Arse and cunt
Back and front
I just want to fuck you,
Baby.
None of the existing record companies would consider it for a second, so we formed our own record company called Lucifer. We made a single and an LP. The LP tracks other than Fuck You were entitled P-R-I-C-K, Puke on Me, and suchlike. The music was a blend of the Who at their destructive best and raw Little Richard. No record shop or distribution centre would touch either single or LP. We ended up selling the single by mail order through Private Eye. We sold 1,500 copies. I had spent £15,000. London wasn’t ready for Denys’s punk; it waited for Johnny Rotten’s.
Behind the candles under AnnaBelinda, I set up a hydroponic marijuana cultivation research centre. Robin Murray Ltd., built the growing tables. Anthony Woodhead took care of the nutrient solutions and lighting. Apparently, a friend of his worked for BOSS, the South African secret service, and had obtained research documents relating to United States government hemp production. The research concentrated on what chemical nutrients would make good rope and bad dope. Woodhead reasoned that by appropriate inversion, he could determine which chemicals would make good dope and bad rope. The electricity bills were enormous, but tolerable marijuana was grown.
Rosie became pregnant. Although each of us was still formally married to someone else, Rosie longed for a sister for Emily and longed again to be the mother of a baby. I knew Rosie was the lady for me. We were delighted. I bought her a quaint little cottage in Yarnton, a small, sleepy village outside Oxford, to enshrine our domestic bliss. We celebrated with a fortnight’s luxury holiday at the Dome Hotel, Kyrenia, Cyprus. At the end of August 1972 I attended the maternity ward of Headington Hospital to witness the birth of my daughter Myfanwy. I have loved her dearly since the second she was born.
Myfanwy was two months old when the next Irish scam took place. The Newmarket-on-Fergus farmhouse had been abandoned because McCann had drawn attention to its location through his involvement with the dirty movies I had brought him. He had turned the farmhouse into the only place in the Republic of Ireland where one could participate in orgies and watch and buy pornographic movies. The Limerick police had stopped and searched a car leaving the vicinity of Newmarket-on-Fergus, frightened the occupants into disclosing the source of the pornography, and busted the farmhouse. McCann somehow gave them the slip, but the newspapers carried the story the next day, claiming that the Limerick police had the pornographic movies ‘under observation’ at the police station. McCann had found a replacement for the farmhouse in a curiously shaped country house situated in a tiny village with the unlikely name of Moone.
I still wanted to use my odd collection of Welsh drop-outs and Oxford academics to drive the hashish over from Ireland to England, but Graham was keen to use his Dutch connections. There hadn’t been much work for the Dutch lately, and Graham felt that to keep them loyal, dedicated, and available, they should be given the chance to earn. I didn’t argue.
According to McCann, there was some complication regarding shift changes at Shannon airport, and the next load from Pakistan had to arrive on a specific Aer Lingus flight from Frankfurt. McCann and I were in a bar in Moone. I was talking to Mandy in London on the phone. She told me the load had left Karachi but would probably be delayed a couple of hours en route to Frankfurt.
‘Jim, it’s not going to get to Frankfurt in time to be loaded on to our Aer Lingus flight.’
‘It’s got to be, H’ard. I’ve told you that a dozen times.’
‘Well, it isn’t going to be, Jim. Are you going to do anything about it, or shall I go home and write this one off?’
‘Are you fucking crazy? I’ll get the fucking nordle. But I want £50 a pound. £30 a pound won’t even cover the Kid’s expenses given the extra hassle you and Soppy Bollocks have caused me and the boys.’
‘Forget it, Jim.’
‘Put it this way, H’ard. You either pay me £50 a pound, or I’ll rip off the fucking lot and become a legend. Give me the fucking phone. What’s the number for international enquiries? I need to get hold of Aer Lingus in Frankfurt. Get me some coins, H’ard.’
I wondered what on earth he could be up to.
‘Aer Lingus, this is yer man Jim McCann of the Provisional IRA. My boys have just put a bomb on your next flight to Shannon. You’ve got twenty minutes.’
Jim put the phone down with a broad beam of self-congratulatory delight.
‘That should slow them down, H’ard, and give time for the nordle to arrive from Kabul and be loaded. You understand me, do you?’
‘It’s from Karachi, not Kabul. But they’ll know it’s a hoax, surely, Jim?’
‘I used the code, H’ard. I’m authorised to use the IRA code. They know it’s not a hoax.’
‘What do you mean, Jim? That a bunch of Provos and British Army Intelligence guys secretly sat down and agreed that if the Provos began a bomb threat with the words “This is yer man”, the Brits would take the threat seriously; otherwise, they wouldn’t?’
‘Don’t be facetious, H’ard. It’s a bad fucking habit.’
Whether or not the Karachi to Frankfurt flight was critically delayed and whether or not McCann’s hijack threat was taken seriously remain unknown. My own belief is that there never was any vital requirement for the load to come into Shannon on a specific flight. This was all part of McCann’s theatre, as indeed was his call to Aer Lingus in Frankfurt. He was probably talking to the speaking clock.
The load arrived, and the Dutchmen’s cars were stashed in Moone. Dutch Nik took the first of several Volvos on the ferry and on to the Winchester stash. Dutch Pete followed. Then other Dutchmen. Then Dutch Nik again. The final load was brought over by Dutch Pete.
James Goldsack and Jarvis were about a third of the way through selling the hashish when Marty called me from Winchester. It was early in the mornings, and I was feeding Myfanwy a bottle of milk
‘Howard, this is going to blow your mind, right?
‘Go ahead, Marty.’
‘All the nordle has gone. Someone has stolen it.’
I drove to Winchester. Marty was, of course, right. Well over half a ton of dope had disappeared from the garage. Bits of door locks and latches lay on the ground. In my mind there was only one possible explanation. Graham’s Dutchmen had come in the middle of the night and ripped it off. Graham wouldn’t accept this and suspected everyone else. After a few days of stunned inactivity, McCann rang.
‘Where’s my fucking money?’
‘The nordle’s been ripped off, Jim.’
‘By who? Those fucking Dutch hippies?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I told you, man, not to trust those Dutch cunts of Soppy’s. They’re treacherous. In future only your Welsh road-sign painters and academics can come over here. You understand me? But don’t worry, H’ard. No one fucks with the Kid. I’ll get the nordle. I’ve got the registration numbers of all those Dutch cunts’ vehicles, and I’ve got their passport numbers. Gus and a couple of the boys from Belfast will track them down.’
‘Jim, we don’t want anyone getting hurt.’
‘Who said anything about anyone getting hurt? I just want what’s mine. I’m