Martin Amis - Lionel Asbo

‘Chris and “Threnody” slip off for their “session” (see here). Lionel calls for Carmody and more champagne. And in a moment of weakness I consent to enjoy a small Buck’s Fizz. I consult my notes, reload my tape recorder, and we proceed.

‘“Women, Lionel.”’

‘“YEAH? WHAT ABOUT them?” asks Asbo with a hunted look.

‘“Well. You played the field for a while, following your release. And now you’re settling down here with your new partner. But it’s true, isn’t it Lionel, that in the past you were never a great ladies’ man?”

‘“That’s correct, Daph. That’s correct. There was Cynthia. My childhood sweetheart, if you like. And then Gina.”

‘This would be Mrs Marlon Welkway (née Drago), the cause of the massive “nuptial rumble” that put 90 wedding guests behind bars in the spring of 2009.

‘“Of course, Gina, she’s happily married now, God bless her,” he says a little huskily. “See, Marlon’s my cousin. So Gina’s my cousin too. And I wish them both all the luck in the world. I respect their bond. True love. It’s a beautiful thing.”

‘For a moment I sense that we’re about to move on to his feelings for “Threnody”. But I’m a trifle premature.

‘“You’re not wrong, Daph. I never had much time for the other. Before. Wasn’t bothered. Perfectly happy with the porn.”

‘This is casually said. As if for all the world adult videos were a traditional alternative to adult relationships.

‘“You can’t go far wrong with the porn. It’s like prison. You know where you are with the porn.”

‘I’m beginning to find this very weird, so I quickly ask, “Er, how did you and ‘Threnody’ meet?”

‘“Ah, you see, Daph, all these birds wrote me letters when I was away. And when I come out, I had them over. One at a time to my place in London.” (In London, Asbo now maintains a penthouse apartment at the infamous South Central Hotel.) ‘“And they were all glamour girls on the make!”

‘Asbo seems to find this scandalous. Yes, what a contrast to “Threnody”, that shrinking violet, with her well-known vow of poverty! (Remember Fernando, the Argie beef baron? Remember Azwat, the Bollywood billionaire?)

‘“Lads’ mag types. All tits and teeth. Grasping slags, basically, Daph.”

‘“And ‘Threnody’?” I ask, suppressing a titter.

‘“See, I’m in this nightclub. And her bodyguard slips me her number in the gents. So we had a few drinks. And I knew. I knew. ‘Threnody’? She’s got it up here ,” he says, tapping not his chest but his poor old brainbox. “Excellent head for careers .”

‘ Careers? A career for Lionel Asbo? Doing what? Giving lessons in filling out lotto tickets? Or perhaps a new “line” in bingo shirts?

‘“And see, Daph,” Asbo goes on, “she’s an established celebrity. In her own right. She can handle herself. A woman of er, true sophistication.”

‘At this point “Threnody” bustles out, wearing a turquoise rubber catsuit, retrieves her sunglasses, and bustles back in again.

‘There’s a silence.

‘“Them other birds,” says Asbo, “they were all up for a porking on the very first night! Not ‘Threnody’. She’s not that kind of girl. ‘Lionel,’ she says, ‘you’re like a little boy lost. Trust me. I’ll be your. shepherdess. And guide you through the er, celebrity circuit. Give me your hand.’ We shake on it. And she gazes into me eyes and she whispers, ‘Let’s seal our pledge,’ she says, ‘with a swift “jobbie” in the stretch.’ You know, the limo. There. Dead discreet.”

‘Another silence (and I hope he doesn’t hear me gulp). “She knows how to deal with the er, the media spotlight. From her I’ll learn to cope with the pressures of me new lifestyle.”

‘I struggle on as best I can. “What about that notorious temper, Lionel? You’re having anger-management therapy, isn’t that right?”

‘“Tommy Trum,” he says with satisfaction. (Tom Trumble, UK Light Heavyweight Champion, 1971–3.) “Tommy lives near and he comes over twice a week. Teaching me the art of boxing.” He alertly moves his head from side to side. “To channel me aggression.”

‘“But you’ve got a serious problem there, Lionel. Surely you need psychiatric help?”

‘“What, lying on some f***ing couch all afternoon moaning on about me childhood?” Asbo pauses. “Listen, you can talk to all the so-called experts. But it’s down to you, isn’t it, in the end, Daph? It’s down to you. See, when you’re away, Daph, you get a lot of time to think. I went over it in me mind, over and over. And now I’ve got me head right.”

‘Mm, well we’ll be the judge of that!

‘He folds his hands round the back of his neck and looks out over the rolling lawns. The rough spud of his face cracks into a gap-toothed smile, and he says, “You know, Daph, one day I reckon I’ll write the story of me life.”

‘Now I feel a definite urge to tiptoe off into the afternoon. But I listen, as Asbo struggles on.

‘“I wouldn’t do the typing, mind,” he says with disdain. “I’d dictate it, like they do. A lad from Diston. Scraping out a living with this and that. Sticks at it, and by sheer. Makes something of himself. Achieves something in this life. Comes good. Yeah. He comes good.”’

‘I am still struggling to contain a fit of laughter when — thank God — we are graced by a pleasant interruption: the arrival of Lionel’s 21-year-old nephew.

‘Desmond Pepperdine has not changed his name to Desmond Asbo. This tall, slender, well spoken and delightfully assured young man, a graduate of Queen Anne’s College, London, is now a cub reporter on the Diston Gazette .

‘More than once Des has claimed (in court) that Lionel was “like a father” to him after he was orphaned at the age of 12. But there is nothing paternal about his greeting.

‘“Ah, here comes the soap-dodger,” says Lionel (for Des is of mixed race).

‘“How are you, Uncle Li?” Des replies, no whit abashed.

‘Lionel fans himself and yawns aggressively whilst Des and myself exchange pleasantries. Touchingly impressed, even slightly overwhelmed, Des says, “Not the Daphne? I used to read you first thing every day!”

‘“Go and put your bathers on,” says Uncle Lionel, and gives brief directions to the changing rooms. He then looks pointedly at his watch. My hour is up.

‘“A real pleasure to meet you,” says Des, and gives a graceful little bow. With his gorgeous smile and the light of true intelligence in his hazel eyes — what a radiant contrast to the pathetic gropings of his poor old uncle!

‘I say, “You must be very proud of him.”

‘“No comment,” quoth Asbo.

‘“One last question. Tell me, Lionel,” I ask him. “What was it you learned — when you were ‘away’?”

‘He seems to think for a very long time. Then, with much vigorous frowning, he haltingly “explains”. Later, when I played this through, I thought my tape recorder was on the blink — but no. These are Asbo’s very words.

‘“See Daph, the rich world. is heavy. Everything weighs. Because it’s here for the duration. It’s here to stay. And my old world, Diston as was, it’s. it’s light! Nothing weighs an ounce! People die! It, things — fly away!” He does some more frowning and says, “So that’s me challenge. To go from the floating world. to the heavy. That’s me challenge. And I can handle it.”’

‘I smile. Well, honestly — have you ever heard such a load of self-serving twaddle in all your life? And really, the truth is almost too sad for words, isn’t it? Lionel Asbo is now a very wealthy man ( see sidebar ). And for what? The rewards have been huge, whilst the endeavour, and the talent, have always been non-existent. Thus, the trappings of wealth, in Asbo’s case, are just a constant reminder of his basic worthlessness. His self-esteem is no higher than his IQ (which barely aspires to double figures). This — combined with severe emotional disorders, and an alarming shakiness in the sexual sphere — has produced a terrible stew of violent insecurity and hollow pride.