Mount Pinatubo.

Those were good years. Me and Oscar used to take turns to get away. Manila was our base but we often flew over to Bangkok or Macau and Hong Kong where we did our banking. 

If Manila got too much we could pop down to Puerto Galera or up to Olongapo. If you were lucky and the typhoons weren’t too bad there was sometimes a bit of beach at Subic or Barrio Barreto and Olongapo was always a good for a few laughs. The PX there even sold Ovaltine and, wait for it, McVitie’s Digestives!

Angeles City was another place we liked. Clark Airbase was still operating so Angeles was full of wholesome young American lads. I forget who they were bombing at the time. Vietnam I think. No that can't be right...maybe Cambodia. I get muddled with dates. You want historical accuracy go somewhere else. Anyway, Clark was very handy for dropping explosive devices on neighbouring countries. Lots of young American males were stationed there to keep the planes flying. Of course they needed an outlet for their natural appetites so when they weren’t loading bombs they liked to drink beer and study Tagalog.

The first indication I got that Mount Pinatubo was about to blow was in the Maverick Bar. I was having a tom tit in the squat toilet there one day when lava started coming up the bung hole. Naturally I ran outside with my trousers round my ankles and found clouds of dust and chaos on the street. Bloody amazing that was. Grey shapes running everywhere trying to keep covered dragging kids along with bowls and saucepans on their heads. Talk about Hieronymus Bosch.

This may be a good time to mention Millionaire’s Lodge. It was a cheap hotel in Angeles City run by a couple of Swedish blokes. The rooms were basic but the bar was an alcoholic’s delight. Who can forget the group of expats who wandered in and out?  Lots of Americans of course with Filipina girlfriends. An English bloke who trying to flog crushed sugar cane to golf course for fertilisers. Heidi the barmaid who kept getting pregnant, the couple running vegetables from Baguio or the little fellow from Bangladesh selling spices. What a strange bunch of people.  All drawn to that time and place for one reason or another. I heard later it burnt down. History.

Empire of the Sun.

Nothing much happening here in Soper’s Hole. I got the carburetor cleaned out OK. Works fine. I’ve been reading ‘Empire of the Sun’….rereading it I should say. It’s one of my favorite books. Ballard used a pretty straightforward narrative style and of course it’s basically autobiographical unlike some of his more experimental pieces.

I’m not a big Spielberg fan to be honest but I think he did a good job on the movie.

That is a picture of the house in Shanghai where J.G.Ballard used to live and behind which young Jim found the wrecked Zero which came to symbolize his ambivalence about war.

The house is now a Chinese restaurant. And it isn't the one Spielberg used in the movie. That one is on a golf course near Shepperton studios. How come you know all this stuff Dick you may be emboldened to ask? Because I often go to Simon Sellars excellent web site that's how.

And if you want to learn more about J.G.you can't do better than read Ballard's 'The Kindness of Women'

Kenwood House.

Today I will be cleaning a carburetor. It’s not too hard. Make sure you have some thin wire for clearing the jets. Also make sure you don’t drop any pieces overboard or you will be making a trip to Marine Depot in Road Town for replacements. Half the fun of doing mundane tasks is letting your mind wander.

Thinking about Simon for instance and his life. Does he feel like a success? Does he read this blog? And Samantha of course. I have this recurring dream where I’m back in England, walking across Hampstead Heath. I pass a pond with some anglers sitting around. Catching anything are we? I ask. They laugh. Bloody great carp down there, says one bloke. In German. No one’s ever seen it though. 

Next I’m wandering through Kenwood House looking at all the big paintings. They've got some nice stuff there. Reubens, a Rembrandt or two. All from the Iveagh Bequest. Guinness family. And then I’m in the cafeteria and there’s Sam sitting with a pot of tea. She looks up at me like I’ve just come back from the men’s and says, “So Dick...who are you fucking these days? Still enjoying the little Thai girls are we?” That’s exactly the way her lot talk these days. They like to use the F word a lot. Not sure why. Makes them feel more liberated perhaps. Anyway there’s no point in trying to explain. Anything you say is sexist. And the way she said it was very clear. Tired she looked. Wasted. Lines on her face underneath the expensive make up.
“Oh I keep going luv. There’s worse places than Thailand.” I say.
“Still a male chauvinist paradise is it? You don’t have to be patronizing Dick.”
“Patronizing? In what way luv?”
“Just the way you talk to women Dick. Even to me. It gets tiresome.”
“Can’t help it sweetheart.”
“That’s what I mean. Why do you have to stick ‘luv’ or ‘sweetheart’ on the end of every bloody sentence?”
“Don’t know darlin’”. Two blokes walk past carrying a painting. “That’s strange.”
“What?”
“Didn’t know they had any Chagalls here.”
“They don’t. Aren’t you going to ask me about Jane?”
“How’s Jane?”
“You make it sound as if you care.”
“Course I bloody care.”
“Well you know how young people are Dick. She’s been better since she left the clinic. Still on ecstasy I think but nothing serious. She’s living with some friends. Put on weight. Works part time in a tattoo parlour. She could do much better. I’m trying to get something at the Beeb for her. But of course she thinks I’m interfering.”

Who’s Jane? Jane is my daughter. Our daughter. I haven’t mentioned  her before. It’s hard. I can talk about Samantha no problem, she it was who taught me how to speak proper. I have trouble talking about Jane. But I’m obviously expected to say something.

“Has Simon put two and  two together yet?”
“He never mentions it but I’m sure he’s figured it out. Not that he’d ever ask for a DNA test or anything. What would be the point? And anyway it’s not the kind of publicity he wants.”
‘Well he can’t talk. Everybody was bonking everybody else in them days.”
“Those days.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re right though Dick. It was the Sixties. Nothing to get hung up about. Don’t worry. You’re not responsible.”

Meaning what exactly? That I’m irresponsible? Can’t argue with that either.

Two more blokes walk past carrying a painting. Another Chagall I think but I wouldn’t swear to it.

“I’ve been in BVI.” I say.
“And?”
“Thought of sending you a postcard.”
“But?”
“I was worried it might be misunderstood.”
“So?”
“Didn’t send one.”
“Shit.” Says Samantha. She’s looking at her cellphone and her mood has suddenly changed.
“What?”
“Just remembered. Tonight’s Salman’s launch. Hugh Grant will be there. And Amis.”
”Kingsley?”
“Kingsley’s been dead for years Dick. Martin. Look, can you pay for this darling? Oh almost forgot. Jane would love to see you. I’ve got to fly…. ” 

And that’s exactly what she does. First she hovers over her chair for a few moments then she flies...out through the French windows and away across the heath. And that’s it. She’s gone and I’m looking at a carburetor. 

 .

Chuck, Tony and Mr. Nice.

Been thinking about Manila. Here's a few more titbits ...

Mustn’t forget some of the folk that hung around Ermita. Shifty bunch. Some of us used to meet in a place called the Exotic Garden. Next door to Thriller. It was a restaurant popular with the bar owners so lots of colourful characters used to rendezvous there of an evening. You never knew who you might run into. When Oscar got into organizing porn conventions he’d take the restaurant over for a week or two. I actually met some very cultured people in Ermita. There was always a few Australian bank robbers and perhaps an axe-murderer or two passing through. Some of them decided to stay.

I was also lucky enough to meet the great thespian, Chuck Norris. He was screwing Filipinas and making thought-provoking movies about Vietnam at the time. Missing in Action was one. A German called Dieter was the bloke to see if you wanted a job as an extra. I went out on location once and helped them trash a helicopter.  We got it cheap from the PR Airforce with lots of bits missing.

                                        

His brother Aaron wasn’t really star material. He just didn’t have the same charisma and delivery as Chuck so he looked after the business side.

Oh yes, those were the days all right. A laugh a minute. Another bloke who used to dine in the Exotic Garden was Tony Moynihan. What a card he was. He told everybody he had a seat in the House of Lords but I don’t think he spent much time passing bills. Passing bad checks was more like it. He never seemed to have any money. Even tried to flog me a Victoria Cross once. Said it belonged to his granddad. I think he had a box full of the bloody things. He also tried to flog Howard Marks an island in Luzon for growing pot.

I’ve noticed whoever it is writes the obituaries at The Telegraph enjoys a little chuckle now and then. I was skimming through it one day when I found this…"The 3rd Lord Moynihan, who has died in Manila, aged 55, provided, through his character and career, ample ammunition for critics of the hereditary principle."

Novel ideas.

Let’s check up on Arthur. He’s still in the Golden Bar, Soi 4, Sukhumvit, Bangkok and he’s starting on his sixth bottle of beer. He’s getting into the mood for a bit of writing. 

I probably mentioned this before. Like just about every other expat in Thailand Arthur is working on a novel. That involves a lot of thinking punctuated by occasional bursts of actual writing. It mainly means overcoming inertia. Sometimes  he feels like the only expat in Bangkok who hasn’t written a book. The bookstores are awash with them. The central character is invariably a retired CIA agent/ ESL teacher, seedy flat, exotic Thai girlfriend, who gets caught up in a predictable series of events, drug smuggling, gun running etc. His best friend is a crooked Thai cop who offers tedious insights into the Thai underworld. The genre needs a complete overhaul thinks Arthur.

But is he the one to do it? Ideas have been percolating at the back of his mind for some time. About thirty years give or take. There’s the one about the old English expat in Thailand who talks to ghosts… perhaps an old school friend shows up and they look back on their lives.  He’d 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. He’s got a lot of bits and pieces, some of them more or less complete in themselves, stuff he’s scribbled down over the years…but there’s no structure to hang them on. Perhaps he can 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.

It’s not that Arthur doesn’t have a lot to say. He just doesn’t know where to start.  What kind of novel should it be? 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 for free entertainment. 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. 

On the other hand he wants it to make some kind of sense. Post-modern but linear. He wants to put everything in. All the ups and downs, all the people and places, all the memories and sidetrips. Why?  To entertain himself? To watch the words appear in some sort of order? To pass the time? 

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. Interesting locations. 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 rude bits. 

So many things to consider. Should there be sex and violence? Will anyone be offended? Should he even care what readers think or should he try to shock them? 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.

Probably the biggest decision has to do with person. Should there be a narrator or is Arthur doing all this himself? Proper writers seem to glide straight into it but obviously things like person and tense have to be settled early on otherwise nobody knows who’s talking or when. Very difficult business this writing. Invisible narrator that’s the way to go. Invisible reader should just shut up and get on with it.

And then there’s the question of style. Beckett, Burroughs, Nabokov, Amis, Le Carre….Arthur absorbs aspects of them all. He reads too much.

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 times when he can’t get the words down fast enough. At least until the doubts appear. Words, words, words….slippery little things that always seem to be just out of reach, hovering on the edge of his cerebrum, never quite falling neatly into place. Hasn’t the world got enough of them? As for the bloody internet, it’s a Tower of Babel. 

You can’t beat old Arthur when it comes to procrastination. He’s no Stephen King that’s for sure. But hang on…..he’s just had a novel idea!!

Why not write it from the point of view of some old alcoholic living on a yacht in the Caribbean? He could be looking back on his life and some of the people he’s met along the way. Arthur being one. It doesn’t solve all the problems but it would provide a narrator and set the tone. 

That thought deserves another beer.

Walkabout.

Cynthia lives with her husband Norm in a suburb of Melbourne. They have a rather unattractive baby. Cynthia puts the baby in Arthur’s arms and says. ‘Look at you with Grandad!’  

The baby starts to cry. 

'No worries,' says Norm. Norm is a jolly swagman. All his mates are jolly swagmen too. At Christmas they camp out by the swimming pools drinking beer and cooking chunks of meat on barbies. Sometimes they sing drunken songs. Arthur tries hard but he can’t get into the swing of things. Sensing his discomfort Cynthia suggests a trip to the outback.

‘Have a look at Ayers Rock,’ says Norm, ‘you can climb it but the abos don’t like it.’

‘You’ll be right Arthur.’ say Norm’s mates in chorus. ‘Watch out for roos,’

McCafferty’s take him on a bus ride through seemingly endless red desert and grey bush. Arthur spots the occasional kangaroo hopping off to nowhere. A hard country to love he thinks but there is something attractive about its very strangeness. He gets off at a town somewhere in the middle and thanks the big beefy driver, ‘No worries mite,’ she says, and he wanders out of the bus station into a shopping mall where he buys an ice cream, sits down on a bench and tries to remember who he is supposed to be. All around him Australians in shorts are wandering in and out of shops. Except for some black ones who are sitting on patches of grass. Those must be aboriginal people thinks Arthur. A strange sort of cultural collision is going on here.

Arthur walks through the town until the buildings stop. There is nothing but red desert and scrub, a hazy distant mountain range. Arthur keeps walking. He doesn’t know why. It just seems like the thing to do. It is very hot. The sun is blinding.
Arthur wanders in circles until he comes to an area of broken glass and old beer cans. There are abandoned vehicles everywhere. Flies by the swarm. Scraps of cloth hanging limply in no breeze. By this point Arthur is delirious. Then he spots what looks like a small oasis, blue gums round a billabong, a Toyota minivan with no wheels. Arthur collapses on the ground in front of a fridge with no door. Hard to say how long he’s out of it. When he eventually recovers the first thing he sees is a somewhat unkempt woman with matted frizzy hair. A vision of loveliness.
‘G’day.’ Says Arthur (he picked up a bit of Strine in Melbourne).
‘Merry Christmas,’ says the dream person. She is wearing half a tracksuit and a large bra. ‘Going walkabout?’
‘Yes I suppose I am.’ Says Arthur.
‘I’m Alice. Fancy a beer?’
Alice? That’s odd. His head is still spinning and the warm beer doesn’t help much. Alice has a broad flat nose and a lovely smile. She seems like a kindly soul thinks Arthur.
‘There’s no ice.’ Says Alice.
‘That’s alright.’ Says Arthur.
‘And no TV neither. The power’s off.’
‘Really it’s OK,’ says Arthur, ‘don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine. Just need to sit down for a bit.’
‘Take your time luv.’ Says Alice.
‘Will you marry me Alice?’
‘Alright.’

This is madness thinks Arthur. I must get a grip. What about my promise to Duan? He struggles to collect his thoughts.

‘Look Alice, I’m sorry. I just remembered something. I can’t marry you after all.’

‘That’s alright luv,’ says Alice. ‘Have another beer anyway.’

Bagoong.

  

I’m still tied up in Sopers Hole. Nothing much happening here.  Usual bunch of idle rich…people, like me I suppose, who’ve managed to screw a few million out of the system. I’ve paid for a month. Sir Julian left for Barbados. Bare-boaters come and go. Bob Dylan was here briefly. Incognito. And that pirate bloke showed up, the one with the tattoos. Harbour-master told him to piss off. The girls are definitely looking bored but that’s nothing new.

Going through the old files I see there’s lots more stuff about Manila. So at risk of boring you here’s some more. There are other things happening you know. Like what? Gay marriage, World War 3, Greek debt. No? OK then.

A lot of the Ermita bar owners had cars with chauffeurs and dwarves to open the door and stuff. I didn’t bother with any of that. Just good honest beer and pussy and loud music that was me. Give the punters what they want.

It wasn’t that I was cheap. I just didn’t like flashing it around. Never have. Oh I like having a few bob in my pocket same as the next bloke but bugger the gold chains and the chauffeur driven limos. Just gives the girls the wrong idea.

It’s all amazingly fresh in my mind. For instance I knew all the bars by heart along Del Pilar before Mayor Lim had them bulldozed. I can visualize them very clearly and I can still rattle them off.

Starting at UN Avenue let’s stroll down to Pedro Gil…St. Moritz, Black Out, Yellow Brick Road, Firehouse II, Lovebirds, Pitstop II, Black Stallion, Roller Bar, Pussycat, Pips, Bee Club, Pitstop I, Shampoo, Raymond’s Bar and Disco, Aussie Bar/Riviera, Bloomers, Australian Club, Cherries, New Bangkok, Thriller I, Roadhouse, Den Rose, Superstar, Thriller II, Brown Sugar, Bubbles, Butterfly, Rols, Polynesian Paradise, Blue Hawaii, Rosie’s Diner, Duke’s International, Hollywood, Little Caesars, 88 Olympic, Las Vegas, Chaplins.

I’ve probably missed a few but nobody’s perfect. Some cheap hotels around too if you needed a room for a few hours. Tower was only 200 pesos, hot and cold running rats in every room. Congress was even cheaper and great for short time if you didn't mind sharing the bathroom with a bunch of strangers.

I remember the layout of the place no problem but when it comes to chronology I’m fucked. Late eighties that’s all I know for sure but the order of events gets muddled.

I do recall going to see Cory Aquino speak in Rizal Park. Come to think of it I’ve still got a couple of ‘People Power’ T shirts somewhere. Collector’s items they’d be. Any offers? Cory did a good job. Everybody was very excited and Ferdinand must have known his days were numbered. There was the usual coups and counter-coups but Ramos was the real power…everybody knew it…and he gave Ferdinand and Imelda the nudge.

I remember me and Oscar commandeering a jeepney and driving out to Malacanang Palace with some of the staff. The girls said if we got there quick we could get some of Imelda’s shoes. Bloody zoo that was. People running everywhere grabbing whatever they could carry. I had my arms full of expensive junk when Oscar shouts, “Fuck the shoes Dick, follow me!!” and we’re off upstairs. Of course he’d brought his toolkit so as soon as we find the bathroom he make a beeline for the solid gold fittings. We didn’t have a lot of time. “Should have worn a Maytag outfit,” says Oscar hacking and bashing away while I tried to keep the crowds back. Some chance. There’s Filipinos climbing over each other. “Stand back,” shouts Oscar, “we’re from the UN!”

And another time I got stuck in the Camelot Hotel for a week because the corridors were full of blokes firing machine guns and throwing hand grenades. Telly still worked OK though. Very strange watching yourself get shot at from different angles. Most of the heavy fighting was out at Camp Aguinaldo on EDSA but I’ll never forget looking out the window and seeing a helicopter firing rockets at someone on the roof.

During a lull I went to the room next door to raid the mini-bar and found a couple of journos under the bed. “Welcome to the Philippines.” I said. “Is it always like this?” one bloke asked. “Only if they’ve been eating baalut.” I quipped. “Looks exciting.” said one of the journos nodding at a bloke on TV draped with a python. “That’s our Gringo,” I said, “bit of a lady’s man.” Next thing a flight of Chance-Vought Corsairs flies past on its way to bomb the barrios round Camp Aguinaldo. “Let’s go!” say the journos, grabbing their gear, and out they rush. Four of them. Only 3 came back.

Soi 4, Sukhumvit

Arthur is back in Bangkok. Alone. Dao has gone back to the village. He doesn't mind being on his own. Gives him a chance to visit some old haunts.

He’s having a pretty good day so far. He woke with a mild hangover in the Crown Hotel, took a shower without any fatal slippages and managed to get dressed without snagging any tackle. He did catch a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror at one point but it was just a glimpse…not something to linger on.

He negotiated the gauntlet of sidewalk vendors not in the least tempted by the array of porn DVDs, flick knifes, knuckle dusters, David Beckham T-shirts, mountains of Gucci luggage, and fried grasshoppers. He dropped a few baht in some beggar’s cups. Amazing Thailand indeed. Arthur is amazed that he ever found it amazing.

And now we find him on Soi 4 Sukhumvit in the Golden Bar at a table overlooking the street enjoying his first beer of the day and feeling quite pleased with himself. He needs to replace some of the liquid lost on the short journey from the Crown.

Of course his mind isn’t a total blank. He's thinking about the novel he intends to write one day. Why not? Everybody in Bangkok is writing one.

Arthur observes the other customers. The usual cross-section of Bangkok humanity.

Middle-aged farang, young Thai wife loaded with gold, couple of lukrungs (offspring of Thai/farang relationships) Yet another group of plump young Englishmen, cropped hair, football shirts….they just keep coming.

There they all are, middle-aged expats and Thai girls mostly, talking, laughing and doing all the things people do. Over the years Arthur has become quite adept at blending in. He has listened to more instantly forgettable bar room banter than he cares to remember. He can nod and chat, even guffaw, with the best of them. 

A waitress rubs herself beguilingly, or so she hopes, at Arthur’s thigh. She's wasting her time.

Arthur sees nothing attractive about the girls….unlike a large farang who has just ensconced himself at the next table. Just in from Afghanistan most likely and a man who clearly loves Thailand if the cluster of Buddhist amulets on a gold chain round his neck mean anything. He wais the girls and they move in like grinning piranhas, he buys drinks all round, the music is cranked up, the girls wave their arms above their heads, it’s party time, happy happy.

Arthur watches all this and wonders about the futility of it all. How do they keep doing the things they do? Is it all just hormones? Survival at its most elemental. His own libido seems to have taken an extended holiday wherever libidos go.

A small boy approaches with a round shiny object.  ‘10 baht,’ says the young salesman.

A moral compass probably thinks Arthur. People are always losing them round here. He declines.

A haggard looking woman with somebody’s baby dangles a Styrofoam cup in front of Arthur’s face, another small boy is doing a trick with coins, sticking them up his nostrils but Arthur is wise to that one, make eye contact and you’re lost. The third beer is kicking in, he concentrates on the street which is becoming nicely blurred.

The feeding frenzy is over, the large farang has made his selection, the other girls disperse in search of new victims.

At this point Arthur needs to make an urgent visit to the toilet. He enquires as to its location and is directed towards a small tile lined cubicle with a door that almost closes completely. It’s the squat type but he’s in no position to choose. Word soon gets around among the local mosquito population that he will be lowering his defences. Fortunately it doesn’t take long and the rest is a simple resolved with a bucket of water and a scoop.

Onwards and upwards.

You may be wondering what comes next. So am I. I've got more stories about Manila, Simon's career in television and of course good old Arthur. I've left him sitting in a bar in Bangkok thinking about the novel he will never write. I've also got a few nautical anecdotes of my own which I may or may not get round to posting.

You probably think I’m well stocked up with Veuve Clicquot and Ty Nant. Not really.  Of course I do get dehydrated like everybody else but I don’t have to drink the chlorinated effluent that passes for water in the UK these days. My drink of choice is Mountgay and Coke. So I don’t have to drink my own urine like Kevin Costner.

---

Sea Venture.

I keep most of my money in Bermuda.  It’s a pleasant place. Very respectable. I prefer it to the Caymans. Bunch of chancers they are in the Caymans. You could wake up one morning and find your account’s been frozen. 

And it gives me an excuse to sail up there once in a while. That means going through the Bermuda Triangle. It’s a fairly long haul and I always think I’m going to disappear into some mysterious dimension but no luck so far.

When I’m there I usually tie up in St George’s.  It’s a quiet place and the site of the first settlement. There’s a small park there which contains the grave of a most remarkable man.  One of my heroes in fact.  Admiral George Somers.  George was in charge of a small fleet sent by the Virginia Company in 1609 to relieve the settlers in Jamestown. Unfortunately they ran into a storm and became separated from each other. George managed to keep his own vessel, Sea Venture, afloat for 3 days and nights but she was a new ship and her caulking couldn’t take the beating. With nine feet of water in the hold he ran her onto a reef off an island that became known as Bermuda. There were 150 souls and a dog on board. Not one life was lost.

The survivors built two new ships from the wreckage and set sail for Virginia. Not everybody wanted to go but they had signed Company contracts.

It was all documented by William Strachey an aspiring writer who sailed on the Sea Venture and went on to Jamestown. Shakespeare used the story as the basis of ‘The Tempest.’

There is also an excellent book on the subject called ‘Brave Vessel’ by Hobson Woodward. 

John Lennon sailed to Bermuda in 1980 from  Long Island. It did him good. He weathered a storm and got a few songs written. The Double Fantasy album.  He finished it just before that clown shot him in New York.

George’s heart is buried in Somers Gardens. The rest of him was taken back to England. 

Rest in peace George. You too John.

FIFA

I don’t normally do this but the FIFA thing is getting on my tits.

I’m particularly tickled by all the talk about corruption. It’s professional sport for Godsake!! What do you expect? The rewards are huge. The potential TV viewing audience is in the millions. Tourism, advertising and media rights would be massive. Professional sport is corrupt from top to bottom. Doesn't stop people watching.

Course that doesn’t explain why the USA should suddenly be interested. Couldn’t be because they missed out on the 2018 World Cup could it? Or maybe they just want to do something nice for all the Soccer mums and Hispanics.

Ermita part 2.

I’m sitting here in Soper’s Hole on my boat wondering what to put on my blog. Ning and Nong are off shopping in Road Town so it's just me and a bottle of Pussers. All kinds of things going on in the world. Earthquakes. SNP win in Scotland. Beheadings. Global warming. Same-sex marriage. Hillary Clinton... on and on it goes. But to be perfectly frank it's all water off my back. My mind goes back to those heady days with Oscar in Manila.

Oscar was well set up by the time I got there. He’s got one bar in Ermita running nicely and he’s in the process of opening a couple more in Angeles City. It doesn’t take me long to realize where I fit in. Manager, co-owner, I don’t know what the technical term was for keeping the girls happy and counting the money. There was lots of perks. I had an office above the bar with a bedroom attached, handy for interviewing prospective dancers.

The Philippines under Ferdinand Marcos was a paradise for blokes like us. There was no AIDs to worry about and no NGOs running around taking pictures. Thanks Ferdinand.

The coppers were honest in them days too. None of this ‘planting shaboo in your bathroom’ nonsense or picking your girlfriend up and telling you she’s been kidnapped. All you had to do back then was slip the police chief a few thousand pesos every month and they’d leave you alone.

Accommodation? No problem. There was loads of good deals in the Ermita area. Once I decided to stay I got a nice apartment but at first I stayed at Mabini Mansions. Bloody alright it was. 300 pesos a night for TV, fridge, stove the lot. There was a charge for extra pillows though. Limit of five.

I soon got the hang of riding jeepneys. The best seat is in front with the driver. OK so you get the full blast of the diesel fumes from other jeepneys when you’re stuck in traffic but you also get the full Manila experience. Bayad. The money gets passed up to the front and the driver sits there sorting out his change. Then suddenly he’s working up through the gears and you’re off! Nothing like the thrill of charging full tilt across an open intersection with other jeepneys left and right, belching black smoke, all aiming for the same breaks in the traffic. It’s exhilarating I tell you. Goes great with a few San Miguels. I still get sentimental when I see a bottle of that stuff.

As for Ferdinand……well times change.

Watch with mother.

Some of you may remember this...

Simon grew up with programs like that.  It’s difficult to specify precisely what formative influence the Woodentops and the Flowerpot Men may have had on young middle-class English minds but television evolved rapidly. Black and white to colour. One channel to two. By the 70s Simon had his own TV chat show.  A new kind of television it was, daring, provocative, pushing the envelope. Simon was the Russell Brand of his day you could say.

Mind you we’re not talking total revolution here. More of a minor cultural readjustment. Simon did deal with topical subjects and he could be confrontational with politicians but there was no nudity and no swearing. Well not at first. Not until Kenneth Tynan said the F word thereby guaranteeing himself a place in broadcasting history. After that it was a free for all. Mary Whitehouse raised a question in the House. The BBC was forced to issue a formal apology. The affair was much discussed in pubs. Celebrities were lining up to say naughty words.

William Burroughs turned down an invitation. So fuck him.

Simon was at the forefront of the new trend.  Being a rock writer was better than being a star in some ways. He got all the fringe benefits without having to deal with the fame. Not that Simon was averse to fame. In fact he enjoyed it.  TV gigs were in addition to doing books and record reviews and now he was doing live interviews with leading figures from the cultural world. Brendan Behan, John Osborne, Joe Orton, Francis Bacon etc. Pop stars and various other easy targets all took their place in the hot seat. Love him or hate him everybody watched Simon’s TV show. He played the audience like a fiddle. 

Samantha was the mother of two children by then and living in the Cotswolds. She was happy enough. She got involved in village life and she still did some proofreading for London publishers. If she had any suspicions about what Simon got up to in the Chelsea mews house she kept them to herself. She was biding her time.

Postcard from Olongapo.

Well today is the day I sail over to Oscar’s island. Oscar de Borcceri to give him his full name. I believe I mentioned how we met at Altamont. We had the internet porn business together in LA. Oscar's main star at the time was Johnny Wadd who had his penis insured by Lloyd’s of London for $14 million. Thirteen inches in repose. Like a bloody firehose it was.

I remember the first time I saw it. I'd been watching Johnny perform in Oscar's basement studio. Oscar introduced me and Johnny wandered over and stood in front of me. It just hung there. What was I supposed to do? Shake it? But I digress.

Anyway I didn’t hear from Oscar for a few years. Which didn't bother me at all. I was living in Spain and I got a tacky postcard from a place called Olongapo. ‘Get your ass over here.’ It said.

Why not I thought. So next thing I know I’m in the Philippines. Turns out Oscar had opened a bar in Ermita which was an area of clubs and bars in Manila. It got shut down in 1992 by Mayor Lim. Anyway for a few years it was, how shall I put this, a remarkable place.

The year was 1984. I had put myaffairs in order and flown from Spain to Manila to manage a bar for my friend Oscar. Oscar has half a dozen bars by the time I get there.

My first impressions of Manila? Bloody horrible place. A run down American city surrounded by Asian slums. But perhaps my judgment was coloured by circumstances. I'd emerged from the airport into an oven and got attacked by taxi drivers, the streets were flooded, the taxi broke down. I hopped in and out of a few crowded jeepneys, somebody nicked my suitcase, I arrived soaked at a hotel with no electricity, the toilet was blocked and the phone didn’t work. The security guard carried a sawn off shotgun. 'Welcome to the Philippines sir.' he said. I thought bugger this for a lark. But in some strange way I liked it.

Next day I  had a walk round Ermita. It was just a couple of streets really, hotels, bars, jeepneys, garbage and exhaust fumes.

I found Oscar easily enough. He was having his breakfast in Rosie's Diner.

To really appreciate the Ermita bar business you had to see one in daytime. Assuming somebody was good enough to open the door you came in off the street into a dark space of indeterminate dimensions. You could just make out a bar, chrome poles, empty bottles. The floor was covered with tissues, cigarette butts and broken glass. Figures were sleeping on vinyl banquettes. And there was always a sleepy girl with a towel on her head telling you to come back later.

It all looked quite different when the sun went down. With the neon buzzing and the music blaring Ermita was transformed into something wonderful to behold. There was magic and the smell of frangipani in the air...an exciting mixture of sleaze and anticipation (or shock and disgust depending on your point of view). Needless to say Oscar had no moral qualms about it.

And of course the ladies came out to dance.