Soper's Hole.

After that experience with US Customs and Immigration in Mayaguez, I decided to skip USVI altogether. They weren’t nasty or anything. It's just their general attitude towards the girls. Pity because I'd wanted to take a peek at Vieques. Sailed right past it anyway.

So here we are in Soper’s Hole, BVI. This is a very nice little Marina on the West end of  Tortola. ($1 per foot per night for monohull. Cable $5.) Suits us fine. Oscar’s island is just a short sail away but I’m not ready to go and see him just yet. He’s a crafty bastard is Oscar. I wouldn’t put anything past him and my instincts tell me not to go rushing over there. Plenty to do here anyway. E-mail, odd jobs on the boat, catch up on some reading.

This would be a good time to do some washing. There’s a laundrette in town but the girls tend to get lazy if you spoil them so I get the Buriram girls out on the jetty with a bar of soap. I like watching Thai girls wash clothes and it always gets the other yachties attention. Not that I want to piss anybody off but it gives me an opportunity to meet the neighbours.

I met a couple this morning. I’d just got the girls scrubbing nicely when some old bag on the next boat sticks her scrawny head up and says...

“Excuse me, you do realize that all the waste matter finds it’s way back into the ecosystem don’t you?”

“Well yes of course,” say I, “Don’t tell me you never pissed off the transom?”

“Hmmph,” she says,” that’s hardly the point. Urine is not the same as PCBs you know.”

“Ah,” says I quick as a flash, “that’s why we only use organic soap. We like the kind made with olive oil. Especially if it’s got a bit of corn meal mixed in. Helps get the tramlines out of underpants.”

I’m thinking of telling her how repulsive she looks in a bikini when her old man pops up.
“Hallo,” says he, catching a nice glimpse of Ning’s tits as she bends over, “spot of laundry? Good show.”
“Yes,” I say,” very good show. You should have seen her when she was dancing in Soi Cowboy. Blokes were lined up down the street to pay her barfine. Ever been to Bangkok?” He gives me a sad little smile, like he’s got my number, and goes back to whatever he was doing. Times crossword most likely.

Then a few minutes later he’s back and giving me funny looks.
“Excuse me but have I seen you before somewhere?” he asks.
“Wanted posters maybe?” I quip.
“I’ve got it! You’re Dick Headley aren’t you? The football chap.”
“Guilty as charged. Who might you be?”
“Julian Snagge Q.C. Retired. I used to be a magistrate.”
“Bloody hell! You’re the bloke that did me for acid! Small world innit?”
Well there’s bit of an awkward silence for a moment as we both think back then he says, “Look can I buy you a drink sometime?”
“That would be nice,” I say, “why don’t we meet in Bomba’s later on….er….just the two of us OK?”
“Bomba’s?”
“Apple Bay. Just up the road. Get a taxi.”

I think when the girls have finished the laundry I’ll take everybody to Pusser’s Landing. They do a very nice pie and chips. You can wash it down with a frosty pint of John Courage Draft Beer. The girls will go for the pizza I expect. Then we can sit on the patio with the other rich idle bastards and watch the boats coming and going in the harbour. Did I mention Pusser's Rum Painkiller? It’s a kind of special cocktail they have. Goes down a treat. Fancy running into Sir Julian!

Indica.

Chuck? That must be Chuck Woww the Bangkok writer. It was a few days after the snowstorm when he came into my bar. I’d heard about him of course but we’d never actually met. Nice looking bloke I must admit. Bit like George Clooney but not so smug. He ordered a beer and introduced himself. Then he came to the point. Would I keep a few copies of his book in the bar? We could go 50/50 on sales. I said sure. We got talking about literature and he made a suggestion. I must hear lots of anecdotes and meet lots of characters he said….why not write a book?

Bollocks to that I said. But it was flattering in a way I must admit. I did agree to do a bit of narrating for him.

Some of you may be waiting for Miss Perfect Part 3. I’ll post it in due course but before I do I notice I’ve left Simon and Arthur dangling back in 1966. They are on their way to Indica Gallery for an art opening. You won't believe what happens next.

They stroll together up Horseferry Road and across St. James Park to Mason’s Yard, a small square tucked behind Jermyn Street. The gallery itself is small, not much more than a shopfront, with people wandering in and out. Inside a Japanese girl has set up some exhibits. There’s an all-white chess set, an apple called ‘Apple’ priced at 200 pounds, quite expensive Arthur thinks, and a white board with nails in it with a sign inviting visitors to have a bash. Something is happening here but he isn’t sure what it is. Dashing young gallery owner John Dunbar, tailored Levis, collarless shirt, waistcoat and granny glasses, explains…

“Yoko is a friend of John Cage. She came over from New York with her husband to make a film about bums. Bottoms I should say. There was a happening here a few weeks back…she had some people cut her clothes off with scissors.”

“So they can see her bottom?”

“Not exactly Simon. More a case of communicating her internal suffering through her art I think. Or you could see it as a commentary on identity if you like. Gender, sexism that kind of thing.” 

“Sounds a bit heavy.” Simon has his notebook out.

“Not really. This new work is very playful. It’s conceptual, to do with events, Zen. Hang on, I’ll get you a press release.”

In the center of the gallery is a ladder leading up to a black canvas. Arthur looks up and sees a magnifying glass attached by a chain. What’s the idea he wonders. Are you supposed to climb up? Feeling adventurous Arthur decides to have a go. He climbs up the ladder until he can look through the magnifying glass at some small letters on the ceiling. The letters say “Y E S.” Yes. A very positive message. So why does some nasty little voice at the back of his mind say no?

Simon seems to know a lot of people at the opening. He obviously enjoys it. Arthur watches him in action, chatting with fashionable friends and other arty types, a Beatle or two. It’s all a bit much. He feels completely out of place. To Arthur it just seems phony and pretentious, nothing to do with art. He mutters something to Simon about being in touch then he’s off to Victoria Station to be reabsorbed into the anonymous multitudes.

Miss Perfect part 2.

I came to Bangkok to get away from England. After the big fight with the missus I couldn’t settle back down to lorry driving. My mind was wandering too much. A bloody great pile up on the M.1. was on the cards the way I was going. I needed a complete change and tell the truth I’ve always fancied Asian women. From afar like. But I’d heard stories about Thailand so I thought why not? I’m free now. Still got a bit of cash left after the divorce. Go for it.

Where was I? Oh yes. I was telling you about Nok. I’ve been paying her barfine for about a week now. We’re like an old married couple (just joking). We usually stay in bed till around midday then get some noodles somewhere and maybe do a bit of shopping. She loves shopping. Then she trots off and I see her again in the evening at the bar. It’s all right but I’m not sure where we go from here. And I do think about the money a bit too. Somebody has to be serious around here.

I do a few calculations. At the moment with the hotel and everything I can probably get by on a couple of thousand baht a day. Throw in a few drinks, barfine and what I give her….say 5000 a day. Minimum. You’ve got to be realistic so say 6000. About a hundred quid a day let’s say give or take a few quid. Quite depressing when you look at it like that. I’ll be broke in 4 months. I use the ATM too much as it is. And I seem to be handing out thousand baht notes like Santa Claus.

Life is funny. You think when you find someone special that’s the end of your problems yeh? But it’s the beginning too in a way. I get quite philosophical sometimes you could say. Or maybe Nok’s right. I just think too much.

The thing is I would never meet a girl like her in England in a million years. Let alone shag her. First off, English girls these days are all mouth. And fat. Fat noisy slappers that’s what you find in the pubs these days. A lot of blokes are amazed when they come to Thailand to find girls like Nok. Oh you get some rough ones here too but a girl like Nok can be working bar and still be polite and ladylike and make a bloke feel good. It just seems to come naturally to Thai girls. Funny thing is most of them don’t even know how pretty they are. It’s a mystery. I love Thailand.

The sex is great of course...best I’ve ever had but just lying in bed with her is nice too and watching her do things. I love the way she folds her clothes and rinses out her knickers and stuff. I love the way she lets me look at her body when we’re on the job but she still gets dressed behind a towel. Quite shy really. She’s always busy but never in a rush like.

Sometimes I wish I’d tried harder at school. Not that I’m clever or anything but it would be nice to write all this stuff down. It would give me something to do for one thing. Life can get boring even in Thailand and it’s good to keep your mind active. As it is I spend all day thinking about Nok. I wish I could explain it better. I ask her what she wants and she says ‘I want mally good man’ Strewth marry! One thing at a time Nok I say, I just met you. The thing is she’s not really a bar girl at all. Well she is but what I mean is she’s not really on the game. I’ve been through the options in my mind like…tell the truth that’s all I do these days. I can keep paying her barfine of course. But that’s daft. And how long can two people live in a hotel room anyway? What about her stuff? My visa’s up in a week too then what?

Am I making a big mistake? I keep asking myself that. This thing just started. I can’t blame her. If it hadn’t been me it would have been some other bloke. She was just sitting there like fruit on a tree. Or maybe I started it. I didn’t have to pick the fruit. And I could have taken a bite and walked away. So how will it end? There’s basically two ways. We either stay together or we don’t.

Did I mention her mates? There’s these two girls in the bar where she works…she might even live with them I’m not sure. I took them all out for noodles once after the bar closed and she did tell me their names but I can’t remember. Funny names they have. Anyway I go to the bar one evening and no Nok. I didn’t think too much about it but she still hadn’t showed up after about an hour so I mention it casual like to one of these mates of hers. ‘Nok she go village,’ says one and the other one kind of snorts. She doesn’t seem to like me much. Jealous most likely.

I met this writer bloke the other day. He was sitting in that Golden Bar. Chuck something. We got talking and I told him all about Nok and I could see he was interested. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘you can’t just leave it hanging like that.’

‘Well,’ I say, ‘the way I see it there’s basically only two ways this can play out. Either Nok gives up the go-go life and moves in with me for good like or I stop seeing her.’

‘Do you have money?’ Chuck asks.

‘Some.’

‘Enough for a house in the country? If not you better forget it.’

He’s the cynical type is Chuck. Most of these old-timers are like that. But he may be right. There’s no future for me and Nok. I can’t afford her that’s the truth. I could go back to England and work but what about Nok in the meantime? Suppose she meets some other bloke. Chuck sees me puzzling over this and he says, ‘You’re not the first my friend. What you want takes money. I’m just trying to save you some heartache down the road.’

What he doesn’t tell me is he’s making mental notes for some story he’s writing. Wouldn’t put it past a bugger like him to post it on some website somewhere complete with a picture. Nothing like a picture of some cute Thai girl to get blokes reading. 

Miss Perfect

Delicate readers may want to skip this next bit. It deals with sex tourism in Thailand. The exploitation of third-world women by Western men. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Arthur certainly isn’t the first to get the bug. Yellow Fever is what US troops in Vietnam called it. A fixation with Asian nooky to be blunt. I’d see it all the time when I had the bar in Pattaya. Blokes arriving in Thailand falling in love with bar girls on their first night out. Happens a lot. Maybe they’ve just got divorced or maybe they’re going through some kind of mid-life crisis. Thailand is tailor made for them.  Dreamers. Bar Buddhists. Thinkers with the Small Brain. All looking for Miss Perfect.

They’d come in the bar see a couple of dancers and their eyes were popping out their heads. You’d think they’d never seen a tit before. And they don’t bloody listen. Waste of breath telling them to be careful. Gone they are. Oblivious. Spend money like water. They think the bad stuff only happens to other people.

Which brings me to my next minor digression.

Mate of mine in London sent a bloke over. Nice fella. He’s just split up with his wife and my mate thought a couple of weeks in Thailand would help him get his mind of his troubles. Tells him about me of course. Good old Dick. The bloke with a bar in Pattaya. He knows what’s going on. He’ll see you all right.

So he wanders in one afternoon and introduces himself. He looks happy enough but that doesn’t mean much. We talk about this and that, have a few beers and off he goes for a kip. Fair enough. He’s back in the evening and I can tell he’s made a decision. He’s going to take one of the girls out…just to see how it feels. Nothing serious. I ask him if he fancies anyone in particular and he points to Nok. Good choice for a first timer. Nice girl is Nok. More honest than most and not as hard as some of them get.

I catch her eye and she joins us. I can tell he’s a bit shy so I suggest he buys her a Ladies Drink. It’s only Cola of course but we charge for Tequila. It’s a business right? Then I leave them too it. I can tell he’s hooked and Nok seems happy about it so I just wander off and let nature take its course. My work here is done. Think of me as Cupid.

So I think no more about it to be honest. He paid Nok’s barfine for 3 nights and I think they went bar-hopping or shopping or something. Or maybe they stayed in bed for three days. Not unusual in Pattaya. Good luck to him.

It’s an excuse to write a short story…..

‘MISS PERFECT’ A love story in 4 parts.


Don’t laugh. I never thought it would happen to me again to be honest. My mates tell me I’m a hard bastard and after I split up with my wife I just wasn’t in the mood. She got the house and the kids and I swore I was off women for good. And I’m not daft if that’s what your (sic) thinking. I’ve read Private Dancer and I’ve heard all the stories. Well after you’ve been in Thailand a few months you do don’t you? Blokes losing all their money, jumping off buildings or getting their dicks cut off. It won’t happen to me don’t worry. And don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of these miserable buggers that you run into all the time here either. You can call me cynical but I know how to have fun.

OK I know what you’re thinking. No fool like an old fool right? But trust me. This girl really is different. You’ll meet her in a minute.

It started in the usual way. I’m in NEP, one of those outside bars, and she comes to sit with me. Gorgeous little thing. I buy her a drink of course not really thinking much past that and she just sits there looking at me.

I’d just spent a few hours in one of them blow-job places so I wasn’t actually looking for action tell the truth but I didn’t have any objections either. Here we go again I think, another night in Bangkok, ladies drink, barfine, hotel, shower, blow job, usual stuff but when I actually got her lined up on the bed something strange happens. Nice tits, very nice bum, perfect pussy…but it’s the way she looks at me after that does it. I can’t explain. I just know I’ve found a keeper.

Next morning she says it, right off the bat. ‘You good man. I want stay with you.’ Hallo I think, here comes the bullshit. Let me guess, sick buffalo, old mum in hospital, Thai boyfriend round the corner. “I no hab family.’ She says, ‘no friend me Bangkok. I all alone.’ Right. So of course I do a little interrogation and she tells me she’s just arrived in Bangkok from Udon Something and she’s living with some girls who she doesn’t like and would it be all right if she stays with me for a few days until she gets sorted like. Naturally I ask her how much she wants and get the old ‘up to you’.

I’m not one to rush into anything. So I take her for breakfast in that place under Robinson’s. We both have the noodle soup and I watch her looking round the place. The way she’s taking it in I can tell she really is straight off the farm. I ask her if she wants to do a bit of shopping and she says no I go home now. And she still hasn’t asked me for any money. Not yet. Before we leave I pass her a thousand bath note thinking she’s going to turn her nose up at it but no. She gives me a little wai and tucks the money away somewhere like they do. After that I put her in a taxi and go looking for a game of pool which I change me mind about because I can’t concentrate. Anyway, long story short I had a bit of a nap in the afternoon and I wake up thinking about her. A part of me knows it’s stupid but another part says so what?

Right here we are now in Nana and as I get near her bar it looks like she’s already spotted me. Her smile has lit up the whole plaza. Look out she’s coming over. I give her a little hug. Nothing too obvious.

‘You OK Mr. John?’ she asks.

‘OK,’ I say.

‘I wait you.’ She says.

I’m definitely OK but there’s a problem. A couple of blokes down the bar are watching all this. One of them’s got his eye on her I can tell. This is what I don’t like. Any dickhead with a couple of thousand baht can fuck her. It ain’t right.

I’m not a bad looking bloke. Bit heavy round the middle maybe but not like some blokes you see around. Still let’s be honest I’m not exactly Brad Pitt either. I ask her why she likes me and I can see her little brain ticking away. I don’t think she really likes answering questions like that but she says ‘you same same father me.’ Fair enough. I’ll be dad. Whatever she wants. I’m going to barfine her again that’s obvious.

To be continued…

Frigging in the rigging.

Frigging in the rigging.

1/5/2015

Ah the days of sail! My own vessel is a modest 42 ft  ketch rigged cruiser and of course it has an engine. The sailing I do would be called island hopping. Which means most of the time I set it on automatic and let my mind wander.
As now for instance. I imagine myself sitting in a pub…North London say, or Margate listening to some bloke whining about the LibDem’s immigration policy…the usual tripe…when who should walk in but Lemmy Kilmister brandishing a pair of six-guns he nicked from the Old Vic props department. You don’t want to mess with Lemmy when he’s in a theatrical mood. Who’s he looking for? Not me I hope.
Or I’m in my Spitfire, diving out of the sun onto a pack of Heinkels….I give one a 2 second burst and watch his engine drop off.

Then suddenly, just like that, I’m on one of those old tea clippers…one of the big buggers with sails as big as football pitches, the wind is from the stern quarter and every stitch of canvas is up there…ropes and spars…one of those jibs could slice your head off.

How did those blokes do it you ask? How did they find their way through all that rope and wood and cordage? So for all you what’s been wondering about the difference between a main top brace and a mizzen royal stay here’s a chance to brush up on your rigging.

The Spars and Rigging of a Frigate. References are not repeated for each mast where the names and functions are identical 1, bowsprit; 2, bobstays, three pairs; 3, spritsail-gaffs, projecting at each side of the bowsprit- the ropes at the extremities are jib-guys and flying jib-guys; 4, jib-boom; 5, martingale-stay, and below it the flying-jib martingale; 6, back-ropes; 7, flying jib-boom; 8, fore-royal stay, flying jib-stay and halyards; 9, fore-top-gallant-stay, jib-stay and halyards; 10, two fore-topmast-stays and fore-topmast staysail halyards; 11, the foretop bowlines, stopped into the top and two fore-stays; 12, two fore-tacks; 13, fore-truck; 14, fore-royal mast, yard and lift; 15, top-gallant mast, yard and lift; 16, fore-top mast, topsail-yard, lift and reef-tackle; 17, foretop, fore-lift, and topsail-sheet; 18, foremast and fore-shrouds, nine-pairs; 19, fore-sheets; 20, fore-gaff; 21, fore-topmast backstays and topsail tie; 22, royal and top-gallant backstays; 23, fore-royal braces and main-royal-stay; 24, fore-topgallant braces and main-topgallant stay; 25, standing parts, or fore topsail-braces, and main topmast-stays; 26, hauling parts of fore-topsail-braces and main-top-bowlines; 27, fore parts of fore-braces; 28, mainstays; 29, main-tacks; 30, main-truck; 31, main-royal-braces; 32, mizzen-royal-stay and mizzen-royal-braces; 33, main-topgallant braces and mizzen-topgallant-braces; 34, standing parts of main topsail braces and mizzen topmast stay; 35, mizzen topsail braces; 36, hauling parts of main-topsail-braces, mizzen-top-bowlines and cross-jack braces; 37, main-braces and mizzen stay; 38, standing part of peak halyards; 39, vangs, similar on each gaff; 40, ensign staff; 41, spanker-book; 42, quarter-boat’s davits; 43, one of the davit topping-lifts and wind-sail; 44, main yard tack, 45, a bull-rope.


Happy frigging.

Beautiful people.

Beautiful people.

12/29/2014

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Before somebody accuses me of male dominance I should say something about Samantha. I have to do it sooner or later. 

Where to start? Samantha has always been something of an enigma. Actually that’s putting it mildly. She’s unfathomable.

When I met her she was still having an off and on thing with Simon. They weren’t married at that point but Simon was working for Monty, Sam’s dad, so there was a certain amount of parental pressure. Sam’s mum, Alma, wasn’t totally happy about Simon’s non-Jewish status but being a modern woman she was learning to deal with it.

Where did I fit in? Driver, confidante and occasional bit of hanky-panky that was me.

I can already hear murmurs of gender discrimination so it’s probably best if I let her tell her own story. I don’t want any trouble with FEMEN. Over to you Sam.



Thanks Dick. Enigmatic? Well some men like to see women that way. It does us no harm. Isis, Ishtar, Artemis all rolled into one that’s me. Or it could be a reference to my bum. Think Venus of Willendorf.

I suppose I was a typical teenage girl. Bit rebellious. Well perhaps I did have something of an identity problem at the time. Couldn’t decide if I was a Jewish princess or a debby type with snotty parents in the country. Bit of both probably. I didn’t run away to London because I was already there. Grew up in Hampstead. Went to art school. Watched Fellini's films. I’d go to jazz clubs and places like the Marquee and Eel Pie Island. Pop music was just getting started. John Baldry, Rod Stewart, Eric Clapton, Syd Barrett, Brian Jones, Marc Bolan…..I knew all those people.

I smoked my first joint in Simon’s pad in Ladbroke Grove. He was just back from India and getting into rock writing so we were a good fit. He was an ambitious bastard but clueless when it came to clothes. I took him to the in shops. The girls were so much more in touch than the blokes in those days. Boutiques sprang up on King’s Road. Girls wore Mary Quant stuff at first whereas the boys were still wearing sports jackets…with ties! It didn’t take much to turn him into a groovy young man around town. 

Those were great days in the Grove. Hawkwind and the Mountain Grill. On again off again. Free love. What you’d call casual sex these days. Nobody worried much about catching anything. 

Simon wasn’t just another hippie. Peace, love, changing the system....actually I don’t think he ever believed in any of it. He had more personal goals. But like me he enjoyed the action and he saw the opportunities. He jumped at dad’s job offer. I’m not sure even now if anybody really knew how big the whole thing was going to get. Maybe Andrew Oldham had some idea but he burned out early. 

The clothes! So many changes. Everything happened so fast. There were so many groovy boutiques on King’s Road….Mary Quant, Granny Takes a Trip….Ozzie Clark. It was Biba’s one day, floral bell-bottoms and kaftans the next. That’s why I hate it when people call me a groupie. I’ve seen myself lumped with people like Pamela des Barres and the Plaster Casters in a few rock biographies. Very irritating. I wasn’t a complete nutter. In fact I functioned pretty well amongst all the chaos. I see myself as more the Jenny Fabian type. More of a mover and a shaker. Not just another freak hanging out. I couldn’t care less about the bloody books they keep churning out. 

And another thing I hate…when people ask me about what it was like having sex with pop stars. Did Jimi have a big one? What did Jimmy Page do with those whips? What was Syd really like?  etc. As if anybody knows what Syd was like. He had identity problems. Who didn’t? A classic romantic. He grew up listening to Radio Luxembourg and Goon show like the rest of us. I thought he was nice. Now we have to listen to Bono.

So I was one of the so-called Beautiful People. Had the right look. Modeled for David Bailey. Kept up with the fashions. Went to all the clubs. I was hanging out with rock stars and doing the latest drugs before I was twenty. I come from a show business family so I wasn’t a groupie in that sense. Fame didn’t impress me but I liked being involved in the action. All very exciting but God it all happened so fast. It was just a few years really. Crazy time. We all just got swept along. Swinging London. UFO was when things really took off. Suddenly there were lots of Americans in London. What’s your sign man? Want to throw some I-Ching? And lots of acid. Psychedelic was the new in word. 

Simon had a Mini-Cooper. We’d drive out to Rediffusion to be part of the crowd at Ready Steady Go. It was great mixing with the musicians and singers. I met everybody. The Beatles, The Stones, The Who, The Kinks you could find them all there. Ready Steady Go, Top of the Pops. The BBC didn’t know what to do about it. It was quite funny watching groups stoned out of their heads turn a TV studio to bedlam. Keith Moon never disappointed.

We’d go to clubs like Ad Lib, the Scotch and the Bag of Nails. Which is where I met Dick Headley. Dick was another diamond in the rough when I met him. (OK if you say so. DH) He’d just been fired from Arsenal for drugs and it was in all the papers. He was hanging around with a bunch of thugs at the time. Dick was a breath of fresh air. I‘d never met anybody quite like Dick. His dad was in and out of prison so he’d more or less been brought up by his mum who was on the game (True. DH). I don’t think he’d ever read a book in his life. I took him under my wing and turned him onto cultural things. It was fascinating to watch him at gallery openings and receptions. I loved the way he was completely unimpressed by ‘all that poncey stuff’. You always knew where you were with Dick. He was so different from Simon. (Nice piece of writing. DH)

Simon’s studied naturalness was easy to fall for but he was a devious bastard underneath it all. Very ambitious…and long-sighted. I can see that now. I knew he wasn’t happy with the kind of writing he was doing. Things like record reviews for the NME. A publicist is what he was, albeit a darn good one. He was selling out and he knew it. But he did enjoy being at the epicenter of what was going on. Deep down he aspired to be like Burroughs and Beckett. Of course it was much more complicated than that. Funny how he stayed in touch with his friend Arthur. Bit of a bumbler Arthur. Ran a sweet shop for years. Last I heard he was living in Thailand. Don't ask me what he gets up to there.

So many things happened. I can’t remember which years. Easy Rider. Isle of Wight. Antonioni made ‘Blow Up’ in 66 was it. Someone blew Biba’s up. Jimi Hendrix was found dead.

And then we had the OZ trials. Underground magazines were pushing the envelope faster than ‘respectable’ society could keep up. Jerry Rubin came over. Felix Dennis, Mick Farren and some others managed to disrupt the David Frost show. It was all a bit silly really. Funny thing is I went to work for one of Felix’ publications later on and I don’t remember any nudity in the office.

I used to go out to the EMI studios at night. That’s when the Beatles recorded. Often it would just be a bunch of stoned people sitting around. Very strange as we used to say. I was there for a few Sergeant Pepper sessions. Then suddenly the Beatles broke up. John and Yoko were going to change the world. Maybe they did a bit. You’re getting the potted version here Dick…excuse the pun.

I knew Germaine Greer quite well but I don’t think I was particularly political at the time. Women’s Lib was just getting started but the role of women didn't change much. It was great for guys of course. All the girls were on the pill and trying to be liberated so people were screwing like rabbits. Even at OZ magazine women still made the tea and did the typing: And were expected to have sex with anyone who wanted it, To refuse was uncool and people thought you were acting like a straight. Ask Marsha Rowe and Rosie Boycott.

Things started disintegrating in the late sixties/early seventies. Hard drugs. Altamont. Manson. It got heavy. We weren’t sure what came next. I was pregnant. Maybe that’s why me and Simon got married. A lifestyle change was called for. That meant cutting out the drugs and getting out of London. For me anyway.

The Sixties are really making the news these days. Nostalgia abounds. Everything from Abbey Road to Woodstock. Everybody’s writing their memoirs. Of course we’re all in our sixties ourselves now. Not much time left. The kids must be fed up with it but it’s fun to remind them what they missed. No point telling them a lot of it just seems plain silly in retrospect. Acid for instance…all those elitist freaks wandering around smiling like they alone had the key to life’s mysteries, what rubbish, as if it was all so groovy. There were lots of casualties too. I can still see Syd miraculously making it across the road at Notting Hill Gate in heavy traffic. Not recognizing me. Staring into space. Emily plays.

Phantom pirates.

Young narrators often ask me how I do it. How do you manage to sound so natural Dick they ask? Well there’s no trick to it really. I just narrate like I talk. Course that doesn’t always mean I know what I’m talking about but if I get the tone right nobody minds too much. 

That doesn’t mean narrating comes easy. Not at all. There’s the Phantom Pirates for instance. Every now and then I get a feeling I’m being followed. I catch a glimpse of black sails on the horizon or I see this figurehead looming through the mist. It turns out to be Kim Kardashian on the bow of a pirate ship and there at the helm a hideous grinning skull like creature somewhere between Johnny Depp and Richard Branson. I give them a quick broadside then heave about and show them my stern. Another narrow escape ... but they’ll be back. They won’t leave me alone. Why do they haunt me? Are they symbols of some lingering childhood trauma? Something Freudian? Maybe I did something wrong in a past life. Or is it the booze? Where’s the Royal Navy when you need them?

Merry Christmas…er I mean Happy Holidays. How about Seasons Greetings? Please feel free to enjoy whatever holidays may be appropriate to your religious predilections and ethno-cultural backgrounds however you choose, within socially acceptable boundaries.

Yellow fever.

Simon and Arthur are in the Tate Gallery looking at a Gauguin painting.

‘And how is Alice?’ Simon asks. He enjoys teasing Arthur about his escapist tendencies.

‘She’s fine. Fine. Putting on a bit of weight.’

That’s an understatement. She is ballooning. They still have sex but Arthur finds it increasingly difficult to locate the appropriate aperture. He doesn’t complain of course but his mind wanders.

This might be a good time to mention Asian women. They were something of a rarity in England in those days. To put it politely Arthur was drawn to their exotic qualities. It may go back to seeing a famous painting by Tretchikoff in a dentist’s office that sparked his interest. He had contracted what’s known in some quarters somewhat crudely as ‘yellow fever’. (The girl in that painting is actually a mysterious blue but never mind). Whatever it was he only had to glimpse an Oriental woman from a distance to find himself transported. Being married didn’t dampen his interest. What was it about them? The mysterious eyes? The silky black hair? From whence came the aura of some arcane knowledge Westerners could ever understand?

He’d mentioned it to Simon a few times only to be told that he should stop fantasizing and face reality.

‘All women are basically the same. You shouldn’t be so romantic. Do you like them because they are small and cute? Do you think they are more submissive or something?’

‘No it’s not that. I just find them mysterious.’

‘What are you doing with the rest of the day?’

‘Nothing much. May pop into Foyles.’

‘I’m going to Indica.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A little avant-garde gallery. Some Japanese girl is having an opening. Want to come along? East meets West.’ (Gastro)

Authors note: We would like to take this opportunity to bid a sad farewell to Mandy Rice-Davis a lovely girl with a dubious choice of friends.

Current location.

I haven’t been posting much about my own activities lately. That’s because there hasn’t been much to say. We’ve been anchored for a week or two off Culebra. Very nice place but don’t tell anyone. No phantom pirates. Good snorkeling. It will do nicely while I catch up on some reading. The girls are still complaining ‘No Starbucks, no disco!’ They swim around or sit on the deck taking selfies. 

Fine with me. I’ve got a Kindle. At the moment I’m reading Martin Amis’ new one ‘The Zone of Interest’. I found ‘Lionel Asbo’ a bit disappointing to be honest but this one’s a good read. Sort of a lighthearted look at life in a concentration camp….well not really lighthearted in a Mel Brooks kind of way. More your imaginative black comedy. Clever bugger that Marty.

So I’m in no rush to get to BVI. There’s a backlog of files from the author that need some serious narrating plus all my own anecdotes and observations need sorting. So we may stay here until the new year. Merry Christmas.

At the Tate.

I've got lots more Pattaya stories but you'll have to wait. The author isn't happy. These Pattaya stories are all very well Dick but what about Simon and Arthur? All these words, he says, are just an approximation of what we’re after. It's going nowhere. Well you started it I say. So you may as well keep going. Didn’t Samuel Beckett have the same problem?

I’m just the narrator. It’s all the same to me. Don’t know why I’m apologizing. It’s my bloody blog. I’ll write what I want. If I want to ramble on I will. It’s the way the fiction process works….don’t give me a hard time about it. 

You want more Simon and Arthur? Alright here’s more bloody Simon and Arthur. 

Arthur has done his best to slip into the routine without complaint and as far as the world is concerned he and Alice have become Mr. And Mrs. Tobacconist happily dispensing nicotine and sweets to unsuspecting customers. Newspapers too. Blaring headlines designed to shock and intimidate. 

Arthur gets up early to sort newspapers and organize the paperboy’s rounds. Lorraine stocks the shelves. Cynthia has started school and seems happy enough. Arthur’s beatnik days are well and truly over. He wears a brown overcoat in the shop and a pleasant smile to mask his anguish. Lorraine likes to watch TV and eat, especially chocolate. She is beginning to put on weight. Arthur enjoys reading. Telly upsets him. Especially anything to do with pop music. He finds  Pete Townsend singing about his generation particularly irritating. 

He knows there’s more to life but he can’t just abandon his wife and daughter can he? Being a tobacconist is dull and boring but it’s safe. People will always need cigarettes and sweets and Arthur has built up a nice little clientele over the years. 

Boring? Arthur doesn’t see it that way. He doesn’t feel as though he has much choice. He had made his bed and he’s lying in it. And things could always be worse. At least he isn’t languishing in a Turkish prison or living under a bridge. He’s his own boss too or so he tells himself. Alice is a good wife….yes things could definitely be worse. It’s only when he thinks about Simon that he feels any misgivings. Simon who always seems to know what he’s doing. Simon with his exciting life in town. But is it really so exciting…hanging around with glamorous pop stars? It’s a shallow kind of life when you think about it. 

Arthur does a lot of thinking. He has plenty of time for it. He plumbs the depths of his mind as far as he dares. There’s a point where the thoughts pile in on themselves and become too confusing. And a few places Arthur doesn’t like to go. Right at the bottom is a deep self-loathing. 

So Arthur tells himself he’s happy, or not unhappy among the Cadbury’s Caramel Bars and the Gold Flake. But is it contentment he feels…or obligation? Of course there are reminders of a huge unexplored world outside the shop but he prefers to ignore them. And of course he knows there’s more to life than stocking display cabinets and making sure the local kids don’t help themselves but he likes the security of the shop.  

One thing he does enjoy, on his occasional visits to London, is browsing in the Tate Gallery. He likes the Impressionists, their vague, ethereal way of looking at life, and he especially likes Gauguin. Those golden brown Tahitian women. What is it about them? The mysterious eyes? The silky black hair? They seem to possess some mysterious arcane knowledge. Did they really exist? 

He can’t remember exactly when his interest in Gauguin began. Reading ‘Moon and Sixpence’ maybe? Old Somerset Maugham had visited Tahiti not many years after Gauguin’s death. The paintings had captivated Arthur the first time he saw them. They were a way of escape. It didn’t take much effort to step into the lush tropical paradise, to hear the women’s voices on the beach above the distant roar of the surf breaking against the coral reefs, to enter the bamboo hut with its naked golden female form, to see the fireflies flicker and to taste the exotic fruit. Would anyone ever paint like that again? They make Picasso look like a cartoonist. And what’s all the fuss about Francis Bacon? Just blobs of paint smeared on canvas as far as Arthur can see.

‘Ah there you are,’ says Simon. ‘Thought I might find you here.’ 

They study the Gauguin together. ‘Beautiful isn’t it?’ says Simon. ‘Robert Fraser tells me art is a scam.’

Global warming.

Global warming.

12/4/2014

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Gav and Kev were back in the bar one day. We were talking about this and that. Football, beer, sex. The usual.

Gav says “Funny thing though, we came here to do a bit of shagging like and we seem to have got ourselves involved in something of a dystopia.”

“Well I wouldn’t call it a dystopia exactly Kev,” says Gav, “More like a parallel universe you could say.”

“Oh?” says I.

“Yes. It started yesterday. I was bonking this Thai bird and she metamorphosed into my ex-wife.”

“That is strange,” says Arthur, “how do you account for it?”

“Might be the booze,” says Gav, “but I don’t think so. Same thing happened to Kev.”

“Yes,” says Kev, “this bird was sitting on my face and next thing I know she’s me bloody mum!” 

“Interesting. Must have been a bit of a shock.” I said, by way of conversation.

“Bloody right Dick. I thought me mum was dead and buried. Got dressed smartish I tell you.”

“Don’t mind Kev,” says Gav, “he is given to a bit of hyperbole. It’s his literary side coming out. He loves stringing words together don’t you Kev? Specially after a few beers. So what’s on your agenda Dick. We were thinking of popping down to Soi 6.”

Suddenly Kev says, “Bugger me look at that, it’s snowing.”

Indeed it is. I can hardly believe my eyes. Snow is falling outside…not just small snowflakes either, bloody great gobs of it are drifting silently down causing considerable excitement among the Thais across the road. Some of the motorcycle taxi fellows have started a snowball fight. “Something to do with global warming I think,” says Kev. “We better get moving.”

There has been a noticeable drop in temperature and several inches of snow are settling on Soi Diana. I decide to close the bar and go out for a look. Gav and Kev seem like pretty decent blokes and it’s better than talking to yourself all the time. Also Pattaya hasn’t been feeling too safe just lately and I’m glad to have a bit of company. Sometimes you can’t hear a Harley-Davidson coming until it’s right on top of you. There are lots of other hazards. I’d been taking a quiet slash in a bar once when somebody dropped a hand grenade through the roof of the hawng narm (water room). Being an old Pattaya hand I took no notice…I knew it was probably a dud…still it made me think.

The balcony jumpers are starting to get annoying too. Nobody minds the odd one or two but lately it’s become a cascade. It’s disconcerting when you’re on your way somewhere and you keep tripping over bodies. I nearly got flattened once by a massive Scandinavian, bound and gagged as usual, landing just in front of me! In broad daylight! “Oh well, that’s life,” I thought, but one wishes they’d be a bit more considerate about where and when they take the plunge. There should be designated landing zones.

“Watch it Dick,” says Gav as another body hits the pavement.

“Bit chilly for jumping today you’d think.” Says Kev, “some blokes just don’t care.”

“This is Thailand,” Says Gav as a team of uniformed Thais lift the huge farang into a truck, “you’d think they’d have ramps built on the trucks by now wouldn’t you? Save their backs.”

 We trudge across Second Road where cars and motorbikes are being abandoned in snowdrifts. I’m wearing sandals (with no socks of course) and my feet are feeling it. 

“This is serious,” says Kev. “Look….even Sharky’s got his shirt on.”

“Bugger this,” says Gav. We decide to cut through Mike’s Shopping where Thais are scrambling to buy sweaters and quilted Chinese army surplus jackets. We stop to buy a selection of soccer shirts. We put several on at once. “How do I look lads?” Kev asks. 

“Lovely,” says Gav, “not sure about Arsenal on top of Spurs though. Better hope nobody notices.” 

Just a few Russians are left on the beach. Some of them are making skis out of deck-chairs and the vendors are doing a brisk business selling battery powered Speedo warmers. Gav stops to buy one. Further out in the bay figures are moving on the ice-flows.

“Katoys,” says Gav, “They club the baby seals you know. It’s all wrong.”

“There should be a law.”

“They don’t listen.”

“If a pre-op katoy has a post-op katoy up the council gritter,” asks Kev, “is that gay?” Nobody answers, “Don’t mind me,” Says Kev, “just something I saw on a message board.”

The snow is getting deeper. We finally arrive at Soi 6. where some Americans are parking their skidoos. Groups of girls are clustered round charcoal braziers. “Evening ladies,” say Gav, “nao nit-noi?”

“Nao mak.” Say the girls. (Very cold)

We do what most gentlemen of leisure do on Soi 6….I’ll spare you the details. When we emerge the snow has stopped falling but the streets are a mess. Fortunately an enterprising song-thao driver has harnessed a team of soi dogs to a makeshift sledge and we all pile on.

The sun comes out as we head back up Beach Road and by the time we get to Walking Street the icicles are dropping of the palm trees. As we pay the sled dog driver off Arthur remarks, “He won’t be needing the dogs anymore.”

“Probably run them to death then eat the buggers,” says Gav.

“Bastards.” Says Kev, “there should be a law. They don’t listen.”

“You already said that.” Says Gav.

“Well it’s true. So what’s next for you Dick?”

“I’m a bit knackered,” I say, “That snowfall was surreal. Think I’ll go home and stare at the ceiling for an hour or two. Relish the moments. See if I have any thoughts.”

“Good idea.” Say Kev and Gav in unison, “might have a lie down meself.”

At the Tate 8/12/2014

Ready Steady Go.

·        
Simon weaves his Mini Cooper deftly through the West End traffic. It’s Friday and he is on his way to the Rediffusion Studios on Kingsway. Things have been going well. Work is progressing nicely on the mews house. His reviews and interviews are being well received. In fact between Monty and some American music mags he has more work than he can handle. Plus the offer of a job at EMI. Yes, things could be worse.

He’s been told he looks like Martin Amis. He likes to think of himself more as a sort of Hugh Grant…without the carefully nuanced bumbling mannerisms. Which gives the editor a minor logistical problem. She’s a big Hugh Grant fan and she knows he was born in 1960. So he would have been about seven years old when all this takes place. She wisely decides to just let it go. She also decides to go with first person singular.

Things are still messy with Samantha. She keeps talking about some kind of ‘commitment’ whatever that means. Marriage? She may be ready but I’m not (thinks Simon). Doesn’t bear contemplation.

Look how Arthur got stuck in that bloody shop. Poor bugger. His life has been a series of events, things that happened. It’s not as if he made any conscious choices…things just happened. I certainly don’t want to get caught like that. I make my own decisions. 

Who would have thought pop music would explode like it did? Me for one. And by some quirk of fate I’m right in the middle of it. It’s turned into a money machine for those nimble enough to see the opportunities. Rock writing is changing fast too. Style-wise I mean. At first it was just a question of talking about the group a bit, the drummer’s favorite colour, does the lead singer have a girlfriend, that kind of rubbish. Now a whole new generation of writers is starting to emerge. They’ve grown up on Kerouac, Miller, Burroughs and they’re taking it to another level. Rolling Stone has tapped into a whole new audience, drugs are going main-stream and now you’re getting gonzos. There’s a whole lot of new readers out there. Some of them want solid information, studio details, technical stuff, and some of them want you to take them off on mind trips. 

One of these days I’ll do a piece about a typical day in a rock-writer’s life. Maybe some yank mag would be interested. It could be sort of Hunter Thompson style but more English. Wonder how James Joyce would have tackled it. Lots of clever word-play and internal monologue probably. Clever bastard. Still I should be able to bang out a few thousand words on something like that. But first I need to catch up on the gossip.

So here we are in the Rediffusion Green Room where all the young dudes are already gathered. Andrew Oldham is there with Keith Altham, Rod and his Faces mates are warming up with some birds. Looks like Pan’s People on leave from Top of the Pops. The Who are getting psyched up in a corner. This being ITV most people are on their best behaviour. But not Keith Moon. He’s swallowing pills by the handful and I can see he’s in a dangerous mood. Cathy McGowan sees me arrive and comes over for a chat. I mention Moon’s condition and she says not to worry, he’s been warned, how’s things? I tell her things are OK but to be honest I’m not in the mood for socializing. I watch people dancing for a while and give Fordyce a nod but I decide to leave early. There are times when it all just seems silly somehow.

And of course Sam shows up right on cue…expecting me to take her home I suppose. I need a holiday.

·          

My bar.

    

·         Since I posted that last piece I’ve been barraged with requests for more information about Pattaya. So here's what we know. It’s about 100 kilometers southeast of Bangkok. It used to be a small fishing village until some G.I.s started going there during the Vietnam War. Bars popped up on the beach. Thai girls popped up in the bars and one thing lead to another. Now there’s hotels and bars all over and the Thai girls keep popping up. It’s very popular with single males from all over the world. The Thais are very tolerant in such matters, especially when money is involved.

I    I keep meaning to write more about that bar. It was called Dick’s, for obvious reasons. It was just a hole in the wall really but I managed to attract a colourful  bunch of characters. All kinds of degenerates found their way to Dick’s. Defrocked priests, disgraced politicians, bank-robbers, retired policemen and of course lots of CIA agents and SAS men on secret missions. I’d even get the odd axe-murderer. That’s when I met Chuck Woww. He was hawking his book ‘Losing the Plot’ round all the bars and I agreed to take a few copies. This was before he was famous. I used to get all types in my bar. Mostly the same types though I must admit. Middle aged blokes living in Pattaya. It was a surprise when Arthur walked in one day though. Hadn't seen him for ages and I had to look twice. Small world. He was surprised to see me too. Maybe even a bit embarrassed. Same old Arthur. We had a bit of a chat, talked about Simon and the old hippy days in London. Then he wandered out again.

I suppose I should explain how I came to be in Thailand in the first place. That was Oscar’s doing. We went there from the Philippines. Ah, but what were you doing in the Philippines Dick? That was Oscar again.

I was living in Spain and doing OK. Building villas for retired English folk. Got a letter from Oscar. This would have been late 80s. No email in those days. I’m not talking about ARPANET. People still wrote letters. Oscars came from Manila and it was short and to the point. ‘Get your ass over here!’ it said.

So I did. I’ll be writing something about Manila soon. On second thoughts I may not. Don't want to alienate any readers.

Gav and Kev.

Dao was tired so Arthur took her back to their hotel. Leaving her to have a nap he wandered along the sois that run off Beach Road. After his near death experience on the beach he felt like a beer so he popped into a small bar that didn’t seem too busy. Just a couple of what looked like Arsenal fans sitting at the bar.

‘Here comes another one.’ Says the smaller of the two.

‘Don’t mind them mate. Welcome to Dick’s,’ says a large balding middle-aged fellow behind the bar. That was me!! Balding? Well perhaps I was getting a bit thin on top.

Arthur orders a Singha beer. He still prefers it to Chang in some ways. Couple of Changs and he tends to doze off.

‘Orroit mite?’ says one of the other clients as Arthur takes his first sip.

‘Fine thanks,’ says Arthur avoiding eye-contact. They seem pleasant enough but you can’t be too careful in Pattaya these days.

‘I’m Gav and this thing here is Kev.’

‘Arthur,’ says Arthur.

‘What brings you to Pattaya Arfur, Pearl of the Eastern Seaboard?’ Gav asks.

‘Little holiday,’ says Arthur, ‘I live up North.’

‘Orroit ’ere innit,’ says Kev, ‘plenty of the old you know what.’

Typical Pattaya types thinks Arthur. Beer and sex.

‘I’m thinking of starting a website.’ says Gav to no-one in particular.

‘Oh,’ says Kev only half-listening, ‘what about?’

‘Sex tourism in Thailand of course.’

‘Gawd. Don’t you think there’s enough of them already?’

‘Mine will be different.’ says Gav. ‘It will be aimed at the modern punter. The way I see it there’s just too many Thai pornsites. We’ve got to come up with something new. What we should do is get some bald ugly old git….some really burned out bloke on his last legs…and let the girls do what they want with him. You know …whips and strap-ons and stuff. Empower the girls. Let them get their revenge. Move with the times. We could stoke him up with Viagra and see what happens. I think there’s a good niche market out there. People are ready for it.’

‘You’ll never do it.’ Says Kev.  ‘Start a website I mean. Too much work.’

‘Don’t be so sure,’ says Gav, ‘It will have lots of pictures of girls. I would call it Streetmeat or something.’

‘That would be infringing on their privacy I think.’ Says Kev.

‘You are probably right,’ agrees Gav, ‘what do you think Arfur?’

‘Well porn is certainly popular,’ says Arthur non-commitally.

It’s the landlord’s prerogative to regale the customers with accounts of his own exploits. I do it a lot. Customers listen politely. Constructive criticism is encouraged. Or they go somewhere else. It’s all the same to me. I start to tell them about my own days in the porn business.

‘We should call you Dickens Dick,’ says Kev, ‘the Dickens of Pattaya. Are you much of a reader Arfur?’

‘Oh yes. I’ve got a bookshop in fact.’

‘Bugger me.’ says Kev. ‘I just finished ‘Don Quixote’. In Spanish. I’m thinking of reading War and Peace now I’ve got a bit of spare time like. Can’t stand that ’arry bleedin’ Potter.’

‘I see,’ says Arthur. Strange that. Kev hadn’t looked like the literary type. Just goes to show how wrong you can be about people thinks Arthur. He makes a mental note to himself …stop judging people by their piercings and tattoos.

‘I’m reading Foster-Wallace at the moment.’ Says Arthur.

‘Infinit Jest?’ asks Kev.

‘Well Broom of the System actually.’

‘You like a bit of the old post-modernism do you Arfur?’ asks Gav.

‘That seems to be my genre of choice lately yes.’ Says Arthur. ‘In as much as we have a choice in these matters.’

‘Ah yes,’ says Kev, ‘the old free choice. Now there’s a topic. Me and Gav ’ad a go at that one on the plane over didn’t we Gav. Gav the Chav we call ’im. ’Ee’s something of a determinist.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. And don’t get me started on reality. What is reality when you get right down to it?’ asks Kev, ‘you tell me.’

The conversation is getting a little deep for Arthur’s liking. He decides to finish his beer and bid farewell to his new friends. He starts to pay his bill but Gav stops him.

‘This is on us Arfur. Nice meeting you mite.’

‘Yes indeed,’ says Kev. ‘Enjoy your ‘oliday. And go easy on the old introspection.’