THE LOLA BOYS ABROAD !

The trails and tribulations of a dodgy duo!

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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!

  • Holi Cow Fatman – Don’t Lose Your Shirt!

    Pushkar was impressively different from the moment we arrived.

    We drove, or rather, carefully negotiated the seven hours from the national park at Ranthambore, heavily delayed, of course, by a road that was severely ‘damaged’. Surely an Indian euphemism for non-existent. We dodged crater after crater, mile after mile, as if travelling by ‘moon rover’, across the other worldly landscape. Through the dusty haze we saw hardly any signs of life, other than the odd village and a couple of camel farms.

    Yet within the blink of a tiger’s eye, soon after arriving in the holy lake-town of Pushkar, nature exploded. In every form. Animals and humans existed with an obvious ease here. Side by flank. Hand to hoof.

    The  stunning Langur and the languorous  stunning, strolling confidently through the painted alleyways. Hounds lay sunward, diverting the motorbikes with a dogged, canine sense, that told them it was safe to do so. The ubiquitous cow, nonchalantly parted everyday traffic. This was a town that definitely rubbed shoulders. And haunches!

    We were fortunate that we had arrived for ‘Holi’, that most ecstatic of Hindu festivals. It was a colourful experience, that I knew, but little more. I turned to my cheap guidebook for enlightenment.

    Apparently, Holi comes about because once upon a time, there was a wicked King, with an unpronounceable name, we’ll call him ‘King H’ for simplicity. He had, how shall I put it? A son that was rather light on his sandals, sensitive. You know the type! This son, known as Prahlad, had a terrible boy-crush on the God, Vishnu, thought of by Hindus as the ‘Greatest Lord Of All Times’. As well as fancying this pop star of a God, Prahlad, angers his daddy by disagreeing over a couple of other little things too.

    (I should add, which should come as no surprise, I am no Hindu scholar. This is not, what one would call, an official version. More my take on things)

    Not conforming completely. Whoops. Something a good son should never do, unless he is looking for paternal trouble! This was not a good move. The proud daddy couldn’t except such dissent, so set out to bump off his offspring!

    After torturing his son, the king asks his wicked sister, Holita, (hence ‘Holi’), for help to complete his heinous task. She tries to trick her young nephew into sitting on her lap, whilst she nestles onto a bed of flames. ( As you do!)

    But her evil plan backfires, when her magic fire-proof cloak, (very ‘Wonderwoman’!), flies from her to Prahlad, leaving her to burn and him to walk free. To Vishnu, I imagine, hopefully . The Indians just love a happy ending.

    Talking of which, I was almost given one of those by a couple of over-excited  young gentleman in the crowd during the ‘Holi” celebrations. As paint flew everywhere, so did inhibitions. I’m sure this tactility would not suit everyone’s palette, but I loved the unholy nature of the event, even if there were a couple of stiff brushes to contend with.

    Piss artists everywhere created random works of art all over town. Their canvass being anything that came within reach.  Indians, Hindus and otherwise, tourists and travellers, painted the town for hours, in the most joyous display of colourful anarchy. Andrew commented that this was probably the planet’s only paint-balling event at one time. Before the idea spilt westward. Whatever, we definitely had a paint ball!

    There is such a playground innocence in spending a day throwing paint powder around. Wiping a rainbow of colour onto a rainbow of strangers. People you will never see again. Literally putting the colour into one another’s’ cheeks – and elsewhere!

    Of course, being India, this wasn’t a day full of purity. Much off the frivolity was fuelled with a ‘special’ type of herbal yogurt drink, known as a ‘Bhang Lassi.’ I didn’t ask what was in the mucky brown beverage as I didn’t want to know – but let’s just say the afternoon certainly went with a bhang!

    One of my favourite moments was watching two spirited young men holding what looked like a large bucket of water between them. They made towards their chosen victim, usually a westerner, with the intent of chucking it’s contents all over them. As the huge pail was raised above their heads and they made to throw it, the revellers would scatter in all directions so as to avoid a good soaking. However, the trick was on them. The container was empty. Each time the excitable Indians fooled another couple or other, they would scream madly. Laughing and pointing to the empty bucket. ‘Gotcha’, I’m sure they were saying in Hindi. I could have watched their antics all day, they were hilarious. I’m sure it ain’t the first time ‘Holi’ water has been faked, but it’s got to be the most amusing. Much more fun than a trip to Lourdes!

    The playground games continued on, and we stood to spectate as a more rowdy group of lads made it their mission to strip the shirt from any man still silly enough to be wearing one. Unsurprisingly, tart that I am, I’d already lost mine early on in the revelry, during the first five minutes in fact!

    But some gentlemen  had somehow managed to hold on to their clothing. Mostly, I noticed, the chaps of the heavier variety. These poor guys looked most unhappy as their coverings were forcefully stripped from them and  thrown onto washing lines hanging above, specially constructed for the purpose. This was a slightly uncomfortable show, with a definite edge. But as each of the heavier ‘Holi-day- makers’ accrued their own multicoloured coat of paint, they seemed to ease into their skin, and their initial discomfort waned. After all, they now looked just like everyone else. Perhaps that was the point this gang of democratic ruffians were making. We are, after all, all the same. Whatever colour we are painted.

    This wasn’t the only edge. Some very serious looking coppers in khaki, gave some stick to many of the younger lads who were loitering once the festivities were deemed over. By stick, I mean just that. Some of the poor guys copped a good thwacking across the backs of the thighs, administered with very large knobbly canes. This had the desired result, and most of them legged it. Watching, it looked like a clear case of using a sledgehammer to crack a femur. But who am I to judge. They were, perhaps, very naughty boys.

    It’s all been terrible fun here actually. A quite unexpected treat, as I was expecting the place to hum with a little more reverence. Of course it does during certain moments, and the locals are more than ready to point out one’s social faux-pas. For instance, wearing footwear anywhere near the ghats, the revered steps heading down to the lake, is stepped upon in an instant. The local shoe brigade brings one to heel immediately. But this religious tone mixes, almost imperceptibly, with the carnival atmosphere here. Religious men in white robes, sporting strange facial markings, stroll piously along the bazaar, carrying their two hundred fags beneath their arms.

    Obviously a religious brand like ‘St Moritz’, but even so, no-one seems to be holier than though here.

    We’d heard it was a dry city, so were prepared to forego a little libation for a little liberation. But on first arriving, we were immediately asked if we’d like a brew in a teapot. Or more correctly, a brewery in a teapot! Indian prohibition is alive and definitely, with a kick!

    There have been a couple of annoyances. Two or three incidents, usually involving the younger nomad, dull and dreadlocked, and without even a quarter of an ounce of consideration.

    As Andrew and I thought it wise to take a short break from the proceedings, I’d spotted a small table on a balcony which overlooked the ongoing party. Perfect for two forty-something artistes to rest their weary limbs. A spot to hang up their easels and enjoy another Lassi with a bang!

    Unfortunately, a youthful, hippy chick, with a barnet the size of a wasps’ nest and a face to match, had sighted the seats too. As we climbed the stairs ahead of her and her friend, they attempted to push past us. Andrew stupidly allowed them to take the lead, ladies first and all that! Almost  shoving me over the bannister, they hurtled up the steps at break-neck speed, nearly breaking mine. As we arrived at the summit, they were already seated, and loudly ordering from the menu. Doubtless two tofu salads and a goat urine tea with wheatgrass. Highly spiritual! I looked over and shot them one of my best Bette Davis looks. The one with the wasp nest on her head looked slightly afraid, but didn’t move, and proceeded to light a huge joint. I didn’t think this wise. Not whilst sitting on such a precarious balcony. I mean, she’d need her wits about her perched so high, and so high!  Especially  if some bitter cabaret singer, with a green and pink face, lost his footing whilst searching for the loo, and just happened to knock her over the side. It was at least twenty feet above the now luminescent floor. If she fell, she’d most certainly get the grounding she’d come here for. I’d be doing her a favour surely.  I restrained myself, and merely fantasized about her getting fatally tangled amongst her dreadlocks on route down. Michael Hutchence style! Sick I know.

    I blamed it on the Bhang!

    Most of the other travellers have gotten right into the spirit and appear in possession of the right spirit. There are a few though, mostly that new bright breed of ‘gappers’, who disappoint. Many could do with having their gaps filled. Their heads seem full of falafel at times, and their manners nowhere to be seen. All utterly lovely individually, but with the charm of a pack of hyenas when grouped! It’s nice to not be the nation that is singled out for bad behaviour for once. It doesn’t happen often.

    I’ve watched waiter after waiter deal with these groups, shouting demands whilst strumming a ukulele or swinging a couple of balls around their bonce. Circus acts, that in my opinion, should be left to ‘Cirque De Soleil’. At least then, the seated diner can be confident he’s not gonna get hula’d in the gob, when a stoned, fat bird,from Tel Aviv, loses control of her hoop! There is a time and a place love – and it’s not in public!

    The Indians take this all in their stride, dealing with these graceless creatures with such an amazing grace. So much so, that I thought these artless antics went beyond them. But I have been made aware, by the few Rajasthanis, with whom I have engaged in the most interesting conversation, that the locals are more than aware of this inconsiderate behaviour. It does, most definitely, displease them, but they refuse to show it – that would be ill mannered.

    ‘We’ve learnt that from The British’, one particularly charming restauranteur informed me. I hadn’t the heart to explain that a short trip to Benidorm could have  burst that particular bubble. And he wouldn’t have believed me anyway.

    Pushkar is a wonderful dichotomy. A ‘Mocktail’ of the pious and the pissed. Of hugs and drugs. Of the cultured and just plain culture. Some of it, I’m sure, growing in the unkempt manes of the malignant ‘Marley’ wannabees.

    Still, we may require a push to leave perfect Pushkar. Perhaps even a healthy shove. The place has won our hearts, and we’ve enjoyed painting the town pink. Fittingly it’s that rosy hue that all of the pigments seem to become as they dry on the sizzling  streets.

    The tribal drums continue to beat their own rhythm, alongside the electro beats that now pervade the place. It’s a complete anachronism at times. To watch respectable young Indian families, dressed in their finest, rubbing sarees with European, party-loving pot-heads, has been delightfully unexpected. But I do hope the balance stays just that – balanced. It seems fairly precarious at present, as there is a definite lurch towards hedonism here, and the risk of some losing their heads.

    Absolutely, this is what ‘Holi’ is all about.

    A festival of spring. Of colour. Of love and new beginnings. A celebration of good conquering evil. An ecstatic version of Easter perhaps. But let’s not forget why we crack out the egg-nog in the first place.

    It is meant to be ‘Holi’ after all.

    I fear, that should the colour of the festival grow too garish and the overall picture, become too irreverent, the evil Holita may return. Wearing her invisible cloak she’ll,once again, go into the fire.

    And this time, it might not be her that goes up in flames.

    Burn, hippy, burn.

    It’s a disco inferno!

     

  • Little Vikram And The Missing Tiger.

    Our hotel in Jaipur has not quite lived up to the picture created in the hit film ‘The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel’. It’s been more like ‘The Quite Nice Carnation Guest House’ – but we’ve loved it.

    The staff at the establishment, just outside of the Pink City’s walls, have been charming, if not a little perplexed. For instance it has been practically impossible to order food, as the English menu seems to be beyond the poor chaps, even when one is using the Hindi words. Of course, it could be our pronunciation, though when one is furnished with a cup of tea so sweet it could strip five layers of varnish from an Indian teak floor, when the instruction ‘without sugar’ has been repeated fifteen times, one does begin to wonder. But the poor boys look practically suicidal if you complain, so I imagine I shall be returning to Europe sans teeth and in need of some major dental work.

    It is not just Andrew and I who have had communication issues. I overheard one conversation at breakfast that could have come straight out of ‘Fawlty Towers’!

    ‘Does your muesli contain nuts?’ Asks one British lady. A septuagenarian I imagine.
    ‘No’, the chef responds.
    ‘There are no nuts?’ she continues.
    ‘Yes’ he says.
    ‘What do you mean yes? Are there nuts or aren’t there nuts?’
    ‘Yes’
    ‘Yes there are nuts, or yes there aren’t nuts?’
    ‘Yes’ he repeats.
    ‘Don’t keep saying yes. Are there nuts?’
    ‘Yes’ he says again.
    ‘Show me’,
    ‘What madam?’
    ‘Show me the muesli!’ She screeches.
    The waiter then removes the lid from the plastic container and presents it to the lady wanting breakfast.
    ‘There are no nuts in there!’ She says.
    ‘No’, he responds, ‘You want nuts?’
    ‘Yes’ she affirms, in an exasperated fashion, ‘you have nuts?’
    ‘No’ says the waiter.

    And this is a short conversation.

    Usually one is practically ready for lunch by the time breakfast has arrived!

    At night a young puppeteer has sat banging on a drum to get us diners attention. He has then attempted to entertain us with a show consisting of various mannequins, each representing unpronounceable Maharajas past, waving their arms about unconvincingly and wobbling their brightly painted heads. Apparently all of these have been handmade by his blind, great grandmother of one hundred and eleven. Because I was one of the few to take notice, this budding showman has taken a shine to me. Unfortunately, with strings attached! I’ve had to tell him in no uncertain terms, that I have absolutely no interest in working his limbs. He eventually took the hint and asked me instead for a big tip in order to buy some new rubbers. I presume he meant the kind used in the classroom, although I can’t be sure!

    This city has shown us the best and the worst of this diverse country in such a short space of time, but it has certainly won us over. It has been a feast for all of the senses, and so of course, as with any overindulgence, indigestion is inevitable. But we leave with our appetite more than sated.

    In the morning we are introduced to our driver- Ramrash. I am only hoping, in one of his more reckless moments, Andrew doesn’t take this as an instruction. In the fantasies we’d constructed, Ramrash looked very like this.

    Sadly he doesn’t!

    But he is tremendously affable, with a kind face and absolutely no English. This tour is gonna be interesting to say the least.

    On leaving Jaipur, Ramrash drives us south towards the national park of Ranbamthore, one of the few places left in India where one has a semi decent chance of spotting that most enchanting of beasts – the tiger. We make a brief pit stop to stock up on travel sickness pills and some illicit Valium – both essential if one is to commit to any long road journeys here. Then we hit the almost open road.

    As we career down the carriageway, missing trucks and pedestrians by mere millimetres, Andrew and I discuss with amazement how few incidents we have witnessed here. We decide there must be an innate Highway Code, which is invisible to us foreigners, keeping everything on two or more wheels in order. A few miles up the highway, we realise we’ve spoken too soon. A small crowd has gathered by the side of the road, and as the traffic is forced to slow, our vehicle comes to a standstill next to a body in the road. It is a man with half a head, his brains frying on the burning tarmac for all to see. Indeed some of the spectators are filming the scene on their mobile phones. It comes as quite a shock as two policeman both grab a limb and begin to drag the corpse towards a waiting van. At this point, I’m feeling more than grateful that we both took a ‘Vomitstop’ pill earlier to help with the journey, or we could have been chucking our own cerebral fluid all over the back seat.

    Our conversation was somewhat muted for a few minutes, before the inevitable black humour took over. A defence, no doubt, to cover the horror of of what we had just witnessed. But even during the joking, I couldn’t help but ponder this fleeting dance that is life. At one moment this poor guy was happily motoring along through the warm sunshine, on his hard-earned scooter, and the next ,bang. Brain dead! It was sobering. So much so that we decided to crack open a beer to take the edge off. We’ll, it was after noon – for us lucky ones!

    When we arrived in Sawai Madhopur, a distinctly unattractive town close to the jungle where the big cats roam, we began our search for somewhere to lay our heads, still feeling grateful we had them! The first guest house we tried had the charm of a Victorian asylum, only with less character. And it wasn’t cheap! After an almost biblical experience searching, we eventually found room at the inn. Not a particularly salubrious establishment, but with very accommodating staff which improved the accommodation. After another brilliant vegetarian meal, at less than a tenth of the price one pays in Europe, we lay down our weary bones and dreamt of tigers and leapards and bears. And brains!!! It was not the most restful of nights.

    In the morning we woke to a chilly start. Apparently it never rains here in March, but today, the day we’d chosen for our safari, it appeared the heavens were about to open. We took a stroll, searching the one mall that exists for something waterproof.

    However, there was not even a bin liner in sight. So instead we opted for a bottle of Indian Scotch, (a misnomer if their ever was one!), and Andrew, a packet of Marlboro Lights,(yet another!!).

    In fact, Andrew has supposedly given up smoking since finishing his last packet three days ago. He is now using his terribly expensive vaporizer, which he purchased in England before we left, including a multitude of expensive refills. However, that idea seems to have gone up in smoke, and he is now puffing in conjunction with this new-fangled machine – sometimes simultaneously ! Except for situations when it is forbidden to smoke, that is when the ‘vape’ takes over, to ease his brain. As on the occasion when we came across the poor gentleman without one.

    Even I had a puff then!

    As if to balance that fatal moment we’d witnessed the day before, something much happier occurred on the piece of scrubland that constitutes the view from our room. A shepherd took his crook and tapped the back of a large nanny goat in his care. He then lay her on her side and held her down for a moment, seemingly against her will. I, with the same car crash mentality as that of the previous day, could not take my eyes away. I asked Ramrash what was occurring and he replied ‘baby coming, baby’. Andrew and I were then privileged to spectate as a new life came into this world, in fact two. It was equally as visceral as the moment yesterday, but with a much happier conclusion.

    Life’s scales always seem to balance in some way or another in this crazy country. If at times they can swing rather precariously from one extreme to the other !

    So, uncomfortably ensconced in our new digs, without a cloud in the sky, we set off on safari. Tucked into a jeep, known as a gypsy, with our new friend Chris, a freelance editor from our neck of the woods, we headed into some.

    Naively, we thought we may have the vehicle to ourselves, but we were soon joined by a very smart Indian family who were also on the lookout for some big game. A young man, his very pretty wife, and their nearly little boy, with a grin as wide as his midriff. They took their seats behind us in the jeep and we pulled off, in an unrecognisable gear, towards the forest.

    We bumped around for about an hour, cheerfully chatting, and sharing the odd swig from our bottle of Coke! (Nudge nudge etc…). We saw nothing. Unless three deer, two peacocks, and a partridge in a bare tree count as a significant sighting.

    The sky, by this time, was looking as grey as a Some of the tap water here, and we all knew we should have looked harder for something waterproof. And then, as we came out from the bush and hit the open plains, the skies did the same, and opened! There was a small kerfuffle in the back of the vehicle and we came to a juddering halt under the pouring rain. Our guide stepped out to help one of our Asian friends into the front seat undercover. I assumed it was to be the young lady, dressed in a very fine jade-green saree – but no, to my amazement, it was little smiling Vikram who was helped into the front seat. Vishnu forbid the child get slightly damp.

    As we carried on driving through the driving rain, the mini god in the front seat demanded we stop now and then, in order to see a squirrel, or another deer. We waited, patiently dripping, as little Vikram took photo after photo on his mobile phone of the ordinary fauna which surrounded us. At one point he also decided to play with the handle of his seat, so not only was I getting soaked to the skin, but I was also beginning to develop serious bruising of the patella. Added to this, it was now looking increasingly unlikely that we were going to spot a tiger. I mean surely they wouldn’t be daft enough to come out in this weather!

    It was during this slight malaise, and as the weather began to worsen, that our driver decided to take cover under a Banyan tree. We pulled up alongside an identical vehicle to ours, only I noticed with envy that this vehicle had only one passenger. We sat in silence for a moment before the elderly occupant shifted in his spacious seat and turned towards us. I smiled, there was no response. Chris, our new companion then piped up,

    ‘Have you had any luck today? Spotted any tigers?’

    ‘Oh yeah’ the dour faced pensioner responded, ‘Sure!’

    We knew at this point our friend sharing shelter under the canopy was one of our American cousins.

    ‘We’ve seen nothing’ I offered, ‘well, a few cows’.

    There was silence. The man looked at me with a troubled expression. No doubt he was a Trump supporter.

    Chris tried again,

    ‘Today, you mean today you’ve seen a tiger?’

    ‘Oh yeah. Lots.’ The guy boasted. ‘This morning I saw two of them mating!’

    No doubt ya did I thought. But kept quiet.

    ‘It was quite something’.

    The animal envy was palpable. Everybody tried to be polite, but the ignorant git’s arrogance was too much for Andrew, who decided to do his best Floridian accent with a very loud,

    ‘Oh yeah. Gee – I saw two of them fucking this morning!’

    This wasn’t lost on the old man, who gave another hard stare.

    ‘You’re stage whisper could do with a little practice’ whispered Chris, giggling with amusement, the editor in him coming to the fore. Andrew laughed. Our friend from across the pond did not. He just continued with his cold hard stare.
    I stared back in silence. I had no charm left for the old fool. I’d obviously displeased him by even having the nerve to exist. I was relieved as we eventually parted and went on our separate safaris.

    The rain continued unabated, and soon we came to a clearing where several other jeeps and cantors were grouped. We soon knew why. At the top of a hillock there stood a brick shelter where the rest of the humans were taking shelter.

    We did the same for a while. It seemed ironic that we were spending the majority of our time on our exotic safari huddled in a man-made shelter.

    After a while it was all too mundane for me, and I left to take my chances under the trees, joining a few deer who had the same idea.

    It reminded me very much of an expensive version of Richmond Park in London, only the deer were much further away, and not as impressive.

    Soon we clambered back onto our wheels and began the trek again. It was at this point that the little Indian god, still shielded from the precipation in the front seat, decided to turn to me and say, with a self-satisfied smile,

    ‘We shall see no tigers today.’

    ‘Oh’, I replied, in that condescending manner in which an adult talks to a strange child, ‘ and why is that?’

    ‘The rain’, he said, laughing as though I should be aware of this fact too.

    I growled. It was the only one anyone had heard so far.

    It was at this point that Andrew turned to me and said, in his opinion, we would all have a better chance of spotting one of the great beasts if we had some bait, and perhaps it would be a good idea to tie something to the back of the jeep to flush the animals from their hiding. A small Indian child perhaps. We laughed far too loudly at this, I don’t think his parents, who were in possession of a little English, were that amused. But neither did they look too bothered, they, after all, had also paid big money to spot one of these big cats.

    As the time wore on it became increasingly unlikely we would be lucky. We came across another charabanc full of excited folk, most of them with a look of Princess Anne, who couldn’t wait to tell us that they too had seen the two tigers having it off that morning. Several times.

    We, on the other hand, were more likely to see one of these fussy felines on the front of a Kellogg’s Frosties Box. They were beginning to irritate.

    They weren’t grrrreat – just grating. These wonderful elusive animals were proving to be just that – Kipling’s ‘Sheer Khan’ was proving to be more, ‘Sheer Can’t be bothered.

    Another hour later, wet and cold now, loathing children and tigers, our driver stopped our vehicle when a burning smell was detected. Little Vikram had been playing uncontrollably with the controls and it seems something or other had burnt out. We sat for at least fifteen minutes whilst our guide fiddled worriedly with parts of the jeep.

    It would be just our luck, I thought, if a veritable ambush of tigers, hungry and bored of deer, appeared suddenly out of the scrub. I knew if that happened, we’d have absolutely no choice but to sacrifice little Vikram. His parents were young, they could try for another. After realising that the ‘wiper-machine’ was causing the problem, our driver got the vehicle to start, and little Vikram was ordered not to touch anything else. He’d had a lucky escape.

    And so, we exited the park without so much as a glimpse of anything orange, bar some dodgy headgear a Scandinavian lesbian was seen sporting.

    We bade goodbye to our Indian friends and were dropped back at our guesthouse, which was now,of course, bathed in full sunlight.

    q

    I sit on the roof, watching the local nature pass by, both human and otherwise, and can’t help but laugh. Who cares whether we’d managed to catch a glimpse of that Blakean myth, that maharajah of cats. This country has a roar all of it’s own. It certainly doesn’t require a giant striped feline to make one feel it’s awesome energy.

    Sitting with a Kingfisher beer, drying off, I recite William Blake’s famous ditty to myself,

    Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright,
    Did We See one?
    Did We Shite!

    But we still felt the roar.

  • The Lola Boys And The Mystery Of The Fake Fakir!

    We set off far too early into the pink morning of Jaipur, with Aslan, our trusty tuk-tuk driver, who Andrew had prematurely hired the previous evening, after meeting him at a local beer shop. It transpired Aslan was not as trusty as we’d hoped, when our first stop turned out to be his textile shop on the edge of town.

    After many attempts to stitch us up with overpriced garments, we eventually set out for our ‘city-tour’!

    Within five minutes we made our first stop, picking up an impossibly chirpy chap from a scruffy street corner. We assumed he was cadging a lift, but as we screeched to a bumpy halt, Aslan informed us that unfortunately, he was compelled to work in his shop for the day, and instead, his young nephew, Hussein, would be our tour guide. He gave his ward a list of instructions in rapid ‘Hindish’, and bid us farewell, making it it clear we were to pay him later, and not our young chauffeur. Then, with several indecipherable nods of the head, he took his leave.

    Hussein though, was wonderful. Cheeky, energetic and most importantly, with two hands almost firmly on the handlebars! He told us he was Muslim, but not to worry, he was not a terrorist. As he hurtled down the centre of the road at a suicidal pace, we were glad to hear this. Cows, pigs, goats, dogs, cats, peacocks and humans made their escape as we continued at ‘break-someone’s-neck’ speed on our city slalom.

    It was definitely what one would call, a brown-knuckle ride!

    After we’d eaten lunch, at a slightly frightening ‘restaurant’ Hussein had recommended, or rather, insisted we break paratha at, our enthusiastic driver informed us he had managed to contact the guru, and that he had agreed to see us.

    I should add that earlier, the boy’s uncle, had suggested it may be possible for Andrew and I to visit a famous soothsayer, who resided behind a jewellery shop in a suburb of Jaipur. He assured us we were not obliged to buy anything if we so wished, as this sage was a ‘very good man’, who only shared his gift for the love of giving, not to promote his other, more earthly gifts.

    ‘Oh, he’s not the man who was on the television recently?’ I squawked excitedly, in my best tourist fashion, ‘with Jan Leeming – you know, the old newsreader?’

    IMG_0290

    ‘Yes, that is him. On the British BBC. The Marigold Hotel man,’ Aslan crowed.

    ‘We saw him’, Andrew piped in, almost as uncool as me, (but not quite), ‘he was great’.

    We had both watched the BBC series ‘The Real Marigold Hotel’ a few months ago, kindly recorded by our good friend Stella, and one of our favourite moments had been the former BBC newsreader in tears whilst visiting a psychic in Jaipur. Unkind I know, but terribly camp!

    The Real Marigold Hotel

    ‘Well if he is not busy he can see you, but he rarely see’s tourists, but I will phone him and let you know’.

    So, after lunch, happy Hussein took us on a manic ‘Pacman’ style tour, eating up the back alleys of north Jaipur, searching for the famous fortune-teller’s premises.

    After twenty minutes of getting no-where, I suggested perhaps we needed a psychic to find the place. Hussein didn’t get it, or if he did, he didn’t find it funny. Neither did my husband, who was now sweating like a glass blower’s arse and more than ready for his usual siesta.

    Finally we came upon the place. A very ordinary shop, on an average road, but one that Andrew and I both recognised from the television as the establishment that Jan Leeming, the broadcaster, had gone to meet her forecaster.

    We removed our shoes and entered the jewellery shop. We knew from the telly that the guru was to be found at the back of the store, behind some smoked glass. But he was nowhere to be seen. Instead, we were forced to listen to a sales pitch on Blue Topaz for quarter of an hour, as a smiling salesman emptied bag after bag of earrings onto the counter.

    ‘This Topaz, favourite of the girls. Believe me.’

    After many polite refusals, we eventually pierced the guy’s sales technique, when we told him we absolutely knew of no women with any holes we would be eager to fill. So he was wasting his precious time. We then got up to leave, believing the whole affair a scam, and feeling slightly stupid that,as seasoned travellers, we were fooled by this gem of a ploy.

    As we re-shod, and headed past the cattle towards our transport, the shopkeeper suddenly called after us.

    ‘Why did you come here? It was not to buy jewellery?’

    ‘No it most certainly was not’, I answered in my best Maggie Smith, ‘it was to visit the guru- that’s what we were promised!’

    ‘Then go and see him’ the vendor said simply, ‘he is in the back. He will see you now.’

    Slightly puzzled I turned to Andrew. I’d assumed that as we hadn’t even sampled any of his wares, the espy man wouldn’t want to see us, but I was obviously wrong.

    ‘Go on babe’, Andrew said kindly, ‘you go in first.’

    I thought this was my partner being considerate, as he knew I was slightly worried about the whole experience and so smiled at him with nervous love. Then I saw he had a fag on the go and obviously wanted to finish it!

    I went into the back room I had seen on the TV, and there, behind his desk, was the famous guru of Jaipur.

    ‘Sit down’, he intoned softly, ‘I knew you were not here to buy jewellery, but when I saw you in the shop I asked my man to come and bring you back. Do you know you are very special?’

    I blushed. Before I had a chance to answer the silkily spoken, moustachioed fakir asked me my mother’s age.

    ‘Sixty-Eight’ I answered.

    Suddenly his dark brown hands thrust a calculator toward me with the figure 68 already input and displayed on the screen.
    I was slightly taken aback, as I had had to think about the answer and this stranger seemed to have the knowledge literally at his fingertips.
    ‘And is your father alive?’
    ‘No’, I replied, cynically trying to give nothing away.
    ‘If he were alive, how old would he be now?’
    I had to concentrate once more. Mathematics  has never been my strong point,
    ‘Seventy’ I answered, slightly unsure.
    Again the magic calculator was turned towards me and my response verified, as a big 70 digitally sprung from the machine.
    ‘What do you want to ask me?’ The mystic went on.
    I was blank, I was so shocked by the seemingly intimate knowledge this man already possessed. I daren’t ask a thing unless I got the answer I wasn’t looking for.
    We continued in conversation as the guru asked me a few questions.
    ‘You are in a relationship?’
    ‘Yes’ I answered.
    ‘And she is a water sign.’
    I paused.
    ‘Yes’, I lied, knowing ‘She!’ was an Arian and most definitely of the fiery variety. Some doubt began to creep in, but then,
    ‘How long have you been with him?’
    Now I was confused. This guy was slightly weirding me out.
    ‘Twenty-five years’ I responded.
    ‘And he is how old?’
    ‘Forty-six’ I said.
    Surprise, surprise! The magic calculator was spun on me again and there it was, in plain black and grey, four and six. The number 46. Bingo!
    Before I had a chance to go on the mystic began his rant.

    He told me I lived in Spain. I had a complicated childhood, but I should forgive my mother. She had much guilt. My sister was similar to me but very different. She was creative like me. He told me I was not happy and should change my career. Go into nature and carry on writing! You cannot be loved by everyone, he said, so stop trying. And forgive your mother. By this point my head was spinning. There was a brief silence. Then suddenly, he continued,

    ‘You do know you were abused as a child?’ It was half question, half statement.

    ‘No!’ I said firmly, ‘I don’t believe I was.’

    ‘Emotionally – yes you were.’

    Before I had a chance to respond he went on,

    ‘And I don’t mean to upset you, but your father killed himself.’

    ‘No’ I interjected again, ‘he died of cancer.’

    ‘But he gave up on life’ he said quickly, ‘he wanted this.’

    ‘Who had dementia in the family?’ he demanded.

    ‘My grandmother’ I offered up.

    ‘You must watch for this – and lung cancer. You must stop the smoking!’

    This confounded me. As I rarely smoke – and then only in a secondary fashion!

    The spiritual meeting had gone on longer than I’d anticipated, and the confusing information I was being given made me unsteady.

    The session was completed with me being asked to hold a green stone in the palm of my hand and keep my eyes closed. After some time I timidly opened my eyes to see a larger version of the gemstone I was holding laying on the desk in front of me.

    ‘This is an emerald. It will unblock your heart chakra and help you achieve all you desire’ the guru, who I now knew to be called Ajay explained.
    ‘I can sell you this stone for 320,000 rupees.’

    ‘Oh’, I said, slightly aghast, ‘and what is that in English money?’

    ‘340 quid’ said Ajay, quick as a cobra.

    ‘We’ll, I don’t think I can spend that kind of money, I’ll need to speak to Andrew and if he ….’

    ‘This is a smaller stone, with the same power’ said Ajay, pouncing like a mongoose, ‘you can have this for a hundred and forty quid.’

    I stared at the green stone in front of me, wondering what Jan Leeming would do.  As if he read my mind, Ajay suddenly explained,

    ‘You can get these stones cheaper, but I charge this for my institution. To help poor children. All the profits go there. You know Jan Leeming from the BBC, she works for my charity now.’

    ‘Jan’s a very kind woman’, I said, as if I knew her personally, ‘I’m sure she’s wonderful with the children’, but I’ll still need to talk to Andrew.’

    ‘OK’ said the guru, ‘then send him in.’

    He smiled, told me I was very special again and to stop hurting myself, not only with drink and drugs, but mentally. We shook hands and I left, slightly shaken. And in need of a drink!

    I found Andrew outside, not sharing his final cigarette with one of the shop assistants.

    ‘You can go in’ I announced, emotion making my voice quiver, and tears welling in my eyes.

    ‘Jesus!’ He exclaimed, ‘what’s up with you?’

    ‘Oh my God’, I told him, ‘he was so good’.

    ‘How?’ Andrew asked.

    ‘Just go in’, I said, ‘you’ll see.’

    I waited outside with a charming Croatian jewellery designer as Andrew went in to see the sage.

    After a much briefer period than I had spent inside, Andrew and Ajay came out of the shop, just as the charming Croatian was telling me far too loudly the name of the Indian whisky I’d asked her about.

    ‘It’s Royal Stag’ she announced firmly, ‘it’s great. And no hangover!’

    I don’t think Ajay was impressed.

    Andrew was fingering a stone whilst the guru told him to hold it in the sun. They then returned to the back of the shop, and I thanked the Croatian for the alcoholic tip.

    Two minutes later Andrew made his exit. He looked distinctly unemotional and completely dry-eyed.

    ‘I’ll think about it mate’ he shouted behind to the guru as we climbed back into our rickshaw.

    ‘Well’ I asked, ‘what happened?’

    ‘Nothing much’, my partner said blankly, ‘he told me someone in my family was diabetic, I had possible bowel cancer and you were special but annoying.’
    I wasn’t quite sure whether he’d added the last bit, but didn’t pursue it.

    We shuddered along the slightly squalid streets discussing the details of our respective encounters. Andrew knocking away any thoughts that he might be suffering from bowel cancer, and me wondering what to forgive my mother for, as she’s always been quite exemplary as a parent. Perhaps her choice in men has on occasion been troublesome, but I could hardly blame her for that. I have the same problem.

    I also went into deep contemplation – wondering just why I was so special, and how had he known of my aching ambition to write some day. My ego ballooned becoming as large as an Indian elephant – that is until we got back to our hotel.

    Then Andrew decided to look up the guru’s credentials on the internet, and promptly shot my elephant stone dead!

    Post after post online, revealed the man with the magic calculator to be a charlatan. There were a few egotistical idiots, like myself, who had believed some of the fakir’s fakery, must most had seen through it straight away – just like Andrew!

    ‘But what about the calculator’ I asked desperately, ‘how did he do that?’

    ‘For fuck’s sake darl, even Ian Mckellen can do that!’

    He’d lost me for a moment.

    ‘What? As Gandalf?’

    Andrew looked blank.

    ‘No. Not him. I mean Paul McKenna.’

    We laughed.

    And then I remembered another television special when Mr McKenna, the famous mentalist, proved exactly how easy it was to be a guru, without using any special powers at all. Less hocus-pocus, more hokum poor us!!!

    Andrew then began to read me the comments from a blogging site he’d found. It was uncomfortably uncanny to learn how many of the poor creatures were told they were special, had been abused, someone or other in their clan had been suicidal and nearly always an older member of the family had dementia. Most of them were also assured of their creativity and told to stop self-harming. All of them were advised that the way to deal with these issues was to buy an overpriced emerald to unblock their heart chakra.

    Some even did!

    When sanity was restored and my ego had partially shrunk back to it’s usual inflated size, I wondered how the faker had known about Spain. I then remembered I’d spoken in Spanish to happy Hussein, our charming chauffeur, after he told me he had an Argentinian girlfriend. I even told him Andrew and I were performers –  and that we were together!

    So it turns out Ajay was a psychic with a sidekick. More fucker than fakir!

    ‘At least he told me to pursue my writing’ I said desperately to Andrew, who was still busy on the iPad.

    There was a loud chuckle.

    ‘What’s so funny’ I asked.

    More laughing.

    ‘What?’ I insisted.

    Andrew continued to read out some of the blogs in a highly amused fashion. They all finished with the same kind of sentence, which read along the lines of,

    ‘I’m just so grateful that at least he told me to continue with my writing’.

    What an idiot.

    I’ve never liked Jan Leeming!

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    Silly cow!

  • Goodness Gracious Me!

    We leave Bombay with heavy hearts, yet lighter wallets! The price of beer, which, sadly, is how we usually gauge the cost of living on our travels, is remarkably high. A weekly wage to some of the city’s inhabitants. That is, the lucky ones who have a wage. This hasn’t stopped us from guiltily imbibing, as we’ve sometimes needed a little spirit to lift our own.

    Whilst driving through the ‘Park Lane’ of the city, our delightful, yet ultimately dishonest, Uber taxi driver pointed out the house of the richest man in India. He informed us that the huge complex housed only four people. Two floors were for the owner’s car collection, and I presume the other countless extra floors were to house some of the six hundred staff he employs.

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    On the up side, at least he is providing some much needed jobs. However, the disparity here can be dispiriting! There have been many times already when we’ve had to turn the other way – or we’d have felt compelled to leave the country. That’s the way it is, and who am I to condescend, The Indians take it in their modest stride every day.

    And with a smile!

    Even at the airport (one of the most modern and clean we have ever encountered), the first class traveller only need glance through the impressive glazing to espy those who could never even dream of flying economy. With flights continuous here, even during the wee small hours, I doubt the amount of noise pollution is small, or that in the air, wee! These poor bastards are literally living on the tarmac. One should visit the third world to get a perspective on Heathrow’s third runway! But that’s easy for me to say – I don’t live in Hounslow! Thank Christ!

    Despite the obvious difficulties here, we have both fallen in love with the city of Mumbai, although just like our new local friend, Santosh, we prefer the name Bombay. He told me it sounds ‘much softer’ and the obvious colonial connotations did not bother him. I prefer it because it reminds me of the gin. I kept that quiet so as not to appear too crass. Although I think Santosh had worked us out anyway, as Andrew and I had already had a row in front of him on the train into town.

    Andrew kept staring at me in horror as I stood enjoying the fascinating journey, when I unwisely asked him what he was finding so fascinating he replied,

    ‘You babe’, and then chuckled on, ‘you look so fucking awful!’

    ‘What do you mean awful?’ I hissed back.

    ‘Awful. Like you’re gonna die!’

    ‘Well thankyou – you’re not looking your best yourself’, I retorted, perhaps in more colourful language, much to the amusement of poor Santosh, who along with the rest of the carriage was having to listen to our usual morning contretemps . Thank God there was a blind woman bashing her stick and collection dish whilst her partner sang loudly out of key, this helped to drown out our little drama, or we would have been the only ‘on track’ entertainment!

    ‘Jesus!’ He continued hysterically, ‘your green’.

    Thankfully, before I had a chance to respond, Santosh pointed out that, in fact, I was green. All over my arms, my hands and my face. In fact, I looked as though I’d just finished a matinee  of ‘Wicked’.

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    It took some while to work out that the reason for my deathly pallor was the ink on the label of the water bottle I was carrying. It had bled all over me, and I’d been pressing it against my face to cool down.

    We all had a good laugh about this, Andrew more than the two of us, and Santosh said I could wash when we got to the station, and then advised me to put my sunglasses on until that moment came.

    To be frank, even after I’d de-greened me eek, I still wasn’t looking my best. The baggage I was carrying under my eyes would have cost a small fortune on Ryan Air! Aviation has always played havoc with my features. I board looking vaguely normal, and disembark resembling a Picasso portrait.

    I might add that Andrew, despite his frequent amusement with my looks, is also not at his best. There has been a slight improvement as at least now he no longer resembles the leader of North Korea. But still, in a harsh light, one could mistake him for ‘Hamble’, the less attractive doll from television’s ‘Playschool’!

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    Thank heavens neither of us opted for a career as a trolley dolly – we’d have had the passengers heading for the emergency exits mid-flight.

    Despite my frightening appearance, unlike Mr Kennedy, Santosh did not seem to mind, and was charming enough to take us on a tour of the city.

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    It was interesting to see some of the prettier parts of town, after having spent several days in the quarter Andrew had booked us into, which reminded me a lot of Aleppo!

    The colonial hangover is here in abundance. Not all of it as well maintained as it could be, but the faded glamour of the of the more impressive architecture does nothing to detract from the obvious romance, it may even enhance it somewhat.

    ‘The Gateway To India’, that colossal monument built just to welcome George 5th and Queen Mary to the crown jewel of their empire was very impressive. Even if, as a couple of Marys ourselves, we were prohibited from walking through it. It interested me to learn that the last group of our countrymen to be given that honour was the British Army, as they paraded through the triumphant arch in proud defeat.

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    Quite fitting.

    I asked Santosh how he thought about the British and their role here, and he replied with typical Indian diplomacy,

    ‘They took a lot from us, but gave us a lot too.’

    Such class.

    In fact, whilst composing this on a dodgy flight during a particularly bumpy ride to Rajasthan, I have, conversely, learnt something from the Indians. The charming gentleman beside me in seat 29a has given me a comprehensive lesson in how to make Bombay Mix. Eight kinds, to be exact. I was shown numerous photographs, each from several angles, before we went on to the videos, all four of them!

    As lovely as he was, I don’t think I’ll ever touch the stuff again.

    As I turn to Andrew to rescue me, he remains completely aloof whilst fingering his Ipad, he looks and smiles. Then goes back to his favourite game of the moment, ‘Fairways Patience’. A game he plays endlessly, testing the patience of my fair ways! Not sure about the aforementioned Bombay arch, but if he continues like this he’ll be going through another arch. The arch window. Headfirst!

    Sayonara Hamble.

    He was almost clobbered at the airport by an elderly Indian couple who heard him doing his best, or should I say worst, ‘It Ain’t ‘Alf Hot Mum’ impression. I shushed him, they turned and gave me the filthiest  look thinking I was the culprit. Why do I travel with him?

    What a pair!

    Goodness gracious me!

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  • Bombay Dreams And Nightmares!

    After a delay of over an hour and another nine sitting next to the portaloo on our British Airways flight to Mumbai, we had started to doubt if they really were ‘the world’s favourite’! There are only so many times one can be tangled in a Cif-scented sari before the experience begins to pall!

    The large Bloody Marys we’d imbibed in the airlines’posh Heathrow lounge certainly took the edge off. This, courtesy of a lovely friend who toils tirelessly on behalf of B.A. They may not be our favourite company, but they certainly employ some of our favourite company.

    On our tardy arrival in the ancient city of Bombay, Andrew and I were more than relieved to reach our hotel, even if it was situated in a rather insalubrious district known as ‘The Theosophical Housing Colony’.

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    Our ride through town from the airport would certainly have been an eye opener, that is, had we been able to open them! The hefty pollution,which perfumed the non- air-conditioned cab we were squeezed into, made that practically impossible. It also played havoc with Andrew’s breathing apparatus, as he suffered a near asthma attack on route, and he doesn’t even have the condition.
    When we eventually hit room 306, tired and bleary-eyed we didn’t even notice that the windows were bricked up!  It’s certainly not what one would call, a room with a view. More like an unpadded cell.

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    Theosophical it was not – there was certainly no mystery to this joint. The only spiritual question being, why in God’s name had they bricked the windows up in the first place?! An evening stroll around the grounds solved that philosophical puzzle – there was fuck all to see!

    Also we have had to make strenuous efforts to get our room cleaned – the chambermaid went missing on the first night.

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    Now we know why!!!

    This is definitely the last time I let my partner make the first booking!

    We escaped our lodgings as quickly as we could and headed for the beach. Juhu Beach to be exact, though in places it looks more like Boo Hoo Beach. One could weep. So sad and dirty.

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    However, it seems rather churlish to criticise these sands for a touch of litter, when the human flotsam and jetsam that washes up here is so colourful and vivacious. The place is alive, not only with bacteria, but with a laughter and innocence that takes one back to childhood and candy-flossed days out at the seaside. There is a dubious charm here that makes one look the other way as the effluence comes in with the tide. Joy and chapatis abound.

    However, despite that fact, and although we are both inoculated against polio, I doubt we shall be taking a dip in the murky waters. Not many of the natives seem to either – and they should know!

    The area is apparently home to many ‘Bollywood’ stars, which seems rather surprising as it is situated directly beneath two of the major flight paths serving Mumbai International. As one hears the Boeings baring down at a relentless pace and volume, it gives the ‘jet set’ living below an entirely different meaning. But hey, this is one of the world’s most populated cities, so any beach is a bonus. Even one where it is sometimes necessary to play dodge the diaper!

    After a dreadful sleep, punctuated at some ‘un-Shiva-ly’ hour by countless landings and take-offs, Andrew and I decided to take off ourselves and perambulate. As the heat built and the smog started to sting, Andrew decided he’d had enough of the great outdoors and also his latest’ ‘Kim Jong Un’ look, (mainly due to post-flight swelling!) and opted for a trip to a local barbers.

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    I was secretly pleased, as I had spotted this oriental likeness earlier on in the airport’s arrival hall, and was slightly concerned he could get a poisoned cloth in the face. Almost two hours later we emerged from the cupboard sized hair salon, with him still looking slightly North Korean, only with shorter locks, and both of us nursing a sore face.

    The latter being entirely my fault, as I’d talked us into having a wet-shave with a cut throat razor whilst we were there. The experience was interesting, as were the results. Andrew and I could have done better with a ‘Bic’ and a bar of soap. Not a drop of hot water in sight, and a cologne that could have doubled as battery acid! But we thought it best not to complain, as our attacker was so full of charm, most of which was down to the fact he had hold of a very sharp blade!

    We didn’t want to offend him. After all, most of us have heard of ‘Swami Todd, The Demon Barber Of Sikh Street!’ Haven’t we?

    So we paid and fled, stubble and all, making for our windowless room to complete the job ourselves.

    Terribly British, we do so hate to complain. I’d even kept my gob shut at breakfast when I was served sweet scrambled eggs and dirty tea.(Don’t ask!)

    But the hum of India, the song that gets under one’s skin like a dodgy rash, is still the one we both remember from having visited years before. The place may be rough round the edges, but we certainly wouldn’t want any of those edges rounded off. They are what make this land magical. Along with the kindness and affability of the people, who are as warm as the climate. Neither of us would change a thing.

    On second thoughts, perhaps less sugar in my scrambled eggs would be an improvement. Oh, and some windows. But then again……

    This is India.

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  • An Indian Tonic.

    An Indian Tonic.

    At times, one is more than ready to make tracks, and as the callous winter Levante gusts mercilessly outside, I am having warm (if not wet!) dreams of exotic lands. Bombay dreams, to be exact.

    In a couple of weeks time, Andrew and I are to embark on another ill-planned, ill-equipped and doubtlessly, ill-advised voyage to less occidental climes. This time we head for the miraculous menagerie that is India.

    Andrew had said, after our most recent, and somewhat hazardous expedition to the far east, that this year he would like to opt for a more gentle sojourn. Perhaps the tropical paradise of Goa for a few weeks. Relaxing. Some Yoga, some yogis, a hammock, and of course, a cold glass of Indian lager.  It sounded splendid.

    I obviously took in all of his requests when forming a rough itinerary, unfortunately it seems I have unwittingly managed to ignore most of them, resulting in what could be, a bloody rough itinerary!

    I have, of course, included the touristic state of Goa, as requested, within our plans, but have also added a few, shall we say, more adventurous locations.  After all, who wants to recline on boring beach when one can just as easily lay back on a small 2nd class berth and chug all the way to a crumbling medieval fort on the porous border with Pakistan?

    Who wants to float calmly in the warm Arabian Sea when one could so simply be rocking, unsteadily on an angry camel, lurching deep into the cold, starlit sand dunes of the harsh Thar Desert?

    And who on earth would consider chilling out with a kick from a cocktail on one’s comfortable verandah? Who? When it is almost as convenient to kick back on a rickety night bus for  eighteen hours – spluttering  one’s fume-filled way through plains and jungles in search of an unfashionable city that no-ones ever heard of!

    Who would prefer that kind of easy, safe, happy-go-lucky, no responsibility kind of trip? Not us. No. Not The Lola Boys!

    After all, having once managed to stave off an attack by two doped-up Andalusian serfs, (replete with concrete filled shopping trolley and  flick knife), a little grubbiness here and there is not gonna faze us. We’ll just about almost certainly cope.

    It really does seem such a shame to visit a country of such diversity and not – diversify. A land where I am told adventures always occur, though not necessarily when you most expect .  And never punctually, according to E.M.Forester,  whose ‘A passage to India’ has partly inspired this, our latest adventure.

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    Our passage to India.

    Or rather, our back passage to india!  Much more relevant,  as I am planning on us taking some of the lesser known highways and byways. The revealing back alleys and hind quarters that often give away much more about a country than the ‘attractions’ one is supposed to see.

    whicker_2616140bI haven’t run this aspect by Andrew yet.  But I’m fairly sure he’ll assuage my more ‘Whickeresque’ foibles and tag along . After all, there is always more fun to be had on the road less travelled – both good and bad.

    I do hope Andrew agrees!

    We fly to the great city of Bombay, or Mumbai as it is now known, at the end of this month. Nearly everything is in order. Hooray for Bollywood.

    We have been immunised against most of the dangers, but of course there will always be some risks for which one cannot make preparations. But, as we have definitely decided on travelling together, there is not much to be done on this matter.

    It will be just the two of us, two rucksacks and a bottle opener! There are no precautions that can be taken for this type of behaviour, so one can only hope that ‘Lakshmi’, the Indian goddess of good fortune, is grinning manically down upon us whilst we are making our expedition.  In fact it would be good if she could glance this way at present too, to aid us with the art of applying for a Visa to enter the great subcontinent.

    Applying for an Indian tourist visa has often seemed akin to gnawing off one’s own foreskin without the help of an anaesthetic! And that has been when the going has been fairly easy.  Of course, I’m sure bureaucracy in Mother India is only so frustrating and unnecessarily complicated as the country was taught by the world’s best when it comes to pushing paper – The British!

    It has taken me five international phone calls, four registered, handwritten letters, and twenty-seven emails just to secure an interview to make an application. I have learnt more about my forebears, whilst filling in the required documentation, than I would have if appearing on an episode of the BBC’s ‘Who Do You Think You Are’. AND – we still ain’t there yet! We have yet to submit our photographs, as those on our passports quite obviously do not suffice. The required images have to be a particular size and shape, one that seems to differ to any other standard photo size in any other country, in any other universe. The only sure way of achieving the correct height and width seems to be to use the specified photo booth situated inside the office at the Indian mission – for a cool tenner ! Very industrious indeed.

    Still, I have breathed away any irritation as any good yogi would, and am making sure we do whatever it takes so that we are allowed through that glorious gateway to India and onwards into the intoxicating unknown.

    I can’t wait to get our bellies into Delhi. To dip our phalanges into the Ganges. To explore this wonderfully complex place. The ancient, the modern, the heavenly, the hellish, the unfathomable – we’re ready to experience it all, and then blab about it.

    Well, most of it!

    Who knows what we’ll find?  Maybe ourselves!!!

    I hope you enjoy our ‘back passage to India’ – and come to that, I hope we do too.

    Wish us luck.

    May Lakshmi smile upon us.

    Frequently.

    Namaste.

  • Mid Air!

    I have always adored airports . 
    I realise this isn’t a fashionable idea. Most travellers find them dull, expensive and quite often irritating. But I have always had a fascination with these hubs of aviation! 
    Perhaps it was my father, who was wont to drive my poor mother, sister and I to the perimeter fence at ‘Heathrow’, and then encourage us to spectate, as the various aircraft did their thing, that gave me this aerial fascination. 

    I’m not grateful for much of which he imbued me, but for the love of a runway and a hanger, I shall be forever thankful!
    After one has cleared passport control and is free of baggage, it is almost akin to entering ‘No Man’s Land’.  Terminally trapped until take-off, the passenger has no option but to give in to the artificial country in which one must reside, until they are told to board their respective aircraft.  

    Shopping, eating and imbibing overpriced beverages seem to be the only way to spend one’s time – other than fingering the testers at the ‘Clarin’s’ counter!  And, of course, over spraying, like a bitch on heat, with the ‘Estee Lauder’! 

    I love it! 

     By the time I’m flashing my boarding pass to the aircrew, I’m usually stuffed with fast food, half cut, and smelling like a Parisian hooker! 

    Were I chief stewardess, I doubt I’d let me onboard!

    Our latest aerodrome escapade has begun at the bijoux airport in Gibraltar.  What it lacks in charm, it makes up for in cheap ‘Stolichnaya’!
    We are on route to Luton! That famous airport from which the lovely Lorraine Chase famously made her way, after tanking up on a bottle of Campari! This unfashionable Bedfordshire town is not our final destination, we are actually on route to the more salubrious city of Cambridge, to perform at a birthday function, for a particularly charming couple who came across us on the beach! Not literally, of course! 

    At present I am squashed into seat 18F, on a particularly turbulent flight. It’s not that the weather is bad, but there is a kindergarten full of screaming toddlers, and the woman in 18D looks as if she hasn’t just chewed a wasp, but has managed to swallow the whole nest! As I asked to pass her , on route to the lavatory, I thought she might attempt to stab me with her plastic fork, with which she was dipping greedily into her airline pasta. An unwise dish, in my opinion, especially as she had the build of a Lancaster Bomber and was  already partly blocking the aisle!

    God forbid we should need to use the emergency slide, as I believe she’d probably deflate the entire apparatus!  

    Talking of deflation, I am seated alongside my miserable husband, who does not share the same interest in flying as I do. I would usually blame his malaise on the lack of nicotine, but on such a short flight this doesn’t seem probable, even for a tobacco addict such as him! Perhaps it is the discomfort of being wedged between a frenetic homosexual blogger and Ms Michelin! 

    He certainly doesn’t look comfortable! 
    But then, mid air, he never does!
    Some of us have good altitude,  and others, a bad attitude! 

    Sadly my long haul lover falls into the latter category.  I am dreading our next extended flight to Bombay. Let’s hope I get upgraded!

    As the terribly friendly trolley-dolly passed me my gin and tonic he asked if Andrew was OK. Yes, I replied. He’s not  always like this at 30,000 feet! I decided to leave out the fact that he can be quite as flighty even when grounded! 
    Well, it’s not always a smooth flight is it? Even after twenty- five years in the cockpit together!

    But I still love it. Flying I mean!

     ‘In between’.  It’s like I have always lived my life like this. Never truly fitting in – but somewhere in the middle. Floating free. Perhaps I should have been a pilot. I certainly thought about it as a career very seriously when I was a boy. But then I decided on another, more interesting  form of transport – Cabaret! Taking my passengers to an altogether different destination, though equally as exotic!
    As the dreadful tinny voice of the stewardess announces that her next service will be trying to shove charity scratchcards down our necks, an elegant septeganarian comes over to speak to me.

    ‘Are you off to the UK to do a performance?’She asks. Obviously recognising us.

    ‘Yes’, I reply,(slightly pretentiously), ‘we have a gig at The Hilton in Cambridge’.

    ‘Oh, how wonderful’, she responds gracefully.

    ‘And you?’, I ask, politely.

    ‘I’m going back for my sister in law’s funeral’, she says flatly. ‘And my mother died six weeks ago! It’s not been a great year!’

    ‘Oh. I’m so sorry’, I commiserate.

    ‘We’ll, that’s life’, she responds, somewhat ironically.

    Then the aircraft shudders, almost like an intense emotional response to the charming lady’s recent grief, and we are immediately instructed to belt up.
    As we shake and stir  amid a heady cocktail of air pressure, I sip heavily on my ‘Bombay Sapphire’ and my ears decide to inform me, mercilessly, that we are making our descent!

    Sadly it is time to come back down to earth!

    And now onto Cambridge – and the reason we have made the journey.

    Our temporary lodgings are fortunately overlooking the river Cam.

    And we do so love a punt!

    So it could be fun!
     

  • Scary Times !!!

    Halloween! Jesus! (Not completely apt I know) But it was a hell of a night.

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    We arrived for our show on the beach – dressed to kill.  Andrew as a saucy vampire, and me dressed as an ‘Eva Braun’ style nurse – complete with a giant hypodermic, ready to inject a noxious venom into anyone with whom I was displeased. Luckily nobody got on the wrong side of me – that is, other than the ‘Walton-esque’ family who decided to leave mid-song. Five of them trailing, lemming-like, directly in front of me, intent on making an exit whilst I was singing a top ‘G’!

    I wouldn’t mind but the beach has a multitude of exits – left across the sand; right across the sand; even a quick paddle through the water: all of them preferable to a slow saunter through our spotlight, therefore shadowing mine and Andrew’s faces and leaving us in semi darkness! Incredible! If I don’t like something, I leave in the interval – and if I’m gonna vomit, at least I duck whilst retching! Rude fuckers!  Still, I presume the plain children were tired – they certainly looked as if they needed their beauty sleep!

    After finishing a particularly ghoulish performance, during which I almost gave one pensioner an aneurysm by sitting on his lap and pushing him backwards onto the sand, whilst Andrew caused three middle-aged women to reach for their ‘Tena-Ladys’, we collapsed onto the bar, hidden behind our classy gold back-cloth we’d purchased from the market in La Linea!

    As I changed, clumsily, out of my hot pants, into something less comfortable, Andrew went front of house to receive the  muted adulation of which we were assured – sadly he was met by a less positive reaction.

    As he joined our audience, sweaty and still a little emotionally weak after the show, an acquaintance of ours managed to block his path and said, without anything positive to couch it,

    ‘You are fat!’

    Not a complimentary word about his beautiful singing or the stylish way he can wear a ‘Tom Jones’ wig.

    Just those three words.

    Andrew,(good boy), came back immediately with,

    ‘And so are you!’

    ‘Yes’, our friend continued, ‘but I am not an entertainer!’

    I cannot reveal my husband’s response without revealing the identity of the rude git to whom he was responding.  That gentleman may be impertinent – but I am not quite as cruel.  Suffice to say, he is an overweight merchant seaman with a paunch twice as big as Andrew’s.

    A case of the pot-belly calling the kettle black methinks!

    It is astounding to me that just because one puts themselves up in front of a crowd to entertain, it seems that some people feel they can be abusive and unkind, and say whatever comes to mind.  This would never happen in everyday life. Can you imagine pointing out to the woman behind the fish counter that her breasts were sagging and she was looking a little green behind the gills?

    I came off quite well.  Nobody said anything negative to me.  But then again, I think I looked rather frightening in my naughty nurses outfit, and with an extra ten inches!  Always a plus. Had the impolite dick-head spoken to me in the same manner, I may have shoved one of my stilettos straight up his poop-deck!

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    It is not that Andrew or I are minus a good sense of humour – quite the opposite. With both of our upbringings it has been essential to find something to laugh about on route.

    My father was the catalyst for the development of my humourous safety valve, and even though the ride was often dangerous – I shall always thank him for helping me discover it.

    My dad began his flammable career working as a young fireman with ‘white watch’ at Richmond fire station. Before this, he had driven a number 9 bus across London.  This was not on a whim of his, but as employment. Though the latter scenario was to follow many years later – when my deranged pa would steal a double-decker from Catford bus garage and aim for a pensioner’s wall! All of this at six in the morning, shirtless and shoeless, and as high as a republican on election night!

    Years before, during happier times, I had once been a delighted passenger, when aged 7 or 8,  on route to ‘The Sooty Show’ at London’s Mayfair Theatre, I had boarded his vehicle with my beloved nan and sister. His driving career then had been more sedate, before later careering alarmingly, with his young family in tow, into the fire service and onto  ‘blue watch’ in Tooting.  It was here the real emergency began and it wasn’t long before our entire clan were on ‘red watch’ as father took us all closer to the edge, and the South coast.  My poor sister still can’t hear the name ‘Bournemouth’ without wincing.

    After being ‘sectioned’ on many occasions, him, not us,(not quite!) and still continuing with his driving occupation, though now completely unofficially; speeding in stolen crisp vans across the country; wheel spinning me into the playground and scattering my fellow pupils so that I wouldn’t be late for assembly; racing against the oncoming traffic for nine miles on the M3; lifting our entire family  into the air ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’ style over a mini roundabout during one Easter outing:  you get the picture!

    After more than enough of these evil ‘Evil Knieval’ moments, my family found it better to laugh in the face of this auto-adversity, rather than cry over spilt brake fluid!

    I have nearly always managed to continue with this practice throughout my adult life – and find it makes for a much easier existence to look for the laugh in any drama – however black it may be.

    I believe this tactic could never be more relevant. Especially with world events unfolding as they are at present.

    So when staying up through the night to watch the U.S. presidential election, I kept this lightness of being at the forefront of my mind, especially as I had more than a hunch that the pollsters had got it wrong, rather like the infamous ‘Brexit’!

    Whilst marvelling at the erudite Emily Maitless on the BBC, her political semaphore quite exemplary, as she stood in front of her map skillfully fingering her Virginia and her Nebraska, I couldn’t help but smile as all the experts had to eat their words.  It was clear most of them  didn’t know their Arkansas from their elbow. I knew I shouldn’t laugh, but as I mentioned earlier, in the face of adversity, I know no different.  In my world – it was just another scary ride unfolding.

    So, as Trump trumps, I am clinging on for dear life.  As we mount the political sidewalks and no doubt run the red lights of democracy and decency, I am fastening my seatbelt and holding on to that great trait that the U.S.A. has always shown to the world.

    Optimism.

    Yes, this sometimes petulant, and often naive great nation, has always taught us one thing.  That the glass is always half full. That maybe because most of them have already imbibed the first half !

    But hey,  I’m still smiling, and still laughing.  And very thankful, that at least my father isn’t in the driving seat!

    And one thing I know for sure. If we can deal with a muppet in our audience – then we can certainly deal with another one in the Whitehouse.

    As long as we hold onto our sense of humour!

    gq-melania-trump-3The First Lady !

    And finish the other half of the glass!!!

  • Man Balls !

    We set out for The Isle Of Man with high heels and feathers untidily packed, and with just a little trepidation. After all, it isn’t long ago that people like us would regularly face the birch here for much less than owning a pair of red stilletoes! And although I’ve been known to enjoy an alpha male making merry with his wood, the thought of it being used as a punishment is still chilling! As it transpires, we needn’t have worried – well, not completely!

    It may surprise some of you to know that Andrew is a Man virgin! Really! I, rather less surprisingly, am not! No. I have visited the island before. Too many years back, I was on tour with the wonderful ‘Opera Della Luna’ company giving my ‘Nanki-Poo’, in a funky take on ‘The Mikado’. We played a whole week at the beautiful, Victorian ‘Gaiety Theatre’, and had a marvellous time.

    This visit, however, was going to be a little different – in fact,  very different!

    We had been convinced by a wonderfully kind lady to come and give our ‘Lola Boys’ show to the Isle’s inhabitants, in aid of charity, in support of breast cancer treatment. ‘The Lola Boys’, as I’m sure many of you are aware, isn’t quite ‘Gilbert & Sullivan’! We weren’t quite sure how we were going to be received. Especially as our first performance was going to be at The Manx Legion Club! A wonderfully honest type of establishment, straight out of ‘Phoenix Nights’.

    On arrival, we were both stunned to see a baying audience of almost three hundred, lagers and bingo dabbers in hand, more than ready to judge. It was like an ‘X Factor’ panel, only a little less glamorous. We made our way through the throng to our ‘Dressing Room’, which also doubled as an office, come store-room. And as we closed the door and stood,in far too much make-up, under the merciless flourescent light, I looked at Andrew and wondered what the hell he’d got us into! The slight fear in his eyes was also easy to read. Of course, neither of us commented – we had a job to do. And as our old mate Savage used to say, when faced with the same kind of situation – “Just get it done!”

    As it turned out, we had nothing to fear. After some initial puzzlement, the crowd began to love it. By the end of the show they were on their feet and we were more than thrilled to receive a standing ovulation! Miners, fisherman, farmers, all wanted to shake our hands, and their charming wives kissed us and showered us with praise, and just a little spittle. It was almost moving. We would do it again in a trice! Which is very appropriate – as The Isle Of Man is famous for it’s three legged emblem, and both of us have always appreciated a man with three legs! The warmth and acceptance was palpable, and the pints were flowing. We both succumbed to a little after show partiness. As the company was so real and such fun, it would have been churlish not to.  Of course, we regretted it the following day, when we awoke with shitty hangovers – and another show to do!

    The  main event was a big charity ball taking place in one of the major hotels in Douglas, the island’s capital. This was an entirely different affair – black ties and evening gowns. I had a feeling they would be a tougher crowd than the less salubrious folk we had played for the previous night. I was right!

    Andrew and I always like to waft through our audience, prior to starting. It is a great way to break the ice, and also gives us a feel for the type of people we will,hopefully, be entertaining. So, guyliner applied, and boa-ed up, we enter the ball-room.  We both go in opposite directions, Andrew takes stage left and I head right, towards the slightly rowdier end of the venue.  Suspicious looks abound, but everyone is polite and I can tell that they are all enthused by the prospect of a saucy night. I then make my way to a table at the very edge of the room and try to engage in conversation. Nothing difficult – just a ‘hello’.

    ‘Hello’.

    Nothing. I get nothing back. Other than a sour faced look from a trampy, tattoed woman whose eye makeup is more drag than mine!

    ‘Hello’, I  chirp, attempting to keep it light.

    Nothing!

    ‘Do you speak English?’ I ask, admittedly with a naughtly glint in my eye. And then…

    ‘Why don’t you fuck off!’

    ‘I’m sorry’, I croon, ‘I was only saying hello’. Still managing to maintain the phoney charm, although inside my heart is starting to bang.

    ‘I don’t know WHAT you are’, hisses a short, balding man in a cheap bow tie, ‘but I’m not gonna be your public stooge!’ He then stands up, rather too close to my face in a very agressive fashion, pauses menacingly, and stomps off. Leaving the rest of the table just staring.

    ‘Oh dear’, I say, ‘I didn’t mean to upset him’.

    Inwardly I wanted to punch the rude git, but I knew that wasn’t the type of behaviour one should exhibit at a ball.  Especially one in aid of breast cancer. I didn’t want it to go tits up before we started!

    I turned to the rest of the table and settled with a restrained,

    ‘Well I hope you’re not quite as rude as your friend.’

    The sour faced woman looked up and practically spat out,

    ‘Each to their own love !’

    I knew immediately what she meant and thought it better not to respond. Inside I was dying. I gave a dry smile and got as far away from them as possible.  Just in case they had a birch ready under the table! Plebians!

    The show went terribly well, and the rest of the audience showed none of the homophobia that I had had to suffer at the beginning. They were wonderful. Kind and open. But the nastiness I was forced to undergo at the start left a bitter taste. If only it had happened at The Legion the night before. Then, I would have felt much more comfortable knocking the fucker out!

    It was a small moment, and one that fades very quickly into insignificance, when compared to the fact that together with the wonderful girls who run the charity, we raised over sixteen thousand quid for the breast cancer unit here on the island. It’s always good to remember the big picture, and not let some small-minded, ignorant fool, and his equally stupid cohorts, spoil a night that was fabulous.

    Fuck ’em!

    We have loved it here. We can’t wait to return and play for those generous, open souls at The Manx Legion.

    And those silly, uneducated, small minded idiots at the ball, dressed as penguins, on the far table, stage right, will be thrilled to know, in the inimitable words of Mr Swharzenegger.

    WE’LL BE BACK.

    Whether they like it or not !

     

     

     

  • Steady On Mr Editor !

    Steady On Mr Editor !

    Andrew and I have never been the type of couple to hold hands in public, preferring instead to showcase our relationship in a lewd, camp, musical cabaret whenever we are paid to do so ! We wear our hearts on our mics rather than our sleeves.

    However, were we able to complete a pert pike into a very tight tuck and still come up for air, we would doubtless have behaved just as Britain’s young Olympic diving champions did this week. Criticised by a lurid British tabloid for not showing restraint in their Olympic celebrations, these young guys could never have dreamed they would dive into a pool of glory only to resurface into a simmering cauldron of latent homophobia.

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    And they are not even gay!

    Because these boys got a little creative in their joy at winning gold they were accused of going overboard and were advised to ‘Steady On’! The tawdry reporting implied a lack of masculinity in their behaviour and a comparison was made to the way in which their fellow Chinese athletes expressed their pleasure. They ‘settled for  a manly pat on the back’ the ‘Daily Mail’ sneered implicitly. They also settled for Bronze. Whereas the British competitors had somehow let the side down – despite winning gold.

    Really! Do we still live in an age of ‘Slug And Snails And Puppy Dog’s Tails’? A world where men must share their mutual respect and love for each other in a show of friendly slaps and punches. Unless of course, they are on the football pitch, where both diving and explicit displays of man-love seem to be universally acceptable.

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    лªÉçÕÕƬ£¬±±¾©£¬2008Äê8ÔÂ23ÈÕ £¨±±¾©°ÂÔË£©£¨4£©Öйú¶Ó»ñµÃ°ÂÔ˻ỨÑùÓÎÓ¾¼¯Ìå×ÔÓÉ×ÔÑ¡Í­ÅÆ 8ÔÂ23ÈÕ£¬Öйú¶Ó¶ÓÔ±ÔÚ±ÈÈüÖС£µ±ÈÕ£¬ÔÚ¹ú¼ÒÓÎÓ¾ÖÐÐÄ¡ª¡ª¡°Ë®Á¢·½¡±¾ÙÐеı±¾©°ÂÔ˻ỨÑùÓÎÓ¾¼¯Ìå×ÔÓÉ×ÔÑ¡¾öÈüÖУ¬Öйú¶ÓÒÔ97.500·ÖµÄ×ܳɼ¨»ñµÃ¸ÃÏîÄ¿Í­ÅÆ¡£ лªÉç¼ÇÕßÕŹú¿¡Éã
    There ain’t much freestyle.

    And should we be taking lessons in social etiquette from a country that still largely manipulates how it’s population should behave? In the big pool of life China may loom large but when dragged along by the political current it’s folk are largely all doing the same stroke!

     

    It is so depressing to see such archaic attitudes being expressed by what is purported to be a reputable newspaper. One cannot help but get that sinking feeling when illiberal ideas that should have gone out with the Ark are re-floated, often in times of stormy waters.

    Joy should be admired in whatever form not splashed across this pitiful rag as an admonishment.

    Chill out Mr Editor. Forget what the old boys think. Why not try dipping your pen into the warm water of humanity. Come on dive in. The water’s wonderful.

    You may even like it!

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