The Gods are Hungry.

Arthur leans back in his deckchair, which could be anywhere, but isn’t, and stares out across the Gulf of Thailand. He can do this for hours. When he lived on Samui he spent most of his day on Chaweng Beach…always on the same stool in the Coconut Bar…staring out to sea. But that was before Chaweng became a sort of tropical Skegness. He’d moved to Lamai, barely one jump ahead of the fish ‘n chips shops, and thence to Isaan, the undeveloped Thai hinterland which he had found much more to his taste. Isaan was slow, unhurried, with little in the way of tourist attractions. It was easy to slip into the rhythm of the place, wet season followed dry, hot got hotter, and days blurred into one another. 

The bookshop took up most of his time. One evening by the bug zapper, Dao, his wife of 7 years, had suggested a trip to Pattaya. Arthur had agreed. A change was as good as a rest…not that he really needed one, but he had always liked Pattaya. It was honest in its own seedy way; never pretending to be other than what it was…until quite recently anyway…when the local council started performing mental acrobatics trying to balance sin and safety.

In fact Arthur doesn’t care much what the Thais do with their cities anymore. Neither does Dao, who, sensibly, is in another deckchair, to his left, tucking into a plate of deep-fried prawns she just bought from one of the vendors that swarm like sand flies among the pink and red foreign bodies. This is Dao’s second visit to Pattaya and she loves it, doesn’t find it tacky at all. Neither, after a beer or two, and a bit of a paddle, does Arthur. He is content to just lie back and relax. Try to anyway.

Chewing gum? No thanks. Newspaper? No. Not even the Bangkok Post, thrust uninvitingly in his face by yet another vendor, can hold his attention for very long. Hang on a sec…he buys one anyway…somebody called Isis on the rampage in Iraq…hmmm…a mess to be sure…but Arthur is more interested in watching the clouds. He isn’t looking for omens or anything but he enjoys the constantly changing and evolving shapes.  Above him immense billows are forming faces of Obama, Putin and Bin Laden…potent images that dominate his thoughts these days…more and more he is seeing pagan gods among the clouds…vengeful old Egyptian and Hebrew Gods…Osiris, Anubis, Set, Moloch and Yahweh, Zeus programming a handful of smartbolts, Mars in his war chariot, criss-crossed by parasailers…and of course old Priapus is up there too, ogling the banana-boat-load of topless waving bargirls. 

It must all mean something thinks Arthur…these images from school history books surprisingly well etched into his memory, redolent of English summers, hours spent avoiding homework, lying on his back in the long grass listening to the sharp clack of willow bats meeting leather cricket balls. Then Sunday School and another kind of God…a stern but loving god who valued good table manners highly…who thought that children should be seen but not heard and whose first commandment was “thou shalt not pick thy nose or otherwise embarrass thy parents in front of the neighbours” and the second was “don’t play with your winkle there’s a good boy”.

Ukraine, Syria, people getting blown up left and right, it must all worry Obama surely…assuming he worries about anything. It worries Arthur. But he’s not sure why. All he has to do is lay back and let the sun shine down.

What is wrong with people these days? Where does all the anger come from? Has it always been this way or was life simpler before? Before what? Now it’s all Ishtar and Gilgamesh weeping in the ruins of Babylon and fighter planes and drones piloted by wholesome young men and women from Texas and Indiana eager to demonstrate that everything is manageable if you just punch in the right data. 

Well CNN can spin it anyway they want but they can’t fool Arthur. There will be no mass Christian baptisms in this ancient land...just the scowling, bearded Gods of Mesopotamia, impassive, enduring, trotting along on their little donkey carts...biding their time…or perhaps sullen and confused…annoyed and irritated at having their retirement years disturbed by strange clanking chariots…and what’s this glittering Grail-like object dangling before Arthur’s eyes…ah…a fake Rolex...no thank-you…

Meanwhile, up in the clouds, the gods are still hard at it…the sky is full of them today…jostling for his attention…inscrutable Old Chinese deities, a procession of anthropomorphic Hindu chaps. Buddha? Not that he was a god exactly but is he up there too? If so he is probably happy just to exist…probably doesn’t feel quite the same need to assert himself and vie for people’s attention as the other fellows…

Am I going to die here? Arthur wonders…in Thailand? People did die here…by ‘people’ he means foreigners of course…they die all the time…in accidents, from natural causes, poisoned by jealous wives. What happens to all the bodies? Does anybody really want them? Will Dao have his body burned or have the bloody thing shipped back to England? Whichever is most economical probably…Her Majesty’s Government were unlikely to want it anymore…no I do not want a bloody cigarette lighter thank you…not even that phallic one. Very irritating these vendors. They’ve grown much more rude and persistent lately…in fact the worse business gets the ruder and more persistent they become. How much could they make selling that stuff anyway…a hundred baht a day? Two? The woman with the cigarette lighters…she probably walks miles every day and if she’s lucky she might sell one…

Arthur likes to complain about how Thailand isn’t what it used to be but he has enjoyed the best years…long before the Internet and the tattooed midriff-raff…before the bargirls started calling him Papa. Could be worse Arthur old chap…at least you’re not under a bridge somewhere sniffing glue.

What dear? Oh yes, thank you …Dao has just dismembered a crab and she is offering him a prime morsel … “I very angry,” says Dao. She means hungry of course, it’s a long-standing joke they have…one of many based on language misunderstandings. Dao is enjoying herself though…she’s had a tough life and she’s been looking forward to this trip. Good to see her making the most of it.

He starts to think about England. But not for long. Somebody is waving something under his nose...a grilled chicken foot it looks like…er…no thank you…but I will have …let me see…a boiled egg and a slice of pineapple…

Meeting Francis.

   

Meeting Francis Bacon wasn’t too difficult. Simon simply wandered into the Colony Room. He knew he would have to take some abuse from the regulars but he figured he could hold his own. Bacon wasn’t there when he went in so he ensconced himself in a corner and waited. He got a few funny looks from Muriel Belcher but nobody talked to him.

Then Francis came in. Very drunk. Just sold a painting. Ordered champagne for everybody. Simon managed to introduce himself to no obvious effect. He was not invited to the ‘oyster nosh’ at Wheelers.

The pay-off came some time later when he saw Bacon negotiating the escalator at South Kensington Station. They walked together to the artist’s studio at which point Bacon asked Simon who the fuck he was and what did he want. Simon muttered something about being a friend of John Deakin. Totally untrue.

‘Deakin doesn’t have any fucking friends.’

Simon followed the painter up a steep narrow staircase to a kind of studio loft crammed with stretchers, paints, brushes. There were photographs pinned to the walls. Books, stacks of newspapers and magazines everywhere. The floor was covered with newspaper clippings, paint cans and boxes.

Simon found himself staring at a large screaming Pope.

‘Should make a few waves don’t you think?’ said Bacon, ‘Shock the bastards. People disgust me you know, but still I need to connect. One tries to get close to whatever it is. Painting helps. Sometimes they work but I generally destroy the bloody things.’

‘I’d love to own one,’ said Simon. ‘Any chance of buying a reject?’

‘Are you queer at all?’

‘Pretty sure I’m not,’ Simon said.

‘Pity’ said Bacon. ‘I could use a good whipping.’

Thus it was that Simon acquired his study of Henrietta Moraes.

Columbus Day.

Tomorrow is 28th October. The day in 1492 Columbus landed in Cuba.

To commemorate the occasion Ning and Nong start pestering me. They want to go shopping in Miami. Christopher Columbus never had this kind of trouble. No women on his ship that’s why. Course he may have been amusing himself with the cabin boy but I somehow doubt it. He was a funny bugger old Colon but I don’t think he swung that way. Could be wrong.

He ‘discovered’ America. The locals were pleased to see him at first. Until he started roasting them over fires. 

Nobody’s sure to this day where he came from. He said Genoa. But historians say he was Catalan. Maybe he was Jewish. He spent a lot of time on ships and studied map-making with his brother in Lisbon. He somehow got the idea of finding a new route to the Indies by going due West. Did he know there was land out there? Looks like he had a pretty good idea. How could he be sure he wouldn’t just drop of the planet? A lot of people thought the earth was flat. Not Christopher. He knew it was round. He just didn’t know how big it was. 

For instance, Columbus calculated that the distance from the Canary Islands to Japan was 2,400 nautical miles (about 4,444km. In fact the distance is about 10,600 nautical miles (19,600km), which is why so many European sailors and navigators thought CC was nuts to try it. He didn’t listen. To his dying day he’d thought he’d found the Indies. Stubborn old sod.

There was no GPS in those days either. He did it by dead reckoning, which works like this. You start from a known point and figure out how much distance you travel by measuring your speed every hour. You do this by tossing a log (on a knotted rope) off the bow and watching for it to go past the stern. There’s a chant that goes with it so you know how long it takes. Course you needed an hourglass that somebody turned every half hour otherwise you basically relied on the sun, and it helps if you sail in a straight line.

This wasn’t much help when it came to longitude. Tell the truth Columbus wasn’t too hot on latitude either. He used a quadrant a couple of times when he was in Cuba and got 42 degrees. Over 20 degrees off. He blamed the quadrant. No more readings till someone gets that fixed, said he.

Another funny thing was what happened to his body. Hope you don’t mind me going on like this? He died in Spain in 1506 but his journeys didn’t end. First he was buried in Valladolid then moved to Seville. Then his son Diego had him shipped back to Santo Domingo in 1542 until the French took over and he was moved to Havana. When the Cubans became independent they shipped him back to Spain but some still think he’s in Santo Domingo. The indigenous folk were just happy to get rid of him.

The box in Seville was opened recently. Not much in it. Few fragments and some dust. Somebody tried to take some DNA samples so they could match it with his brother’s. No joy. Back in the box you go Christopher. R.I.P.

His epitaph reads "Non confundar in aeternam" (in Latin). Some people translate that to mean ‘Let me not be confused forever.’ But there’s even some confusion about that. 

Here’s a picture of the man himself. Well not really. If was done in 1519 by Sebastiano del Piombo who never saw Columbus.

 s

Creative writing, part 2.

 I've completely forgotten about Arthur! What's he up to I wonder.

Well not much. You can’t beat old Arthur when it comes to procrastination. I may not be Stephen King myself but I get a few things done. It’s not that Arthur doesn’t have a lot to say. He just doesn’t know where to start. 

You may recall we left him in the Last Gasp Bookshop trying to decide whether to write a novel or not bother. The idea has been percolating at the back of his mind for some time. About thirty years give or take. He’s even written a few things that might qualify as literature whatever that means these days. There’s still time before Simon’s arrival to knock something together out of all the bits and pieces. Perhaps even come up with some kind of synopsis. Then what? Should he show it to Simon or not? He’ll probably just say it’s crap. He’ll probably be right.

Maybe he should write a book. But about what? Or why, or when, or how?

Arthur has lots of ideas for unpublishable books. It could be one of those books where nothing much happens for instance. Something along the lines of ‘Dubliners’, or ‘Notes from Underground’, or ‘Catcher in the Rye’. Some bloke just droning on about his life and sharing his deepest thoughts with anyone who’s interested. That might work. There’s enough bored people around these days, surfing the internet, they’ll read anything. 

It certainly won’t be one of those post-modern books where all the characters are versions of themselves. Arthur has read enough of those. It might jump around in time and space a bit but the story will be fairly straightforward. He’s got nothing against non-linear fiction but there’s a limit. It’s easy to get too clever and leave any potential readers wondering what’s going on. Where are we? Who’s speaking? What day is it? Sort of an inconclusive whodunwat. 

Keep it simple that’s the trick. There can’t be much to this writing lark. Colourful characters that’s what you need. Get them doing interesting things. Lively dialogue. Throw in a bit of sex. Just a question of getting started.

Arthur imagines himself with a laptop somewhere…typing words in, moving blocks of text around. It would be a lot of work. And pretty futile when you think about it. Why would anyone commit himself to something like that? More to the point why would anyone want to read it? They’ll probably just skim through it looking for the naughty bits. Should he try to appeal to younger readers? Those who missed out on the Sixties and Seventies for instance, but aren’t too bitter about it? Maybe throw in a few vampires and zombies for teenage readers.

What Arthur doesn’t mention for some reason is that he’s already posted a few of his literary efforts on a website for aspiring writers. The reaction has been quite encouraging. He uses the short story form but the hardest part is always coming up with a clever twist.

The strange thing about writing is that sometimes he just can’t be bothered. He has to force himself to do it. And there are other times when he can’t get the words down fast enough. At least until the doubts appear. Words, words, words….hasn’t the world got enough of them? As for the bloody internet, it’s a Tower of Babel.

More procrastination. Perhaps he needs a holiday. Sitting in that bookshop all day surrounded by other people’s writing can’t be the best way to get anything written. Let’s send him off to Pattaya for a little rest. He can take Dao with him. She’ll love it.

Mountgay reflections.

We just got through a couple of hurricanes. I expect a lot of you were worried. Fay surprised everyone but we were ready for Gonzalo. I got 'Milly' out of the water in Santo Domingo and we moved into a hotel. Course there was no power but they had a generator for the bar so we were OK. They even had some Mountgay. Not that there's much wrong with the local stuff but when you have a choice go for it.

It made a nice break and gave me a chance to catch up on my email. Usual bunch of complaints from the author and the editor. What do they expect under these conditions? OK so I get my files muddled. Happens to everybody. And a note on the style. There won’t be any smashing through any literary frontiers. I’m not Chuck bloody Pahlinuk or however you spell it. And there will be no naked readings at literary conventions. Not even for purely promotional purposes. I’ve actually been to Hay on Wye so I know what it’s like. No thanks.

'Milly' survived. Just a few scratches thanks to the clumsy buggers in the marina. I did mention it to the harbor-master who said he was very sorry Senor. No point in making a fuss.

Gonzalo moved on to Bermuda. Which is ironic when you think about it. The Bermudian economy is based on re-insurance so they'll be well covered.

The Oz trial.

Simon went to the OZ trial at the Old Bailey partly out of a sense of solidarity but mainly to see who else turned up. The active elements of the Underground were well represented in the spectator’s gallery and revolution was in the air. He turned down an offer from Felix Dennis to participate in a planned disruption of the David Frost Show. Its effect on the system, he decided, would probably be minimal and it isn’t the kind of career move he needs at this stage anyway.

The editor’s job at Tin Pan Times is working out nicely. Simon now has his own office and he quite enjoys the power that goes with it. New young writers are being hired and Simon is the one who interviews them. He has a major say on cover design. The book about Rod Stewart…just a collection of photographs really, Rod in a kilt, Rod kicking a ball, Rod having his hair done, Rod in a Celtic shirt, Rod in compromising situations taken with a Polaroid camera by Rod himself (not used in the book), all interspersed with gossipy stuff about Rod, Rod’s clothes, what Rod has for breakfast, Rod’s favourite colour and so on…is selling like hotcakes. Similar books about the Small Faces and the Kinks are being rushed out and Monty has an idea for a magazine or two aimed at teenage girls. Good money in it he thinks. So all in all Simon is feeling pretty flush.

But he quickly realizes that his job at Tin Pan Times depends largely on his relationship with Samantha. Nobody ever says so in as many words but it is mutually understood. He likes Samantha of course but opportunities for infidelity are everywhere, which means he has to be careful. One weekend he takes Sam to meet his parents. While she is chatting with his mother in the kitchen Simon tells his father about the recent trip to America.

‘Oh, how was that?’

‘Bloody amazing. I went with the Stones. It was non-stop craziness. The Americans loved us.’

‘Us?’

‘The tour. The Yanks went crazy. It was as if we’d taken over the whole country.’

This was not strictly true. The tour had been badly organized. Many mistakes had been made. California had been crazy all right. No need for hyperbole. All those people driving on freeways, hanging out by swimming pools had struck Simon as quite bizarre. The tired palm trees, the stucco, the smog, the unchanging weather. There they were sitting on the edge of the Western world, with a fault line running through the middle. But in a strange way it worked. And it wasn’t all crass materialism. There was a definite spiritual side to it too. Californians were searching but for what? And what about that Leary character at Laguna Beach? Mr.Turn on, tune in, drop out. He certainly seemed to know what’s going on…or was he just another salesman?

His father resists the temptation to caution him about drugs and asks about Samantha instead.

‘Nice girl,’ he says ‘You seem keen. Are you two actually cohabiting?”’

He knows about Simon’s little pied-a-terre in the Chelsea mews. He should. He lent him the money for the down payment. Even claimed it on taxes. They hadn’t mentioned it to Simon’s mother.

‘Samantha’s on the pill is she?’

‘Think so Dad.’

‘Right. Only reason I ask is because sometimes life makes decisions for us. How’s the bolt-hole coming along?’

Simon tells his father about progress on the Chelsea mews house. All is well. Some excavating was done. A new damp-course was installed and the next step will be to get a I beam files this . Simon has filed the thought about pregnancy away for later.

On the drive back to London he raises the subject of birth control. Samantha asks why does he ask. Oh, no reason, just thinking.

The more he thinks about the ‘bolt-hole’ the more he likes it. He needs a bigger place anyway. His wardrobe seems to have grown considerably since Sam came into his life. It was Samantha who got him started on the unisex clothes. Velvet, satin, that kind of thing. Quite a selection. It’s the androgynous look as popularized by Anita Pallenberg whose authority in matters of fashion goes unquestioned. Anything Anita wears is OK with the beautiful people. Simon likes most of it but he draws the line at trailing scarves and Jimmy Page trousers. Sam chides him for being straight. He says he feels like a twerp. She has even tried to interest him in lipstick and a dab of kohl. It’s all good-natured domestic banter. There has been talk of Simon and Samantha getting a place together.

At the moment we find Simon in the process of getting ready for an expedition to the Speakeasy. He is seriously considering a bright red paisley jacket made out of some kind of upholstery fabric, recently inherited, he can’t quite remember how, from Brian Jones. It’s trippy but perhaps a little flamboyant. He looks at a denim jacket but it’s a bit on the scruffy side. He settles eventually for a lacy white shirt, navy-blue frock coat and quasi-military trousers.

How do I look he asks the girl on the bed who is not Samantha. “You look fab.” She says pausing momentarily in the search for her underwear.

Fab!! Did she say FAB? And without a hint of irony? She’ll have to go.

Fragments.

Alert readers will have noticed that this narrative is quite sketchy. That’s because it’s quite sketchy. It’s also because the narrator is an alcocoholic who can’t spell. Fear not. If this ever turns into an ebook there will be lots of detail. Everything will be nice and tidy and you can download it for .99cents. 

What happens when you’re narrating is an author will send you a lot of fragments that don’t belong anywhere.  Bridges we call them in the writing business. Like this email from Oscar for instance… I won’t bore you with all of it.

“Dick old buddy! Great to see you back in the Caribbean!!! What brings you here? Must be the brown sugar… blah….blah….”

Says he’s got a hedge fund and he just bought an island in BVI. Says I have to stop by. I’m headed that way so I might. Not hard to imagine what he's up to.

I might narrate some more about Oscar sometime too if I get some spare time.
I've got Simon in London, Arthur in Thailand, Samantha somewhere...Tuscany I think, there’s hurricanes coming and problems with the crew. It's not easy you know.

Mona Passage.

 

Between Hispaniola and Puerto Rico lies the Mona Passage. It’s a very dodgy piece of water where the Atlantic meets the Caribbean. It’s over 3000 feet deep in places and the tidal currents are very strong. Also it’s the shortest distance between Europe and Panama so it’s a major shipping route. There’s a steady stream of bloody great tankers and container ships coming through there all the time and they don’t always look where they’re going. Takes them miles to stop even if they want to. Small boats have to watch it. 

So anyway I decided, instead of doing it in one hop, to break the journey and have a look at Mona Island which is about halfway across. Discovered by guess who in 1493, it’s Puerto Rican territory but nobody lives there now.

It’s rocky scrub mostly but it has some nice beaches. We dropped anchor off one of them, took the dinghy to shore, and went for a walk around. People have tried living there at different times. We found the remains of a few old buildings. They left their pigs and goats behind which is why nothing much grows. What does do very well there is iguanas. Big buggers about 4 feet long that live in holes. We saw a few and they saw us. ‘Ooooooh klua’ said the Buriram girls in unison, clinging tight to Captain Dick. Then as we were looking for a camping spot on the beach another boat shows up.

‘Ola!!’ says a bloke who turns out to be a Puerto Rican park warden. He’s in charge of a group of young traveler types, I don’t know what you’d call them. Neo-hippies, new-age beach bums, wealthy young folk.

You won't believe what happened next.....

Something has got the girls excited. They are shouting ‘Justeen! Justeen!’ and running over to hug some young bloke. Bugger me it’s Justin Bieber and his bloody entourage!

They are setting up a picnic and soon there’s a soccer game going and my lot all join in. I’m tempted to have a go myself, show them how it’s done like, but I decide better just sit and watch. 

Always like watching a bit of soccer. Takes me back to the glory days. The mud the sweat, the roar from the stands. I believe I’ve already mentioned my problem with drugs that got me kicked out of Arsenal. No point discussing that again. It’s back in the archives if you’re interested. 

Sitting there on the beach on Mona Island, watching the kids enjoy themselves, it seems like it all happened in another world. The young people know nothing about those days really except for the songs and what they see at the pictures. It’s alright. But it would have been nice if one of them had recognized old Dick. Maybe come over and said hallo. That would have made a big difference. But they didn’t. Oh, I know what Justin and his pals are thinking. Look at the dirty old man sat there sipping his rum. Then the ball got kicked my way and Nyum came over to get it. Bless her heart. She gave me a little smile which cheered me up a bit.

That was before she delivered the bad news. She tells me she’s leaving me. Justin has offered her a job in his PR department. 

So that’s that. Lovely girl. Wonderful navigator and she could hoist a spinnaker without strangling herself. I’ll miss her. I’d offer Justin a swap for Selena Gomez but he’d probably just laugh. Oh well. I still have the GPS. And I still have Ning and Nong even if they get on my nerves at times. 

Now here we sit, in the Mona Passage, just a thin hull between us and deep, deep water….. …..it’s a long way down. I’m going to stop here. I’ve gone and depressed myself. Today has been a real roller coaster. I’ll be OK. Just a bit upset. 

Woodbines & Mars Bars.

Ah the romance of life in a small town newsagents shop where life is measured in newspaper sales, bars of Cadbury’s chocolate, Woodbines, Senior Service, cups of tea. Much TV is watched in the 2-room flat (plus kitchen and bathroom) above the shop. Arthur is a father now. Alice spends a lot of time with baby Cynthia. The shop takes all his time. Newspapers keep coming, headlines keep blaring…’CLAY BEATS LISTON!’, ‘BEATLES INVADE AMERICA!!’, ‘TEXAS SNIPER KILLS  12!!!’, ‘MINI-SKIRTS ARE IN!!!!’ They all have to be sorted. Shelves have to be stocked. Inventories kept.

Sweets and cigarettes and newspapers. Arthur’s life revolves around them.

Flying saucers, sherbert dips, gobstoppers, glow worms, jelly fish, black jacks, cherry lips, sugar mice, spearmint chews, jazzies, mintoes, teacakes, fizzwizz, Pontefract cakes, aniseed balls, bulls eyes, licorice torpedos….where is he supposed to put all the stuff? Too high and they can’t see it…too low and the little buggers just help themselves.

Very irritating too the way the sales reps keep coming round with new products. The problem is finding enough counter space. And it’s not easy to predict what the children will go for. Things like Mars Bars and Smarties are always popular but some of the newer confections just seem to sit on the counter for weeks. Nobody even wants to try them. 

And all the cardboard promotional material that comes with them just seems to add to the confusion. The cut-out displays aren’t always easy to assemble. And what to do with all the old cardboard boxes? It occurs to Arthur that recycling might be the way of the future.

He does get up to London sometimes. He’ll go to a museum perhaps or visit Simon.

Here they are now enjoying a quiet pint in a pub in Kensington.

‘So Arthur.’ Asks Simon, ‘What are you up to?’

‘Oh you know,’ says Arthur, ‘running the shop. Reading a bit. Watching telly.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Pretty much. There’s the occasional picnic to places like Woburn Abbey and Chessington Zoo.

 I know what you’re thinking. Why doesn’t he sell the shop? We’ve talked about it…but what would we do?’

‘Sounds as if you quite like the security and routine.’

‘In a way I do.’

‘What do you do exactly then?’ Arthur asks in a transparent attempt to keep the dialogue going.

‘I do rock writing.’ Says Simon.

‘What’s that?’

Simon explains. “It’s easy. All you have to do is say how much fun you had at so and so’s concert and what a great band they are.”

‘So what’s the point?’

‘Well the money’s good that’s one thing. And it’s exciting being on the cutting edge. Not to mention the crumpet of course. Lots of girls around. It’s not exactly literature but….’

‘I know,’ says Arthur, ‘it’s only rock and roll but you like it.’

‘Hey that’s a good line Arthur. Excuse me a sec…I need to write that down.’

‘I could try my hand at writing I suppose…but what could I write about?’

‘Anything. You hitchhiked to India…write about that. Or why not write about being a newsagent? You could be the next Harold Pinter. The times they are a changing Arthur. You need to get with it. Loosen up. Have a go. Just jump and the safety net will appear…you might want to think about changing your name to something…er… groovier. Arthur sounds a bit square.’

Arthur looks confused. He’s never liked his name much but he didn’t realize it was square.

‘I’m not really into music.’ 

‘What about politics? Where do you stand politically?’

‘Not sure if I’m Liberal or Conservative to be honest. I don’t like fascists. And anarchists scare me. Communists want to own things. I’m somewhere in the middle I suppose.’

‘Most people I know are anarchists. They’re just playing at it really. Have a look at this.’ Simon produces what looks like a sheet of pink blotting paper. Arthur notices that it has been divided into half-inch squares. 

‘LSD’, says Simon, ‘Owsley White Lightning to be precise. Want to try a hit?’

Arthur has read about this stuff in the Daily Mail. He’s in two minds. The moment of truth has arrived.

Jacmel.

WTNT34 KNHC 091451
TCPAT4
BULLETIN
HURRICANE ADVISORY NUMBER 29
NWS TPC/NATIONAL HURRICANE CENTER MIAMI FL
11 AM AST THU SEP 24 2014

...EXTREMELY DANGEROUS HURRICANE HEADING FOR JAMAICA AND THE
WESTERN CARIBBEAN SEA...

AT 11 AM AST...THE GOVERNMENT OF JAMAICA HAS ISSUED A HURRICANE
WARNING FOR JAMAICA.

A HURRICANE WATCH AND A TROPICAL STORM WARNING REMAIN IN EFFECT FOR
THE ENTIRE SOUTHWEST PENINSULA OF HAITI FROM THE BORDER OF THE
DOMINICAN REPUBLIC WESTWARD...INCLUDING PORT AU PRINCE...


Jacmel’s a bit of a dump really. The beach is dirty but the girls wanted to stretch their legs and I needed to check the bilge pump so we hove to. Mind you it’s been a lovely place at one time. Built by rich merchants from Port Au Prince who used it for a weekend getaway and there’s some beautiful old houses. But now it’s looking very rundown. We wander through the market. It’s Sunday. I know that means the women will likely all be in church while the men go cockfighting. There’s a young bloke following behind us. He’s got a hyena on a piece of string. A very well behaved beast I must say. I ask him in my best Anglo/French if he knows anything about cockfighting. He looks puzzled so I jump up and down and flap my wings. A small crowd gathers. ‘Ah la gague’ says someone, ‘suivez moi.’ and off we go through the market past a lot of shacks till we come to a big tin hut. It’s full of people drinking rum and shouting and there’s a concrete pit in the center. Cockfighting is a big deal in Haiti. It’s come to symbolize the relationship they have with Dominica. Two roosters fighting over Hispaniola.

It was unbelievably hot and noisy in that shed but nobody seemed to mind. Next two blokes are holding hooded roosters, the excitement reaches a crescendo and everything goes crazy.

The human mind is a funny thing. I’m watching all this, the crowd, the roosters clawing and pecking at each other, the stuffy tin shed and for some reason I’m getting flashbacks to my first brush with the porn business.

I believe I told you about Aunty Doris and Uncle Archie and the naughty goings on in the living room. I wasn’t supposed to watch but of course I did. Later on Uncle Archie let me work the camera and move the lights around. Even gave me a few black and white still photos to flog at school.

When Auntie Doris got nicked and Dad in the Scrubs it was just me and Mum. Uncle Archie used to come round a lot to see how she was doing. He’d always slip me a couple of quid and send me out somewhere so I had a lot more personal freedom. Those were great days. One summer I borrowed Archie’s Standard Vanguard (and his driver’s license), and took mum to Butlins. She loved it didn’t she? Skegness! Bloody marvelous.

Funnily enough looking back I was a bit of a slow bloomer. Had me first real bunk-up at Butlins. (I’m not counting the messy knee-trembler with a Girl Guide from Crouch End. Saucy little piece from Brownhills named Thelma. Brummy accent. Met her on the roller rink. Black lace knickers and a real goer once I got her away from her mate.

Also, come to think of it that was the first time I saw a proper boat. Mablethorpe Yacht Club Annual Regatta. Posh bastards or so I thought at the time. I made a mental note to meself. Dicky Boy you’re having one of those yachts one day. Anyway the holiday camp was great. Remember Oliver Reed in Tommy? His haircut? I was a Teddy Boy...well not really but I caught the tail end of it. Drape jackets with velvet collars, bootlace ties, drainpipe trousers and suede shoes with thick crepe sole were on the way out. Italian suits and winkle pickers that was me. Duck tail and Tony Curtis sideburns. And the music…Gene Vincent and Bill Haley. Smashing up cinemas. Lovely. No internet in them days. Buddy Holly. Dancing of a Saturday night at the Palais. Jiving we called it. Best England had in those days was Petula Clarke and Frankie Vaughan. Unless you count Tommy Steele or Cliff Richard and the Shadows.

Then in the sixties some strange things started happening, Beatles, Stones, Kinks, The Who, and next thing I know we’ve all morphed into mods somehow. The lads were buying Lambrettas, putting on their parkas and Doc Martens and scooting off to Southend for punch-ups with rockers. Went there a few times meself, not for the fights so much but to look at the ocean. Loved watching the sailboats. Course like I say…it’s all a bit of a blur.

Back at the cockfight I notice they aren’t tying knives to the birds like they do in the Philippines and I also see a lot of the roosters don’t have spurs. They clip them or twist them off with pliers I’m told, which doesn’t hurt the bird too much. If it bothers you, you can use a hot potato. Put a potato in the microwave for 5 minutes, or until REALLY hot. Get somebody to hold the rooster upside down then quickly stab your hot potato onto the rooster’s spur. Hold it there for at least 60 seconds then when the spur is still hot and soft give it a sharp twist. The spur will pop off easily without harming the rooster.

Well we lost a few dollars in that hot tin shed but the girls loved it. It was interesting to see a slice of local life and make a contribution to the Haitian economy. Poor buggers need all the help they can get. Looks like we dodged a hurricane...now here comes another one. Time to find a decent harbour.

Groovy Bob.

Robert Fraser was born into a wealthy banking family. He was educated at Eton. He was an officer in the King’s African Rifles in Kenya. Chummy with Idi Amin so rumour had it. He lived in New York where he hung out with up and coming young artists. His dad helped him get a London gallery started.

Simon liked Robert. Everybody did.  He was always charming and not snobbish at all. Simon dropped in the gallery often when he was in the West End to say hallo and have a chat. Robert was always happy to talk about art. Especially Pop Art. Simon learned about Blake, Hamilton, Dine and Warhol.
‘Soup cans. Silkscreen prints. Buy one Simon. You won’t regret it.’ said Robert.
Poor Robert. He had it all, looks, charm, titled friends. He was a real trendsetter with an eye for art. And he loved the dark side. He got sucked into the Stones orbit. Deeply flawed was Robert. Drugs…..oh yes….one of the first people in London to do LSD and one thing lead to another. Moroccan houseboys, rough trade, coke he tried them all. He ended up with a heroin habit, gambling debts and AIDS. One of the first people to die of it in fact.
But those evenings in his flat were fun while it lasted. Well Simon thought so. On the face of it it was just a bunch of oddballs sitting around being cool but you never knew who might show up. Keith Richards was there a lot, so were Anita Pallenberg and Marianne Faithfull. John Dunbar, Dennis Hopper, William Burroughs, Terry Southern, Kenneth Anger were all frequent visitors. It was the place to be. Something was in the air.
“Mark my words,” said William Burroughs, “that boy is headed for a fall.”
William and Simon were sharing a pot of Earl Grey in Fortnum and Mason’s Tea Room. Shoppers, mostly women, were chatting away at other tables. Chandeliers, aspidistras, all very sedate and English. Everything was cool. Once William accepted that you weren’t queer there were no problems. 
“This whole public school thing is very strange to me,’ said William, “the English equivalent of Ivy League I suppose.”
“It’s not just Eton,” said Simon, “Robert is a misfit. He’s brilliant and fascinating. But weak too in many ways.”
Things were never the same for Robert after the Redland’s bust. Going to jail wasn’t as funny as he made it seem. More drugs, a trip to India, a new gallery that never really took off, AIDS, death. RIP Robert.

Guano.

Then off to the southeast Nyum spots some land. Bugger me what’s that? Can’t still be Jamaica surely. Quick check of the chart says it must be Navassa. Just a low rocky looking lump, not much to look at but it has an interesting history. On his 4th. Voyage in 1504 Columbus was on his way back from discovering Panama. His ships were full of worms and leaking badly so he had to beach them in St. Anne’s, Jamaica and send for help. He sent a few blokes off in dugouts to try and reach Hispaniola. They ran out of water and landed on ‘Navaza’ where they found a few birds eggs and iguanas to eat. A few of them died and the rest managed to get to Santo Domingo in their canoes. Nobody visited the island again until the 1600’s when it became popular with pirates.

Then in the 1800’s some enterprising Americans got interested in guano. In 1857 a Mr. Cooper supplied a $50,000 performance bond to President James Buchanan (as required by law) and two years later the President proclaimed that Navassa now "appertained" to the U.S. You can take the word appertain any way you want really. Legally speaking it means "loosely belonging to or temporary ownership." It’s all explained in the Guano Act of 1859(U.S. Code Title 48, Section 1411-1419) which goes something like this:-

"Whenever any American citizen discovers a deposit of guano on any island rock or key and not under the jurisdiction of any other government and not occupied by citizens of any other government,  at the discretion of the President, he can say that the island appertains to America."

The Guano Act goes on to discuss the required filing of an affidavit and bond and discusses issues such as the President sending troops to protect the guano miners should they be threatened by other governments or bad guys.

Many guano islands were bought and sold. Not just the mining rights but actual real estate ownership. Geezer called James Jennett of Baltimore made a nice living discovering guano islands. He’d sell the guano rights as well as the islands themselves. Those were the days. Oscar would have loved the Guano Act.

Anyway that’s enough birdshit. Time to get some of that canvas down. There’s supposed to be a jetty here somewhere but I don’t want to chance it so we drop the main anchor and I tell the crew to get a bit of sleep. The wind’s died down a bit but there’s still a big swell. I don’t entirely trust the anchor myself so I’m up here with the all-weather laptop watching the chain and waiting for the sun to come up. Won’t be getting much sleep but that’s the downside of being captain. As soon as it gets light it’s all hands on deck and we’re off to Haiti.

 

 

 

 

Creative writing.

I expect you’re wondering how  Arthur got from the tobacconists to Thailand? It's a long story. I'll get round to it in due course. Meanwhile here he is in present time sitting in his bookshop in Northern Thailand. Business is slow. He might sell the odd book or swap one or rent one out. The internet has played hell with the book market but some people still like them.

Doesn't look like he's doing much at the moment but he's actually hard at work thinking about a book he intends to write one of these days.
It’s hard to think of Arthur as a tortured genius. Anguish? Not really. He doesn’t feel any great existential inner conflict. In as much as he exists in the real world at all he just sort of plods along. Takes things a day at a time so to speak.


Nor does he feel any burning need to communicate. So why does he write….if making notes can be considered writing? Maybe because there are days when he feels like part of the human race. For some obscure reason he wants to record his thoughts and feelings and share them with his fellow men, and women of course…and in so doing unburden himself.


It’s as if Arthur has been suppressed all his life, by his mother mainly of course, and growing up in England, the class system, the climate. The school she’d sent him to hadn’t helped much either nor had his two years of National Service. It’s a burden he seems doomed to carry around all his life and he wishes there was some way of exorcising all his demons. Living in Thailand hasn’t done much for his joi de vivre either really. He desperately wants to write but he doesn’t know where to start…his head is full of ideas and experiences from his own time in Thailand and the stories he’d heard over the years…but he knows the creative process can’t be rushed. It either comes or it doesn’t. So he makes notes…but so far he’s only been able to come up with a couple of short stories. He has one short story more or less finished and he’d shown it to Jim in ‘Silly Suds’. Which had been a mistake in hindsight. It had taken Jim weeks to get round to reading it and then he hadn’t said much.

‘It’s not bad Arthur but…’

‘But what?’

‘Well mate I’m not really the one to ask about literature am I?…Daily Mail and lavatory walls is about my limit… ‘  

Not very helpful.

It had been a lot of work getting that final draft ready for public consumption. Arthur had written and re-written it and kept making changes right up to the minute before he’d had it printed out in the Internet place and then one day he’d bitten the bullet and sent it off to a magazine in the UK. How long ago had that been? Five months? Six? And he’d heard nothing. Not even a rejection slip. It was enough to drive an aspiring author to drink. He takes a notebook from his pocket and begins to write…


Dear Whatsname…Thank you for your total lack of interest in my manuscript. I sincerely apologize for submitting the thing in the first place and appreciate your unwillingness to respond to my e-mails or long distance telephone queries. I should have sent it to somebody who knows good writing when they see it instead of wasting your valuable time.  Also I regret calling your secretary a snotty bitch on the phone and hope she understands that I have been under a lot of stress lately. She is just doing her job and I suppose she gets tired of shielding you from the unwashed herd of unpublished writers but that’s her job so she should be able to deal with it don’t you think? And as for you and your spineless approach to editing all I can say is that you have passed up a great opportunity as far as my work is concerned and one day you will regret it. I am not a vindictive person by nature but I can be a vengeful when I’m roused I’ll have you know. I should also point out that I am in the book trade myself and I have connections. As for my manuscript which you probably didn’t even read and with which I enclosed the appropriate stamped addressed envelope well don’t even bother sending it back to me as you should by rights do. Instead please be so kind as to fold it into a cone and shove it up your arse…I mean anus…no arse…

There, that’s the way to deal with those people. Who do they think they are anyway? Sitting in their fancy offices in Kensington and places and going to literary lunches. Nitpicking Old Etonian twits mostly. Bloody punctuators. They know nothing about real life.

Mewsing

 

Simon enjoyed working on the mews house. He had a fellow called Dave helping him. Dave was from Fulham and seemed to know what he was doing.

‘We’ll do the outside first. Roof and windows and re-pointing. Pop the old double-glazing in. When that’s done we’ll do inside. Start with the stairs. Leave the kitchen and bathroom till last. Lot of serious plumbing needed in there mate.’

‘A lot?’

‘Well there’s a cast iron down-pipe for starters…even some lead. You’ll want that out. Everything’s PVC these days.’

Simon likes it when Dave gets technical. Makes him feel like one of the boys.

‘By the way,’ says Dave, ‘there’s a bit of paperwork for you. Bills and that.’

Which is a roundabout way of saying the lads need paying.

So Simon learned about drains and damp courses and he liked the work. The house had been a stable at one time, part of the Grosvenor estate. The plan was to turn the street level into a combination studio and living area. Upstairs would be bedrooms and storage. There were piles of bricks and old window frames everywhere. Bashing out walls was dirty and dusty but it made a contrast with bashing out record reviews and interviewing pop stars.

Sometimes he fell asleep on an old mattress in his dirty overalls. Sometimes he would change into his trendy gear and go to places like Ad Lib and the Scotch where he would find people like McCartney, Jagger, and various Small Faces. He picked up a lot of gossip. Some of it he would use in Monty’s music rags. Some he would keep to himself. Monty had a strong aversion to law suits.

Pirates of the Caribbean.

BTW I have received a memo from the author. He thinks I’m rushing things. Simon for instance spent a lot of time in a mews in Chelsea during the Swinging Sixties. That was before he settled down. I’m supposed to say something about that. I’m also supposed to inject a few more subplots including meetings with my old mates Oscar and Chuck Woww.

So I’m scanning the horizon one day and along comes this bloody great black schooner, black sails, skull and crossbones, the lot. Hallo I think, someone thinks he’s Johnny Depp. So I get the binoculars out and there’s this big bloke in the cockpit. Looks like some kind of mutant, some biker must off had it off with a sasquatch. Bald, huge gut on him and a big black beard down to his whatsit. Sort of bloke who keeps pythons for pets.

There’s something that looks like a cannon up the sharp end and a nude woman stowing a jib sail. Bloody hell! It’s Pamela Anderson! What’s she doing here?

Should I mention I’ve decided to go to BVI and have a look at Oscar’s treasure island? Just waiting for the right wind conditions. Might stop in at Haiti. Dominica’s sort of on the way too. The Dominican Republic I should say. Or Dominatrix as Oscar likes to call it. Nasty old sod. He likes being whipped by black girls.

That bit for instance is part of a sub-plot about pirates which may never be used. I put it in without the author’s permission because I’m bored. Let me know if you like it and I’ll try to sneak some more in.

You probably think all this is coming to some kind of climax right? Well maybe it is but the climax could be delayed for a long time. How am I supposed to narrate this stuff when they keep making changes? It’s the bloody author’s fault. And the Editor. We’re dealing with several interconnected lives here…lots of situations and characters and places…it’s one bloody thing after another. Starting to wonder why I took this job.

Right where was I? Ah yes…Arthur. Talk about boring. He married Lorraine and she had a baby that they named Cynthia. Lorraine’s father, Ernie, died soon after and Lorraine inherited the tobacconist shop. Which is why we find Arthur now sorting through boxes of Mars Bars and Golden Virginia. India is already fading into memory. It’s not a very exciting life but he doesn’t complain. Not good old Arthur. He pops up to London occasionally to see Simon other than that he knuckles down and keeps his nose to the grindstone, does a bit of reading. They have the odd day out in the Morris Minor on Bank Holidays and that’s about it. 

Monty

Samantha took Simon to see Monty. His office was on Denmark Street….otherwise known as Tin Pan Alley. Simon told him about IT, OZ, Black dwarf etc. “Very good,” said Monty, “you’ve established your radical credentials. Do you want to make some real money?”

“Doing what?”

“Interviewing pop stars. Writing record reviews. You could do PR for the record companies.”

“Sell out you mean?”

“Well I wouldn’t call it selling out exactly. You can strike a balance.”

Monty was very generous. He paid well. Simon enjoyed meeting the movers and shakers, the music and the backstage gossip. Best of all he was guaranteed publication. When he finished an article there was no waiting around to see if it got used. And no problems about getting paid.

Still it was more Keith Altham than Nick Kent. Simon wasn’t intellectually satisfied. A chance meeting in a pub with Francis Bacon sparked a renewed interest in visual art. Simon started going to gallery openings which is how he got friendly with people like John Dunbar and Robert Fraser.

It turns out Samantha was no slouch herself when it came to getting in with the in crowd. She’d already been on Top of the Pops as a dancer. There was a chance of a spot on Juke Box Jury and she was doing quite a bit of modelling.

So I’m going to give Simon a couple more carefree bachelor years. He got a mortgage somehow on a dilapidated coach house in a Chelsea mews. The idea was to fix it up but things did not go totally smoothly with Samantha. They lived together for a while but it was on and off. Simon just couldn’t leave the girls alone. Samantha liked to play around a bit too. She wasn’t short of boyfriends. Me being one.

I’ll say one thing for Samantha…she was no snob. She would talk to anybody. Which is how I got to know her I suppose. Simon was writing something about punk and I was managing the Stench at the time. Him and Sam did an interview with me and the lads. I’d see her around the clubs and we would often have a chat. There must have been something about me that she liked. OK let’s be honest. I bonked her a few times but that’s how it was in those days. Nothing serious. People were fucking like rabbits.

Montego Bay.

Samantha! Don’t get me started on Samantha. I’ve got my own Samantha stories which I will reveal in due course.

Meanwhile here we are in MoBay. Decided to skip Cuba. Very tricky sailing on the approach to Santiago, as Columbus discovered 500 years previously. He was heading west, thinking he was off the coast of China, but he had to give it up. He got the crew to sign a piece of paper swearing that Cuba was so large it must be part of Asia. 

Just outside Santiago we spotted this thing sticking out of the water. Gun turret of the Vizcaya I think, sunk by US battleships in 1898. Nasty thing to run into in the dark. Then the headwinds got ridiculous so I thought sod it and came down to Jamaica.

Tied up in the Montego Bay Yacht Club. Pricey but nice enough. The other day me and the girls rented a Land Rover and drove out to the Cockpit Country. This is where the Maroons lived out of reach of British forces. After a series of battles they were granted land in the region in 1739. Accompong is the only Maroon village which has kept its original name. Accompong was the brother of Cudjoe, a Maroon chief and the name comes from an Ashanti word, Nyamekopong, which means ‘lone warrior’. To this day the village is ruled by a man called The Colonel who has the power of life or death over the villagers. The Jamaican coppers leave them alone.

Talking of life or death in Jamaica the murder rate here is chronic. Nearly 900 killed last year out of a population of 2.6 million. That’s high. The rum’s not bad though. Appleton still make a good one...they bloody should, they've been at it since 1749. But I find the Jamaican rums a little on the sticky side, which is why I drink Bajan whenever I can. Mountgay mostly but Cockspur will do at a pinch.