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<\/a>\n\t\t\t<\/div><\/figure>\n\t\t<\/div>\n<\/p>\nSunday, February 20th 2005. Owl Farm, Woody Creek, Pitkin County, Colorado. 5:15pm. Dr. Hunter Stockton Thompson is sat at the worktop in his kitchen, clutching a glass of Chivas Regal whiskey and dragging hard on a Clove cigarette with a TarGuard filter. Taped to the fridge behind him is a stern reminder, scrawled in his own handwriting: \u2018Never Under Any Circumstances Call 911. This Means You.\u2019 As always, the television is tuned to CNN. Thompson\u2019s only son Juan is visiting from Denver. He, his wife and their seven-year-old boy Will are in an adjacent room. Thompson rolls a blank piece of paper into his IBM Selectric typewriter. He should be writing his regular Monday column \u2018Hey Rube\u2019 for ESPN.com \u2013 but the 67-year-old has something more important to do right now… He picks up the phone and calls his 32-year-old wife of two years Anita, who\u2019s a half-hour drive away taking a yoga class. He needs to set things right. Last night, they had an almighty bust-up after he waved an air rifle at her. \u201cCome home,\u201d he mumbles gently into the phone. \u201cEverything\u2019s fine. Don\u2019t worry. I love you more than ever.\u201d At the end of the call, Anita hears Thompson place the receiver on the kitchen worktop and then hears a clicking sound. She presumes her husband is typing and hangs up. He isn\u2019t. He\u2019s just cocked a .45 calibre semi-automatic handgun… At 5:42pm Juan hears a noise from the next room that sounds like a book hitting the floor. Two minutes later he wanders into the kitchen. His father is slumped in his chair: a pistol on the floor by his feet; and a bullet lodged in the stove hood behind his bloodied head. Juan notices the sheet of paper in the typewriter. On it is the last word from Hunter S. Thompson \u2013 the booze-guzzling, drug-hoovering anti-hero of American literature. That word is \u2018counselor\u2019.<\/p>\n
\u201cHunter said to me early on, \u2018I\u2019d feel trapped in this life if I didn\u2019t know that I could commit suicide at any moment\u2019,\u201d says Ralph Steadman, mimicking his dead friend\u2019s laconic mumble perfectly. \u201cI knew he would do it one day. It just came sooner than I thought.\u201d The 72-year-old is speaking on the phone from the studio at the back of his sprawling Georgian mansion in Kent. It\u2019s six in the evening and he\u2019s tired. But within five minutes of being asked about past fast times and the uproarious new documentary Gonzo: The Life And Work Of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson,<\/em> he is unstoppable.<\/p>\nIn Gonzo<\/em>, Thompson\u2019s first wife Sandi Conklin delivers a powerful speech to camera about the spineless nature of her estranged husband\u2019s suicide. Steadman doesn\u2019t agree. \u201cIt wasn\u2019t a cowardly way out,\u201d he insists. \u201cIt was a matter of fact. Hunter was undergoing constant physiotherapy because he went off to Hawaii with Sean Penn and broke his bloody leg. He\u2019d already had hip operations and had to learn to walk again. He told me, \u2018This is the death of fun\u2019. And he was sick of it.\u201d<\/p>\n\/\/BREAK\/\/
\nIt was an all-together less stricken animal that Steadman first met, back in 1970. Frustrated by \u201cthe terrible Englishness\u201d of assignments for The Times, Punch<\/em> and Private Eye<\/em>, the cartoonist had taken himself off to America in search of some \u201cover-the-edge\u201d work. He\u2019d only been there a week when the fateful call from Scanlan\u2019s Monthly came through. One of their writers was heading down to Louisville to cover the Kentucky Derby, a Southern equestrian institution billed as \u2018The Most Exciting Two Minutes in Sports\u2019. Would Steadman tag along and do some drawings?<\/p>\n\u201cI\u2019d never heard of Hunter Thompson,\u201d laughs the Welshman. \u201cI wrote a postcard home to Anna, who is now my wife, and said that I was going to be working with a guy called Howard Johnson \u2013 which is actually the name of a hotel chain.\u201d Another thing Steadman didn\u2019t know was that Thompson was returning home to Kentucky to settle some old scores. \u201cThey didn\u2019t like him because he was a troublemaker,\u201d he explains. \u201cHe wanted to go back and fuck them over.\u201d <\/p>\n
Steadman was waiting outside Louisville International Airport when Thompson pulled up in a red convertible, beer in hand, and yelled, \u2018Ralph Steadman? I\u2019ve been looking for you for two days.\u2019 They drove two miles down the highway in silence before Thompson pulled over, produced a can of Mace, sprayed his passenger in the face and threw him out on the verge with his bags and the words \u2013 \u2018You make it to the Derby and we\u2019ll have a story going.\u2019 Well, that\u2019s how Thompson used to tell it. Steadman remembers things differently \u2013 in his version he was Maced over lunch. Steadman did make it to the Derby, albeit minus his pencils, pens and inks. He used lipstick and rouge borrowed from a generous lady in the betting tent to transform the great and the good of Southern society into grotesque slobbering monsters. <\/p>\n
\u201cWhat a person to meet on your first trip to America,\u201d Steadman bellows. \u201cIt was like hitting a bulls-eye first time\u2026 Hunter and I got on instantly because we were so different. If we\u2019d both been tough guys it wouldn\u2019t have worked. He could be mean. But it was a meanness we both understood. Hunter triggered something. Suddenly I knew I could draw with a reckless point of view.\u201d Thompson, though, got writer\u2019s block. He had to be locked in a New York hotel room and supplied with \u201cdrink and whatever else he wanted\u201d before he would start to type. The result, a scathing article titled The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved, read as follows: \u201cUnlike most of the others in the press box we didn\u2019t give a hoot in hell what was happening on the track. We had come to watch the real beasts perform.\u201d It heralded a new reporting style that Thompson named \u2018Gonzo\u2019, in which the writer was bigger than the story; more, the writer was the story. <\/p>\n
Steadman heard nothing from his new friend for three months. Then Scanlan\u2019s Monthly called again, this time with an assignment for the pair to go to Rhode Island and cover the biggest event in sailing, the America\u2019s Cup. They took to the water on a rented three-mast sloop in search of a story, Gonzo-style. Steadman, crippled by seasickness, took one of Thompson\u2019s pills. It was Psyclocybin. By the time they made it back to the harbour bar, he was seeing red-eyed dogs. \u201cHunter produced two cans of spray paint and asked me what I wanted to do with them,\u201d sniggers Steadman. \u201cI said, \u2018Let\u2019s spray \u2018Fuck The Pope\u2019 on the side of one of the million-dollar yachts. Tomorrow the boat\u2019ll come out into the harbour \u2013 all the rednecks on board, standing proud with their arms folded \u2013 with \u2018Fuck The Pope\u2019 on the side\u2026 That will be our story.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n
Thompson maneuvered a dinghy in-between two yachts whilst his accomplice, spray can in hand, readied himself. A security guard caught them before Steadman had depressed the nozzle. Thompson knew the only way out of the situation was to create a distraction. \u201cHe set off two distress flares and set fire to some boats,\u201d Steadman remembers, now hooting with laughter. \u201cWe managed to escape to a nearby coffee bar. The following afternoon we found out that Scanlan\u2019s Monthly had gone bankrupt\u2026 the story never appeared.\u201d <\/p>\n
The America\u2019s Cup trip had been a heroic disaster. But not a complete waste of time. \u201cHunter knew it was a dress rehearsal for something,\u201d Steadman continues, warming to his theme. That \u201csomething\u201d came in March 1971, when Thompson took off into the Nevada desert loaded down with two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half-full of cocaine and a whole galaxy of multicolored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls. He returned with his undisputed masterpiece Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream.<\/em><\/p>\nThis time around, Steadman \u2013 back in England, still suffering from \u201cflashbacks and scoured innards\u201d \u2013 didn\u2019t accompany him. \u201cI would have liked to have gone,\u201d he says thoughtfully. \u201cBut Hunter said, \u2018Ralph, you can\u2019t handle a thing like this. I need a lawyer with me.\u2019\u201d Fear and Loathing<\/em> told the \u2018fictional\u2019 story of Raoul Duke (Thompson\u2019s thinly disguised alter-ego) and 300-pound Samoan Dr. Gonzo\u2019s drug-crazed journey into oblivion. Rolling Stone<\/em> wanted to serialise it. Random House wanted to publish it. But there weren\u2019t any pictures. \u201cHunter had brought back a few bits like beer mats and labels,\u201d Steadman adds. \u201cNothing of any use. He said: \u2018Get Ralph on the phone.\u2019 They sent the manuscript and a photo of Oscar Zeta Acosta \u2013 the real Gonzo, over to me and three days \u2013 and a lot of beer and brandy \u2013 later, I\u2019d completed it all.\u201d<\/p>\nSteadman\u2019s deranged drawings were instantly iconic. Arguably more iconic than the book itself. In the Gonzo documentary, a wine-soaked Steadman is seen sticking this very point to Thompson in the latter\u2019s Owl Farm kitchen. The writer sneers back, wrestling between amusement and rage. \u201cI wasn\u2019t joking,\u201d explains Steadman. \u201cThe truth is that, without my drawings, Hunter\u2019s work wouldn\u2019t have been so easily noticed. The pictures drew people\u2019s attention to it. And Hunter knew it. He was always slightly bitter about my cartoons.\u201d <\/p>\n
Nothing had changed by the time Alex Cox attempted to bring the book to the big screen in 1997. The mere mention of incorporating Steadman\u2019s cartoons blew the deal. \u201cHunter said, \u2018I don\u2019t want any fucking cartoons in my film,\u2019\u201d Steadman giggles. \u201cHe got really angry about that.\u201d The following year Steadman\u2019s friend Terry Gilliam made the movie. His version starred Johnny Depp \u2013 who moved into the basement of Owl Farm for four months to study Thompson \u2013 as Raoul Duke. And contained no cartoons. <\/p>\n
With Fear And Loathing<\/em> on every bestseller list, Thompson and Steadman were now a hot double-act. Rolling Stone<\/em> flew them out to Africa to cover the greatest boxing match of the century, \u2018The Rumble in The Jungle\u2019. The magazine\u2019s founder and editor Jan Wenner would later describe it as \u201cthe biggest, fucked-up story in the history of journalism.\u201d On October 30th, 1974 world heavyweight champion George Foreman was defending his title against former world champion Muhammad Ali at the Mai 20 Stadium in Kinshasa, Zaire. Come fight night, all the heavyweights of the writing world gathered ringside \u2013 George Plimpton for Sports Illustrated and Norman Mailer, who would turn the history-making event into his bestselling memoir The Fight. But, as the first round bell rang, the seat next to them \u2013 reserved for a Dr. Hunter S. Thompson \u2013 was empty.<\/p>\n\u201cI wanted to see the fight,\u201d Steadman claims. \u201cBut Hunter had given our tickets away. He said he had no desire in watching a couple of black guys beating the shit out of each other.\u201d So, whilst Ali punched his graceful way to an eighth round victory, Thompson was down at the hotel swimming pool, drunk on Steadman\u2019s Glenfiddich and pouring marijuana down the filter system. Steadman caught the last couple of rounds on TV. Back in New York, Thompson failed to deliver any written material and Wenner didn\u2019t like the drawings. On the upside, though, Thompson did manage to get his $300 elephant tusks through customs. <\/p>\n
It\u2019s perhaps no surprise that the one Thompson adventure Steadman cherishes above all was a rather more low key affair. He joined Thompson for two months on Hawaii in 1980 while the writer was preparing The Curse of Lono<\/em>, a novel on the Hawaiian god. \u201cMy wife and daughter Sadie came as well,\u201d he says, his voice lifting at the memory \u201cWe all had Christmas there in big ocean-side cabins. That\u2019s the one I think of most because it was full of joy.\u201d <\/p>\nThompson and Steadman\u2019s final collaboration was also one of their most spectacular: the writer\u2019s 2005 funeral. Throughout the 35-year friendship, Thompson had raved constantly about plans for his final send-off. He wanted his ashes blasted out over Woody Creek from a 150-foot tower in the shape of a two-thumbed fist clutching a Peyote cactus button. In Gonzo, Steadman is seen in 1978 sketching the design for the anxious boss of the Reed Bros. Tapley & Geiger Mortuary in Hollywood \u2013 \u201cI\u2019ve told you a thousand times for ten years, you\u2019ve got to put \/\/ two \/\/ thumbs on the fist!\u201d growls Thompson, before grabbing the black marker and correcting the drawing himself. <\/p>\n
With the help of Johnny Depp\u2019s bank account, Steadman made sure Thompson got his wish. On Saturday, August 20th 2005, a crowd of family and friends gathered on a gondola-shaped deck overlooking Owl Farm. Amongst them, Senator John Kerry and former Senator George McGovern \u2013 who Thompson had tirelessly championed in his Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail \u201972 reports; Hollywood elite Sean Penn, Jack Nicholson and, of course, Depp; Rolling Stone\u2019s Jan Wenner; and the long-suffering bar staff from Hotel Jerome in Aspen. In front of them stood the pyrotechnics-rigged monument \u2013 with two thumbs. Parked at its base was Thompson\u2019s beloved red convertible, a blow-up doll behind the wheel.<\/p>\n
Steadman\u2019s toast consisted of reading out Thompson\u2019s lengthy faxes sent to him over the years, including one that demanded an immediate loan of $50,000 \u2013 \u2018Keep your advice to yourself,\u2019 Thompson wrote, \u2018and send the money.\u2019 \u201cThe thing I miss are those messages and the weird phone calls in the middle of the night,\u201d Steadman sighs. \u201cI wouldn\u2019t hear from him in months and then suddenly he\u2019d call. \u2018Ralph, you filthy little animal. You dirty little beast. I need some work, Ralph.\u2019\u201d <\/p>\n
At 8:46pm, as Bob Dylan\u2019s voice sang out \u2018Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me, I\u2019m not sleepy and there is no place I\u2019m going to\u2026\u2019 through high-decibel speakers, thirty red, white, blue and green fireworks rocketed Thompson\u2019s ashes into the night sky. True to form, he had the last laugh. His ashes floated back down to earth and settled in the drinks of his mourners. As local Sheriff Braudis took a sip of his Chivas Regal he was heard to say, \u201cGoodbye, Hunter\u2026 Motherfucker.\u201d <\/p>\n
Words: Ben Cobb<\/p>\n
A full version of this article first appeared in<\/em> Wonderland #16, Dec\/Jan 2008\/09<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"With the release of a major new documentary on renegade writer Hunter S. Thompson, Ben Cobb asks cartoonist Ralph Steadman, his friend and accomplice for 35 years, to relive the madness\u2026<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":469,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"gallery","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3632],"tags":[53,153,152,128,154],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n
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