Sticky Fingers, Pt 3 Apparition.

Out on the street they both agree that was nice, let’s keep in touch, yes let’s, and similar time-tested Anglo-Saxon parting phrases. Arthur watches Simon hail a cab and decides to walk back to Victoria. The narrator thinks this might be a good time to have him beaten up by teenage girls but he’s had a long day so we’ll go easy on him.

He makes it safely back to his unexciting hotel room conveniently situated behind Victoria Station with its ‘large and comfortable centrally heated rooms that are stylishly decorated with contemporary furnishings accented with tasteful artwork and soft colour tones ideally suited to suicidal thoughts. All the new rooms have en-suite facilities and feature Electronic Key cards, Direct Dial Telephone, Hospitality Tray, Hairdryer, and colour TV with remote control. Comfortable bedding and double glazed windows set the stage for a wonderful nights (sic) sleep. Newly refurbished bathrooms include individually thermostatically controlled heated towel-racks and bidet, Rooms from 100 pounds per person per night.’ It has a portrait of the Queen Mother above the reception desk and one of her eldest daughter on the staircase.

Arthur washes his feet in the bidet and switches on the TV. First the news to see who’s bombing who then a quick flip through the other channels. Bunch of boring people insulting each other in a house. That would be reality show I expect thinks Arthur. Girls shaking their tits at each other. Ditto. What is he hoping to find? David Frost? Parkinson? The Goon Show? No such luck.

But what’s this? Simon! Hosting some panel discussion it looks like, with a lot of people Arthur doesn’t know. They are talking about censorship, the greatest literary dilemma of our age according to one of the assembled pundits.
“Well,” says Simon, “I wouldn’t go quite that far. But it’s a problem. On the one hand we want total free expression but it means we have to put up with Penthouse and the other stuff.”
“Oh,” says someone a bit too archly, “you don’t approve of Penthouse, Simon?”
But they can’t catch him. Simon, sensing a political correctness trap, says, “Well let’s just say it doesn’t do much for me.”

Arthur’s mind wanders back to the conversation in the restaurant. It had not been just like old times. Not at all. If was more as if they had both wanted to recapture some of those moments from places like Aldermaston, Eel Pie island, Paris, Athens, Kabul...but neither of them had been prepared to fake it. They had both gone too far along their separate ways. And now this, stuck in an overpriced generic hotel room, watching Simon on TV.

“Well I don’t give a flying fuck!” says a woman on the panel wearing love-beads. She looks like an older version of some groovy chick Arthur had once danced with somewhere. UFO? The Stones free concert in Hyde Park? Isle of Wight?
“Ah Caroline showing your sixties side again,” says Simon provocatively, “dates you a bit darling doesn’t it? You’ve been very quiet lately by the way. Not doing any TV?”
“It’s the silence of Duchamp.”
“Bollocks.” Says Simon. “What about you Martin? Anything in the pipeline we should know about?”

“Memoirsh,” says the one called Martin. He seems to have a stiff jaw,” and dentisht.”

And so on. Simon is clearly in his element. It’s a performance he’s obviously given more than once before. Amazing really the way he seems to give all the panelists a few moments in the sun whilst remaining the center of attention himself. And he does it in such a good-natured way. There is no hint of any inner turmoil. Simon is a pro. His show is very watchable. The audience love him. Millions of viewers love him. Even the cameramen and the studio technicians love him! Don’t they know what a tit he is? Good old Simon. ‘The Beeb puts a bit of work my way’ indeed.

Bloody TV, thinks Arthur. It will rot your brain. The funeral had been the main reason for coming back to England. Well that was out of the way. So now what? He’d had a few ideas for things to do. A trip to Littlehampton perhaps to see if he can relive some bucket-and-spade memories, maybe visit his old school. Depressing things like that.

Arthur’s eyes start to close. Just before he falls asleep he thinks he sees a figure moving around the room followed by noises from the bathroom. Can’t be a chambermaid can it? No it’s his mother’s ghost again. Come to do a bit of tidying up. Soon she’ll be tucking him in.
“Well Arthur," says the apparition, "you must admit that Mr. Wyman was very nice,”
“What?”
“Fancy him paying the bill like that. What a nice man.”

Typical thinks Arthur. Forty years ago she was calling the Stones a bunch of long-haired savages. Now they’ve got classy restaurants and knighthoods she thinks they’re alright. This is the woman who wouldn’t let her son learn guitar! Who used to cram him into a Sea Cadets uniform! Is there no escape? Face it Arthur, you’re still as confused as you ever were. Yeah well, maybe he can change his return ticket. Fly back to Thailand early. With any luck the bloody plane will crash. He falls asleep under the wistful gaze of Princess Di.