I breezed through my Bachelor of Arts programme at McGill University so the question was what is next? When I was in the midst of my political science studies I noted the hordes of political science students slavishly busting their butts day and night in search of high grades to enable entrance into the hugely competitive law school admissions stream. Poor buggers I used to think. What came to me naturally they struggled with like a matter of life and death. Political science was the Golden Brick Road to law school these intellectually starved waifs thought.
Well as a rich bastard I could have lived a life of luxury anywhere in the world but I had these visions of my father Paneer who pulled himself up from poverty to establish a huge commercial enterprise albeit it was founded on dealing hashish to Indian monks and tourists.
I applied to McGill Law School and was accepted with my high marks and Indian ancestry that led to an advantage those law school administrators could exploit internationally. I rejected my acceptance to their dismay and delight of those ragged band of political science students who dreamt of what I rejected.
My choice was to work for a year in Montreal and write a novel. So I accepted a position as a casting assistant for the Connie Blue Talent Agency in Montreal to place, as I was told, leading talent in the emerging Canadian movie industry.
Connie was a throaty chain-smoking lesbian and Joc her “fronting husband” (another homosexual) ran the agency which was a two-bit supplier of underwear models for discount chain Zellers and Woolworths. I think their poufy dog really ran the agency while they were fornicating with “friends” in the backrooms of the agency. There was their lead talent an anorexic Russian who had the talent and body but was “overburdened” by cocaine. So it was a fruitless job for me. One day in my best Parisian French I dealt with a client and that French I used was mocked by Connie. I said, “Fuck Off you shit” and walked out the door.
So I focused on my novel for 6 months writing around the clock on a 1935 typewriter and it was called “Pirates of the Aegean”. It was filched from me into a stolen nowhere novel by the theif and picked up by Hollywood. The criminal pirate was the thief who stole my novel. He never was seen after his vacation to Bombay. My friends saw to that.
So what was next?