Cupid.

Have I mentioned Lorraine yet? She was Arthur’s girlfriend when he left school. Nice enough girl. Things just happened. His parents were off somewhere for the weekend, Lorraine came round, one thing lead to another and bingo!....bun in the oven.

So when Arthur returned from his journey to the East he had a major problem to deal with.

“What about Lorraine?” said Arthur’s mother, “The poor girl is eight  months  pregnant! We’ve all been worried sick while you’ve been gallivanting around in India.”

Gallivanting? “Well,” said Arthur, “I suppose we have to get married.”

“Oh gawd,” says Simon later, “See what one wayward sperm can do. It can change your life. So now what?”

“Look for place to live I suppose. Get a job.”

“In Crorley?”

“Yes.”

“There are alternatives you know.”

“Not in my case. What about you? London?”

“Yes. I’ve started writing for the alternative press. London is the only place to be. It’s all clothes, drugs, pop music. Things are really happening.”

“Sounds great.”

“And I have met an amazing girl. Her name is Samantha.”

“Don’t tell me you’re head over heels in love.”

“More like arse over tit.”

Simon met Samantha in Ladbroke Grove. Some hippie pad full of Indian bed-sheets incense and smoke. They’d left together for his place and talked excitedly about India. Simon mentioned an article he’d written for International Times.

“You wrote that!?!” said Samantha. “It was fab!! My dad liked it too.”

“Your dad?”

“Monty. He publishes magazines and stuff.”

This was music to Simon’s ears. Samantha produced a piece of Red Leb and it wasn’t long before their liaison was consummated.

Pussy whipped.

Arthur wanders into ‘Silly Suds’ and is delighted to find his favorite bar stool unoccupied. Before sitting down he adjusts the stool slightly so that he can see the TV and the street. Jim’s new girl is already pulling a draft. The ‘pub’ is the same as ever. Four or five of the regulars are sitting at the bar. BBC World is on the telly. Last week’s Bangkok Post is open at the crossword (Arthur has an eye for detail) and behind him a couple of blokes are playing pool. Outside on the street things are much as usual. It’s another slow, hot day in Mai Mee Nakon.

   There should be another bar in this town, thinks Arthur. He’d open one himself but who wants to sit behind a counter all day talking rubbish? Jim apparently.

   Jim says “Look mate don’t get me started on girls. Let’s find something else to talk about for a bloody change.”

   “I hear Skipper’s back in Bangkok,” says someone.

   “Skipper’s dead.” says Jim.

   “Not that Skipper. The Ozzie one.”

   “Oh him.”

   A young fellow with long blonde hair and a backpack who they haven’t seen before wanders in and orders a Sing. He sits at the bar and says, “Anybody feel like a game of Trivial Pursuit?” English by the sound of it, waiting for a bus probably, “ Nobody? OK. Just asking.”

   One of the pool players, the Yank, says, “Ask louder pal. They’re all deaf in here.”

   “Saw Max in Chiang Mai.” says the same bloke who’d tried to get the Skipper story going.

   “What’s he doing?”

   “He was eating pie and chips. In Eddie’s old place.”

   “No I mean what’s he doing?”

   “He wants to send motor bikes to England. Good business he thinks. Buy ‘em cheap in Chiang Mai. Crate the buggers up. Put ‘em in a container. Somebody at the other end flogs ‘em for him. Good demand he reckons…”

   Arthur was only half listening to it all. After a few beers it all got to be a bit of a drone anyway quite frankly. The quality of the conversation, and the caliber of the ex-pats, these days had gone right downhill if you asked him, which nobody ever did. He hardly ever heard anybody say anything interesting and he wondered why he bothered going to the place really. He even knew the answer to that one. Not much choice. It was either beer at the “Silly Suds” or sit in the bookstore.

   The Yank at the pool table was talking; to his friend Arthur supposed, but loudly enough to include everybody in the bar…and even a few on the street…

   “…it’s the falang this and falang that that gets to you in the end…falang, falang, falang…it never stops…even when they don’t mean any harm it’s always there…hello falang, here comes the falang, look at the falang everybody…yeah I get a laugh out of these guys who’ve been here twenty years and think they belong here…”

  When Arthur had first come to Thailand 20 years ago things had been different. The Thais had been more…what was the word? Not innocent exactly but certainly more likeable. He’d had a bar in Pattaya for a while with his wife at the time, Dao, the bar had been her idea come to think of it. He smiles inwardly to think how naïve he must have been in those days. Mai pen rai. All water under the bridge. Dao had cleaned him out but he had learned a lot from the experience.

    “Got any good videos then?” asks the young English lout. No manners at all obviously. Can’t he see everybody is watching the news? Smoke and flames over a city somewhere. Baghdad? Tehran? Jerusalem…can’t hear the TV properly with all the noise…

    “…met a guy once,” the Yank again, “been married 3 times here still couldn’t figure out where all his money was going. He didn’t care about it too much, had a pension from the military and a couple other pensions coming in, but boy did those women know how to skin him…”

   The bar phase had lasted about two years then Arthur had met Nong, his second wife, whose ambition was to open a guest house in Chiang Mai. So he’d got that started, one of the first to do trekking actually, and he’d even done a bit of import/export work on the side until things had become impossible with Nong and he’d moved back to Bangkok with Ning where he’d tried teaching English but that was a young man’s game and then came Tui and the move to Isaan, which was when he’d taken over the used bookshop…ah the Bangkok Years (sigh)…if he ever gets around to writing his autobiography…which he fully intends to do…he will refer to his time in Bangkok as his Panty Period…perhaps talk about the collection…or perhaps not…nobody would ever publish stuff like that anyway…(first few years….he had gone a little crazy, as many new arrivals do)

     “...money! That’s all they want from us…basically they hate us…don’t ever kid yourself otherwise…”

   The American is still talking. Arthur is tempted to comment but he keeps his mouth shut and listens. Until recently, the last few years say, he’d always found the Thai people polite and respectful. In fact it was one of the things he’d always liked about them. They could be infuriating in some ways but they understood the value of good manners. Lately though he’d noticed a change…especially among the younger people. He attributed it to exposure to Western culture. In fact he blamed Western culture for a lot of Thailand’s ills. It had been the Americans after all who started the whole Patpong/Pattaya thing for R&R. Oh the Thais had gone along with it readily enough…there were always two sides to everything…he would be the first to admit that…

    “…those girls can’t get out of the villages fast enough. Get themselves a rich stupid falang and they’ve got it made...”

   Arthur listens. How come every expat in Thailand is an expert on Thai culture?

   “ …I’ve lived in a village. Boy that was something...being the resident falang…that was a real test of mental stamina let me tell you. They treat you like a god dam ATM machine…it gets to you…sure there’s some good folks there but most of the time I’m playing with half educated chimps. The phee/nong stuff. I’m supposed to do what the older chimp says! The guy might be a smack head but he’s telling me what to do! Do it like this falang…we need this and that falang…no respect at all… and I was the one that fed ’n kept them all…and I’m supposed to keep smiling…oh yeah keep smiling whatever you do…don’t for god’s sake get angry…and don’t ever criticize anybody…cos you’re just a dumb falang anyway…”

    The fellow had a point. Arthur wouldn’t have put it quite the same way but he had written several letters to the Bangkok Post -- anonymously of course -- on exactly that subject. The difficulty foreigners had finding acceptance in Thailand. It was all part of the same paradox…the way the Thais could be welcoming and tolerant on the one hand aloof and xenophobic on the other. He could write a book about it.

      “…trouble is,” said the American, winding up his monologue, “we’re all pussy-whipped….”

the young backpacker fellow says, “Alright then…anybody fancy a game of pool?” Nobody does. Arthur continues musing then suddenly he hears… CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! What? Long time since we heard that. Good heavens…somebody is ringing the dusty old bell. Arthur missed the actual ringing but he looks up to see the young person with the backpack heading for the street.

   “Did he pay his bill?” someone asks.

   Jim picks a 50 baht note off the counter and calls out, “Here mate, see that sign, you’re supposed to buy everybody a drink when you ring that.”

   “Fuck that,” says the young yob, “I can’t read.”

Flying fish.

We picked up a nice breeze off Honduras and headed due East. The girls keep talking about Miami and all the rich husbands to be found there. If I’m not careful I could have a mutiny on my hands. Gender politics haven’t been an issue so far but you never know. Somebody might even accuse me of exploitation.

OK girls I say…..I’ll get you to Miami but first we need to make a few stops. Does anybody fancy Cuba? How about Jamaica ladies? Perhaps I can fix you up with some nice young Rastas.

Me I’m just happy when the wind fills the sails and I can get on with my meditation. There’s something magical about the Caribbean, the blue of the sky, the beaches, the flash of light on water. Excuse me if I get poetic…I know somebody will say ‘what a load of shite’. That’s OK. Say what you want. I love the reggae and the soca music, the palm trees, the friendly people, the sails snapping and the scrabbling sound of kamikaze flying fish skidding across the deck.

Hall of the Mountain Grill.

 

After he’d got back to England Simon had spent a few days at his parent’s house. Just long enough to get cleaned up. But he’d still felt restless. As if he was still on the road. His old bed felt too soft or something. Also there were some obvious changes going on in England, music, clothes, something was happening and he wanted to be part of it.

He moved to London, crashed at somebody’s pad for a while, feeling out the scene before renting a bed-sit in Ladbroke Grove from somebody called Rachman. He began to frequent the pubs. That was where he met Mick Farren. Mick took him to Indica which turned out to be an art gallery with connections to a bookshop on Southampton Row run by a fellow called Barry Miles …a friend of Paul McCartney apparently. Simon asked him if he could help. Miles said sure and gave him a bundle of magazines to sell. ‘You can keep half.’ He said. Simon told him it wasn’t quite what he had in mind. Would Miles be interested in something he’d written about hitchhiking to India? He’d just come back. Indeed we would said Miles.

The article wrote itself more or less. Getting the part about Istanbul into International Times had been surprisingly easy. Miles had been very encouraging. Write some more he said. Tips for where to stay, where to buy hash that kind of thing. How about something about India? The overland route? But Simon is in two minds. His first effort had been well received, according to Miles, but Istanbul’s low-end tourist facilities had been overwhelmed. Such is the power of the press that apparently the toilet at the Gulhane Hotel had been blocked solid a mere month after publication. Simon felt partially responsible.

About halfway along Portobello Road is, or was, a café called the Mountain grill. It’s a working class café very popular with musicians and roadies (I was one of those, DH) who like to exchange gossip and drugs. Pills mostly, blues and dexies, but grass isn’t hard to find. The Bangers and Mash isn’t bad either. Good hash is still something of a rarity. Finding Red Leb for instance involves a mini-safari into darkest Westbourne Park where you have to take your chances with the surly looking rude-boys at the Rio.

So the Mountain Grill occupies a strategic, some might say symbolic, location where two worlds meet. Down beyond the Westway Flyover is Hawkwind country, Lemmy Kilmister’s end where things get seedy…down among the wheelers and the dealers and the basic riffs and rhythms. Up towards Notting Hill Gate you will be more likely to find students and weekend dropouts, trendsetters, entrepreneurs, assorted Jerry Cornelii, Lord Kitchener’s valets. Even some Old Etonians.

Syd Barrett wanders into the Mountain Grill.
“You look a bit rough this morning Syd,” says Lemmy, “A bacon sandwich will soon fix you up.”
“Really greasy. Wash it down with a nice cuppa.” Suggests a wit.
Syd looks confused. He feels more comfortable in Holland Park to be honest. He finds it more attuned to his delicate Cambridge sensibilities. But here he is in the Grill so might as well sit down.
“Has anybody seen my dog?” He asks, “She's a collie.”
“Today’s Special.” Says another wag. “Shepherds Pie.”

Through the steamy windows it is possible to see VW vans recently arrived from the exotic East. They are disgorging bundles of Afghan jackets, scarves, incense, natural oils, colourful bed-sheets Kandahar shirts, Moroccan leather bags, Tibetan prints, psychedelic posters, and tabla drums which recently contained mind altering substances. The fuzz are active but not yet equipped with sniffer dogs. Stalls are being set up in amongst the fruit and veg, the fake antiques and the cut-price crockery.

All this is happening right outside the Mountain Grill. Simon is inside transcribing the scene into a notebook. Discretely. He’s still not totally confident of his literary abilities but making notes has become a habit. If anybody asks him what he’s writing he mumbles something about the underground press. He’s noticed how the bands round here like to talk about being revolutionary but nobody turns down an offer to appear on Top of the Pops. Look at Mark Bolan. Hopping around on TV like some kind of psychedelic elf. Hawkwind haven’t been on Top of the Pops yet. Maybe they haven’t been asked.

Syd meanwhile, after much reflection, has decided against a hearty breakfast. Poor Syd. It’s all rather sad. One acid trip too many is the general consensus. Fried his brains. They watch him wander out onto the street in pursuit of who knows what strange hobby. Not even beans on toast can tempt him back from the outer reaches of the galaxy.

Simon writes…“The Hippy Trail is really just a state of mind…”

Malibu, boogie nights.

This reminiscing is all very well Dick, says one reader, but can you tell us what’s happening now, in real time? Where exactly are you? What are Arthur and Simon doing?

Fair enough. I know it gets confusing. I’m confused myself. So if you’re still with me here’s a brief recap Arthur and Simon are two old school-friends. They hitch-hiked to India together back in the Sixties. Since then Simon has become a successful TV personality. Arthur lives in Northern Thailand where he runs a half-arsed bookstore. I’m on a boat in the British Virgin Islands with a laptop and some rum bottles and not much else. I’m supposed to be narrating but my mind wanders. I mostly wear Speedos.

I believe I was telling you about my mate Oscar. After my problems with the law suit he offered to put me up in his house on Malibu Beach. Course there was a catch. There always is with Oscar. He will be appearing again in the narrative so I might as well say right now he is one of the most horrible people I’ve ever met. No scruples. And he doesn’t care. He wanted me around so he could bounce ideas off me. Nasty ideas.

This was '77-'78. People were starting to talk about personal computers. “Mark my words Dick,” said Oscar, “the internet will be the next big thing. And I mean big. Come and have a look at this.” He’s got this Macintosh thing set up and he shows me how it works. “These are floppy discs. You’ve got your keyboard here….and this is what we call a mouse. Here have a go.”

I sit down and he shows me how to move the cursor around. “Now click on that.” He says.
“Click?”
“Press the top of the mouse.”
Bloody hell. Up pops a picture of Johnny Wadd on the job.
“See the potential Dick? The porn business is always evolving. Just a matter of time before we can do videos.”
He starts telling me how it works but it all sounds a bit daft to me. The way Oscar explains it blokes would pay money to look at grainy, dirty pictures on computers! You’re kidding, I said. Trust me Dick, says Oscar. There’s a fortune to be made online.

Naturally I was asking myself ‘Where do I fit in?’ Oscar showed me the basics of it and we soon had about 50 subscription sites going. Html was in its early days so to keep things simple the sites were all selling pretty much the same stuff. Pictures took about 10 minutes to download but who’s going to complain? And who are they going to complain to? Course this was before spammers and all the clever little pop-ups came along. Basically all we had to do was keep the punters happy. We’d scan a few pics out of magazines and upload a new bunch every few weeks. The worst thing we worried about was people flogging their passwords, which they did of course, but the money rolled in anyway.

The nicest thing about it was you could do it from anywhere. All you needed was a decent modem. The phone connections were slow in the beginning but that soon changed. Then along came cable and wireless and bugger me I could be on the beach or in a hotel or even on an airplane pumping out porn to the sex-starved millions. It was better than a license to print money.

Navigation.

Just a few thoughts about navigation.

People often ask me if I have a destination. Do you know where you’re going Dick, they often ask? Well of course I give them the old smile, like I know what’s going on, but tell the truth I don’t have a clue.

To be honest I don’t know bugger all about navigation neither. Or should that be ’nor do I not know bugger all about navigation either.’? Always have trouble with those double negatives. I can read a chart and a compass of course but the finer points elude me. Sextant? GPS? No thanks. All that fiddly stuff with plotters and logs. I left all that to Nyum. I trusted her completely. She gave me a compass heading and I steered it. She seemed to have an instinct for it. Funny that.

Some people just always seem to know where they are. The Carib Indians got around OK in their canoes. Island hopping probably. Never out of sight of land for long. Bloody amazing how those early Polynesians found their way around the Pacific with just a few shells and a couple of twigs. Took their wives and kids and pigs along too. Me, I don’t know where I am half the time. Hah…I can read the wind and the water but dates, tide-tables, windspeeds, headings…it’s all bloody mixed up. Get to my age and you don’t give a toss. Take each day as a bonus. When I left Tahiti I had a vague plan to go to Barbados (where I have a house) via Aruba. Didn’t work out. Ran into some very strong westerlies after we left Colon and decided to do the islands clockwise. That meant heading for Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands. Then what? Drop in on Oscar? Maybe give him a hand with his treasure hunt. Say hello to Richard Branson' I do plan to end up in Barbados for the Mountgay Distillery Pilgrimage but not sure when. After that who knows. Back to Pattaya probably, always plenty of odd-jobs at the Headley Hostel for Rehabilitated Sex Trade Workers. Basket weaving seems popular.

Sometimes I get on a nice long tack with a steady wind and I feel like I could go on sailing forever. Let the wind take me wherever it wants to go. Just lounge back, watch the girls in their matching Team Headley thong things, and think about the keel slicing through the water.

Way up in the sky I see the vapour trail from a Lear Jet. What’s that about I wonder? World Bank officials winging their way to Washington to catch up on the latest tax fiddles? Colombians moving a bit of dope? Beyonce off for a photo shoot? Who knows? And I see Brian Clough died at 69. Good number. He was a nice fella, let's hope he’s alright.

I met the King of Afghanistan once. At the Hudson’s Bay Company fur auction in London. He was flogging still-born lamb skins and I was there to buy a string of wild mink pelts. Skinny little bugger he was with a big nose. We got chatting and he tells me he likes big girls and do I know any? So I took him and his bodyguard up West. We had a nice meal at Wheelers then it was back to the Savoy where I made a couple of phone calls and ordered up some tarts. “This is Christine and Mandy your Majesty.” I said, “They will be happy to sit on your face” They settled on 100 quid each which I thought was steep but the King was happy. “Thank you Mr. Dick. You very good man” says the King, “Why you no come stay in my palace in Afghanistan?”

I never took him up on it, which was probably just as well. Christine and Mandy went on to become famous after Jack Profumo got arrested. I don’t know what happened to the King. Probably got beheaded by the Taliban. You can google all this stuff.

Ning and Nong are still bugging me about Miami. And I think I spotted the black pirate boat again. Could be a plot twist.

A slow day in Mai Mee Nakhon.

 

What about Arthur? We left him in Thailand in present time. He was riding his Honda Dream into town to get his bookshop open. Here he comes now…

It’s another slow, hot day in Mai Mee Nakhon. Arthur parks his Honda Dream outside the Last Gasp Bookshop. The shop across the road is still selling plastic buckets. Some dogs are sleeping in the sharp shadows cast by the Krung Thai Bank. An ice-truck makes a delivery at the 711. A few motorbikes and a tuktuk or two putter around aimlessly.

Arthur has  been very preoccupied lately. More so than usual. Simon is coming to Bangkok with a BBC crew and Arthur has agreed to show them around. Thinking about Simon brings back all kinds of memories. Schooldays, jazz clubs, Paris, Turkey, Afghanistan, India. It interferes with his other daydreaming. Did it all really happen? Where does the time go?


Ten years in Thailand now and not a lot to show for it. Still he doesn’t see it as entirely wasted, not at all, and as for the bookstore, well it isn’t a bad life. Or hadn’t been until recently, he should say. Lately it had got a little depressing. Hardly any customers and now the Thais are starting that thing again about falang not being able to work in their own bloody businesses. Enforcing some petty law. Ha. They are good at doing that when it suits them. So now technically he can’t move the books around or handle money…typical Thai bureaucratic nonsense really but it means every now and again he has to hide in the storeroom upstairs and hire a Thai student to run the shop. Two students really because it needs one to sort the books and stack the shelves…in alphabetical order ha ha, and another to sit behind the till staring into space. The other problem is his own literary aspirations. It’s very frustrating, suffering from a severe case of writer’s block and being surrounded all day long by other people’s outpourings. Not ideal conditions for writing that’s for sure. Or maybe it’s too easy to blame the shop. Perhaps he just isn’t cut out for writing. There are so many possibilities to think about, so many ways of looking at things. Maybe that’s why writers use a group of different characters…get them arguing and discussing amongst themselves, showing different points of view. James Joyce for instance. He was just writing about himself really.

Arthur's mind wanders back to that fateful day in Madras. Yes he had been lost and confused but he had made a decision. He chose to go back to England and confront his  mother and his pregnant girlfriend. He deserves some credit for that surely...

La Ceiba.

We're having a beer in a palm thatched beach hut on Roatan. That’s one of the Bay Islands of the coast of Honduras. A few days ago we stopped in Trujillo. Interesting place if you’re interested in William Walker. Who was William Walker you ask. Well he was from Tennessee. In the 1850s he got this great idea to take Baja California from Mexico. It didn’t work out but a few years later he raised an army of desperados and managed to take over Nicaragua. Even had himself declared president. Things went so well he set his sights on a few other Central American countries but his army was defeated and he left in a hurry. He made one last try but the Hondurans caught him in Trujillo (with a bit of help from a British warship) and put him in front of a firing squad. Un, dos, tres and that was it. Hasta la vista Senor Walker but just to make sure he was really dead they tied his body to the mouth of a cannon and blew him apart. The various pieces are buried in different spots. We visited the cemetery where Walker’s torso ended up then went for lunch at the Villa Brinkley. Red Snapper with a tartar sauce.

I've been told I must write something about Arthur in present time (He's in Thailand). Then I have to get the younger Arthur back from India to Swinging London. Who said narrating was easy? I’m just an old drunk you know.

La Ceiba is named for a huge old ceiba tree that used to grow here. It was a popular landmark for mariners but it's long gone. Which I find disheartening. The girls are disappointed too. There is nowhere to shop. They had been expecting Miami. We take stock of the locals….a few balding gringos, a couple of local gangster types, a group of whores, some sleeping borachos…..and we are on our way.

Something is happening here.

Simon is back in London. He's living in a house near Primrose Hill, what would later come to be known as a squat. The house is one in a row of terraced houses across from Regent’s Park it had been purchased by a real estate speculator called Harry and scheduled for renovation. In the meantime a motley group of people were living in the empty rooms, fucking, writing poetry and doing their best to avoid Harry when he showed up for the rent. Lots of interesting people came through….Gregory Corso in transit….Private Eye types….Establishment and various embryonic practitioners of social satyr

The front door is never locked…nobody wants the responsibility…so people are free to come and go at will. At first it worked quiet well. A sort of polite anarchy prevailed. There was a communal kitchen which somebody, nobody was sure who, kept reasonably clean, and everybody got along. It could have been London’s version of the Beat Hotel but unlike 9, Git le Coeur there was no Madame Rachou to establish a modicum of order… to Later of course cliques were formed, bathrooms got filthy and strange groups of people could be found shooting up in corners. Harry got called a capitalist pig one time too many and had the place boarded up.

When he first got back from India Simon noticed a lot of ch, ch, changes. Hair was longer for one thing. Especially men’s hair. Girls wore short skirts and kinky boots….trousers were flared. Trendy boutiques were popping up all over the King’s Road. One day he was watching TV and somebody like Rod Stewart came on. Shit! It was Rod Stewart! Looking every inch the pop star and singing a song called Maggie May.

What, he wondered, is going on here?!? There are freaks everywhere…head paraphernalia sold openly on Portobello Road…. comics and magazines, OZ, International Times….Allen Ginsberg reading poetry at the Albert Hall , yes, yes, we met him in India. Is this some kind of revolution? 

Where do I fit in?

Panama Canal.

Transiting the Panama Canal in a small boat is a pain in the arse. They make you feel like a bloody nuisance. You need, lines, tires, an advisor and it all costs money. You also get stuck overnight in Gatun Lake. Still I suppose it beats sailing round Cape Horn.

I had thought about Aruba but there was just no way with that headwind so we stopped in at Bocas del Toro. Pleasant enough place if you don't mind a few mosquitoes. It even has a modest little yacht club. We can wait for a change in the wind. Perhaps stop in at other places along the coast. Long time since I saw Cahuita or Bluefields but we'll probably give Limon a miss.

Come to think of it I may head straight to Cuba. Been there before of course and enjoyed it very much. Not Varadero so much, where the package tourists go, but Havana is great. Probably park the boat at the Marina Hemmingway and stay at the good old Hotel Nacional. Is that little place across the road still open? "Monsieur" I think it was called. Up the hill towards the Capri? Let’s hope so. They had an excellent restaurant with a bar attached.

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.