It was a year to the day since The Lola Boys had last performed. In showbiz terms that is. Paul and Andrew had not sung in public since they had been marooned in their macaroon-pink house in the Philippines. On that occasion they had managed to pick up a dodgy internet connection and let rip online with an ad hoc mix of rum and Lola. Costumes they had thrown together, then thrown on, had to suffice, and Andrew’s mini watercolour set supplied the makeup! A disastrous decision given the crematorium of a climate and Paul’s emotional state.  Loquacious and lachrymose , he had resembled a Picasso by the third number.

And a load of Jackson Pollocks by the fifth! 

Still, it had all gone down  rather well – and to over sixty thousand people. Paul and Andrew had no idea then that it would be their largest and last audience for more than a year. Had they, they may have tried harder! Or at least been more sober. Or maybe not.  

One year on and they still had yet to stand in front of a crowd and do what they did worst.  

Covid 19 had put pay to that. 

One year on and The Lola Boys were still stranded. 

Lost in the dry ice of social distance and fear that made a crowd a crime. 

Cabaret untenable. 

Theatre dark. 

They were surviving, but it was only that. Most of the colour had been drained from their existence and life seemed remarkably un-theatrical.  But they’d both had bad runs before. 

Paul especially. 

In fact, most of his West-End shows had flopped. If any of them had ran as long as Covid he’d have been thrilled! So he was never as shocked as some when life took an unexpected detour. 

Nor was his partner. Thirty years in show business of any kind made one harden. Or finished one off! And Andrew would never entertain the latter. No virus was bigger than his top G! He was still irrepressible.

The Lola Boys just needed a crowd!

Or maybe not!

After all, a virtual crowd seemed to be all the rage these viral days. 

Maybe that was the answer. Instead of waiting for the people to come to them – they could go to the people. 

Of course, performing a show at the piano in their Spanish apartment was not an option. Paul doubted very much the upstairs neighbours would approve of a virtual performance.  After all, the señora had been known to complain at a virtual pin drop. Paul doubted a blast of ‘West Side Story’ would improve relations much. There could be gang warfare on the costa. Not for the first time. But somehow, somewhere there would be a place for them. They just had to be brave. Step out. Take a shimmy into the unknown. 

It was time to make a ’Spexit.’

The boys had needed a proverbial kick up the arse for a while, and the heady cocktail of Brexit with an unhealthy splash of Corona had provided them with just that kick.

To which end there was a ferry booked with their name on it. Well it actually read ‘Brittany’ but the boys pet friendly cabin was reserved. 

Paul, Andrew and Lola were heading towards the white cliffs of Dover. They had no idea if they would find bluebirds or not, but new beginnings were assured. And old friends.

They knew they would return to Spain.

But not quite yet.

The novel virus made for novel adventures.

The Lola Boys were going back on the road – just where it would take them was anyone’s guess.

But Paul and Andrew were most excited to find out.

Curtain up. Light the lights. They had nothing to hit but the heights.

Hopefully …

And so –  let the blog commence …..