Thursday, March 24th
Oh bugger!
Last week was not a good week and this week is certainly not a good week, for thematically similar, but diametrically opposed reasons. Last week my scooter was stolen and this week it was recovered. The only thing that really happened in between these two events was that I spent a great deal of time standing/sitting around waiting, queuing, filling in forms, writing letters and making statements regarding the theft, at various offices across the island. Oh, and, of course, buying a new scooter, taking out new insurance and buying new road tax.
I now have to go through the laborious process of informing the various interested/disinterested parties of how and when the original scooter was recovered and whether I wish to press charges against the thieves.
My official statement will read as follows:
At approximately 8.00 on the morning of Monday 24th April, I was at home in bed and was awoken by a hammering on the french windows that lead on to the veranda. On investigation of said hammering I discovered the much animated presence of my neighbour, one Desmond Vasthill. Mr Vasthill had a large grin on his large bloodhoundesque face and was pointing in the general direction of the wasteland at the rear of my residence that leads down to a small flood plain and major drainage culvert. On opening the aforementioned french windows that lead onto the veranda and through which I was observing Mr Vasthill, he informed me of the following. At approximately 7.30 that morning, being the morning of Monday 24th April, Mr Vasthill was taking Snowy, his largish cat, who for various psychological reasons is unable to leave their house unaccompanied, for her morning walk across the empty plot of land that adjoins the plot on which I reside, and towards the wasteland at the rear of my residence that leads down to a small flood plain and major drainage culvert. On or at around the edge of the adjoining plot of land which marks both the psychological and physical limits of Snowy's early morning accompanied walk and also the border with the wasteland at the rear of my residence that leads down to a small flood plain and major drainage culvert, Mr Vasthill spotted a blue Piaggio Zip motorscooter, registration E3385, parked precariously halfway down the steepish slope that leads to the small flood plain and major drainage culvert. He further stated that it appeared undamaged, was parked on its centre stand and had a key in the ignition. Mr Vasthill added that in his opinion the thief, or thieves, must have moved the scooter to its current position away from and out of sight of my residence to try and start it, and when unable to do so, simply left it there. Mr Vasthill then left.
I then made my way to the location that Mr Vasthill had described, that being halfway down the steepish slope that leads to the small flood plain and major drainage culvert, and there found the aforementioned blue Piaggio Zip motorscooter, registration E3385, parked on its centre stand, undamaged and with the ignition key in the ignition. Having turned the ignition key to the start position, and started the engine by way of the starter button, I rode it back up the steepish slope, across the adjoining plot and to the front of my residence. Here I again confirmed that no damage had been done and also that nothing had been removed and the ignition and engine were in perfect working order. I also found my house keys on the key ring to which the ignition key was attached.
Unofficially, however:
Early on Monday morning I was woken up by some wanker banging on the front doors. I had a nasty hangover and had only just gotten to sleep, so I wasn't best pleased. It turned out to be Desmond my neighbour, the one with the weird cat. He was clearly pleased with himself and started waffling on about his morning walk with the fucking cat. Eventually he mentioned having seen my scooter on the wasteland behind my house. I wandered over to a spot overlooking the wasteland with him and there saw the scooter exactly as he had described. I thanked him and he left.
My hangover was bad so I decided to leave it there and deal with it later. However, as I walked back to the house, fragments of memories started to emerge and coalesce in my mind, and then, suddenly, like a film of a breaking mirror being run in reverse, the fragments came together to reveal the whole dreadful truth. The previous Sunday night - around the time the scooter had been stolen - must have been the night I vaguely remembered staying up drinking rum on the veranda until the early hours, and then, as the sun came up, deciding to go exploring the wasteland, the small flood plain and the drainage culvert...on my scooter! Clearly it's off-road capabilities had been disappointing and I must have abandoned it near to it's vertical limit on the steepish slope, and proceeded on foot. This was the expedition that explained the photographic portraits of 'cows on wasteland' that I had found on my digital camera, that made sense of the various lacerations on my legs and had now solved the case of the disappearing scooter.
Oh bugger I thought, and went back to bed.
[@ 03:58 AM GMT]
Sunday, March 20th
Crime of the Week - $300 reward offered
Things went a little pear shaped last week with the theft of my scooter from the house. Person or persons unknown most probably strolled into the house whilst I was taking an evening kip - as you do in this heat - grabbed the keys and made good their getaway at a gentle amble, stopping possibly to admire the tall, now brown and seemingly lifeless Flamboyant, that stretches out, almost architecturally, over the driveway. They were cool customers and I have a $300 reward out for their apprehension and incarceration.
At the best of times, and in the most efficient of countries, making good after an event such as this can be trying. So, you can imagine what a head fuck it was having to inform the various authorities in triplicate and dealing with the insurance company, in a country where nothing is done over the phone and time is an abstract concept that most people have yet to grasp. Everything has to be done in a certain, illogical order: she needs that before I can do this; they need to do that so I can take this to them and get them to send that to him. Suffice to say it is all dealt with now and they, them, she and him seem to be happy...and there was me thinking I was the one who should be attended to and made to feel happy!
To add to my woes, my house keys were on the same key ring as the scooter ignition key that the thief/thieves so audaciously stole, and thus I was also compelled to spent an afternoon purchasing and then fitting various door locks around the house.
There are however a few residual issues that will be worked out over time. The first being my insurance claim, which, unlike elsewhere where I have made claims, will not be settled until the police have made a thorough investigation of the theft. Now, although frustrating, in that I will not receive a settlement for quite some months, it is heartening to know that I am an actual case, an active ongoing, bona fide criminal investigation and not simply a crime reference number and unwanted crime statistic. I'm not blind though to the possibility that this sounds better than it actually is, and that the few months I'm being asked to wait for my money, whilst a vigorous investigation is undertaken, is in fact just good cash management. Perhaps I'm being too cynical here. There are after all only a handful of the particular scooter I owned, on the island, and thus the chances of it being spotted within these few months and returned to me without the insurance company having to pay up, are quite good.
This brings me very nicely on to the second residual issue, that being the very real possibility that I will soon be arrested for a crime I did not commit. The fact is I've just bought a replacement scooter which is the same make, model and colour as the stolen one. It is indistinguishable in every way...including the registration number, which, due to the local licensing laws, is the same as the old one! Now, it doesn't take a Sherlock to work out that sooner or later the chances are that the police are going to spot a blue, Piaggio Zip, registration E3385 and pull it/me over, all lights-a-blazing and sirens-a-wailing, as they do. The chances are made considerably better by the fact that I've posted A4 "stolen scooter...reward offered" posters in various bars up and down the coast, just to remind people to call the police if they see a blue, Piaggio Zip, registration E3385.
This may, therefore, be my last posting for a while.
Reductio ad absurdum
[@ 09:56 PM GMT]
Thursday, March 17th
Where were you? Part 2
(continued from previous posting. Note: all names have been changed on the advice, or lack thereof, of my legal counsel. Thus Cliona is now Ruby...but don't mention the fact if questioned under oath or in open court)
I remember that the security floodlights were on as I left the house because I could see a number of cows idling in the garden - a consequence no doubt of GBJs recent bored whim to do a little weeding in the garden with a hired 3 tonne JCB earth mover, which had also understandably taken out virtually all vegetation and natural contours that had previously kept the cows out.
On the walk over to Ruby's I passed the house where the devil dogs live, who, true to form, appeared like missiles out of the darkness at the back of their roadside garden, yapping like banshees...that yap. No matter how many time I pass this house they always scare the crap out of me, apart from, that is, on this occasion. On this occasion, although not prepared for their sudden sharp yapping onslaught, I was not startled, most likely because of the slow motion 'Matrix' effect that alcohol seems to have on me. With the initiative on my side - for surely no one had ever ignored their barrage of piercing yaps - I decided to freak them out and walk straight up to the chain linked fence that separated us and make like Ghandi; stand and stare in passive resistance. And blow me - not that I wanted to be blown by a devil dog of course - it worked. The pair of them backed off, all tails wagging and happy to make my acquaintance. At about this point their owner appeared as if out of nowhere and enquired as to whether everything was OK, which I informed her it was. A short - I believe - conversation ensued, none of which I can recall, apart from a bit about her being a student at the university here on the island. What exactly she is studying is blank, but obviously interesting enough for me to invite myself over one evening for a longer chat. Quite how this proposal went down is also blank, but the dogs were not let lose so I can only assume it found some favour. Unfortunately though, I cannot remember her name and as it was dark, and she was dark, I have no idea of what she looks like. Thus I know as much, if not less, about her as I would if I had met her in an internet chat room, and on that basis will probably not take myself up on my kind invitation to pop over for a chat.
Ruby's place was winding down by the time I arrived and the field had reduced from three to one. Despite this, and as one does when the blood is up and the alcohol is still flowing, I decided that the odds were still good. At least I think this is what I thought because I'm not exactly sure of anything from around this point on. I vaguely remember finishing the Sancerre and then applying myself to the beer in the cool bags, and I vaguely remember chatting to Ruby...about what, I know not.
The rest of HST day I have pieced together partly from vague of recollections but mainly from eyewitness accounts;
• At some stage during the Sancerre I propositioned the lady of the house - apparently I was quite blunt. Unfortunately she did not acquiesce. Fortunately she did not call the police. Shortly thereafter I was slung out.
• I can only assume, given that no one has come forward to say otherwise, that I made my way back home...or to be more accurate, the home of my next door neighbour. Jan (name changed to protect the innocent) is a lovely lady, all 17, free bus pass, waddling stone of her. Quite why Jan was up at this hour she did not say. However, there is always the possibility that I hammered on her door until she opened up, a fact she was too polite to mention when questioned later.
• Around about or somewhere between 3.00 and 4.00am, I invited myself to swim naked in Jan's swimming pool. Having very athletically swum around for over 20 minutes, I retired, still naked, to a sun lounger and consumed the remainder of the third cool bag of beer. The fact that it was a dark moonless night must account for the fact that Jan failed to notice I was naked, unless of course, she was too polite to mention it when questioned later. Some time after 4.00am I was slung out...whether still naked I have no idea.
• The next day Jan brought round two empty cool bags (I assume the other is with Ruby) and requested the return of her towel (?). I obliged. As she turned to leave she mentioned that she was exhausted on account of me having kept her up all night. At this point my cardiovascular system shut down. As she walked away, I'm positive I heard her say, "you don't half talk a lot". Thereafter my cardiovascular system resumed normal operation.
My HST day didn't involve guns, or sex (although nearly) and unfortunately the drug element cannot be referred to here because of reporting restrictions and the fact that I have to live here for a while, but it was a good HST day, despite the absence of the aforementioned elements. I think is was a good 'omage. It was an enjoyable 'omage. It was an 'omage that started out with me drinking Chivas Regal alone in a bar, and ended up, 14 hours later, with me naked in the swimming pool of a 17 stone, 65 year old plus woman from the Isle of Man....having taken in a brush with devil dogs and a brutal petition for sex...and if that 'aint good enough for you pal, for a spur of the moment 'omage, then go fuck yourself.
Here's to you Hunter
PWP (proofed whilst pissed)
[@ 10:27 AM GMT]
Wednesday, March 2nd
Where were you?
Most of you will no doubt be aware by now of the sad, untimely and dramatic exit from this realm of the one time candidate for sheriff of Pitkin County, the godfather of Gonzo, the first doctor (sic) of journalism, Hunter S Thompson (or J Walter Thompson as one of your number wrote in their Monday morning email to me).
It is no secret that the good doctor had been a literary hero and distant literary benchmark for me for quite some years now and I was deeply saddened and not a little shocked by the news of his passing. As those of you who I have regaled with stories of my road trip through the rockies last year will know, I went to great lengths to gain an audience with the great man at his fortified compound in Woody Creek, just outside of Aspen. My efforts, however, went unrewarded and not even a handwritten note handed to his cleaner on his porch managed to rouse his interest and desire to meet with me. I did, however, meet with his friend and handyman, Andy Hall, and also a close friend of his then current personal assistant (the one that replaced the one he mistakenly shot thinking she was a bear and the one after the one he married) and both were happy to stoke the legend of the gun totting wild man of Woody Creek, with well worn anecdotes about clashes with neighbours and lawmen and, the most loathsome of them all, Republicans.
There was, however, a twist in the tail of my expedition to meet the man. And, now he has gone, this is as good as it will get. For it was he who I bumped into as a exited the washroom at the Woody Creek Tavern on my last night, and it was he who I listened to bollocking on for half an hour as I sat trying to eat my dinner in peace, a few yards away along the bar. The sad fact of the matter was that I did not realise at the time that it was he, and it was only as I sat astride the great blue tipped shark, preparing for the ride to my hotel, watching the strange bald man in the extremely loud orange Hawaiian shirt, and his extraordinary pretty and large breasted but diminutive companion, being swallowed by the black of a moonless, back country night, that I did.
So much for my ill fated attempts to meet the man, and anyway, as another of your number pointed out, it's not good to meet your heros as they invariably fail to match up to your perceptions of them. Coming back to Monday morning and my reaction to the dreadful breaking news of the doctor's violent end the night before, my first instinct was to head to the Surf 'n' Lime, my local rum shack, and there raise a glass to mark his passing; and as first instincts are generally the best instincts, this is exactly what I did. Now, despite having slightly upped my alcohol consumption since arriving in Barbados, the decision to drink a large tumbler of Chivas Regal at around 11:30 in the morning, in 30 degree heat, wearing shorts and sitting alone in a bar, was not, as some might propose, something that I did lightly. This was my Kennedy, my Diana, this was the time and place I would remember for years to come. This was my little 'omage to a man who lived in a fortified compound thousands of miles away from me, whom I had once bumped into coming out of a toilet.
As I always find, the first bit of most things are invariably the best - cigarettes and class A for example - and so it was that morning with the Chivas. Once past the initial heavy jolt that all neat spirits deliver, I was into the smooth, light blend that Americans in general, and the doctor in particular, are and was so fond of. I had my laptop with me, and so whilst I continued my one man salute, I trawled the news web sites for more detail on the previous night's events. Unfortunately, nothing was forthcoming, aside from the basic facts that he had taken his life with a gun, which lets face it, is pretty much all the detail one needs. Most of the articles worked the irony angle without too much trouble: "gun nut in gun suicide", and most also crammed in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, drugs, counterculture, gonzo journalism, beatings at the hands of hells angels and at least one of his frighteningly honest quotes that helped make him both revered and mistrusted in equal measure. Working my way through this electronic wodge of obiturous news reports, I realised that some of the writers had subtly entered into the spirit of the occasion by dramatising the tone and quickening the pace of their coverage, to lend it a very faint gonzoid touch, that was the creation and mark of the good doctor. This, it seemed to me, was highly appropriate and also suggested that perhaps my little 'omage should, in true gonzoid style, not stop at a single tumbler, be it a large and well endowed Bajan tumbler, of Chivas Regal. Every day was not, after all, a Kennedy / Diana / Thompson day and thus it became perfectly obvious to me that I should write the day, and the day's writing, off... which in reality I knew, having kicked off at 11.30am, meant all of the next day and a slow start to the day following that. But what the hell, I was a fledgling author and disciple of the manic first hand account, and as I did with most things that didn't involve a keyboard and work and did involve alcohol and other stuff, I could always justify it as background for the next novel.
With my excuse note for teacher secured and a clear conscience ahead of me, I tucked into a few more, well endowed tumblers of Chivas, raising each one and uttering a few words to the doctor as I went. At precisely the point that I noticed a slight blip in my finger-to-keyboard coordination, I decided to ditch the laptop and the Surf 'n' Lime and move on in search of a new scene and perhaps some Monday afternoon drinking buddies. Now, in most places around the world the search for Monday afternoon drinking buddies would be a futile one, and even if one did manage to scare some up, they would most likely be of the toothless, homeless variety and the tipple would be purple and more suited to cleaning paint brushes. In Barbados, however, things are different. If there is no work, then the popular pastime is to lime. And to lime is to hang out and drink; we lime, they limed, I am liming. Thus if the sea was too rough and the West Side Boys couldn't operate their water-ski boats and jetskis for the punters, then regardless of day or time, they would be sitting in the shade at the back of Mullins beach, drinking.
I walked the short distance to the beach, stopping along the way at the 24 hour Texaco Star Mart to pick up mixers for the 2 litres of rum I had at home and three six packs of beer...because they were on offer, and, what's more, came in branded cool bags with long straps for easy carriage. The beach was packed by Mullins standards and with an easy, gentle swell not hampering the ability either the boats or the jet-skis to ply their trade, the West Side Boys were clearly not in liming mode. Not to be defeated, I made my way over to a couple of local lasses I knew, who where in fact from England and Ireland respectively, but who live here by virtue of visa extensions and day trips off the island to gain new entry day passport stamps. Unfortunately, they were not in liming mode either, but none the less gave me someone to chat to as a tucked into the first of my three cool bags of Carlsberg. An hour or so later they made their excuses and departed, leaving me to contemplate the usual stunning, water borne sunset and the next move of my live action 'omage. With Barbados being only a few degrees off the equator, the sun goes down extremely rapidly - none of this imperceptible movement malarkey - and to catch a good sunset on film, you need a camera with an auto winder. Within minutes I was sitting in full darkness, virtually alone and with my laptop, some mixers and about half of my original cool bagged stash of beer for company.
The thing is, I've always maintained that I'm somewhere between a light and middleweight when it comes to drinking, and as such I'm happy to admit that, with an initially empty stomach to my credit, by this stage things were beginning to get a little vague. Actually when I say vague, this applies more to my recollection of events from this point on and not to my actual corporeal experience. In reality, I'm sure everything was as bright and as ernest as things always are when the demon drink is in control.
I vaguely remember talking to Tash, a friend from England who is out here for six months, but I don't remember her picking me up from the Texaco garage in her car, giving me a thousand dollars which she had previously agreed to lend me for reasons far to prosaic to go into here, nor can I remember the short lift home. I do, however, remember phoning another local Irish lass and inviting myself over, despite, or possibly because of, the fact that she was entertaining two female friends/clients. Having stuffed a handful of condoms into my pocket, grabbed a rather special looking bottle of Sancerre that GBJ's mother-in-law had bought as a gift for GBJ, and having gathered up the remaining partially full cool bags of beer, I struck out towards Cliona's.
(to be continued)
[@ 06:02 AM GMT]
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