Write to James Leavey

…actually took place about four years ago.  We have occasionally bumped into each other, since, which is all just a pathetic excuse to write this crappy introduction that doesn't really justice to such a brilliant writer…Oh well, here goes nothing...

It was a far more interesting week than I envisaged when it first started.

On Monday I got an unexpected call from Kinky Friedman, who had just arrived at a hotel in Bloomsbury, across the road from the offices of his London publishers, Faber and Faber.  

For those of you who have never heard of him, Kinky is the former leader of the outrageous country-and-western band, Kinky Friedman and The Texas Jewboys.  He is also the author of a series of internationally acclaimed detective novels featuring himself (kind-of) as a wise-cracking, cigar-smoking, female-hosing, cat-loving sleuth, and most of his close friends playing themselves.  

His countless fans include President Clinton, yours truly, and discerning pals: Willie Nelson, Ken Kesey, Bob Dylan and the late Joseph Heller.  

What’s he like to read? Well, if you’ve ever wondered what Raymond Chandler and Groucho Marx would write if they teamed up while doped to the gills on acid, Kinky is the man for you.

I’d got to know the Kingster, as he is also known, through a mutual friend – Michael Dillon, the genial patron/owner of Gerry’s, a London members-only basement club in Soho.  And sent him copies of my books, The FOREST Guide to Smoking in London and The FOREST Smoker’s Guide to Scotland.  

Then I rang Kinky in Texas and apologised for sending him books that were shit compared to the stuff he wrote.  “They may be shit, James,” replied the Kingster, magnanimously “but they’re interesting shit.”

Later, I’d heard from a friend he was coming to London on Tuesday for a book signing at Borders, an American-owned, late-night bookstore in Oxford Street, and had left a message on the Kinkster’s answerphone in Texas, Sunday afternoon .  To be honest, I thought I’d missed him as he was probably already en route to England, and that was that.  

So Kinky rings me at 7.30pm, just when I’d finished an early dinner and settled down with my wife, Gwenda, our cat, Toffee, a bottle of Oban malt whisky, and a temporarily vacant cigar humidor.  I was down to my last Havana, the TV was on, and the evening was looking cosy but kind-of grim.

“I’m just going out for an Indian meal,” said the Kingster, “want to meet up later?”

“Absolutely,” I replied, without a second thought, while Gwenda nudged me in the ribs with one of her, “Who the hell’s that, then?” looks.  “How about 9.30, at Gerry’s?”  

“Fine,” said the Kingster, “but I really fancy a pint of Guinness.  Do they sell it?”

“Give me a minute and I’ll get right back to you,” I said, immediately on the phone to Gerry’s.  “Do I sell Guinness!” replied Michael, bristling. “We sell bucket-loads of the fucking stuff.”

Back to Kinky with the good news and he’s a happy man.  The deal was done and dusted so next I got on the phone to Ian, a Havana cigar-loving Inland Revenue Tax Inspector (nobody’s perfect).  

I didn’t want to meet the Kinkster for the first time without two cigars in my hands, one for me and one for him, and I knew Ian’s humidor was well-stocked with Havanas which a friend of his had just brought back from Cuba.

Ian is a great fan of Kinky’s and obligingly agreed to lend me two Montecristo no.4s if I would replace them in the near future, and drive round to his house – 10 miles away and heading out of London – to collect them.

While this was all going on, I explained the vital importance of a night out with one of THE lads, to Gwenda, who works as a district nurse in central London.  She used to nurse the smoker-friendly columnist, Jeffrey Bernard, and, one Christmas many years ago, the beautiful smoker-friendly film star, Ava Gardner.  

Which partly explains why Gwenda was very understanding and let me head out into a night of booze and cigars (but no broads, on threat of penis removal by a blunt instrument) without a murmur, just a farewell kiss.  I didn’t even have to beat her over the head with the axe I was holding at the time.

At 9.15pm, I arrived at Gerry’s, which is usually full of smoker-friendly writers, actors and the occasional celebrity who want to enjoy a quiet drink without being interrupted by London’s healthier-than-thou militant puritans.

 The early boozers had staggered home and the next shift was due in as soon as the West End theatres emptied. Michael was off out, on walkabouts in search of fresh air – fat chance of that in Soho.

The only two people in the room were me and the late 20s, attractive brunette from Turkey (we hadn’t heard about the earthquake in her homeland, at this stage), who told me she was in the middle of setting up a new Thai-themed restaurant in Wardour Street.  

She’d just returned from Bangkok and we discussed this and that and - had I been a single man - the other - when Kinky stumbled down the stairs.

I recognised him immediately from the dark jacket, black cowboy hat and his small hands and feet – the latter encased in a smart pair of cowboy boots he’d recently bought for a song (‘They Don’t Make Jews Like Jesus Anymore’), somewhere in Texas.

Kinky was smoking two Havanas – switching from a Vegas Robaina robusto to a petit Bolivar, and back again.  I offered him the Montecristo; he exchanged it for a Bolivar.  We became instant pals. 

Two pints of Guinness appeared on the bar, by pre-request (i.e. “start pouring as soon as he hits the first step”).

Then Michael Dillon appeared at the top of the stairs, and elegantly sloped down them to welcome the Kingster.

To be continued...