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    Two Dragons
    Two Dragons
    Two Dragons
    Ebook147 pages1 hour

    Two Dragons

    By Howard Marks and Alun Gibbard

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    This book tells the story of Welshman Howard Marks who has recently discovered his true Welsh identity after a notorious few decades. Raised in Kenfig Hill, south Wales, he became one of the most prolific drug smugglers in the world.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherY Lolfa
    Release dateAug 9, 2012
    ISBN9781847715807
    Two Dragons
    Author

    Howard Marks

    HOWARD MARKS is cochairman and cofounder of Oaktree Capital Management, a leading investment firm responsible for over $120 billion in assets. His previous book on investing, The Most Important Thing: Uncommon Sense for the Thoughtful Investor, was a critically acclaimed bestseller. He lives in New York City.  

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      Book preview

      Two Dragons - Howard Marks

      Howard%20Marks%20-%20Two%20Dragons.jpg

      With thanks to Caroline Brown, Marty Langford and Tee Bone Burnett, and dedicated to Myfanwy Roberts

      First impression: 2010

      © Howard Marks & Y Lolfa Cyf., 2010

      This book is subject to copyright and may not be reproduced by any means except for review purposes without the prior written consent of the publishers.

      Cover photograph: Emyr Young

      Photographs by Emyr Young except the ones in

      Jamaica, Patagonia and filming Mr Nice

      Cover design: Sion Ilar

      The publishers wish to acknowledge the support of

      Cyngor Llyfrau Cymru

      ISBN: 9 781 84771 290 5

      E-ISBN: 978-1-84771-580-7

      Printed on acid-free and partly recycled paper

      and published and bound in Wales by

      Y Lolfa Cyf., Talybont, Ceredigion SY24 5HE

      e-mail [email protected]

      website www.ylolfa.com

      tel 01970 832 304

      fax 832 782

      1

      HEARTBEATS

      The pain in my upper chest got steadily worse as the evening progressed. Maybe if I went to sleep, I would wake up feeling better. I took my temple ball of Nepalese hashish, rolled the strongest joint I could, and smoked it until nothing but ash remained. Lying down on the bed, I swallowed two 20mg Valium pills. I told my girlfriend, Caroline, I was tired out, I had smoked too much dope all evening, my chest was hurting a bit, and I’d sleep it off. Unconsciousness embraced me kindly, slowly, and comfortingly. I felt good, confident I had just experienced what my mother used to refer to as a ‘funny turn’.

      Nothing to worry about, Howard bach, she used to say, It will be gone by the morning. You’ll see. She was never wrong.

      An hour or so later, I woke up. The pain was much sharper, spreading through my neck, down my arms, up through my jaw, into my teeth. I had implants. How could I suffer from toothache? What was going on? I moved my arm a little and felt as if an elephant had just sat down on my chest and decided to sleep there forever. The pain peaked. I couldn’t handle it. I tossed, turned, and fretted. Caroline woke up.

      Are you okay, love?

      Of course I’m fucking not. I’m in agony. Either shoot me or call the ambulance now. I can’t take any more. Please.

      An ambulance came within minutes. Needles, oxygen mask, thermometer, blood-pressure straps. Then those lovely words, I think we had better give you some morphine.

      Yes, please. I’ve had it before. I usually need quite a lot. I have a low pain threshold. I’m not allergic to anything.

      The morphine pumped into my veins, and I glided into a calm coma of comfort. I felt good. I knew the loud sirens were singing to help me, not to bang me up in prison. I was dimly aware of nurses and doctors buzzing around my stretcher, sticking pads on my chest, jabbing syringes into my stomach. Then I was on a trolley roller coasting at speed through hospital corridors, banging through double doors, twisting around corners, being examined under strong lights, connected to tomorrow’s bleeping technology.

      The drifting dream-like images suddenly stopped, and I woke up, sharply, and it all made sense. Jesus! I was in intensive care. I was going to die before the movie was released. I wanted to see my kids and my sister. Where was Caroline? She was right. I should never have taken all those drugs for all those years, should never have touched tequila, wallowed in whisky, popped pills, smoked spliffs, or snorted shite cocaine. I should have slowed down, taken it easy, and stopped doing shows, slept more, read more, thought more. Caroline wafted into view.

      How long have I got? Tell me the truth. I can take it. I would rather know the truth.

      What on earth are you on about? You’re all right.

      What? I know what’s going on. I’m hardly in intensive care because they’re short of beds, am I?

      Howard, you’re not in intensive care. You are just being monitored. You’ll probably be out of here in a day or so. Pull yourself together.

      I felt a millisecond twinge of disappointment, then a lengthy flash of relief that still echoes through my mind today.

      The consultant and his team of pupils marched in.

      Good morning, Mr Marks. I’ll just read through your notes first.

      He spoke to his medical students.

      Lack of oxygen causes electrical problems in the heart’s conductive system, and the heart, instead of beating as it should, fibrillates. It twitches and quivers rapidly and helplessly, still alive but unable to do its job. The fibrillating heart is a sea of worms, each one with its own distinct rhythm. Unless the heart can somehow or other be reversed to enable it to pump properly, further heart attacks and death inevitably follow.

      I looked up at him, knowing my eyes were sadder than ever.

      I am, of course, referring to only ventricular fibrillation. Mr Marks is suffering from atrial fibrillation, which rarely results in a fatality as long as it’s attended to without delay.

      Atrial fibrillation is a form of arrhythmia, when the heart’s natural beat goes awry, either too fast (tachycardia) or too slow (bradycardia). Possible causes include anxiety, stress, booze, fags, caffeine, chocolate, cocaine, and chest infections. The heart’s electrical system becomes confused, the heart panics and cannot beat at all.

      Mr Marks’s atria are beating at 400 bpm and his ventricles are at 150 bpm. His brain and body think he’s running an endless marathon.

      What can be done about it? I asked.

      There is a variety of treatments: ablation, where we operate and disable the malfunctioning pieces of your heart; we can anaesthetise you, give you an electrical shock, and jolt it back to normality; or we could put you on beta blockers, which is what we are doing. It’s the least invasive treatment.

      I passed out again, thinking I had at least some chance of seeing the Mr Nice movie. I’ll survive that long.

      The sexual heart is as energetic as a man in his prime, full, erect, spurting with orgasmic power. The heart suffocates through lack of oxygen, becomes old, flabby, incapable, and turns to stone, but it never breaks. The metaphorical, metaphysical heart, however, is full of spiritual qualities; the broken heart is one of the most striking images in the human history of romantic and mystical love, whether occasioned by Cupid’s careless arrows or the centurion’s deity-destroying lance.

      Come on, heart! You’re shaped like a Welsh harp. So pluck those heartstrings, my little angels. Come on, heart! Make your noise, dubdub, love dub, dubdub, love dub. You’re the drum that banged out God’s first rhythm, alive only when beating. Cold heart, faint heart, free heart, half heart, heartburn, heart-throb, purple heart, jack of hearts, queen of hearts, sweetheart.

      What do you want, my love? We’ve got toast, cereal, yoghurt…

      Could I handle a hearty breakfast? Shall I eat my heart out? Images of heart-shaped food flooded my mind: tomato, avocado, guava, bunches of grapes, squid, and those crustacean love hearts from Penclawdd that are sold in Swansea market. To warm the cockles of my heart.

      2

      SMOKE, MIRRORS, AND MR NICE

      The film Mr Nice is now being shown in most countries, with a few notable exceptions such as the United States. In putting the film together, I’m glad the makers took heed of Alfred Hitchcock’s pearl of wisdom – the length of a film should be directly related to the endurance of the human bladder.

      The filming took place in 105 different locations, and I was allowed to be on set as often as I wished. Bernard Rose, the director, whose credits include Candyman and Anna Karenina, always welcomed me, as did Rhys Ifans, who is far too professional to worry about the real Howard Marks being on set.

      The locations for the film were split between south Wales and Spain. Every other country in the world that played a part in the screenplay had to be recreated in one of these two countries. America was not an option as I’m not allowed to go there, and they probably wouldn’t take too kindly to a film being made of my exploits which used their God-given country. There is still no distribution deal for Mr Nice in the USA. Although I’ve been released from prison, I’m still technically on parole. So if I set foot on American soil, even to change planes, and they know I’ve committed an offence since being released – such as smoking a joint – I can be arrested again and put back behind bars to serve out the rest of my twenty-five year sentence. I’m still a criminal in their eyes, which occasions difficulties in promoting a film about my life in their country.

      In addition to the filming in Wales and Spain, Bernard Rose had tenaciously acquired original media footage of news coverage relating to different parts of my story to work in with the original material being shot, utilising green screens to mix the footage. Wales would be Wales itself, as well as the location for anything that happened in Ireland and Oxford. All border scenes, road and air, were shot at the RAF base in St Athan’s near Barry in the Vale of Glamorgan. Spain was California and Pakistan. Terre Haute Prison was an old warehouse just outside Alicante.

      When it came to filming in Wales, Bernard had

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