Sticky Fingers Pt.2. Reunion.

On the way to the gents Arthur takes in more Rolling Stones memorabilia. There are Stones everywhere, Stones in action, Stones in recording studios, Stones on airplanes, Stones hanging out with famous old blues men. There, in a glass case, is Bill Wyman’s actual bass guitar.

The toilet itself is immaculate. Arthur stands pissing against the tiles, slowly. Prostate playing up again. You can’t always get what you want…but if you try sometime…ah here it comes. In front at eye level are more pictures of the Stones…Jagger in full strut, a debauched looking Richards, fag in mouth, wringing out nasty riffs. So this was Wyman’s reward for standing like a tombstone in the shadows thumping out bass lines every night. Not bad.

Back from the toilet Arthur finds Simon talking to a familiar looking figure in dark slacks and a white silk shirt. He catches the words ‘spirituality’ and ‘bollocks’. Bloody hell...it is Bill Wyman himself. Bill has pulled up a spare chair and he's fiddling with a cell phone or a Blackberry whatever they call the bloody things.

“Bill,” says Simon, “This is a friend of mine. Arthur. We were at school together.”
“That’s nice, old boys reunion is it,” says Bill, “food OK?”
“Very nice thanks.” Says Arthur.
“Arthur lives in Thailand.” Says Simon.
“That’s nice,” says Bill, “we were there. Bangkok. Can’t say I remember much of it. What brings you to England Arthur. Must be strange for you?”
Arthur says something about his mother’s funeral. Bill is sorry to hear that.
“Enjoy your lunch gentlemen,” says Bill and wanders off.
“Nice fellow.” Says Arthur.
“Bill’s alright.” Says Simon. “His son’s having it off with his ex-wife’s mother you know.”

Arthur talks about Thailand. His life in the village. He tries to be honest but he can’t find the words. Never could. Simon for his part is wondering why he ever came to be friendly with Arthur in the first place. School of course. They were a bit different from most of the other boys in some way. Shared an interest in American Blues Music, very much a minority taste at the time. But why did I waste so much time on the bugger thinks Simon. How do we choose our friends? If we do make a conscious choice. He’s a loser. Nowhere Man. OK we were at school together but so what? We even hitchhiked to India together for God’s sake! What a waste of time that was. He’s just a drain. Look how he mooches around...silly bugger. No dress sense. He seems to think I have the key to some door he can’t get through. Perhaps I do but he’ll never get through it dressed like a tramp.

“And it suits you then does it? Living in Thailand. The climate and everything?” Simon asks.

Arthur wants to explain. But where to start? There's just too much of it. And bitter experience has taught him that trying to explain about Thailand to someone who hasn’t lived there is not a good idea. He can stick to the safe stuff of course, food, climate, but is there any point in telling Simon about the feeling of freedom, the absence of Western hang-ups, the laissez-faire way of living? Probably not. People have seen too many TV documentaries about Thai bar girls.

Arthur decides to go with his stock answers. He could have mumbled something about wanting to ‘isolate himself from civilization’ a la Gauguin...but even that isn’t the whole truth. Self-disgust would be closer but being candid has its limits. He tries to tell Simon why he moved to a remote Thai village. How he had hoped to lose himself, his Self, in such a place. He was tired of his own ego, fed up with sentences beginning with ‘I’, bored with desire…his own and other people’s.

“And did you?” Simon asks.
“Did I what?”
“Get your ego absorbed into the cosmos or whatever?”
“No, of course not. I’m still me.”

Pudding arrives. Hot Fudge & Pecan Nut Brownie smothered in Hot Chocolate Sauce, with Vanilla Ice Cream, £5, for Simon. Blueberry Cheesecake with fresh Blueberry Compote, £4.50, for Arthur.

“What about sex then.” Simon asks, “Are these…er…Thai girls all they’re cracked up to be?”
“In what way?”
“Well you know. Are they really as...er...submissive as we’ve been led to believe?”
“Well I wouldn’t say submissive exactly. But they’ll wash your socks.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. And clip your toenails.”
“Amazing. Hard to find that kind of service here these days.”
“You should come over,” says Arthur, “see for yourself.”
“I just might. And you could help me along could you? Show me the dos and don’ts?”
“Gladly. I could show you some shortcuts. If you’re going to have a mid-life crisis you might as well get it right.”
“But it’s a fantasy surely?” says Simon while Arthur chews quietly. “So you’re going back to Thailand.”
“Nothing for me here.”

Arthur thinks he’d better change the subject. Does Simon still live in that mews house in Chelsea? Oh yes,” says Simon, “I own it now. Bought it in ‘77. Good thing I did too. Never would be able to afford it now.”
“What’s it worth?”
“Right now? Not sure. Millions probably. If you can find the right Russian oligarch to buy it. Had a house in the Cotswolds too. When the kids were small.”
“Let me guess,” said Arthur, “nice little village school? No ****?” Arthur uses an old-fashioned term for people said to begin at Calais.
“Naughty, naughty Arthur. We don’t actually use that expression anymore. Let’s not even go there, as our American cousins would say. Oh…and we have a farmhouse in Dordogne. I say we. Samantha uses it more than I do.”
“So you did OK then.” Says Arthur, wondering what it must be like to have houses worth millions.
“Not complaining,” says Simon, “amazing really to think that it was all done with words on paper. And that it all started back in the Swinging Sixties. I certainly had no idea things would turn out this way.”
“Good for you.”
“London’s just not the same though,” Simon muses, “It would be nice to live out of town. But even there I keep thinking I’m going to look out one morning and find half the East European workforce camped out in the paddock barbecuing someone’s Shetland pony.”
“Could be Chinese (Arthur actually uses a ruder word). Those buggers will eat anything.”
“Please keep your voice down Arthur.” Says his mother’s ghost.
“Houellebecq does it.”
“He’s French,’ says Simon, “but you’re right of course. England has changed. And not all for the better.”
“I noticed,” says Arthur, “are you still into politics?”
“Were all middle class now. It’s a New Labour World. The Third Way.”
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t worry about it. Britain bumbles along. I’m starting to sound like you.”
“In what way?”
“Oh I don’t know...cynical.”
”Perhaps living in Thailand has made me a bit cynical.”
“You always were cynical Arthur.”
“Yes I suppose I was. These days I’m more like world-weary. I’ve become totally fatalistic I think. I don’t feel as though I’ve ever had much control over events.”
“Well none of us do really. Except in small ways. We make decisions in our lives…or we think we do…what to have for breakfast and so on but the big stuff is sort of pre-ordained I reckon.”
“God, didn’t we talk like this at school?”
“You’re right. Some things don’t change.”
“Do you still like pop music?” Arthur asks.
“Some of it why?”
“Sounds like rubbish to me.”
“It’s only rock and roll.” Says Simon. “Perhaps it wasn’t supposed to be around this long. Look at the rich old rockers. They’re up there with the gods to all intents and purposes, on top of the world. Now they’re just trying to coming to terms with the aging process. Another thing, I can’t believe the stuff the kids are listening to. It’s downright nasty. But I guess that’s the point. I’m not supposed to like it. Been there done that. Offend your parents. The funny thing is I know exactly what’s going on. And the kids know I know. It’s weird. Almost makes me believe in karma.”
“You’ve achieved a lot.” Says Arthur
“In what way?”
“Well in your writing.”
”Call it writing? It’s not bloody writing what I do. It’s crap. Nabokov, Burgess, Le Carre…that’s writing. What I do is rubbish. I’ve got a novel or two in me probably but I never got around to writing them.”
“But you keep busy.”
“Oh sure. Reviews and stuff. The odd editorial. There’s always newspaper and magazine articles. And the Beeb puts a bit of work my way. Which reminds me, we’d better be off.” Arthur reaches for the bill but Simon has already picked it up. “The Bill from the Bill,” he says.

As they walk towards the cashier Bill Wyman comes up to them again. “I’ll take that,” he says removing the bill from Simon’s hand. “Thanks for dropping by Simon. Come again.”
“I will,” says Simon, “and I’ll get you on the show one of these days too.”
“Anytime mate. If you’re sure it won’t hurt the ratings.” Says Bill.