SF. Pt.13f. Striptease.

It seems funny now that I never met Simon back in the sixties. For some reason our paths didn’t cross. I do feel like I know him quite well…I certainly know the type. I’d see the poncey buggers on King’s road all the time, getting in and out of mini-mokes, popping in and out of the trendy boutiques, walking around in the latest gear. I was more given to three-piece suits myself though I’ll admit I did let the hair grow a bit. Always tidy with it mind.

So what exactly were you up to in those days Dick I hear people ask? What were you doing in those halcyon days? Surely you haven’t always been a narrator?

Well I’m embarrassed to admit it but I have always gravitated towards the lower end of the social spectrum. The porn industry to be precise. I don’t know why this is. Perhaps it goes back to Uncle Sid and his dirty photos, or maybe meeting Oliver Reed at Butlins. Not sure. I’ve never had much time for all that Freudian shite myself. Toilet training, playing with your winkle…load of bollocks. All I know is I was attracted to female reproductive organs and the prurient display thereof. Uncle Sid had contacts in Soho and after I got nicked for Dexies he fixed me up with a job at a gentlemen’s club on Greek Street. I got on a treat with the girls and it soon became apparent that I had a talent for dealing with the punters. I pulled them in off the street, stuck them in their seats and pushed the buggers back out again if they got stroppy. Later on I was offered a job at Raymond’s Revue Bar…definitely a step up in the world that, evening dress, the Kray lads…right rascals they were. But you did get a nicer class of girl at Raymond’s. I got on intimate terms with quite a few of them. Christine Keeler for one. In fact I was bonking her the night Lucky cut Johnny face in de Roarin’ maan. Blood ever’where maan. Jealous bastards those Jamaicans. Stephen Ward, John Profumo. What a scandal. The Flying Squad was all over the West End. Put the kybosh on the nightlife for a while it did.

Harold Macmillan resigned on the grounds of ill health and we got that Alec Douglas-Home twerp. Harry the Pipe, Ted the Piano, Sunny Jim Callaghan, I saw them all come and go. Margaret Thatcher? I could write a book. Lovely lady. Saved me from a life of crime. Easy credit that was Maggie’s game. To think that I, Dick Headley, a rough uneducated lout could wander into Lloyd’s Bank and come out with enough money to buy a row of damp houses which I could fill with Bangladeshis. Roll up, everyone’s a winner. Wonderful years.

So do things just happen or does someone make it up? Is someone writing all this stuff? Or does it hover preformed in the ether? Good question. Buggered if I know what’s real and what’s a product of the mind half the time. It’s all information retrieval. Feel like fucking Pinocchio tell the truth. Or maybe I’m Geppetto. Or Stromboli. Hard to tell. What with the I, the id and the ego, things aren’t what they seem. Tell me how many books for the reality film. Layers of the same onion. Is it a progression or a series of transformations? From Arsenal hopeful to strip-club bouncer to landlord to literary layabout currently living the life of Riley in the Caribbean. Does this kind of life look interesting to you? Course I do miss England but it’s not the same now. Mickey Mouse pirate that’s me. Which reminds me, apparently Walt Disney had something of an anal fixation. He also maintained a small apartment above the firehouse on Main Street U.S.A. where he used to sit in his bathrobe and watch the crowds walk by. Moms and pops and the little ones, air-conditioned Goofy heads. The Magic Kingdom. Snow White and the Seven Pervs. From the Tiki Room to Space Mountain to a Man on the Moon…join the parade…La Grande Illusion, Adventureland, Hannah Montana, Sham Wow! I was the shadow of the waxwing slain. I am the bloody walrus. Goo, goo ga joob.

Sorry about all that. Been on the piss. I’ll do a spell-check later.