from weekend 1
1979 he spent two years on remand in Brixton and Wandsworth prisons, which might be said to have been a timely career move because for the first time he was in touch with the real criminal fraternity of the London underworld.
The cosy fraternity of dope, smoking amateurs Marks conjures up has long since disappeared only to be replaced by "professionals" whose code of conduct owes nothing to the ethics of word and bond. "It used to be disapproved of by the traditional criminal world drug dealers of any sort were considered like sex offenders. But now villains all over the world have got into it because of its money making possibilities. And they bring their own ethics to that business."
Ethics that do not eschew violence or differentiate between soft and hard drugs. When I inadvertently refer to my ever charming companion as a drug dealer, Mr no longer Mr Nice guy, pulls me up. He has never trafficked in anything other than dope, he repeats. For the first time I see the steel beneath the smile.
The detail and recall of the book is staggering. Marks appears to have a phenomenal memory ("In the past I had to use it for keeping accounts.") And if ever proof were needed that marijuana does not addle the brain - he smokes it continually - this has to be it. As a framework he had the accumulated evidence. "I know where I was for most of my life because its been documented by over 14 different law enforcement agencies."
Although Mr Nice is awash with names, Marks claims he has put no one at risk, though "some people may be a little embarrassed". Omerta, the Sicilian word encapsulating the code of silence, prevails. "I'm happy to write what's already known by the authorities. It's truth without betrayal. It's not going to force anyone to be arrested or leave, the country. Except possibly Jim.
Jim is Belfast born Jim McCann, current whereabouts unknown. Because Jim, unlike just about everybody else involved, has so far managed to avoid prison bars though he had a few close shaves. McCann was the Irish end of the Shannon Scam who appears, disappears and reappears through the narrative with the regularity of athlete's foot and provides some of the most hilarious and surreal moments in the book.
His totally spurious claim to be working for the IRA (which the IRA has understandably consistently denied) proved unwittingly useful, however, and led to Marks avoiding conviction in 1981 when his bizarre and highly original defence, including in camera evidence from a member of the Mexican Secret Service - that he was recruited by MI6 to infiltrate the IRA via McCann with drug dealing the necessary cover - was accepted by a sympathetic, not to say gullible, Old Bailey jury.
Marks claims that he has had no problems adjusting to freedom. The only sign of psychological strain is that he can no longer swim or take a bath without having a panic attack when the water reaches his neck. Otherwise the experience has only improved him, he says. "I'm less judgmental, more patient." Writing the book has helped, though he's clearly worried about its reception. "I am much more nervous about this than I ever was about passing any border with a car load of dope. It's a much greater buzz."
IN the past chasing the buzz proved Marks's undoing. But his need for excitement shows no signs of diminishing. Last weekend he appeared on stage at the Reading Festival with the Super Furry Animals, a Welsh rock band (coincidentally appearing in Dublin next week) which has adopted him. He screamed himself hoarse singing the Beatles' Number Nine to an ecstatic and adulatory audience who see neither Mr Nice nor Mr Nasty but Mr Notorious. And notoriety is a flower that fades.
Would he ever consider going back to the old life? I can't promise that I won't. I won't do it now, but sometimes I think that a dope smuggler is what I am. It's my fate, my destiny."
As for this weekend's visit to Dublin, for an appearance on the Late Late Show and with the band, he admits to being a mite nervous, and not only because he'll be performing his own work for the first time rather than just pulling the strings. "They've never charged me with anything. But they could do. There's no statute of limitations, or anything. The publishers don't mind - they say it would be good publicity."
And the boy from the Welsh valleys with the mischievous eyes laughs and laughs.