DVD’s & Sex Ciné is just over the road, and again I’m pleased for the clarity of the sign-posting. I hate it when the hoarding says B&Q and you end up at a dwarf orgy. The clientele is overwhelmingly middle of the road: Civil service lifers, Monoprix middle-management, a few pissed scousers. A man resembling David Suchet fingers a shrink-wrapped ‘fully functioning’ rubber vagina (price unmarked). It’s called The Clone. The joint backs out into a number of dingy stairways and corridors. A large black guy guards one of them. I scan the tariff, ‘relaxation … Chinese and African (30€). He tells me there’s a special deal this week that offers a free 35 hours in the salle royale for those who knock-up 50 hours’ attendance. A punter wanders out. He’s just like the rest: thirty-something, Monoprix bag, team success T-shirt.
Tentative inquiry suggests I am unable to afford The Clone and besides The Pape is starting to preach. Time for my final port of call in the fourth arrondissement. Judging by the queue, it’s celeb night at Chris et Manu on rue St Bon – and Catherine Deneuve and David Suchet are in front of me. I think of cross-channel stereotypes. Namely that rosbif wears his ‘decadence’ on the outside. Hence the vomiting, fisticuffs and occasional street-shagging witnessed on a night out in Albion. He’s also prone to bursts of moral outrage anchored in the sands where Tesco and Paxman meet the protestant tradition. Froggy, meanwhile, acknowledges that, while debauchery occupies the mind, you’ve got a better chance of actually practising it if you keep up the respectable veneer. Hence it being OK for your colleagues to ask if wife is getting on well with your girlfriend.
‘M’sieur, no seengle guys ‘ere.’
I can’t believe it, the snobbery. As I protest, a bottle of The Pape works itself loose and shatters comprehensively on the floor.
‘And you cannot breeng your own booze.’
The game’s up. I slide past the waiting management consultants and head for bed.
I bump into a friend the next day (nice French girl, consultant at the Ministry of Employment, Jack Russell). Relating my heroic trip, I tell her decadence is in the mind and is all about context anyway. She tells me I am a trenchant loser and that only the English think M.H is cool. And that she had a cracking night at Chris et Manu. I look shocked. There’s one bottle of The Pape left.
Dickon Edwards with Anne Pigalle. Photo: David Bird.
El Hombre Indelible Shane MacGowan and his New Romantic Butler in Tangier
Dickon Edwards
Ireland Online, 8th Dec 2005:
‘Pogues frontman Shane MacGowan infuriated band members by taking an impromptu holiday to Morocco when he should have been rehearsing with them.’
The Independent (UK), 16 Dec 2005:
Pogues accordionist James Fearnley’s diary:
‘The first rehearsal for the Christmas tour. We don’t expect to be seeing Shane MacGowan. He’s in Morocco, or on his way back from Morocco. It’s a mystery how he gets there without help, since his manager had not accompanied him. It’s a further mystery how he gets back.’
* * *
It’s a contender for one of the most Decadent phone calls one can receive.
‘It’s Shane. Do you want to go to Tangier with me for a week? I’ll pay.’
And so a few days later, the singer is teaching me how to eat oysters, while we wait at Heathrow for one of the few direct flights to Tangier.
‘How’s this for an alternative Brideshead Revisited!’ And he giggles that trademark white noise giggle. The first time I heard his laugh I was, quite frankly, frightened. But by this time, after months of being in his company, the sound is charming and infectious.
My introduction to Shane MacGowan came when he played a secret gig at The Boogaloo, the nearest bar to my bedsit. It was the owner Mr O’Boyle who approached me in the corner shop next door and invited me into the pub.
Strangers often feel the need to tell me what better-known person I look like, unbidden. The common comparison I get is Andy Warhol, or if they’re of a certain 80s pop vintage, David Sylvian trying to be Andy Warhol. Shane MacGowan said I reminded him of Paul Bowles. This immediately endeared him to me, both flattering my appearance and revealing he knew all about lesser-known Decadent heroes. In London, more people have heard of Shane MacGowan than Paul Bowles. In Tangier, the reverse is true. Celebrity is relative.
He’s often bracketed next to George Best and Ozzy Osbourne, as if all legendary over-indulgers are alike. I doubt those other two notably dissipated names are as literary-inclined as someone whose collected lyrics were published by Faber & Faber. While it’s undeniable the decades of Decadence have damaged parts of his brain, it’s only the parts for walking and speaking that have paid the price. Put him in a hotel room for a week without alcohol, and he’d still come out convincing the uninitiated he was drunk beyond belief. His intelligence, talent and memory remain impressively intact.
Over the subsequent months, I spent many a late-night drinking session at the Boogaloo with him. He’d frequently amaze me with an in-depth knowledge on a wide field of literature, music and cinema, and not just the Irish side of things. His travel bag was dominated with books: works by Joyce, Plato, Burroughs, Kerouac, Dorothy Parker, and the entire James Ellroy LA Confidential trilogy. He re-reads Finnegan’s Wake every day. Shane MacGowan is the most well-read man I’ve ever met. There is decadence, and then there is Decadence.
When he saw I had time on my hands and not too much money, he kindly employed me on a few sporadic errands during his Highgate-based period. I would occasionally do his shopping, house-sitting, even help him find his socks. Regulars at the Boogaloo would unkindly refer to me as his ‘New Romantic Butler’. Though this was a tag he didn’t care for, I was happy to let it stick. If a good joke fits, wear it.
We’d talk about Tangier, the city that connects Bowles and Burroughs. I mentioned that I’d love to go there sometime. And so here we were, just the two of us, in Tangier, Morocco, early December 2005. A nervous fake-blond younger Englishman in a white suit and make-up, with an older man with black hair in a big black coat, getting annoyed when hearing himself referred to as English or American (‘I’m Irish! Irish!’). English and Irish; White Suit and Black Coat; Innocence and Experience.
Tangier is another planet. People in scarfs, cowls and hoods mingling with the modern, ululating howls from exotic temples, streets with varying names on different maps, streets which are really one-person corridors in buildings, desert and ocean vistas around the corner, drugs and street hustlers, the bizarre and the bazaars; indecipherable but beautiful alphabets, indecipherable but beautiful everything. William Burroughs was dubbed ‘El Hombre Invisible’ while he wrote The Naked Lunch, due to his skulking in Tangier’s shadows. Shane MacGowan must be ‘El Hombre Indelible’. He seems impossible to erase.
We booked into the Hotel Continental in the Medina, Mr MacGowan aptly taking Room 101. It’s a beautiful old place, as seen in Mr Bertolucci’s Sheltering Sky movie. Rather amusingly, it’s also alcohol-free, so I was dispatched to the Ville Nouveau to stock up on gin and tonic. He may no longer be a heroin addict, but he’s still a gin and tonic and cigarettes junkie. To stop those, he said, would kill him. For much of our week-long stay, Mr MacGowan was happy to remain in the hotel room, reading, drinking, relaxing, clearing his head of London before having to rehearse with the reunited Pogues (‘reformed’ sounds misleading) for a high-profile Christmas tour.
‘I didn’t come here to wake up.’ he snarled after two days without eating or leaving his room. I had no answer to that. Although I dismissed the hotel staff’s suggestion of a doctor, it was difficult to tell what was entirely normal and what was a cause for concern. So I was relieved when Mr O’Boyle flew in to join us for the middle of the week.
I’d brought Michelle Green’s biography about Tangier’s literary renegades, The Dream at the End of the World. One passage recounts Jack Kerouac not leaving his hotel room for days, trying to sleep with the noises of Mr Burroughs’s pederasty going in the next room. I read this
passage aloud to Mr MacG and he replied: ‘I’ve heard worse things coming from a room next door.’ And he giggled that white noise giggle.
Though I happily shopped for him, my blood pressure drew the line at majoun and kif, the local narcotics. He grumbled slightly, but acquiesced.
‘I wouldn’t expect my sister to buy drugs for me, so I guess I shouldn’t expect it of you.’
As it turns out, he managed to find a supply of kif without me, which kept him happy while I did my tourist bit: Scott’s Bar with its curious paintings of beautiful Arab boys in Scottish regimental costume, the ex-pat Pet Cemetery on the mountain with its 1940s cat graves, the cliffside café where you can sip mint tea and gaze out across the Mediterranean to see Spain on one side, Africa on the other. I sat in all the bars and cafés connected with those dead literary hooligans. Tangier (only fools spell it Tangiers) is the original Decadent Destination. Fifty years after the Interzone closed down, the city isn’t what it was, but it’s also not what it could be. I feel the flame must be kept burning somehow, and I hope to go back.
Our return trip on this occasion was the only fraught side of the holiday. Just before we boarded our connection to Casablanca, the Tangier airport staff refused to let Mr MacGowan on the plane. ‘You can go, but not your friend. He is clearly too drunk.’
‘He’s always like that! It’s a permanent condition.’
‘Listen, my friend. I know when someone is drunk.’
‘I’m not going without him,’ I barked nobly, feeling my halo ascend. Though any attempt at heroic selflessness was rather compromised by the thought of what the other Pogues and their fans would do to me, should I return to London Shane-less.
I tried to explain that I could vouch for him, that he’d be in my care, that he was a famous musician with concerts booked, that it was vital we got on the plane. But the airline man was having none of it. ‘Come back tomorrow.’
After a few minutes of utter panic, I calmed down and phoned The Boogaloo from the airport. Mr O’Boyle mused that to try flying tomorrow was pointless: Mr MacGowan would be the same, the airport staff would be the same. Instead, he said we should take the scenic route. Get the ferry from Tangier to Algeciras, take a taxi up the Spanish coast to Malaga, then hop on a plane to Stansted. And if in doubt, put Mr MacGowan in a wheelchair at the airport. No one ever questions a wheelchair.
This impromptu excursion went surprisingly swimmingly. Not only did the passenger ferry staff accept Mr MacGowan, they were happy to point him to the bar on the top deck. It was just like being back at The Boogaloo, but with a view of the sun-drenched Mediterranean passing pleasingly by. We made it back to Stansted with no hitches, and drove straight to the Boogaloo to continue where we left off.
Part of the Process
Karina Mellinger
Mary and Tony are going for a weekend to Venice to revive their flagging marriage. Even now, squirming in their leather seats in the First Class Lounge at Heathrow, sipping from flutes of chilled vintage Krug, they both know this trip is a bad idea.
It reminds Mary of the first night of their honeymoon when they stood side by side on the balcony of their suite at The Georges V and watched the fireworks which spelt out their names spilling down over the Seine. She knew marriage to Tony had been a bad idea then.
And it reminds Tony of their first date when Mary arrived at the Royal Opera House wearing an orange trouser suit, almost as hideous as the emerald silk dress she has on now. That’s when he first knew a relationship with Mary was going to be a bad idea.
But, bad or not, life goes on and their marriage guidance counsellor, Diana, has told them that going on a holiday may sound like a cliché but it really can make a huge difference.
Diana says she has cancelled her other plans and she will be at their complete disposition the entire weekend of their stay. They can ring her whenever they want. That’s how much she wants their marriage to work. So they’re off to Venice to give things one last try. They’re doing it for Diana. More than anything Mary and Tony really don’t want to let her down.
*
When they land at Marco Polo Airport Mary immediately disappears to the ladies lavatory so she can ring Diana and tell her about the flight, how it had been a nightmare, how her langoustine had had a metallic taste to it, how the novel she was reading had ended implausibly and how for the entire journey Tony had rustled his copy of The Telegraph like a man possessed.
Diana suggests to Mary that her reaction to the newspaper noise may be related to their previous discussions about Mary’s feelings of sexual inadequacy. Will Mary reflect on that? Mary says she will. Diana says she’ll ring her soon to see whether she’s come to any conclusion – would Mary like that? Mary says she would.
Diana tells Mary that to calm herself down she should do the Body Contact exercise they have been practising together, the one where Mary rests her hand gently on her thyroid, heart, liver and pubic bone for three seconds and says to each of them in turn, ‘I accept you.’
Mary looks at herself in the mirror above the long line of handbasins.
She touches herself. She says, ‘I accept you. I accept you. I accept you. I accept you.’
Two women are standing next to her washing their hands. One of them says to her friend, ‘Questa qui è matta.’
The other woman shrugs. ‘Cosa vuoi – è inglese.’
Mary feels better already.
*
Mary and Tony walk out of the airport into the hot sunshine. Tony flinches. Warmth he likes but this kind of heat he finds oppressive, excessive. They have booked a small, exclusive hotel on the Venice Lido. That way they can absorb the aesthetic energy of the city without actually having to plod round it. They walk down the pier to their waiting speedboat. Tony notices that the driver has a slight squint. Tony is frustrated. You don’t come to the most beautiful city on the face of the Earth to be ferried around by someone who looks like that.
They set off across the lagoon. The water is flat and soft and giving like a turquoise cashmere carpet. Then, of his own volition, without even bothering to ask if this is something Mary and Tony would like, the driver does a detour up the Grand Canal instead of going straight to the hotel. This is annoying as Tony wanted to get to the hotel sooner rather than later to check the latest Nasdaq prices. The motorboat splices past Piazza San Marco, Santa Maria della Salute, Palazzo Dario, Palazzo Loredan, Santa Maria della Carità. Mary scrabbles in her handbag to find her favourite lipstick which she thinks she must have left on the bloody plane.
Tony looks at the buildings filing past. The driver turns to Tony and gestures towards them with a squinty-eyed look of pleasure and pride.
‘Una meraviglia!’ the driver cries.
‘Yes. Very nice,’ Tony says.
Tony feels the lagoon water spray onto his face and a mild sensation of sea sickness at the pit of his stomach. He is with a woman with poor dress sense and a man with a squint. He wants to be happy but how can he?
He texts Diana, ‘Life is so imperfect!’
She texts back, ‘This awareness is part of your process, Tony. Cherish it.’
So he does. Thank God for Diana.
*
When they arrive they find that Diana has arranged for flowers – white roses, tuberoses, calla lilies and gingers – in the bedroom suite. The room is swooning with their fragrance. Tony has them removed before they set off his hayfever. There is a hand-written note from Diana: it says ‘I’m so proud of you both.’ Tony feels tears well in his eyes. They ring her to say thank you, taking it in turns on the phone. She asks how they feel going down to dinner. They both say it’s going to be tough. Diana says she is there for them. Tony and Mary both wish she were.
When the time comes, however, Tony and Mary feel they cannot face the hotel dining room so they arrange instead for room service. As they cannot decide what they want to eat they order a buffet. The hotel sets up a table outside on their private terrace, a wide platform of ornate terracotta, engorged wi
th jasmine and bougainvillia, edged with steps down to a small lawned garden which leads to the hotel’s private beach.
The sun is setting. The sky has settled to a rich russet streaked with lemon and red.
Mary and Tony decide they would rather have supper in their room so they can watch the evening news on TV while they eat. They have the table brought in from the terrace.
The waiter fills their glasses with a 2001 Chardonnay delle Venezie. He presents them with ripe melon and peaches and figs and with Mozzarella Bufala Campana, Carpaccio and Prosciutto Veneto Berico-Euganeo. Tony doesn’t care for starters on principle. Mary has never liked raw meat, for Christ’s sake. She nibbles at a bread roll.
Mary and Tony leave their mobiles out on the dining table, just in case Diana rings.
Mary knows she should make small talk with Tony but doesn’t know where to start. She texts Diana, ‘Nothing to say!’
Diana texts back, ‘Relax. Silence is rich with possibility.’ Mary sighs with relief. The waiter removes their empty plates. Mary notices that he is very handsome with high, taut buttocks. Of course. Italian men are so predictable.
The waiter returns with a large tray laden with dishes. He sets the tray down. He says, slowly, ‘C’è Vitello in Salsa di Cacciagione al Tartufo, Fritto Misto di Mare, Moleche Frite, Cozze all’Aglio e Prezzemolo, Sardine in Saor, Bigoli co’l’Arna. He looks intently at Mary and waits.
The Decadent Handbook Page 19