Howard Marks - Senor Nice: Straight Life from Wales to South America

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the authors and publishers rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Version 1.0

Epub ISBN 9781407092713

www.randomhouse.co.uk

Published by Vintage 2007

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

Copyright Nowtext Limited 2006

Howard Marks has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published in Great Britain in 2006 by Harvill Secker

Vintage
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA

www.vintage-books.co.uk

Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library

ISBN 9780099453932

The Random House Group Limited makes every effort to ensure that the papers used in its books are made from trees that have been legally sourced from well-managed and credibly certified forests. Our paper procurement policy can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/paper.htm

Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon, CR0 4TD

Contents

When a person endeavours to recall his early life in its entirety, he finds it is not possible: he is like one who ascends a hill to survey the prospect before him on a day of heavy cloud and shadow, who sees at a distance some feature in the landscape while all else remains in obscurity. The scenes people events we are able by an effort to call up do not present themselves in order but in isolated spots or patches, vividly seen in the midst of a wide shrouded landscape. It is easy to fall into the delusion that the few things thus distinctly remembered and visualised are precisely those which were most important in our life and on that account were saved by memory. Unconscious artistry sneaks in to erase unseemly lines and blots, to retouch, colour, shade, and falsify the picture.

Far Away and Long Ago , W. H. Hudson

One

THE SHOW Wherever I travelled, whatever scam or profession I was engaged in, I always returned to my birthplace Kenfig Hill: as an Oxford student on vacation, a source of pride to my parents and no doubt mystery and resentment to my friends; in the 1970s before skipping bail while awaiting an Old Bailey trial for smuggling tons of hashish in the equipment of rock bands such as Pink Floyd; in the 80s celebrating my acquittal, having been charged with importing fifteen tons of Colombian marijuana into the UK (I persuaded the court I was working for the Mexican secret service); in the 90s, having served a lengthy sentence at the maximum-security US Federal Penitentiary, Terre Haute, Indiana, to spend time with my parents, who had hung on to life just long enough to share my experience of freedom.Winter 2001. Paddington, looking like an airport with its check-in facilities, escalators and shopping malls, was wet and windy a foretaste of South Wales, to where its trains, on the hour every hour, were constantly bound. I bought a ticket to Bridgend, 200 miles away, gateway to the coal mining valleys and the nearest railway station to Kenfig Hill. Notices depressingly announced that all Great Western services were now strictly non-smoking. Outside the ticket office a conveyor belt of sushi and sashimi plates trundled around in front of delayed passengers. I sat down, took half a spliff out of my top pocket, lit it, and stared at the raw fish and rice whizzing around.Sorry, sir. No smoking, the sushi chef commanded abruptly.How could anyone purporting to be Japanese disallow smoking? Japan has always had the highest cigarette consumption in the world and the lowest rate of lung cancer, a fact I found most comforting.Are you Japanese? I asked the menacing, knife-wielding chef.Korean.Maybe that explains it.Irritated, even slightly enraged, I ambled off to the platform, got on the waiting train, and sat down at an empty table as the train began to fill with people off to see Wales play England at rugby at Cardiffs Millennium Stadium. Swt Mai , Howard? It was Gruff Rhys, lead singer and guitarist of the Super Furry Animals, on his way to Cardiff to record his next album. Going to see the folks or down for the match?No. Dads dead, and Mam is very ill. Shes living in Yorkshire now with my sister. And these days Ive completely lost faith in the Welsh rugby team. In the 1970s no one could beat us; now, we cant win a match.It must have been great back then. Did you play when you were at school?I was never any good, Gruff, but yes, I did.What position?Second row forward. In fact, two of the schools front row, John Lloyd and Geoff Young, went on to play for Wales and the British Lions when they beat the All Blacks.So youve had your head stuck between a couple of very famous arses.Thats one way of putting it, Gruff, but Im not here for sport; Im doing a show tonight at the Pavilion, Porthcawl.Yeah? Great! Can me and a couple of the boys come?Of course. Ill put you all down on the list. Diolch , Howard. Ill get us a couple of beers now.My rehabilitation has taken a curious path which never ceases to branch out in unexpected directions, of which one is a career as a stand-up comic. This evolved from fulfilling vaguely contractual commitments to promote and publicise my autobiography, Mr Nice , by appearing on TV and radio shows, being interviewed by book reviewers and other journalists, and reading passages from the book in bookshops. Many authors arrogantly take the view that their creative output speaks for itself and excuse themselves from such duties. I couldnt begin to take that risk and am a firm believer in blatant self-promotion, but I found it difficult to come to terms with bookshops as suitable venues for any event. First, the reading has to take place during normal working hours, when most of the staff want to get home and most of the potential punters cant attend. Second, the booze is in short supply and of poor quality. Third, the reading takes place against a background of all the competition, which seems to me an absurd marketing strategy. Admittedly, some bookshops go out of their way to create a sensible ambience at an appropriate hour, but generally book readings are sterile, boring affairs. Getting a laugh from the audience always helps, so I included as many funny passages as I could find. The reading would be followed by a question-and-answer session, which was invariably more stimulating than the reading itself.This was during the mid-1990s, when other writers such as Irvine Welsh, Nik Cohn, Roddy Doyle and Nick Cave were beginning to do readings in pubs and clubs. I attended a few and was encouraged to do the same, but I felt the authors invariably made two important errors: they would insist the bar till stayed inactive when reading so no booze could be purchased, and they would read passages precisely as they were written. Very few if any authors write prose with the thought that one day they might have to read it standing on a stage in front of an audience hell bent on having a good time. I modified my extracts severely, bearing the listeners in mind, and let the cash tills ring and the booze flow all night. It worked. Mr Nice did not draw a veil over my consumption of drugs and my desire to see them legalised, so much of each question-and-answer session was devoted to that topic. This suited me perfectly as probably for the first time in my life, I had a sincere social agenda. Organisations devoted to drug legalisation invited me to speak. Universities asked me to debate. At the end of each debate or talk I would be asked to sign copies of Mr Nice . It couldnt have turned out better if it had been planned: I could use the book readings to advance my social agenda and use my agenda to sell books.I did both talks and readings without charging it never occurred to me to even ask for a fee but in August 1997 I read at the Edinburgh International Book Festival and was approached afterwards by comedy promoters Avalon, who offered to finance a series of one-man shows and pay me 500 a gig. I agreed. Within a few months I had sold out at Shepherds Bush Empire more times than anyone except Abba. A year later, I did twenty-three consecutive shows at the Edinburgh International Festival. I enjoyed learning how to banter with audiences, battle with hecklers, cope with cock-ups and experiment with multimedia.But tonight would be the real test. I had to perform in front of a home crowd at the Royal Pavilion, Porthcawl, four miles from Kenfig Hill, where I was born. I was last there thirty-five years ago as one of a number of drunken yobs participating in an Elvis impersonators contest. I came close to last. Would they remember? I was now playing the part of a prison-hardened gangster in front of people who terrified me as a schoolboy. How could they possibly take me seriously? Worse still, the whole performance was going to be filmed for a Mr Nice DVD.Gruff stepped down from the train at Cardiff, lighting a cigarette as soon as his foot touched the platform. Twenty minutes later, I did the same at Bridgend and took a taxi to Kenfig Hill. The semi-detached house in Waunbant Road had been empty for just a few months, but already the home-made weathercock was dangling from the rotten chimney, and the front gate had almost come off its hinges. A carpet of decaying litter covered what used to be the front lawn. I knew there was a garage behind the brambles and ivy; I just couldnt see it. My key still turned the lock, but the damp door didnt want to open. I forced it and stumbled through a pile of mail to switch on the light then walked up the stairs and into the infinite familiarity of my parents bedroom, where fifty-five years previously I had first breathed in harmony with the universe. Now both my parents had gone. Just the house lived on. It couldnt stay empty forever; it would have to be sold or rented. No rush. First, it would need to be emptied of boxes and several generations of memorabilia but some other time. It was mid-afternoon, and cameraman Martin Baker, son of Welsh actor and director Stanley Baker of Zulu fame, was due any moment.The doorbell rang.Who is it?Martin.It wasnt Martin Baker but my oldest friend and first dope-smuggling employee, Marty Langford. I had been home for twenty minutes. Word gets around.Julie from the shop just told me you were home. Why didnt you call me? All this author and performer stuff has gone to your head, hasnt it? Put the kettle on, then. Im dying for a brew and a blast. Got anything decent?Ive got some excellent hash for a smoke, Marty, but theres no milk in the house for tea.I knew I should have bought some milk at Julies. And hash is no good for me, Howard. I dont smoke tobacco, and I cant be messing with pipes and buckets and things at my age. Havent you got any skunk?A bit, just a third of a spliff, actually. We could smoke it and go down the pub.What! For a cup of tea?I thought they sold everything in pubs now from Thai food to cappuccino.Not round here, Howard; its still just beer and crisps. But we might as well go down. I fancy a walk. Havent been for months and months. I usually stay in these days on the computer.The pub was a good twenty-minute walk. On our left we passed the furniture shop, once Kenfig Hills only cinema, and then the Institute, where we had been taught snooker by miners working nights and where I had first dared imitate Elvis in public. The skunk hit hard. Marty and I looked at each other and started giggling like the children we still were. On our right we could see the Prince of Wales and the old Victoria Inn, both smothered in scaffolding on account of their being converted into flats.When I was in my mid-teens Kenfig Hill had a population of just over 5,000, one church of Wales, one Roman Catholic church, four Welsh Nonconformist chapels Baptist, Presbyterian, Methodist and Welsh Congregationalist and nine pubs. Since then, housing estates and new streets have sprung up but the population is approximately the same; the accommodation is just less crowded. Television keeps the elderly at home while cars and motorbikes have enabled the young to get away from the prying eyes of family and neighbours. Accordingly, there are now two fewer pubs and one less place of worship. The chapel that bit the dust was the Welsh Congregationalist one, named Elim, the first chapel in Kenfig Hill. Members of my family attended Elim for several generations, preaching, deaconing, singing hymns and playing in the tiny orchestra, but lack of interest closed its doors a few years ago. At the tender age of ten, I was taken to Elim and introduced to the serious side of God. Until then he had been little more than a powerful Father Christmas figure from whom one occasionally asked for serendipitous gifts and various forms of assistance. Learning that God is everywhere at once and saw everything had conjured up the idea of a wonderfully active and clear-sighted person.Unlike my father, my mother was deeply religious, and she insisted I went to Sunday school in the afternoon and to either the morning or evening service. My mother also insisted my father went with her to the evening service. I hated both Sunday school and services. I opted to attend in the morning alone rather than go in the evening under the watchful eyes of my parents, partly to get the chore behind me, but mainly because I could get away with not going at all. I would leave the house at 10 a.m. and go to Martys place for an hour to chain-smoke cigarettes and listen to 78s on his impressive radiogram. Eventually I was grassed up by one of Martys neighbours and forced to attend the evening service.Thousands of unhappy Sunday walks flooded through my memory as Marty and I turned the corner at the Victoria Inn. This used to afford the first sight of Elim, a dull grey roof pointing hopelessly at heaven.See whats happened to Elim, Howard?Jesus!Elim Welsh Congregationalist Chapel had been replaced by red-brick houses surrounded by manicured gardens and little fences.That must mess with your memory circuits, Howard.I used to hate the place. I feel worse about the Vic being turned into a house.Cmon, there must be some good memories. Thats where you first got married, right, in 1967? On a Thursday, wasnt it?That was, indeed, a good memory. Loads of people turned up to witness my marriage to Latvian beauty Ilze Kadegis. It was followed by a hard-core drinking competition in Kenfig Hills pubs between the Welsh and visiting Latvians. Both sides definitely lost.Not only was Elim Chapel where I had lost my bachelorhood, it was also where I had lost my virginity some years earlier. This had happened on a Saturday.On Friday evenings during the early 1960, the vestry of Elim Welsh Congregationalist Chapel served as the only youth club in the community. This weekly transformation was achieved by pushing the pews and chairs to the side, placing a Dansette record player on a bench, and setting it to continuous full volume. I and other village teenagers brought our 78s, and taught each other to jive before snogging and smoking in the dark rooms and cellars adjoining the vestry. As I was one of the very few kids who was both a member of the youth club and the chapel, I was entrusted with the keys, and it was my duty to go there every Saturday morning to tidy up.On one particular Friday, a new girl, Susan Malone, whom I had asked for a date a few days before, came to the club. I went up to her and asked her to dance just as the Shirelles were singing those very same words. We jived furiously to Danny and the Juniors At the Hop, then moved into one of the unlit rooms for a frantic snogging session that left us breathless but wanting more, lots more. I asked if I could walk her home, and she agreed with far more enthusiasm than I had expected. Susan lived in a caravan and was the daughter of an Irish construction engineer who had just started a three-month contract at Port Talbot. I secured another date for the next afternoon, but I had no idea where to take her. It was bound to be raining, and we were too young for the pubs. Overnight I had a brainwave. I would leave the club-tidying chore until the afternoon and take Susan with me.We sneaked into the damp vestry. Cigarette butts and sweet wrappings littered the wet floor, but the chapel was much warmer, ready for Sundays services. I switched on the organ and, out of respect, played some classical chords. Then I played The Twist. We lay down on the front pew. And then I shagged her. We had a few more dates over the next month, after which she left the locality as suddenly as she had arrived.Shall we go to the Oak, Howard? The Masons has just been pulled down.Marty and I walked into the public bar of the Royal Oak. We were completely ignored; everyone was transfixed by the rugby match on television. Wales lost; nevertheless, the pub would still stay open continuously for two days and play host to hundreds of tales of successful and heroic Welshmen, past and present. As the drink flowed, the tales got taller.Well, now they finally have the proof, said Eddie Evans, the village sage. Elvis was Welsh.You mean Tom Jones, dont you, Eddie, said Ivor Prior, who loved to catch Eddie out. And you are right, Eddie. Tom was born in Treforest. His real name is Tommy Woodward.Im not talking about him. Im talking about the real original Elvis, Elvis Presley.How do you mean, Eddie? I asked.Well, its obvious, isnt it? His mothers name was Gladys, and theyve now found out that his surname a few generations back was Preseli, same as the mountains in Pembroke where the stones in Stonehenge come from.But Elvis is hardly a Welsh name, Eddie, I protested, a little discomfited to hear that my gods grandfather might have been a neighbour of my grandfather.Of course it is, Howard. I thought you would have known that, having been to Oxford. Elvis was the name of the bishop who baptised our patron saint, St David. The parish of Elvis still exists. Its very small, but its definitely there. No doubt at all. Its not far from St Davids itself, which, as you should know, is the smallest city in the world.How did they move those bloody huge stones from Pembroke to Salisbury then, Eddie? Theres a question for you, said Ivor Prior.Theres two theories. One is they were taken by boat; the other is that the great wizard Merlin moved them. Take your choice, Ivor.How the hell can a boat get to Salisbury? Its not even on the coast.Ever heard of rivers, Ivor?Theres no river from Pembroke to Salisbury, Eddie, said Ivor a little uncertainly.Obviously not, but there is a river from Pembroke to the bloody sea, and there is another river from the bloody sea to Salisbury.The pub liked this explanation.Merlin was Welsh, added Eddie.Doesnt sound like much of a Welsh name, teased Ivor. Youre not getting mixed up with Mervyn, are you?Merlin is what the bloody French call him, explained Eddie. His real name was Myrddin, and he was born in Carmarthen, which is shortened from Caer Myrddin. He died near there as well, after ruling the roost for a bit at Stonehenge. Awful boy he was too.In what way, Eddie? I asked.Well, just think a bit about it. Merlins father was the Devil. His mother was a virgin. And he ends up telling Arthur, the ruler of the first Christian kingdom, how to run the country. Dont forget Camelot was very close to here in Caerleon, just by Newport, in fact.Thats really interesting, Eddie. I wish I could stay and listen to more, but Id better go now. Im doing a show tonight at Porthcawl.As if we didnt bloody know that already, said Eddie. The whole village has been talking about bugger-all else. Why anyone should pay good money to listen to you chopsing on a stage about smoking weeds is beyond me. What a waste of an Oxford science education. What a bloody waste!Would you prefer I was a nuclear physicist, Eddie? I said walking to the door.Youve got a point. No, Im only joking. Good luck tonight, boy bach . Break a leg, as your understudy might say. Thats where the saying came from you know: a Welsh actor was once performingMarty and I left. Eddies voice receded as my mobile picked up several voice messages: Martin Baker was waiting in his car in Waunbant Road; Christine from Lloyds asked if she could have twelve tickets to give the bank staff; Polly, the areas best skunk grower for the last ten years, wondered if she should bring some buds along tonight; Leroy, my Jamaican friend from Terre Haute prison and current security man, had called from Birmingham to say he had got lost driving from London but knew the way now; and Kelly Jones of the Stereophonics asked if I could ring him back.Hi, Kelly. Howard here.All right, butt? Tell you why I called: I heard you were doing a show tonight.Thats right. You want to come along?Aye, but any chance of another ticket as well, like? I can have a lift down then.Kelly is one of the countrys highest-paid rock stars and could probably have a fleet of limousines on twenty-four-hour call without noticing the cost, but you cant take the valleys out of that boy. It was hard enough getting him out of the valleys.No worries, Kelly. You can have more if you want.No, two is fine, butt. Thanks, How. Good luck for the show.Hello, Polly. Just got your message. Everything all right?Oh hello, Howard. Yes, everything is fine, thanks. Do you want me to bring something along tonight?Of course.Right, I will. Youll never ever guess what it is: its my first crop of your Mr Nice Seedbanks Super Silver Haze. I havent tried it myself yet, but it looks as if its going to be the best Ive ever grown or known.Back outside the house, I introduced Marty to Martin.Hello, Marty. Ive heard a lot about you. Any chance of filming an interview with you later?Oh, I dont know about that, answered Marty. Last time I answered any questions about his nibs here, I was put in jail for a few years. Sorry. No offence, but Id better say no right away and be on the safe side. Well, Ill be off now to pick up my mother from bingo. See you later, How. Best of luck and all that.I led Martin Baker into the house.I find that a lot of people I was hoping to interview take the same attitude, Howard. I hope Leroy wont be the same. Do you think hell agree to be interviewed?If he ever gets here, yes. Just keep off his past.Shit! Theres nothing else I want to know about him other than his past. Id better get to the venue; its five oclock. Im late as it is. Ians there already, I suppose?Yes, of course. Hes been there since two.I should have guessed. See you later. Good luck.Ian Johnstone was my tour manager. His duties, invariably executed with complete professionalism, included setting up the lighting, sound equipment and props, ensuring the dressing room had ample booze, fags and cigarette papers, determining from the venues management their attitude to tobacco and dope being smoked on stage, in the dressing room and in the auditorium, and lastly every tour managers nightmare managing the guest list and any after-show activities. The show had been hosted by venues ranging from subterranean ecstasy clubs to pristine theatres staffed by old-aged pensioners wearing evening dress. Rules varied. The Royal Pavilion, Porthcawl was a council-subsidised music and pantomime venue. The management might be difficult. It was time I called Ian.They dont seem too bad here, Howard. All the props are on stage, the dressing room is equipped as usual; smoking is allowed in the auditorium; but they want you to sign a declaration that you wont use any illegal substances. Apparently, theres going to be a demonstration against your appearing here. The management want to cover their backsides.This was nothing new. I had done well over 200 shows. At each of them I had smoked either a bong of marijuana or a joint of hashish on stage. Although venue personnel and the odd season ticket holder must have called the authorities dozens of times, local police had not once done anything about it. But it was always possible they might. Accordingly, licence holders and the like often wanted to ensure they werent compromised. This was easily achieved by my signing a piece of paper stating that I would behave myself. It never stopped me lighting up, obviously, but it made matters easier for them. And we actively encouraged demonstrations by out-of-touch parents; it was great publicity.No worries, Ian. Ill sign the paper as usual. There probably wont be more than a handful of demonstrators. Just give them free tickets; itll liven up the show a bit.Well, I think we are more than sold out, Howard. I trust you dont have too much of a guest list.Ill bring it down with me. There might be a few, Im afraid.Fuck! They might have to stand at the back. Ill send a cab to pick you up?Outside the venue, the long queue waiting for the doors to open jeered at the small group of protesters carrying placards decrying the dangers and evils of drugs. A smaller line clutching copies of Mr Nice was outside the stage door. Ian was by an unmarked door, flashing his torch at the cab. He had done his research, as always. The door opened. Then an almost invisible figure jumped out of the shadows.Hello, Taff. How are you? I didnt expect to see you here.Taff was rarely seen working anywhere outside a festival or holidaying anywhere outside a tepee village.Not so bad, How. Remember last Glastonbury you said I could come to one of your shows?Yes, of course I do.Well is it all right if me and six of my friends come to the show tonight?Sure, Taff. Just give the names to Ian here.But hes the cunt who just told me to fuck off.OK, give them to me then. Ian probably didnt realise you were a friend of mine.No, I suppose not. But I did tell him, like. Anyway, thanks a lot, How. Good luck for the show.I had a look at the stage. Cameras, lights and props were all in place. The microphone worked and was at the right height. The way to and from the dressing room was clearly marked by strips of shiny white tape stuck to the stage floor. I gave the OK for the venue doors to open, put my guest list into Ians hands, and walked off the stage as Ian began playing the first track from the walk-in CD, I Just Want to Smoke It by the Super Furry Animals.Leroy greeted me in the dressing room.Hey, mon, di road signs a bullshit. Mi tek more dan six hours fi gu.Leroy Bowen is a mustee, fifteen sixteenths black and one sixteenth white. I first met him while serving my prison sentence at the United States Federal Penitentiary, Terre Haute, Indiana. Born in Jamaica, he survived a cut-throat childhood in Kingstons Spanish Town and rose to become a sergeant major in the army, a special security policeman and finally the governor of Jamaicas personal bodyguard. While holidaying in the United States Leroy inadvertently overstayed his visa and was sent to Oakdale Aliens Detention Center for deportation. He witnessed several incidents of physical and mental abuse of his countrymen by the institutions staff and began to complain. The complaints turned into an organised prisoners protest; the protest turned into a riot. The prison was burned down, and Leroy sentenced to several years imprisonment at Terre Haute. We spent most of those years together and were deported the same day from Oakdale in Louisiana, where his problems had begun. It was the most important day in both our lives. I remember so well how we looked at each other and at the prison space we were leaving behind. Then we looked again at each other.These were no mere glances; they were attempts to understand the intense emotions suddenly swamping our minds, the confusing but comforting knowledge of a common destiny, a shared future. Had I known Leroy in every previous lifetime but only, at that moment of intense farewell, just started looking through his eyes rather than at them? Would we one day work or scam together? We had both been shafted enough by those we had trusted in our respective lives, those for whom we would have gladly risked our lives, done our time inside, not grassed and never cheated. Could we ever trust anyone again, ever correctly predict anyones actions or ever even give a fuck? Leroy and I hadnt dared talk about scamming too many hacks, too many grasses, too many listening walls and far too many nosy troublemakers. But through those 10,001 games of Scrabble, chess and backgammon, we had learnt each others deviousness, ruthlessness and courage. We had always respectfully looked away when the other had tears to be stifled; we had never dared share a bad mood and had always tried to find somewhere else to shit. Su dis a Wales. Yeah, mon. At las. Mi finally dyah.Several decades ago Leroys family had set out from Jamaica for Britain, and had come to Tiger Bay, Cardiff for fortune and fun. That was the last Leroy had heard of them. Until we became friends Leroy had not even realised his last name was Welsh Bowen is an abbreviation of ap Owen or that Tiger Bay, the first-ever British Jamaican community, was in the heart of Waless capital city.So dis a yo home town, mon. Yo mus feel irie.I feel more nervous performing here than anywhere else in the world, Leroy.Ian barged in looking hassled. Howard, theyre saying sixty-five is far too big a guest list. There just isnt room, even if they all stand. And they are absolutely adamant about no more than twelve in the dressing room at any one time.Dont worry, Ian. Lots of them wont turn up. You know what its like. And Leroy can control the numbers in and out of the dressing room. But can you ask them if they can put aside a special room for an after-show party? That will take the heat off a bit.Not off me it wont. But Ill do what I can. Some local papers want to interview you. I told them to wait until after the show and that I couldnt promise anything. By the way, theres someone called Polly outside. She says you know her.Oh yes. Get her in as soon as possible. She has something I need. Take Leroy with you.Soon afterwards, Polly walked in with a few of her friends, closely followed by Taff and his motley gang. Polly handed me a packet of skunk. I asked Taff to skin up while I got my scripts together. Leroy came in with some letters left for me at the stage door. Most were invitations from people to go to their houses after the show for a smoke and a chat; some were requests for autographs and signed photographs; all wished me good luck for the show. But there was one long letter from an ex-workmate of my fathers about how Dad would turn in his grave if he knew the extent of my depravity in encouraging drug use among the youth of today. The twat obviously didnt know my father very well; nevertheless, the letter made me even more nervous.Twenty minutes before show, yelled Ian from the other side of the dressing-room door.I offered drinks all round and downed a pint of bitter.Here you are, How. You have this one, and Ill roll one for us lot. It looks excellent stuff, by the way, said Taff, handing me an unlit spliff.Ian yelled again as I sparked it up: Ten minutes. Who the fuck is Psychic Dave?Hes one of my oldest friends, Ian; you have to let him in. Leroys on his way to get him.Psychic Dave was Dave Leatham. Back in the late 1960s he and Marty Langford were my first dope-smuggling employees. Unlike Marty, Dave escaped imprisonment and he became a fortune-telling fugitive on the streets of New Orleans. Now he was trying out his mystic skills in Tenerife in the winter and Cardiff in the summer. He had asked if he could come to my dressing room with his tarot cards and tell peoples fortunes and I had agreed.Psychic Dave came in, accompanied by Leroy and Martin Baker. Well at least Psychic Dave has agreed to do an interview, as long as I let him read my palms, said Martin, looking at my smoking spliff. That smells fantastic. Can I have some?Sure. Be careful, though, its really strong.Five minutes, shouted Ian. Everyone out of the dressing room, please.I always needed five minutes of peace before the show to collect my thoughts and calm the butterflies in my stomach. I achieved this in various ways: shouting at myself in the mirror, snorting a line of cocaine or briefly meditating.My guests left, each wishing me good luck. I sat down and smoked the rest of Pollys Super Silver Haze spliff. Christ, it was strong. I started giggling. I thought of my dead father and dying mother and cried a bit. I paced up and down and gulped some whisky.Okay, mon. Dem a wait pon yo.I followed Leroy to the side of the stage.Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome on stage Mr Howard Marks.Adrenalin pumped through my brain and body. Shouts, hoots and catcalls greeted me as I took my place behind the microphone. The noise subsided.Are there any plain-clothes cops here? I asked the audience. Because if so, nows your fucking chance. Just fucking try it, motherfuckers.Loud cackles of laughter cut through clouds of marijuana smoke. I picked up my script and began reading The Dope Dealer and the Terrorist, my stage version of the passages in Mr Nice about my dope importing activities into Ireland with self-professed IRA gunrunner Jim McCann. September 11, 2001 had just happened, so the piece was appropriately topical and outrageous. My Belfast accent left a lot to be desired, but the show was working.Ive cracked it, Hard. Send me all the fucking dope you want. I got the man I needed. He fucking examines everything coming into Shannon Airport and, if he values his fucking Guinness, hell let through what I tell him to. His names Eamonn. Hes a true Republican.Does he know were going to bring in dope?Of course he fucking doesnt, you Welsh arsehole. He thinks hes bringing in guns for the IRA cause. Hes dead against dope.Relieved to be speaking to a responsive audience, I relaxed and looked around the stage. Behind his camera, which was pointing at the ceiling, Martin Baker had gone white. Leroy was at the side of the stage looking at him with concern and worry wrinkling his magnificent face. Suddenly, Martin lost his legs and began falling into a giant spaghetti of electrical cables. Leroy dived, caught him, saved his life, and carried him off. Martin had done a whitey on Pollys skunk. Fuck! I hoped no one else had. It would be bad publicity. And what would happen to the DVD? Never mind, the show had to go on.Jim, the consignments left and its addressed to Juma Khan, Shannon, Ireland.You stupid Welsh cunt, what did you put my fucking name on it for?I suddenly realised the similarity in pronunciation between the names Jim McCann and Juma Khan.Jim, Khan is like Mister in the Middle East. And its Juma, not Jim. Juma means something like Friday in their language.Jim McCann might fucking mean Man Friday in Kabul, but in Ireland Jim McCann means its fucking me, for fucks sake.I announced the end of the first half and went back to the dressing room. The sight that greeted me was appalling.Martin Baker was trying to convince two St Johns Ambulance men that he had suffered a migraine attack while Leroy kept repeating, Im woulda dead, mon. Im woulda dead, mon. Polly was lying semi-conscious on a sofa and whispering over and over again, Never happened to me before, and Ive been smoking dope for over forty years, and I grew this myself. Psychic Dave was reassuring three other comatose bodies with carefully worded predictions of their imminent recovery based on the tarot cards, while Marty and Taff at his side were crying with laughter.Ten minutes to show time, cried Ian.The ambulance men shuffled out scratching their heads.Taff, can you skin up another joint? I asked. Better use the hash this time. Its for me to smoke on the stage during the second half.Ian popped his head around the door.Five minutes. Clear the dressing room.This time I just snorted a huge line of cocaine.Leroy came to get me, still repeating, Im woulda dead, mon.Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome back on stage, Mr Howard Marks.I decided not to read an extract about life in a United States penitentiary as originally planned. I would read the Egyptian delegates speech to the League Of Nations Second Opium Conference (1926) on the need to make hashish illegal. That always went down well and would be more in line with my legalisation agenda, which judging by the dressing room needed some support.Hashish is a deadly poison against which no effective antidote has ever been discovered. Users suffer from two serious medical conditions: one, acute hashishism and two, chronic hashishismI pulled out the spliff from my top pocket, lit it and smoked it until nothing but ash remained. The crowd went wild. Leroy and the Pavilions own security looked around anxiously. I put a red fez on my head.The chronic hashish user eventually becomes hysterical, neurasthenic and completely insane. Hashish is beyond any doubt the principal cause of insanity occurring in Egypt.To rapturous applause, I sat down for the question-and-answer session, which always started with the same questions: Whats the strongest dope you have ever smoked? Nepalese hash from a place called Mustang. Do you have any regrets? No. Who was your best shag? Your mother. What is your favourite method of hiding cannabis? In a container. What are your favourite munchies? Sugar Puffs. Which is the easiest skunk to grow: White Widow, Purple Haze or Jack Herrer? I dont know; Im not a gardener. I just deal with the finished product.Then some peculiarly local questions: What do you think of todays performance by the Welsh rugby team? Complete shite. If they wanted to score, they should have given me a call. If Wales was independent, would there be a better chance for us to legalise marijuana? Absolutely. Tom Jones has already sung our new anthem, Green, Green Grass of Home.Ians voice boomed from the side of the stage: One more question. Howard, how can we beat the piss test? I was hoping this would be asked. Now American-style piss tests were becoming the bane of every pot smokers lifestyle. Convicts on parole, kids on probation, members of the armed forces and even ordinary employees of certain corporations were being asked with increasing regularity to demonstrate that their urine contained no traces of drugs. The British government had considered plans for police to be given the power to randomly stop any car and insist the driver step outside and piss into a bottle. Pot heads throughout the world had been experimenting with all sorts of foodstuffs, chemicals and minerals in the hope of neutralising evidence of dope in their urine. None seemed to work but recently, while on parole, Gerry Wills, my former Californian marijuana smuggling partner, had successfully invented a contraption to beat the test. Gerry called it the Whizzinator and sold them for $500 each. For old times sake he had given me one for nothing. The Whizzinator is an extremely lifelike false rubber penis (in a range of colours and sizes) which contains a small plastic bag of drug-free urine. Straps hold it in position. The instructions suggest you find some people who dont take drugs, and take the piss out of them. When asked to do a piss test, all the smoker has to do to produce a stream of clean urine is to pull it out and squeeze it.I took out the Whizzinator and explained the principles to the guffawing audience.Show us how. Demonstrate it, someone yelled.Clumsily, I stuck the Whizzinator down my trousers, pulled it out through my fly, stuck it in an empty pint glass and squeezed. It worked perfectly, but I couldnt stop the flow. Nor could I pull the fucking Whizzinator out of my trousers without taking my clothes off. There was no chance of my doing that in front of the home crowd, who were now roaring with uncontrollable laughter. Ian switched off the stage lighting and put on the walk-out CD, and Leroy took me back to the dressing room, my trousers drenched with pristine piss.The dressing room had recovered but, as a result of my enormous guest list, was quickly filling up and well on the way back to its former emergency-ward status. Everyone except Leroy (Mi neva touch di shit, mon) and Martin Baker was smoking a joint. Polly had fully recovered from her whitey but not from the embarrassment.According to the tarot cards, you are both going to make it really big time in show business, said Psychic Dave to the bemused Kelly Jones and Gruff Rhys.That Whizzinator stunt is pathetically sexist, a female reporter from Wales on Sunday complained to Taff. How on earth could that rubber cock possibly help women beat the piss test?Look, love, said Taff, a master of lateral thinking, if your car was stopped by the Old Bill, you were asked to do a piss test and you pulled the Whizzinator out of your knickers, the cops would soon be on their bloody way. Theyd fuck off, I can promise you that.Letters, cards and little presents were thrust into my hand. They included lighters, home-made Welsh cakes laced with hashish, home-brewed booze, several expertly crafted spliffs, a box of Sugar Puffs (the donor had seen the show in Liverpool the week before), a Welsh ladys traditional top hat to be worn at future Welsh gigs instead of the fez, jars of honey and a bag labelled Goddess Juice Grail Drop Mushrooms . I quickly tore it open. Inside were about a hundred tiny Welsh psilocybin mushrooms about two full doses. These would definitely come in handy. Governed by the operating hours of local public transport, many people began to leave, much to Ians relief, and soon there was just the hard core that had been there from the beginning.Im knackered, Ian. I think Ill stay in the same hotel as you rather than go back to Kenfig Hill. Which one is it?The Seabank. Its just up the road.Mi wi tan de, too, mon. Maybe mi wi fin mi family ya. Ow far Cardiff de? asked Leroy.Only about twenty-five miles. I might go there myself; I dont have a show for a few days.Ill see you tomorrow afternoon, Howard, said Marty. Im busy in the morning.One by one they disappeared into the blustery night air. I took my bag of goodies to the Seabank and fell asleep listening to the crashing of the waves.After a sleep full of dreams of ships and Welsh fezzes, I got up, had a full Welsh breakfast and took a cab back to Kenfig Hill. In the attic I rummaged through the bookshelves and cabin trunks and sifted through mounds of school exercise books, cuttings from magazines and yellowing documents that had once held some significance for a now-forgotten ancestor. I knew little about my family history and for the first time in my life wanted to learn more. I had better start soon before all my aunts and uncles passed away.The oldest surviving member of my maternal family was my Grandpa Bens sister, Afon Wen, as precious as the roughest of diamonds. Much to her dismay, she now lived in an old peoples home set between Kenfig and Kenfig Hill, close to the M4 and adjacent to a sewage farm which she referred to as the perfume factory. By the strangest of coincidences, Afon Wen was also the name of the deep-sea salvage tug that during December 1979 landed fifteen tons of the finest Colombian marijuana on the western Scottish island of Kerrera. I was accused of masterminding the operation but after a nine-week trial was cleared of the charge by an Old Bailey jury, having persuaded them I was a spy. Although it was just a bizarre coincidence, I feel convinced that if Her Majestys Customs & Excise had been aware that the offending boat had the same, very unusual, name as my great-aunt, my acquittal would never have happened.I walked into the home and found Aunt Afon Wens room.Good God all bloody mighty! Howard bach ! What the hell are you doing down here?Hello, Auntie Fon. I did a show last night at the Royal Pavilion in Porthcawl.Never! Well, I dont know. No one lets me know bugger all these days now Im stuck here with all these half-dead moaners and groaners. Id have come along. Our Glyn would have given me a lift, Im sure. Although I dont know; I havent seen that bugger either for months. Come to think of it, why the hell didnt you let me know yourself? I sent you a bloody Christmas card every year when you were in jail.I know. And yours was always the first I received. Im sorry.Never mind. Youre here now. And looking all right too, except for that bloody hair of yours. I always used to tell your mam she should cut it in the middle of the night when you were sleeping. Ill just make us a cup of tea. Help yourself to a fag. I think Im going to have to give those up soon too. Im coughing like a bloody hyena. But its hard to break an old habit, isnt it? Ive been smoking for over seventy years now.Well, Im not the one you should ask for help. You know that. It was time to ask the question. Auntie Fon, is there anyone famous in our family on Mams side?I dont think so at all, unless we count you, of course. If they werent down the pits digging coal for the bloody English, they were writing poetry a load of tommyrot most of it was, too.So none of them actually became famous?None except Dyfnallt Owen, who was a great-uncle of Nanna Jones, your mothers mother. He became the bloody archdruid of Wales. A bit of a wizard, too, according to Nanna Jones.A wizard?Well, you know how people talk, Howard bach . How much to believe is another thing. But there were no end of stories from Nanna Jones about him boiling up magical potions and doing all sorts of tricks with them, tricks he had learnt from his mothers father, Dafydd Rhys Williams, a brother or first cousin of none other than Edward Williams, better known as Iolo Morgannwg.Well, hes definitely famous, Auntie Fon. Ive heard of him.Im sure, but its pushing it a bit to say hes part of the family, hes a very distant relation if any at all. Mind, Im not surprised you have heard of him. He was a bloody opium addict. Clever though, by all accounts. They say Iolo invented the eisteddfod. Thats how Dyfnallt Owen became its archdruid. Its always been the same, hasnt it, Howard bach ? Its who you know not what you know. Theres a book about Iolo on the shelves somewhere. Have a look when I get some milk for the tea.Iolo Morgannwg (Ned of Glamorgan), born 1747, was and is a glorious pain in the arse. Dead for nearly 200 years, this bard, visionary, genius, literary forger, field archaeologist, opium head and jailbird is still the cause of passionate debate in Wales and elsewhere. The arguments usually revolve around perceptions of Iolos establishment of the Gorsedd of the Bards in 1792 at Primrose Hill, north London, where he and a few of his mates stood within a circle of pebbles brought from Wales and mirrored Druidic rites that Iolo claimed to have uncovered in ancient manuscripts. They spoke prayers, sang hymns and founded the still-existing Gorsedd to promote Welsh language, folk culture, literature and the arts. Some historians now think that he wrote the rites while serving a prison sentence for debt and that the material derived from his opium-crazed imagination. Nevertheless Iolos rituals are still performed every August as part of the Welsh National Eisteddfod and his Gorsedd prayer is still used by Druids. Recent initiates to the Gorsedd include Dr Rowan Williams, archbishop of Canterbury, while the Queen is an ovate, and actor Richard Burton and prime minster David Lloyd George were past members.To many, Iolo is the victim of an English revisionist attempt to oppress Welsh culture and tarnish the image of what was once a great civilisation. To others, he lived in times so dangerous for an outspoken republican anti-slavery campaigner, pacifist and hater of English tyranny, he had to hide behind the names of dead poets and writers to mask the subversive nature of his literature. He was followed by spies, arrested for sedition and widely viewed as a heretic. Ensuring he offended the tastes of everyone in power during his lifetime, he was also an opium eater, a vociferous religious dissenter, a political liberal and a supporter of the American rebels and the French Revolution. Iolo was also a witty guest and a brilliant storyteller, who wrote anti-war poems and drinking songs. He was a vegetarian, herbalist and tea addict, and walked the length and breadth of Wales accompanied by his horse, which he rode just once in his life. Although he received money from wealthy patrons in London and Wales, every now and then Iolo had to work for a living. During his life he was a stone mason, a farmer, a bookshop owner, and a grocer selling East Indian Sweets: Uncontaminated by Human Gore. Iolos main ambition was to cross the Atlantic in search of the Welsh Red Indians referred to in various manuscripts by Sir Walter Raleigh and other European explorers. By way of preparation he slept rough in the fields near his home but became ill, never recovering enough to make the trip. During his last days Iolo begged the surviving members of his family to fulfil his unfinished ambition.So, Auntie Fon, is there no one else interesting in our family on Mams side?Come to think of it, Dyfnallts ancestor William Owen was quite famous in his time. Well, infamous would be a better way of describing him, as it would with you. They say he was the greatest-ever Welsh smuggler, not drugs mind. He was executed in Carmarthen. I think he wrote an autobiography, too. They discovered it quite recently. Now thats a coincidence, isnt it?I later found out the previously unknown autobiography of William Owen had turned up in 1982. After a few successful smuggling runs between Wales and the Isle of Man, Owen worked in South America for a well-armed worldwide smuggler known as The Terrible. My own smuggling activities had centred largely on Europe and Asia. Though I didnt know it, Id soon be heading for his old stamping ground. Owens sexual liaisons resulted in illegitimate children of all colours, and his chronicle of scams, acquittals and debauchery would put any modern-day smuggler or playboy to shame.This gets better and better, Auntie Fon. Any others?Well theres my mothers half-brother Madoc. I cant go into it too much. I think there was a bit of incest going on. There was more of that in those days. But hes the bugger who gave me my name, Afon Wen, which Ive never been bloody keen on. You know what it means, dont you?Of course. Its Welsh for White River.Thats right. A bloody good name for a squaw, dont you think? Madoc always claimed he was a Red Indian brought up in a wigwam with totem poles outside it.Perhaps he was an opium addict too?Maybe. He did have some crackpot ideas. Thought he was a direct descendant of a Welsh prince who was also the first of the Incas. He used to say the Incas were his bloody cousins. I ask you! Mind, Madoc was all bloody there all right, and he certainly had Red Indian blood in him from somewhere.Do you know which tribe?No idea. They spoke Welsh, according to Madoc. God knows how.What happened to Madoc in the end?He wanted to go to Patagonia and join the Welsh colony there. A lot of people from the valleys round here had gone to Patagonia for a new life, and they got on very well with the Indians, by all accounts. Madoc got jealous because he had always felt he belonged on the other side of the Atlantic with the Red Indians and their wigwams. He never made it though, poor bugger. He got killed by lightning.I drank my tea, smoked a couple of fags and bid Auntie Fon goodbye.Dont leave it so bloody long next time.I never saw her again.The oldest surviving member of my paternal family was my grandfathers eldest sister, Katie Marks. She was ninety and lived in her own flat in Kenfig Hill. I had never known her very well and hadnt seen her for about fifteen years. Maybe she would have some stories to tell.Auntie Katie.Hello, Howard bach . Lovely to see you after all these years. You must be glad to be back from America. What are you doing with yourself these days?Writing and doing shows. Ive turned over a new leaf.Thats right, Howard bach , put the past behind you.Well, actually, Auntie Katie, its the past I wanted to talk to you about.Oh dear! How can I help?Who was my Grandfather Tudors father?Dafydd Marks. He owned half of Kenfig Hill.And who was his father? Was that Patrick Marks?Thats right. Patrick Marks, a very religious man in the end. He is buried up the road in Siloam chapel, Cefn Cribbwr.And his father? Who was that?Well, thats where it does get a bit confusing. It seems that Patrick changed his name from McCarty to Marks.Why?There are three theories. One was to inherit a lot of money from a German Jewish family called Marks who worked the coal mines round by here. Another was to hide himself because he had made a lot of money abroad in a way he shouldnt have, and the foreign police were after him.How did he make his money?Now that I dont know. He made it somewhere in America.North or South America?I dont even know that. But the third theory, and this is the one I think is true, was to get rid of the bad name and reputation of his relative, who was Billy the Kid, of course.What! How closely related were they?Patricks father, who was also called Patrick, was Billy the Kids father as well, but with another woman.This is incredible. My great-great grandfather was Billy the Kids brother.Half-brother, I think, isnt it? But theres more, Howard bach , lots more. The McCartys were also in Jesse Jamess gang and got together with Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in Patagonia, a Welsh colony and the headquarters of all the Irish and Welsh cowboys in those days. It was there that Patrick learned Welsh. Anyway, after years out in South America, he decided to come and live here in South Wales under another name. Im sure Denny, your dad, was given everything that Patrick wrote. Probably in a box somewhere in your house. Not that changing his name did Patrick much good, mind. His son, your great-grandfather Dafydds brother, Willie Bevan Marks, became a notorious Chicago gangster. He was Bugs Morans first lieutenant. I wasnt a bit surprised you became a famous smuggler, not a bit.Is this true, Auntie Katie?Every word. Why do you think your Grandfather Tudors brother Tommy called all his children something Bevan Marks, including the girls? He was hoping Willie would leave them his money.Did he?Not a penny.I decided to check the veracity of this avalanche of information about my ancestry and called into Kenfig Hill library to surf the Net.Billy the Kid was born in 1861 in New York to Patrick and Catherine McCarty and named William Henry McCarty. A few years later Patrick left Catherine, who married William Antrim and died when young Billy was thirteen. Billy became an outlaw, teaming up with Welshman Jesse Evans, the leader of a gang of rustlers called The Boys. To avoid capture, Billy changed his name to William H. Bonney.At the beginning of Prohibition, Willie Marks joined Dean OBannions North Side Gang of Chicago and was best friends with fellow member George Bugs Moran, who later became leader of the gang and made Willie Marks his second in command. His duties included the management of the gangs South American interests. Willie Marks narrowly missed being murdered in the St Valentines Day massacre but was later fatally machine-gunned by Al Capones James Fur Sammons, a well-known psychotic who was convicted of the rape, mutilation and murder of an eleven-year-old schoolgirl. Willie Marks is buried in Woodlawn Cemetery in Forest Park, Illinois.I was about to research Prince Madoc, the Mandans, the Welsh Incas and the ever-increasing connections with Patagonia when the familiar figure of Marty Langford ambled into the library.I heard you were here. You know the council has withdrawn funding for the Royal Pavilion since last nights shenanigans, dont you? Youve stirred the place up again. Therell be no more of your shows round here.Oh no! Never mind. Fancy a pint?