Mondo Desperado (5 page)

By saying which he is overstating it ever so slightly, of course, for I never was, and have never attempted to give the impression that I was, at any time, ‘Bruce Lee’s
best
mate’. That I might eventually have become such if he had not expired so tragically must remain permanently open to question. Personally, I like to think that I would. But until his untimely
death, the truth is that he and I were friends, no more – pen friends, in fact, essentially, apart from the rare occasions when he would pay me a short visit, if he happened to be in the
country on business.

To be perfectly frank, the first time I received a letter, I could scarcely believe it! I had not the faintest idea that his personal fan club – to whose advertisement I had responded
through the pages of the
Barntrosna Standard
– forwarded the mail directly to him! And was quite taken aback, when I saw before my eyes, the words: ‘I would like to come to your
house’ – in absolutely perfect English! To this day I am astonished that it didn’t prompt an instantaneous return of my asthma. No more than the underhand taunts of the Bridge Bar
Social Security Association who, that very evening, proceeded to chuckle when they observed me purchasing my lemon soda as I began to consider the astonishing turn of the day’s events.
Sidling closer to me, if you don’t mind, enquiring obliquely as to whether I had purchased the latest
Standard
or not and how much it might cost, did I think, to ‘post a letter
to China’? I declined to respond, for by then I had become totally immersed in my own private thoughts, considering my hero beneath the burning sun in his warm-up suit, mimicking the ways of
the monkey and the cobra. It was hard to believe that it could ever have happened, I repeated to myself. But it had! I had actually received a letter from a man whose physical prowess was legendary
not only in Hong Kong but now in Hollywood as well! It was difficult not to permit a smile of triumph play upon my lips – especially when I looked over and saw the heaving, rocking figures
within that self-styled assembly of critics whose greatest achievement in life appeared to be the acquisition of a 10p increase in their social security payments. Their shouts of ‘Up
Mullingar!’ and ‘Peking for the cup!’ were as superannuated butterflies of sound carried off by the breeze as I strode out into the transformed evening.

*

The day I received the letter (Bruce! Lee! Each word seemed a fanfare of chimes!) saying that he would consider it a great honour and a privilege if I would allow him to be my
guest one Saturday, I came close to fainting and was forced to support myself by clinging to the table’s edge with my fingers. What still overcame me was the absolute perfection of his
English! It was quite astounding! And, I reflected as I came back to myself, slowly releasing my thoughts – demolishing once and for all the cheap jibes such as ‘Ah, sure, they can
hardly write their name out there!’ and ‘You wouldn’t expect to be able to read their writing, would you? Count yourself lucky if you get a few scribbles!’, which were
common currency in ‘cosmopolitan’ Barntrosna!

Which is the sort of small-town provincialism I find truly galling and beneath contempt. As if, just because you happen to be a lethal killing weapon capable of disposing of squadrons of
sword-wielding, fright-wigged adversaries in two seconds flat, you are incapable of performing a simple task such as sitting down and writing a letter! Some hope! Instead what I would really like
to see is some of these self-appointed protectors of the English language doing it! If, of course, they can manage to get the time off from that other important writing of theirs, which of course
involves the weekly inscription of their dreary sobriquets on myriad unemployment benefit and assistance cheques.

No, as in everything else he did, his handwriting was fastidiously, scrupulously neat, and, like his well-aimed kicks to the midsection, contained no unnecessary strokes or embellishments of any
kind. What he wished to say, he stated clearly and unambiguously. The question was, quite simply – would I be prepared to have him as my guest or not? The words floated before my eyes like
beautiful nymphs preening themselves on a pavilion by a serene lake.

*

The day before my guest arrived, I was – I confess it! – hopelessly giddy and had barely sat down before I was up again, busying myself around the room plumping
cushions and rearranging the maestro’s books on the coffee table. As I have been collecting since the earliest years of my adolescence, I possess an extensive selection, titles including
Bruce Lee:
Dragonmaster
,
Bruce the King
,
I Knew Bruce Lee
,
The Sword and the Snake – I Loved Bruce Lee
by Lung-Chi Wan,
Hong Kong Kickback – The
Films of Bruce Lee
,
Bruce Lee – Why? – An Investigation into the Mysterious Death of a Martial Arts Genius
and some two or three hundred others I arranged about the various
rooms. Which perhaps was overenthusiastic in retrospect, because by the time he arrived the front door opened only with great difficulty. I had arranged in advance for the Red Lotus Temple to
deliver – direct to my residence! – their special set menu for two and it was piping away good and hot in the oven when the doorbell rang.

I must admit he was a little plumper and, indeed, somewhat taller, than I had imagined. But there could be no mistaking it – it was the high-flying crimefighter from the orient in all his
glory. The charisma and sexuality that defined a proud, underdog masculinity confirmed that. He must surely have thought me a complete incompetent – I was so nervous! – as I dropped
forks and repeated questions I had asked him heaven knows how many number of times! But, if this was the case, he graciously didn’t show it. (I would have expected no less from him, to be
truthful!) And when I brought in our serviettes and the steaming hot meal of chicken chow mein and pancake rolls, his eyes lit up as might a child’s. ‘Why! These are from the Red Lotus
Temple!’ he cried. I was flabbergasted. ‘You mean – you know it?’ I gasped. ‘Oh but yes!’ he replied. ‘It is one of most famous Chinese restaurants in
world!’ I was thrilled beyond my wildest imaginings. I had been completely unaware of this fact!

How many topics we covered throughout the course of that little meal I cannot even begin to say. Suffice to observe that by the time we were finished there was little I did not know about the
various protection rackets, Mafia heists and assorted ‘stings’ that go on around the world every day. The fascinating aspect of it all is that the more we talked, the more eager and
interested – intoxicated, indeed – I became. ‘Tell me, Bruce!’ I began anew, when just at that precise moment, inexplicably, he began to laugh and actually spluttered some
noodles down the front of his neatly tailored black jacket. On reflection, perhaps he wasn’t laughing at all and one of the noodles became somehow lodged in his nostril, for there was nothing
inherently amusing in my simple utterance of his name that I could see. In any case, I saw no point in drawing attention to it and continued with my question: ‘Tell me, Bruce,’ I said,
‘do you see crime as a one-man personal vendetta brought on perhaps by something you witnessed as a child perhaps – the death of your parents at the hands of an unseen assailant, for
instance – or is it something you feel you would have always wanted to pursue, regardless?’ He thought for a moment, and then, lodging yet another noodle somehow in his nostril, he
attempted to remove it, with the result that he coloured deeply, as a glittering moistness entered his eyes, a series of events culminating ultimately in the displacement of his plate and its
entire contents which fell to the floor and arrayed themselves randomly about his feet, providing for both of us a situation which for a few brief moments was potentially very embarrassing indeed!
But, fortunately, I remembered that I had, at the back of the refrigerator, one remaining Vesta Beef Curry which, I felt sure, if I cooked it swiftly and properly, would more than suffice to excite
his palate. ‘Don’t worry, Bruce!’ I cried. ‘You haven’t come all the way from Hong Kong to leave the McGeough house hungry! Oh no! Not by a long shot!’ He found
this quite amusing and signalled to me to stop as he lay down on the sofa and rubbed his moistened eyes with his world-famous, death-dealing hands.

To this day, I continue to congratulate myself on the presence of mind which I displayed on that occasion, for we continued then to have what I can only describe as the chat of a lifetime, what
with Bruce not only agreeing to permit me to act as his official biographer and the chronicler of the story of our friendship which I felt was sure to blossom, but gratefully accepting from me
modest donations to the Dragon of the Winged Tail Academy for those of slender means from the backstreets of Hong Kong who demonstrate at an early age their love of, and proven proficiency in, the
martial arts. Those who complete their studies continue at another university just south of the city, where full training in cinema acting is given, with special visiting professors on hand to
instruct the youthful crimefighters in the art of unpredictable and often seemingly incomprehensible dialogue which is so essential to the continuance of the preservation of law and order on the
streets of the orient and to the endurance of such electrifying motion pictures as
He Kills Like A Bullet!
and
Die A Thousand Times!
.

I cannot begin to impart to you how overjoyed I was that night as I lay in my bed thinking over the events of the day. As I contemplated the intersecting, Mekong-style cracks in my ceiling, I
could just imagine them in the Bridge Bar, seething with jealousy, practically about to self-combust such would be the insane fire of envy within them. It was difficult not to chuckle as I saw them
there, perched on the stools like some forgotten human flotsam, the collars of their greatcoats turned up as they muttered: ‘Look at McGeough! He thinks he’s great! Just because he met
Bruce Lee!’

Imprecise, I fear. No, I am not great. But neither am I – nor will ever be content to be – a peanut-munching, lotus-eating
Schadenfreude
peddler who lives on handouts from the
state. That is a situation which shall never come to pass, for I shall ensure it. As I shall that whatever royalties I receive from my book –
Bruce Lee and Me
– shall never see
the lining of my pocket but go straight to the Academy, via the kind auspices of the
Barntrosna Standard
Bruce Lee Fan Club PO Box which my friend has advised me to use as a cover lest the
Mafia get wind of our little scheme. And which, I might add – according to the latest information available to me – is prospering wonderfully! Why, only last week, another impoverished
Hong Kong boy cried ‘
Aiyahhh!
’ triumphantly as he prepared to embark for Hollywood, sailing confidently through the air in his cotton pants, a helmet of ebony hair upon his head
with a sheen of polish upon it so bright as to rival the Master.

As for the progress of the book itself, things are a little slower, for, as Bruce well knew, and shared with me so many times, no less than in the ancient art of kung fu patience is everything.
And as regards the task on hand is absolutely of the essence, for I wish my story to be as near perfect as possible. To outline and candidly delineate not just the background to my years of
friendship with Bruce Lee but that of the martial arts as we have come to know them – the heists, the head-busting she-wolves, the drug lords, the torn trousers, the pieces of other films
that get stuck in by accident. And until I have that story told to my satisfaction, I see no point in concerning myself unduly as to whether I receive the occasional letter from a publisher or not.
Or, indeed, addressing myself to the semi-intoxicated asides which show no signs of abating in the Bridge Bar, despite the fact that it is now over a decade since my first visit from the bard of
the broken bone, and that rarely a day goes by without someone’s hand being cupped and the query sailing forth from the shadows as to whether I’ve been in the Red Lotus lately. Not to
mention assorted shadow-choppings, numerous ‘Ha! Hatchas!’ and wry asides casting doubt on the very existence of the Monkey School.

There was a time when I would, out of common decency and good manners, have acknowledged and attended to these veiled imputations. But no longer. My mind, I fear, is much too pre-occupied for
that. First, there is my sealed envelope marked
Barntrosna Standard
and then there is my MS, with its neatly typed legend,
Bruce Lee and Me
(retitled), to be popped into a Jiffy bag
addressed to my publishers in London. And, last but not least, there is my little cup of Chinese tea to drink – the best in all of Hong Kong (specially imported for me by the Red Lotus
Temple) – before I retire, comfortably attired in my loose cotton pyjamas, to dream of youths who got a second chance and who, perhaps because of me and a man they called ‘the
Dragon’, might one day course the Mao-red skies before landing with the force of a human grenade upon those who would dare to wage war upon his much-loved humanity, both Chinese and European,
exultantly crushing every bone in their heads.

Now that I am approaching my seventieth year and consequently nearing the end of my ministry in the Church, I often get young curates coming up to me saying, ‘Your grace,
what was your most unforgettable experience in all your days as a minister in the one true Church?’ or ‘Of all the extraordinary events which have taken place over the years, my lord,
which stands out most in your mind?’

Obviously, when such a question is put to one, immediately a multitude of images and memories come flooding into one’s mind, like so many moths to the flame; that glorious day in the
seminary in Maynooth, for example, when I myself was ordained; the occasion on which two of my colleagues were received by the Holy Father himself in the great city of Rome; the centenary of the
college where I was educated and in which I once concelebrated Mass – the list is endless. Where to begin, dear reader? His grace swoons into a maelstrom of possibility.