‘Altogether Elsewhere.’ The title page of an unpublished travel book caught my eye during a recent clear-out. The author, Matthew Leeming, was a character who deserved to be famous but somehow never made it. He was imaginative, witty, fearless and greedy – wonderfully greedy. He inherited his father’s ceramics company and ran it for years with great success. He loved being rich. ‘Money,’ he used to say wistfully, ‘eases the pain of being alive.’
To pique women’s interest, he claimed to be off-limits. ‘I’m training for the Catholic priesthood,’ he confided
He invented businesses out of thin air. In Oxford he lived in a neighbourhood called St Clement’s and he created a summer school by printing a ream of luxury notepaper with an imposing letterhead: ‘St Clement’s College, St Clement’s, Oxford.’ He hired a lecture room and gave English lessons to German teenagers who doubtless imagined that they were enrolled at Oxford University. He made a tidy sum and no one complained. Aged 21, he organised a four-man motorbike expedition to China along the silk road. Having led the party to Istanbul, he withdrew while his companions continued eastward across Asia but were halted at the India-China border. The trip was over. Back in London, Leeming prised open the frontier by depositing $20,000 in cash at the Chinese embassy. Or so he alleged.
In 1988, I shared a flat with him in Brixton but he left abruptly after being attacked in the street by two old acquaintances who claimed that he owed them money. ‘If you live in the slums, the slums bite back,’ he said as he carried his boxes of books, including his treasured biographies of Robert Byron and Wilfred Thesiger, into the boot of his BMW 5 Series. Next Afghanistan, where he sought new tile designs and technical know-how for his ceramics firm.
During his first flight to Kabul, he was approached by a friendly Englishman who offered him a few survival tips: ‘Kandahar? It’s infested with bandits. Herat? Russian landmines everywhere. Helmand? They behead Europeans on sight. Nangarhar? You’ll be sold as a sex slave to the Uzbeks.’ Leeming realised that his new friend had a proprietorial interest in Afghanistan and wished to scare off potential rivals.
Leeming’s sex life was a disappointment to all concerned – especially himself. He was a confident, popular figure at parties and had a tall, elegant physique with brown swept-back hair. In poorly lit rooms he was occasionally mistaken for Jeremy Irons. But women resisted his charms. To pique their interest, he claimed to be off-limits. ‘I’m training for the Catholic priesthood,’ he confided to attractive females at parties without realising that his pose of celibacy made him seem weird or gay (or both). He invested in a Jaguar XJS and dropped hints about his luxury toy, but the tactic came across as needy rather than debonair. He remained convinced that the Jag was an aphrodisiac. I once arrived at a champagne party in Chelsea and found him leading, or perhaps dragging, a startled blonde towards the window. ‘It’s the green one,’ he said, pointing into the street, ‘between the Merc and the Audi.’
In Afghanistan he hit the jackpot. Having joined a secretive oil cartel, he became the chief supplier of aviation fuel to Nato’s International Security Assistance Force. He’d made it. He moved to Dubai where he lived like a king. An email arrived. ‘Hi Lloyd. Our firm needs to be rebranded. Come up with a catchy name and I’ll buy you a Rolls-Royce.’ I thought for a few seconds and replied: ‘How about “Bombs Away” or “Hard Rain”?’ No answer from Leeming. Shortly after this, his fortunes began to sink and he lost his position in the cartel as well as his remaining businesses, which included a start-up in Hampshire backed by friends who each owned a £5,000 share.
A manuscript arrived through the post. ‘Altogether Elsewhere.’ A bracingly funny and candid account of his life in Afghanistan, including his accidental involvement in the assassination of the warlord Ahmad Shah Massoud. A literary agent liked the first draft. A contract was in the air. ‘Leeming’s got a book deal,’ I told a mutual friend who worked in publishing. ‘He’ll never finish it,’ said the friend instantly, and without malice. He was right.
At his funeral, the eulogy was delivered by Boris. ‘Anyone here owed money by Leeming?’ he said
Leeming spent his last years near his hometown of Winchester where he enjoyed the support of his inner circle. I avoided his calls because I knew what to expect. He would order a pub lunch and telephone an unsuspecting well-wisher. ‘I’m so glad I caught you,’ he would say affably. ‘I popped into the Earl of Cumberland for a pint and they’ve offered me half a roast duck with a punnet of pan-fried chips and an avocado salad. But my credit card is playing up. The staff are being difficult. Could you transfer 30 quid to cover it?’
At his funeral, the eulogy was delivered by Boris. ‘Anyone here owed money by Leeming?’ he said. ‘Hands up. I’m told there are quite a few.’ My paw twitched involuntarily but I kept it down. Poor Leeming. And poor me. I’ll never see that five grand again. In life he was a failure, but he was also, indubitably, a star. It’s strange how that happens.
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