Oscar's Island.

Well we finally got over to Oscar’s island. I’ve been feeling a little down since Nyum left* so I’m hoping Oscar can cheer me up. I thought I’d surprise him. Regular readers will remember Oscar de Borcceri. I met him in California. He got me into the porn business.  Made a few million on that we did so I suppose I should be grateful. We’ve kept in touch over the years so I know he’s done well for himself. The porn industry has changed a lot of course but he got a few other things on the go. Keeps his fingers in lots of different pies does Oscar. He was buying and selling domain games for a while then he started an anti-virus company and dabbled in real estate. First thing I notice about Oscar’s island is a kind of lagoon with a wooden walkway across it ending in a jetty. Next thing I notice is Oscar himself standing on the jetty in his birthday suit. He’s excited to see us I can tell. “Welcome, welcome,” he says giving Ning and Nong a good flash of his coat of arms. Plonker rampant on a field of greying pubic hair. The girls put their hands up to their mouths in Thai girl embarrassment. You’d think it was the first time they’d seen one. “Dick! I’ll be buggered. What brings you to the Caribbean?” “The wind Oscar. What do you think? It blows me around.” Same old Oscar. Horrible as ever. The question then arises does Oscar look horrible because he is horrible or is he horrible because he looks like a lascivious toad? Or is it just me that sees him that way. Girls like him. Maybe they see an amusing old goat with money to burn. Anyway there he is. In the flesh. As we walk along the boardwalk Oscar points out his flamingos. There are 5 of them and tell the truth they look a bit scruffy. Feathers missing here and there and they aren’t really pink either. More sort of orangey brown. “Phoenicopterus ruber “ says Oscar in italics. “Only five?” “Ah,” says Oscar, “this is just a start. I’ve only had them a few weeks. Now the trick is to get them breeding. I’m doing something about the colour too. Diet is important. I need to get them some shrimp.” “Good idea Oscar,” says I, “would that be any particular kind of shrimp you’re using?” “Brine shrimp Dick. I’m getting it flown in from Venezuela. You aren’t taking the piss are you?” “Course not. What’s special about the Venezuelan shrimp?” “Carotene Dick. And canthaxanthin. In the wild they normally get it from crustaceans and algae but if you want your flamingos a real bright pink get the shrimp.” “I’ll remember that Oscar.” There’s a narrow zigzag road up to his house and Oscar has laid on some golf carts for guests. Very nice views everywhere you look. The house reminds me a bit of his Malibu place, but more open and airy. There’s two young ladies waiting outside where we park the golf carts. “Come in, come in,” says Oscar, “oh, let me introduce my two assistants. Fantasia and Fabiani,. They are from Brazil Dick.” Well I could see that. Typical, sleek, wavy black-hair, with blonde streaks, chocolate skinned Copacabana numbers flashing their teeth and wearing bits of coloured string. Up the ‘Help Disco’ end of Avenida Atlantica was my guess. Could be Ipanema I suppose at a pinch. “Leblon.” Says Oscar. “Close.” “They are a bit shy with strangers,” Oscar explained, “that’s why they got dressed up.” “Are they good with flamingos Oscar?” I ask. “Oh very good indeed Dick. Glad you asked,” says Oscar scratching his bulging gut, “Fantasia has a degree in ornithology and Fabiani is a leading authority on brine shrimp. If there’s anything you need to know just ask them. Lovely aren’t they?” Lovely? Well I suppose they are. They have lovely smiles. How long before he offers me a swap. Two Thais for one Brazilian. To be honest I’m in the mind to just give Ning and Nong to him for nothing. They are getting on my nerves or perhaps I just don’t want to deal with women anymore. Does that make me a misogynist? This might be a good time as any to mention how I met Oscar. Late sixties it was. I’d gone to California with a girlfriend of Sam’s who will remain nameless. She wanted to go to San Francisco, where the flowers grow, so very high. Well brought up girl she was but bloody clueless. Lucky for her I went with her or she would probably have ended up on the Spahn Movie Ranch with Charlie Manson. Anyway we were having a stroll through Haight Ashbury (lots of sunny people walking hand in hand) and somebody told us about a free concert that was supposed to be happening in Golden Gate Park. Which is how come we found ourselves at the Altamont Speedway one hot dusty night in 1969. I had a bad feeling about it from the beginning. Just getting out there was a nightmare. Hippies with sleeping bags all whacked out on every drug you can think of stumbling through the gloom. The vibes were not good. I’d been to a few of these dos with Sam before so I knew what to expect. Usually she’d be off interviewing stars and I’d be sitting backstage on big black boxes smoking joints with roadies. That’s how it was at Altamont. Behind all the lights and the amps was all the hustlers, drug dealers, promoters, musicians the usual freak show except for one bloke in a Paisley velvet suit, shades, beard, beads, big hair who was passing out sugar cubes. He seemed to take a shine to me. Had I been at Woodstock? He asked. Did I like Santana? What’s happening in London these days? I’m Oscar by the way. “Dick.” “Nice outfit Dick. King’s Road?” “Yes. Granny Takes A Trip.” “Thought so.” Hallo I’m thinking. What have we got here? Jumping Jack Flash is it? Suddenly we both noticed something was going on in front of the stage. “Stay here and look after this,” said Oscar, sticking a joint in my hand. Then he was pushing his way through to the front where things were starting to get weird. Everything was happening in slow motion, people were screaming and it was hard to make out what was going on. I vaguely remember seeing Hell’s Angels bashing people…with pool cues it looked like. Beer cans were flying around like fucking cannon-balls. Oscar came back and said, “I think the party’s over. I've got a helicopter round here somewhere. Want a ride into town?” Well that was then. Now here we sit on his terrace drinking rum and watching the sun set over the Caribbean. He’s already explained the sleeping arrangements. I’ve picked out a nice bungalow . “Right Dick. Time for some kip as you Limeys like to say.” Then he finds a coin somewhere. “The girls should get to know each other don’t you think? Your call. Winner gets first pick.” Oscar wins and takes Ning and Fabiani off for a bit of cross-cultural interchange. Me and Nong and Fantasia wander off to the main guest cottage. I won’t bore anyone with the details. *Nyum went to New York and didn’t come back. I heard later she got a job with Madonna.

More novel ideas.

Arthur has changed bars!! By some miracle he was able to negotiate the traffic on Soi 4 and we now find him entering the Morning Night. He’s aiming for a seat overlooking the street. Similar to his previous location but looking the other way. As good a place as any to contemplate the state of the world.


He spots what he’s looking for on Soi 4. A nice seat overlooking the street and he decides to go for it. Even though it means squeezing past a group of bulky soccer types.

“Orroit mite?” says one of them as Arthur slithers past.

“Fine thanks,” says Arthur avoiding eye contact. “This will do fine.” They seem pleasant enough but you can’t be too careful in Bangkok these days.

He gets himself settled and a waitress appears. Rather a cute one actually. “What you want dlink?” she asks. 

“Beer Sing kap.” Says Arthur giving her his most paternal smile.

She soon comes back with a Singha beer and some peanuts. She stands looking at him for a while. He can’t remember seeing her before…small, nice proportions, tits just right. Hmmm. Definitely fuckable thinks Arthur. The soccer types have noticed her too. Sometimes you have to make a snap decision with these things.

But there are times when Arthur just can’t be bothered going through the whole process. With Duan it was different. Just watching her brush her hair was an event. Mind you this little waitress certainly has her charms. She keeps rubbing one of her charms against Arthur’s elbow and he feels a familiar twitch coming from the little head. Mr. Happy is getting ideas. “Here we go again.” Says Arthur’s mother’s ghost.

“Oh shut up.” Says Arthur.

“What you say?” asks the waitress. “You want me go way?”

“No, no.” says Arthur. “It’s just my mother’s ghost. She’s becoming a running joke.”

“No understan’ falang.” Says the waitress.

 She is definitely cute and cuddly. Arthur decides to go for it. Why not? It’s only money and it will pass the afternoon away nicely. Whatever happens is always interesting in its own way. He is just about to start negotiations with the waitress when out of nowhere comes a random thought.

One of these days, thinks Arthur, I’ll write all this stuff down. I’ll shut myself away somewhere with no distractions and apply myself vigorously to writing a complete account of myself. Why? Well not for posterity. Posterity doesn’t give a toss. For my own amusement. To see if I can stay the course. But will anybody want to read it? Probably not. People want meaning. They don’t want to read about some old fart wandering aimlessly around Bangkok. 

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

It certainly won’t be one of those post-modern books where all the characters are versions of themselves. Arthur has read enough of those. It might jump around in time and space a bit but the story will be fairly straightforward.

Should he try to appeal to younger readers? Those who missed out on the Sixties and Seventies for instance but aren’t too bitter about it.

Arthur imagines himself with a laptop somewhere…typing words in, moving blocks of text around. It would be a lot of work. And pretty futile when you think about it. Why would anyone commit himself to something like that? More to the point why would anyone want to read it? They’ll probably just skim through it looking for the sexy bits.

 OK thinks Arthur. Enough procrastination. I’ll start right now. No time like the present. Strike while the clichés are hot. He finds an old envelope in his fanny pack and borrows the waitress’ pen. He writes…

I have finally decided to write something. But what? 

“What you write?” asks the waitress.

“Oh nothing.” Says Arthur. Playfully shielding his piece of paper. 

Why write anything? Did James Joyce ask himself why when he was working on ‘Ulysses’? Course not. He had a head full of ideas that just kept coming. Or did he get days when he just said ‘Fuck it! Nobody wants to wade through this tripe. Why do I bother?  Perhaps I should have stuck to journalism. Or perhaps I should go back to university and study something useful. Gynaecology for instance. Stop all this writing nonsense and take swab samples.’

“Falang think too mutt.” Says the waitress.

“Yes, yes,” says Arthur, “I know we do. We can’t stop. It’s a disease.”

“Hab AIDS!?!” says the waitress backing off in alarm.

“Yes…er I mean no,” says Arthur forgetting whatever it was he was writing about. His train of thought has come off the tracks. Where did the good intentions go? And where did that waitress wander off to?

“Gone to get a new pen probably,” says Arthur’s mother’s ghost semi-seriously. “A nice new clean one.”

Thank you mother, thinks Arthur, for giving me my first case of writer’s block.

“You orroit mite?” a voice asks. Not his mother’s ghost this time. It’s one of the soccer fellows. The one in the Union Jack shorts. Arthur knows the type. First time in Bangkok and shagging themselves silly probably. Pussy galore. Like kids in a sweetshop they are.

“Fine. Fine. Thank you.” Says Arthur, “how about yourself?”

“Fucking brilliant mite. Come ‘ere wiv me mites like. We come every year. I’m Kev.”


“Good for you,” says Arthur, “Do you read much….er….Kev?”

“Wot books like?”

“Yes.”

“Well I just finished ‘Don Quixote’,” says Kev. “In Spanish. I’m thinking of reading War and Peace now I’ve got a chance like. Bugger ’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.

“Where’s yer mite?” Kev asks.

“My mite?”

“The little bit of Thai crumpet wot you woz wiv.”

Arthur starts to explain about having had second thoughts about having the waitress for lunch. He tells Kev he got sidetracked into a discussion with himself about James Joyce.

“Ulysses?” asks Kev.

“Well Dubliners actually.”

 “You like a bit of the old internal monologue do you…er…”

“Arthur.”

“You like a bit of the old internal monologue do you Arfur?”

“That seems to be my genre of choice 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 my mites had a go at that one on the plane over. See Gav over there?” Arthur assumes Gav to be the bald one with tattoos from ear to ankle. “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.”

“Reality was a waitress for a while,” muses Arthur. “I’m not sure I have a reality really. Not in the real solid tangible sense anyway.”

“I know wot you mean,” says Kev, “Existensialism can get lonely. That’s why I stick wiv me mites.”

“You’re a lucky man.” Says Arthur. He means Kev is lucky to have mites…mates. Arthur himself has always been rather solitary by nature. He isn’t sure why. Something to do with early toilet training perhaps.

Sometimes Arthur feels as if he has spent his entire life outside a house banging on the window trying to get in. People would sometimes notice him at the window but nobody ever responded. Usually they would just get up and move to another room. Is this what Baudelaire meant by Le Gouffre? “Let’s not go there Arthur dear,’ says his mother’s ghost, “you’re just feeling sorry for yourself again.”

Perhaps. But when you’re drowning in a sea of self-pity the natural tendency is to find objects to cling to. Solid objects preferably but how is one to measure solidity? Are ideas solid? What about philosophies and beliefs? Are they good things to cling to?

“’Ere she is Arfur,” says Kev, “Your mite. Miss Thailand.”

The little waitress has reappeared. She wants to know if Arthur will be ordering another beer Sing? Arthur thinks not. “OK bye bye,” says the waitress, “See you tomorrow.” Bit saucy that thinks Arthur. See you tomorrow? Is it a question? Or just one of those things they say? Then as an afterthought she says, “I like samok bik cigar.” 

“Wot you waiting for Arfur mite?” asks Kev, “I’d go for ’er meself but I’ve already got 3 birds in me room.”

He draws the waitress closer and whispers “Short time?” in her ear. She smiles and says “Sawng pan”. Two thousand baht. Arthur says OK. The waitress goes to change. 

“Bit of orroit that, no going back to fat slappers after that, right Arfur?” says Kev, no lightweight himself. “Give ’er one for me mite.” 

The girl comes back and Arthur starts to leave…then remembers his bill. He reaches for the bamboo cup but Kev’s hand gets there first.

“That’s orroit Arfur mite,” says Kev, “’ave this one on me.”

Hanging out with Andy.

I can’t remember what year it was. 1976 or thereabouts. I ran into Simon in the Kings Road and we went for a drink. He was telling me about a trip to New York to interview Andy Warhol.

It was amazing said Simon. Warhol draws people like a magnet. Everybody wants to be famous and he has this knack for just letting people follow their instincts. He has his finger on the American pulse. Simon spent some time in Andy’s studio, the Factory as he calls it. People were drifting in and out all day long doing odd jobs, taking photographs, snorting coke and just hanging out. The closet door is wide open. Simon met all Andy’s superstars and even worked his way into one of Andy’s movies. 

After work they all went to places like Studio 54 which sounds like one big party. Hip people mingling with wealthy socialites. Simon ran into Mick and Bianca. They’re splitting up according to Andy. They were only technically together for about a week anyway. Mick introduced Simon to Ahmet Ertegun, Martin Scorcese and Robert de Niro. Lots of gossip and name-dropping, who’s bonking who and how much money they’ve got. Oh and Truman Capote is working on a new book! You heard it here first. The trick said Andy is to suspend judgment and just go with it. Simon found it all highly amusing. And he made some great contacts. He got his picture taken with Halston AND Liza Minelli!!

So it was a good trip. If you want to be a famous artist….watch a lot of TV and hang out with famous people. I could have said something about sycophants but why bother. He’s happy.Somebody should be doing something like that here, I said. Simon didn’t think something like the Factory could exist in London. The blatant commercialism wouldn’t go over well with Daily Mail readers. Soup cans!?! That’s not real painting! My kid could do that!!

From AW's diary April 1985.......'Peter Max was just a businessman trying to be an artist. He copied me a lot. And now he gets $100,000 for a portrait. Look. Here's how it works. You meet rich people and you hang around with them and one night they've had a few drinks and they say "I'll buy it!" Then they tell their friends, "You must have his work, darling." and that's all you need. I mean it's like Schnabel sitting there with Philip Niarchos. That's all it takes. So you get your price established. Get it?'

Mount Pinatubo.

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

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

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

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

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

Empire of the Sun.

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

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

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

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

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

Kenwood House.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 .

Chuck, Tony and Mr. Nice.

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

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

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

                                        

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

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

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

Novel ideas.

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

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

But is he the one to do it? Ideas have been percolating at the back of his mind for some time. About thirty years give or take. There’s the one about the old English expat in Thailand who talks to ghosts… perhaps an old school friend shows up and they look back on their lives.  He’d even written a few things that might qualify as literature whatever that means these days. There’s still time before Simon’s arrival to knock something together out of all the bits and pieces. He’s got a lot of bits and pieces, some of them more or less complete in themselves, stuff he’s scribbled down over the years…but there’s no structure to hang them on. Perhaps he can even come up with some kind of synopsis. Then what? Should he show it to Simon or not? He’ll probably just say it’s crap. He’ll probably be right.

It’s not that Arthur doesn’t have a lot to say. He just doesn’t know where to start.  What kind of novel should it be? It could be one of those books where nothing much happens for instance. Something along the lines of ‘Dubliners’, or ‘Notes from Underground’, or ‘Catcher in the Rye’. Some bloke just droning on about his life and sharing his deepest thoughts with anyone who’s interested. That might work. There’s enough bored people around these days, surfing the internet for free entertainment. They’ll read anything. 

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

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

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

Arthur imagines himself with a laptop somewhere…typing words in, moving blocks of text around. It would be a lot of work. And pretty futile when you think about it. Why would anyone commit himself to something like that? More to the point why would anyone want to read it? They’ll probably just skim through it looking for the rude bits. 

So many things to consider. Should there be sex and violence? Will anyone be offended? Should he even care what readers think or should he try to shock them? Should he try to appeal to younger readers? Those who missed out on the Sixties and Seventies for instance, but aren’t too bitter about it? Maybe throw in a few vampires and zombies.

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

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

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

The strange thing about writing is that sometimes he just can’t be bothered. He has to force himself to do it. And there are times when he can’t get the words down fast enough. At least until the doubts appear. Words, words, words….slippery little things that always seem to be just out of reach, hovering on the edge of his cerebrum, never quite falling neatly into place. Hasn’t the world got enough of them? As for the bloody internet, it’s a Tower of Babel. 

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

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

That thought deserves another beer.

Walkabout.

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

The baby starts to cry. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bagoong.

  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soi 4, Sukhumvit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Onwards and upwards.

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

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

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