by Howard Marks
‘Howard, I’ll buy the film rights off you. It’s insane to let a potential blockbuster movie just sit on the BBC’s floor.’
‘I don’t think the film rights are worth anything. And I don’t think they’ll make a film of Mr Nice.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘It’s too politically incorrect, James. I’ve led a life of crime without doing that long in prison; I’m making money writing and talking about my criminal past and having a wonderful time. They don’t make films about such people.’
‘I’d still like to buy the rights. I don’t agree they’re worthless. Times are moving on, and the film industry is getting more adventurous. How much do you want for them?’
‘You can have them for a quid.’
He gave me a pound coin, and I signed them over.
James mentioned the success of Blow, a film about American cocaine smuggler George Jung. It was a huge box office hit. James Perkins lost no time in drawing my attention to its success.
‘See what I mean, Howard?’
‘Yes, but do you see what I mean? George is probably looking at the rest of his life behind bars, and he has formally agreed to testify against his co-defendants. If I became a grass, they would certainly make a film. Just as they would if I died through drug abuse or if an envious gangster shot me.’
James was undeterred, got to work, and went through every relevant email I had received. One was from Nick Graham, a close friend of Sean Penn, stating that Sean was interested in making a film of Mr Nice. A few weeks later, Nick, Sean, James and I had a dynamic lunch at one of James’s many London clubs. Sean was full of praise for my book and said he had already discussed its film potential with Hunter S. Thompson, Woody Harrelson and Mick Jagger. Sean followed up the meeting with this letter to Fantazia.
As you already know, I am a great fan of Howard Marks’ book Mr Nice and would like to offer my services to you as your American champion for the film.
As discussed, please accept this letter as commitment of my continued support of the entire project up to and including joining your team of producers. I am willing to take an active role and I can confirm that I will utilise my experience, contacts and knowledge in order to bring this film to the international audience that I feel it deserves.
Yours sincerely
Sean Penn
But the BBC were unimpressed with Sean’s overtures when the letter was passed to them and looked for other actors and directors. I hadn’t seen or communicated with Sean since then.
‘Anything happen with the film?’ Sean repeated. ‘I didn’t get any reply to that letter I wrote.’
‘It might happen if I got busted again with a load of dope and got a really hefty sentence. I’m in no rush for that to happen, even if you do play the DEA agent who busts me.’
Sean laughed as I sat down at his table. He introduced me to his wife and a couple of friends. Piers, wondering why I had vanished so abruptly, wandered in and joined us. The booze flowed.
The Groucho shuts at 2.00 a.m and Piers, Sean, and I were up for more drinks, a lot more. Relying on Pier’s unrivalled expertise in late-night venues, we left and staggered through a series of dodgy bars. One club refused us entry because we were drunk. Another would not let us in because we did not have enough to pay the entrance fees. Eventually, even Piers ran out of suggestions, so we went to Sean’s hotel and silently watched the sunrise through the bottoms of vodka bottles.
I have no recollection of what took place after that until I woke up the following afternoon in my room at the Groucho Club with the most serious hangover of my life wondering who was trying to knock the door down. I managed to open the door and stared blankly at the impressive physical form of Bernie Davies.
‘All right, butt? I’ve been here for bloody hours. Lunchtime, you said, wasn’t it? You look fucking rough. I don’t think South America has done you much good, to be honest.’
‘It’s nothing to do with South America, Bernie. I was on the piss all night with Sean Penn.’
‘Was you? I wish I’d known. I’d love to meet him. Bit of a boy, I heard, like.’
‘He can certainly drink all right. In fact, he is a hell of a good guy. I really like him.’
‘Well, we had better get a move on, butt. My Jag is badly parked right outside and I’ve got to be in Cwmaman by seven o’clock tonight.’
Soon we were tearing down the motorway towards the setting sun. I telephoned Marty to advise him of my imminent arrival in Kenfig Hill.
‘How was South America and the Caribbean? Any good?’
‘Fucking amazing, Marty. I’ve got loads to tell you. I discovered where Henry Morgan lived in Jamaica, maybe even the hiding place of his treasure, and I saw a photo of my great-great-grandfather on the wall of a pub in Patagonia.’
‘Well I’ve got something to tell you that you’ll find hard to believe.’
‘What’s that, Marty?’
‘John Lennon was Welsh.’
‘What? You are having a laugh, aren’t you? John Lennon was Liverpool Irish, Marty. Everyone knows that.’
‘On his father’s side, yes. However, his maternal grandfather George Earnest Stanley, a sailor from Chester, married a Welsh girl called Annie Jane Millward. Her mother, Mary, refused ever to speak a word of English; she hated them so much. Annie had five kids, all daughters, and one of them, Julia, was John Lennon’s mother.’
‘Are you sure about all this?’
‘Hundred per cent. A new biography of the Beatles has just come out. I’m looking at it now in the library. And guess what? The Lennon family attended a Welsh chapel in Penny Lane.’
‘So that makes all the rock and roll gods Welsh – Elvis, Marley and Lennon.’
‘Don’t forget the Rolling Stones, Howard.’
‘What! They were Welsh too?’
‘Well Keith Richards and Brian Jones sound like Welsh names to me. I haven’t researched it, mind. Maybe you can. That’s the sort of thing you do, isn’t it?’
The traffic slowed down to a crawl. Bernie spoke up: ‘I don’t mean to be rude, butt, and I didn’t try to overhear you at all, but why does this Welsh pirate, Welsh buccaneer and Welsh cowboy stuff matter a bugger these days? All that finished donkey’s years ago. It’s too late to be a bloody buccaneer. You were born too late.’
‘But you were interested in those Davieses who went to Patagonia from Mountain Ash.’
‘As far as Patagonia is concerned, I was just hoping I might find a rich relative in South America. That would be handy. And who gives a fuck whether John Lennon, Brian Jones, Elvis or Bob Marley was Welsh in the first place? They’re all dead and gone, most of them. The best music yet is being made now, butt, probably in bloody Wales. In fact, definitely in Wales. The Stereophonics have just had a number-one hit, the Super Furry Animals are making better and better albums and packing out concert halls all over Europe, and Charlotte Church has taken over from Posh Spice. As for Goldie Lookin’ Chain, Maggot is on Celebrity Big Brother, and the lads are reckoned to be the best hip hop band in the country. Have you heard their latest track, ‘Your Missus is a Nutter’? Bloody brilliant. And it doesn’t stop with music. Joe Calzaghe is easily Britain’s best boxer. Wales won the Six Nations Grand Slam last year. Cardiff City are doing well in football. It won’t be long before we’re in the Premiership. What did you play in school, butt, football or rugby?
‘Neither seriously, Bernie. I wasn’t all that keen on sports.’
‘Just out drinking and dancing, I suppose.’
‘Not even that. There was nothing happening in the valleys in the sixties. The best thing out of Wales then was probably the M4.’
‘You spent all your youth trying to get out of Wales, butt, and now you’re trying to get back in. Are you staying in Kenfig Hill tonight?’
‘No. I’m going to Blackwood.’
‘In that case, butt, I take back everything I said.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m going to Blackwo
od tonight as well.’
‘What are you doing there?’
‘Same as you, butt. Seeing Goldie Lookin’ Chain.’
‘I had no idea. I’m going to Blackwood to meet someone called Idwal, an expert on Henry Morgan.’
‘Fucking hell! I don’t take any of it back. How can you compare experiencing the cutting edge of hip hop with listening to some old fart banging on about a thief who has been dead for yonks? Come with me, butt, I’ll get you back into the proper Wales. Today’s bloody Wales, not yesterday’s. Dirty Sanchez will be there, too. They’re a bunch of headers; cut themselves to bits on the stage.’
‘I’ve seen their name on line-ups, but I’ve never been to one of their gigs. Are they a Latin American outfit?’
‘Latin American! They’re from the valleys for fuck’s sake.’
Latin America and the valleys. Roots and seeds. My memories of growing up now come to me in flickering black and white images. In those days the excitement came from far away – from the radio or treasured Elvis LPs. What I can only call intellectual curiosity took me away from the valleys to Oxford. Then a simple desire for kicks led me to become the world’s leading marijuana smuggler.
My recent travels to Latin America in the footsteps of legendary Welsh outlaws and in search of obscure Welsh connections had opened up a world of colour. Now a real live Welsh Valley Commando was driving me back to the land of the Super Furry Animals and Goldie Lookin’ Chain and the Stereophonics. This was the place to be. The valleys, here and now.
www.vintage-books.co.uk