The Merry Pranksters and the Ministry of Food - a tale from U.S.A.

Some Favourite Books

Favourite literary phrase: "The fucking fucker's fucking fucked, Fuck it!"

I had this credited to Louis de Bernieres, from a book of short stories and essays by various new writers which was published in the early 1990's. It was mentioned as a phrase used by a colleague when he was working as a car mechanic. I recently read elsewhere on the Web however, that Anthony Burgess was the originator in A Mouthful of Air (1992) - used as an example of how the same English stem could function as an imperative, adjective, noun, adverb and past participle.

Personally, I used it in a job interview for Waterstones. Seriously. Yes; I got the job.

California

I had run out of money, and had to get to the San Francisco Bay Area pretty fast. I hitch-hiked up the beautiful coast road, Highway 101, all the way from San Diego, getting some interesting rides along the way (another tale of Clint, Swedes and Seals). It was all so tempting to stop and see and experience, but I had next to zero in my pocket, and had to get somewhere where I could beg a bed and try to get some work.

I had the addresses of my step-uncle and aunt, who were divorced and lived a few miles away from each other in Campbell and Sunnyvale respectively. Having got to the general area, I got on a local bus which dropped me not too far away from a trailer park in Sunnyvale where my step-aunt lived with my cousin, who was about the same age as me.

Having found the right trailer, and no-one home, I sat down on the porch and waited, and prayed that they hadn't gone away on holiday.

It's funny, but at the time I had no real conception of the fact that trailer parks are generally for those of lesser means, or for the retired eking out their remaining savings. Having relatively few of them in the UK, they had always seemed sort of, well, I don't know; bohemian? No, probably not the right word. Exotic? Not that, either. Certainly foreign, certainly American, certainly something different and exciting; a novel and unique way to live, that smacked of freedom and independence. My romanticised view tied them in with RV's, and the ability to be up and away at the drop of a hat, no ties and total freedom. Couldn't be further from the truth of course.

Sitting there on that porch, everything seemed sunshine and roses to me. It was early summer, and there was plenty of sunshine, flowers everywhere, and it all looked so ideal: what I wouldn't do to live here. Jesus, they even had a pool! Communal, yes, but a swimming pool right on site where they lived - who could want for more then year-round sunshine and a pool? What a life! Yup, I could move here tomorrow.

I stayed with my relatives for only a few days, long enough to discover that, though I got on well enough with my cousin, my aunt and I didn't really 'gel'. I moved down the road to stay with my uncle...

...who couldn't have been more welcoming. He put me up, took me out places, introduced me to people, even arranged a booze-laden 20th birthday bash for a teenager away from home. He even got me a job selling suausages!

The Ministry of Food

The Ministry of Food was a café on the outskirts of San José for homesick British expatriates, which my uncle used to frequent, (he was originally from London). The owner had become a friend of my uncle's, and he gave me a job. We went to the café to eat sausages and baked beans, to drink some proper tea, with milk, and to eat toast that didn't have cinnamon or blueberries or some other ridiculous substance mixed in with it. Alright, to be honest, I like cinnamon toast, but when in a Roman café...

I met Alan Ball in the Café once, not for much more than to say hello to, but it was something to meet a member of the '66 World Cup winning team. No-one else of great fame that I remember, but he was among many who used to come for breakfast, or to stock up on Marmite, Branston pickle or HP sauce.

There weren't any jobs in the café itself, but the owner had bought a burned-out caravan which he wanted smartening up. My job was basically to scrub the 'van inside and out, and to make a start putting in fixtures and fittings. That kept me busy for a week or two. Occasionally, I went into San Francisco with the owner to sell some of his imported foods to retail outlets in the city. As I recall, a big buyer was Chinese restaurants. I'm not 100 % sure of this, but I think that what they really liked from the UK was Stone's Ginger Wine, (a favourite of mine, too!). They used it in their dishes for flavouring. Whether this was because it was easier or cheaper then using ginger root or whether they just liked to get the customers stoned, I don't know. They also bought a lot of Guinness, but I think that this was more for the chefs than the customers. A shame that I didn't have a driving licence at the time, as The Ministry of Food really needed someone to take over this round in the city. I'd probably still be there now if I'd have started - would have suited me down to the ground.

Once I'd done with the caravan, I became a mobile sausage salesman! The caravan was to be used as a mobile outlet selling sausages ('bangers') in sourdough rolls, (which I'd never even heard of at the time, but came to enjoy), to the punters at the football (soccer) games on the home turf of the San José Earthquakes at the (research tells me), Spartan Stadium, San Jose, CA.

That was fun. At the time, George Best was playing for the team, and the crowds, although not huge, were very enthusiastic. We did great business, and our boss was always there with us. He was very hands on, and was good to work with. I'd generally be sticking the bangers in the buns with some onions, serving them up, taking the cash, and then cleaning up afterwards. I'd work alongside a couple of Scots, who (though much older than me), were a good laugh. Our boss (I've just remembered his name - Dennis), would always stand us a couple of beers halfway through - it was hot work in that little 'van, and he was very happy one night when we actually surpassed the takings on the beer stall next door! Good jobs are few and far between in this life - that's one which I recall with great fondness.

The Merry Pranksters

I was very green when it came to drugs. I'd smoked a little home-grown marijuana at home a few months before leaving for the USA, and had thrown up a number of times when smoking hash, (I wasn't a cigarette smoker, and the tobacco spun me around in a terrible way), but that was it. Since being in the US though, I'd been introduced to a whole new level of potency of the drug. The THC levels in the weed that was grown in Texas, California, or imported from Mexico was on a whole different level, and would have me throwing up a few more times while my body tried to accustomise itself to what I threw at it.

While at my uncle's I really only indulged once - at his neighbour's apartment, where I smoked too much of something too strong, and once again spent an unpleasant time in the lavatory. Actually, I'd only really obliged 'cos I fancied the neighbour's girlfriend something rotten. She was a typical blue-eyed blond Californian girl, with suntanned good-looks, shiny white teeth and a beautiful smile. Sadly, aside from the fact that I was very clearly not her type, I don't think my half-hour in the loo did me any favours.

My drug of choice always has been, always will be, alcohol. Thank God that I don't seem able to be addicted to the stuff: I could very easily be a drunk, just not an alcoholic. In California, with the preponderance of cheap, good-quality wines, I was in heaven.

My uncle's downstairs neighbours were also wine-lovers. Nearing retirement, they were all the same very much able to communicate on a nineteen-year-olds' level. They were a very happy, chatty couple, and I'd often pass a pleasant hour or so with them, talking about everything and anything while we got rid of a bottle of wine or two together.

We talked about books, and I showed Les the list that I'd been given by the girl in Silverton. As he read it, he smiled sagely and nodded, muttering "yeah...uh-huh...yup" under his breath. He added one or two to the list and asked me if I'd yet read 'The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test' or 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest'. I hadn't.

Turned out that he and his wife, Elaine, had been very much into the hippy scene in the mid-'60's Bay Area, and frequented many of the parties in the hills with the Merry Pranksters and assorted hangers-on. Lots of wine and doobies, no doubt, almost certainly accompanied by a smattering of more synthetic hallucinogenic substances - then in their infancy.

'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest', for those that haven't read it, is a terrific book, inspired doubtless by many inner thoughts brought on by drug use, and its creator, Ken Kesey. The Merry Pranksters deserve far more than a passing mention. Read about them in the external link. Their tales tell much about Ken Kesey and his inspirations.

Tale last updated: Monday, April 5th, 2010