Gatwick Express.

The young custom’s officer at Gatwick is very pleasant.
“Dick Headley! Is it really you!!? I’m a fan.”
“No kidding.”
“Oh yes Mr. Headley. I’ve been following your blog for years. Welcome to the UK. How are things in BVI?”
“I’m a bit worried about Millie to be honest.”
‘Millie?”
“My boat. Oscar wants to use her.”
“I’m sure it will all work out Mr. Headley.”
“Thanks.” I say. When I left Oscar was installing a swivel gun on Millie’s bow. No point in going into detail about that. If he reads the blog he’ll know all about Blackjack and the treasure. I pick up my bag and it’s off to the Gatwick Express and London for me. 

The Gatwick Express has changed a lot over the years. Used to be Southern railways, then British Rail now it looks like something out of Star Wars. Same bunch of passengers more or less, quite a few English people. Not that anybody talks much, they’re all texting. This is the Brighton Line.

Outside the view is much as I remember….fields, trees, brick houses. It reminds me of beatnik days on Brighton beach. It also reminds me of the time I went to East Grinstead with William Burroughs. He wanted to check out Scientology and needed someone to help him navigate. Poor old William was a bit intimidated by the English way of doing things. Just buying a train ticket was traumatizing for him.
Horley, Redhill, Croydon, Clapham Junction, Metempsychosis….the stations rattle by. William went this way. Not on this actual train obviously but perhaps using the same set of rails. How long do rails last anyway? Hang on I’ll check. (40 years seems average but it depends on the amount of traffic and the quality of the steel). OK so maybe the rails have been changed but the scenery is similar.
​
William did manage to get down on his own to that event Mick Farren organized somewhere near Hove if I recall. Phun City. It was one of the first pop festivals and a total fiasco.  I’ll post an excerpt if you like. 

Second class conversation.

I’m just dozing off when a bloke pops his large sweaty head over the next cubicle and asks me if I’ve ever been to Bangkok. I feel like telling him to bugger off but I cannot tell a lie.

“Thought so,” he says and next thing he’s in with me. Got a drink in his hand of course. And a bottle of pills.

Not your typical first class passenger but you never know these days.

‘I’m on medication you know’.

‘Really?’

‘Mogadon.’

‘Dick.’

‘Yes. Can’t manage without it. Had to get out of England. The place was driving me mad.’

‘I know the feeling.’

‘I felt better in Thailand. More freedom there. Oh you can find trouble easy enough but it’s normally the tourists who get their selves in trouble. They don't take responsibility They think they can go there and get pissed or they take drugs when there’s warnings at the airport about it and then they start getting mouthy and disrespectful so the cops pick them up and they start screaming about scams and extortion and that but they think because they don't have the money they should be let go and not pay the fine.’

‘Definitely.’

‘It’s these bloody experts that annoy me. You meet some who’ve been there years. The cynical old bastards. Think they know everything about Thailand just because they fell in love and spent all their money on some Thai tart twenty years ago. Always going on about the ‘good old days’. Wankers.’

‘I know the type.’

‘I blame the TV. All these programs about the sex trade in Thailand. Daft buggers. Then they go there and splash all their money in go-go bars buying so-called lady-drinks. I saw one of those programs once. It’s the reason I went there I think. Made Thailand look like fucking paradise it did.’

Looks like I’m stuck with him till the Mogadon wears off.

‘All these single blokes in Britain sitting looking out of the window at the pouring rain as the forecast said for the next 3 months watching the wheelie bin inspector checking to see if he put a bottle in the wrong box, and reading his extortionate council tax bill while he’s wanking over Dierdre Barlow on Corrie. Cause he’s worrying about finding enough money to pay his TV license and will he get a fine through the post as the camera flashed him while doing 35 in a 30 zone, while reading the Sun which is telling him how the Government and MP's are voting their selves a 30% pay rise so soon after the scandal in the house where over half the MP's were shown to be fiddling their expenses but were they taken to task for it? Were they buggery….’

I’m nodding away. Don’t want to be rude.
Where do all these people come from? Why me?
​
‘Then in the middle of all this he’s half listening to the report on the Pakistani families who are getting an allowance for their kids back in Pakistan who don't even exist followed by the report of the parents at the local school in Dover who received a letter from the School board warning then not to allow their kids to walk to school alone from the train station because of the amount of refugees who are free loading in the guesthouses stealing the kids money and phones but nothing gets done because no one in the police can speak the lingo.

‘And along with all that the cost of fuel, beer and fags is going up again, then his mobile rings and it’s his Lawyer telling him that now he has lost his house in the recent divorce he has to pay his wife 300 quid a week to look after the kids when he knows 200 of it goes on her Bingo and she already gets more in benefits than he does.
 
‘Then he opens his mail and the first letter says he has to wait over a year for his hernia op which has been giving him pain already for months and he has to go to a hospital miles away for the op, the second one is his 10 year savings bond which unfortunately has accumulated sod all in fact he has lost 50 % of his money, then there’s a brown envelope asking for donations for hungry horses.
 
By this point I’m hardly listening.

’So he thinks, sod it I’ll go down the pub, but it’s pissing down and freezing and he can’t have a fag in there anyway and the beer is bloody expensive and his ex-wife will probably be in there buying all her mates a drink with his money or maybe go and see his elderly mother in the rest home that's costing her 300 quid a week for a pokey little room owned by an Indian family who learnt how to manipulate the system by getting a cheap relocation mortgage and started up a rest home with a big incentive from the government, all that 300 quid out of her savings when she sold her house, but then he would have to pay a lot of inheritance tax if she left it to him so may as well give it to the Indian family.
 
‘He doesn't really want to watch the news again telling him how 15 British soldiers were blown up in Afghanistan and that one of the bombers shot used to live next door to him and his family live in London and go to the new mosque which was funded by the British Government and can be seen from the moon and that the children of the family receive a grant to get better than normal education, while they don't need to wear a crash helmet as they wear a traditional turban as this is their religion.

 ‘Then he remembers the drunk driver who killed his pal’s son in a hit and run but got off because there was insufficient evidence but everyone knew he did it, and with all this he’s still paying the fine for verbally abusing the Somali taxi driver for refusing to get in his taxi because he was a muslim and was taken to court for racial abusing him.’

‘It sounds like one thing after another,’ I say.
‘Right. And don’t get me started on bloody Corbyn. So one day he just says sod it and off he goes to Thailand where they don't worry about a few petty rules and regulations. It's warm and sunny and peaceful, the people are friendly, you can buy yourself out of trouble and the girls don’t care what you look like…’
 
I must have nodded off because I don’t remember the rest of it.

First Class conversation.

Let’s be clear. I have no obligation to Oscar. I’ve known him for years but that doesn’t mean I have to worry about his welfare. Here I sit on Virgin flight 34 from Antigua to London and I don’t give a toss about Oscar and his island. I’m acting on a whim. It’s how you get when you’re rich with no particular sense of purpose.

So I watch Leonardo Da Caprio hiding in a dead buffalo for a bit and doze off. When I wake up the little plane is about 1/4 along the blue line. It’s a long flight. Good time to catch up on my blog. I don’t know why I do it. It’s not as if I feel any burning need to communicate. I enjoy writing but I have no illusions about it. It’s either that or look out the window at clouds.

I pop into the First Class lounge. You never know who you’re going to run into there, politicians, pop stars, dictators, you name it. Maybe even Sir Richard himself. Normally people in first class flying from Antigua to London just want to relax, have a few vodkas. Not so today. The Panama Papers have everybody riled up.

“Well chaps,” says some wag by way of starting a discussion, “looks like we’ll all be moving our money to Nevada.”
 There is a ripple of nervous laughter.
“I’ll be talking to David Cameron soon,” says one bloke, “we’ll get it sorted.”
“Hope Cameron knows what he’s doing.” Says someone. “What about all those poor people in the hedge fund industry?”
“Don’t worry lads.” I say in a calm, measured way, “it’s just another bit of journalistic sensationalism. It’ll fizzle out in a few days.” I'm attempting, in my own humble way, to reassure my fellow over-privileged wankers.
“Can’t Rupert stop it?”
“Solidarity that’s the answer. We’ve got to stick together.”
“What about places like the Isle of Man and Jersey? It will ruin their economies.” says another. And so on….nobody quite knows how this will end up but I’m sure they’ll find a way to blame Putin.

A night in Antigua.

Poor old Oscar. Our recent experiences have left him apoplectic. There isn’t much I can do except let him rant. It’s annoying and it does nothing to advance the narrative. He’s determined to go after them but they have a head-start. They could be in Antigua by now. It gives me an excuse to get away. I leave Oscar screaming about transgender toilets (he hasn’t seen the Panama Papers yet) and hop on a plane to St. John’s.
I’ve been to Antigua a few times, usually by boat. I decide to stay at the Yacht Club and I’m no sooner settled into my room than bugger me first thing I see when I look out the window is Lambert strolling down a jetty! The dreadlocks and the 4 girls are a dead giveaway. Hopefully he doesn’t spot me. But I’ll have to be careful.  Should I text Oscar? Better wait a bit. No doubt Blackjack’s boat is out there and that nasty Nigel person too. Last thing I need is more insults from him and I certainly don’t want to discuss Tracey Emin.
What was it he said while I was still tied up?
“You know nothing about art Headley. Has it occurred to you,” he droned, “that Tracey’s work could be a powerful statement about human sexuality?”

Stupid question to ask somebody who’s bound and gagged. Very unfair too. Making me listen to a load of crap without being able to respond. Not that Nigel gave a toss. Blokes like Nigel tend to have double standards when it comes to censorship. Then, as if he suddenly senses the inequities of the situation, he decides to take my gag off.

Which is convenient in a way because I have a nice little monologue all ready to go.
“OK,” I say, “perhaps I am missing the point. I have nothing against Tracey Emin personally. She reminds me a lot of my first wife if you must know. Tell the truth what I’ve always liked about Tracey’s work is her economy. By that I mean the way she uses one bucket where other conceptual artists might use two. But times change you know Nigel, and so do people. Look at you with your dreadlocks….bit of cultural expropriation there wouldn’t you say?

“Now maybe Tracey’s decided it’s time she reached out to the mainstream? With her drawing skills who could blame her? Could it be she feels so well integrated into public life these days she’s decided to get in line for an OBE? Like so many other public figures do these days? 
I’m trying to be reasonable but it’s a waste of time with blokes like Nigel. He can’t see his own contradictions.    
What’s the real story there I wonder? Is Tracey in it for the money? She may not be Picasso but have I been unfair to her? Should I revise my opinion?
Such were the thoughts going through my head as I sat on the balcony of my room in the Antigua Yacht Club.
I wonder what she’s up to these days? Is she still in touch with the Zeitgeist? Obviously I have to go to London to find out.

American corrections

I couldn't sleep last night. Some woman was screaming at me. Telling me how offensive I am. Did I mention I've been reading 'The Corrections' by Jonathan Franzen?'?  No? Well I have. It's about an American family. Anyway there's a scene on a cruise ship where a doctor prescribes pills that alleviate shame and it kept going round in my head. The whole thing got mixed up with another family in 'American Pastoral' by Philip Roth who have a mixed up teenage daughter. So I'm wandering round the house groping for the Mountgay when I notice a flickering from what we call the TV room. It's a sort of entertainment center off the main living room. Inside I find Oscar flipping through the channels. He is wearing his Glenn Beck Gangster Vest and nothing else.

"What's up?" I ask. "Can't sleep?" He nods. Obviously not feeling very chatty. He's just slumped there with a bottle in one hand and the remote in the other. The channels flip by. We watch a few minutes of Larry King interviewing Pamela Anderson. She seems like a nice girl. Larry and Pam discuss implants. Then Pamela mentions she's been a bit bored since she split up with Tommy Lee. Ah-hah I think. Now's your chance Dick. Maybe I'll invite her down for the weekend. Next we get a few seconds of Bush going on about nucular weapons. Then it's 'Air America' (Mel Gibson and the girls from the Black Cat Bar in Chiang Mai). Half a minute of some bloke in front of a big map. Strippers...then...out of nowhere...
"Bloody hell Oscar look at that!"
"What?"
"On the telly....what channel's that for fuckssake?" I can't hardly believe my eyes!! There's a group of blokes playing guitar on the telly. One of them is Lemmy Kilmister! Lemmy! There he stands with his bass and there's Dave Gilmour and Mark Knopfler and some other blokes...what's going on here?

Must be French and Saunders I decide. Couple of funny girls they are. Anyway it didn't last long then it was back to casinos in Biloxi, Hunter Thompson's funeral and some bloke flogging blenders. I suppose it must all mean something. I went back to bed.

Grilled barracuda.

Being tied up makes you think. Mainly you think of ways to get out of it. I ran through several possible postmodern scenarios during my own entrammelation.
 
At one point I had Arthur bursting in with a SWAT team. Very unlikely. Or Simon showing up on one of his trips to BVI and stumbling across Oscar’s island by accident. Pamela Anderson shows up for a photo shoot and unties us somehow when Nigel and his gang are asleep.
 
None of those things happened. In fact it was Audrey, Oscar’s cook from Tortola, who found us. The villains had gone taking the Treasure ™ with them of course. I’m not sure what happened to the girls but Oscar’s credit cards were missing too.
 
So that cleared things up a bit. She’s a nice girl Audrey I should say. Four kids, full figure, always cheerful, very good cook. She used to drive a bus on Tortola before she came to work for Oscar. Apart from being a great cook she’s a mine of information about the Virgin Islands. She was at school with many local politicians. She also keeps a close eye on invasive species and any potential inbreeding. She is happy to discuss these and other matters whilst gutting a barracuda.
 
Good old Audrey. She soon had us back to normal. Oscar quickly got back to his old self. Ranting and raving. He was very pissed off needless to say. 
 
“That little prick with his ‘save the world’ crap! Calling me a rich pervert. Jealousy that’s what it is Dick! They want what I’ve got. But they don’t want to work for it. Bunch of parasites that’s what they are. What do they know about the porn business? I was a pioneer in that business. Look how many people I employed and they accuse me of exploitation! Exploitation! Am I exploiting you Audrey?”
“You giving me a headache." says Audrey, " How do you want the fish cooked?” 
"Grilled please Audrey," I say.
​“We’ll get the bastards Dick. Don’t worry. And we’ll get the treasure back. And I’ll fix that Nigel. I know his type. He’s probably some low-level human rights activist working for an obscure NGO. Wants to turn this island into a refugee camp.”
 
And so on. I have to listen to it. He usually cools down but this time he seems set to explode.
“You need to do something physical Oscar.” I say.
“Don’t look at me.” Says Audrey.
 
Later I find him installing the swivel gun on Millie’s bow. Millie is surprisingly undamaged. For some reason Blackjack and his mates didn’t take an ax to her.

Getting real.

“That’s it,” I say, “Nigel you’re gone.”

“What?”

“You’re out mate.”

“You mean I’m not going to be in the blog?”

“Right. Piss off. I’ve got too many characters already and you’re a pain in the arse. I’m scrapping you. Good bye.”

“May I remind you Headley you are still trussed up at my mercy. I might even start writing the blog myself”

“You’d never get the tone right.”

 “Don’t be so sure. I will give a full account of your profligate lifestyle. How you and Oscar fly around here there and everywhere while people in the third world starve.”

I should point out that Nigel and his pals Lambert and Blackjack don’t seem to be exactly starving. They know how to use a fridge and stove. They’ve got their feet up on Oscar’s teak table and they’re tucking into what was supposed to be our dinner. Oh well let him have his rant, silly bugger, it won’t last much longer. Reality will catch up with him.

Talking of reality….philosophy alert!....I’ve had a few emails lately from people wanting to know if I’m a real person. It’s a fair question. I wonder about it myself sometimes. I even wonder about ‘reality’. This blog for instance...is it real? How real? And what about the voyage? Is it just a metaphor? And if it is what does that make me? Am I just a figment of my own imagination?

Don’t worry. There won’t be any ontology or even any epistemology but life is strange alright. 

There’s a bottomless pit just off to the side. Le gouffre as Baudelaire called it. Sometimes you need to have a strong grip on reality or over you go.

Other people often ask me if I’m ever afraid. “Are you ever afraid Dick?” other people often ask, “sailing around the ocean on your own like that. Do you not occasionally feel a twinge of trepidation?” “Well no,” I answer, “not really. I have confidence in my vessel and my skills as a yachtsman. Beyond that I simply trust in fate. I thought Cape Fear was scary though. Robert de Niro? Did you see it? That kind of madness is scary. Can’t understand how Robert can do things like that and still get any sleep. Must be on the bottle.”

But generally speaking, let’s be honest, movies aren’t frightening at all. ‘Scary’ isn’t the same as fear. Actually sitting in a cinema surrounded by strange blobs of protoplasm on a planet that is spinning around in space for no apparent reason…now that’s scary if you stop and think about it. Which is why people try not to. That’s the whole point of going to the movies is so you don’t have to think about things like that. You’re much better off concentrating on safe reassuring things like the walking dead. Leave all that cosmic stuff to the philosophers.

And, if you’re still with me, I’m not talking about running up a big overdraft and losing your mortgage here. Or breaking a tooth. I’m talking about real fear. Real mind-numbing existential terror. The kind where you wake in the night trembling and you can’t remember who the fuck you’re supposed to be. You think you’re going to sail off the edge of the world or shrivel to the size of a walnut and just disappear. Maybe that’s what Holly Golightly meant by the ‘mean reds’...“The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?” worse than loneliness…or indefinable Angst.

Let’s say you’re a taxi driver in some Canadian city…Winnipeg or Saskatoon, in winter, 40º below and you’ve just driven a bunch of Cree Indians 20 miles out of town up an ice road…out of radio range…nothing but snowflakes in the headlights and black spruce trees out there and they say “Stop here.” Fifty bucks on the meter. They tell you to wait we’ll get your money and they walk off laughing and stumbling into the cold night and all you can do is wait. And you wait about 15 minutes and they don’t come back and you check the gas gauge because you know if the engine stops you will soon be frozen stiff. You need a piss so you get out and listen to the crunch of your boots on the snow. You think you hear a wolf howling. You can’t see where the Cree went and there is no light anywhere. After a while you say to hell with the money and you start to turn the car in the road. Shit! The car lurches and the rear wheels are spinning in the ditch. Now you’re in trouble. Get the shovel out of the trunk. Try to stay calm…where did I put that fucking flashlight? Trunk lock is frozen. Shit. There’s a button under the dash. Fuck. You've locked yourself out of the goddam car now. One of your boots comes off in a snowdrift but don’t panic...it’s not the end of the world...that kind of fear. Maybe dread is a better word.

By the way, the Cree blokes showed up with the money and helped get the car out of the ditch.

Cuban heels.

I am truly buggered. Tied up. No freedom of movement, no laptop, a bunch of dubious characters and no idea what they do next. A proper writer, somebody like John Le Carre for instance, would know how to get out of this predicament. He would use some literary device or perhaps a distracting anecdote. But it’s all a bit too much for me at the moment. Mental laziness my old headmaster would say but he’s long dead.
This Nigel person is a real tit. He just keeps rabbiting on……

“You make me sick Headley. Totally selfish. You were in Haiti right after the hurricane. You could have donated your boat to help with disaster relief but did you? Oh no. You were on your way to Cuba selling mechanical cane-cutters to Castro.

There’s some truth in that actually. It’s funny how it came about. Oscar had got wind of some used cane-cutters in Dominica. I was in Havana staying at the Hotel Nacional when I got a phone call. I had left a message at the Ministry of Agriculture.
“Senor Branson? You are Richard Branson?”
“No. I’m Dick Headley.”
“But you know Senor Branson?”
“We’ve met.”
“A taxi will call for you at 7 o’clock this evening.”
That was it. No explanation.

​

​It wasn’t a taxi. It was a jeep. Fidel was driving.
“Welcome to Cuba Senor Ricardo,” he says,“today is my birthday.”
This is all very strange.
“Felicidades.” I say as we drive to his house in Vedado where I’m frisked for notebooks and tape recorders. (They missed one. Taking a bit of a chance I know but it was a historic moment and I needed some stuff for the blog.)
"Thank you Rico. Seventy-nine! Not bad eh? What brings you here?"
It was his idea for me to come but I keep my mouth shut.
“Something to do with Richard Branson and a new London/Havana route was it?”
"Ah yes," says Fidel, "the new Virgin route. What do you think of this Branson fellow Ricky?"
"Dick. Well Fidel," I say, "He's always been straight with me." I don't mention it looks like Sir Richard may be having second thoughts about hosting this year's Headley Convention. I'm having second thoughts about the thing myself tell the truth.
"Richard's a gambler," I say, "and he likes starting new things. Wouldn’t surprise me if he builds a spaceship one of these days."
“Amazing. The Russians were first into space of course. When Sputnik 1 was launched I was in the Sierra Madre. We used to watch it crossing the night sky. Regular as clockwork. That’s what socialism can do. Very enterprising fellow this Branson. How far can one trust these capitalist entrepreneur types Dick?"
"Well Fidel," I say, "I think Sir Richard is better than most. He has good connections. He even knows Tony Blair and between them I think they will tell George Bush to get stuffed. Privately of course."
"Blair is the one that worries me," Says Fidel, "there is something a bit flakey about him. He reminds me of a sort of manic boy-scout master. Or a sixth-form prefect in one of those strange English schools.”
Well I had to disagree there. I personally always find Tony very reasonable and convincing. Who doesn't? He exudes reasonableness and conviction, not to mention decency and commonsense. And it's not for me to comment on what Saddam Husein is up to is it? If Tone says they have WMD that's good enough for me. But Fidel has that Foxy look on his face so I keep my thoughts to myself. We're sitting on a verandah behind his house and he's got this bloody great cigar stuck in his gob. It's the size of a small fence post and he's puffing away and I'm waiting for it to explode. The good news is the mosquitoes are choking to death left and right. I consider asking Fidel about the missile crisis but decide against it.
"How's your friend Oscar doing?" Fidel asks.
"Oh he's fine. Still pissed off because he can't come here."
"Not my fault Dick. He should get an EU passport. Anyway it's good to see you. Do you have everything you need at the Hotel Nacional? OK for rum are you? Chicas?"
I tell Fidel I'm fine thank you. Plenty of chicas in the bar as usual. I also tell him I think the Virgin flights would certainly help the tourist business but he better keep the prices up or he'll be swamped with lager louts. Havana will be like Prague.
"Which reminds me Fidel" I say, "I have been hearing stories about changes in the Havana sex trade. Casas particulares in particular?"
"Es verdad Dick." says Fidel, "The girls along the Malecon are getting too saucy and we have to do something. Liberalization is all very well but you know how they are....give them an inch and they take a yard. As I said to my friend Oliver Stone, the famous film director, none of us are getting any younger."
"Oliver himself is on the verge of senility if you ask me." I said.
"Yes poor Oliver. It's the drugs I think. And that 'Alexander' thing bombed which didn't help. But don't forget Dick, Oliver is an artist. For him film-making is a bit like being God."
"Didn't know you believed in God Fidel?"
"Watch it Dick. Sounds like you’re taking the piss."
"Sorry Fidel. Just asking. Have a look at this by the way."
Before I left BVI I foolishly told Oscar about my trip. “Ah-hah,” says he,”off to see El Presidente is it. See if you can interest him in some mechanical cane-cutters.”
Thus it was during a lull in my conversation with Fidel I pulled out a few brochures for him to look at.

“What’s this then Dick?” he says.
“Mechanical cane-cutters Fidel. They will speed things up.”
Well I knew right away I’d made a mistake. There was a billow of smoke and I thought he was going to choke. “You must be fucking joking Dick!” he says. “Mechanical cane-cutters! You want to put half the population out of work? I’ll have a revolution on my hands!”
He's still sharp. I sense bodyguards lurking in the shrubbery and decide it might be time to go. It had been a pleasant evening there on the verandah of Fidel's Vedado mansion watching the bats flit through the banyan trees in pursuit of moths and listening to the croaking of the myriad frogs in the undergrowth. But I didn't want to push my luck. I didn't care much for the cigar smoke either tell the truth. If he wants to see another birthday he should give them up. I kept my thoughts to myself.

Of Human Bondage.

Cut a long story short we hit an old chest. Then everything went black. When I come to I’m tied to a chair in Oscar’s living room. Blackjack and Lambert are sitting on the sofa watching me.
“That one there is Headley,” said Lambert, “Got a blog. Thinks he’s funny. The other dude is some old pervert who owns this island, says he does anyway. He sneered at my artwork. Can’t believe half what they say…these old geezers live in a fantasy world.”
“I think you have talent,” I said.
“Oh sure you do. In a patronizing way. Don’t come the altruist with me Headley.”
 
The treasure chest has been opened and I can see gold coins. Like a Disney prop. If they’re real they must be worth millions.
 
“What the fuck’s going on?” I ask.
“Hallo Dick,” says another bloke I hadn’t noticed before. He has matted hair, nose rings, a little goatee beard and the usual Thai tattoos.
“Who are you? “
“Nigel.”
“Nigel who? There’s no Nigel in this blog.”
“Don’t you remember me? I came in your bar one time in Pattaya and you made fun of me. Called me a U2 fan. That’s an ad hominem attack.”
“If you say so.”
 
“We’ll never get away with this.” said Blackjack.
“That’s my line.” I cut in.
“Shut up, both of you,” says Nigel, “and stop all this negativity. You Headley you prick you can wipe that smile off your face.”
“You’d look good with a bazooka round up your ass” says Oscar.
“Typical militaristic thinking,” says Nigel, “watching too many Rambo movies that’s your trouble.”
“I like those movies,” say Jack.
“Did you ever keep pythons Jack”, I ask.
“No, why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Taking the piss more likely,” says Nigel. “I know you Headley. We’re going to weigh you down with diving gear then we’re going to sink your boat. ….”
“Wait a minute, says Blackjack, “that sounds a bit heavy to me.”
“… with you and Oscar on it. We’ll make it look like accident. Then we’re off to Pattaya with your treasure.”
“What about the girls?”
“We’re keeping them.” says Jack.
“No we’re not,” says Nigel. “We’re setting them free. What’s the problem Dicky boy? Does it bother you what happens to your harem?”
“Well I have a sensitive side you know,” says I.
“Sensitive side! That’s a laugh,” says Nigel. “You are full of shit Headley. Sailing your fantasy yacht around the Caribbean. Posting your deep insights into human nature on obscure blogs! Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you think anybody’s interested in your opinions? You’re disgusting. I’ve been going back through some of your old posts and I see a lot of racist stuff in there. What do you have to say about that? It’s one thing to make jokes about Tracey Emin but accusing Lambert of shagging her in a tent is pure racial stereotyping to my mind. I suppose you think it’s funny but do you have any idea how hurtful that kind of talk can be?”
“Fuck off,” I say, “It was Lambert who told me about the tent.”
“That’s outrageous.” Says Lambert. “You think I’d spend a week in a tent with some….”
“Some what Lambert? Nearly slipped there didn’t you mate. Anyway I saw the photos remember? You were quite proud of it. And besides I was discussing Tracey’s art so it was a critique and I can say what I want because it’s just my opinion.”
“Oh sure,” says Nigel, "that is so typical. Hide behind the old ‘it’s just my opinion’ argument. Anyone can say that.Admit it Headley, you are culturally insensitive.”
 
“Not to mention racist.” Says Lambert.
 
“We’ll never get away with it.” says Blackjack again.
“Bloody hell,” says Nigel, “I thought you were tough.” 
 
Fuck me I’m thinking, they’re all nuts. Oscar’s gone quiet. Not surprising. He’s all trussed up and they’ve strapped a ping-pong ball in his gob. Looks a right twit. I suppose I don’t look much better. We must look like a couple of Japanese secretaries. Anybody wandering in would think we were making a bukkake video.
 
I can hear the girls splashing in the pool. They seem happy with the new arrangement. We'll get no help there. 
 
“Can I ask something?” I say.
“I suppose so.” Says Nigel.
“What are you going to do with the money?”
Blackjack starts to say something but Nigel says,“We are going to open a hostel for reformed bar-girls in Pattaya,”
“Aaaaarggumgooo,’ says Oscar.
“That’s right.” Says Lambert, “a fully equipped hostel catering to reformed bar-girls under thirty years of age on condition they renounce all ties with falang and stay off drugs. There will be a gourmet canteen, a TV in each room and a state of the art gym. I will be the manager.”
“Hang on,” says Blackjack, “What if they don’t want to be saved? I’m just saying.”
“You aren’t very bright are you Blackjack,” says Nigel, “Why don’t you just stick to crime and let me save the planet.”

​Who are these twerps? Me and Oscar just have to sit and listen to their repartee. It’s like a Tarantino movie.

Bangkok interlude.

We’re going to leave Dick and Oscar to their digging because we have some distressing news to impart. The Golden Bar on Soi 4, Sukhumvit is to be closed! This is very sad. And if that wasn’t bad enough it’s going to be replaced with a Hooters!!!

Alert readers will know that the Golden Bar was Arthur’s favorite watering hole. He spent many hours sitting there staring at the street. The closure has put him in something of a quandary. What to do? He could have a nap but he just had one. How about an email check. There may be something from Simon.

He enters an internet café/laundry/massage parlour and sits down at an empty monitor. You have to be careful in these places. That innocent looking young Thai at the desk is an accomplished hacker. He will be into your bank account in a minute given half a chance.

There’s the usual cross section of online humanity. Thai kids playing Grand Theft Auto. A Swedish rasta playing bongos. Compulsive communicators working on their travel blogs. The girl at the next desk is up to something too. Talking to her farang boyfriend most likely and giving him an update on her precarious financial situation.

As for the email itself it’s the usual mish-mash. Mostly spam. Nigerians giving away money, free Viagra. Nothing from Simon. Arthur decides to do a bit of web surfing. Then he spots a message from Charles Saatchi.

Somehow Arthur must have got himself onto Charles Saatchi's mailing list because he’s invited to his new show of paintings! Paintings you gasp!?! Yes paintings. It seems Charlie has had enough of pickled sharks and Tracey Emin's love life.

Arthur may be just a useless old alcoholic but that doesn't mean he doesn’t try to pin down the Zeitgeist. Charlie's shows are always interesting, pointing, as they do, to future directions, and he would like to accept his kind invitation, but tell the truth London isn't very high on his list of holiday destinations at the moment. Nothing to do with the bombings and such. He’s British after all. And he was born in London during the Blitz so don't tell him about bombs. He’s as stoical, defiant, resolved and resilient as the next bloke, but he just can't relate to England anymore. Can't stand the place to be honest. Too many chavs and snotty middle-class pricks and hooligans and exploding wogs and Roumanian plumbers. Too many everybody. All lovely people of course…but there’s just so bloody many of them. Arthur gets his news from the BBC. He prefers to watch it play out on TV anyway. Also it clashes with his other interests. Beer and meditation.

But he does take the trouble of doing a bit of long-distance research on these paintings of Charlie's. Turns out they're all about ends. The end of communism, the end of art, the end of the internet, the end of the world for all I know. We are living in the end times according to Saatchi’s new crop of young artists and who is Arthur to argue with that. He’s certainly winding down himself. Getting to the end of his rope you could say. Not that the Thai girls are too bothered. They still smile and call him Papa and hope for a good tip. The end of painting? That started dying a long slow death with Picasso so it's been ending for a long time. Saatchi's got a good eye and he keeps up with what's going on. Perhaps he knows something the rest of us don't. One thing's for sure...he knows how to flog paintings. If he puts them in his gallery somebody will buy them.

Enough internet for one day thinks Arthur. It’s a Tower of Babel. Nap time.

Caribbean geology.

We have gone as far as we can on the golf carts then Oscar puts the hand brake on and we get off and start unloading the stuff.

After a short walk we need to get our breath back. Breaths I should say.  Our respective breaths.  It’s already bloody hot and the sun is blazing down on us.

So we sit on a rock and look out towards Sir Richard's place. I notice Oscar has brought his high-powered binoculars along. I decide to mention it.

“Oscar,” I say, “I notice you have brought your high-powered binoculars along.”
“Yes Dick.” Says Oscar. “That is correct. I have indeed brought my high-powered binoculars along.”
“Any particular reason?” I ask.
“Yes Dick. I am hoping to catch some of the goings on over at Neckar Island. A flash of celebrity tit perhaps or even a glimpse of Sir Richard’s you know what. They swim nude over there you know.”
“Really. I’m surprised you can make out that kind of detail.”
He passes me the glasses. “Here Dick, have a look at that.”
At first all I can see is a swimming pool surrounded by lush jungle foliage then I notice a figure on a diving board. A male figure, bollock naked!
“That’s amazing.” I say.
“Told you.” Says Oscar, “you won’t see things like that on Lifestyle of the Rich and Famous.”

A large iguana scuttles past. Large by local standards.  Iguana delicatissima I think. Anyway it scuttles past.
“This is like waiting for Godot a bit,” I observe.
“Yes and no.” says Oscar. “Just can't stop making literary references can you Headley? Is it that you want to show off your cultural acumen? If so I'm not impressed. It's nothing like Becket. How can you compare 2 rich old farts staring at Richard Branson through binoculars with one of the world's great modern existential playwrights? Hmmm? Answer that if you can.”
“I’m at a loss for an answer.” I say.
“That’s what I thought. Anyway that’s enough idle banter, let’s get on with the digging.”

So we start digging in what we hope is the right spot.

​

This may be a good time to mention when me and Oscar aren’t blind drunk we like to do a bit of online research on various esoteric subjects. We were up all last night studying the geology of the Caribbean. Our reasons are twofold. To improve our general knowledge of the region of course and to find out what sort of strata we might encounter when we start digging. The tectonic plates are very complex. As are the numerous accretionary wedges.

So I’m swinging the pick while Oscar shovels. At first it's fairly easy going. The soil is loose and sandy but after a while we begin to encounter larger rocks and soon we are sweating and heaving on bloody great lumps of schist.
“Hell with this schist.” I say. “I need a rest.”
But Oscar will have none of it. “Look Dick,” he says excitedly, “see how there are obvious indications of a pit. Somebody, at some point in time, has dug a shaft down through the coral then filled it in with rocks. Note how the sides are undisturbed. We are on the right track Dick. Don't stop now.” To be continued….

o

Jep nes'

​

‘I have an announcement to make,’ says Oscar one morning.
‘Let me guess. You’re thinking of getting a sex-change operation.’
‘No Dick. Today is the day of the treasure hunt. The golf buggies are packed and ready to go.’
OK I think. Let’s get it over with. I’m halfway through Peter Carey’s new one. ‘Amnesia’. He writes well, and I’m learning a lot about Australian flora and fauna, but there’s not much plot.


Oscar’s made these little roads on his island so he can drive around a bit. The island is mostly rocky scrub. There isn’t much flat land at all and the vegetation consists of cactus and other prickly stuff. On the way up we get a good view over the lagoon and I notice the flamingos huddled together in a corner looking for brine shrimp.

“What got you interested in pink flamingos Oscar?” I ask by way of conversation.
“I trace it back to my upbringing Dick.” Says Oscar. They remind me of my roots. The place where I grew up.”
“Some languid lagoon somewhere was it Oscar? Some tropical paradise?”
“No Dick. It was a trailer park in Oklahoma. Pink flamingos have always held a strange attraction for me.

 As a child I was fascinated by the exotic creatures people put in front of their humble homes.

I was also most impressed with the John Waters motion picture of the same name.”
“Is that the one where Divine fucks a Hungarian sheepdog?”
“The same. Did you know Dick that film has been compared to ‘Un Chien Andalou’?”
“No, I didn’t know that Oscar. I heard it was compared to an exploding septic tank. Variety refused to review it.”
“Try to see past the petty, jealous critics Dick. It was ahead of its time that’s all.

If it hadn’t been for Pink Flamingos we probably would never have had Deep Throat.”
See what happens when I try to raise the conversation an intellectual notch or two? It always comes back to sex.

Looking for the place where the treasure is supposed to be, quickly turned into a nature walk.

 We go as far as we can go on the golf carts then starting walking, stumbling I should say,

through the undergrowth. I feel a sharp pain in my leg.
“Probably a Jack Spaniard.” Says Oscar, “ Polistes cinctus. Mean bastards.

 The locals call them Jep...it’s a wasp that usually builds its nest underneath leaves.

There’s an expression ‘Jep Nes’'. To stir up more trouble than you anticipated. I meant to warn you about them.”
“Bit late telling me now innit? Bloody hurts that does.”

“No pain, no gain Dick.”
​
He shows me a piece of earth, about a yard square and points out how the soil’s been disturbed.

It looks like all the rest to me but he gets excited.

“That’s where we dig.” Says Oscar.

We? 

Villains

​If this was a novel or even a normal literary endeavor I would have inserted some unsavory characters by now just to keep things balanced. It's all very well me and Oscar drinking and bullshitting but there has to be some kind of action. I think I’ve mentioned Blackjack, the second-rate villain in the pirate boat that shows up now and again, and there’s something a touch sinister about young Lambert the graffiti artist who looks like Jean-Michel Basquiat.
As the day for the treasure hunt draws near the excitement builds.
“I’d watch out for that young Lambert if I was you Oscar,” I venture.
“Don’t worry Dick. I’ve got Lambert’s number,” says Oscar,” he was here once you know.”
“Really.’
“Yes he came across from Tortola with some of his Rasta chums. Wanted  to sell me some paintings.  He was asking too much or I would have bought a couple. He’s got talent but he’s derivative. And I didn’t like his attitude. He thinks he’s the Caribbean answer to Jean-Michel Basquiat.  Just another graffiti artist if you ask me. He left in a huff.”
Bad move Oscar I’m thinking.  Lambert will be very pissed off.  I know artists.  They can be touchy.
Lambert, it so happens, has been hanging around the Soper’s Hole marina selling dope and looking for loose pussy. It was inevitable that he would run into Blackjack who was resting after a profitable run from Cartagena to Pensacola, a city in West Florida with an interesting history.  It has flown the flags of five different countries since its founding by Tristan de Luna in 1559. Not that Lambert and Blackjack care much about history. Dodging the DEA is their main preoccupation.

​

Ace of Spades.

Ace of Spades.

1/1/2016

0 Comments

It's a new year. 2016. I'm surprised to be here.

​We find Simon in one of his Chelsea mews houses. He's going through some old notebooks.​ Lemmy Kilmister passed away recently. Simon has been asked to write something about him for the Guardian. He isn’t sure where to begin…but he has a few old notes….


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

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

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

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


All this is happening right outside the Mountain Grill. I’m inside transcribing the scene into a notebook. Discretely. I’m still not totally confident of my literary abilities but making notes has become a habit. They may come in handy one day. Like now for instance. If anybody asks me what I’m writing I mumble something about the underground press. I’ve noticed how the bands round here like to talk about being revolutionary but nobody says no to an appearance on Top Of The Pops. Look at Bolan. Hopping around on TV like some kind of psychedelic elf. Hawkwind haven’t been on Top of the Pops yet. Maybe they haven’t been asked.


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

Simon reads through what he has written and decides it’s good enough for the Guardian.

He presses send and it’s gone.