The consul.

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...’

Malibu, meeting Oscar.

 

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.

The consul.

07/21/2014

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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...’

Panama canal.

07/24/2014

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Ashrams.

With Simon gone life on the road got more serious. Arthur felt utterly alone. Yes, he was free to look at India through his own eyes without Simon’s cynical observations but he was still obliged to ask himself what he was doing in India. He had never envisaged being there on his own. Should he go back to England? Or should he press on in the hope that some kind of destiny would reveal itself?

India itself was becoming a blur of blue elephants, pink monkeys and brown faces. Crowds gathered quickly. Whenever he stopped moving there was a crowd of people staring at him…somebody would always ask, “Where are you coming from sir?” “Why did you come to India?” “Are you looking for God?” Reasonable questions, not unlike the ones he was asking himself. But they never stopped coming. Everywhere he went, in public parks on railway stations, in restaurants he attracted attention just by being.

Should he look for an ashram to take him in? A quiet place where he could seek the meaning of life in solitude? Or perhaps he should go to Goa and sit on a beach before that idea got too popular. Maybe he should go south to Madras, see if he could get over to Malaya somehow? So many decisions…  Perhaps he should just abandon the whole project, if indeed it was a project, and go back to England?

Perhaps, perhaps not. He had amoebic dysentery. He had just been robbed. He had no passport and no money. He did have a letter from his mother informing him that she and his father were separating and another letter from Lorraine to let him know she was pregnant. Clearly some kind of decision was required.

With some minor adjustments to the chronology it wouldn’t be too hard to imagine Arthur arriving at an ashram near Rishikesh. One can see him being shown into a simple white-walled room…a mat, a bed-sheet and a jug of water. He likes it. It’s wonderful to get away from the realities of India. The best time is the evening when cool breezes waft down from the Himalayas along the Ganges Gorge and the air is full of a gentle chanting from neighbouring ashrams. Not much happens. He is able to turn off his mind, relax and drift downstream. Meditation? Well he almost stops thinking about himself at one point. He might have been actually meditating. Hard to say for sure. Whatever it was it didn’t last long.

One morning Ram (ashram official in charge of accommodation) approached him outside his bungalow and told him the time had come to leave.
“Where are you going?” Arthur asked.
Ram chuckled. “No Arthur not me. The time has come for you to leave us.”
“You mean I have achieved enlightenment? It seems….”
“No, no, no, Arthur. We need your bungalow. We have a big group coming.”

Thus it was that Arthur started walking back along the dusty road to the town of Rishikesh. In the fields on either side farmers were watering and weeding their crops. The road itself was empty except for the ubiquitous cows and a few women on their way to market. Suddenly there descended upon Arthur a blinding light…a vision from the future in the form of a fleet of air-conditioned limousines and psychedelic Rolls-Royces sweeping down the road bearing the likes of John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, Mia Farrow and, Mike Love all stoned on high grade hash and garlanded with marigolds. And lo, behind it all a large bus labeled ‘Press’ in which Arthur caught a glimpse of a familiar figure. Bloody hell it’s Simon!

But it wasn’t real of course. Never happened. Just a vision from the future. Instant nirvana. Some kind of parallel universe thing. A book in itself really.

Panama.

People often ask me what it’s like sailing across the Pacific with 3 girls. Well….it’s a bit cramped but it has its compensations. They don’t call me Captain Dick for nothing.

Six weeks at sea had left the girls as fresh as daisies. I on the other hand was worn out, nut brown and leathery, a cross between Michael Caine and the Ancient Mariner. We hit the California coast off Mendocino as predicted (good job Nyum) but decided not to make landfall. Our experience in Maui with US Customs and Immigration had made us wary. Instead we headed for Baja and points south making our first stop in San Blas. Franciscan friars led by Friar Junípero Serra headed out of San Blas on their quest to colonize the Californias.

 Puerto Vallarta, Zihuatanejo, Acapulco, gold, la mordida, the wind blew us gently down the sloping coast of the Americas until we sighted Darien and the fabled city of Panama. Big office buildings and stuff. You wouldn’t know it now but Henry Morgan really did a number on that place in 1671.

“An old Negro with mackintosh, solar topee and rolled umbrella and gaiters limping along the dock wharf – why are there always these old men limping along wharves?.....Hot rain, coconut palms, pelicans.” From Through the Panama,  Malcolm Lowry.

 

India proper.

The Punjab was hot and humid. The sky hung like a damp grey turban. Punjabis worked in the fields, drove taxis and rode bicycles. Small Punjabis played in puddles. Punjabi dogs curled up in odd corners. Simon and Arthur had a look at Amritsar. They met an elderly Sikh who took them around the Golden Temple. We are meat-eating people explained the elderly Sikh, very warlike.

In yet another nameless mosquito ridden hotel somewhere in Old Delhi they met a Frenchman. ‘I was in ze Himalayas,’ said the Frenchman, ‘I studied wiz a wise man. I can drink wiz my paynus and eat wiz my an-us.’

‘Really,’ said Simon, ‘care to show us?’

‘Fuck you,’ said the Frenchman, ‘I don not a comedian.’

‘Of course you don,’ said Simon. Later, over masala dosa, they both agreed, they had been right not to invite the Frenchman out for lunch.

In Calcutta colourful effigies of multi-headed elephants and/or monkeys were being born through the streets by crowds of pink drummers. People were throwing powder and petals at each other with great gusto. ‘Looks like we arrived on Red Powder Day,’ said Simon.

Somebody took them to see God. He turned out to be a fat, naked Brahmin covered in butter sitting on a cushion in a house in a back street. And surprisingly young, barely in his teens. God asked, ‘Why did you come to India?’ Arthur started to rattle off the standard explanation about self-knowledge, meaning of life etc. but Simon cut him off. ‘You’re God,’ said Simon, ‘you tell us.’ There was an uncomfortable silence followed by a hurried exit.

An English Grammar school education hadn't prepared them for travel on third class Indian trains. After 20 hours wedged between a reeking toilet and some skeleta creatures with hideous infirmities they were more than ready for the luxury of a second class waiting room. DAK bungalows were paradise.

They seemed to spend a lot of time in railway stations. First class waiting rooms were by far the best. Especially the ones with showers. ‘All in all,’ said Simon in one such waiting room, ‘perhaps the British didn't do too bad a job in India. Don’t get me wrong I’m not defending imperialism but look at the infrastructure, the trains, the system of government…that’s all because of us.’

On one train they met some Americans, Allen (who seemed vaguely familiar) and Peter. They were more than willing to discuss mantras and meditation and such. Allen’s attitude was that meditation took too long. Why spend seven years sitting in a cave when you can get the same effect from LSD. What’s LSD Arthur asked. Lysergic acid, said Allen, a psychedelic drug. Perhaps you don’t have it in England yet but you will, you will. He offered Arthur a place in his second class sleeping berth. Arthur declined.

One day in Bombay they decided to visit Grant Road to see if it was true about the girls in cages. One should at least have a look don’t you think? The cages were empty but there was a whole street of shops with girls outside beckoning to men. Simon wanted to have a look inside. Arthur wasn’t so sure. He found a place to drink a lassi under the scrutiny of the usual crowd of curious spectators while Simon conducted his research. Later Arthur asked how it had been. ‘Interesting.’ said Simon. ‘They put me on a sofa and tried to get me to choose a girl.  It was a bit embarrassing really. Then I went with one of the girls to a stuffy cluttered bedroom. She took her clothes off casually and lay on the bed. I just stood there. Couldn’t do anything. The baby on the floor didn’t help matters. Yours? I asked. Yes, she smiled sadly, no papa. That’s all she said.’ Arthur listened quietly. Simon had only been in there half an hour so it could have gone one way or the other. Best not ask.

They were allocated some floor space in a Sikh temple where they were quizzed about their motivations. Plates of dal were provided. Big bearded men with swords at the temple entrance were clearly more than just decorative. They felt safe. But there was a three night limit so they soon found themselves homeless again.

A family of beggars made room for them in the doorway of a shipping office. Sleep was difficult and it was hard to imagine sinking any lower. ‘Well it could be raining,’ said Arthur and suddenly it was. They sat all night in the doorway watching torrential rain sluice debris from the street…cow-shit, cabbage leaves, marigold petals, pink powder, newspapers, betel nut juice, dead rats, a corpse, you name it…away it all went out into the bay.

‘Sod this,’ said Simon as it grew light, ‘I think we’ve hit rock bottom.’

‘Good place to look for wisdom,’ said Arthur.

‘I think I’ve accumulated enough wisdom I’m phoning home’

A plane ticket promptly became available for pick up at the BOAC office and Arthur was on his own. 

The Brit Awards.

The Brit Awards turn out better than I expected. Somewhat awkward at first. I feel like a relic from the Age of Aquarius but it passes. Nobody runs naked across the stage. Even Jarvis seems restrained. My jokes go down well and I actually start to enjoy myself. Obviously a lot of the audience hate me but that’s par for the course. What were they expecting? Russell Brand? Still I get a good round of applause and everybody seems to have a good time.

As usual the action is all backstage. That hasn’t changed. No stink bombs. Minimal dry ice. I mill around chatting amiably with this group and that, trying to remember their names. Lots of grinning entrepreneurial types in power suits, rock-writers trying to pin down elusive Zeitgeists, energetic surfer dudes looking for the next wave. Everybody is bright and outgoing and optimistic and nobody misbehaves. It’s all good clean family fun. I find Pete Dougherty having a cup of tea with Amy. Self-destruction temporarily on hold. ‘Outrageously’ coiffured young presenters keep coming up and screaming what a pleasure it is to meet me. Bullshit. They’d dance on my grave. Oh well…that’s the way it goes. The son kills the father or tries to…but they haven’t got me down yet. A person called Gaga or Google or something smears lipstick on my suit. A young lady called Lily is much more polite. She offers me an exclusive which is nice of her. Of course she may have been taking the piss. And that Duffy is quite tasty. I give the Gallagher Brothers a wide berth but even they seem subdued. All I get is a surly scowl. So the whole thing goes quite smoothly. The British music industry has finally got the award show it always wanted. Structured, safe and no embarrassing moments.

So what was I doing there? Letting the buggers know I’m still on the ball I suppose. Suss out the up-and-comers. But I mustn’t be grumpy. I’m glad I did it. It was interesting just to see if any other old farts turned up. Silly really but you’ve got to keep up with the trends. Disappear for too long and you’re dead. Piercings? No thanks, and I’ll pass on the nose-rings thank you. I did think about getting my ears pierced once, well one ear anyway, but it wouldn’t look right. Simon’s just trying to be hip they’d say. I feel sorry for them in a way. They’ve got no taboos left to shatter. They’re inhibited too but they won’t admit it. Brainwashed by decades of political correctness. Scared to say anything in case it offends someone but wanting to push the envelope at the same time. Meanwhile the audience has become unshockable anyway.

I meet a young photojournalist from Tokyo who seems up for it and I invite her back for a nightcap. Her name is Kiyoko. She is trying on one of Yumi’s kimonos when Mick shows up. He’s with his new girlfriend, another leggy American model, no visible tattoos. They’ve just come from India where they stayed with the Maharaja of Jodhpur. Mick offers his appraisal of my performance. He thinks I handled it well. Wouldn’t do it himself, he says, the resentment is almost tangible these days. We talked about this and that, who’s dead and who’s still living. The current fascination with the living dead. He’s thinking of buying a place round the corner he says. Six million quid after a few renovations. Simon Hurst is doing it. I wished him luck. Kiyoko serves cups of Horlicks ceremoniously much to Sir Michael’s obvious amusement, though his American companion is nonplussed. They just don’t get it.

Honda dream.

  Arthur turns back the mosquito net and hauls himself out of bed. Tui is still sleeping like a teak log. Should he make a cup of tea? Or get one in town? Perhaps potter down to the fishpond to get the juices flowing and see if Tui gets up in the meantime? Either way it looks like another hot one. Maybe a good idea to get the shop open early, not than anybody will be looking for books first thing in the morning but it’s good to be a bit disciplined. Expats have to keep busy in Thailand. Too easy to slip into bad habits. 

  He wheels the Honda Dream out to the track and gets the engine going. There’s old Somchai off to the outhouse. Soon Yai will be getting the charcoal fire going. Then she’ll be down to the pond to see if she can rustle up a couple of catfish. As neighbours they were pleasant enough. Tui popped in to see them now and again and they always had a friendly wave for Arthur. Not that he was ever quite sure what they thought of living next door to a farang and his new concrete house. Whatever it was they kept it to themselves. Not like some in the village. Gossipy buggers. Squabbles never far below the surface. But that was village life. Same everywhere. No getting away from that side of things.

  Yes, all in all, life could be worse. Arthur has a good wife and a nice house. Well it’s not really his house. It’s in Tui’s name because that’s as close as farang can get to owning property in Thailand. But he trusts her 100%.

  Arthur rides the bike carefully down the bumpy track and through the main street of the village. There is nobody about. Just a few chickens already scratching around and a whiff of wood smoke from Tui’s sister’s place. Nice that the dogs don’t bark anymore.  Nice too having the bookshop to go to. A quiet place to sit and think about things. Strange the tricks life plays. Funny to think that he should leave England, come all this way to a remote corner of Thailand and still find himself in the retail side of things. Not that his little bookshop in Sakorn Nakhon could compare with being a tobacconist in Carshalton, which is what Arthur had been in a previous incarnation, but there were some parallels. The retail trade was the same everywhere. There was the same responsibility to get the shop open every morning. The customers expected that. Not that he saw many.

   Maybe it’s time for another Bangkok expedition Arthur thinks. Tui had suggested a week in Pattaya. Why not? He could combine it with meeting Simon. When had he last seen him? London was it when Arthur was over for his mother’s funeral. Simon had taken him to a trendy restaurant. And now he’s coming to Thailand. Hmmm. It would be strange to say the least.

   OK, now Arthur is turning carefully onto the main road. This bit can be tricky. Arthur crosses a small plank bridge and turns sharp left onto the hard shoulder avoiding the raised edge of the tarmac. The hard shoulder has its own set of hazards, potholes, chickens, snakes, dogs, sharp discarded barbecue sticks etc. but it tends to be less perilous than the road itself. Today doesn’t look too bad. Hardly any traffic about. Just a couple of songthaos but no trucks or buses yet. Should be a nice little ride into Sakorn Nakhon thinks Arthur.

Sex and Sedition.

 

A few readers have said how much they enjoy the little historical references I throw in from time to time. Cut out the philosophy Dick, they say, and give us more stuff about Swinging London and life in the olden days. Some readers are even more blunt. Dick, they say, why don’t you act normal? Stop trying to be funny and write a proper blog.

OK then, if that’s the way you feel, I’ll try. But I’m not making any promises. And for the sake of my own mental equilibrium I will try to keep it in some kind of chronological order.

Let’s see here...late sixties, early seventies...it all gets a bit muddled. I could tell you about having it off with Princess Margaret. 'Ah, Headley, we’d like you to sign this form.' Never happened.

I was living in Chelsea, on the King’s Road. I kept noticing this shop...the name seemed to change every month or so. First time I noticed it the name was ‘Let It Rock’. After that it was something like ‘Too Fast To Live Too Young To Die’. About a year later it just said ‘SEX’ in big letters. That got my attention. For some reason that got changed to ‘SEDITIONARIES’ and I think it ended up as ‘World's End’ or something.

SEX! Naturally I went in for a look around. It was clothes mostly. Ripped t-shirts with slogans scrawled across them, boots, studded jackets. There was some bondage clothing too made of leather, chains, and rubber. It was unusual stuff at the time. The clothes had what we know today as attitude. The owners were Malcolm and Vivian.

Malcolm was an art student so you could say he was challenging the academic separation of "art" from "life". Basically I think he was trying to annoy people. Push the envelope as they say these days. Viv looked after the clothes. She was always coming up with new ideas...the more outrageous the better.

I don't know how Malcom and Viv made any money. They certainly attracted some odd characters to their shop. Most of the customers were always nicking stuff. One time I was in there and this bloke was trying to stick a safety pin through his nose. ‘What you fink Dick? Like me new look? Alright is it?’ 

Those early piercers were a tough bunch. People had to do their own piercing in those days of course. You couldn’t just pop down to the 7/11 if you needed a new nose-ring. Back then you did it yourself, at home, in front of the mirror. You could get a friend to help but mostly it was trial and error. And maybe a dab of Dettol if you were lucky.

Good musicians though some of them. I remember an article in "Sniffin' Glue". It showed a diagram of the three finger positions on a guitar..."Here's one chord, here's two more; now form your own band.”

So I hung around and got to know a few of them, one thing lead to another and next thing I know I’m managing a punk rock band.

I expect lots of people remember the Nipple Erectors and the Snivelling Shits but how many remember the Fab Fukkers? Not many eh? That’s what I thought. How about Scum? No? The Stench? That was me. Got a write-up in Trouser Press? Never mind. Anyway I was the one who took them over to the States. Organized a concert tour for them. America was crawling with British punk groups in those days. Like a swarm of spiky leather locusts. The trick was to do a few live concerts in the Bible Belt, start a riot or two and get the radio stations interested. Maybe get on TV. Then hopefully they’d push your single so you could sell a million copies. Then you’d sign a record deal and do a bunk.

Public relations was important and I was always very strict with the lads. Hotel rooms had to be smashed up before they got any drugs. Sometimes after a busy day the lads were tired and didn’t want to know…
“Right you lot. Look lively. I want these rooms trashed before you get any kip.”
“Aw Dick...”
“Don’t ‘Aw Dick’ me. Can’t keep the reporters waiting. Let’s have those TV’s out the window!”

Then came the big lawsuit.

Cannery Mall, Lahaina HI.

We made it to Maui with no trouble except for a little run in with US Customs and Immigration.

They came aboard and wanted to see our passports. I explained everything….how I’d swapped the boat for a bar in Pattaya how Ning and Nong (Thai passports), were helping me sail it and Nyum was the navigator. The young officers seemed particularly interested in Nyum. Who can blame them. She looks like Do Hai Yen.

Her situation is complex I said. She has various passport applications pending with the UNHCR but the Hong Kong authorities wanted to repatriate her to Vietnam which she was not thrilled about so I gave her a job.

‘Perhaps she can apply for refugee status here?’ said one young officer.

‘She really does look like Do Hai Yen.’ said an older officer, ‘I may be able to pull some strings. And you Mr. Headley remind me of Michael Caine.’

I get that a lot. I may look like him but to be honest I've never been a big fan of Michael Caine. He reminds me of every dodgy cabbie I've ever met in London. Also he’s one of those actors who always seems to play himself. But I have to say he gets better with age. Saw him in as the French ex-fascist in 'The Statement' and again in 'The Quiet American' (2002) he was perfect. Just right for Thomas Fowler, the aging expat journalist running out of options. Which brings me to the point. Do Hai Yen. She played the taxi-dancer who Fowler lives with. I haven't met many Vietnamese girls quite as passive as her but that was the point of the movie. One of them. She represented Vietnam, plaything of the Western powers. Do Hai Yen was the star of the film of course. And she didn't even have to do much. 

We made it to Maui with no trouble except for a little run in with US Customs and Immigration.

They came aboard and wanted to see our passports. I explained everything….how I’d swapped the boat for a bar in Pattaya how Ning and Nong (Thai passports), were helping me sail it and Nyum was the navigator. The young officers seemed particularly interested in Nyum. Who can blame them. She looks like Do Hai Yen.

Her situation is complex I said. She has various passport applications pending with the UNHCR but the Hong Kong authorities wanted to repatriate her to Vietnam which she was not thrilled about so I gave her a job.

‘Perhaps she can apply for refugee status here?’ said one young officer.

‘She really does look like Do Hai Yen.’ said an older officer, ‘I may be able to pull some strings. And you Mr. Headley remind me of Michael Caine.’

I get that a lot. I may look like him but to be honest I've never been a big fan of Michael Caine. He reminds me of every dodgy cabbie I've ever met in London. Also he’s one of those actors who always seems to play himself. But I have to say he gets better with age. Saw him in as the French ex-fascist in 'The Statement' and again in 'The Quiet American' (2002) he was perfect. Just right for Thomas Fowler, the aging expat journalist running out of options. Which brings me to the point. Do Hai Yen. She played the taxi-dancer who Fowler lives with. I haven't met many Vietnamese girls quite as passive as her but that was the point of the movie. One of them. She represented Vietnam, plaything of the Western powers. Do Hai Yen was the star of the film of course. And she didn't even have to do much.  

Full marks, by the way, go to Graham Greene for the original book and Christopher Hampton for a superb screenplay.

I asked the customs blokes if they’d seen the movie.

‘Oh yes,’ said the older officer. ‘One of my favorite movies.’

Turned out the officer’s name was Bert. We talked about The Quiet American for a while then I asked if it would be OK for me to take a taxi to the closest supermarket. I needed to stretch my legs.

‘That would be the Cannery Mall in Lahaina,’ said Bert, ‘we’ll hold your passport here while we check the boat. Take a couple of hours. Stay for the Hula Show if you want.’

When I got back Bert and the younger officer were in a good mood.

‘Everything seems to be in order here Mr.Headley. Did you find everything you needed at the mall?’

‘Yes thanks.’

‘Nice meeting you Mr. Headley. Fine boat you have here. You’ll be leaving Maui in the morning I expect?’

‘Right.’ So that worked out OK.

Journey to the East, Afghanistan.

            

 It is amazing in retrospect that they survived the journey across Iran and Afghanistan. But this was the sixties. The Shah had Iran in a tight grip, Afghanistan was enjoying a brief lull in the Great Game, foreigners were a rarity in the region.

Thus it was they arrived in Qum, a most religious city, and being thirsty and noticing a public fountain they decided to avail themselves of some refreshment. A particularly devout mullah started screaming and it wasn’t long before a crowd gathered. ‘What’s the problem?’ Simon asked a group of student types who had been watching the incident. ‘You are unclean unbelievers.’ said one helpfully. The gist of it seemed to be the infidels had defiled a holy fountain specifically reserved for pilgrims. Fair enough. But how were they to know? More mullahs began to arrive. Clearly there was nothing to be gained from an extended interfaith discussion so, making profuse unfaithful apologies, they withdrew in the direction of Isfahan.

“Shitting in the squat position is more natural don’t you think,” Arthur observed one morning as they stood beside a thin strip of tarmac which shimmered in the heat haze, “Puts you in touch with things.”

Simon agreed but only up to a point. “The flies certainly prefer but it can’t be easy on the old folk. And there’s always the danger of stepping backwards into one’s own deposit.”

“Yes, but that’s just it don’t you see,” said Arthur, “you can’t separate shit from life. As for wiping, rocks seem to work just as inefficiently as paper.”

“True,”said Simon. “In fact I think I’m starting to prefer them. When we get home I may ask mother to put a bucket of rocks in the bathroom.”

“I may take mine a burqa. Wonder what colour she’d like?”

“You can’t go wrong with good old black.”

And so they made their way ever eastwards, young middle-class English pseudo-beatniks, in the footsteps of Alexander, not his exact footsteps obviously but more or less, surviving on flat bread, goat’s milk cheese and a barrage of sights, sounds and visions induced by fatigue and occasional encounters with the demon hashish.

Their first Afghans were a surprise. Ferocious looking fellows with big beards and turbans armed to the teeth with daggers and swords. Some of them carried old Lee Enfield rifles stolen from dead British soldiers in the Khyber Pass no doubt. But the tribesmen were not without their sensitive side. Some of them wore kohl and occasionally they would pull out little mirrors and start plucking their eyebrows. Very strange. They also had a copious appetite for hashish and sweet tea. The infidels were invited to share great cannon-shaped jhellums. Arthur was quite impressed. He thought the Afghans looked like something out of Kipling. Simon saw nothing very romantic about fly covered kids playing with dry goat droppings.

“They’re stuck in the bloody middle-ages,” said Simon, “nothing but lawless bandits.”

“They are free and unspoiled by Western consumerism,” said Arthur.

“Bloody religious fanatics.” said Simon.

“Their weakness consists in their want of organization, their tribal jealousies, and their impatience of regular habits and of the restraint necessary to render them good soldiers,” said Arthur quoting from ‘For Name and Fame, or Through Afghan Passes’ by G.A. Henty, “but, when led and organized by English officers, there are no better soldiers in the world; as is proved by the splendid services which have been rendered by the frontier force, which is composed almost entirely of Afghan tribesmen.

“Their history shows that defeat has little moral effect upon them. Crushed one day, they will rise again the next; scattered--it would seem hopelessly--they are ready to reassemble, and renew the conflict, at the first summons of their chiefs. Guided by British advice, led by British officers and, it may be, paid by British gold, Afghanistan is likely to prove an invaluable ally to us, when the day comes that Russia believes herself strong enough to move forward towards the goal of all her hopes and efforts, for the last fifty years--the conquest of India.”

“OK,” said Simon, “but they still look like a rough bunch to me.”

They arrived in Peshawar on the roof of a lavishly decorated multicoloured bus. The Khyber Pass had certainly been scenic but something of a disappointment. Or perhaps they’d just picked a bad day. Nobody took potshots at them and they didn’t notice any British subalterns pegged out on anthills at Gundamuk.

                      

                 

Home again.

Simon lives in a mews house in Chelsea. He’d bought it in a dilapidated state in 1970 and it’s probably worth several million now. Simon just got back from a trip to the British Virgin Islands. He had needed a break.

He had a pleasant trip to BVI. The few days in Necka were especially relaxing. Sir Richard was his usual charming self. The perfect host. Tough as nails underneath of course. They chatted about old times when Simon sold his magazines on street corners.  Had a good chuckle over that. Now it’s back to gloomy London. The rain. Keep busy is the trick. Tonight it’s the Brit Awards where it will be Simon’s privilege to introduce a succession of foulmouthed young drug addicts and make a few sarcastic remarks...in a nice way of course. He hopes it won’t be too dreadful.

Only one bag so he goes straight from Heathrow to South Kensington on the tube, peasant class. Nobody recognizes him. Which is both a relief and somewhat disappointing. Short walk from the tube station along King’s Road and he’s back in the mews.

The house is just as he left it. Russian oligarchs on each side now but that’s OK. The renovations were definitely worth doing. He can barely remember what it looked like when he bought it all those years ago. Easier to imagine it in Dickensian times when it was used for coaches and teams of horses. His bedroom once held hay. The living room was for the tack. Another small room upstairs was perhaps a stable-boy’s quarters. Now Simon uses it for storing Francis Bacon paintings, Hockney drawings, Furry Freak Brothers Comics, back issues of OZ, first editions of Naked Lunch and other collectibles. Good strong lock on the door. Coming in off street level it’s always amusing to think of great draft horses munching on hay and pissing foaming streams across the Kerman Ravar.

He checks his email. Ah, one from Arthur. He is agreeable to Simon’s proposal. Same old Arthur. He can’t just say he’ll do it he has to ‘be agreeable’. Simon hopes he didn’t give him a heart attack. They’re both getting a bit long in the tooth. Seems like ages since they got together. Arthur was over in England for his mother’s funeral if Simon remembers right….he took him out somewhere…Sticky Fingers was it? Arthur’s been in Thailand a long time. Wonder what he gets up to there? Right. That’s enough musing. Time for a shower and a change of clothes and it’s off to Earls Court for the bloody Brit awards.

Celestial navigation.

 

So what exactly have you done with your life Dick I hear people ask? Surely you haven’t always been a narrator?

Of course I didn’t just go straight from chatting up Swedish models in the Scotch with Simon to owning a bar in Pattaya. Life isn’t like that. Getting the boot from Arsenal. Marriage. Divorce. Managing a punk rock band. Meeting Oscar. Making porn movies in LA. Marbella. Philippines. Thailand. Sitting in Sopers Hole, BVI with a laptop writing this crap. Obviously a lot of stuff happened in between.

I’ll admit it, when I sailed off from Pattaya with the girls I wasn’t sure what I was doing. Koh Pangan for the Full Moon Party I suppose. Sail down the Gulf of Thailand and then what?

I thought about going to the Caribbean. Bloody madness really. I don’t know if you’ve ever sailed across the Pacific from West to East but it’s not easy. Ning and Nong were useful when it came to cooking and other odd jobs but none of us knew the difference between a spinnaker and a flying jib. Fortunately we were lucky with the weather so we had a chance to learn a few things about sailing. We stopped in odd places like Sihanoukville, Nha Trang and Sanya depending on the visa situation. I decided to stay close to the coast….at least as far as Hong Kong. That’s where we met Nyum. She was from Vietnam, just out of an internment camp and hanging around the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club. Don’t ask me how she got in there. Same way I did most likely. Lovely girl and smart as a whip.

Nyum has had a very interesting life. 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. When the Viet Cong took over people like him 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 dad 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.

I’d read a book about the Manila Galleons. The Spanish used them to run gold from Acapulco to Manila. Apparently the only way to get back was by going north to 38 degrees as Alonso de Arellano and Andres de Urdaneta discovered in 1565. I discussed this with Nyum. She did a few calculations, the girls did a bit of shopping, and off we went. Nyum figured we’d hit the California coast somewhere round Mendocino.

Bangkok3. On the Skytrain.

Right where was I? Let’s check in on Arthur. I’ve skipped a lot of formative stuff. School-days, snogging in the local cinema, Lorraine (Arthur’s first girlfriend), Simon’s job at a bank etc. etc. It’s all standard stuff and doesn’t make for interesting reading. But it does go some way to explaining how Simon became a TV personality what Arthur is doing in Thailand and why I’m sitting on this boat. We’ll get there.

We find Arthur sitting on the Bangkok Skytrain going nowhere in particular. He thought he’d spotted his mother’s ghost buying a ticket at Nana Station but he’d been too quick for her. He was gone before she even made it through the turnstile. Now safely squeezed between two Thai schoolgirls he’s thinking about Simon. So Simon is coming to Bangkok. Simon who he hasn’t seen for God knows how many years. They’d been at school together…hitchhiked to India together. They had been very close but inevitably they had gone their separate ways. And now apparently Simon is something of a TV celebrity.

Hang on! A bulletin just came in. Arthur has made a decision! The train is pulling into On Nut when he decides to email Simon agreeing to meet and discuss Simon’s documentary project….with one proviso. Arthur isn’t sure he is the right person to be conducting tours of the Bangkok naughty nightlife. So he may have a few questions.

The meeting is still a few months away. In the meantime he will be going back to the village in Northern  Thailand where he lives with his Thai wife Tui. He runs a second-hand bookshop in the nearby town of Af Makom. There, among shelves of well-worn paperbacks, he will wait to hear from Simon.

Good. This will give me a chance to describe his domestic situation. Tui, like most Thais, believes in ghosts. Arthur had always scoffed at such simple superstitions but lately he isn’t so sure.

Six months suspended.

Don’t know what’s got into some of the lads these days. Bunch of prima donnas. That Beckham seems to have his head screwed on but we were never like that. Well maybe a few of us. Course we had our share of piss-artists in my day too. Georgie Best springs to mind. But things have certainly changed. Russian oligarchs and …Italian trainers. Not naming any names here but where’s the flash? Too many blokes out there kicking the ball off sideways instead of going for the goalmouth. Importing players and managers from all over now too. We’ve been well globalized.

Everybody was getting TVs and soon they started televising the games. Playing First Division in those days was like being a pop star. The mud the sweat, the roar from the stands….like fucking gladiators we were. I was in the papers a lot. Got my face on bubble-gum cards and puffed wheat packets. And TV. They’d get us on chat shows with the Dave Clark Five or something and ask us what we thought about Jayne Mansfield. I didn’t mind. It was egalitarian one BBC bloke told me. Television was reaching out to the people. Top of the Pops, Ready Steady Go. Crumpet everywhere.

Some of you may remember the headlines. ‘Headley Does It Again!!!’ ‘Another Hat trick for Headley’ etc. ‘Headley Excels Himself’ ‘With a stunning virtuoso performance Dick Headley scores six goals against Liverpool in Arsenal’s first away game of the season …’ and so on…What the papers didn’t say was Headley was smashed out of his pod on lysergic acid and ‘pep’ pills. The crowd was singing Strawberry Fields, the ref was a mushroom and the Liverpool goalie looked like Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds. That poor goalie just gave up when he saw me coming. Who could blame him? Multi-coloured electric creature with 20 legs bearing down on the area at the speed of light. He didn’t have a chance. Or maybe he was stoned too. Lots of people were in those days. Then disaster struck.

Next headline was ‘Dick In The Dock!!!!’ above a picture of a sheepish-looking Headley on the steps of Marylebone Magistrates Court. What happened was I had a few friends over and the fuzz showed up. Caught us at it. The British Press were very nice about it of course. Pot Headley they called me. And there was no arguing with the beak.

“Richard Headley of Cheyne Walk, London, SW3 you are a disgrace to the sporting profession. By indulging in mind-altering substances you are setting a bad example to the youth of this country and…..”

“Fuck that your honour I………..”

“That will do Headley. Fortunately for you I am an Arsenal supporter. Six months suspended.”

Well it could have been worse. Two weeks later and they would have had me for the Great Train Robbery.

With my football career gone I was at a loose end. Did I miss it? Well let’s just say I had to make an adjustment. I'd done a bit of bouncing in strip clubs and I worked for Rachman, learning the property management business. So I got into restoring old houses. We were clearing out a squat in Fulham one day when I noticed all these young folk wearing torn clothes and safety pins, spiked jewelry and fishnet tights. They had rude things written on their T shirts with magic marker. Very offensive they looked. It gave me an idea….

Journey to the East: Somewhere in Turkey.

 

From Simon’s notebook:-

We made it out of Istanbul a couple of days ago. Bus to Ankara then started hitching. Bloody hell it was rough. Big American cars flying past. Dolmus they call them. Communal taxis full of communal Turks. Trucks. The map we have is pretty basic too. Ended up in Ersurrum, Konya. We had a look at the Tomb of Mevlana Rumi. Amazing colours. Beautiful tiles.

So here we are in Eastern Turkey. It’s winter. Bloody cold. I am writing this by candlelight. We are sitting on a rickety double bed in a damp room made of straw and mud or something. We arrived ‘here’ after about 18 hours in the back of a truck crammed full of terrified sheep. We had to stand for hours. The wind was howling down from Armenia or somewhere. The land around was bleak and dun-coloured. Not many Turks to be seen. I suppose they were all squatting round smoldering dung in their mud hovels, like this one, half buried in the frozen ground, chewing on raw turnips. What are we doing here?

From Arthur’s notebook:-

This place is rough. It’s a sort of hotel made of mud in the middle of nowhere. The bed is a thin mattress on an iron frame. There’s just a dirty threadbare quilt. Full of fleas most likely. There’s some Turkish kid, perhaps 14 or 15 on a mattress in the corner. We may have hit rock bottom. Oh well that’s what life on the road is all about. Experience.

From Ahmet’s notebook:-

The hotel is full. Even a couple of infidels showed up. Of course they put them in the cellar with me.

Still no proper job. I spent the day scrubbing turnips. Maybe tomorrow I’ll ask around the lorry drivers. They sometimes need young lads like me to clean the windshields and check the oil level. I could do that all right. Now I’m really tired but I have to listen to the bloody infidels talking…

‘My parents are weird.’ Says one.

‘They seem normal enough to me.’ Says the other one.

‘That’s what I mean.’

‘Well you can’t be weird and normal can you?’

‘My parents can.’

‘We’re two sides of a coin you and me.’

‘How so?’ 

“Narciss and Goldmund.’

‘You mean the polarization of Narcissus's individualist Apollonian character in contrast to the passionate and zealous disposition of Goldmund?’

‘Oh for fucksake.’

I couldn’t understand a word of it. I just wished they’d stop talking so I could have a wank and go to sleep.

From the author’s notebook:-

There were many moments for reflection and philosophy. Think allegory. S & A weren’t to know they were rehashing centuries old arguments and covering old ground. The Greeks had been this way before.

From Simon’s notebook:-

What a shitty night. The bed was cold and damp and the cellar where they put us was the same place they stored the dry cow dung. Ahmet spent the night wanking. Trying to keep warm probably.

And Arthur was distraught in the morning. His Hermann Hesse book was missing he was quite upset about it. We had a pretty good idea who took it but there was no going back. He’s decided to be philosophical about it. Some kind of omen he says. He's really serious about this quest business. But does he expect to find what he's looking for in a book? I suppose he does. Most people do. The Jews have their Old Testament, Christians have the new one...these Turks have the Koran. Believers. The more I see of religion the less I like it. These bloody believers are going to get us all killed one day.

At the moment I’m more concerned about being joined by a lively family of fleas. Or, God forbid, lice! Did Siddartha scratch much? Or were his problems all metaphysical?

From Arthur’s notebook:-

Couldn’t find ‘Journey to the East’ this morning. Simon thinks I must have left it in the ‘hotel’ inverted commas. I bet that young Turk nicked it. Oh well…hope he enjoys it.

Never mind, says Si, it’s hardly indispensable is it? We’ll get you another copy. But that’s not the point. These things don’t happen by accident. I was enjoying it too. It’s funny. I mean weird. It’s about a spiritual journey through space and time. I can even see parallels with what we’re doing now but I’m not going to mention that to Si. He’d just say something sarcastic.

From the author’s notebook:-

This isn’t working. The original idea was for a sort of spoof of Hermann Hesse  but it hasn’t turned out the way I wanted. It’s all Dick’s fault. He couldn’t hit the right formal Germanic tone

From Dick’s notebook:-

Formal Germanic tone my arse. Nobody reads that Kraut stuff anymore anyway.

From the Editor’s notebook:-

Sorry Dick. You can’t say that.

Earl days.

 

So I started at Arsenal. I was billed as a promising young striker. This was the Sixties you understand. Lots of things were happening. Michael Caine was a big star, so was Georgie Best, David Bailey was taking pictures of all the beautiful people. Class barriers were breaking down….well not really….same bunch still owned the shop but it was an advantage to have a working class accent. 

I bought a nice car and a flat for mum. Got my picture in the papers. Hung around with pop stars. That must have been when I first met Simon….Rediffusion studios… Ready Steady Go. I gave him a lift to the Scotch, St.James after if I remember right where we sat watching the dancers. Mostly Swedish models….there was Britt Eklands everywhere in them, I mean those, days. Most of them got snapped up by Rod Stewart and Keith Moon but there was plenty to go round.

Simon was writing record reviews for the New Musical Express and talking himself into a DJ job at Radio Caroline. He had his foot well in the door. There were no flies on Simon.

Me? I was serious about football. Well I think I was but late nights took their toll. I’d get bollockings for missing training sessions ….started taking Purple Hearts and Dexies to keep up. Wasn’t long before I was flogging them to the rest of the team. Until I got nicked.

Don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Part of the narrating process I suppose. Keep the storyline going.