Adventures in the Space Year 2006

Today’s filming for Discovery was a bit of a culture shock for someone used to doing soundbites for the BBC news. Yet despite the luxury of a full three-man crew, some things do not change when it comes to being interviewed on camera. The chaotic battle against failing light and the background noise of London, the threat of rain and mad last minute scramble for a suitable location were all reassuringly familiar.

The first element of traditional filming disarray came when we were moved on by threats from the police for attempting to film me against the background of Blackfriars Bridge. This was a bit of bugger given that one of the things they were interviewing me about was the Roberto Calvi case.

In desperation, the producer then decided to shoot me Ramones-style against a Victorian brick wall in a cobbled alley off of Cornwall Road. It felt odd doing this on my old South London turf. I never guessed when I explored this street as a child that one day I would be holding forth for the camera about Freemasonry round the back of St. John’s, (coincidentally one of the four ‘Waterloo churches’ in the vicinity built as a result of a meeting in the Freemasons’ Hall on 6th February, 1818).

The whole area around the South Bank was a playground for my 10-year-old imagination given its brutalist concrete had been used as location for the future in Doctor Who. However, I always thought if I had adventures in the space year 2006, they would revolve around fighting alien monsters or fascistic government stormtroopers, not answering questions on how the A.A. and Scientology were the ‘bastard children and grandchildren of Masonry’.

Whilst the assistant cameraman tidied up the backdrop for the camera – coke bottles, syringes and weeds were removed – I bonded with the cameraman and sound technician over Yugoslav war stories and bitching about how management practices were ruining BBC newsgathering. Possibly too close a bond was formed, as I was soon being asked questions about the length and bushiness of my chest hair. It was a first for me to have the radio microphone attached to my rug instead of my tie. The intimate nature of the operation was further brought home towards the end of filming when the mike’s battery pack was getting a touch too hot for something stuffed down the front of my jeans.

You know your day is going to be somewhat surreal when within 10 minutes of having left your house you see two women dressed as Supergirl walking along the street. Therefore I should not have been surprised filming was interrupted in an allegedly quiet alley was by first the presence of a strolling Alexi Sayle and then a gawping David Sullivan. In between the usual pauses and retakes caused by sirens, schoolchildren and belligerent Lambeth Park Rangers, I talked about paranoia caused by secrecy and I talked about P2 being Masonry’s worst nightmare.

Between gulps of water, I talked for more than an hour – which of course will probably be edited down to about to two 15-second clips for the final programme. Despite the fact I was only meant to be media whoring between 3-4pm, the shoot did not wrap up till 5:30 when the producer declared herself happy, suggested a meeting to talk about turning Secrets & Lies into a documentary series and I signed the release form. Of course after filming I felt fat, ugly and stupid, but that is just a common side effect of having anything to do with the whole business of television.

The thoroughly predictable filming overrun meant my plans for the evening were derailed. Unless you are Bart Allen or Wally West, there is no way of getting from SE1 to EC8 in 30 minutes during rush hour. This meant getting to see Iain Sinclair in Hackney at 6pm was a non-starter.

As consolation for this bitter loss, Surreal Girl took me to dinner at Carluccio’s Caffé on St. Christopher’s Place. How I have lived without tasting its rosemary bread and penne alla luganica before I just do not know. Hearty Italian food, a robust Sicilian red and the best smiling company in London were the perfect prescription for easing the bruise of not meeting one my literary gods.

Media Whoring for the Discovery Channel

Given the number of hours broadcasting I have done as an interviewee on everything from BBC television news bulletins to strange European documentaries, you would be forgiven for thinking there is nothing on any filming call sheet* that could surprise me.

However, I have never been emailed a call sheet including a prop request for: ‘Blood, knife, police uniforms/shoes, Masonic apron, white chalk, cloth to wipe away chalk.’

The reason for the bizarre and diverse list is that the production company, who want to interview me tomorrow afternoon, are spending the morning re-enacting the Goulston Street graffito from Jack the Ripper mythology.

Rest assured I am not venturing into From Hell territory. Instead my media whoring for the Discovery Channel is about Freemasonry as a secret society, how the Italian Mafia can be seen as akin to A.A., the P2 conspiracy and Roberto Calvi.

In a typical psychogeography synchronicity, within seconds of getting the call sheet, Surreal Girl contacted me with an opportunity to head into the dark heart of Papa William’s territory to meet one of my literary heroes – Iain Sinclair. The first book of his I encountered was White Chappell, Scarlet Tracings, a masterful juxtaposition of William Gull’s possible role in the Jack the Ripper murders and the quest for a priceless copy of Doyle’s A Study In Scarlet.

I am ambivalent about being interviewed tomorrow. Given the fair degree of pain at the moment, my on camera performance is a fret. This anxiety is not helped by concern over the wisdom of once again putting my ugly mug on tape. Today, every time a worry about my visibility raises a murmur, the stubborn voice that refuses to cowed by the possible ramifications of upset gangsters shouts it down. There is no guarantee this will be the case tomorrow.

* A call sheet is the list sent out to all parties detailing what will be needed for any days filming including crew, equipment, props and participants alongside details of locations and timings for shooting.

Rebusted

It looks like I have rebusted one of the four ribs I cracked back in May.

There is only one word that covers this situation – bugger.

Iron Buddha Tea

I think some of my old superhero* powers are returning. I am having increasing bursts of accelerated thinking where I can hold up to 17 vectors relating to a situation in my mind at once and examine each of them without letting any of the others drop. This does not mean I can play chess at a decent level, but does seem to enhance the experience of reading Iain Sinclair’s poetry and my accuracy factor when calculating how late any given bus is likely to be.

My dreams are also beginning to seem weirder because I am now remembering them with an increased clarity. Last night’s was a doozy. I was a middle aged father of two called Brian who was coaxed by Lovecraftian demons into turning his living room into a portal to a higher-dimensional void. As I tumbled through the apparent nothingess that was entered through the MDF door to his lounge, the VALIS/MANDI voice broke through in a style akin to sleep adverts of Futurama and passed on the message: “You need to drink Iron Buddha tea.” I am not even going to attempt to analyse what my subconscious was trying to tell me on this occasion.


*I am aware the phrase superhero has been trademarked by DC and Marvel, but I figure with the fortune I have spent on their books throughout the years they owe me a free pass.

Is Anyone Who Reads This Blog Fluent in Korean?

Anyone who knows me will attest to how ridiculously stubborn I am when it comes to requesting assistance. Given this, you can imagine I am loathe beyond belief to use English Dreaming, English Rain as a cry for help. However, I have an odd request to make of someone and this probably a good as forum as any other available to me.

Is anyone who reads this blog fluent in Korean? If so, could you contact me? I would like to discuss with you the possibility of you doing me a wee favour.

To see a Norwegian Rock God Sing in Leicester Square

I do not make a habit of spending Friday nights in seedy West End nightclubs watching faecal support bands and groups of leering, drunken Turks trying to gyrate to OutKast’s Hey Ya. These are not usually my things. However, I had agreed to see a Norwegian Rock God sing in Leicester Square and my word is my bond.

I also do not like being in Piccadilly Circus late at night. The place is saturated with an unpleasant psychic static that weakens my defences and allows far too many bad memories to crawl up the spine. Navigating the booze-soaked Friday night crowds is akin to crossing one of the outer circles of Hell.

The blow of traipsing over to the underground hole of Storm – a venue that has undergone several changes of name, but no improvement in quality since I was last there in my ligging days – was softened by an earlier meal at Ragam. With dosai to die for, despite its dodgy outward appearance, I am growing to really love Ragam’s fairly cheap but always cheering Southern Indian food.

However, once inside the squalid, sticky-floored venue my spirits dipped a little. The support band to the Norwegian Rock God were so bad I actually felt obliged to boo them, despite Surreal Girl letting me know this was not considered polite behaviour. In my defence, I can relate aside from the violinist and obligatory indie girl bass player, the rest of the band were not only generic, naff clichés, but so vastly derivative, lacking in originality and talent-free they were the worst band I have seen in decade.

With warm-up like that, the Norwegian Rock God was always going to look good by comparison, but I was shocked – he was bloody little star! This was the first time I had seen him live. Previously I had only caught snippets of his songs when he was working them out on an acoustic guitar whilst sprawled on my favourite sofa or heard them drifting through the bedroom wall whilst being tinkered with on his home studio.

Suddenly, what had sounded to me at home like nice little fey slabs of Scandinavian pop, were being belted out by a five guys who looked and sounded like an Aryan version of Franz Ferdinand. The band’s glam pop stomp had their young girl following dancing (which seemed to please the leering Turks) whilst the scruffy good looks and wishful cheekbones of the Norwegian Rock God seemed to causing a fair amount of excitement. The songs were good – though they all needed about two minutes of typical musician masturbation cut – the band could play and the Norwegian Rock God not only rocked, he charmed the pants off me. The pools of water in the bathroom almost seemed worth it whilst he was on stage.

After his band had finished, we quickly headed back up into the warm night and dense hordes of hormonally charged and increasingly inebriated revellers. However, having seen a Norwegian Rock God sing in Leicester Square, purchased two scoops Ben & Jerry’s ice cream to enjoy on the journey home and with the warm buzz of the best smiling company in London, even the epic fight through the throng to the tube seemed somehow wonderful.

‘I Like To Watch’

Part of Saturday night was spent curled up on the sofa watching The Life and Death of Peter Sellers. It is the first time I have managed to catch the film. Deserving of awards, it almost manages to suggest just how mammoth the Roger Lewis book it is taken from actually is. Stephen Hopkins direction manages to make it look beautiful throughout and Geoffrey Rush is outstanding as Sellers. After watching it I thought: ‘Sod Man On The Moon, this is the bloody bar for any comedian bio-pic.’

Of course, the film does not even begin to explain the enigma of Sellers – how such a cruel and selfish brute could blaze with such brilliance. Nor does it even begin to hint at the mind-boggling nature of his life. To try and give even the mildest suggestion of Seller’s strangeness, I have decided to dust off an old entry from my Secrets & Lies book and post it on this blog.

Directly after The Life and Death of Peter Sellers, BBC2 ran Being There, which has led to Mr. Grasso and I sharing thoughts on Chance the Gardener and our prospects of ever writing The True History of the Water Rats novel during our usual email tennis.

Aside from Being There being a classic movie, it has an emotional and creative resonance for me. My Aunt Barbara, the only member of my family who ever believed I would write books, was a huge Peter Sellers fan. When I stayed with her and my Uncle David as a child, she would always make me laugh over cornflakes with her Bluebottle impressions. She was thwarted in her first attempt to take me to see Being There in 1980 due to its ‘I like to watch’ sexual elements getting it an AA certificate. As a wonderfully subversive influence, she could not see what all the fuss was about and persisted in trying to expose me to Sellers’ genius, finally finding a cinema that did not care too much about the niceties of age restriction.

I am not sure how much of the film I understood at the age of nine, but I know it left me with the burning impression that a secret group of men in suits fixed who would be President of the United States and a fool could turn out to be the most important person around. Twenty-five years later, I cannot help but see how those two ideas have had some influence on my published work.

Occultism, Cocaine Use and Sex Sessions With a Member of the British Royal Family

The below is an unedited draft of an entry that was eventually published in Secrets & Lies. As always, any comments or feedback is most welcome.

PETER SELLERS BELIEVED HE COULD TALK TO THE DEAD AND WAS ONE OF PRINCESS MARGARET'S LOVERS

If you want a prime example of celebrities living vast, bizarre and secret lives that the press do not report on until they are dead, there is none better than the life of Peter Sellers. Not a word on his interest in occultism, cocaine use and sex sessions with a member of the British royal family went reported whilst he was alive despite all of these activities being well known to Fleet Street reporters.

Hints may have been dropped about his superstitious nature, his mood swings and close friendship with Her Royal Highness Princess Margaret, but nothing was written about what was really going on behind the celebrity mask.

After a serious falling out of favour in Hollywood in 1964, Seller’s ‘died’ of a heart attack. His heart stopped beating and he was rushed to hospital where his heart stopped beating a further seven times. It became apparent after his recovery that Sellers was a changed man. His knowledge of the occult and magical elements of Freemasonry, previously one of his many interests, became a key focus of his life. He constructed an altar to his dead mother whom he believed he was in communication with and regularly conducted occult rites. Sellers also believed that he was in contact with the spirit of his dead dog and performed magic rituals on the cliffs at Hastings.

Seeing less of old friends such as ex-Goons colleagues Spike Milligan and Harry Secombe, his adoption of a much more mystical view of life coincided with becoming an almost Austin Powers style figure renowned for a succession of affairs with beautiful women, owning bizarre gadgets and maintaining a fleet of more than 50 sports cars.

After separating from his second wife Britt Ekland in 1968, he became the lover of Princess Margaret and even entertained the idea that they could marry. Despite boasting of marathon, cocaine-fuelled sex sessions with HRH and hinting that they were also joined by one of Margaret’s lesbian lovers, Sellers made the fatal mistake of introducing the Princess to Warren Beatty. It was an introduction that led directly to Margaret’s affair with Beatty and Sellers being ousted from her royal bed.

'Potere occulto'

Despite the fact I now feel somewhat ambivalent about the forthcoming publication of Global Gangland in a mere fortnight, I am keeping my promise and posting more fragments of the book in this blog.

I still have no idea what Tim would call ‘the money shots’ of Global Gangland are. The extract below comes from the introduction to the chapter on the Italian Mafia – one part of the book that does not endanger me despite my publisher’s cock-up.

Any comments or feedback on the following are welcome, just keep in mind that what you are reading bellow is from the draft manuscript prior to any editing.


THE ITALIAN MAFIA

'Tutto è Mafia in Italia' (Everything in Italy is Mafia) – Traditional Italian saying

No organized crime group has more of a mystique than the Italian Mafia. Yet the Italian Mafia does not, in any concrete way, exist. At one level it is just a shorthand phrase to describe the wide range of very real Italian organized crime groups, ranging from the actual Sicilian Mafia to the ’Ndrangheta from Calabria and the less often mentioned Mala del Brenta of Venice.

The phrase Mafia in Italy has become not only become a synonym for all organized crime groups in the country, but also to describe the web of collusion and corruption associated with them that reaches from the lowest to highest levels of Italian society. In many senses, Mafia has become a brand name associated with everything of the underworld – violence, power, money, conspiracy, secrecy and blood. However, the Mafia 'brand' also carries connotations of tradition, family, masculinity and, above all, honour.

Much of the aura that surrounds the Mafia in Italy stems from the fact that, although it is has now become a nationwide criminal network, it is composed of organized crime gangs that have their roots in and still often function as age-old secret societies. This taps into the deep-rooted Italian belief in 'potere occulto' (hidden power) – the idea that there is a clandestine group guiding the hand of those in visible authority.

The mythology of the Mafia has become so entrenched in Italian culture that it is almost part of the national heritage. Alongside the Mafia’s money and acts of violence, the folklore itself is a powerful tool for inspiring fear and promoting silence. You can tell that organized crime has achieved true power in Italy when the mere use of the word 'Mafia' can bring a finger to the lips of those you are talking with.

Lemon Detergent is not a Flavour

Current police advice regarding my situation is to keep a low profile, refrain from speaking to any of my crime-related contacts and stay out of London.

When I jokingly suggested going to live on the Isle of Skye, I was told that was not such a bad idea.

Despite what certain detectives might think, hiding out on Skye would not be a good move for me. Whilst the island posses a harsh, rigorous beauty and is not exactly a high activity zone for the 15 Clans of the Albanian Mafiya, I am not exactly going to thrive on the Trotternish Peninsula.

Even when going to ground, a man should try to maintain some standards. Portree – the island’s biggest town and best attempt at something approaching modern civilisation – is one of the worst places for food I have ever come across. I cannot hole up somewhere that has yet to discover lemon detergent is not a flavour and potatoes are not the only vegetable.

Lost Entries

Surreal girl has ordered me to update the blog. I would have done so anyway - despite feeling pretty grim in some regards. My publisher might have endangered my life; I might be heading back to the world of cameras invading my anal passage, but I am not planning on giving up the blog.

In fact, I might even get around to posting some of the lost entries of English Dreaming, English Rain. Previously written tales of the bughouse nature of Nouvelle Vague, of travels on the Harry Potter train and being buzzed by stealth fighters may all actually see the light of day over the next couple of weeks. If nothing else, I promise by the end of the week I will have shared some details of a weekend that included witnessing a practical joke played on a CIA agent and the status of a Norwegian Rock God justified on stage.

It Never Rains but it Pours

Why do some tired old maxims persist from generation, trotted out like verbal ticks? Maybe it is because those such as: ‘It never rains but it pours’ contain a huge degree of truth.

Now not only has my publisher seriously endangered my life, I am passing blood again. This means I have to get back on the hospital merry-go-round of tests and consultants.

Today is not a good day to be me.

Incandescent With Rage

I am incandescent with rage. Burning, burning. Aflame with the type of oxygen destroying anger I though I was not capable of these days. My publisher has done something underhand and unprofessional that threatens my safety. I am not throwing a drama queen strop when I say they have possibly endangered my life.

I better not write anymore today. The fury has too strong a grip on me. I need to clea my head. I have editors to tackle and potential horrors of violence to try and think of escape routes from.

Five Years Later

Five years later and I still remember the 14 hours directly post the flashbulb moment of 9/11 with total clarity. I recall everything. Every BBC News 24 image. Every word everyone around me said. Every vocal nuance. Every facial expression. I wish I did not. I wish the gaps in my memory had stolen that aftermath. There is no dulling of the horror. No dulling of the empathic pain.

Of course this year, the personal and political lies uttered in those hours have become entwined, hollow and bitter phrases that still echo in my mind. I wish I could forget everything that happened between that date and this year. I think that those whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make remember.

Eating Ice Creams at Midnight

It was a quiet weekend. The most adventurous movement was on Saturday night, crossing town to attend a party in a flat opposite one of the more obscure MI5 buildings in Vauxhall. I did not stay too long, despite the caviar and ostrich canapés, eclectic music and a French-African dancing like Cossack with such ferocity that the floor moved. We gently drifted home, eating ice creams at midnight and failing to find anywhere selling early copies of the Sunday papers. Tea was made, an hour of trashy TV was watched and the wooden hill was climbed sometime around 1am.

The remainder of the night I slept deep and long. I cannot remember the last time I enjoyed more than six hours of warm oblivion, free of nightmares and secure that the morning would be flooded with gentle, happy promise.

The next day was deliciously lazy. Most of the morning was spent reading in bed. Later, Surreal Girl and I turned up at Giraffe just before the blueberry and banana pancake stacks at came off the brunch menu at 4pm. After bookshop browsing and ingredient shopping for my experimental chocolate bread and butter pudding were completed, Tempranillo pulled our compass homeward.

Sometimes the most gorgeous weekends are not made up from audacious exploits. Delight is not always the thrill of the new or density of experience. Some of the best times come from revelling in an heightened awareness of all the easily overlooked gifts of life – whether they are the joys of a beautiful four cheese pasta bake or a sun-filled walk across graveyards and glass bridges.

Walt Disney and me

Today, via a publicity request to do a radio show in Australia, I learned a little more about my Australian publisher. Down Under, Secrets & Lies – a mildly subversive and controversial book to say the least – is put out by a company that also sells Wiggles-related product, X-Men toys and publishes Superman Returns tie-ins.

Whilst I am happy to be in such esteemed company, I am not sure that Disney – which enjoys a strong relationship with my publisher – would be so happy to read what I wrote about dear old Uncle Walt in S&L. Then again, we all know how the economics of desire can make strange bedfellows of the most unlikely couples. As Bill might have said: Walt Disney and me – who would have thunk it.

A Drops of Blood Day

One of the lines about writing that has the most resonance with me was made by Gene Fowler. He said: ‘Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.’

Right now, I am having a drops of blood day.

Sweating to Sweet Rocksteady

Last night, amidst the surreal strands of internal soap opera and usual nightmare material, I had a Lord C. dream.

During it, I felt ridden in the Haitian sense. It took place in a West End club. I am not sure of the exact location, but somewhere aspiring to be off Oxford Street rather than facing up to the fact it was in Soho. 1960s timeframe. On the dance floor, West Indians and working class whites sweating to sweet Rocksteady. Libations of dark rum, Jamaican Obeah oozing into the cracks of the city’s circuits. Bursts of electric spit and crackle as English Hoodoo results. The Loa of Bouncers watching the door. Cultural syncretism. The first seeds of skinhead culture.

The dream is still skulking. Images of a shebeen in Powis Square, the predatory Thelema of Stephen Ward and hustlers like Michael de Freitas making the scene by putting on Blues dances are refusing to be easily dismissed. History echoing loud in the chambers of my waking mind. All the old material burning more bright in the membranes today for reasons I cannot pull out of the shadows.