THAT RED DIRT SHOWER

 Man I miss those showers.

The water heated by the sun, washing away that orange dirt picked up from a long day travelling the contours of some contested zone. Government probing Khmer Rouge or Khmer Rouge chasing them back. Always fluid. So you gotta be all pert, senses on high alert, locked on, focussed. Then the sun sinks, saying "that's enough for today." So it's back to whatever refuge you have found, hotel, hovel, brothel. And then that shower. Drencher or bucket and scoop, heavenly. The Grand in Siem Reap being the best, like an ageing silent film star, it was shabby but still echoed elegance. It clung to illusions of grandeur, confident of a comeback, due to the effort of that marvellous Swiss manager - Rudolf was it? - who would do anything to help you and help get your story out, a big deal in those pre-mobile days. Less elegant was him recommending you hit the bath tub if shit hit the fan at night. Was the only guest in the place for the later three of the six day UN poll in 93. The hotel was packed on day one with global stars and Japanese with almost coffin sized satellite phones. They would be outside the hotel trying to align with the gods as I walked out and headed to UN Military Observer office where I would ask to use the phone. I would dictate the copy and an hour later as I re-entered the Grand my wealthy colleagues were still searching for celestial contact. Then on day one over 85% of the population voted and the Khmer Rouge's odd rocket fire went without dramatic consequence. So by day three the stars were bored and the gods weren't listening. So everyone bailed. I mean everyone. Bar wannabe me. Think of The Shining dreaming of Michelin stars. Walking alone down those colonial corridors heading to bed, it felt pure Conrad. And if the heat wakes you, you sleepwalk to the shower. Then breakfast comes with me sitting by myself being attended to by about 10 staff. And there was a bar. Of course. With a barman. What more could an apprentice foreign correspondent ask for? Spent day 6 touring the temples without seeing a soul. Not even a coke seller. When I got back late afternoon I thought the sun had got to me. I thought I heard voices coming from the bar. A few of them. And this is getting trippy, They sound Irish. I stroll into the bar to discover three Irish policemen and three Irish election supervisors. So we had a drink. And then another. And many more. Then it was time for a shower, And dinner. At least the guest to staff ratio was now 1:2 as opposed to 1:10. I almost forgot to mention, I was getting paid to do this..

Happy Herb Stoner Pizza In 90s Phnom Penh

There's a good story on the origins of Happy Herb Pizza. I did a piece on the opening of Happy Herb in the building right next door to the pizza restaurant owned by some dubious Hong Kong dude. The staff were all pretty much cyclo drivers with a bit of gumption. So they get hired by this Hong Kong dude. Herb was the pizza chef and was always smiling n laughin. The reference was not actually to weed. In fact i remember returning from a couple of hard days in 92's Kompong Thom. Tired n exhausted i sit down with Anthony n have a pizza. Am hot, sweaty, still wearing a flak jacket n feeling increasingly weird. The amputees are really getting to me. Something's wrong. I go home and lay down. But the room starts to vibrate. I sus it. I am tripping balls..Really not what i needed. So i go down to the cigarette stall lady n buy a strip of valium. Half an hour later, conked out. Sophal presumed since i was with Anthony I wanted a happy happy pizza. But like a stoner i am losing the plot. There is one pizza joint run by this ex-pat out of Hong Kong. Wages are not being paid. Half the staff believe in the White Man. But Sophal had a different idea. He asked everyone to raise perhaps 500 bucks. A considerable sum but they made the oven out of brick n copied everything from the joint next door. At first most people ptesumed they were in the same restaurant. Then i did a piece on the cyclo entrepreneurs. Then all the NGO types etc went to the Khmer owned one. Even if you didnt know the backstory you went in to the crowded one. Soon the shyster's place shut down. Tourism picked up in the mid late 90s n the boys moved to the waterfront beside Hurley's where the erroneous reading of Happy Herb proved a big seller. Is it still going?

Carpetbagger business men coming to Phnom Penh to make a quick buck should take note

of a couple of events that have taken place in the city recently.

First there was the case a few months ago of King’s restaurant. Here, the owners

absconded owing staff wages. So, in lieu of payment, the staff ‘liberated’ everything

moveable from the premises.

The latest incident took place at PP Pizza, opposite the Cambodia Commercial bank.

“My boss, Mr. Graham [the owner of PP Pizza and BK’s Bistro] did not pay me

and after he owed me money for two weeks, I just took the money from the till and

walked out,” pizza chef Sophal stated.

Sophal, in fact, was one of the lucky ones, some staff waited for much longer periods

to get paid.

“When we asked for our money, Mr. Graham and the manager said wait, wait, wait,

every time,” waiter, Lay Neth, complained.

Sick of the way they were being treated, they embarked on a much more subtle version

of what happened at Kings. They didn’t actually physically remove anything from the

restaurant, they just stole the idea. And then they went and opened up an exact replica

of PP in a building right next door .

“We collected all the staff and we collected all the money and we decided to

rent this house,” Sophal said.

The staff pooled their savings and borrowed some money from their parents. Some,

however, didn’t have the courage to go through with the venture.

“At first there were ten people, but five got scared and backed out. They didn’t

want to take the risk,” he added.

The start-up costs, however, were less than they originally imagined.

“At first we thought it would be U.S. $10,000. Then we did everything ourselves,

we built a clay oven and the price came down to U.S. $7,000,” he said.

The Khmer’s pizza joint opened on Apr. 19 with a menu identical to what’s on offer

next door.

The only thing that is really different is the name, they call their place “Happy

Herb Pizza.”

The name has obviously led to some confusion leading one diner to speculate that

perhaps they might be a little risque with the oregano. His companion agreed, suggesting

that it was probably more of a waist, not mind, expanding ploy, aimed at boosting

dessert sales.

However, the cheesecake the Post experienced was sufficiently mind altering all by

itself. And reliable sources stated the lemon meringue pie was nothing less than

hallucinogenic.

The staff, however, dismissed these musings with a rather charmingly innocent explanation.

An American called Herb, who also experienced some financial frustrations and subsequently

left PP Pizza, was the original pizza chef. Herb taught Sophal, previously a cyclo

driver, and the other kitchen staff how to master the doughy discipline.

” First we had to get the name. So we thought of Herb because he was our teacher.

Then I put in ‘Happy’ because he is a happy man. A very good man who was never angry

with anyone,” Sophal said.

With both restaurants, side by side and looking so alike, many casual diners don’t

realize that the two are separate entities.

Further confusion is created by the menus offering the same fare and by the fact

that some people recognize the staff from working in PPs.

There was one difference and that was the prices. Happy Herbs was a dollar or fifty

cents cheaper on most items. But that sparked off a price war and now PP has dropped

its prices too.

Although there is no love lost for former boss Mr. Graham, the war ends at prices

when it comes to the staff next door.

“We still have some friends working next door. They know their restaurant won’t

last and some want to join with us. But we have enough staff,” Lay said.

Happy Herb’s Pizza is also open for breakfast with a European smorgasbord, offering

Spanish omelets, French toast, English muffins, along with bagels and cream cheese,

home fries and cookies.

The only minor problem the Post had was the salami, it was slightly better next door.

But that’s a small price to pay for the digestive comfort of knowing you have just

had an ideologically sound meal, with no question of the staff exploitation.

Okay, it’s not as ideologically sound as La Casa, where the profits go to an orphanage.

But Happy Herbs is a lot nearer the center of town. And there’s a limit to how much

ideology you can take when you’re hungry.

Sophal said he thought they would still be in business after UNTAC’s departure.

“There’s still the NGOs, business people and tourists. And our costs are low,

we are the owners but we are also the staff,” he said.

And maybe Khmers will develop a taste for pizza. “One of our mothers came to

eat with some friends the other night and she enjoyed the pizza,” Sophal said.

Kevin BarringtonNational

https://phnompenhpost.com/national/khmers-go-slice-pizza-action/

The tropical sun warm shower washing away the red dirt of Khmer Rouge zones

Man I miss those showers.

The water heated by the sun, washing away that orange dirt picked up from a long day travelling the contours of some contested zone. Government probing Khmer Rouge or Khmer Rouge chasing them. It's all fluid. You gotta be all pert, senses on high alert, locked on, focussed. Then the sun sinks, saying enough for today. So it's back to whatever refuge you have found, hotel, hovel, brothel. And then that shower. Drencher or bucket and scoop, heavenly. The Grand in Siem Reap, like an ageing silent film star, was shabby but still echoed of elegance. It  clung to illusions of grandeur, confident of a comeback.  And all that down to that marvellous Swiss manager - Rudolf was it? - who would do anything to help you and help get your story out, a big deal in those pre-mobile days. The unusual one was him recommending you hit the bath tub if shit hit the fan. Was the only guest in the place for the later three of the six day UN poll in 93. The hotel was packed on day one with global stars and Japanese with almost coffin sized satellite phones. Theywould be outside the hotel trying to align with the gods as I walked out and headed to UN Military Observer office where I would ask to use the phone. I would dictate the copy and an hour later as I entered the Grand my wealthy colleagues were still searching for celestial contact. Then on day one over 85% of the population voted and the Khmer Rouge's odd rocket fire went without dramatic casualties. By day three the stars were bored and the gods were remote. So everyone bailed. I mean everyone. This was The Shining but dreaming of Michelin stars. Walking alone down those colonial corridors heading to bed, it felt like pure Conrad. If the heat wakes you, you sleepwalk to the shower. Then breakfast comes with me sitting by myself being attended to by about 10 staff. And there was a bar. What more could an apprentice foreign correspondent ask for? Spent day 6 touring the temples without seeing a soul. Not even a coke seller. When I got back late afternoon I thought the sun had got to me. I thought I heard voices coming from the bar. A good few of them. And this is getting trippy, They sound Irish. I stroll into the bar to discover three Irish policemen and three Irish election supervisors. So we had a drink. And then another. And many more. Then it was time for a shower, And dinner. At least the guest to staff ratio was now 1:2  as opposed to 1:10.  Oh yeah, I was getting paid too.

I Pity The Poor Immigrant. Basra Marshes, Joyce in Farsi and opium in Singapore

 Draft

I recall with equal parts shock n pleasure when a group of Iranians I was staying with walked me into one. a den, albeit down at heel, in Singapore of all places in 92. I had arrived worried about chewing gum, didnt expect poppy gum. One of my Iranian mates cautioned: "Kevin just because there's an ocean doesnt mean you should drown." These dudes were buying gold n cameras etc to smuggle into India with the cash they had made selling acid in Japan. Two had fought in the Basra marshes and had to caution with a slap a Bangladeshi student who called them bad Muslims. After the slaughter they had witnessed, they were a tad sick of his kind. A couple of others, one a judo Olympiam and the other a chess champion, just wanted to get to Canada n lead conventional lives. But they were doomed by passport n forced to be transients, hip to every scam going in 90s Asia. Educated n razor sharp, they were scintillating company. But that passport was a one way palookaville. And it introduced me to the concept of people in exile.

The old Iranian I met in a Malaysian dorm I deemed ancient. But I reckon he was younger than me now. It took several encounterz over as many in the cheap hostels of Asia's backpacker circuit to piece togethet his story. 

Surf's Up and Genocide with Bob Dylan's Son in 90s Cambodia

 It was a normal busy day at the AFP Phnom Penh bureau. The generator was acting up so the door was open in a forlorn hope of a breeze. No breeze but suddenly commotion. The guard opens the front gage and a blue Toyota taxi drives in. Nothing really unusual about that. Bat the two surfboards on the roof. It was 1994 in Cambodia and the Khmer Rouge insurgency still raged throughout the country. Nobody was surfing and as we all know, Charlie don't surf. Two guys jump out of the taxi and start unpacking the boards. It's Chris Riley, a regular visitor to the office and a mate of his from LA. They walk in and Chris introduces me to his friend; "Kevin Barrington this is Sam Dylan." I look up from the keyboard where I am belting out a story to meet a deadline and I see this taciturn guy with curly hair and a reserved demeanour. Instantly I think this is Bob Dylan's son. I raise and eyebrow to Chris and he subtly nods. 

It's Dylan's son.

Jesse is there with Chris who is helping out Doug Niven, the AFP photographer, with a grim project.

As the Khmer Rouge revolution descended into violent paranoia and started to turn on itself cadre from local to ministerial level were dragged into the secret prison in Phnom Penh and tortured until they confessed their counter-revolutionary sins. Attached to their confessions was a B/W photograph. These were grim photos of condemned men and their wives and kids.

You can tell from the photos that the victims knew the fate that awaited them.

Some stare in terror, some in total bewilderment that the revolution they sacrificed their lives for was now going to kill them and some, not many, with a look of defiance.

These were spooky photos. They gave you a chill.

The negatives themselves however were rotting in the tropical heat and humidity. So Doug and Chris and various friend decided to clean them up and preserve them for history. Chris and Doug set up a non-profit for the task the Photo Archive Group

And they were doing this in the large AFP office where I was the  Cambodia correspondent.

They cleaned the negs, they printed them, they hung them up and eventually they produced a book of the harrowing photos.

They quickly ran out of wall space in the photographer's part of the ground floor bureau and so the victims started to slowly creep into my office.

There was no shortage of horror in early 90s Cambodia and my job ensured I remained aware of that. A traumatised people with easy access to the weapons of more made more plenty of grisly crime stories. Shoot outs were common and jilted lovers threw grenades the way others threw fists. And that was in the cities. Up country landmines ravaged limbs. Khmer Rouge atrocities were constant giving cover to rogue government units who kidnapped and killed with impunity. Come the dry season battles would break out in north and northwest Cambodia and the government tried to take advantage of the dry terrain to move troops and tanks up to try and seize Khmer Rouge bases. Faced with superior odds, the guerrillas would normally slip back into the jungle and launch ambushes and harry supply lines. Then when government troops got complacent and demoralised and their commanders were more concerned with grabbing loot than manning perimeters, the guerrillas would counterattack, generally with Thai military assistance, and would often rout government forces many times their size.

The stick didn't seem to be working well. The carrot fared better. Khmer Rouge units started to come out of the bush from 93 onwards. Then in 96 their former foreign minister and the one with the sharpest grasp of the goings on in the outside world, Ieng Sary did a deal with the government in Phnom Penh that he would stay on as governor of his resource rich region and could continue to sell timber and gems to the Thai military. All he had to do was to stop the several thousand battle hardened guerrillas in his zone from attacking the government. Instead they would plead allegiance to the government in Phnom Penh. This split the movement in two and was the writing on the wall for the ultra-nationalist movement. There was only the Anlong Veng faction left and even there Pol Pot was ailing and his comrades were turning on him. Still lethal but the Khmer Rouge was imploding. With Pol Pot's death 

But back to Jesse. He worked in Hollywood. Very successful by all account. He had just produced 

American Pie 3. 

He Takes Her Up The Isle.

Hmmm.

Daddy's writing Simple Twist of Fate. Son is taking her up the aisle.

Now I had a relatively famous father. A constitutional lawyer, a Supreme Court judge.

That was a bit of a burden.

But what is like when daddy steals the preserves of youth; when daddy is cooler than son.

Even Jacob may have thought he got free when he released his acclaimed Wallflowers album.

Then daddy drops Time Out of Mind.

So I feel for Jesse.

And I get on with my job.

Then a few days later the photographer finishes early and he and Chris and Jesse and a few others are having a vodka and a joint.

It's a slow news day so I join them.

And I, a huge Dylan fan, sit there thinking that it must be rough to be the son of a global icon etc but the counter voice in the head is going 'this is your show here, he is staying in your office,  you won't be disrespectful etc'.

So I have a drink. I take a toke.

And

"Jesse what's your old man up to these days?"

The room goes silent.

A second passes.

"Still touring," he replies.

Still touring.

Kind of perfect really.

DYLAN ROUGH AND ROWDY WAYS DUBLIN 2022

Heading in to Bob's stunning show. And we got Bob and we got multitudes and we got more. Meanwhile he pulled off his lifelong ambition, he separated the dancer from the dance. The most striking aspect of the gig was the fact that it was meta, if not anti rock n roll. We were way past all that. First impressions: the minimalist stage setting. The 30s art-deco-ish lighting. The jazz like layout of the musicians. Yeah sure Bob is centre stage but hidden behind an upright piano. No spotlights. No icons. None of that jazz. We're above the show. Magpie stealing all the shiny stuff. Hovering over a century's entertainment. Popping down to pluck all that's precious. And that's what Bob did. He was at 81, finally free. He didn't feel the need to deface his own work. Tonight at 3Arena he was going to embrace. And that he did. And it was magical. From the first notes. And Dylan's voice at 81 was startling. vital and always bleeding meaning. And we had so many Bobs it was disconcerting. We had balladeer, burnt out Bob, crooner, poetic Dylan, love song maestro. Ah stop it, stop it stop it Bob. This is too much. Way too many yous. Bob Dylan, do you know something? You contain multitudes. And more. As did the band. The usual suspects. With Tony Garnier hitting what must be 30 years. This band is effortlessly stunning. You gotta be if you're with Bob. If you are going to raid a musical century's lost ark, then you gotta know those Indiana moves. You gotta take out the Nazis. And these band dudes, they know the score. And all the scores. They just don't make a big deal about it. No grimacing guitar. No cliche. it's just all in a day's work; just presenting genius. Yes you heard me right. Genius. This gig deconstructed the whole rock n roll icon show. While joyously putting rock n roll in its place in the musical cannon. Alongside jazz and blues. And chanson. And performance poetry. And whatever you are having yourself. Dylan at the end of his game, at the height of his game, showed us all the pieces. Stop looking at me and listen, he so divinely sang. We won't play that silly encore game. We'll just the end the show like adults. Bob, I get it. I get it. I really do. But bad news for you. It just makes you so much more fascinating. Keep it going you angel headed hipster. We need more lights in the night

AFTERNOON TEA WITH THE KHMER ROUGE

 Interviewing newly arrived Khmer Rouge defectors up towards Phnom Kulen, Siem Reap 95. Pic by Liz Gilliland...Follows Crossing the Tonle Sap post

I
To put this in context, it was the day after the trip across Tonle Sap. Liz and I spent the night in the Grand Hotel. She probably would not have noticed but I was agitated. I didn't know what to do about the previous day as I felt we were being manipulated when the gov delegation went: "See there's no prison." And there's me thinking "Out here you don't need walls." But wire services weren't interested in me thinking, they just wanted my facts. So Liz and I go out for dinner. And we bump into the co-minister of defence and a whole load of gov officials. They were presiding over a kind of youth militia/boy scout like function. And there were about 200 kids there, all about 16. All were introduced to Liz and me. In groups of two.It took about half an hour and felt truly absurd. Less absurd was the news that a large group of Khmer Rouge guerrillas was defecting up towards Phnom Kulen the next day. Bingo. I could get a good story. So the gov delegation and armed escort were heading off at 6.30am and we were invited to join them. But nice hotel, heady fresh romance and 6.30am. One of these things is not like the others. So waltzing out of the hotel after 9, I start berating myself to dump the romance and don the professional head. Anyhow I find a driver. He is very shocked when he finds out the lovely couple don't want to see the temples. No they want to go up the mountains to meet the Khmer Rouge. After I wave dollars, promise the presence of government troops and swear to our safety, we take off. As we leave recognisable landmarks behind, it starts to feel a bit tense. The driver is looking rattled. Liz isn't. But there again she not travelled that much in guerrilla zones.. All I know is that there is safety somewhere ahead of us. But there were also a lot of Khmer Rouge in the area and not all of whom could be banked on as about to defect. Just as I was thinking maybe this is not a good idea, we pull into a military base about 11am. That's our white car in the pic. The gov group is really surprised to see us. They had written us off at 6.30am. They are now having lunch. They are knocking back the Johnny Walker. And they are laughing at the idiots who drove up without a military escort. Suddenly there's commotion. State tv cameras appear. The whiskey bottles are removed. The Khmer Rouge have arrived, fresh out of the jungle. Scary looking mofos. I hustle an interpreter. With some of them you don't need a translator. The look is clear. I would like to kill you slowly and do unspeakable things to that blonde in the mini skirt. Yeah. Got you guys. Thanks. Others testify to the simple truths of a decades old conflict. Why did you join the Khmer Rouge? Not a mention of Mao or agrarian reform. No, it was cos I came from this village, talking about somewhere deep in the boondocks. So deep that none seemed to have cigarettes. They were smoking ganja. They were tired of fighting. They were tired of the jungle. 
They wanted blondes in mini skirts.
Or a variant thereof.
One geezer with a very old rifle deserved a campaign medal or two. He had fought the French with the Khmer Issaraks in the 50s. The defection of this group of 150 didn't mean there were no Khmer Rouge left to hassle us on the way back so it was time to go. We had a two hour drive ahead of us. And the same rule applied that had applied to all conflicts in SE Asia over the past 50 years or more. Get off the road by dusk. By dusk we were in the Grand Hotel carpark dealing an irate driver. He was looking for some vast amount cos we had taken way way out of his comfort zone. He had a point. It was dodgy. And no-one else deserves to die for my ambition. As well as that I was looking forward to few beers with Liz as soon as I got my story out. So I paid him double. And strange for a feature like piece, it made the front page of Bangkok Post the next day. I was being congratulated so I was able to drop the issue of the secret prison. I just filed it in my memory as the best's day's tourism I had in my life. And it's still up there. Secret or otherwise.

PEAKY FUCKING BLINDERS

 

Jesus that Peaky Blinders movie is terrible nonsense. There again I never liked the series. Nor opiated steam punk in general.

Nick Cave crooning or not.

Throw in the Fontaines, Lankum, Massive Attack etc with Banksy doing the call sheets and thieving gypsy swine robbing his art, it's still nonsense.

Anyhow a gypsy girl's bed beckons with a fine pipe of opium.

"Ah don't read me hand love, the CT scan yesterday said all good."

Seriously though does anyone with a brain actually like this tragically hip nonsense?

It has all the authenticity of a video game.

And seems designed for bedroom dwellers destroyed by weed,

With irate mothers shouting from below.

Me?

I'd sooner be Buckfasting to Abba.

MAGA MEL CAN PACK A PUNCH AND PULL A CHICK

Fucking Mel Gibson. Trump got him his gun back. So now Mel can take over from Clint as the Don't Fuck With Me Octogenarian. Pack a punch, pull the women and get a Cialis assist quasi philosophical hard on.

UH AH. UH AH

USA USA USA.

Deport the gooks.

But Mel is your visa in order? Doesn't matter. Mel is honorary MAGA. He embodies the Magawood trinity;Woods, Voight and Eastwood. But at times Clint did make our day. He could go beyond "grey hair can kill on the srreet and in the bedroom" trope and could occasionally drop some entertaining dope.

Whereas Mel is a non-stop twitchy.

Pure Vietnam vet with gooks permanently in his perimeter.

I'd prefer the Mayans myself, with jaguars, blow darts and chill blow jobs. Mel still had it back in those Inca days. But then he went and got himself hung up. Seems he couldn't get over getting crucified.

The crown of thorns.

The vinegar.

The spear jab.

Barabas blathering on.

Betrayed by the Jews.

Who else? says Mel.

So now he is out for revenge.

Is he ever otherwise?

Taking down Hollywood. One shit movie after another.

That'll teach the yids.

UH AH old men slay the babes.

As for the movie, whatever the fuck it is called, don't watch it.

Don't watch any of them.

Well you can start at Gallipoli and end in Guatemala.

Forget the rest.

If we all ignore Mel, he might calm down and act his age.

Put down the AR 15 and pick up bridge.

LEONARD COHEN AND THE PINK CASHMERE CUNTS

Rory Gallagher was my first rock gig. In the  stadium in 77. And it was good. Afghani black, check shirts and McCardles Ale good. But the second was on another dimension entirely. The dark witty sombre timbre of Leonard Cohen in the boxing stadium reeking of home grown weed. The still stoic beauty of his deep sonorous voice. I then made it to all his gigs including the 7pm and 9pm shows in 88 - when Dublin was great until he went Omm and disappeared up a Buddhist mountain. It took 20 plus years before he reappeared a groovy cultural icon In Kilmainham. 

The clouds of homegrown gave way to champagne selling Citroën vans. And the earnest poets in dufflecoats were now trendy cunts in pink cashmere. But I spoke or shouted to Leonard "Please don't make us wait another 25 years."He took off his fedora, placed it over his heart and spoke back to me: "I don't think I have another 25 years in me."

Swoon.

Elvis orgasmic.

Beatles squeals.

I forgot the cunts in pink cashmere. And Gerry Adams behind. And sightings of Bertie Ahern. And the minister of something and his slightly alarmed missus sitting beside me in the front row and probably the rightful owners of the empty seat I had just colonised, Klaus Kinski in Fitzcaraldo like. I try:

"I might not have a ticket but I have a right."

But the humourless bouncer from Northern Ireland didn't agree. And wasn't hip to Herzog.

Leonard was now mid song and probably too preoccupied to save me.

Apparently the show wasn't all about me.

So with bouncer forehead almost kissing my nose, I left the front row to the pink cashmere cunts.

And discreetly claimed an empty seat in row 4.

Beggers, choosers.

And so there was beauty. And he was wonderful. You could waltz with his generosity of spirit and his true sense of delight at performing and at being received in such an adoring manner.

Here's to Buddhism.

He went up the mountain.

And he truly transcended worldly goods.

In other words his manager spent all his money.

So he had to dump the saffron and sushi.

And hit the road, Jack.

Then once he was on it, it seemed he couldn't stop coming back.

Once more and more.

Until cancer and the armies of old age threw up insurmountable barricades.

It was all very sad and moving.

But I preferred the pre Armani days.

Just Leonard alone strumming a guitar with his deep deep voice weaving a hypnotic spell of barbituate beauty.

Sadness so deep it shimmered.

That was my Leonard.

"I found a silver needle

I stuck it into my arm

It did some good

It did some harm

But the night was cold

And it almost made me warm

How come the night is long."

That Lorca like lyricism.

That was my Cohen.

Sure I was thrilled to see in the black Armani, surrounded by female beauty and him, bizarrely, tinkling with.a synthesiser.

In lesser hands it could have been cocaine narcissism.

A total disaster.

But Leonard wasn't hanging with Warhol or sitting with Trump in Club 54.

No, he may have been in a glittering tower but he was talking to Hank Williams.

About what?

About how lonely it gets.

In the Heartbreak Hotel.

Lonely. 

Like back in the stadium.

Solo.

Strumming.

Singing.

Of tea 

And oranges.

Amidst the crystal silence.

And cabbage like reek of  homegrown.

Spellbinding.

As  he gets you

On his wavelength.

And he lets the river answer.

Did Trump dump the Kurds in exchange for Baghdadi's whereabouts?

 Has anyone ever thrown any light on what I suspect went down when Trump abandoned the Kurds and left them facing Erdogan's military might? Isn't it too much of a coincidence that Trump suddenly got news Baghdadi's whereabouts and was able to try rival Obama's Bin Laden coup by taking out Baghdadi who "died like a dog." We all know the vast extent of Trump's Obama obsession. And Baghdadi was holed up in the Turkey adjacent Idlib province. Idlib was ruled by the Turkish backed rebels who have just ousted Assad. So it would have been hopping with Turkish spooks. And Erdogan's son had loads of ISIS contacts as he sold their oil. So Erdogan would have known the whereabouts of the ISIS boss. So I reckon Trump happily dumped the Kurds as a favour to Erdogan and got Baghdadi's whereabouts as thanks. Needless to say, this is just my gut talking. But like Trump, I got good guts. I got the best guts. As for the Kurds who had endeared themselves to the progressive left, well they got a lesson in the perils of trusting Uncle Sam. Trump certainly doesn't like armed militant female forces. You wouldn't be grabbing the YPG women by the pussy. But still the YPG joined a long list of betrayed US client forces abandoned to a merciless fate.

DON'T FUCK WITH THE MAN FROM ATLANTA

Back in the day I used to use Coca Cola as a travel guide or a remote barometer eg how far beyond Coca Cola have we gone. Only ever made it to a day. And that was a Khmer Rouge controlled zone in northwest Cambodia in the early 90s. And the barrier was as much ideological as it was geographical. To get some serious clicks in, you really need to hit the Congo - like the dude who wrote the book retracing Stanleys' footsteps searching for Dr Livingstone. It was some weird trip. And truly bizarre, he noted, was the fact that it was the grandparents en route who remembered "progress" as in motorways and railroads. For the kids, the jungle was back impeding the progress of Coke. In a vivid scene, the author is hacking through the bush when "clang" - his machete hits metal, it's the Belgian rail track concealed underfoot. Trains probably brought more wine and mineral water. But the Coke would have rode in on the back of the new CIA friendly political landscape following the assassination of the Congo's new nationalist Prime Minister Patrice Lumumba. But back to Blood River and the author is taking to a canoe. He's going up river. It's dark. It's hot. The jungle screams. Sayonara Cola. We're way past the DuLong bridge and you can feel him. Sweat, decay, disease. And him. Yeah him. Kurtz. Kurtz has turned his back on Coca Cola. A pox on it and all its carbonated bubbles. Blood River, well worth reading. Anyhow as you'll see, putting a few days between you and the treacly stuff is not for the faint hearted. It's hardcore. For most people it's an academic idea, a folly The shit's ubiquitous and Musk plans vending machines on Mars. But talking about ideological barriers to Coke's conquest. I recall an Asian businessman opening up a Coca Cola bottling plant in Cambodia in the very early 90s as the last one - if the movie the Killing Fields is to be believed - was destroyed as the Khmer Rouge tightened its grip on the capital dooming Phnom Penh to inevitable fall. So here we are 28 years later and someone is trying to get the sweet black stuff flowing again. The main problem, however, was not the Khmer Rouge as Mr Coca Cola was not targeting the more remote provinces where the guerrillas were pridedominant. He was going for the population centres that the KR harried but didn't control. So security would be tight around the big towns and cities with checkpoints everywhere, manned by government soldiers who, if they saw any salary at all, were paid a pittance. So these bored underpaid grunts high on rice whiskey - the sort of shit that takes from sober straight to psychotic without pausing at drunk - and packing serious firepower would see the big bright red truck chugging towards them. Holy consumerism. It's Christmas for kids. And nirvana for Buddhists just to be culturally sensitive. It's the winning ticket. It's the shakedown of shakedowns. Captain America is here with his big fat chequebook. Hey you dumped all those bombs on us, now it's time to drop some dime and some dollar, Dolla, dolla, dolla. Love you long time. Break open a bottle. So we got a gang of kids with AKs. And they got Capt America, got him at gunpoint. Something has gotta give. Back in Phnom Penh Mr Coca Cola ends appealing to the then Prime Minister Hun Sen - himself former Khmer Rouge who bailed when the revolution started to eat its young and who just recently kindly handed over the reins of power to his young, his son, Hun Manet. "Stop the shakedowns," Coke pleaded. it was crippling, the show. was going flat. He threatened shutdowns or closure just as Cambodia was trying to sell peace and stability to investors. The pesky Khmer Rouge kept screwing with that script. So Cambodia Inc certainly did not need the added problem of rogue government soldiers shaking down businessmen especially if they had already been shook. They had paid already, paid on entry. So...Atlanta, we got a problem. But time is on the side of the bubbles. At this stage of the game, that sticky, messy shit is all over the wheels of time, if not progress. So money is on the bubbles cos it is coming. Better not be in the way. By the late 90s the Khmer Rouge has imploded. They were out of harmony, someone said. Then Pol Pot himself died in 98 and was cremated on a mound of old rubbish. It's all over now baby blue. It was a shabby swansong to a spectacular genocide and a low key but dedicated civil war. Coke is here now. The guerrillas as well as rogue government troops and shakedown artists would all be swept up and vacuumed up by the greater power of a gangsta capitalist government. Meet the new boss. He ain't talking Mao or Marx. Nah. he's just speaks fluent dollar. AK in one hand, Coca Cola bottle in the other. Two of the biggest icons of the 20th century. Click click. Now I know we would all like to teach the world to sing. 

In perfect harmony. 

Grow apple trees. 

And honey bees. 

Not to forget those snow White turtle doves. 

But sing along there suckers. 

Here's the real thing: 

Don't fuck with the man from Atlanta .

Tonle Sap -fox hole woman's touch

Hey Liz Facebook just threw these up again. And it brought back a funny scene when we were visiting the government troops who were dug in deep on that little island. In one of the fortified fox holes you spotted these bracelets and amulets hanging up with the AKs. And when you went to examine them close up all the grunts freaked out. Cos apparently the amulets were blessed by the monks and they were the spiritual version of kevlar. But while the amulets could stop a Khmer Rouge bullet they, like me at the time, could not withstand the touch of a Memphis lady. And they lost their juju. Thankfully we were leaving so we never got to see the veracity or otherwise of this belief.. Nor did we have deal with their ire at being left spiritually bereft when incoming started coming.. We were off on our merry way in our heavily armed convoy. Next stop was a different genre of danger. It was as an 🐊   farm way out in the lake. I remember walking on pens with dozens of alligators below. Then the action packed evening with the defense and information ministers at the youth militia event. Then I have a hazy memory of a nightclub. And that wailing Khmer beat. No surprise we blew getting up at 5.30 next day. Anyhow in retrospect it was morally fitting that we were late to meet the Khmer Rouge.

1,000 dollar phone calls, threatening communist officials, amputee cigarette smugglers and rice whiskey in the boondocks - the endless hassle of a wannabe war correspondent.

Was just looking at some pix of the faded splendour of 1990's Phnom Penh and its Post Office district. And it brought this old yarn back to mind:

I remember trying to use the phones in the Post Office in 1990 to try and hustle some reporting work from Ireland's national broadcaster and the Irish Times. Things had gone south when a certain Mr Saddam Hussein decided to go on a Kuwaiti jaunt within the same hour I crossed from Vietnam into Cambodia. Anyhow undeterred I took my ass to the PO and tried ringing. But the phones were routed through Russia. And other voices would appear on the crackling line. Just felt doomed. So I took my dejected ass down to the newly opened Cambodiana Hotel. And Eureka - I thought - there was a satellite phone. The only problem was it was 25US a min or part thereof. Fuck it man, no-one ever said this was gonna be easy. So I ring the two media organisations and ask them to ring me back. I reckon I have taken a hit of 150 bucks. The radio calls and promptly says if you get anything more interesting call back. Then comes the foreign editor of the Irish Times, a very talkative man. He is looking for the lay of the land etc how the war is progressing and tells me to stay in touch. So much for that. I ask the lovely lady how I owe. She replies 990US. It was 15 dollars a min incoming too. I had 1000 US in cash total on me. Another 2 thousand in traveller cheques. I offer the hotel lady traveller cheques. She says they don't accept them in Cambodia. I owe my cyclodriver a couple of bucks, the hotel/brothel where I am reluctantly staying 20. So I'm in trouble. As a man does when in trouble, I go for a drink with the cyclo driver, And I explain we need a Chinese Khmer and I need to calm down. Cos there was a bang of desperation off me. Not what you need when bargaining with a Chinese Khmer. Song the cyclo, who was the AFP office manager on my next rodeo in Cambodia two years later, takes off. We find a guy in a hotel by the market. He offers me 95 on a 100. In the situation I felt blessed. So I decide to try and head upcountry to do some war reporting.But the Foreign Ministry press crew wanted 2,000 for a two day one night trip with military escort and interpreter up to frontline Kampong Thom. And when I started to back out I got a lecture about the "enemies within" and a not so subtle threat that I would be locked up if I left town without permission. I was also asked to come and write an account of what I did and whom I talked to every day. Classic communist shit. Needless to say I ignored the demands. Then that evening I went into a restaurant where there was a bright young guy I would talk to. But he was avoiding me. Then as he passed, he stopped briefly to apologise and say that his parents had told to stop talking to me, that it was too dangerous. So my dream of being a war reporter was being shot apart before my eyes. I told Song I had to bail and as the mission was a disaster, I needed to get out as cheap as possible. So we got a Vietnamese Moc Bai entry visa. Then he took me to the Saigon bus at 4.30 am. The driver wouldn't take me. He was too scared to have a foreigner on the bus. So we hit the communal taxis. And the taxi boys just wanted money. So off we went. On the ferry I met a dude who had been a driver for some US embassy type back in the day and had managed to survive. He insisted I go to his village to drink and speak English. It was still relatively early. So we took motos off into the boondocks. Word spread quickly of my arrival and people arrived in their dozens to look at what they guessed was a Soviet. That fucking rice whiskey. You go from sober to psychotic bypassing drunk. At this stage the brave kids were launching darting grabs on my leg hairs. The crowd had grown to several hundred onlookers. Even through the fame, booze and heat I clicked that time was moving on. No I can't stay the night. Wish I could. So a bike is rustled up. The driver, me, my backpack and my new embassy mate who has taken to planting wet whiskey kisses on the back of my neck. The erratic driving leads me to believe the Moto dude must have joined the village booze up. Turns out this chaos works in my favour. Cos the bored border guards are stunned to see a drunken foreigner arrive on a motorbike. Soon I am their friend too. Seems I am everyone's friend. But the embassy dude's whiskey is turning ugly and he doesn't like losing me, the centre of attention. I give the Moto dupe a few bucks worth of my remaining riel adding some more for whiskey when they return. But the embassy guy has turned. He has a nasty booze face on him. And he is demanding dollars. Loads of therm. Then my new friends the border guards tell him to fuck off. And I walk out of Cambodia and stroll into Vietnam. All very chuffed with myself. But it's dead. No traffic, nothing. I doze off in the heat and wake up to the sound of a car. It's a French doc with Medicin du Monde. He's a bit surprised to see me. And he offers me a lift. Everybody is my friend. But he is going to Phnom Penh. The border closes in just over an hour but I might as well gamble on staying. So off goes the doc. The Coca Cola girls give small lumps of ice to soothe my whiskey head. Not sure if mindfulness had been invented yet but I was just trying to enjoy the melting ice on my forehead and not panic about the setting sun. When in the distance a bus appears. About half a kilometre and an hour later the bus has entered Vietnam. And who's there but the same geezer who was scared to take me 12hours earlier. But now he is going with the "everyone is Kevin's friend" flow. I am invited onto the bus and offers of money are refused. I am fucking jubilant. We drive a kilometre and stop. And wait. The lovely mother and daughter beside me suggest I get an alternative means of transport. Pointing to the empty road I try to point out that there does not appear to be an alternative. But they knew what was in store. I didn't. We were waiting for the cigarette smugglers who had got off the bus before the border and crossed overland. This was our rendezvous point. Soon they descended with millions of cigarettes. Most them of injured soldiers former Saigon grunts. So they filled the bus up and tied many more millions to the roof. It's about 5.30pm. All I have had since 4.30am is whiskey and ice and sadly not together. We drive a kilometre and we come to a bridge. We can't pass cos there are too many smokes on top. So out the boys go and rearrange the show. Then we take off. Another kilometre and we hit a Vietnamese customs ambush. What's worse they have local news cameras with them making bribery unlikely. So everyone has to admit how many cigarettes they have and pay a tax on them. You can guess the next bit, the tax figures fall short. Now those lucky enough to have two arms and two legs and only one big box of smokes make a break for it. For the next 30 mins silhouetted against the setting sun are these weird shaped humans with massive big square heads and thin tiny bodies bounding across the rice paddy. They probably looked as weird as the US Troops with full equipment did a couple of decades before. Finally darkness consumes the fleeing cigarette dudes. But back on the bus, shit is going south. I had just been marvelling at the fabled Asian patience when it snapped. Crutches and prosthetic limbs were flying thought the air as the tax compliant fought the tax dodgers. The nice lady indicated this was why she was suggesting alternative transport. The sums and occasional fights went on for a few hours. It was after 9pm when we got moving again. And it was after midnight when we arrived in Saigon. Almost 21 hours. I remember thinking at least I had a story to tell when I reminded myself that my mission had been stories to sell not just tell. It took two years to financially regroup and come back and try again. Panned out a little better the second time.

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