Senor Nice (39 page)

‘Jack who?’

‘Jack anybody.’

‘Fuck Jack. It’s for me. I bought these fuckers with my own money.’

‘Just my signature?’

‘Aye, that’s it,’ he answered, looking at me as if I was a simpleton.

I wrote a large signature across the packet.

He looked down at the scrawl with disgust. ‘I meant every one.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Can you please sign every skin? I’ll give Jack some of them.’ He started laughing. ‘Sorry, How. My name’s Rhys.’

I too burst out laughing. ‘Good to meet you, Rhys. How do you fit in here?’

‘I’m sleeping on Daf Ieuan the drummer’s floor until I get a job. I get nervous there, mind. He hits things for a living. Can I ask you something serious?’

‘Go on.’

‘I’m an actor, a bloody good one even when I’m pissed. If they ever make a film of your life, can I play you?’

‘Definitely.’ I meant it. ‘It’s a deal, Rhys. But you have to keep to it.’

‘Let’s shake on it, How.’

A few years later, Rhys starred in the first Welsh drug film,
Twin Town
, then went on to steal the show from Hugh Grant in
Notting Hill
. In constant demand from Hollywood, he is now a hugely respected actor. But we are keeping our promise to each other.

Shortly afterwards, Robert Jones, executive producer of
The Usual Suspects
, took me out to lunch. He had just bought the film rights to
High Times
– David Leigh’s book about my early life – and wanted to make a film about my smuggling antics in Ireland during the 1970s. He asked if I had any ideas about who should play me. I suggested Rhys Ifans, but he was still an unknown quantity. Robert went on to do other projects.

When
Mr Nice
appeared, many other directors and producers expressed interest in making films of my life. I heard from Frank Roddam, who directed the pioneering reality TV programme,
The Family
. He had gone on to direct
Quadrophenia
, often described as the best music movie of the 1970s, and
The Bride
, which is still being regularly screened twenty years after its release. Frank was confident he could interest Hugh Grant in playing me. I again mentioned Rhys Ifans, but to no avail. Hugh Grant turned down the opportunity. Frank blamed Hugh’s recent blow-job embarrassment;
it was no time for him to be associated with a dope dealer.

During my 1997 general election campaign the BBC called and asked if I would be interested in selling them the TV rights to
Mr Nice
. I met Michael Wearing, who as head of serials had supervised the new era of BBC costume drama adaptations including
Middlemarch
and
Pride and Prejudice
. Michael and I got on very well and we signed contracts to produce a six-part series based on
Mr Nice
.

On the question of crooks benefiting directly from their crimes, public opinion is clear: banged-up bank robbers should not get to hang on to the cash they steal and hit men must not expect to keep their professional fees if caught. However, opinions vary on whether criminals should be allowed to benefit indirectly. Could a convicted paedophile write and publish something along the lines of Vladimir Nabokov’s
Lolita
? Would Osama bin Laden, if caught and eventually released, be permitted to work as a paid consultant on an al-Qaeda film? Should criminals be able to publish and sell their autobiographies? Should gangsters receive fees for advising directors on films about the Mob?

Probably due to my having served a long prison sentence and showing no signs of reverting to dope smuggling, I was generally considered to have paid my debt to society. Accordingly, there was negligible opposition to my writing
Mr Nice
. People could choose freely whether or not to buy it. The BBC, however, derives much of its income from the sale of television licences to the public, who have to cough up without having any say over what is broadcasted into their homes. So, if
Mr Nice
were televised, hard-earned cash would have come my way. This disturbed the BBC’s top echelons so much that the project did not progress beyond the script and music soundtrack stage over the next eighteen months, by which time Michael Wearing had left the organisation.

The lack of any visible progress caused many in the film industry to wonder whether some screen rights to
Mr Nice
might still be unsold. Between 1997 and 2000 I received well over a thousand emails from directors, producers, script-writers and actors enquiring about the possibility of making a film. The BBC had the TV rights but the film rights were still available, although they could not be executed until ten years after the first showing on television of whatever the BBC eventually produce. I painstakingly explained this to each person who contacted me, but enthusiasm did not abate. Scripts and offers of free lunches kept tumbling in. The BBC was bombarded with phone calls from interested parties offering money and expertise, but the corporation had other ideas: they wanted to reduce the six-hour series to one half-hour programme. Those who felt it was absurd to condense
Mr Nice
into thirty minutes of film kept on pestering the BBC and buying me lunches and dinners. I did not mind in the least; my social life was great. The BBC then scrapped the thirty-minute idea and put matters on the back-burner.

Performing at the Cheltenham Literary Festival in 1999 I had got to know James Perkins, owner of the highly successful Fantazia record label and the first person to produce and release a DJ compilation album. I enjoyed James’s company enormously, and we would often meet for a drink. I ran into him at a party in London at the end of 2000 and explained the state of play with the BBC.

‘Howard, I’ll buy the film rights off you. It’s insane to let a potential blockbuster movie just sit on the BBC’s floor.’

‘I don’t think the film rights are worth anything. And I don’t think they’ll make a film of
Mr Nice
.’

‘Why on earth not?’

‘It’s too politically incorrect, James. I’ve led a life of crime without doing that long in prison; I’m making money writing and talking about my criminal past and having a wonderful time. They don’t make films about such people.’

‘I’d still like to buy the rights. I don’t agree they’re worthless. Times are moving on, and the film industry is
getting more adventurous. How much do you want for them?’

‘You can have them for a quid.’

He gave me a pound coin, and I signed them over.

James mentioned the success of
Blow
, a film about American cocaine smuggler George Jung. It was a huge box office hit. James Perkins lost no time in drawing my attention to its success.

‘See what I mean, Howard?’

‘Yes, but do you see what I mean? George is probably looking at the rest of his life behind bars, and he has formally agreed to testify against his co-defendants. If I became a grass, they would certainly make a film. Just as they would if I died through drug abuse or if an envious gangster shot me.’

James was undeterred, got to work, and went through every relevant email I had received. One was from Nick Graham, a close friend of Sean Penn, stating that Sean was interested in making a film of
Mr Nice
. A few weeks later, Nick, Sean, James and I had a dynamic lunch at one of James’s many London clubs. Sean was full of praise for my book and said he had already discussed its film potential with Hunter S. Thompson, Woody Harrelson and Mick Jagger. Sean followed up the meeting with this letter to Fantazia.

‘Anything happen with the film?’ Sean repeated. ‘I didn’t get any reply to that letter I wrote.’

‘It might happen if I got busted again with a load of dope and got a really hefty sentence. I’m in no rush for that to happen, even if you do play the DEA agent who busts me.’

Sean laughed as I sat down at his table. He introduced me to his wife and a couple of friends. Piers, wondering why I had vanished so abruptly, wandered in and joined us. The booze flowed.

The Groucho shuts at 2.00 a.m and Piers, Sean, and I were up for more drinks, a lot more. Relying on Pier’s unrivalled expertise in late-night venues, we left and staggered through a series of dodgy bars. One club refused us entry because we were drunk. Another would not let us in because we did not have enough to pay the entrance fees. Eventually, even Piers ran out of suggestions, so we went to Sean’s hotel and silently watched the sunrise through the bottoms of vodka bottles.

I have no recollection of what took place after that until I woke up the following afternoon in my room at the Groucho Club with the most serious hangover of my life wondering who was trying to knock the door down. I managed to open the door and stared blankly at the impressive physical form of Bernie Davies.

‘All right, butt? I’ve been here for bloody hours. Lunchtime, you said, wasn’t it? You look fucking rough. I don’t think South America has done you much good, to be honest.’

‘It’s nothing to do with South America, Bernie. I was on the piss all night with Sean Penn.’

‘Was you? I wish I’d known. I’d love to meet him. Bit of a boy, I heard, like.’

‘He can certainly drink all right. In fact, he is a hell of a good guy. I really like him.’

‘Well, we had better get a move on, butt. My Jag is badly parked right outside and I’ve got to be in Cwmaman by seven o’clock tonight.’

Soon we were tearing down the motorway towards the setting sun. I telephoned Marty to advise him of my imminent arrival in Kenfig Hill.

‘How was South America and the Caribbean? Any good?’

‘Fucking amazing, Marty. I’ve got loads to tell you. I discovered where Henry Morgan lived in Jamaica, maybe even the hiding place of his treasure, and I saw a photo of my great-great-grandfather on the wall of a pub in Patagonia.’

‘Well I’ve got something to tell you that you’ll find hard to believe.’

‘What’s that, Marty?’

‘John Lennon was Welsh.’

‘What? You are having a laugh, aren’t you? John Lennon was Liverpool Irish, Marty. Everyone knows that.’

‘On his father’s side, yes. However, his maternal grandfather George Earnest Stanley, a sailor from Chester, married a Welsh girl called Annie Jane Millward. Her mother, Mary, refused ever to speak a word of English; she hated them so much. Annie had five kids, all daughters, and one of them, Julia, was John Lennon’s mother.’

‘Are you sure about all this?’

‘Hundred per cent. A new biography of the Beatles has just come out. I’m looking at it now in the library. And guess what? The Lennon family attended a Welsh chapel in Penny Lane.’

‘So that makes all the rock and roll gods Welsh – Elvis, Marley and Lennon.’

‘Don’t forget the Rolling Stones, Howard.’

‘What! They were Welsh too?’

‘Well Keith Richards and Brian Jones sound like Welsh
names to me. I haven’t researched it, mind. Maybe you can. That’s the sort of thing you do, isn’t it?’

The traffic slowed down to a crawl. Bernie spoke up: ‘I don’t mean to be rude, butt, and I didn’t try to overhear you at all, but why does this Welsh pirate, Welsh buccaneer and Welsh cowboy stuff matter a bugger these days? All that finished donkey’s years ago. It’s too late to be a bloody buccaneer. You were born too late.’

‘But you were interested in those Davieses who went to Patagonia from Mountain Ash.’

‘As far as Patagonia is concerned, I was just hoping I might find a rich relative in South America. That would be handy. And who gives a fuck whether John Lennon, Brian Jones, Elvis or Bob Marley was Welsh in the first place? They’re all dead and gone, most of them. The best music yet is being made now, butt, probably in bloody Wales. In fact, definitely in Wales. The Stereophonics have just had a number-one hit, the Super Furry Animals are making better and better albums and packing out concert halls all over Europe, and Charlotte Church has taken over from Posh Spice. As for Goldie Lookin’ Chain, Maggot is on
Celebrity Big Brother
, and the lads are reckoned to be the best hip hop band in the country. Have you heard their latest track, ‘Your Missus is a Nutter’? Bloody brilliant. And it doesn’t stop with music. Joe Calzaghe is easily Britain’s best boxer. Wales won the Six Nations Grand Slam last year. Cardiff City are doing well in football. It won’t be long before we’re in the Premiership. What did you play in school, butt, football or rugby?

‘Neither seriously, Bernie. I wasn’t all that keen on sports.’

‘Just out drinking and dancing, I suppose.’

‘Not even that. There was nothing happening in the valleys in the sixties. The best thing out of Wales then was probably the M4.’

‘You spent all your youth trying to get out of Wales, butt,
and now you’re trying to get back in. Are you staying in Kenfig Hill tonight?’

‘No. I’m going to Blackwood.’

‘In that case, butt, I take back everything I said.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m going to Blackwood tonight as well.’

‘What are you doing there?’

‘Same as you, butt. Seeing Goldie Lookin’ Chain.’

‘I had no idea. I’m going to Blackwood to meet someone called Idwal, an expert on Henry Morgan.’

‘Fucking hell! I don’t take any of it back. How can you compare experiencing the cutting edge of hip hop with listening to some old fart banging on about a thief who has been dead for yonks? Come with me, butt, I’ll get you back into the proper Wales. Today’s bloody Wales, not yesterday’s. Dirty Sanchez will be there, too. They’re a bunch of headers; cut themselves to bits on the stage.’