Jimmy Ballard’s origins are well-known. He grew up in Shanghai, in Japanese-held China during the Second World War. If we are to believe him, he liked the Japanese. Steven Spielberg’s prodigious career as movie director was in its earlier stages when he filmed Empire of the Sun in 1989 – this was Jimmy’s novel.

In his and my early days, when I was living in one room in Oxford, in a seedy district, Ballard and Mike Moorcock often came down from London to see me and cheer me. We would walk by the Thames and knew a pub there. I see us in memory smoking ciggies and drinking and having warm pleasurable talk. At least, I took pleasure from it.

Then we were invited to a festival in Rio. I can’t think how or why. Ballard and I were invited. We went. We flew.

Rio airport was crowded. I remember Ballard taking a deep breath: ‘Back to tropical air’, his lungs were saying.

Various American authors were also present at the festival, Harlan Ellison, for instance, and No.1 Fan, Forry Ackerman, a pal of mine.

We were jostled with luxury, stuffed with food and films. And left to our own devices. There we were, hanging about in a hotel lounge.

I saw through a glass division a group of pretty women. chatting and drinking.

It occurred to me that the occasion would be more fun if those ladies were on our side of the glass. I went over and collected them and everyone seemed pleased by their presence.

Only then did it dawn on me that these ladies were whores. One of them propositioned me. I was willing. I asked around.

“Look, guys, now’s your chance. They’re a cute group. Who’s going to come along with me?”

Not Forry. Not Harlan. Not Harry. Only Ballard.

Off we went, the two of us, led by two of the women. All very pleasant and exciting.

We reached a well-furnished room, stripped off, got down to business, behind screens from each other.

A teenager, possibly learning to be a whore, came and stood by to watch us in action, frigging herself as she did so.

If you read Ballard’s biography, there is no mention of this incident. Everything has been cleaned up.

After Rio, we remained friends, Moorcock achieved his refreshed ‘New Worlds’, going strong. I believe he published the book that became my Barefoot in the Head in its pages.

At some time or other, I found that Ballard was not speaking to me. We were friends no more. He had made friends with the artist who was then designing the new decorations for Underground stations. I went to see Ballard there, but got short shrift.

Although I was hurt by his coolness, I did buy a book of his essays. I read it in Florida, and was so charmed that I sent Ballard a friendly card. But silence remained, thick as rancid butter on a plate.

So you have to give up. Ballard’s career and reputation continued to grow. It’s all in this curious biography.

His career went on, generally successfully.

A film was made of his novel, Crash.

JG Ballard died in 2009.