THE LOLA BOYS ABROAD !

The trails and tribulations of a dodgy duo!

recent posts

about

Paul is one half of ‘The Lola Boys’ – an international an almost acclaimed cabaret. Paul writes about ‘The Lola Boys’ experiences whilst working and travelling around the globe – joined by his partner, Andrew, both front of house and way backstage! Sometimes voyaging first class. Yet most often not ! But always going in style! The Lola Boys’ Blog follows the trails and tribulations of a dodgy double act!
  • Harassed In Madras!

    Harassed In Madras!

    Paul had woken intent on exploring Chennai, one of India’s major metropolises. The Detroit of the sub-continent at it is often nicknamed. A settlement which had existed for over two thousand years. He felt enthused and ready for an adventure, he hoped it was the medication kicking in at last. Either that or he was delirious – the heat of the tropics could certainly take it’s toll, and in a conurbation of eleven million people with an average temperature of thirty five degrees things could get pretty sticky.

    Andrew had been less keen, laying nonchalantly on the bed in their air conditioned room he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted a frenetic Asian adventure. Probably preferring to strum on his instrument for a few hours. But Paul managed to persuade him otherwise,

    ‘Come on babe – we have to go and see something whilst we’re here. There’s a beautiful ancient Hindu temple, an old British fort and lots of shopping.’

    Paul imagined it was the latter option that made up his partner’s mind as Andrew had expressed the wish to buy a pair of trainers earlier.

    So half an hour later they were sitting in the freezing hotel lobby waiting for their Tuk Tuk to arrive. It didn’t. Nor did the next one. But after what seemed like an aeon in the igloo of the atrium it was third time lucky and soon they were whizzing unnervingly through the cacophonous boiling streets of the city. Lorries, buses, cars, Tuk Tuk’s, bikes, carts, cows, dogs and homeless sapiens shared the highways. Half of them travelling in completely the wrong direction. It seemed there were no rules of the road other than changing lanes as often as possible, cutting up the largest vehicle nearby and hooting one’s horn at least once every two and half seconds.

    Another custom seemed to be an unusual game of tandoori chicken, which was played between the Tuk Tuk one was travelling in racing against a much larger vehicle  in order to squeeze through a narrow gap up ahead. One which was clearly quite impossible for both modes of transport to fit through. Whoever got there first was the winner as the other had to slam on the breaks in order to not become a metal human sandwich. It was a horrible motor sport. Yet strangely exhilarating.

    Fortunately and somewhat surprisingly they eventually arrived at their destination the Kapaleeshwarar temple –  a stunning Tamil creation begun in the seventh century.

    They were told the place closed at 12.30 pm.

    ‘What time is it now.’ Paul inquired.

    The man behind the counter pointed to a large antiquated wooden clock – it read 12.30pm. Andrew sighed far too audibly but they were assured they would be allowed to be admitted. Neither of them understood quite why. But being admitted anywhere was always a bonus so they went with it.

    Being a religious place of worship visitors were required to remove their shoes before entering. This custom cost a quid each to deposit their footwear at the entrance – Paul imagined the footfall was turning quite a profit for the prophets within. Especially with the amount of soles surrounding the structure!

    Once inside they were pounced upon by an insistent and officious little man who made them sign a large book and then decided he was gonna charge them a fiver each for the privilege of stumbling barefoot around the concrete courtyard. He kept pointing to a sign which read no photos inside the temple.

    ‘We,re not inside the temple’ Paul pointed out pointing to the religious structure which was at least fifty bare feet away.

    ‘You pay five pound each’ the supposed guide kept saying. This time indicating a sign in Tamil which was no doubt directing the way to the public toilets.

    Andrew by this time, feet smouldering, hot, bothered and templed out had already headed for the exit. The diminutive con man kept on trying until Paul informed him that his partner had left and that he had the cash, and besides he didn’t like temples anyway. Well, not anymore. The district they were in was named ‘Myapore’ or ‘place of peacocks’. Paul only wished this cock would just pee off. He took a couple of photos explaining that he wouldn’t be paying for them. Begged Shiva for forgiveness, then turned abruptly away from the soulless arsehole rejoining Andrew to collect their footwear.

    Whilst doing so Paul asked the man behind the counter whether it was correct that they had needed to pay a fee to a guide in order to traipse around the place footloose but not fancy free. They were assured that they did not.

    They were both extremely glad that they had kicked the dishonest heel into touch and told him where to go. Paul knew exactly where he wanted to shove his foot. But hey, this was India, there was always someone trying to get a few feet ahead of you to make a fast rupee.

    There was often a game afoot.

    Luckily they’d sized this player up before he’d fitted them up. But he had certainly tried it on. More times than an ugly sister in a shoe shop!

    Once outside Andrew chastised Paul for not doing his research and allowing them to arrive at closing time. It was true Paul hadn’t been aware of the opening hours, but he wasn’t that familiar with Dravidian temple visiting times. He made a mental note to gen up on the information for the next time they were to visit a seventh century Pallavan place of worship. So that at least it wouldn’t be a complete pallava!

    ‘I hate these fucking tourist places. They’re always like this. Too many con artists. Too many people. And it’s so bloody hot!’ Andrew spat.

    Paul knew his partner was correct. But it was difficult to avoid such sites if one wanted to see the sights. Still it was irritating.

    Having replaced his footwear and now with itchy feet Andrew wanted to move away from the mayhem surrounding the temple. Paul couldn’t blame him and they soon found themselves under the heat of the midday sun lurching along a shadeless five lane bustling boulevard. By this time Andrew was losing the will to live.

    ‘I need a drink’ he gasped.

    But the only establishment they came across had three plastic seats inside a small dingy cell with a ceiling fan which didn’t turn. Paul was quite happy to go inside as he he desperately needed the loo, he didn’t care what state it was in. Just a hole would do. He most definitely didn’t need a drink.

    The afternoon went much the same way, Andrew became acidic, developing both acid reflux and an ascerbic tone. The sheer frenzy of the streets and the interminable racket of the traffic played havoc with his A.D.H.D. He was becoming impatient and distressed. Paul was attempting to calm his husband down using ridiculous self help techniques which usually helped no one. Counting beggars, touching trash, smelling exhaust fumes – that kind of thing. Andrew was becoming more irascible and Paul less understanding. He was mentally labelling his partner as suffering from Acrimonious Disgusting Hateful Dickhead syndrome – but he knew that was cruel so he kept it to himself and remained charming. Andrew, after all, had put up with his psychological peccadilloes for many years, often displaying inordinate patience. But Paul still secretly wished they could find a pharmacy and score some Ritalin!

    Thankfully they did find a medical supplier and Andrew managed to obtain some antacid which calmed his stomach and the situation significantly. And then things took a turn for the better.

    Or rather a turning for the better.

    As they continued to struggle on through the demolition derby which was the city centre they both noticed a small quiet looking lane – just about wide enough for a pushbike and an overweight chutneywalla in a saree. They made there way away from mayhem of Madras and into the most authentic of suburbs.

    Away from the urban madness they were suddenly ensconced in an oasis of tranquility. Ladies hanging out their laundry. Gentleman gently pedalling push bikes. Children skipping. Ample ladies sat on the ground amply entertained with simple board games.

    Cows. Goats. Cockerels. Paul knew some of the menagerie was meant for the dinner plate. Perhaps not the two lady gamers. Although in parts of India they seemed to eat anything and everything so he wouldn’t be entirely surprised to spot a ‘Madam Masala’ on some menu or other!

    But the fortunate detour that he and Andrew had decided on had entirely lifted their spirits. It was as if they had changed planets.

    Everyone they came across wanted to say hello. Or proffer a toothsome grin.

    ‘How are you.’ Followed by a gaggle of guileless giggling.

    ‘Where you from?’ Without a hint of prejudice. Only interest.

    Not a hint of disdain for the two wealthy, over-privileged, white tourists trespassing through their neighbourhood. Only joyful curiosity. Friendliness. Paul shook so many hands he felt like Diana, Princess Of Wales, by the time he exited the district.

    And even more surprising were the very welcome public loos half way along the lane. Surely the cleanest in the whole of India.

    Together with stand pipes indicating that most of the residents probably had no running water. But they most definitely had life which runneth over. It was all most humbling.

    Paul was not naive. He and Andrew had travelled extensively across India and had come across a thali of tragedy. Limbless beggars, corpses, unimaginable road accidents fit for a horror movie. But they had also witnessed unabashed joy. The gift of life lived in such an uplifting manner seen rarely in much richer countries. If one can cope with the darkness of the country there is a shining and abundant light to be witnessed too.

    The journey back to the hotel was less heavenly. As the boys sat on another feverish thoroughfare sipping suspiciously warm lemon and mint sodas they attempted unsuccessfully to hail a Tuk Tuk. At least thirty went by. Some carrying passengers. Others sporting animals and odd packages. And some which just didn’t want to go in their direction or simply didn’t want to take them! Eventually they found a superannuated driver with a marvellous bouffant but no penchant for direction. They travelled in chaotic circles for sometime with Andrew attempting to navigate. But the driver obviously didn’t know his left from his right let alone his arse from his elbow.

    Eventually they pulled up alongside a bent old lady in a sari as brown as her skin, she looked somewhat like a cashew on a moped, but at least she was less nutty than most of the drivers. There chauffeur handed her Andrew!s phone at the traffic lights, she took one look at the map and then told him to head for Stirling Road. Paul and Andrew had done this at least eighteen times but it didn’t seem to register until it was said with an Indian accent. That seemed to be the only difference. Paul decided that next time he needed to give directions he would mimic Mahattma Ghandi – he was pretty sure he’d have more success.

    After what seemed like the length of an epic from the famous Mahabharata, with its one hundred thousand verses, they pulled up almost outside their hotel. Andrew was sodden, only with sweat Paul felt he needed to add. As for himself he alighted the Tuk Tuk looking much like Bette Midler having gone through a tumble dryer. Twice! He stumbled after Andrew towards the glorious invention known as air conditioning before their driver shouted out and beckoned him back. Paul assumed he’d left something in the vehicle along with his dignity, but no, instead the old man removed a bracelet made of plastic nuts and beads embossed with the ‘Om’ sign. The ancient symbol meaning the hum of life itself. He placed it on Paul’s wrist and with a ubiquitous Indian head wobble and a smile he disappeared into the endless hum that was the sound of Chennai itself.   

    A friend once described to Paul that India was like Marmite. You either love it or you hate it. It sounded rather like he and Andrew’s stage show!

    But Paul loved Marmite. He’d spread it on his toast any day.

    The following morning Paul was on his way for a blood test when he nearly lost eight pints of the stuff as a juggernaut careered towards him as he walked along a zebra crossing. Still – it was all an adventure.

    Samuel Johnson apparently once wrote in the eighteenth century “when a man is tired of London he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.”

    Paul thought very much the same way about India in the twenty first century. For to him with all its horror, beauty, cruelty, kindness, squalor, richness, poverty, charity, spiritualism and mystery. India too had everything life could afford.

    For it was life.

    Life itself.

    For all to see.

    And all to be seen.

  • The Boy And His Kite.

    The Boy And His Kite.

    One early morning on a scruffy golden beach in the west of Sri Lanka I stood with a small boy who flew a kite made from bin bags. I had felt rubbish for a long while, but whilst standing with him and his piece of sky trash I felt uplifted. 

    Higher than a kite. 

    Tearful. 

    My eyes pooled with salty emotion. The sheer soaring innocence lifted me skyward. For the first time in what seemed like an aeon I felt light. I was moved with the pure delight that the child possessed. Intense happiness caused merely by a length of string wrapped around an old bit of driftwood attached to a piece of bin-bag. And it’s meeting with the sky.

    Not an experience one would have thought would shift them from deep anhedonia. Certainly not an encounter that would have been thought to elicit such a strong response. 

    Yet I felt elated. 

    Honoured to be in the presence of a soul that was present. And only that. 

    For an all too brief ten minutes the boy and I shared something holy. Spiritual. 

    A short period of time unsullied by thought or judgment. Beyond past or future. Only a now which seemed to last forever. 

    I felt the wonder of childhood again. 

    The amazement as the invisible wind became seeable as the kite swooped and dived  along its heavenly flight path. 

    I turned and smiled at the boy. He grinned back at me. No words. We both knew what we were witnessing. 

    It was god on a string. 

    Andrew, who had been fiddling with his mobile phone further along the sands came to join me and I burst into tears. He then began to well up.

    ‘You felt something babe. Some emotion. Ahh how lovely. That’s so good.’

    And Paul hoped his partner was right. He had felt flat and disconnected for over two years now. Apart from a short energetic period triggered by an anti depressant which almost saw him committed to the loony bin. Well, not quite, but it had felt that way. 

    The tablets had nullified him. Stifled his soul. He had fought against them for months. Resisted the advice of the quacks who had recommended he swallow this and that to quiet or lift his turbulent mind. 

    He too had been dancing like the kite. Only uncontrollably, his life swept up in an emotional hurricane that had certainly not been on his radar. He too had battled the wind. Untethered – facing its ferocity as it blasted him headlong in the face. He’d  wondered desperately when the time would return when he could sail plainly along life’s current.

    Easier said than done. 

    He had almost managed this for years until he was blown off course. A gust from nowhere. It had left him quite ungrounded. 

    And yet now, on this litter strewn beach in South Asia he felt a stirring. It was as if the piece of string attached to him had just been recovered and someone had once again taken control. 

    And all of this in a moment. 

    A small moment between him and a contented dirt poor boy who lived in a fishing shack.

    Later when Paul came to journal he was surprised at how much the encounter had moved him. He became lachrymose again on recounting the meeting. A touch maudlin for sure. But his sense of adventure. His gratitude for being able to travel to unfamiliar worlds had almost been returned to him. It was only a faint spark. A small pile of kindling. And the boy with the toothsome grin hand handed him the match. 

    They say children shouldn’t play with fire, but Paul was so glad this one had. For he had relit his soul. 

    The very depth of him was not as lost as he had feared. It was still there, buried beneath layers of depressive sediment and despairing muck, but it still existed. And now he knew this. Finally he knew there was hope. And all because of a bit of string and a bin bag. And the angel who had flown it heavenward.

    So I have written a short story. It is performative of course. I flit between first person and third, a schizoid habit indicative of my mental state. I may even blog it if I feel egotistical enough. It is a glimpse into my inner workings. It is a piece of me maybe I shouldn’t share. But it is at least a tale. 

    A tale of me. 

    It shows I have the capacity to engage. To illustrate. I have stories to tell. 

    I am not empty. 

    I am not lost. 

    For I can be found amongst the letters and sentences. I am there living between the full stops and commas. 

    Found. 

    Courageous enough to take pen to paper to share an important part of my life and perhaps help others who have undergone this same torment.

    Who cares if anyone likes it? Does it matter? 

    What matters is that it is written. My writer’s mind which has been choked with self doubt, clogged up with self pity, has been freed.

    Depression is a horrible thing. 

    Truly terrifying. 

    But also so ordinary that at first it goes unnoticed. So stealthy that it creeps up upon you from behind. And before it is too late has you gagged and blindfold, tied and helpless to resist its pull. One is drowning in its suffocating tar before one can do anything to save oneself. 

    It has insidious claws and once one is in their razor like clutches it is a painful escape. Struggling desperately to release yourself from its sharp talons. Scratching yourself to pieces as you try. Tearing your flesh to free yourself. The pain is physical as well as emotional. 

    Nobody ever tells you that.

    It is August. We have been in Sri Lanka for three weeks now. We live in a house with six bedrooms but only three beds. We have a staircase, winding and floodlit, straight out of Dynasty. I feel much like Alexis Carrington when I climb it, and even more like her when I descend in a dramatic swoop. 

    I want to leave daily. I am homesick. Yet I know wherever I go I shall only be moving into the same headspace. Geography will not heal me. I can only do that myself by doing ‘the work’ as the yanks say. 

    Oh, and taking the tablets of course. 

    I had stopped them for seven weeks and become suicidal once again. I am still not myself. I have no real joy. No motivation. Little hope. 

    But the boy on the beach gave me some of that back this morning. I now feel attached again. Like I have hold of the string once more. Like I can sail on the wind. Like I can stay another day. 

    It is why I have written about him. I really should honour him by telling of our little encounter. I should thank him by giving him a touch of recognition.

    He’ll never know of course. Nor would he care I imagine. He would doubtless prefer to look skyward and watch his kite waltz in the wind. 

    Communing with his plastic bag. Conversing with the breeze.

    What simple joy.

    Oh how I wish he knew how much he has given back to me.

    This small boy

    and his kite.

  • On The Road To Bangkok

    Paul had never tanned effectively. Even after five weeks on a tropical island he still resembled an Irish teenager who’d just about finished cross country.  

    Flushed and sweaty.  

    He just didn’t have the melanin. 

    But he’d never learn. Even this time he’d basted himself in factor 30 and roasted neath a sun on gas mark 9 and all to no avail.  

    Andrew, on the other hand, looked like a Sicilian peasant who’d worked the olive groves for his whole life. Olive! Paul was so browned off as his partner certainly hadn’t undergone the same torturous grilling as he had, but hey, he travelled for something deeper than a tan. 

    Or so he kept telling himself!

    He and Andrew had just left the island and all its wildlife behind and hit the out of the way Thai town of Ranong. After arriving at the pier they’d traipsed unnecessarily along the scorching highway with their rucksacks, various pieces of heavy hand luggage, a small guitar and a ukulele! They’d arrived at the immigration office to extend their visas. This required two passport size photos. Andrew already had his but Paul had had to stand against a whiteboard perspiring profusely whilst a Thai tomboy snapped a dodgy photo of him on an equally iffy device. The result was a passable picture with an underdeveloped hue – much like his suntan. Still it was good enough and The Lola Boys were given permission to stay in the royal kingdom a touch longer. 

    Paul was always surprised whenever his visa extension was granted in whatever country he was in. He thought at least someone would catch up with him. But then, he’d never actually done anything. He’d just been born with a guilty conscience!

    After their approval he and Andrew climbed into a songthaew. A peculiarity of Thailand. A cross  between a mini bus and an ox cart that one usually shared with a gaggle of others. This time they were alone, except for the toothless driver who was a spark plug short of an engine . Paul thought they’d be lucky to be dropped anywhere near their destination. However their chauffeur surprised him by taking them to the door. Paul felt guilty for dissing his dentistry and vowed never to let the lack of a molar colour his judgement again. 

    But he had seemed odd! 

    They checked into the cheap ‘resort’ to which they’d resorted, a mix of holiday and concentration camp. Their tiny fake wooden chalet with gestapo lighting and Hello Kitty curtains was a step up from their shack on the beach. There were no three inch gaps between the floorboards and it had a ceiling – both a plus. Paul knew he’d sleep more soundly knowing there was no risk of having a threesome with a boa. 

    He’d had enough of those!

    In Ranong, right on the Burmese border, there were some almost  famous hot springs. The boys indulged in a massage under the giant trees near to the healing H20 and dipped their toes into water hot enough to boil eggs.

    ‘Is this supposed to be nice?’ quipped Paul, intermittently removing his feet from the scalding water to avoid being hard boiled.

    ‘Not sure’ said Andrew.

    But the massage by some very friendly ladies, one with half a set of red stained teeth, and the other with strong hands and a five 0’clock shadow, was fabulous. There was little else to do in town, other than walk around marvelling at the ubiquitous market and its huge range of wares. Paul still wondered at such choice. One could buy everything. 

    Dustbins, soy sauce, army hats, peanuts, dildos. 

    Even toddlers party dresses in an adult size!

    This was Thailand!

    The boys also visited a pool hall, mainly for the air conditioning, although the coolest corner of the room was a smattering of Thai guys. A clutch of expert cueists who cheered each other on in a muted sort of clucking. 

    It quite often seemed to Paul that there was something rather farmyard about the Thai tongue. A gaggle of old ladies could often sound like a brood of hens.  It was a percussive language, a kop here and a krap there. Paul was unsure whether it was charming or not. But the people were so who cared.

    After Ranong, Paul and Andrew stopped briefly in another small town full of friendly folk. They were lucky enough to catch the local coffee festival before returning quite wired to their digs at the Royal Chumphon Palace, a misnomer if ever there was one! But it did serve free coffee. Quite a buzzy place was Chumphon!

    Then they headed for a bijoux city a gay couple had once recommended on a Thai train. Paul had always remembered the name. Phetchaburi! It sounded rather exotic. Unfortunately the silly old queens hadn’t known what they were on about. There was nothing in Phetchaburi but a few food stalls, a big wat and an even bigger shopping mall. The latter served as Paul and Andrew’s cooling off spot. There was a lot of cooling off to be done until the boys left the disappointment of Phetchawhatever and headed for the bright lights of Bangkok. 

    Due to their limited budget Andrew and Paul were staying out of the city centre and in a suburb on the wrong side of the river. Much like Catford!

    It turned out to be an absolute delight. 

    A glimpse of the Bangkok of old. Tumbling shacks straddling small canals and narrow winding alleys full of planted flower pots, gnarled pensioners, and junk. Life on the Khlongs, the local term, was at a different pace. Less glitz and tack and more grace and tact. A family vibe. Children played in the street and even perms were undertaken neath fluorescent glow which spilled onto the pavement. All of Bangkok was here.  It was as if centuries had passed but khlong -life was still mostly the same. Albeit with high speed broadband.

    Paul and Andrew spent an interesting few days in the suburbs with the Bangkokians. They seemed to be the only ‘falang’ in the neighbourhood. They strolled endless food stalls making new discoveries. Some to be repeated, some which only repeated! 

    When they tired of the local fayre they went uptown for an all you can eat buffet – a pre-Andrew’s birthday treat. Paul threw down sushi, rump-steak, lamb fillet, pork belly, grilled sea bream and thirteen cakes. Andrew managed something similar. All washed down with a gallon of cappuccino with some cookies for the hell of it. They trudged back to their lodgings feeling utterly sick and uttering nothing. The guilt and gluttony difficult to swallow. 

    The next day they were meant to hit Chinatown for some authentic nosh but couldn’t face any food as it seemed four of the chocolate diplomats and a couple of berry pavlovas hadn’t yet been digested. But the following day they were ready to fill their stomachs once more. Bangkok was terrible for one’s waistline. Grub and grubs everywhere.

    They managed to escape the gastronomic temptations of the city and headed for yet another tropical island shortly before an earthquake hit. The condos swayed and people panicked. Some died.

    For once Paul and Andrew’s timing was just perfect. 

    Things for them were looking good.

    Luck was on their side and the sun was shining.

    So maybe Paul would get that tan after all.

    Maybe!

    Perhaps.

    Really!

  • The island

    Paul sat bolt upright neath the mosquito net. Something had been scratching right next to his ear.

    And it wasn’t Andrew.

    He thought he could hear rodent breathing as he hunched up on the bed drawing his knees towards him for safety. He kept dead still and silent. In between Andrew’s snores Paul could hear scurrying and clawing through the jungle black night. It was most disconcerting.

    Like spending the night in bloody Hamelin! 

    Although he knew he was a guest on the island and it was he who was intruding he wanted no more intruders in his ‘bungalow’. Especially at night. Unless invited. It was great to stay amongst nature but Paul drew the line at nature staying amongst them. 

    It was the second time Paul had heard the colony colonising. This time he made an escape. He jumped from the bed and became entangled in the netting, flapping like a panicked herring he extricated himself from the mosquito net and threw himself though the open door onto the veranda. Fortunately windows and doors stayed open on the island because of the stultifying heat. There were after all no fans or air conditioning. And no locks as none were needed. 

    There was much to recommend the place. 

    But Paul had had enough. 

    He wanted some hot water, an artificial breeze and a double room which contained only two mammals. Also he and Andrew were tragically looking forward to a seven eleven. There was only one shop on their island which served as a post office, cafe, meeting point, police station, hospital and generally everything else one could need. 

    There was a Sunday Market to which the boys had rolled up to a couple of times, no mean feat being a six mile trundle through steamy rubber plantations, but it was rather disappointing. A few locals selling overpriced noodles and two grizzled ex-pats banging bongo drums. There was also a flutist called Pippa who piped up with a couple of notes when she could be bothered. Which wasn’t often. Paul wondered if she were stoned. 

    Or if she’d even seen a flute. 

    It was hideous.

    He wondered this aloud.

    ‘Come on Paul. You’re better than that’ Andrew teased with a twinkle.

    ’No I’m not,’ Paul replied, noticing that Pippa was smoking ‘the pipe’ considerably more than she was playing it.

    Thank God for the cheap marijuana it at least made it bearable. It did not, however, help with those ratty visitors blowing the wind right up Paul’s willows each night. Where was Pippa to pipe up when one needed her?

    Paul climbed into the hammock and checked the time. He thought he’d wait it out until dawn but it was only just coming up to one o’clock. He’d never survive in the stupid construction for that long as he would never get comfortable enough. Hammocks to him were akin to deck chairs. They seemed like a good idea, but were impossible to get in and out off and were actually quite dangerous.  Nor were they particularly comfortable. Paul could only manage one of those swinging creations for a short time until he got cramp, or his feet went to sleep or he fell out. And he could never fully relax pondering whether the ad hoc furniture would take his full weight. He could hit the sand with and embarrassed thump or worse, hit the decking above which theirs was suspended, and break his neck! 

    He’d always been dramatic! 

    He switched on his mobile torch and confidently-ish strode back into the hut. Other than Andrew’s noisy respiration there was nothing to hear. 

    And nothing to see. 

    Paul took a large breath and a sleeping pill and courageously returned to the Jacobean torture instrument they called a bed. Lying even stiffer than the mattress Paul waited for the pills somnolent potency to kick in. Soon he’d be spark out in a suite at the Savoy. 

    Hopefully. 

    Or being chased through the streets of Hamelin by giant rats waiting in vain for Pippa to roll up.

    Just his luck!

  • All Strung Out!

    The small French girl was practically torturing a white cat as it lay attempting to sleep through the torpid afternoon. Nobody took any notice as it was far too hot. It seemed that there was not enough air for everyone to breathe. One dare not make too much movement so as not to use up the limited supply. Apart from the little French girl who had joie de vivre to die for. 

    In other words she needed killing. 

    But nobody stirred. 

    Every time one looked up from one’s banana shake there she’d be, squashing the poor resort cat into a hammock. Or trying to push it head long into a saucepan or other. Often there was a feline shriek and any diners present would ignore the fact this Gallic kid was swinging the pussy from its ankles! If they have ankles. Then forcing it to lay on a table and have a pretend operation.

    She  was the sort of child who would take home the class hamster for the holidays and it would never be seen again!

    Weirdly the cat didn’t scarper but stayed around for more, and more -the cat fight could go on for hours. 

    Paul and Andrew were eagerly anticipating le scratch – but it never came. 

    Perhaps the cat was so scared. There had been one night when the noise which emitted from the animal during some new contortion made all think le chat had done just that! But no – it seemed puss didn’t mind the odd back flip. How either of them found the energy through the syrup of the afternoon surprised and appalled. 

    Surely they were using up more than their fair share of oxygen.  

    Ok little girl, Let’s shut the fuck up with the cat bloody circus now s’il vous sodding plait, Paul wanted to say, but had not the energy. Nor the breath. Why the mamma and papa said nothing amazed Paul. But then the cat had the same lassez faire attitude as them so maybe it was Paul who was uptight. After all the cat still had four legs and a tail, Paul made sure of that each morning. It always surprised him when he saw the animal replete with limbs and still breathing at breakfast.

    Paul hadn’t fallen into the Rhythm of island life quite yet. The constant moving home and the indoor wildlife hadn’t helped but there was something off in him too. A sense of holding off. Not wanting to become too immersed. He’d no desire to chat to anyone or make acquaintances. 

    Especially with the long stayers. 

    A clique of leatherette Europeans who only ordained to look in your direction after at least a fortnight. 

    One slip and one could be stuck with a set of regrettable holiday friends on the remotest beach without the remotest thing to say to each other. Paul thought it best to stay silent. He knew Andrew wouldn’t forgive him if Colin and Jeanette from Wigan were waving at them over a green curry one night. 

    It would be entirely his fault. 

    He knew it. He always had a propensity to people please, or so his therapist had wondered. 

    Interesting that – he never told Paul anything just wondered. Paul wondered why he was paying him so much to wonder on his behalf when the reason he went to him at the beginning had been because he was wondering himself. 

    Anyway it was far too hot to figure that one out! 

    Paul just knew Colin and Jeanette, Pam and Frank,  Klaus and Brigitta would all be his fault. So he stared hard at his muesli as the sun set lazily with only a hint of scarlet. It was as if she too couldn’t be bothered. It was one of those days.

    The woman with the tangerine frizz for hair and the gigantic harem pants who had kindly taken some photos of Paul and Andrew the previous day was draped in a hammock, her arm loosely brushing the fine warm sand beneath. Paul had learnt earlier her name was Jana. She was lovely. Ordinarily Paul would have bonded and although he did he felt himself holding back. The place was too small for big gestures of affection. Party friends are only fun until the party’s  over. And there was no taxi rank on Koh ?. No where to which one could escape when the lights came on. Which they did. Incandescently. Like clock work. So being taciturn and mysterious was the way to play it on such a tiny piece of land surrounded by an immense expanse of ocean. Even if it was immensely difficult.

    He waved towards her and she gestured back that maybe it was a good time to exchange pictures. No no no Paul assured her he was out of battery. He had no idea if that were true of his phone but it was true of him. There was no way he wanted to engage in light badinage with Tatiana whilst uploading some dodgy pics of himself and Andrew he would never look at. It was still too darn hot.

    There was a scream. Most people looked up. The girl was holding the cat like a wheelbarrow and making  her walk on her two front paws. Quite a feat. Or a couple of them to be exact. Paul was feeling delirious. Making bad jokes and paying too much attention to his muesli. He knew he should head back to whichever cabin they were staying in at present and cool off under a fan. Except they didn’t have one. 

    He needed to recline and avoid.

    Someone else he was attempting to ignore was Frank, an affable German with a penchant for anecdotes – telling them! He’d stayed on the island about three hundred and ninety seven times so he had all the tips. One of them was stopping Andrew boil the kettle using the communal socket as he said it took too much power and so wasn’t fair. Andrew was steaming – no hot water meant no coffee. 

    Bastard!

    He also appeared on their tiny terrace one afternoon, ample arms making themselves too comfortable on the creaking balustrade, laden with stories and requesting a puff on their herbal cigarette. A dreadful combination. Eight tales later he left Paul and Andrew in a stupor – knocked out by his filial tedium. It packed more of a punch than the joint.

    ‘He’s on the scale’ Andrew observed.

    ‘Quite! I just hope he can find some balance before the next bloody story. Make it interesting’ said Paul.

    A little later that afternoon, Frank popped up again, at a different location on another beach, claiming he wasn’t stalking them whilst laughing too much. He clearly hadn’t found his equilibrium quite yet, for he interrupted their meal, and embarked on another arid anecdote about the best chicken noodle soup on the island. By the time he’d finished neither of them ever wanted to see another bowl of chicken noodle soup in their lives. And theirs was cold!

    There was another woman at the ‘bungalows’  who oversmiled. Pleasant enough but never ceased grinning. Paul wondered if she’d inserted something but didn’t want to be presumptuous. Besides he did wipe the smile off her face just once when he snatched the only pen from under her nose at breakfast, despite her being first in line. Afterwards he didn’t know why he’d done it. It was early but he was never normally rude. He blamed his therapist for wondering about his constant ‘people pleasing’. He was trying to rectify this but sometimes buoyant breakfasteers got in the way. Paul was never at his best in the morning. He was still working out who to please. Why he couldn’t do that when someone like Frank approached he had no idea. 

    One to wonder about later on.  

    There was a lot of avoidance to do on the island. Paul was beginning to realise he wasn’t that keen on them. Islands. This one was starting to feel like Alcatraz. And just when he thought he might get a moment’s peace to scribble a tad the ukulele began. ‘Hotel California!’. Andrew was on a dark desert highway with a warm wind in his hair. Unfortunately he just couldn’t seem to get off it. 

    There was a loud screech from the restaurant interrupting Andrew’s epic journey. Paul looked up. The little French girl was now wearing the cat as a hat. No-one batted an eyelid. Not the cheerful woman. Not Tatiana with the frizzy hair. Not Frank. Not even the cat.

    It seemed Paul wasn’t the only one doing avoidance. 

    Andrew continued down his dark desert highway and as he got more lost Paul also lost all concentration.

    It was beginning to feel like a very small island.

    Just as he lay down his iPad and was making ready for a silent swim he noticed Frank was almost at their terrace once again. 

    ‘Hey guys- can I try a little more of your smoke?- I’ve ran out’

    ‘Of course’ said Paul, people pleasing and readying himself for more dreary discourse.

    As Frank began a story about an old Thai woman who had adopted him as a grandson Paul politely feigned interest.

    Andrew, however, continued on with the ukulele. 

    That highway was getting even longer!

    Frank droned on through the eighteenth chorus.

    Paul feared that he could always check out but he could never leave.

    Screech!!!

  • Location. Location. Location!

    The room was bleak. An infested looking mattress lay on the floor, paint flaked from the walls, there was no furniture to speak of and an atmosphere of pure filth hung around the place. It was the type of establishment in which one would keep a hostage. 

    More ‘Gaza suite’ than ‘Plaza suite’ Paul had quipped. 

    But the boys were checking in anyway. They had been forced to do so seeing as there was no room at any of the other inns and they were stuck on a tiny island off of Thailand’s west coast. Right on the Burmese border. Getting back to the mainland was not an option. So the cell they’d been so kindly offered, behind the washing machines and adjacent to a precarious open sided balcony, was almost welcoming. And it was the only room left. Although it transpired they would be sharing it with some other occupants. 

    Andrew had heard a noise and looked up to the rafters as he and Paul were lugging their ruck sacks into the space beneath.

    ‘Oh look’ he exclaimed, ‘bats, how cute.’

    Paul looked up and also saw at least five rather large bats hanging around the place looking in his direction. They seemed to be following his every move!

    ‘ Jesus!’ he exclaimed, ‘I thought this was a bloody double room!’

    He was not as sanguine as his partner when it came to sharing his sleeping arrangements with a cauldron of bats. Despite the fact he knew he could be a bit of a witch at times.

    ‘I’m not sure I wanna do this. Flying things  are attracted to me. They always get stuck in my hair’

    He was reminded of a horrible time on another too out of the way tropical island when he and Andrew came under siege from a swarm of locust and bats during an alfresco dinner. One of the flying rodents had entangled itself into Paul’s ridiculous barnet of the time and could not escape. It screamed into Paul’s ear as Andrew attempted to extricate it from a Lola Boys’ curl. It had been a horrible dining experience. He didn’t want a similar incident occurring on the mattress in the dead of night. After all bats ate insects, or so Paul believed, and there must have been more than a few bugs on the thing on which they were sleeping.

    ‘They’re not gonna come near you’ Andrew said almost reassuringly. 

    But later that night, post a local herbal cigarette, Paul could hear swooping in the room and more than once felt the unearthly breeze of batwing. He hardly slept, stiff and clothed on the floor vowing never to listen to his husband again. 

    On rising Paul hurried immediately down stairs only just avoiding slipping on a pile of wet washing and falling several feet into the jungle shrubbery below. When he reached an even keel and took a breath he said hello to the little old Thai man who always seemed to be hanging about at the scruffy resort’s reception. He was greeted with a huge smile and much laughter after he clucked his elbows chicken like to indicate the flight in the night. 

    No apology. 

    And certainly no discount. 

    Paul thought he and Andrew lucky. They could have been charged for a family room. 

    Despite not being part of the family. 

    It was Thailand after all. One could be charged for an extra towel if not careful. The Land Of Smiles could often become The Land Of Wiles’

    The island was beguiling. Languid and mostly silent. Other than Andrew’s ukulele practice and the  nightly fracas of a group of German tourists, the soundscape was the mechanical sounding song of the insects and the odd primate.

    The Germans all seemed to be staying at Mama’s’ the most upmarket of the accommodation available. They drank like alcoholic fish and made the kind of noise of which the British are frequently accused when on masse abroad. It was very much akin to the Munich Beer Festival. On one evening of the Octoberfest one of the most irritating choked, collapsed onto a wooden bench and went silent. Paul hoped he was in a coma which might at least give everyone else a semblance of peace for a couple of hours. There was no panic. The response was as Teutonic as one would imagine. Calm and effective. It mostly consisted of leaving the drunken git to get on with it. One woman sat with him, equally as inebriated, guffawing into his face. Not a technique the. N.H.S. Hotline would probably advise, but it seemed to work as the gentleman was gurgling intermittently so he obviously wasn’t dead. Paul tried to hide his disappointment. And he didn’t want to judge. He knew he’d fallen off the stage once whilst inebriated. Mind you, it was at the end of a show. And he did have bad influenza at the time!

    The next day Paul and Andrew moved further into the forest to a small hut at the top of a steep hill overlooking the vast Indian Ocean. The dwelling had a mosquito net, but other than the priceless view, little else. The wooden walls did not reach the ceiling. The bathroom was entirely open to the elements and consisted of toilet with a water bucket for flushing and a washbasin which had a hole for a plug meaning anything which came through splashed directly onto one’s feet. Paul’s were constantly full of sand and smelt of Colgate. A strange combination.  The bed was beachlike too. The sand being impossible to eradicate. One attempted to sleep atop a prison mattress on sandpaper ‘bedding’ underneath a mosquito net which had holes large enough for an Asian elephant to get through. Several times during the night Paul felt he was in some enclosure or other in Regent’s Park. He didn’t want to mull over which one it might be. But he was rather afraid there were a couple of mammals in the room one night. And he wasn’t including himself and Andrew in that calculation. He was more than relieved  to move down the hill to another shack a few days later. This one at least had no hole in the sink, mainly because there wasn’t one! It fortunately had fewer openings in the walls and a mosquito net that didn’t appear to have been crocheted by a blind Thai pensioner. 

    But there was still room for a night time visitor or three! 

    It was just the price one had to pay when staying in a hut in paradise for seven pounds fifty a night. The rate was a bargain, but so was any sleep one managed to get. Annoyingly Andrew slumbered like a six foot baby. Paul had always thought he had a look of ‘Mowgli’! He certainly did jungle life a touch more successfully than himself- that or he was simply deaf. Paul was on high alert each night. Thank God there were hammocks to be found during the day, or all this relaxing beach time would have left him severely sleep deprived. 

    It would be a town next – he’d make sure. 

    A touch of dodgy plumbing and an antiquated electric fan – luxury. 

    Of course, neither of them knew where next would be. Or when. They were after all, itinerant. Unfettered. 

    On the road for some real adventure. 

    Free as birds. Or bats perhaps.

    Paul only hoped there would be no more Dracula moments. 

    But he wasn’t counting on it!

  • Goa On Then!

    Paul sat in the small beach front shack in southern Goa and gazed through its rustic frame towards the horizon.  The sea was placid for once, much like his mind, as the onshore breeze helped to keep his more turbulent thoughts at bay.  He and Andrew were finally back in the bosom of Mother India. It had been nearly eight years since they had bid farewell to her balmy shores but he knew one day they would return.  

    And it felt good. 

    Even if they were settled in the less spiritual part of that great sub-continent twixt Russian bankers and British wankers – it was still more authentic than most of the world!

    Paul had been troubled of late.  

    Since giving up alcohol whilst travelling through Indonesia almost nine months previous , he had returned to England and been prescribed an obscene amount of drugs for his ‘condition’ –  none of which had done the trick.  He still felt numb and lost and suicidal! 

    He’d undergone an inordinate amount of ear acupuncture in Brighton it was a wonder he had any lobes left. 

    He’d meditated, cogitated, ruminated and medicated and still he could find no peace.  

    He’d enrolled on an advanced TEFL Course to teach English as a foreign language in order to improve his mind, but found the content dryer than the Sahara! He hated his pupils before he’d even met them.  

    And now he found himself sitting behind an emaciated pink and mottled Englishwoman who had taken the table in front of his. The charming waiter, Sunni, had sauntered over to take her order and Paul could pick up her familiar northern twang all too easily,

    ‘Oh Hiya, I’ll have a …..’

    Sunny chimed in,

    “A beer?”

    “Oh funny you should say that – I was gonna have a coke light,  but go on then, I’ll have a beer please.’

    Paul had stopped listening.  He was thinking of the poor itinerant staff, like Sunni, who he knew had come from the north of India, somewhere near Dharamasala where the Dalai Llama lived, to work down south for the summer. They slept like vagabonds inside the restaurant of an evening and were paid a pittance for a months’ work. Slave labour. His Holiness would surely be appalled. But then maybe not.  The Buddhists had such a capacity for acceptance.  But it seemed obscene to Paul when he’d just read on the BBC the night before that India’s economy had grown by an unexpected 8.6 percent in the last year.  It certainly wasn’t coming Sunni’s way. There was nothing sunny about that. But then Paul knew he wasn’t in a good place – even though he’d been booze free for the time it took to have baby, he was pregnant with bitterness. So he looked back out at the Arabian Sea and ached once more for calm.

    He and Andrew had been in the country for two weeks now.  They’d arrived via ‘Air India’, an experience Paul wished on no-one.  They had both been sat in aisle seats which Paul had thought a good idea when booking, due to the length of their limbs, but the squat stewardess had other ideas.  Each time she hurried up and back down the aircraft with a harried expression she managed to bash both of them in every funny bone they possessed. It wasn’t amusing!  Added to that, the inflight entertainment went Kamikaze and the in-flight cuisine dive-bombed! The South Asian toilets proved just that and the landing was momentous to say the least. Paul arrived feeling xenophobic and shaken!

    He and Andrew moved into the little pink house he had found, situated in a village on the edge of the jungle, near to the more touristic Agonda Beach. Paul had booked it knowing it would be authentic and cheap. 

    Unfortunately it was both!  

    For the first few nights Paul could not sleep for the mysterious animal noises and the constant chanting emitting from the the Hindu temple next door. Their lovely host, Vishu, had explained ,one far too early morning, why the place of worship was so important. Something about the particular God ,(there were so many of them!), had not moved from a stone because he didn’t want to disrespect his parents etc. etc. Paul tried to be understanding, but was feeling he’d  happily kill both of his just to get a good nights’ sleep.  

    And then the cockerels started. 

    At 2.30am!

    ’My neighbour has the best cock in the village” Vishu had told Andrew on another morning.

    It was doubtless the case.

    As this cock, which seemed to be roosting about three feet from Paul’s face, rose every night way before dawn. And then announced his arrival in the most alarming of manners!

    Paul and Andrew managed a week in the little pink house and then made their way down to the beach. For some peace and quiet. 

    And less cock!

    A few days later and Paul sat in the same beach shack gazing out at the  Indian Ocean once again. Today she seemed less calm and moved like a giant pot of tea recently stirred. But she was still comforting.

    The mottled, thin, Englishwoman came and sat in front of him a second time.  He listened as Sunni once again came to take her order.

    ‘Oh hiya,’ she said most politely,

    ‘White wine?” Sunny enquired,

    ‘Oh, d’you know what, I was gonna have a lemon soda, but you’ve twisted my arm. Go on. A white wine – two ice cubes .Thank you.” She said.

    Paul and Andrew were now residing on the sand. 

    Front-line!  

    Andrew had discovered a  secret path one early morning, post cock, and met an overly pierced man with ADHD and his pink haired partner who were long staying down on the beach.  They had introduced him to the wonderful Suresh who just happened to have a cheap and perfect hut with a ceiling fan that they could afford.  It also turned out that Suresh had worked on cruise ships for many years and had bar-tended on both boats that Paul and Andrew had previously worked on as entertainers. He even feigned remembering Paul as the star of the show on “The Splendour Of The Seas’ ‘ a vessel Paul had renamed the ’Splenderous Disease!’  He’d re-counted that amusing anecdote back to Suresh but the former steward had  looked blank. 

    And had certainly not entertained any discount! 

    Still it was a coincidence. Ships that meet in the night and all that. 

    He and Andrew spent many an almost happy day on Agonda Beach. 

    Andrew would wake at the same time as the village cock, even though he was no longer in earshot, and head onto the veranda to watch at least one sun rise! 

    A cock crow later and Paul would rouse, stirred by the rabble rousing of the dogs who lived on the shore.  There always seemed to be some canine drama or other that woke him from his sweaty slumber. 

    And the crows, whose black company was ever present, cawed ceaselessly through the morning as they fought over packets of sugar and the dregs of breakfast, making a lie-in impossible. 

    But as the eagles swooped overhead and the vagrant puppies ran through one’s feet , the beach felt alive.

    And Paul felt resuscitated.

    He sat in the beach shack on another anonymous afternoon.  The ocean unchanging yet altogether different was again  in front of him.  

    The pink woman arrived for a third time and sat this time to his left.  He listened as the waiter from the the north once again came to take her order.

    ‘White wine?’ He asked with a smile.

    ‘Oh, d’you know what, I was gonna have a coffee, but go on then, I’ll have a white wine. Just one ice cube this time please!’

    Paul sat looking at the menu.  He’d never known a time when he’d been so flat. So lifeless. He looked at the sea and envied her current. His movement. It’s flow. The depth. He knew he’d gone deep enough.

    Sunni came over to him and he heard him say…

    ’Soda Water?’

    ‘Actually Sunni, I was gonna have that, but now that you’ve mentioned it, I’ll have a beer please!’ ……

  • I Blame Sue Ellen!

    Since the age of ten Paul had lived his life as if he were in Dallas. 

    Or rather – On Dallas! 

    And he ‘d still never even been anywhere near the darn place. 

    Except on BBC 1. in the early 80s.

    His childhood ‘dream’ was wishing ‘Jim’ would fix it for him to be on the Southfork patio, munching on eggs as over easy as america felt to a British kid back then. Grazing with the Ewings like entitled livestock. Brunching pool-side on the seemingly ever-breezy set – blown away by the starry cast. 

    He’d be perched proudly between Sue Ellen and Bobby. 

    Obviously for quite different reasons. 

    His deep, or so he felt then, affection for Patrick Duffy, the ‘Man From Atlantis’, had had Paul’s fin’s flapping when still a member of ‘The Duckling Club’. 

    And the compulsive obsession he had with Sue Ellen and her battle with the booze, lips quivering more violently than the glass in her hand, attempting to resist a decanter of something in tan, was positively worrisome. 

    He’d literally based his life on her! 

    In the his youth it had screwed him right up. He became a homosexual and an alcoholic in just eight epidoses!

    Or maybe only two!

    Paul was almost sure it was not as black and white as that. But having an unhealthy admiration for a tragic and glamorous woman knocking back Bourbon to cope with life’s ups and downs was only ever gonna send him in the latter direction. 

    Eventually.

    Watching Sue Ellen go glamorously unconscious had snaked its way like a tequila worm into Paul’s subconscious, poisoning the spirited relationship he was to have with the broth in which the wriggly git lurked. 

    It had all ended in one great hangover.  Half way up a volcano in East Bali!

    But there was nothing duller than therapising  under cover of ‘entertaining’ prose and getting others blogged down in one’s mire of self-indulgent sludge, so he decided immediately to drop it and return to Linda Gray. 

    After all,  it had been her fault entirely that his existence had taken a wrong turn at every pub doorway. 

    Nothing to do with a father who was sectioned more regularly than a Terry’s chocolate orange! Or the eclectic living arrangements at the family guest house they managed in sunny Bournemouth. Teenage life for an artistically virile youth, playing a manic game of Happy Families alongside paying guests, was definitely borderline for his personality. 

    But it was Sue Ellen Paul really blamed.

    Every time he encountered a decanter his lips were still a quiver!

    ‘Warn the kids’ he thought, dry as a vodka martini.

    ’T.V. can really fuck you up!’

  • One Final Salute!

    One Final Salute!

    Was it egotistical to write of one’s own experiences? What else was there to write about? Even if an author took on the feelings of others or wrote fictionally about characters they’d invented it was still through the prism of their own imagination.

    A biography was still seen through the writer’s lense. What to include. Which details to omit. One’s perception of the world and the description of a universe which others inhabited always emanated from one’s own mind. We cannot, it seems, escape the bars of our own mental cell, however hard we try.

    Paul knew he was meant to ditch the ego. And surely writing about himself was only re-enforcing it.

    And realising that he was strengthening the ego and still talking about it made it grow even larger.

    And writing sentences like the last one made it enormous.

    He couldn’t bloody win.

    He thought he was so amusing when he coined the phrase –

    ‘Wherever ‘ee goes – I go!’

    But when reading it back it only seemed pretentious.

    But then he was often accused of that.

    That was him all over.

    Self congratulatory.

    Over-dependant on the kindness of strangers. He often likened himself to a tragic Tennessee Williams character, revelling in the misfortunes of his life. Not seeing it for the utter tragedy it really was. Not recognising how truly sad he was beneath the performance. He sailed on a savage ocean of stormy emotions pulled by the surge of a turbulent current over which he had no control. Or so it seemed.

    He had no real sense of direction.

    No inner compass.

    He’d been drowning since birth only he never knew it.

    He’d struggled to the surface now and then, even managed a bit of synchronised swimming at his most buoyant. But invariably he was pulled by the undertow into the murky depths of despair and confusion. Struggling in the Sargasso Sea of life which held him like an aquatic prisoner amid its wily weeds.

    He gasped for oxygen on so many occasions momentarily dragging those around him down too. Sometimes he wondered why there was still any ship mates left on board his craft.

    In some ways he knew there weren’t.

    He was on a solo trip. All those who sailed aboard the planet were.

    One was extremely fortunate if there were a crew to help them navigate life’s course, but ultimately a person had to put the wind into their own sails.

    And Paul now realised he wasn’t gonna do that with a ‘yo ho ho and another bottle of rum!’ It was finally time to bid adieu to the drunken sailor that had rocked his boat for as long as he could remember and take the helm. He was well aware he was sailing into uncharted waters but that was one pastime he still enjoyed.

    Adventure.

    The unknown.

    It was the only aspect of his worldly voyage that seemed to hold any fascination for him in his current state. Ill winds prevailed and all his usual passions seemed lost at sea.

    He’d heard it described as ‘Anhedonia’. A state defined in the dictionary, a book he’d once read for pleasure as a child, as a lack of just that.

    An inability to feel or experience the stuff.

    What a pleasure!

    He felt much like Hamlet – the Shakespearean misery guts not the cigar.

    His shipping forecast was not good. The earth seemed to him like that stale promontory the dour Dane described in one of the famous soliloquies in that play.

    Paul had sung those very words once. High – literally. Stood proudly on a rostrum twenty feet above the famous stage of The Old Vic theatre playing the lead in the musical ‘Hair.’ Now those triumphant times seemed like such stuff as dreams are made of.

    Or nightmares.

    What a piece of work he was!

    He remembered as a child walking along a long hospital corridor with his father by his side feeling horribly nervous regarding whatever procedure he was to undergo. His dad had told him off for walking in a particular manner. Paul had been entirely unconscious of the way he was moving towards the ward until his father had helpfully said,

    ‘Don’t walk like that!’

    ‘Like what?’ he’d responded innocently as the rather green eleven year old boy he’d once been.

    ‘Like that’, repeated his father, illustrating with a camp hand movement to what he was referring, ‘that’s how poofs walk!’

    Paul had always been aware since that moment of how he moved.

    He’d never felt entirely free again.

    At ‘The London Nautical School’, to which he’d doubtless been sent to straighten out his stride, he was constantly reminded of the lightness of his feet. Everything about him seemed to offend the other boys.

    The way he spoke.

    His manner.

    His breathing!

    Those years had not been plain sailing.

    He always lunched alone in the depths of the aging vessel of a building on Stamford Street in central London. Eschewing the mess the other pupils used and ate. He avoided any form of contact with any of his fellow crew and stared out of the portholes during lessons gazing at the London skyline. Longing to jump ship.

    At lunchtime he’d walk onto the South Bank and meander the concrete maze of the National Theatre, marvelling at the huge black and white photos of puzzling productions like the classic Greek play ‘The Oresteia’ or the controversial ‘The Romans In Britain’, which had included a male rape. Something Paul underwent daily at his place of education, mentally and spiritually, if not physically.

    Well not totally.

    He’d also bunk off from class and sit conversing with murky men in St James’ Park. Sometimes sharing their refreshment and resisting their obvious advances with red-faced teenage embarrassment.

    At classtimes he’d find himself inexplicably in Whitehall and Downing Street. During the dark days of the Falklands war, after he’d stood on parade and listened to the headmaster speak of former pupils recently sunk, he’d escape the naval gloom and stand for hours spectating as Mrs Thatcher came and went through the famous black door of number ten. He felt as though he was witnessing history. It was far better than attempting to study it with Captain Daniels back on Stamford Street. That period was always a riot.

    Literally!

    The aforementioned master would sit behind his desk reading a book on knots and occasionally gulping from a thermos flask as his class fought, threw chairs at one another and spat.

    Paul learnt nothing.

    Except how to expectorate!

    And he was so keen on history.

    And geography.

    And literature.

    And life.

    Even though it was knocked out of him every bloody day.

    Or slippered.

    Or caned.

    Or worse!

    In fact he had garnered no education in the entire time he was at ‘The London Nautical School.’ He’d been forced instead to engage in years of simply just navel gazing.

    The place was a joke. Worse than a borstal.

    A fraud masquerading in an impressive uniform.

    In fact that was the single aspect of the establishment Paul had liked. He wore his navy beret with pride even though he was continually mocked for doing so. He thought it possessed style. Despite the institution which forced him to wear it having none of that quality.

    Even the address was fake. Blackfriars was its official locale.

    Blackfriars S.E.1. !

    One didn’t need to be a London cabby to possess the knowledge that such a location was a geographic impossibility, as that more upmarket district was north of the river.

    The clue was in the ‘S’ of the postcode.

    It stood for shit!

    No – the dump where Paul battled daily was aptly positioned in Waterloo.

    Still is.

    It was years before Paul could even pass the place.

    When he eventually did, whilst inadvertently stumbling onto Stamford Street on route back from a particularly rough audition, the place seemed so small and inconsequential. Not half as Orwellian as he’d remembered when he’d been held prisoner there. He’d even gone aboard illegally and toured the decks, returning to his old lunch spot in the hull of the building. There had been a room there, open and no longer padlocked. It was still dark and damp but there was a piano inside. Paul sat in the dank and airless brig and played a bad version of ‘The Moonlight Sonata’, the one tune he knew.

    It was pathetic. He cried. Then left.

    It hadn’t helped!

    Now, far too many years later, on an equally uneven keel in boozeless Bali, these dark and not so distant memories were flooding back.

    A tsunami of childhood angst threatening to drown him if he let it wash him away. But he wasn’t about to.

    Instead he was going to examine it.

    After all, the unexamined life wasn’t worth living – he knew someone far cleverer than him had said that.

    He knew he would be pushing Descartes before the horse but he didn’t care.

    He wasn’t going to worry if he was being pretentious or not.

    Or whether people found him funny.

    Or attractive.

    Or talented.

    Or anything.

    Actually.

    And most importantly he was going to walk in the way he wanted.

    In his own manner.

    In his own shoes.

    He was only just learning after so many years of mis-education that there was really no other way.

    He made a mental note to walk exactly like a poof back to Stamford Street some day very soon.

    Stand at ease outside ‘The London Nautical School’ and give the decrepit old admiral one final salute.

    Only this time using just one finger!

  • The Night The Earth Moved!

    The Night The Earth Moved!

    Java had been a blast. A visceral assault on the senses that had inspired Paul to erupt with a molten flow of verbose lava most of which he deemed unpublishable.

    It was far too volcanic.

    He’d reached into his core and discovered more than enough explosive material to fuel a tectonic trilogy. But he wasn’t ready to vent quite yet and was keeping dormant.

    For now.

    He knew there would be a few quaking souls out there who would be unable to escape the fierce heat of his literary flow once he let rip. Yet now was not the moment. He was already under an ash cloud of his own making after kicking the booze.

    Or rather, attempting to.

    He couldn’t trust his emotions at present and many an innocent bystander could get caught in his emotional eruption. He thought it better to keep a lid on it. He didn’t want to cause any unnecessary aftershocks. So instead he wrote of his outward adventures and kept most of his molten interior to himself.

    But it seemed the planet on which he was attempting to exist had other ideas.

    At just before four in the morning, in a surburban part of eastern Bali where the boys had holed up for a bit, Andrew suddenly woke Paul. Before he could explain Paul knew what was happening. The bed was shaking and there were urgent shouts and the sound of barking dogs coming from outside the compound.

    ‘It’s an earthquake!’ Andrew said, his voice as tremulous as the ground, laced with excitement and a touch of fear.

    ‘I know that’, Paul replied. He’d felt the earth move in the bedroom before but it had never been quite as active. As his feet hit the floor he realised it wasn’t just the bed that was moving. He stumbled for a brief moment, found his balance and yelled to his partner,

    ‘Get outside now!’

    Paul was always rather good in a crisis. Had he been on the Titanic he’d probably have remained as icily calm as the guilty berg. Ironically, it was everyday life which provided him with real drama. He was never adverse to to a touch of proper adversity.

    He and Andrew rushed out onto their small terrace and into the garden of the guesthouse they called home. There were joined by a local guy from the cabana opposite who obviously knew the drill.

    ‘It’s a big one’, he assured them.

    Paul wasn’t sure if he and Andrew should be impressed or terrified. Instead, the three of them just stood uneasily staring at one another hoping for the world to stop moving.

    They waited as the ground beneath them re-arranged itself whilst issuing forth the strangest of sounds. Like an irate giant with indigestion. Or an angry ogre re-adjusting his underwear to get comfortable. It seemed an age before he did. The very air seemed to blur as if in motion.

    It was magnificent.

    Majestic.

    And bloody frightening.

    Paul learnt later that the locals had all taken to the Main Street, babies and toddlers in tow, they were all too aware of the real danger. Paul and Andrew had rather ignorantly gone back to bed only to be woken again before dawn by another powerful aftershock. They didn’t rest properly after that.

    In the morning Paul learnt that the family, in whose property the boys were staying, had resisted the urge to hit the sack again and had remained on clear ground in relative safety. He thought at least they could have warned their unrelated guests who were slumbering ignorantly beneath their traditional Balinese tiled roofs.

    The Lola Boys bringing the house down on this occasion would not have been fun.

    He also noticed that the clear patch of ground they had used for shelter in the darkness was directly underneath a fecund coconut palm. He and Andrew had been incredibly fortunate they hadn’t been turned into smoothies in time for breakfast.

    They had woken with a sense of excitement. Probably happy to still be alive. Adrenalin was a powerful drug. Although not as powerful as the earth’s crust if it decided to make toast of one.

    Later that day they moved across town to different digs. This time they were not staying at ground level so Paul hoped the malevolent magma monster was now at rest. There was no garden to which they could run for cover. Only a balcony to jump from.

    However, their new Balinese hosts seemed to take the geological event in their stride, even if they did look a tad nervous when discussing it. Paul decided to follow their calm example. There was ultimately nothing they could do if the great leviathan decided to re-awake. They were in his grip whatever.

    In the torpid afternoon he and Andrew lay on the bed and slept like uprooted logs.

    Exhausted.

    It had, after all, been a seismic night!