“Brave?
Naïve more like. We were searching for something.”
“I still am. Give me a few more years and I
might figure out what it is I’m looking for. Sometimes I think I can see the
past more clearly. The present baffles me.”
“We live in an age of unbelief Arthur.
Harry Potter is perfect for the times. Either we are totally lost or we are
preparing ourselves for the next evolutionary step. Take your pick.”
“Hmmm, I just consider myself lucky to
watch it happen. It almost sounds as if you’ve found something.”
“Not really. I’m just good at sounding as
if I have. That’s what keeps people tuning in to my show. They like hearing me
say clever things. Course I throw in some self-deprecation for balance.”
“It fills the void.”
“Same old Arthur.”
“Can do better.”
“What?”
“Can do better. It’s what they used to
write on my school report.’
‘Mine too actually. Those teachers. Strange
bunch they were.’
‘They’d just been de-mobbed.’
“Some of them were shell-shocked. Remember
old Bedward? He’d spent two years driving round North Africa and Italy in a
bloody tank. Next thing he knows he’s teaching algebra to first formers.’
“Innocent in a way.”
“You’re out of touch with the real world
Arthur.”
“That’s nothing new.”
Short pause.
“Remember Athens?”
“We went to Piraeus looking for whores with
Henry Miller. You fell in love with one. What was her name? Merlina?”
“Maria. It was your idea to buy her a bunch
of flowers.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“I do. You were having a Neal Cassady
moment.”
“‘You’re either on the bus or you’re off
the bus.”
Simon is referring to Ken Kesey’s now
famous bus trip. Arthur has never felt totally on or off the bus. One foot on
the bottom step mostly. Undecided. This is the kind of pointless banter they
both used to enjoy so much. It’s almost like old times. Pause to order more
beer.
“So what draws them to Thailand?”
“These blokes you mean?” Arthur indicates
the other patrons, “sex I suppose. Some kind of escapist dream but sex mostly.
It’s so easy here. They aren’t getting any at home or they’ve given up on loud
pushy Western women. They think this is Wonderland. But they come in different
shapes and sizes. Some get into relationships, some work, teaching English say,
some just drink. Then there’s the backpackers, neo-hippies I call them, they’re
looking for experience, adventure…”
“Like us at that age?”
“I suppose so. But it’s a different kind of
traveling. These days they fly around with credit cards.”
“No hitch-hiking across Afghanistan?”
“Those days are gone. The only people going
to Afghanistan now are NGOs and ‘security contractors’. Mercenaries. Rambo
wannabes. They pop over here a lot too…for R&R.”
“What about the Thai girls? What’s in it
for them?”
“Oh a lot of these girls will have Thai
boyfriends…husbands even. Some have babies back in the village. The sensible
ones send money home.”
“What about all the sex trafficking?”
“That’s a load of bollocks. Most of these
girls are here out of choice. I thought you were immune to preconceptions?”
“I work for the Beeb don’t forget.”
“You must meet some smarmy buggers.”
“Oh yes. I may even be one. The girls don’t
like being fucked by sweaty strangers surely?”
“It’s a job. Bless their hearts. They
probably tried working in garment factories and didn’t like the hours or the
wages. You won’t find any underage sex slaves here. They’re in the Thai
knocking shops. A lot of these girls are here to find farang
boyfriends…husbands if they’re lucky. I met my wife in a place like this.”
“And it’s worked out OK?”’
“Could be worse. Duan’s a decent sort.
Looks after me.”
“No regrets?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Your suburban tobacconist period. I never
understood that. Why did you do it?” Simon is referring to the 20 years Arthur
spent running a small newspaper, sweets and tobacco shop in Surbiton. Until his
wife, Lorraine, died and he sold the business to a family from Bangladesh. This
is called a "moment of disclosure" in the television industry. It’s
the point where the camera closes slowly in on the subject’s face. Done right
it can produce the odd tear which viewers can relate to.
“Well Lorraine got pregnant…she inherited
the shop. It just happened.”
“Bloody amazing. You had options didn’t
you?”
“Not at the time. I wasn’t unhappy in the
shop you know.”
“Sounds like something out of Pinter.”
“More Beckett I’d say, looking back.”’
I suppose I wouldn’t mind another shot at
it, Arthur decides to think rather than say, then says, “I just bumbled along.
Waiting for some kind of revelation that never really came. I’d do a lot of
things differently. Some things I wouldn’t do at all.”
“Like what?”
“Not sure really. No point in thinking
about the past is there? One day you just sort of wake up and realize this is
all there is. What about you?”
“Those were good years for me,” says Simon,
“the best. I was learning things about the entertainment business.”
“Did you know how big pop music was going
to be?”
“Not really. I’m not sure anybody did. Some
of us knew we had a tiger by the tail but the way it spread surprised everybody
I think. It was a case of right place, right time for me. Look at me now.”
“I don’t know how you do it. Go on TV every
night. Doesn’t it get boring?”
“It can. But that’s the real me…what you
see on the box. Off camera I’m just numb. Maybe I shouldn’t be this honest. I’m
trusting you Arthur. I’m running on empty. I feel totally drained most of the
time. Emotionless. Unable to connect. I perk up when the cameras are on…but
it’s an act. I’m a total fake. I’ll be interviewing somebody say but I’ll be
watching myself interview somebody. Basically I think the whole thing is
stupid…but the funny thing is I still enjoy it. Does that make any sense? A
part of me is still having fun. The biggest problem is being ‘on’ all the time.
It gets hard to switch off.”
“It sounds excruciating. You’re writing
your memoirs of course.”
“Oh yes. A couple of major publishers have
approached me to do something. If I do get serious it will be in a post-modern
sort of way. Something chatty with short chapters. When it comes to writing I’m
a sprinter. I don’t have the stamina or the patience for long descriptive
passages, character details, intricate plots. Not me. I won’t be shedding any
light on the human condition.”
“What about dialogue?”
“This kind of dialogue you mean?
Comfortable, relaxed, conversational stuff. It’s fine.”
“Like talking to yourself.”
“Precisely.”
Just when it looks as though this
conversation is never going to stop…
Finally a bit of good news. Oscar has decided to fly to Barbados from Grenada! He's had enough of me and Millie and he has a standing invite from Simon Cowell.
I think he changed his mind when I explained how difficult it can be sailing East in the Caribbean. You're fighting the wind all the time I said. Bloody great waves. You'll be sick for sure.
Which will leave me on my own. People often ask me if I get horny stuck on a boat by myself.
Well it’s a bit personal but you expect questions like that when you have a
blog. Let’s just say I’m single-handed these days. Do I miss the girls? Yes and
no.
You may recall that I left Pattaya with a crew of girls.
There was Ning and Nong, trainee masseurs from Buriram who used to hang around
my bar and of course Nyum from Vietnam, our navigator, who had a very
interesting story. Her father was a Dentist in Saigon. He was also a
Recividist. I looked it up. That’s someone who starts to have second thoughts
about Communism. People like that got sent away for Re-education. I’m glad I
wasn’t a Recividist in Vietnam. I would have hated being sent away for
Re-education. Come to think of it I don’t think I would have made a very good
Communist at all. Nyum’s father didn’t like the idea of being Re-educated
either. Somehow he managed to get himself, his wife and Nyum on a leaky boat.
But it didn’t do him much good. His plan was to get to America and make false
teeth for horses but he was drowned with Nyum’s mother in the Gulf of Thailand
after being robbed and thrown off the leaky boat by Thai fishermen. Nyum
drifted around for few days clinging to a packing crate. She thinks this is
when she learned Celestial Navigation. A Russian freighter picked her up and
took her to an internment camp in Hong Kong where she learned English watching
TV.
From Hong Kong she got sent back to Vietnam where she sold things made out of
Coca Cola cans to tourists. Around that time she met an Austrian Count, a proper one, descended from the Hapsburgs, who paid for her education. That’s how come
she has a degree in Freudian Psychology from Ho Chi Minh University. For someone
who grew up on the streets of Saigon she also has very good teeth. When I met
her she was working as a waitress in a restaurant in Dalat. I don’t know if
you’ve ever been to Dalat. Very popular place for Vietnamese honeymooners. So
that’s Nyum in a nutshell. Fascinating girl. I’m still filling in the details.
Things changed, as they do. Nyum left us on Mona Island, got a job with Madonna. Ning and
Nong came with me to Oscar's place before running off to Miami with my credit card. Can’t really blame them. There
wasn’t much future with me. Knowing those two it won’t take them long to find
rich geriatric husbands. They may not be intellectual giants but they know what
men like. And they have a good grasp of economics.
And
I’m happy to be rid of Ning and Nong to be honest. They were starting to get on my
nerves. Women do that. But at the same time I don’t want to be on my own. It’s
a problem. So it looks like hand-shandies for a
while. Doesn’t leave a lot to do in the evenings. Usually I just get drunk and
insult people on the internet. Basically it’s just
me and delirium tremens cataracting toward the abyss…not the movie by James
Cameron (starring Ed Harris)….the existential abyss. But I do miss Nyum. A very independent young lady. I used to love watching her handling the halyards. She was the only one who could hoist a spinnaker without strangling herself.
Still it does feel like a storm of depression is building up to be followed in due course by a tsunami of despair and other meteorological metaphors. Do I care? Not me. I'll just sail off forever on the infinite sea. Look on the bright side….no girls means no more tampons in the bilge pump.
As an ex-resident of Thailand I like to follow a few Thai websites. They come and go but a few of the older ones have stayed the course. Stickman and Thaivisa for instance have been around almost as long as the internet but there are a few other sites that help me keep up with changes in the Land of Smiles as us old Thai hands like to call it.
Some cynics say the smiles have always been superficial but not me. I was lucky enough to catch a few genuine ones in my time. I'm talking 20-30 years ago when a beer set you back 10 baht. Nowadays though smiles do seem to be getting thin on the ground. Thailand has lost whatever innocence it had I think....mainly due to the internet but also because it has become part of the real world. A victim of its own success you could say.
People keep going to Thailand though. More all the time. Tourists, sex and otherwise, backpackers, criminals on the run etc. etc. It's a fun place. The Full Moon Party has become a rite of passage for young revellers. And Songkran is great. You don't need clothes.
So here are a few Thai websites that may interest old timers and newbies alike. I'm not bothering with the boring ones that just want to sell crap. Nobody reads them anyway.
Let's look at Stickman first. Stick lives in New Zealand now but he knows Bangkok, especially the naughty nightlife and he somehow manages to keep up with new developments. He publishes a column every week and his site is a mine of information. The archives go back years.
Thai Visa. It's mainly geared to the owner's commercial instincts but it covers a lot of ground. Very good if you are trying to figure out ever-changing visa restrictions. The forum is great too. Lots of Thai experts there. If you want to get into pointless arguments with people you will hopefully never meet TV is the place.
Pattaya Addicts is run by a bloke called Bryan Flowers. He's a Brit, lives in Pattaya, owns a bunch of girlie bars and he isn't shy about who knows it. Bryan likes to live dangerously and has a very interesting site.
Pattaya Secrets. has been going for a long time. They have a bar, restaurant and hotel in Pattaya so obviously they have a bit of a bias. But the forum is lively and loaded with info from punters who know Pattaya. You can ask them anything within reason.
There are other sites (and blogs) which seem to get by on news clips, gossip and a bit of advertising... Coconuts, Thailand Law Forum,Stickboy Bangkok (wonder how he came up with that name) and Thai 360 which is like a club for cranky old timers but open to new members if they behave themselves.
I've probably missed a few and some of the links won't work but I do my best. Nobody's perfect.
Mustn't forget Andrew Drummond a journalist who covers murders, suicides, rapes, scams and ripoffs. Thailand has its fair share of those.
Simon and Arthur are still enjoying pre-go-go beers outside Nana Plaza.
They aren't quite ready to plunge in to an actual bar.
Arthur of course has seen it all before but it's new to Simon. He watches the action in the plaza. It’s much as
he imagined it but more so. He hadn’t counted on the smells and the constant
noise or the muffled ‘thump’ of go-go music somewhere off to stage left. Nor
had he expected such a vast variety of sex tourists. He’d seen more than enough
documentaries about Bangkok’s lurid sex trade but here they were in the flesh. Very much so. There are the predictable middle-aged men but, surprisingly, a
lot of younger ones too, wearing football shirts, many with their Thai
girlfriends. The girls themselves are more Westernized than he’d imagined, most
wear jeans and carry cell-phones, many sport bright red hair, piercings and
tattoos.
He watches intently as Thai girls and foreign men come and
go and touts try to lure them into the bars. Their conversation takes place to the strains of Hotel California*. Most Bangkok expats know every note of the guitar break.
"Your friends didn't waste much time." Says Arthur indicating
Simon's producer and cameraman leaving the plaza now accompanied by two exotic
Thai ladies. A little too exotic perhaps.
"Ladyboys," says Arthur, "they tend to overdo it." "Good God," says Simon, "I expect they want to interview them for the program."
"Probably," says Arthur, "I understand transgender issues
are all the rage in the West. You’ll find the full range here. All genders and
tastes. Everything from go-go bars to
massage parlours. If you're looking for a quick blowjob I know a good place…..”
“Thanks Arthur. Not right now.”
“I’m just kidding. Wouldn’t want you to catch anything. So how’s London these
days?"
“Bloody awful really. You finally find a
place to park and somebody comes along and stabs you.”
“That bad.”
“Well I’m exaggerating. But it’s not good.
And don’t get me started on politics.”
“How about religion?”
“That’s turned into a sort of multicultural
atheism.”
*Don Felder wrote Hotel California in a beach house in Malibu. He has been fighting with Glenn Frey and Don Henley over money ever since. Glenn Frey died recently. Joe Walsh had a triple bypass. Did it himself at home.
The Grenadines is a delightful string of
islands running South from St.Vincent or North from Grenada depending on your
perspective. They used to build boats there. Gaff rigged, somewhat cumbersome,
vessels called Carriacou schooners. They were used for cargo and you still see
them around. Nowadays of course it’s a place for rich pampered bastards, misfits like myself and envious riff-raff,
“Oh look Dick!!” shouts Oscar excitedly, “That’s Mustique over there! See if
you can get closer.”
Mustique is famous for its celebrity
residents. Mick Jagger has a place there, as does Felix Dennis and Princess
Margaret. Who knows what they all get up to there. Rumour has it that the actor
cum psychopath John Bindon known as ‘Biffo’ in Fulham, famously bonked
Princess Margaret on the beach. More than once most likely. Apparently he had a massive knob.
What’s Oscar up to now? He’s got his binoculars out. Surely he doesn’t expect
us to drop in there unannounced? We'll get fed to the dobermans. Dobermen? I steer the
vessel as close as I dare and sure enough somebody fires a couple of warning
shots across our bows. It's the Princess herself with a shotgun.
So I’m running up the Jolly Roger hoping she’ll think we’re Johnny Depp
stopping for a quick snort. Meanwhile Oscar’s looking through his high-powered
binoculars to see if he can catch a glimpse of John Bindon’s plonker.
Cut a long story short it must have been Jerry Hall’s turn on the shore battery
because next thing I know a sodding great Exocet missile flies just over our
heads. “Shit,” says Oscar, “that’s a big one. Those things don’t come cheap
Dick. Here have a look.”
"By golly you're right Oscar," I quip, "I don’t think I’ve ever
seen one that size."
Oh how we chuckled as it flew over our heads and splashed harmlessly in the
sea. Must have been a dud.
I haven't forgotten about Simon and Arthur. We last saw them in the lobby of the Landmark Hotel, Bangkok. Old friends meeting after many years.
‘Arthur!’ Simon exclaims, ‘you look great!’
Yeah, yeah. Arthur knows this to be
something of a professional exaggeration but he goes along with it. Simon does
the introductions.
‘Arthur this is Quentin, my producer. And
Giles, my cameraman. Arthur is an old school friend. He lives in Thailand. He’s
going to show us the sleazy underbelly right Arthur?’
It’s all happening a bit fast for Arthur.
‘Can we have a quiet chat first?’ he asks.
‘Good idea. Let’s go somewhere for a beer.’
They find a place overlooking the street
behind a rustic barricade, pieces of tree conjoined with old wagon wheels. Quentin
and Giles say something about ladyboys and wander off.. Simon and Arthur are soon approached by a
waitress who asks them what they want to drink.
‘Beer I think,’ says Arthur. Simon concurs.
Two Singha beers duly arrive.
‘This place,’ says Arthur indicating their
immediate surroundings, ‘has an interesting history. Once upon a time, during the
Vietnam War, it was a small restaurant popular with US soldiers. Later it
became Tom’s Quick, a nice place to read the Bangkok Post over breakfast after
bidding farewell to one’s companion of the night. Now as you see it has become
a bar for off-duty punters. Though the waitresses are open to offers. It is
well located. Some enterprising Thai saw the potential for a daytime hangout
within walking distance of the Nana Hotel, that large building over there, and
Nana Entertainment Plaza which is behind us and which we will visit later.’
‘That’s very good Arthur. Exactly the kind
of background we need. We may not have time for all of it though.’
‘What’s the documentary about? Surely it’s
all been done before.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll come up with a new
twist. Basically we shoot a lot of footage and I interview a few people.
Stereotypes, that’s what we’re looking for. The real work is in the editing. By
the time my producer gets through with it we’ll have this place looking like
Sodom and Gomorrah.’
‘And me? What do I do?’
‘Recommend the best places to go basically.
I do the commentary and the Jeremy Clarkson jokes.’
‘You’re not thinking of bringing cameras
are you? You’ll get lynched.’
‘Oh we’ll be discrete. It’s amazing what
you can do with smart phones.’
Hmm. Arthur isn’t sure this documentary
about Bangkok nightlife is really for him. It all sounds a bit tacky. He was hoping
for something more along the lines of Michael Palin. He's starting to feel like a pimp.
‘People want things more edgy now,’ says
Simon, ‘it’s getting hard to shock anyone. We have to push the envelope.’
They watch the go-go girls getting dropped
off by young Thais on motorbikes. They are closely observed by men in the bar.
These, Arthur explains, are the customers.
'Who exactly are they?' Simon asks.
‘The customers? Oh all kinds. Some are looking for a quick
screw. Some want a girlfriend experience. Some fall in love. And they aren’t all lonely middle-aged men by any
means. Lots of young blokes in Bangkok these days, doing IT jobs, teaching
English. They all succumb.’
I just can't decide about this Trump bloke. He's like a bull in a china shop. Maybe he knows what hes doing but he makes me nervous. I thought he was going to fire everybody and drain the swamp but it hasn't happened yet. And the stock market goes up but for how long? And what about the national debt? I've been buying gold. I know, I know....it's just metal and the gold market is manipulated. Where am I going to keep the stuff anyway? But what else is there? ETFs and mining stocks are just paper anyway.
It’s funny the things that go through one’s
mind when one’s out on the ocean on a small boat trying to ignore ones
loathsome companion, yes you Oscar, the mind plays strange tricks on one. I just
got a flashback to our old days together in LA when we were doing porn. For no
reason at all I was marveling at the dimensions of Johnny Wadd’s member, then I was having tea
in Fortnum & Masons with William Burroughs, helping Julian Lennon fix his
bike, feeding swans on the Cam with Samantha. It’s amazing the way the human
mind works.
Or one could say one’s mind plays strange
tricks when one is out on the ocean. One starts sailing round in circles. One
may even be in danger of disappearing up one’s own Sargasso. That could quickly
get boring for one. So one needs something to occupy one’s mind. How about
this? One, me for instance, catches a bloody great marlin...straps it on the
side of the boat and takes it back to Cuba. Alas, sharks eat it before one gets
it back and nobody believes one. A proper writer could make something out of
that. I’m tempted to have a go myself (good thing I brought the laptop.) But what’s
the point? Probably been done already.
Like most people I scour the internet
looking for free entertainment. Maybe someone somewhere has posted something
interesting or amusing. You never know your luck.
I did try Facebook once but nobody wanted
to be my friend. I didn’t bother me unduly. I’ve got used to my own company.
But I do enjoy the internet. I’m a compulsive writer and I like leaving the odd anonymous comment
here and there. Yahoo is good for that. I just find a news item think of
something irrelevant and throw it out there. You may have read some of my comments.
So we walked around Vieux Fort for a bit,
me and Oscar, getting lots of dirty
looks from the local rudeboys. We must have just missed Blackjack and his
mates. According to Alphonse, the harbour master, they stopped in long enough
to buy a kilo of weed from some rastas and they were off again. To St. Vincent
most likely he thought.
If you live in Thailand for a while you start to think about Buddhism. It has a lot of attractions. With the right mental acrobatics it's possible to integrate spiritual practice into one's life without giving up things like beer and sex. To demonstrate their commitment some expats cover themselves with sacred tattoos and Buddha amulets. Others find the discipline required a bit restrictive so they become what is known as Bar Buddhists. I used to get a few of those in my bar in Pattaya.
This angry looking gentleman is Lin Chi Yixuan. Actually it isn't. It's a
pixellated version of some long dead artist's idea of what Lin Chi's physical form looked like at a certain moment in time. But never mind that. Why was Lin
Chi so angry you ask? He was angry because he had discovered the meaning of
life and frankly it wasn't what he had been hoping for. That didn't stop him
treating novice monks like shit in order to bring them to the same state of
enlightenment. He would say things like...
"Followers of the Way [of Zen], if you want to get the kind of
understanding that accords with the Dharma, never be misled by others. Whether
you're facing inward or facing outward, whatever you meet up with, just kill
it! If you meet a buddha, kill the buddha. If you meet a patriarch, kill the
patriarch. If you meet an arhat, kill the arhat. If you meet your parents, kill
your parents. If you meet your kinfolk, kill your kinfolk. Then for the first
time you will gain emancipation, will not be entangled with things, will pass
freely anywhere you wish to go."
Strong stuff. He was a great believer in discomfort was old Lin. If he was really pissed off
he might strike you with his fly-whisk. Come to think of it he ran his
establishment rather like an English public school. Cold baths and rough games. We
need more of that kind of thing on Facebook. Builds character. I don't think Lin would have approved of the version of Zen as practiced in my bar. Cheers.
Drifting around the Caribbean with a laptop you run into all kinds of odd things. Here's a small sample..... Sex tourism in Thailand from Western women's perspective...
Imagine my shock. I’m tightening some
halyards when I hear, ‘Dick!!’
Bugger me it’s Pamela Anderson! We’ve been
friends for years. Ever since yoga classes.
‘What are you doing here Pamela?’
‘Visiting friends Dick. I was in London so
I thought I’d stop off here.’
‘Great to see you again. What were you
doing in London?’
‘Trying to help Julian Assange. He’s stuck
in the Ecuadorean Embassy and I took him a food parcel. I felt….’
‘You WHAT!!??!!’
Oh no.
‘This is my friend Oscar Pamela. You’ll
have to excuse him.’
‘You were helping that little pervert! He’s
a rapist you know. Get in bed with a guy like that and he'll slip you one without asking. And he's a traitor!! He should be shot.’ Oscar seems determined to embarrass me.
‘You’ll have to excuse Oscar, Pamela.' I say, 'He’s
liberal in some ways, conservative in others.’
‘I think we’re all a bit like that these
days Dick,’ says Pamela, ‘Don’t worry. I’m used to it.’
Seems there’s no getting away from
politics. But Oscar really is an arsehole. He shouldn’t be talking to Pamela
like that. I was hoping to ask her about Julian Assange but that would just be
trouble. Alternatively we could all go for a drink somewhere and talk about
time and space.
Pamela sized up the situation and said she
had to be off. She let me take a few
snaps but I had to promise not to put them on the blog. I told her we were
headed to the Grenadines and she told me to say hi to Felix. I told her that
might be a bit difficult because he’s dead. She was sorry to hear that and we
both agreed people are dropping like flies lately. Prince, Bowie, Cohen it’s been
quite a year.
You've all heard of Felix haven't you? No? He was a writer. One of the founders of OZ. Made a fortune in the magazine business. Built a house on Mustique. Before she left Pamela presented me with one of
Felix's poems in which he shows a keen appreciation of the Windward Islands
vernacular. Here it is....
"Pass Me De Banana Wine"
Dem politicians on de take,
An' what dey take be mine,
De pack o' dem be sham an' fake,
Dey vex me wid de belly-ache
- Pass me de banana wine.
Me loss' de crop, no rum, no bread,
De fruit die on de vine,
De 'elicopter spray dem dead
To keep us we from bein' fed
- Pass me de banana wine.
De wife she gone, she run away,
Me read de note she sign.
She say me make too lickle pay,
Play too much domino all day
- Pass me de banana wine.
Dey say dey lock me in de jail
Where sun don' never shine,
Me got nobody go me bail,
De food be bad, de water stale
- Pass me de banana wine.
Me ax de warden for a drink,
Dey give me turpentine,
Nobody love me now, I t'ink,
I standin' on the very brink
- Pass me de banana wine.
And here are some notes on the poem by Felix himself....
Here we are in Rodney Bay, St Lucia. It was a pleasant sail over from Martinique. Or it would have been pleasant except for Oscar DiBorcceri. It's true I owe him a lot. He's the one who got me started in the porn business in LA and we had a good time running girly bars in Ermita. We should have been reliving our wonderful memories but all he could talk about was Donald bloody Trump. He's a big fan. I don't give a toss about Trump myself to be honest.
He wouldn't shut up about Trump, the Clintons, fake news and Russian hackers. It's hard to ignore when you're stuck on a small boat. He just went on and on.
Now he's gone to rent a car. We're going to tour St. Lucia looking for Blackjack. Which means I have to drive and listen to more rants. I wish I could think of a way out. I just don't feel free with him around.
I keep thinking about my trip back to the UK. I felt like a tourist most of the time but I actually enjoyed it. It has changed a lot though. More modern and efficient in some ways but with the same old muddle beneath the surface. Everybody was worried about Brexit. They should never have joined the EU in the first place. Seeing Samantha in Cambridge was nice. (I left the Hockney print at Sotheby's for her). Finding Simon in a wheelchair was a shock though. Very sad. Reminds me how fast life can change. I must get to work on that.
Here comes Oscar with the car. Now what? I suppose we have to go round all the marinas looking for Blackjack and his mates. If they parked anywhere it will be in Castries or Vieux Fort. I never liked Vieux Fort much myself. Very dodgy place. And what happens when we find them?
