SF. Pt. 16. Mewsing.

Showed my face in the Speakeasy. Quite a cross section of alternative society was there assembled among the neo-Prohibition decor. Donald Cammell showed up with his entourage putting on a performance. No Marianne but little Michele Breton was there. Wouldn’t mind banging her arse. Jean and Talitha Getty were sitting with Michael Caine and some classy tarts. I must try to get to know him better.

And there skulking in a corner looking very anti were Mick Farren and his bunch. The gunslingers. They turned out to be morose but affable. I stayed for a while catching up on the gossip…had a few drinks and a puff or two and took a cab home. Who should I find in my bed this morning but Madeleine D’Arcy. Things haven’t been going well for her lately she says. Tony’s being a prick. She stayed with Keith and Anita for a few days but everybody tried to fuck her. Fancy that. Did I think sex was overdone? She asked. Well I had to think about that. I had a nipple in my mouth and one hand doing advanced research. My dick felt like a fence post and another hand, too delicate to be one of mine, was fondling my balls. I decided to deal with the question later and just plunged in.

So she’ll be staying here a day or two. Perhaps longer who knows. Sam thinks I’m in Paris. And after she had her little fling with Keith Moon I don’t feel so bad.

The more I think about Dad’s idea the more I like it. Getting a flat for myself makes sense. Funnily enough I was grooving around Chelsea the other day and I happened to wander into a mews. One of the houses was for sale. The sort of thing John Steed might live in. It looked a bit neglected I thought, paint missing and the faded For Sale sign on the garage door. Leasehold actually on closer inspection. Whatever that means. Dad will know. They’re asking £4000. Hope he can afford it.

Makes me think does that. Property was the place to be in those days no doubt about it. I had some mates who were building bungalows out Essex way, nothing fancy, and flogging the bloody things for £2,000 each! Mind you I don’t think they spent 500 quid building them all. So I gave them a thousand up front and the rest in 3 months. Only took me 2 weeks to sell them all for £5,000 each. Not bad. Probably going for £200 thousand today. Anyway back to Simon.

I wish you’d stop doing that Dick. I’ve lost my train of thought. Where was I?

Don’t mind me. I'm just trying to lay some ghosts. Which is a strange expression when you think about it. You were talking about the mews house.

Right. I got the estate agent to show me round and I’m quite excited about it. Nice little living room cum bedroom that needs opening up a bit. Get more light in. And two small attic rooms that would make one nice bedroom. Skylight maybe? We’ll see. The bathroom and kitchen need modernizing. I can do something with the garage too. It just takes time and money. I can do a lot of the work myself. Should be fun.

The meeting with Wenner went well. He’s sending a contract. Apparently we have contracts now in the alternative press. We agreed on at least two major, not to mention highly lucrative, interviews and I should be able to rattle off a few paragraphs about Jim Morrison to get the ball rolling. Hard to understand all the fuss about the bloke really. The music’s nothing special. But he does look a bit like Michelangelo’s David in those leather pants, he’s well read and he certainly knows how to hold a microphone.

Rock writing all seems like such crap sometimes. What I really want to do is write like Beckett. Write the stuff Joyce missed. Or Burroughs…crazy stuff that pushes the boundaries of literature. Bugger linear narrative. Good old Bill. It’s all about language. Language is what they use to control us he says. But language can be a weapon we can use against them. Whoever ‘they’ are. Bankers and faceless international corporations I suppose…that chap down at Lloyd’s who thinks I’ll be OK for a mortgage didn’t seem so bad.

Poor old Bill. He’s got that paranoid American thing. Loves guns. But he’s funny with it. He’s crippled inside too and he knows it. A total outsider. He’ll never be a winner in the American sense. He doesn’t look right for starters. But he can write...

‘An intricate bureaucracy wired to the control brains directs all movement — Even so there is a devious underground operating through telepathic misdirection and camouflage — The partisans make recordings ahead in time and leave the recordings to be picked up by control stations while they are free for a few seconds to organize underground activities — Largely the underground is made up of adventurers who intend to outthink and displace the present heads — There has been one revolution in the history of Minraud — Purges are constant...’

Maybe one day I’ll get round to writing an Anglican version. Right now money comes first.

Ever see a hotshot kid?

No but I wouldn’t mind a nice cup of tea.

Careful son those pills are for horses.