Mr Nice: an autobiography (17 page)

We got into the car.

‘So, how’s about you? Did the academics on Brighton seafront like the nordle the Kid brought in?’

‘They’d never heard of you.’

‘You didn’t fucking tell them I brought it in, did you? You fucking Welsh arsehole.’

‘I’m kidding, Jim.’

‘I got no time for games, H’ard. You know that. There’s a fucking war on. Last Sunday, youse fucking Brits killed thirteen innocent Irishmen in cold blood. You think you got problems, man. I’ll give you some fucking problems. And that fucking John Lennon is dead meat.’

‘What’s he done, Jim?’

‘He promised to give a free concert in Derry, and I set it all up. Now, after last Sunday, he says he won’t fucking do it. He’s just going to write a fucking song about it. We got enough fucking songs, for fuck’s sake. It makes me look bad, man. All the kids on Derry’s streets were looking forward to it. I’m sending our Brendan to John Lennon’s house in St George’s Hill, Weybridge, to burn the fucker down. No one messes with the Kid. When’s Soppy Bollocks sending the
nordle? What’s the fucking hold-up? What the fuck does he think this is? Amateur night? I got things to do, man. I just got back from Amsterdam buying some guns for the Provos. That’s pressure, you understand me, a lot more fucking pressure than selling stamps and dresses.’

‘I don’t sell stamps and dresses. They’re fronts to satisfy the authorities.’

‘Fuck the authorities. Where the fuck are you at, H’ard?’

‘It’s security, Jim. It keeps them off my back. When I arrived at Cork today off the boat, I was asked what I was doing in Ireland. I said I was a stamp dealer specialising in 1922 overprints. It’s like using a false name or cover. You told me that was important.’

‘You’re right, H’ard. Security’s very important. Take one of these.’

He brought out a hand-held walkie-talkie.

‘This time we do things to military precision with the grace of a Mozart concerto. When I pick up the nordle from Shannon, I want you to be alone in the farmhouse with one of these walkie-talkies. When I’m on my way to you I’ll send you a coded radio message like “I’ve got the nordle.”’

‘What’s the point of that?’

‘So you’ll know precisely what time I’ll be delivering the nordle, you stupid Welsh cunt.’

‘Why do I have to know precisely? If I know to the nearest few hours, I’ll just stay at the farmhouse until you get there.’

‘H’ard, just do as you’re fucking told. I’ll be calling you on one of these walkie-talkies.’

Following McCann’s erratic directions, I drove us into the farmhouse grounds. The property was ideal for clandestinely stashing cars. We got out of the Ford Capri. McCann looked at it in disgust.

‘That fucking car sticks out here like a pork chop at a Jewish wedding.’

‘What did you expect me to come over in, Jim, a fucking tractor?’

‘Don’t be fucking facetious, H’ard. I told you this was a farming front operation.’

‘Well, the Ford Capri is an excellent car for hiding things. There are about fifty dirty movies under the back seat.’

‘About fucking time, Howard. I’ve been asking you for ages. Let’s take them into the house. We can watch one now.’

‘Do you have a screen and projector?’

‘Of course I fucking don’t. Since when does a farmhouse have those in it? You mean you didn’t bring any?’

‘I didn’t know you wanted to watch the movies here. You can buy them in Limerick, can’t you?’

‘I’ve told you before, H’ard, pornography is illegal in Ireland.’

‘Projectors aren’t pornographic. But if you have a problem, I’ll get one put in the next car to come on the ferry.’

‘See that you do that, H’ard. It’s important.’

I left Jim looking at the lavishly illustrated film boxes and drove to the nearest phone kiosk. I called Mandy. Graham had sent the ton load from Pakistan on Pakistan International Airways from Karachi to London, where it was booked on an Aer Lingus flight to arrive in Shannon that day. I took down the air waybill number. I went back to the Newmarket-on-Fergus farmhouse. McCann was holding up one of the 8mm pornographic films to the light trying to figure out the images. I gave him the particulars of the air waybill for the hashish load.

‘I’ll call you on the walkie-talkie at exactly 10 p.m. tonight,’ screamed Jim, and climbed into my Capri.

‘Don’t you fucking leave here, mind,’ he yelled out of the car window.

‘I can’t, Jim. You’ve got my car.’

Nothing happened at all until just after 10 p.m., when an inaudible crackling emitted from the walkie-talkie followed by a gentle Dublin accent whispering, ‘I can’t hear you, Jim. I’m not used to these gadgets.’

Then silence.

I heard vehicles in the far distance and opened the farmhouse door. Across the dark, deserted Irish landscape, I heard McCann’s voice yelling, ‘Pull the fucking aerial out, you idjit.’

My Capri was the first to pull up. Inside was an unassuming young man fidgeting with the controls of a walkie-talkie. Then a Volkswagen van pulled up. Inside was McCann, still yelling into a switched-off walkie-talkie, sitting in front of a ton of boxed-up Pakistani hashish.

‘Nothing but idjits, the fucking both of you. Let’s get these guns unloaded,’ ordered McCann.

We took the boxes into the farmhouse. McCann’s assistant drove off in the Volkswagen. Jim and I unwrapped a box. The hashish was excellent. We switched on the television. It was the news. The British Embassy in Dublin had been burned down.

‘Told you,’ said McCann.

Then it was
Gardai Patrol
, the Republic of Ireland’s equivalent to
Crimewatch
, the public’s chance to grass. A stern-faced Irish policeman appeared on the screen: ‘Some household equipment, electric kettles and toasters, have been stolen from O’Reilly’s in Sean MacDermot Street …’

‘Can you believe that, H’ard? We’re sitting on a ton of nordle worth a few hundred grand, and the cops are looking for fucking pots and pans.’

There were matters I now had to attend to in England: sending over empty cars and making arrangements for receiving full ones. I drove to the phone box and asked Marty to drive over another Ford Capri, bringing a projector and screen. McCann would wait guarding the hashish until he arrived. I flew from Shannon to Heathrow.

Apart from the members of the Tafia, other friends of mine had agreed to drive hashish from Ireland to England for a £2,000 fee. They included Anthony Woodhead, Johnny Martin, and several other university friends and their
wives. I sent two such academic couples over to Ireland to be met by Marty. I prepared the Winchester car repair shop and garage to receive and destash returning cars and flew back to Shannon.

When I arrived back at the Newmarket-on-Fergus farmhouse, two university lecturers and their spouses were sitting in the darkened living-room staring with horrified expressions at a projection screen displaying a farmgirl having intercourse with a pig. Standing just off-screen was McCann. He had his dick out and was masturbating. After vainly attempting to persuade my Oxford friends that the world hadn’t gone mad, Marty and I stashed their cars, and they set off. I flew back to Heathrow to supervise the destashing at Winchester. Graham had sensibly advised that I should no longer be actively involved in selling in London. I was already doing too much. He wanted James Goldsack to sell this load. I felt this was a bit unfair to Charlie Radcliffe, who had been instrumental in our meeting McCann and should, therefore, at least have some hashish to sell, but I went along with Graham. All 2,240 pounds of hashish were safely brought to Winchester and sold in London. I was £50,000 the richer, and everyone who had worked for me felt suitably rewarded.

My crude money-laundering structure in Oxford was cranked right up. AnnaBelinda ‘sold’ vast quantities of dresses every day. Dennis H. Marks, International Stamp Dealer, kept getting the most extraordinary good luck with ‘finds’ in his kiloware. Mythical individuals paid cash to Robin Murray Ltd., for their interior decoration. I had credit cards, life insurance, and many other trappings of an upwardly-mobile prick. To many, my parents included, I was a hard-working and successful straight businessman who had come back to his Alma Mater to make his fortune.

Friends now asked me for bigger loans. They claimed to have wonderful business ideas: all they needed was the capital. I was persuaded to pay for the purchase and shipping
from Rotterdam to England of ten tons of Dutch candles. As a result of the coalminers’ strike, there were severe power cuts and candles were at a premium. By the time the candles were ready to hit the streets, I had decided that my ethics would not allow me to weaken the impact of the coalminers’ strike. Virtually all the male members of my family either worked or had worked underground in the South Wales coalfield. There was a conflict of interest. The candle entrepreneurship lost, and ten tons of plain Dutch candles occupied the otherwise empty space in the basement under AnnaBelinda.

I was, however, sincerely attracted by one of my friends’ ideas. Denys Irving, the Balliol man who gave me my first-ever joint, had spent the last few years living in New York’s Greenwich Village, San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury, and other Meccas of the hip and cool. He had now married Jamaican actress Merdelle Jardine, and they lived in London in an enormous warehouse in St Katherine’s Dock. Denys had one clearly definable short-term goal: to produce a hit song entitled
Fuck You
. He’d already written the lyrics, the chorus of which was:

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.’