Discombobulated: Dispatches from the Wrong Side

excursions...

1

Pikes

checking into ibiza’s infamous hotel; talking to tony pike; wearing another man’s speedos to recreate the video to wham’s club tropicana

I’m in the business of stories. I’m kind of a dealer in narrative — I hear stories and I pass them on — at street level — maybe cut some, maybe stamped some, but as pure as I can make ’em. Same with these Dispatches. I swear on Satan’s toenails I wish half the things I write about hadn’t happened to me, just as I wish I could tell the whole story; because these Dispatches are like icebergs, with ten per cent above the surface and ninety per cent of the real rancid indulgence lying underneath.

Clubland is an amazing environment for characters, for storytellers and their mad stories. Fuck Jackanory — some of the best stories I’ve ever heard have been back in someone’s hotel room on a postclub-mash-up-meltdown, passing the baton of storytelling as you pass the joint, trying to make new pals laugh with tales of ever more ridiculous daring do, revealing the scars and bumps and bruises you wear as badges of honour from the Disco Wars.

And this kind of segueways with all the mellifluous grace of a DJ’s mix into the last Dispatch when I was out in Ibiza with the first ever Antipodean holiday to the Rock. With barely the chance to wash my smalls I found myself back on the island, this time trying to avoid work. I was attending my best mate’s stag/hen combined do. And it was like some plot from a wrong sitcom because wait for it: I am his best man, I used to go out with both bridesmaids, and sure as love eggs is love eggs on about the third day one of them bridesmaids exploded and threatened me with my own shoes. And you should NEVER threaten a man with his own shoes. As is usual in these situations I ran away and took recourse in stories, and those of possibly the first Antipodean on the island, the pseudo-Australian Tony Pike, from Pikes Hotel, one of the most fabulous places to lay one’s head this planet has to offer.

Where strangers take you by the hand, and welcome you to wonderland / From beneath their panamas…

Tony Pike has got some stories. If you’re ever lucky enough to be at Pikes Hotel, offer to buy him a drink, try to manoeuvre him into conversation, sit back and prepare to be enthralled. Take your pick — owning the island of Eoini in Papua New Guinea (long before the Future Sound of London laid claim to the place); interfering with more females (many famous) than is polite; owning a marina in the south of France; sailing around the world; building the hotel that bears his very own name with his very own hands; welcoming just about every pop star and DJ worth their ego through the doors. The reason why famous people like it here, is that no one intrudes on your privacy, he detailed when I last sat down with him, in a gravely growl that makes his stories so enduring. It doesn’t matter who they are, how much money they’ve got or whether they’re black or white or famous or not famous — they just come here and relax.

Castaways and lovers meet, then kiss in Tropicana’s heat / Watch waves break on the bay…

We’ve always had famous people coming here. Last year Grace Jones phoned up. She hadn’t been here for… well, I can’t remember how many years since Grace was here. She said she wanted to come for ten days. I said, ‘Grace, I can’t even put you up for one day.’ She said, ‘Pike, you’re a cunt.’ Grace always had such a way with words.

And all that when, according to rumours, Pike and Mrs Jones had a thing… go… ing… on. Kylie Minogue wanted to stay ten days but

Pikes

Pike could only find her room at the inn for one night. And you know what, she went and stayed there, for that one night. But it’s not all about being starfucky and fawning to the celebs that litter the island of Ibiza like fancy glitter dropped from the stars. You can be a star and not shine: Geri Halliwell is the opposite — she’s a snob. She thinks she’s a star but she’s not. Kylie is a star, same as Grace.

Soft white sands, a blue lagoon, cocktail time, a summer’s tune / A whole night’s holiday…

And then of course there was the video that put Pikes on the map. It was Wham! that kicked it off in 82 when they shot Club Tropicana, says Tony, who appeared in the video as Gringo, the be-tached barman serving drinks to George and Andrew and Pepsi and Shirley, still amused at the memory of Andrew Ridgeley doing a bunk without paying his bill. Wham! may not mean much to teenage trainee DJs, but it was a turning point for Pikes, and made the hotel a must do for the planet’s glamour glitterati.

A couple of years ago I figured (through another fog of inebria tion) that it would be a laugh to recreate that video for a magazine I was editing on the island. I have absolutely no idea what inspired this idea, just as I have no idea how I was persuaded to climb into someone else’s lime green speedos and play George Michael… it just seemed like a good idea at the time. Pike was generous enough to resurrect his role as Gringo, we reconstructed key moments from the video and I haven’t laughed so much since Sol Campbell signed for Arsenal. Kookily, a remix of Club Tropicana has returned to haunt the island’s dancefloors once again this summer.

With everyone from Spandau Ballet to Carl Cox using the place as a base on the island, you have to wonder who Pike’s favourite guest might be? Freddie Mercury, he replied, before the question is even finished. He was the best guy I ever met in my life. I don’t care whether he was gay, or what he was, he was just a wonderful person.

Ofcourse everyone has now swapped guitars for decks, exchanged Freddie’s big fat slug of a ’tasche for the ubiquitous cropped hair and goatees of clubland. So if you want starfucky, get on this — I was at Pikes with Paul Van Dyk when he was putting the finishing touches to a track on his laptop. It appeared on his last album as Pikes. Yup, DJs are the new rock stars and just like the old guard they all want to lay their weary heads at Tony’s. But Pike, as always, is ready to have them sign their names in at reception, whoever they are.

I couldn’t understand the DJ thing at first, he explained. But now I know a lot of them personally, get involved and talk to them, I realise that they’re wonderful people and they’ve got a lot of skill and knowledge of the music industry. This place was a great favourite of Frederick Goulder’s*. I remember he asked me one day, ‘Is that Sven Väth over there?’ I said yes. He said, ‘Oh I’d love to meet him’ and I said, ‘Frederick, you want to meet Sven Väth?’ He replied, ‘Yes, music has no barriers, I’d like to meet him and talk to him.’ So I went over and I said to him, the old guy over there is Frederick Goulder and he’d like to meet you. So I get the two of them together and they got on famously. Frederick changed his whole idea of music — he was still stuck with playing Mozart but he also went into disco. Poor old bugger, he was never the same after that.

Pike, at sixty seven, is a hardy example of an open minded rap scallion of the old school, the kind of guy you aim to be at his age. He doesn’t care what you do with two bits of vinyl; he cares about what’s between your ears, about who you are when you climb back down off the decks, off your pedestal. He has had to endure serious illness, and the brutal experience of losing his son, who was murdered in Miami over a dispute regarding the hotel. Similarly, as people half his age moan that Ibiza ain’t not wot it used to be, he thinks the reverse:Yeah,it’s getting better and it’s going to get more and more so. What’s happened now is the music culture is bringing people together. Back then it didn’t exist — you had to make your own. Therefore it’s changed for the best I think. There was nothing exclusive about Ibiza then, it was all hippies. As time goes by the population increases and people travel more and have more money than when I was young. Which I can just about remember. I’m older than God now.

Indeed. And if God had a hotel, I would still prefer to stay at Pikes. 

* A famous pianist who has since died. | July 2001

2

Smugglers

Run

adventures of daring do with salty sea dogs on the high seas (well, the manchester ship canal); waterborne anarchy and flagons of ale

Question: Why are pirates called pirates?

Answer: They just arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…

And that, my too too gorgeous amigos, is comedy you can cash at the bank. Original pirate material.

It also leads rather neatly onto this Dispatch — a tale of daring do on the high seas, set amongst salty sea dogs and one legged pirates with cutlasses between their teeth and pure evil on their minds, whose only thought is to swing onto your galleon and swipe your booty. Rrrr.

It started innocently enough, with your intrepid pen pirate in his shack in Manchester. The building superintendent is called Ken, a man with grey hair and blue tattoos that speak of more seafaring adventure than a library full of books ever could. Ken the Koncierge I call him, and this particular morning he was wearing a black T-shirt adorned with the skull & crossbones. I remarked upon it as I passed him on the stairs and he explained it was the mark of his time spent on submarines. He then took me to one side and into his confidence, whispering of another apartment in the building. Where the smugglers live.

Fly Guy and Mad Dog.

He had given them his skull & cross bones flag to fly on their vessel — a canal barge by the name of the L.S. Lowry — which they commandeer on a monthly basis to smuggle revellers out of reality and over the Wrong Side of the horizon. They call it… the Smugglers Run. I sucked a whistle through my teeth and into the back of my throat — I had no idea such ne’er-do-wells and lowlife lived amongst me and my respectable landlubbing neighbours. A regular rum bunch by all accounts, they gathered by the docks (always the site of wrong goings on, is the docks) — a hardcore of vagabonds and vagrants who would soon as slit their own mother’s throat for a gold doubloon and flagon of ale. Mercenaries of both high seas and high times.

I packed a handkerchief with some provisions, tied it by the corners to the end of a stick, swung it over my shoulder and, humming a merry tune, headed for the docks of Castlefield — a dangerous and ominous place, even in the warmth of a late summer afternoon. To mingle in, and appear part of the tapestry of this seascape, I holed up in a nearby hostelry and ordered ale. Soon, I overheard talk of the Lowry, and then… there she blows… appearing through the mists, chugging down the canal to moor up by the entrance to the saloon. Pirates began to emerge from the nooks and crannies of the alehouse, sinking their jars and walking in a line to the ship, as though ghosts on some otherworldly pilgrimage, a black skull & crossbones flittering in the wind as though wafting its evil across the surface of the water. I joined the human trail and soon I had smuggled myself aboard; human cargo.

Up anchor, splice the main brace, break open the rum and Roger the cabin boy. Something there was about leaving shore… arr… it soon sent everyone disco doolally, as though the very act of setting sail was like freeing yourself from the moorings of morality. This was my kind of deep sea depravity — a pirate odyssey — where the goods we were smuggling were good times themselves.

Time to find Mad Dog and Fly Guy. I revel in the company of kinky thinkers; tinkers with healthy dents in their cerebral cortex. Straight thinking is anathema to my warped soul. I found them soon enough, swigging rum and jigging in the rigging. These flatmates and shipmates came to the decision some two years ago (for this was the second birthday) that landlocked clubs were staler than a pirate’s privates; that there was only so much you could do with two decks and a dancefloor… unless you added a third deck, the deck of a ship. It’s escapism, isn’t it, said Mad Dog. An escape from Manchester out onto the sea, getting away from it all.

Ah yes, the pure and simple joy of running away to sea, hightailing it for the high seas, swapping the shoreline for lines of an altogether more exotic dimension. Once in international waters (well, the Rochdale Canal at least) all bets are off. The barge at capacity holds sixty. Sixty of you are getting away from it all, said Fly Guy. And you just feel part of something. You feel like you’re up to mischief. Mischief was indeed the order of the day. The pirate promoters had offered free tickets to anyone with crabs or scurvy. Nice of promoters to put something back. Yep, we give ’em the crabs and scurvy, Fly Guy grizzled, Mad Dog whispering a note of caution: we do advise people to bring their own lemon and lime.

As we pootled our way into the Manchester Ship Canal the music fired up, greeted by a combination of cheers and people banging the underside of the low roof of the barge. The flyer indicated the music policy was vermin bass-driven shanty house music and by the looks of if there may well have been love rats, rave rats and all manner of vermin aboard. Fly Guy lowered his patch over one eye and raised his cutlass to the heavens: Once the sea shanties get going, everyone hits the roof, he grinned maniacally and threw himself into the action.

Swashbuckling is in my blood and soon I did the same, adding my own dimension by staggering from the cubicles and knocking over a speaker stack. Mad Dog had a magazine: Canal Boat and Inland Waterways, which he poured over as if it were pornography. No seriously, I get it every month, he said, turning to the centre page pullout. We’re just downright vermin. Dirty sea rats at the front and salty sea whores at the back.

Daring to venture further into the barge, I fell upon the rum revellers forming this smugglers’ huddle. Truly it was waterborne anarchy — the owners of the boat had given Mad Dog and Fly Guy a wide berth (if you’ll excuse the nautical tomfoolery) and allowed the party pirates to get away with some salty shit. A random poll was taken of the swashbuckling revellers and our scurvy says: it were proper off the hook. These pirates weren’t going no place… unless it was via the plank. And by the looks of the Rochdale Canal, all sorts of strange beasts might lurk within its murky waters — scaly scallies and beasties, and a fair few tortured souls upon the seabed of Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

Ales for my friends and six of your best wenches, I barked at the barkeep, already feeling part of the party.

It’s unconditional fun, said Mad Dog, who had once literally pulled a lass with his hook. Hook, line and sinker.

Truly they are saucy sea dogs. On their watery website (which also features streamed pirate radio) is a naughty webcam broadcast in which they call the female star of the, erm, show — who will do or say anything the caller demands. They asked her to turn to the camera and say "Arrr".

Night fell, the party now in full steam and we seemed utterly stranded in the mists of the canal. No one truly knows where this boat actually goes, said Fly Guy, although at one point we passed Old Trafford; that much I know, for I spat at it, but missed. Pimp my barge. Top production for forty quid, Fly Guy remarked, pointing out the balloons and fairy lights; Mad Dog adding, somewhat aggrieved at my lack of excitement, those fairy lights do go at different speeds, you know.

Tucked behind the booth with the DJs, we jigged to a 4/4 beat (does that makes it pieces of eight?), the sea shanty soundtrack courtesy of original lowlife riders Kriss James, Xander, Miguel… and Kriss Knight, a Disco Nutbag of the highest order. Never did such a salty sea dog sail the seas and many an adventure have we had together. I didn’t expect to find him amongst such low slung company. I was captured and smuggled upon a vintage comedy barge, he said, apparently now resident DJ at such seadog-esque shenanigans. All hands to the decks.

I pointed at the dark waters. Has anyone ever gone over?

Not yet, he replied. A few have gone under though.

Eventually the bonkers barge returned to shore, the revellers rounding off the night with a big beer swilling, tankard bashing, sea shanty singsong scrub down at the Sankeys Soap afterparty.

"Rrrr-ism, that’s what we call it, said Fly Guy. We turn up at the club, dribbling."

I, however, could no longer find my land legs and soon — legless and lagging — one-legged it home, my headful of tales of sea beasts and mermaids and creatures of such evil and slimy degeneracy that you wouldn’t believe it to be true, even if you saw it with your own one good eye.

Arrrrr. | August 2005

3

Foo Foo’s

palace

undercover investigations in a transvestite joint: lost amongst screeching hens; trying on wigs with foo foo lamaar

I… am what I am / And what I am… needs no excuses"

To misquote Dorothy Parker, I’ve been some things and done some places but this had to rate as one of the most ravishingly wrong of them all: trapped in the dressing room of Foo Foo’s Palace, trying on wigs with the grande madame of this bordello herself, Foo Foo Lamaar. It was bananas, it was bonkers… it was banonkers, if you will.

The dressing room mirror was lined by lightbulbs that transformed the room into some kind of twisted Broadway Barbie fantasy — a makeup pile up across the table; used fingernails littering the table like dropped scabs; a rack of dresses hung along one wall, so garish they made Joseph’s dreamcoat look like a potato sack. Some were really short… the kind of short you needed two haircuts to wear.

In the middle of it all was Foo Foo, conducting herself with a certain chutzpah, applying geological layers of makeup and at the same time talking, without creating a San Andreas fault in her skin. I tried to avert my eyes but couldn’t ignore the fact that with bosoms like Foo Foo’s, it was lucky I hadn’t packed lunch. I was already full up from the eyes down. Ms Lamaar had spent the day at Old Trafford, entertaining the troops during the England vs Greece game: It was a close shave between United and Greece, but my little golden balls did it for us at the end, she rasped, with a fabulously camp northern accent, raked over coals. Beckham had indeed sorted it out for us that day. I watched the match in a local bar with some mates, talking tactics, drinking too much, jumping up and running around when our goals went in. It was all good blokey stuff, which made it all the harder to comprehend how I had ended my testosterone fuelled day sitting in the dressing room of a transvestite’s club, trying on wigs and talking football with Foo Foo.

The answer of course lies in the gloriously banonkers world of the Wrong Side: Foo Foo is the Wrong Side personified, she is the Queen of the Wrong Side and her palace lies at the bottom of my street in Manchester. I have walked past the place for years and wondered what chaos lay behind its doors; watched Foo Foo drive past in her purple Rolls Royce (with number plate Foo1) and resolved to uncover her story; the face beneath the makeup. Bottom panty line? I am not the sort of guy who can have a club called Foo Foo’s Palace at the end of his street and be satisfied having never been in.

So it was with some excitement that I stepped down the stairs that led into the club — all glass and glitter, the spot where Moulin Rouge meets Studio54. On Qualudes and wine. Foo Foo’s is so tacky as to be beautiful; like sitting inside a mirrorball which is then rolled down a hill headlong into the window of an Ann Summers’ shop. And the place was packed, wall to wall — and in fact bursting at the seams — with screeching, drunken females. They seemed to be split into tribal, hen night groups. Some were wearing L-plates, others were dressed as nurses… nuns… all kinds of wrongness. I smiled a broad smile. I was built for this kind of nonsense, I live for nonsense and at Foo Foo’s I was in nonsense nirvana. You can just knock yourself out with your Creams and Ministry of Sounds — just dip me in banana daiquiri and throw me to the trannies. After three years investigating the Wrong Side — everywhere from Moscow to Las Vegas — this was like finding the mothership, the ultimate wonky night out.

I turned my beatbox up to Rhumba and climbed in.Everywhere… everywhere women were shrieking and drinking, already climbing onto the chairs and tables to dance as if Golden Balls himself were on stage. The whole room was bathed in a rouge ebullience. The DJ mixed records with all the grace of a number 29 bus. If you want eclectic, you can forget about the 333 and the groovy clubs of Old Street — you want to get yourself to Foo Foo’s Palace where they really know the meaning of the word. From Gabba to Abba, in one easy step. A stripper took to the stage. He abandoned his thong in front of the assembled throng, put it about and put me right off my pint.

I decided to find Foo Foo, and headed for her dressing room.Once inside, the door swung shut, muffling the screams of the women outside. I panted for my breath to come back. Ms Lamaar… or may I call you Foo… why do you have such an effect on those women out there?

She stopped, momentarily, from applying her mascara. Because I am very beautiful and so pretty and those jealous bitches out there would love to get their fat bums in my frocks.

Your frocks are indeed… so very special.

They would love to goin to Sainsbury’s with one of my frock son. That I don’t doubt. I put a wig on and sat down to listen to her story. Believe it or not, Foo Foo Lamaar wasn’t christened thus. Nope, Mrs Lamaar didn’t wake up one night and tell Mr Lamaar that she had the perfect name for their progeny — Foo Foo. In fact, there wasn’t actually a Mr and Mrs Lamar at all. In a previous — much less fabulous — incarnation, Foo Foo was Frank Pearson, the son of a rag & bone man from Ancoats. One Christmas it was decided to hold a concert in the canteen of the cotton mill where Frank worked and he was