Tropical rot.

Attentive readers of this blog or whatever it is will recall Sir Julian Snagge. He was the magistrate who got me kicked off Arsenal for getting caught with a bit of speed back in the sixties. It was only a few thousand Dexies and Blue Bombers but it was enough to get me a suspended sentence and it ended my promising career as a striker with the Gunners.

Flash forward a few years to a marina in BVI, Sopers Hole to be precise, where I happened to be tied up next to Sir Julian's yacht. I had a crew of Thai girls at the time. Long story short I set Sir Julian up with some Thai nooky and caught the whole thing on video thinking it might come in handy sometime.

So now here I am in Barbados, ostensibly avoiding Black Jack and his pirates, and getting a much needed break from my old pal Oscar Diborccio semi-retired porn magnate. It is my intention to continue narrating as long as it amuses me. It's not as if anybody gives a toss.

I went on the Mountgay Distillery Tour. It was pleasant enough but it's got a bit more professional since my last visit. They now have an interpretive guide, educational video, that sort of thing, you can't just wander around anymore. I suppose it was inevitable. But they still make an excellent product. I loaded up on my way out before dropping in on Sir Julian in his old plantation house on the island. He looks awful. We're drinking Mountgay on the verandah and looking out over his canefields. Amazingly he even manages to grow a bit of sugarcane. Let's see how he reacts to a bit of blackmail.

O no! A mini moke just pulled up and Simon Cowell is driving. And who's that with him? Bloody hell...it's Oscar....and Tony Blair.!! Life is full of surprises.

Paradise Papers.

So somebody had the gall to hack into Appleby's files and now keen young journalists are all over Bermuda like flies with expense accounts. Very annoying. Appleby's have been good to me over the years not to mention the affect something like that has on Caribbean economies. I'm sure Bono will sort it out. He won't want people snooping through his dirty laundry but in the meantime a lot of people have had to make a few adjustments to their financial accounts.

Not to worry. I arrived in Speightstown alright and found a nice berth for 'Millie' in Port St. Charles. She deserves a rub down and a rest bless her heart. I'm going to rent a mini moke and drive around a bit. I'll do the usual pilgrimage out to the Mountgay distillery then I may drop in on Sir Julian see how he's doing.

Don't worry. I haven't forgotten about Simon and Arthur in Northern Thailand. All in good time.

Narration problems.

Arthur and Simon could sit in Nana Plaza forever drinking beer and reminiscing …..but I can’t. I’ve got to get my boat over to Barbados.  I’ve been battling the wind from Grenada all the way across and I’m still not halfway. Ocean all around me and underneath. Hurricane Irma. I’ll be glad to see Speightstown. There’s a place there by the fish market does a nice rice and peas and I need to stock up on Mountgay..

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while you’ll have a basic idea what it’s about. It started as two schoolboy friends who read ‘On the Road’ and decided to be beatniks. One thing lead to another. They hitchhiked to India in the Sixties, came back, and went their separate ways. Arthur got a boring job running a tobacconist shop, Simon got into writing art reviews and ended up with his own TV show. When Arthur’s wife died he sold the shop and went to live in Thailand. Simon visited him there. It’s all in the archives.

Me? I’m the narrator. I live on a boat in the Caribbean. And I’m getting fed up with narrating. So I’m going to skip a lot of stuff and fast forward. I’m finding the whole blogging business depressing to be honest so I’m going to make a few more posts and that’s it.

So here’s the plan.

Bangkok. Simon really doesn’t care that much about the BBC documentary he’s supposed to make. So he hands it over to his production team and flies to Chiang Mai with Arthur. They go to stay in Arthur’s village. Simon wants to see the ‘real Thailand’. Arthur hopes he won’t be bored stiff.

I continue on to Barbados to meet up with my 'friend' Oscar, semi-retired porn magnate, who is still upset about losing his treasure to Blackjack. We may be dropping in on Simon Cowell for some celebrity gossip. Sir Julian will be there on his so-called plantation. I could write a novel.

Things will happen along the way. With luck there will be a thrilling climax and we can all go home. How’s that?

Pussy Riot update.

This is a special post for all my Russian readers.

As you know I have long been a keen follower of Pussy Riot. I am especially fond of Nadezhda Tolokonnikova. She has come a long way since she stuffed a chicken up her vagina. That was an art project of course. I'd slip her some KFC myself given half a chance. And who can forget the famous cathedral dance which earned her a place in jail from Putin (boo, hiss) followed by appearances on American talk shows. She even got to meet Madonna and she has made several outstanding videos. In a recent one she appears bathed in blood, a powerful statement about something or other.

So I was sorry to learn that Nadezhda and Mariya Alyokhina are no longer besties. In an interview Mariya doesn't exactly spell out the problem but it seems the members of Pussy Riot have gone their separate ways.

Mariya has written a book about their adventures. I haven't read it yet but she talks about how it all began, their problems with Putin (boo, hiss again), Neo-Nazis and getting whipped by fake Cossacks. Good timing. Antifa types will love it so she'll probably make a few roubles.

It's the third member of the group I feel sorry for. Yekaterina Samutsevich. She can't get a job. So if there's anybody out there looking for an au pair drop her a line.

Baudelaire

Time for a bit of the old depression I think...potential jumpers should probably skip this.

I’ve been battling the wind from Grenada to Barbados and  I’m still not halfway.. Ocean all around me and underneath. I’ll be glad to see Speightstown. This isn’t your ordinary Caribbean cruise you know. No three meals  a day and a dip in the pool with a bunch of horny divorcees for me. I’m working.

Ever read much Baudelaire? Don’t. It’s not good for you. He knew all about Le Gouffre as it’s called in French. It’s a place that doesn’t exist. That’s the point. You wake up in the night and there it is. The pit. It isn’t even a place. More like a state of mind. Or no mind. Nothing. Once you go over the edge that’s it. You never come back. An endless drop. Having money doesn't help.

Windows show me infinity. Seeing

it, my hurt mind suffers from vertigo.

How I envy the sense of nothingness;

I’m never free of numbers or of beings.

Well let’s be honest. Baudelaire was neurotic. Very moody fellow. Rimbaud was the same way. Always going on about oblivion. We all get like that sometimes. Malcolm Lowry was more my type. Boozer. He knew about the ever-present ravine. But there was always another bottle.


In other news...and I could be wrong...but I think I've been hacked by Russians.

Them heavy people.

I was born in the right place and time, London. May 1941, well before Brexit. Goering was sending bombers over every night to demoralize the population. Didn't work but he kept trying. You'd come out in the morning and half the street was gone.. I don’t think there was any doubt in my mother’s womb that Hitler would be defeated but the searchlights and the AA battery at the end of the street must have been unsettling for a young pregnant girl…or perhaps not….perhaps it was just an opportunity to flirt with the gunners on the way to the munitions factory. Anyway she had me in the middle of it all. Maybe that's what gave me a taste for philosophy.

Most people don't bother with philosophy much I've found. Not me. I enjoy a bit of metaphysical recreation. There's nothing I like more than sitting in my boat pondering the meaning of life. I've read all the top blokes from Plato to Huxley... Tommy Cooper, Steve Martin, Rick Gervais you name it.

Of course they do go on a bit and to be honest I don't think they know anything for certain. It's all theory.  Too deep for me. We're born and we die. Skepticism, rationalism, infinitism....when it gets to that point I reach for the bottle.

Happy Hour Part 4. Gav & Kev.

Compulsive readers (I know you're out there) will recall that Simon and Arthur are sitting in Nana Plaza reminiscing prior to visiting a gogo bar. The more beers they have the less likely it becomes. Suddenly...

"Arfer!!"

Oh no.

Two shaven headed, heavily tattooed young men wearing full Arsenal regalia have threaded their way over to Arthur and Simon and are preparing to sit down. 

‘Well, well look who's here. Gav and Kev.' says Arthur tactfully. 'This is my friend Simon recently arrived from the UK. Simon knows everything don’t you Si?’

‘Well, me and Martin Amis between us. I certainly have an opinion on everything which is the same thing. You have to in my business.’

‘Oh,’ says Gav, ‘What business are you in then Simon? Not a copper I ’ope.’

‘TV.’

‘I knew it!’ says Gav, ‘you’re that bloke!’

‘Fraid so.’

‘Look Kev! It’s that bloke. Smashtalk.’

‘Hardfaceoff.’

‘Tough Shit actually,’ says Simon, ‘Channel 4. Thanks for watching.’

‘I’ll be buggered,’ says Kev. ‘I’ve got an idea for a reality show. Bunch of blokes go to Thailand and meet some Thai girls…’

‘And…?’

‘Well they interact like. Have a few laughs. Never a dull moment. Lot’s of sex in it too…people will love it.’

‘Yes,’ says Simon, who has secretly approached BBC2 about doing some kind of documentary of his visit to Thailand, then thought better of it, ‘I can see a good audience for that. You might have trouble selling the idea to the Beeb. Or maybe not. Everything’s fair game on TV these days. People are hungry for diversion. Reality shows…so-called…the public can’t get enough of that stuff. Did you hear about the Dutch TV show. ‘Swap A Kidney’ or something? Apparently there’s an alarming shortage of donor organs in the Netherlands so someone at Endemol, big Dutch media production company, had the bright idea of getting terminally ill people to donate their organs. The audience got to vote on the most needy cases. I said something on my show about getting Hannibal Lecter to host it. If no contestants were suitable he could eat them. The actual operations could be done by naked Goth girl surgeons. Without anaesthetic. And so on. Lots of controversy. Always boosts the ratings. Turns out it was all a publicity stunt anyway. I’ve suggested a cooking show where celebrity chefs hack away at each other with meat cleavers. The winner gets to cook up whatever’s left. Hey this is just like old times…’

Arthur wonders if Simon enjoys being recognized. Simon senses Arthur wondering and considers elaborating on the nature of fame but decides to save it for later.

‘Fuck me,’ interjects Kev, ‘are we still doing dialogue? This sounds more like soliloquy.’

‘Sorry about that,’ says Simon, ‘I got a bit carried away. Jet lag.’

‘Have another beer.’

‘Better not. You see Gav, and Kev, I’m a communicator. That’s what I do. Communicate.  I don’t always say important and meaningful things but I do it in an entertaining way. The hard part is keeping it going. You need to be motivated. I do a show every week and I have a team of people working on it. I’m the public face of it. I get my energy from the studio audience but mainly I get it from the camera. Vanity? Sure that’s part of it but the thought of having my face and thoughts in millions of living rooms is what tickles me. I know a lot of people hate me too. They think I’m an arrogant prick but they keep coming back. It’s all nonsense, I know that, but it’s fun too.’

‘That’s all right mate. Have a ramble if you fancy it. Dialogue’s OK but after a while it’s hard to tell who’s talking to who innit.’

‘Very true. If you leave out the he said, said he bits it all tends to blend into an endless series of verbal exchanges. It’s only the punctuation that gives it any meaning.’

‘Just a long drone interspersed with inverted commas.’

‘It’s the author talking to himself half the time.’

‘Total self indulgence.’

‘And so on.’

‘Quite.’

'Language is a virus.'

'But it's all we have.'

Kev mutters something about the BBC being all poofters. Arthur looks a bit shocked.

‘Can we say things like that?’

‘Depends how it’s done. Ricky Gervais gets away with it.’

‘Ricky who?’

‘You really are out of touch aren’t you Arthur. Don’t worry about it.’