Pixiq

Some get their careers advice at school or college. Mine came from a more esoteric source: enter one Denis Howard Marks, aka Mr Nice the world's best known drug smuggler.

If you took any sample of photographers – say the list of pixiq contributors - then you’ll get some very different stories of how they got into photography. For many of us it is not a case of seeking out a photographic career. Photography finds us…here is how it sought me.

Howard Marks is now the subject of the biopic Mr Nice, described at the time of one of his arrests as the ‘Marco Polo’ of the dope smuggling world. This is the story of his life (with a few embellishments in the name of art) starring fellow Welshman Rhys Ifans. I have known Howard for almost half a century beginning at school in the South Wales valleys: I followed him to Oxford where he had come back as a post grad, went to the same college, for the same subject (Physics) where we became good friends… we share a certain ‘commonality’ of Welsh upbringing.

I first became aware of Howard in 1961 and a friend of my cousin when I went, at 11 years of age, to Garw Grammar School in Pontycymer then a small Welsh mining community in South Wales. Howard, five years my senior, was and still is, a great friend of my cousin David, another of life’s true characters. David once lived with a lady who ran a voodoo Museum in New Orleans, has been a professional card player/croupier and now has another persona as Psychic Dave dealing the Tarot cards and telling fortunes…he reads the tiniest nuances in anyone. Not, you might say, the typical products of a sleepy Welsh community that takes its Baptist chapels and pubs seriously – in equal measures, preferably pints.

Howard was that school rarity, a gifted student destined for Oxford, then thought to be the academic Nirvana. He shone academically but had a certain wildness about him, pushing and breaking the barriers. Howard was incredibly popular, his name appeared in ink on the pencil cases of the girls in my class and when, as head boy of the school he came back the year after he had left to get a prize, the whole school erupted as this long hair in tartan waist-coat loped up to the podium.

Some months earlier I had been in a school corridor telling dirty jokes when I was collared by our physics teacher: “Howard Marks has won a place at Oxford to read Physics… you will be the next.” No choice…you will be…destiny handed to me on a plate. In retrospect it was a huge mistake to follow blindly...

Years roll on until I (head boy - those parallels again) was walking down a corridor in the new school buildings. The school had grown from 450 pupils to 1500 and had been renamed Ynysawdre County Comprehensive School. Howard had returned to visit his alma mater and knew, from my cousin, that I was following him in going up to Balliol to read physics. Turned out he had been in London and was now going back to Oxford for a diploma course in The History and Philosophy of Science ... an intellectually testing course for dilettantes that put the polish on the thought processes of a lot of bullshit artists (I say that with insider knowledge and affection).

My parents proudly took me to Oxford in October 1968, deposited me in my room and I accompanied them briefly to the gate to bid farewells. When I got back to my room I opened the door and there, sitting on my bed grinning was Howard with a stunningly elegant blonde lady, Ilse, his then wife. First words in Howard-speak “Right, you’re coming out with us for a drink this evening you can’t stay here its full of fuckin’ borin’ freshers...” One of the delights of Howard is the linguistic ease with which he moves from the high philosophical to the scatological, another thing we have in common… from fuck to philosophy, you might say.

I was 18 and naïve, life where I came from was predictable (and how) and straight: narrow valleys with even narrower minds. Howard’s home town and mine were about six mile’s apart -getting away had been the main goal for both of us. Put it this way, if the Creator wanted to give the world an enema he/she would have to toss a coin to choose one of these places to insert the tube…

Howard was, I knew, that little bit dangerous, so naturally I went out with them both to a pub called the Jericho Arms in a part of Oxford long demolished for development. Howard and Ilse made a striking couple, she a Latvian Countess, tall and elegant with long black maxi-coat and he the long-haired Rolling Stone look-alike: a cocktail of Keith Richard, with a dash of Mick Jagger.

In the Jericho arms (definitely not a student pub) ‘ladies of leisure awaiting one’s pleasure’ lined the bar and its clientele was multiethnic. Where I had come from in Wales one knew of the existence of ladies of easy virtue (one was called Millie Four Pence – rumored to be the charge for services rendered) and a black face just meant that the pit head baths at the local coal mine was closed so miners couldn’t shower as they came off shift. Oxford was so far away from that and a breath of fresh air

We sat, talked and drank and Howard and Ilse enjoyed their rollups. At one point an elderly man came along and pushed a packet of tobacco towards Howard with a nod; then someone else put down a full beer glass for him.  Seemed like Howard knew everyone there? “No, this always happens with Howard” explained Ilse. That year I saw a lot of Howard and noticed that charisma time and again, people felt at ease with him and just gave him things.  And he, in his turn, as I came to find out, could be generous to a fault.

I lived for two years in the ancient building that is Balliol; Howard and Ilse lived out at Garsington a small village close to Oxford where they rented a house and when I found college life cloying I escaped there quite a bit. Interestingly, the next set of tenants were Americans, one of them an extremely affable, thick-set and (then) bearded man, called William Jefferson Clinton. I well remember Bill C famously protesting “he had tried but did not inhale”. Hell’s bells, the air in that cottage was positively laden from the deposits on walls floors and absorbed into its fabric...it was a pretty active form of passive smoking. A bit hard to hold your breath for hours on end.

Howard was always easy for me to talk - after all, we had been the ‘chosen ones’ at our school and then found at Oxford there were lots of cleverer folk so, no big deal there. Ironically, we had both been pushed onto a career path that did not suit us. The headmaster’s son had studied physics and gone to Balliol… ergo we had to follow. But the course was deadly; traditional, dull.  Howard had changed, first to English and then Politics Philosophy and Economics or maybe vice versa…then back again. He had become involved with the beautiful Ilse who was studying English and, together, they rode back onto the rails they had fallen off.

Howard had been helped to get it together again by the head of Balliol, Christopher Hill,  Master of Balliol, a brilliant man and world famous historian. He had named his daughter Fanny Hill, a great character now sadly dead, who was a friend of Howard’s. Christopher Hill was very fond of Howard and stuck his neck out to help him then and later when Howard got into serious problems with his ‘businesses’.

Through Howard I also came to know and greatly respect Christopher Hill and there were periodic invites to sherry gatherings at the Master’s lodgings. It was a genteel world so very far from whence I had come: Howard took it all in his stride and that made it easier for me. How can I put it ? Here was a bit of ‘Welsh rough’ with a brain, wit and charm and that recipe worked for females (this was an all-male college by the way) to an astonishing degree. Especially, it seemed, those upper-class girls from a boarding school background  who found him dangerous and far more exciting than the priggish, private school boys of their acquaintance until then. Here was a shining example from whom to learn…this was the late 60’s - all pill and no AIDS.

Howard finished his diploma and left. I missed him and our banter for he was never, ever dull and keeping up with his wit and ‘fencing’ was part of our friendship. So, in my second year at Oxford I saw Howard infrequently: he went off to the University of Sussex to undertake a PhD in philosophy and I joined a band. I remember bumping into him when he was back in Oxford for a weekend and we went quickly to a pub... Life was good, academically things were not going well “Sussex is a strange place, completely up itself, fuckin’ hilarious but no one’s fuckin’ laughing” 

In some interviews I have read, people can misinterpret Howard as someone who is too clever by half (the archetypical sin in Britain). It is just that he is bright enough to recognize his own bullshit but then tempted to perform for the masses. These days when he tours university campuses with his own show he has thousands of young ‘heads’ regarding him as the Messiah... so it’s easy to wear the mantle. Underneath there is a guy who sees the sheer ridiculousness in it all…he always wanted fame but had to make do with infamy and prison for some years.

Howard comes back into the picture in early 1971 with a knock on the door of a house I shared in N. Oxford with three friends, all in the same jazz outfit. It was called Beliaev or the Beliaev quintet, though it usually had from 8-9 people plus numerous hangers on. I played bass, attempting to impose a structure on something where avant-garde sax players seemed to be farting through their instruments. It was different, took me into a much wider circle of people and was the one thing I loved doing. Like Howard before me, I had come to hate much of that physics course.

Howard’s first words: “You look fuckin’ terrible, None of your fuckin’ nonsense you’re coming out with me” I had not accepted then that depression was something that had crept up on me. Sometimes the dichotomy of where I was from and where I was now was painful. I did not fit at home in Wales and felt alien at Oxford. Protestations were useless and it was a relief to open the flood gates and talk for Howard knew what I was facing: I had emerged from the mould cast for me and my interests lay elsewhere...music and natural history. I escaped as often as possible and walked to hills and woods beyond Oxford with a couple of friends who also felt the urge to escape. Nature had been my passion since I was five and I should never have deserted that…now, more than anything I wanted to buy a decent camera.

I spent that day with Howard who had some ‘deliveries’ to make and in one or two of the houses there was clear delight to see Howard, surprise to see me…for these were some of the college academics and Father Christmas had arrived. “Don’t worry, he’s safe,” said H. That weekend was the turning point and I knew then that I could make the break, albeit slowly, and take a different path. I realized  that I had to get my degree and that I would go to London where all the others in the band wanted to end up too... I had a place to study for a PhD and something to do.. Howard’s clear message was to follow what I loved doing and that any disappointment from parents would pass…I did not want to let them down and that was a weight then and later. Whether unwittingly, or by design, they knew how to play that guilt card.

There was a Howard moment the following week when an envelope arrived with the message “maybe this will help”: inside were six tickets to the Frank Zappa concert in London at the Lyceum, Leicester square – The 200 Motels tour. Howard knew I loved Zappa’s music.

In  London, we showed the tickets at the door but I was concerned we were being directed around to the side...and upstairs. Unbelievably, Howard had booked us a box above thee stage and left several bottles of champagne… such kindnesses were a characteristic of the man and something I can never forget when I read the over-the-top condemnation and sensationalism (to which, it must be admitted, Howard has occasionally pandered).

We occasionally kept in touch when I finished at Oxford and moved to London – he was “traveling a lot” and had a travel agency. Usually it was a sudden phone call to meet up that evening for a meal: Howard always paid and ordered wines I have never been able to afford since – especially Brunello di Montalcino, beloved of the ‘bosses’ in the Godfather films. I knew what Howard’s business was but that part of his world has never touched mine and he never sought to involve me. I don’t smoke (anything) my choice after being kippered in tobacco smoke by my father: as a student I found highs from music sufficed. Now it is nature.

It was a couple of years later that I bought a copy of the Daily Mirror and had the shock of my life for there was the haggard-looking face of a ‘brilliant Oxford graduate’.... Howard had disappeared...the shock was the moreso since I had received a short note in the post that morning: “Paul, things going crazy...need to speak to someone sane (me??)... would love to see you if you’d like to see me”. I was part of an older life: there were some seriously unpleasant people in Howard’s current world and as I later learned what seemed like wild fun with crazy money had spiraled out of control.

At that time I had made my leap - I was teaching in London (as had Howard) playing lead in a blues band and had bought a camera – first a Praktica LLC then a Canon F1.  I’d enrolled on a part-time photographic diploma had starting winning some good money in competitions and all I wanted to do was make wildlife films/photograph nature. The direction so long lacking after one route had failed was now obvious and although the path has never been straight the goal never wavered.

Music, I now knew was not for me for a start I could not stand the pretension and my sixteen year old brother Peter effortless reminded me each time I went back to Wales what it is to have real talent as a guitarist: he was and is unbelievable. Shit! But I made guitars…winding my own pick-ups.

I determinedly tried to contact Howard but got no reply.  My letters were clearly found and I was being followed through the subway stations and backstreets. I had read of Howard’s supposed links to MI5 the British ‘Secret Service’ that were scoffed at by some but I knew how that came about. I too, had been summoned for a chat with the Reverend Francis Leader McCarthy Willis-Bund (what a name), college dean: Howard had warned me to be careful. The Dean was uncharacteristically friendly considering that usually I had been hauled up before him for climbing into the college late at night -via the ivy and over a wall - or playing music too loud and out of hours.  The message I openly conveyed was that I did not want to serve ‘king and country’ in any guise.

Over the ensuing years I tried numerous times to contact Howard and messages were passed on that he was in hiding. Then, one day, I read of how he had been taken in distinct flouting of international law to face trial in the USA. This was a grudge trial for Howard had committed the ultimate sin of mocking the authorities. Here I make no moral judgements … but suffice it to say that I weigh up real crimes against humanity from the likes of Tony B Liar and Bush whereas Howard has proselytized consistently for the legalization of cannabis. Funny old world.

Years passed until the turn of the century approaches when after many changes in my life and a recently broken marriage I was back in Wales visiting my mother. Cousin Psychic Dave arrived and we went for a nostalgic drive, saw the crumbling buildings of our old school, the cliffs along the S Wales coast and talked.  “Fancy meeting up with Howard tomorrow?” he asked...did I just. Howard was back in the UK after seven years in a severe US prison regime. I had known how freedom was central to this man’s being and wondered what might be left. We went to Howard’s family home where his octogenarian mum still lived, a victim of years of worry at the hands of her errant, gifted son. Howard spoke in Welsh to her, a lovely gentle old lady and there was obviously an unbreakable bond between them.

When I saw Howard the years rolled back - we hugged, laughed and garbled...and laughed more. That old mordant wit, the sense of the sheer absurdity of it all was intact and must have kept him going in some awful times...teaching Descartes, Spinoza and Aristotle to convicted Mafia hitmen. “Yeh I fuckin’ think because I fuckin’ am asshole” was how Howard put it.

I mentioned that I had bought his book Mr Nice and he asked with a wry grin what I thought “Glad to see you never let anything as mundane as truth get in the way of a good story” the Howard laugh. I drove Howard his Mum and cousin Dave to Swansea, Wales’ second city where Howard was doing a book signing; in the rear mirror I saw the three of them Howard with a familiar lope, arm in arm with his little Welsh mum carrying his executive plastic bag.

So I shall watch the new biopic with interests and a pinch of salt. Rhys Ifans, the star of Mr Nice captures the nonchalance...

Howard escaped what others saw as a pre-destined academic career: I faced that decision too and was luckier. Yes, it took a long time but at least I did not spend seven long years paying my debt to society…not in prison anyway!