Adrian Simon is the son of Warren Fellows, the infamous Australian heroin smuggler who was imprisoned in Bangkwang Prison in Bangkok for many years.
Warren also published the bestselling 'The Damage Done' about his experience. Now it's his son's turn to tell his side.
Adrian's story is almost a real life 'Breaking Bad'. Much of his young life was spent in Perth and his new biography 'Milk-Blood' will tell of how he grew up the son of a convicted drug trafficker, watching his mother get shunned by society and finding the courage to step out of his father’s dark shadow. Adrian pulls no punches, telling it like it was and tackling difficult and complex themes and issues like crime, drug addiction, redemption and coming-of-age.
Here, Adrian pens an Open Letter about his life:
Brad was shaking my arm. Fuck, I forgot I’d promised him to go to Interlaken. I had no idea how I got home, must have been kidnapped by drink and drugs. I should have been on a drip, not going on a day trip. Later on I laid in the greenest of fields letting my mind drift with the wispy clouds above.
Days earlier I was shoved off the Eurostar train leaving me stranded in the middle of the German countryside altering my travel plans. If I hadn’t I would have never met Sanchez. We hit the best club in Zurich. He slammed a shot down then said to me. “Have you ever wanted to set fire to the world?” His eyes misted. What he then told me was all too familiar. His father was a cartel dope smuggler, he crossed the wrong men, and to save his own skin fled Mexico.
Decades later Sanchez tracked him down in North Africa. He felt sick telling me his father was a diseased wrecked, broken by Heroin. Would he believe me? Did I believe him? Yes, his open wounds were bleeding the same experiences, our fathers had fucked us up.
My father, Warren Fellows, spent 11 years in the big tiger prison in Thailand for trafficking heroin. In Asia of all places. I was two years old. The little boy needing his father, became the boy branded 'damaged goods' by the world.
The clouds above me were calmly moving, wish my mind was, sending me back to the time when mum was driving us up the NSW coast, the tape deck blaring out the midnight express soundtrack. Wasn’t just good music, it told the story of our lives back then. As a son there is nothing worse than seeing your mother cry. Mum fought back tears on that journey, my five-year-old presence absorbed everything. There was an inescapable heaviness, our lives hung by a thread, the only thing keeping us alive was our love.
Brad returned with a beer snapping me from my gaze, I nearly vomited at the thought, but took a swig regardless. I was 22, I wish I could have said I didn’t have a care in the world, but that would have been a lie. My family was destroyed, my mind had been lost to illness. But I was motivated to explore the world and myself, and one day right the many wrongs. Shit, if I only knew how many more years it would take to resolve.
I never saw the Mexican again, was more than a coincidental meeting, he was my living mirror, a reflection I had to see. I knew then I was no different to anyone, we all face our own demons and challenges.
Two things were clear, I was to live by my terms, and I knew all too well the consequences of action.
– Milk-Blood
Days earlier I was shoved off the Eurostar train leaving me stranded in the middle of the German countryside altering my travel plans. If I hadn’t I would have never met Sanchez. We hit the best club in Zurich. He slammed a shot down then said to me. “Have you ever wanted to set fire to the world?” His eyes misted. What he then told me was all too familiar. His father was a cartel dope smuggler, he crossed the wrong men, and to save his own skin fled Mexico.
Decades later Sanchez tracked him down in North Africa. He felt sick telling me his father was a diseased wrecked, broken by Heroin. Would he believe me? Did I believe him? Yes, his open wounds were bleeding the same experiences, our fathers had fucked us up.
My father, Warren Fellows, spent 11 years in the big tiger prison in Thailand for trafficking heroin. In Asia of all places. I was two years old. The little boy needing his father, became the boy branded 'damaged goods' by the world.
The clouds above me were calmly moving, wish my mind was, sending me back to the time when mum was driving us up the NSW coast, the tape deck blaring out the midnight express soundtrack. Wasn’t just good music, it told the story of our lives back then. As a son there is nothing worse than seeing your mother cry. Mum fought back tears on that journey, my five-year-old presence absorbed everything. There was an inescapable heaviness, our lives hung by a thread, the only thing keeping us alive was our love.
Brad returned with a beer snapping me from my gaze, I nearly vomited at the thought, but took a swig regardless. I was 22, I wish I could have said I didn’t have a care in the world, but that would have been a lie. My family was destroyed, my mind had been lost to illness. But I was motivated to explore the world and myself, and one day right the many wrongs. Shit, if I only knew how many more years it would take to resolve.
I never saw the Mexican again, was more than a coincidental meeting, he was my living mirror, a reflection I had to see. I knew then I was no different to anyone, we all face our own demons and challenges.
Two things were clear, I was to live by my terms, and I knew all too well the consequences of action.
– Milk-Blood
'Milk Blood' is available now.
