Time to write Something. Something.

Kevin comes back Pt. 3.



Well here I am again. Pissed as a newt. How is the storyline idea going Dick? you ask. Well it's not going is the short answer. But I persist. I know there's a novel in there somewhere. I'm rotten drunk too and in the mood for a literary ramble. The part I don't like is having to recap all the time so I'm thinking it might be best to just skip the preamble (me and Oscar tied up by Kevin and his mates) and get straight to the action.

It's all about castration fears basically. I have this ideal situation as you know, wealth, a lovely home in the Caribbean, a wonderful sensitive friend, Oscar, a nice yacht crewed by compliant Thai girls and yet, and yet, I can't shake the feeling that, just offstage, something horrible is lurking, something beyond my control that threatens to turn everything upside down. This Thing, call it Angst, call it Le Gouffre, call it Primordial Fear, call it Wall's Ice Cream, call it rancid Vegemite if you like, it has taken the physical form of a group of villains who for no good reason, that I can fathom, have decided to pursue me across the Greater Antilles, to what end I know not.

So, I am being perfectly frank here, rather than confront The Dread head-on, I choose to divert myself with interesting news snippets and imaginary e-mails. Simply put, I blog.

Nevertheless, blog as I might, I am unable to shake off my nemeses (check spelling later) all of which makes for a tense situation. They won't leave me alone. Kevin tries to make me feel guilty about everything, Blackjack looks like every grinning oaf it has ever been my misfortune to find at the next urinal and there is something very ominous about the way Lambert keeps waving those scissors around my genital region. Now he’s put the scissors down and picked up a couple of bricks. There's drama in all this, I'm sure, perhaps even romance, but how to convey it to an audience of millions? How will it earn me a Blooker Prize?

Ah, I hear you say, but you’re tough Dick, self-contained, impervious to normal human frailties. True. But even I have a few dodgy moments. In fact, and I’m not sure I should mention this, in one of my recurring nightmares I’m in a steam bath somewhere. It looks like the Tower Hotel, Manila as it was in its heyday, hot and cold running rats, and I’m having my balls shaved by katois with cutthroat razors.

OK that’s off my chest. Now I have a question for Kevin.

“Can I ask something?” I say.
“I suppose so.” Says Kevin.
“What are you going to do with the money?”
Blackjack starts to say something but Kevin says, “We are going to open a hostel for reformed bar-girls in Pattaya,”
“Aaaaarggumgooo,’ says Oscar
I’m looking across at Oscar. They’ve strapped a pingpong ball in his gob. Looks a right tit. I suppose I don’t look much better Anybody wandering in would think we were making a bukkake video. Did I make that quip already?
“You’re quiet Oscar.” I say. Anything to relieve the tension.
“Mmmmaaarhmmgaroo.” Mumbles Oscar.

A hostel for what reformed bar-girls in Pattaya? Here hang on. That’s my idea. Who are these cunts? Lambert we all know. He’s an unemployed Anglo/Jamaican performance artist and Kevin’s supposed to be teaching English in Bangkok but who the fuck is Blackjack? He looks like the bloke who stole half a ton of coke from one of Oscar’s warehouses but he never says much. Tell the truth I’m starting to think he’s not very bright. He’s like those tough looking blokes who stand around in the background in the gangster flicks. Always waiting to be told what to do. Then he says…
“Yes, that’s right. What we have in mind is a fully equipped hostel catering to reformed bar-girls under thirty years of age on condition they renounce all ties with falang, Thai boyfriends and stay off the ya-ba. There will be a gourmet canteen, a TV in each room, a fresh pair of designer panties twice a day and a state of the art gym.”

“...and that’s another thing Headley,” Kevin is still rabbiting on,”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? Don't snigger.”
“Fuck off,” I say,” It was Lambert who told me about the tent for fucks sake.”
“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 at the time. 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 Kevin,” that is so typical. Hide behind the old ‘it’s just my opinion’ argument. Anyone can say that. Sophistry that’s what that is. Admit it Headley, you are culturally insensitive."
“Bollocks. Untie me and I’ll show you how culturally sensitive I am. I’ll shove your head up Blackjack's arse so fast you’ll think dot dot dot”
“Dear oh dear. Threats of violence. Is that the best you can do Dicky. You’re in no position to threaten anybody.”
"Listen Kevin." I blurt, "Don’t come the sociologist with me son...”
“Don’t call me son! That’s patronizing.”

“And another thing,” says Blackjack, “watch what you say about Tracey Emin. I’m an admirer of her work. A huge fan in fact. She’s gutsy and cutting-edge and she reminds me of my mum.”
“Well it looks to me like she’s running out of ideas." I remark,"last thing I saw was some piece of needlework she did for the UKTV canteen. If that’s ...”
“Not needlework you cunt!” says Blackjack, “Embroidery OK?”
“OK embroidery then. But what’s going on? Where’s the old iconoclast? Does this mean she’s mellowed? No more holding Lambert upside down in a bucket of piss? Or walking down Oxford Street disguised as a giant tampon?”