Song of Simon.

Marina Hyde excels herself with this one. Anything I say would be superfluous. All I can do is wait for Mr. Mann's (Mr. Mann!!!) appearance on Hardtalk.

Song of Siam.

Our changing world....

My life as a zombie.

Being something of an agnostic all my life I just assumed that when I died that would be the end of it. Here one day, gone the next. I never expected to be stuck in a state of limbo. I was out of it alright but it wasn’t as if I was completely dead. I still kept noticing things. There were other dead people wandering around but none of them were very communicative. Needless to say I felt alienated and detached. I was finding it increasingly difficult to get along with the other zombies. I had a lot of time on my hands. So that’s how I came to join the zombie support group thinking I might find some kindred souls. What a bunch! Some of them are just plain brain-dead and it’s not easy to have a decent conversation. I try to be pleasant and all I get is a lot of blank stares. Waste of time.

Mindless idiots. What annoys me most about them is their complete lack of curiosity. Nobody ever asks me what I did before I was a zombie (I used to be a much-loved TV personality) or how I manage to stay healthy. I’m not going to tell anyone about my stash of formaldehyde. Take Big Roy for instance. Talk about thick. He never says a word. He just sits there in a state of suspended decomposition. Well OK his mouth’s sewn up but still you’d think he could manage a grunt now and then. Nothing. He stinks of rotting flesh too but of course nobody wants to say anything.

Fiona, the group leader, is thinking of committing suicide again much to the amusement of Gav and Kev our resident teenagers. They died in a car crash but they don’t even seem to realize they’re dead. I don’t know why they come to the meetings. Very disruptive. Fiona should have a word with them. All they want to do is go round smashing up payphones. Great fun till somebody loses an arm. Then there’s Nigel always going on about zombie rights. Ha. We have no bloody rights that’s obvious. People just wish we’d go away. He’s the type who writes letters to the Guardian. But does he want a bunch of us camping out in his back garden? I don’t think so.

All the rest just sit around looking stoned. I tell them we need to stay focused. Now they want me to be group leader. Me! Mr. Weltshmerz. It’s all so bloody tedious.

Tonight we are going out scaring people again. Basically this involves hanging around on street corners or coming up behind them when they least expect it. Staring at them through windows is another thing we do. Some variations would be nice but nobody has any imagination. Also I’ve noticed that it’s getting harder to scare the young people. Kids just laugh. You have to actually bite a chunk out of them to get any reaction. Some members find this very frustrating and I think that’s what encourages some of them to be more and more disgusting. Some of them are even getting into public necrophilia. They only do it because they’re bored. It’s a vicious circle and frankly I don’t know if it will ever end.

Well I could go on but it would sound like moaning. Yes I know, it could be worse. I could be on a slab getting sliced up while medical students make crude jokes. Cheer up mate and that sort of thing.

Hard drive clean up.

Amazing how this stuff piles up.

Inherent Vice.

Just finished the new novel from Thomas Pynchon. Made some notes. It's a detective thriller set in LA in the late Sixties. Gordita Beach (Manhattan Beach?) to be precise, a fictional place the reclusive Mr. Pynchon knows well. The style is Chandleresque with a dash of Elmore Leonard. ‘Inherent Vice’ gives Pynchon a chance to indulge in some Sixties nostalgia. But not the way he did in the long drawn out, some might say dull, ‘Against The Day.’ This time he has a lot of fun recreating the scenes and characters of the post-hippie period and he obviously has a lingering affection for surf, drugs, and rock and roll. Everybody is stoned or tripping but it’s a surprisingly disciplined novel given the subject matter.

The lonely, proud private eye is a favourite character in American fiction. Doc is not a typical example. He’s a likeable pothead with an Afro, less hard-boiled than Philip Marlowe and funny in a Cheech and Chong sort of way. Of course he’s cynical with it. You have to be in that job. He has plenty of spare time to sit in his office staring at a velvet painting of an idyllic California beach scene and trying to come to terms with the corruption of the counterculture, which is what the book is basically about.

One day an ex-girlfriend, Shasta, shows up looking for help. She’s got herself involved with somebody called Wolfmann, an interesting mix of white Aryan Jewish Nazi tycoon real estate developer. There are many cartoonish characters with silly names. There are murders. There’s money involved too which puts Doc at odds with himself because he usually works for free. Lots of things happen but nothing too cryptic. References to “Hawaii Five-O”, Tiny Tim and the Archies may be a little obtuse for younger readers but generally speaking Pynchon sticks to the point. No metaphysical meandering. He still goes off on little tangents but stops well short of gonzo. And there’s a plot for those who like their prose linear. It’s complicated, even a bit messy, but it keeps you reading.

I have a feeling hardcore Pynchon fans expecting another ‘Gravity’s Rainbow’ might be disappointed. Under 400 pages for a start. This is a much more orthodox novel not likely to become a cult classic. I enjoyed it even if my own Sixties memories aren’t quite the same as Pynchon’s. Everybody who lived through it remembers it differently. Perhaps Pynchon has even exaggerated and embellished a few of his own more lurid memories. That’s fine. It makes for an entertaining read. Probably filmable too. Think ‘Big Lebowski’.

Caribbean wind.

Even when you get away you still sometimes have to get away. Life is like that. I mean you have to be somewhere. I can always get the boat out but I still have to go from somewhere to somewhere else. There has to be a destination. It would be nice just to drift aimlessly but there is no random when you’re in a boat. On a boat random puts you on the rocks. Currents, riptides, sudden squalls, all have to be taken into account. There’s a bottomless pit just off to the side. Or an Oscar down at the pool all day drinking, farting and scratching his crotch. Narrating it all can be stressful.

So, in keeping with the nautical theme, I decide to take a few of the girls out for a little sail. Normally I don’t bother with the tourist places. But I’ve got a soft spot for the island of Jost Van Dyke. It’s an easy sail. I’m not one of these New Age types but I know the Hand of Destiny when I feel it on my knee. And them Caribbean winds still blow, from Nassau to Mexico, fanning the flames in the furnace of desire.

Jost Van Dyke was named after a Dutch pirate. We headed round to Foxy’s beach and found a lot of boats already there. The moorings were all taken so we dropped anchor in the sand. You have to be careful where you drop your hook in BVI these days because they try to protect the coral.

First time I saw Foxy was with Samantha on our honeymoon. He was just a bloke with a guitar singing calypsos on the beach. His wife Tessa was selling lemonade from a makeshift stall under a palm tree. Hang on…come to think of it I was the one suggested he open a proper bar. Now look, they’ve got a bar spread across half the beach. Yachties everywhere eating and drinking. Further down the beach a big party is going on. It looks like Jimmy Buffet, Bob Dylan and that lot.

Foxy’s got an amazing memory too. He spots me in the shallow water and comes running down the beach. Dick!!! How are you man…long time no see!! I could get all nostalgic and soppy here if I’m not careful. Hard not to with Foxy hugging me and Tessa waving from the bar. The memories come flooding back.

‘How are you then Foxy?’ I ask when he’s got me sitting back at the bar. ‘And who’s this?’ I point to a life-size model of Foxy playing his guitar.
‘That Epoxy Foxy Dick. He takes care of the place when I’m not around. So how’s life Dick? You looking good.’
‘Very nice Foxy. Got a good boat. Good little crew.’
I can’t fool Foxy. And he’s too smart to ask about Samantha. But I’m not.
‘Was she here?’
‘Oh she been a few times Dick. Got a surprise for you.’
‘Dick!!!’
Somebody is approaching from the beach. Bugger me it’s Simon, or a very good copy thereof.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Just popped down. I was in New York. Doing Letterman.’
‘Didn’t know you were like that.’
‘The show Dick, the show. What about you?’
‘I’ve been living down here. Remember Oscar? I keep my boat on his island. I just sail around. That’s my crew having a swim.’
‘Thai?’
‘Right.’
‘Is Oscar still doing porn?’
‘Flogging used mechanical cane-cutters to Castro.’
‘That has a ring to it.’
A freighter is making its way slowly eastwards through the Francis Drake Channel.
‘He gets paid in Bacardi.’
Before the conversation can degenerate too far we are approached by a familiar figure.
‘Hi Simon,’ says a well known whiny croaky voice.
‘Oh hi Bob, Bob Dick. Dick Bob.’
‘Bob.’ It’s him alright. Curly hair, hunted expression, Hawaiian shirt, baggy shorts, skinny white legs, wispy beard, eyepatch, pirate hat (the Skull and Crossbones logo has been replaced by ‘God Made Me Do It.’). Simon knows everybody.
‘Dick. Are those your Thai girls?’
Just like that. Bit rude really. Hallo I think, here we go again.
‘How do you know they’re Thai?’ I ask.
‘Limey arsehole. Don’t get smart with me. Everybody knows Thai girls man.’ What!?! He’s drunk obviously. I just ignore it but he takes a kick at my leg. It doesn’t hurt. I could give him a good right-hander in the gob but I just shove him lightly instead and down he goes.

A crowd is gathering the way they do when there’s a fight. There’s a lot of tut-tutting from the yachties but nobody does much. Mostly people just shuffle around looking embarrassed. It’s not much of a punch-up.

‘What’s goin on here?’ says Foxy. ‘Bob hit Dick first,’ says someone. Bob’s rolling around on the ground muttering something about a Christmas Album. I hardly bloody touched him! Jimmy Buffet helps him up. Foxy is bringing me a drink. Then Jimmy Buffet has his arm round Dylan’s shoulder and he’s leading him away. Phew. It’s hard to believe it all happened. And all the time Simon’s got his cell-phone out. I’m wondering what it’s going to look like on Youtube.

Hot air.

Tommy Cooper found in meat pie.

I'm not going into this too deeply. You can read all about it here.

Tracey fucks off.

I warned Mr. Cameron. Don't do it David, I said, do not anger this woman. She means what she says. Well it looks like he wasn't listening. Tracey is packing her tent.

More rock and roll moments.

see my baby jive..



through the canyons of your mind....



idiot wind blows through Fort Collins...



what every girl needs....



and who could ever forget the Seeds

The view from downunder.

Weybridge.

I just had a Skype call from the editor. Not happy. She seems to think we’re on dangerous ground. It’s starting to read like one of Chuck Woww’s Bangkok novels she says. Not that she’s read any of course but she knows the kind of thing. It’s Arthur she says. Sex tourism. Upsets women readers.

‘Not enough Dick?’ I ask.

‘Hmmm, it’s not that. I think we need more Simon.’

More Simon she says. Do I have to do everything? As if I can change my thought patterns just like that. Also I don’t quite see how it advances the narrative but there is no arguing with Samantha. She holds all the cards. In fact she has a whole arsenal of clichés at her fingertips and she won’t hesitate to use them. Resistance is futile. She knows every trick in the book. There are no flies on her.

So here’s Simon, late Sixties, arriving at his friend John Dunbar’s place on Bentinck Street, W.1. Lennon is there and someone called Magic Alex. Greek bloke. He seems to have worked his way into the inner circle somehow. I don’t like him at all. They are looking at some kind of machine that is supposed to resurrect dead pharaohs or something. Sounds a bit silly. I just listen. John asks me if I’ve got my car. I say yes. They say they are going out to Weybridge to drop some acid. Come along if you like. The extra car will come in handy. Why not? It will be nice to get out of town. Unwind a bit. Find out what’s really goings on at Weybridge.

The Alex creature disappears which is nice. It’s my first time at Lennon’s house. In the sunroom, safe as milk, he says, ‘Don’t look so worried Simon.’
‘Do I? Sorry. I just don’t know. I suppose I was expecting something more….’
‘Glamorous?’
‘Something like that. Here you are at home doing the same things I do. Watching TV, drinking tea…’
‘Picking me nose. I’m just a bloody scouser you know.’
‘I’m not exactly landed gentry myself. Middle class small town Sussex. Long way from the Memphis.’
‘Make some brass and move South. That’s my advice lad.’
‘You do the accent very well.’
‘Thanks. It’s all part of the act. So Mr. Dunbar did you bring the stuff?’
They intend to drop some acid. I decide to pass. I have to drive back into town for one thing. I don’t want to spoil the fun for another. It’s standard acid etiquette. Mind games are to be avoided at all costs during acid trips. Especially this one. World peace could be at stake. Funny thing is I don’t feel like a hanger-on at all. That Morrissey article in Rolling Stone has given me some clout. I need a pee.

When I come back they’re raving.
‘Flashbacks is it? I can do those. Remember walking to school in the rain?’
‘Dead wet leaves.’
‘Fog. Woodbines behind the bike-sheds.’
‘Barbers selling photographs.’

Fog? Wet leaves? Bugger that. Time for a walk. I find Cynthia and another woman in the kitchen cutting up onions. A very domestic scene and quite a contrast to the other goings on. Cynthia says hello. ‘You aren’t indulging today Simon?’
‘Not today.’ I say. She knows very well what the Johns are up to in the sunroom. I’m never quite sure where I stand with Cynthia. She’s so bloody wholesome. And judgmental. It’s not hard to see his problem. I mutter a few pleasantries but no cup of tea is forthcoming so I wander outside onto the terrace.

Terry is in the garage rolling a joint. We stare at the famous Rolls together. Rebellious? Ostentatious? I can’t decide. I suppose I should feel privileged to be here. Thousands of people would. But I’m starting to wonder why I came. Lennon seems bored. Fed up with pop lyrics, verse, chorus, middle eight. The Rolls offers no great insight. It probably seemed like a groovy idea at the time. Terry doesn’t care one way or the other. Just another motor. So I wander around a bit more. It’s nice enough. Big mock Tudor house. Shrubs, flowerbeds. All very English. But I don’t feel a lot of energy here. More like inertia. I’ve shelved any ideas of an interview by this point and I’ve got no camera, which is probably just as well. Out on the verandah a small boy is trying to fix a bike.

This must be Julian. I offer to help. Turns out the saddle is loose and the gear cable needs some adjustment. Easily fixed. Otherwise nothing much was accomplished. Driving back to London, beneath Surrey’s blue suburban skies, I only partially listen to Dunbar solving the secrets of the universe.




Do you hear what I hear?

Global regeneration.

Don't just sit there, potentialize potential.



Vertigilize vertigo.

Lily Allen's tits etc.

I’m not sure if this has been photo-shopped or not but it looks like a fairly good example of what most guys look for in a mammary gland. The nipples are well rounded but not too pointy with just the right amount of surrounding areolae. The tits themselves appear plumpish but certainly not saggy (yuk), there are no disturbing blemishes and Lily’s expression is demure without being lascivious. This should have general appeal and help sell a few copies. All in all a very tasteful production. Well done Lily and the team!



In a slightly more cynical vein we have this...



gosuroris? I knew that.

The horrible ordeal of Jonathan Charles.

Modern world.

Blood on the tracks.

Goodbye Joan...



Goodbye Sara...



Hello Isis.

A complete unknown.

So I’m Samantha. The Eternal Female as Chuck likes to say in his supercilious patronizing way. Hard to know if it’s meant as a compliment or not. Isis, Ishtar, Artemis all rolled into one. Knowing Chuck it could be a reference to my bum. Think Venus of Willendorf. But he’s the author so he always gets the last word. Perhaps he wants me to come across as some kind of muse? As if being married to Dick and Simon simultaneously had some deep symbolic significance. I suppose I’m lucky I didn’t have to put up with Arthur too. The bumbling idiot. Last heard of in Thailand. Don't ask me what he gets up to there.

It all started in the early Sixties. I was at art school. I suppose I did have something of an identity problem at the time. Couldn’t decide if I was Jewish from Golder’s Green or a debby type with snotty parents in the country. Woww solved the problem by making me both. Bastard. I was going to be an artist that was the plan but I got sidetracked like so many into the rapidly evolving pop music scene.

I smoked my first joint in Simon’s pad in Ladbroke Grove. He was just back from India and getting into rock writing so we were a good fit. He was an ambitious bastard but clueless when it came to clothes. I took him to the in shops. It didn’t take much to turn him into a hip young dude around town.

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

Simon had a Mini-Cooper. We’d drive out to Rediffusion to be part of the crowd at Ready Steady Go. The girls were so much more in touch than the blokes in those days. Girls wore Mary Quant stuff and beehive hairdos whereas the boys were still wearing sports jackets…with ties! It was great mixing with the musicians and singers off stage. I met everybody. The Beatles, The Stones, The Who, The Kinks you could find them all there. I’m not sure even now if anybody really knew how big the whole thing was going to get. Maybe Andrew Oldham had some idea but he burned out early.

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

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

Then things got crazy. Everything was happening at the speed of Dylan. Hard Rain on Mr. Tambourine Man like a Rolling Stone. UFO was when things really took off. Suddenly there were lots of Americans in London. What’s your sign man? Want to throw some I-Ching? And lots of acid. Psychedelic was the new in word. The BBC didn’t know what to do about it. It was quite funny watching groups stoned out of their heads turn a TV studio to bedlam.

Later it was clubs like Ad Lib, Speakeasy and the Bag of Nails. Which is where I met Dick Headley. Dick was another diamond in the rough when I met him. He’d just been fired from Arsenal for drugs and it was in all the papers. I took him under my wing and built his self confidence needed some work. He was so different from Simon. Simon’s studied naturalness was easy to fall for but he was a devious bastard underneath it all. Very ambitious…and long-sighted. I can see that now. I knew he wasn’t happy with the kind of writing he was doing. Things like record reviews for the NME. A publicist is what he was, albeit a darn good one. He was selling out and he knew it. But he did enjoy being at the epicenter of what was going on. Deep down he aspired to be like Burroughs and Beckett. Of course it was much more complicated than that but this is the potted version.

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

Simon never needed anybody’s help in any way. He loved himself too much. So Dick was a breath of fresh air. I ‘d never met anybody quite like Dick. He was a super-intelligent lout (thank you Sam), his Dad was in and out of prison so he’d more or less been brought up by his mum who was on the game (true). I don’t think he’d ever read a book in his life. I introduced him to the counter culture and it was fascinating to watch him at gallery opening and receptions. I loved the way he was completely unimpressed by ‘all that poncey stuff’. You always knew where you were with Dick.

When I got pregnant the first time everything changed. I’d helped Anita through her miscarriage the year before and it had made me think. A lifestyle change was called for. That meant cutting out the drugs and getting out of London.

Which I more or less did. The odd toke didn’t count. Giles was born in a nursing home in Bournemouth. Simon and Dick were surprisingly good about it. But it was an idiotic arrangement. Having two common-law husbands could never work. I decided I wasn’t going to be a co-dependent before I’d ever heard the term. So I got a good lawyer. When everything was settled I found myself with two kids, two houses, two lots of child support and no husband. Which suited me fine. I stayed friends with both of them but I liked my freedom. Though I must admit Dick can be a great comfort.



Not that Dick. Thanks to the ristocrats.

Rock and roll moments

In which Legs Larry Smith discusses Keith Moon's excesses...



Steve Jones keeps the rhythm going while Michael Des Barres works the crowd (look for stray cats)

Pamela promotes her book...



America's answer to the Beatles fly in....



Patti Smith smashes the establishment...



and Annie Liebovitz had no idea what she was getting into.

Hi, remember me?

More talent from the Ukraine or thereabouts.