A summer holiday tale

Posted in Old blogger, de-punz by Twenty Major on March 30th, 2006

What is it about rich people and their stupid names? It’s very rare to find the son or daughter of a rich person called Wayne or Agnes or Kylie or Arthur. They all have names like Paris or Mingus or Sailor or Apple or Pilot Inspector.

And so it was when I spent a summer in Florida in the late 80s. I was staying at a mansion owned by former comedian Richard Pryor. We became friends when he stayed in Dublin in 1986 and desperately wanted to get tickets for the Self Aid concert because he was a big fan of In Tua Nua and wanted to, in his own words, ‘plough the arse’ off Leslie Dowdall.

I overheard him asking the porter in the Gresham Hotel if he knew anyone who could sort him out and I’m not the sort of person to let an opportunity pass me by.

“Richard”, I said, “loved you in Stir Crazy and Superman III although I thought Brewster’s Millions lacked that spark to make it a truly funny film.”

“Thanks very much”, he said. “I only did Brewster’s for the money. Motherfuckers paid me millions.”

“How ironic”, I said. “Anyway, I heard you’re looking for tickets for Self Aid. Meet me back here at 2pm tomorrow and I’ll have what you’re looking for.”

And so I did. At that time I had a friend working in Sunshine 101 and he knew the combination to the safe in the boss’s office. Turns out when Robbie Robinson came in to collect his own tickets for the gig he found a half eaten sandwich and my mate’s business card which meant he didn’t work there for long but don’t worry he got a job with Energy 103. Still, we got the tickets for Richard Pryor and off he went to the concert. He never did tell me if he got to plough the lovely Leslie but suggested that she wouldn’t want somebody to love for quite some time.

Anyway, after that me and Richard Pryor became fast friends and I often went to stay with him in his Florida mansion. It was in 1989 when we had arranged a holiday during which we would go shoot some alligators in the Everglades with a rocket launcher that he got a call offering him a big part in a film which he simply couldn’t turn down. Despite having millions of dollars he wanted more but he said I should come over and that I could bring a friend if I wanted.

Jimmy the Bollix was just back from London so I suggested we take advantage of Richard’s hospitality. And so we did. We flew to Miami and drove up in a rental Chevrolet to his house on West Palm Beach. When we got there we were greeted by his son who, in the tradition of rich parents, had a silly name.

“Hi Twenny! Hi Jimmy! I’m DeBoyce, Richard’s son. I’m here to help and show you around and score shit for you and all that.”

And to be fair to him he was a very nice young man, very obliging and attentive to our needs.

“More beer, DeBoyce!” we’d cry from beside the pool and not 60 seconds later he would have commanded one of the servants to bring us some nice cold ones. He was a little more full of get up and go when he had to drive anywhere though. Beer the slaves could bring from inside the house but other stuff needed to be collected and he was more than willing to do that because he’d just taken delivery of one of the very first prototype civilian Hummers. He would drive like a lunatic and people would get out of the way because if they didn’t they’d be squashed. It was a massive contraption.

“You guys want some burgers or something?”, he ask and we liked to be obliging so we’d say “yes” and he’d go speeding off in his massive vehicle to bring them back. Three or four times a day he go on errands just so he could drive somewhere.

So, the night before we were due to leave Florida we went out clubbing on Ocean Drive. DeBoyce knew all the good clubs and he lined a few palms to ensure we got VIP treatment. We got chatting to former Eagles star Don Henley who was an interesting character. He told us all about Glenn Frey’s unpublishable deformity and that he feels like eating his own sick whenever he hears Hotel California. Jimmy told him that ”Desperado” was one of his most hated songs of all time. Henley said “Fair enough, Jimmy. Have a mojito!” What a guy.

Man, that was some night, let me tell you. There were cocktails, beers, wine, spirits, shots and drugs and I think there may have been scantily clad beauties in bikinis but I only remember the important stuff. We caned it. Big time. I barely remember getting home, naturally taken there in the jeep. We got back to the mansion where, just before we all crashed out (Henley included as we’d promised to give him a lift back to Miami the next day) our generous host said he was going to drive off and get some more drinks and possibly another ounce of cocaine for himself. Like father like son, eh?

I woke about 7 hours later and sat up with a start. That was a mistake. My head hurt like somebody had drilled a hole in the top and was pouring sulphuric acid directly into my brain. I looked at my watch. SHIT! We only had 90 minutes to make our flight. I roused the former Eagle from his slumber and then I woke Jimmy who punched me in the face and went back to sleep. I woke him again. He punched me again. This was not good. In the end I poured cold water and hid behind the couch as he steamed around swearing to pull the legs off whoever did that. He’s cranky, first thing.

“Jimmy you cunt! Come on! We’ve only got 90 minutes to make it to Miami airport or we’ll miss the flight.”

“Oh bollocks”, he said as he raced around some more and packed his case in record time. I did similarly and we legged it down the garage and got in the rental car. I pushed the button which automatically opened the garage door and found our way totally blocked by DeBoyce’s massive truck which he’d parked at an almost impossible angle.

“Oh fuck, we’d better go look for him. He must be flat out in his room or something.”

“Ah crap”.

We went running back into the house and we called his name but got no answer. Dead to the world we thought. We checked his room, no sign of him. We checked the room next to his. Nothing. We checked the other 12 bedrooms, nobody. We checked the servants quarters as he’d shack up with the Peurto Rican maid called Jennifer Lopez from time to time but he wasn’t there either. There was only one more place to look. The bottom of the pool.

Oh Jesus H Christ. We’d gone out with Richard Pryor’s son, over induldged ourselves and now his swollen corpse was going to be face down at the bottom of the roast chicken shaped pool. He was going to kill me and I learned not to underestimate him after he told me he’d taken out John Wayne, Keith Godchaux from the Grateful Dead and Minnie Ripperton in a one month spell in 1979 (look it up) after they’d ‘crossed him’. We made our way slowly to the swimming pool, squinting in preparation at seeing the dead body which was going to cost us such a lot. Don Henley was literally shaking with fear. Being in the entertainment business he knew exactly how ruthless Pryor was and what he was capable of.

Imagine our surprise though when we didn’t see a thing. Such relief, let me tell you. There was just no sign of him anywhere on the property and if he was lying dead somewhere we couldn’t be faulted. We went back to the rental car in the garage.

“Fuck, that was close. Smoke, Twenty?”

“Damn right, Jimmy. My heart is pounding.”

“Give me one of those”, said our famous chum. “Mmmm, delicious taste. What brand is this?”

“Major, natch.”

We sat smoking for a while. Eventually I spoke.

“Of course we still can’t get out of here because of that monstrosity in the way.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Just wait, I guess.”

“Till when?”

It was Don Henley who answered.

“After DeBoyce’s Hummer has gone.”