Source: Thighs Down !
THE LOLA BOYS ABROAD !
The trails and tribulations of a dodgy duo!
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Source: Thighs Down !
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I learnt yesterday that St Nicholas, as well as knocking out a few pressies, is also the patron saint of children, sailors and prostitutes! So it really is the season to be jolly.
And to sell oneself. Which is fortunate, as Christmas, for a performer, normally consists of plying one’s trade. In the past this has usually meant appearing in a rather saccharine family show or slapping a thigh in pantomime.
Andrew was Lily Savage’s right hand man on many occasions . They also did panto together!
Andrew sporting his winter duvet!
A filthy prince, a wicked drag queen, seven over-sexed, boozy dwarves and a ’Snow White’ who had definitely drifted! A wonderful introduction to the theatre for the little’uns.
And so traditional!
I once starred alongside Marti Caine and the fabulously naughty Derek Griffiths in the same story.
Marti and fag.
Whilst singing a love duet with the princess, Mr Griffiths would come up behind me, and, unbeknownst to the audience, commence to do unspeakable things with his glove puppet.
It gave a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘It’s behind you’ !
This year, our festive offering was a gig at the Bingo hall in Gibraltar.
“Hyse”
Sandwiched between the ‘early bird’ and the late session we gave our ‘Lola Boys’ routine to three hundred and fifty of it’s lovely members. It all went terribly well. At one point I thought we had a standing ovation, then realised it was the queue for Christmas dinner at the back of the hall. Well, I suppose one should never pass up a good stuffing when it’s on offer.
At the end of the performance, and the sprouts, a mother and her charming daughter came to congratulate us. The younger woman, who was obviously a few numbers short of a full house, gave me a kiss and told me how much she had enjoyed the show. Without warning, she then dropped to her knees and made for my very own bingo balls.
’No Kelly’, the mother screamed, ‘not here’!
I shuddered to think what may have happened were we not in the glare of our spotlight and with no parental guidance. It could have been six and nine, your place or mine! I was most definitely the apple of Kelly’s eye!
I nearly had to explain I was more of a fifty-two – a Danny La Rue!
There was another close call during the show, when Andrew did his two fat ladies routine! As he gyrated and pulsated into the faces of a couple of dumbstruck pensioners, I wondered if this was the moment his number might finally just come up.
I was in a right two and eight. But no. Luckily, it all clickety clicked. They loved it. And we have been invited back.
No numbers this time. Just ours.
Bingo!
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A good expedition always requires careful planning – much like sex when one gets to middle age – so I’m told!
So with just six weeks to go before Andrew and I pull on our back packs and front out some of the lesser known dives of South East Asia, (both marine and otherwise), I thought it was time I planned a vague, kind-of, voyage.
This route is always used as a guide, never rigid or over-itinerised. That would preclude too many accidents occuring along the way, most of them happy.
If I left the mapwork to Andrew we could end up anywhere. Geography is most definitely not the strongest point on his inner compass.
He is still of the opinion that Switzerland is in Scandanavia, despite me regularly pointing out the difference between an Elk and an Alp!
A Moose. A Matterhorn!
Plus, with Mr Kennedy in charge, we could end up with anyone!
There have been numerous occasions, during our past travels, when my partner has got us partnered with some quite unsavoury companions. Stuck up the Mekong with not even a paddle for comfort!
Still, a little of that kind of thing makes for a whole lot of adventure.
At times.
So, in an attempt to not get ‘Shanghai’ed’ in Hanoi , or banged up in Bangkok, I have acquired a biro from the ‘Chino’ shop, (only appropriate), and begun to draw an unsteady path through that exotic and unfamiliar part of the world which shimmers, jewel-like, between India and China.
Indochina.
Our Rough Passage!
Anyone that knows us, has probably noticed, that we spend quite a lot of time on the piste. This time, we plan to stray much further off it!
It is always good to check out a new passage.
Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam – maybe even China (if they let us in).
Well, with no slog, there is no blog.
With that in mind, as well as including the obvious places on the touristic ‘bucket and spade’ list, I have also sneaked in a few more, shall we say, simplistic spots.
With what I have planned, elements of the journey could be renamed ‘The Ho Chi Mean Trail’. Or ‘Angkor What !!!’
These should provide a few colourful moments. I have never thought it a good idea to rest on one’s rucksack.
When taking a trip, I would always favour a Captain Hook over a Thomas Cook. After all, for a performer, there is very little difference between treading the boards and walking the plank. Both precarious occupations where one is surrounded by sharks and pirates .
So easy to go overboard.
And barrels of make-up!
Pieces Of ‘No.7’ !
Andrew and I are firm believers in dipping our toes into uncharted waters.
Even if one gets the odd bite, it’s usually well worth it.
This part of the world. The land colonial France forgot, is unfamiliar to us.So we are intending to get off the beaten boulevard and hit the rue less travelled.
Nothing tepid, for we’re not trepid.
In truth, we just love getting into hot water.
It’s how we got where we are today!
Wish us ‘Bonne Chance’!
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A private function can be so uncomfortable when one’s privates are functioning!
And, tightly strapped into a pair of PVC hot pants, trapped inside a very small room, with 29 very close audience members, glancing, intermittently at one’s member, it is certainly not the easiest set of circumstances under which to perform !
Nerves can go to one’s nerve !
Less said the better.
Now, post our private shows, I sit, hot pants shed, and recuperate, as I wait for Andrew to return from his trip down the road, to visit ‘Anna Mae Wrong’, our local Chinese masseur !
Anna runs the Mandarin restaurant at the bottom of the hill. It now doubles as a small, dark convenience store. The more colourful sign reads,
‘Supermacado. Souvenir. Lady.’
Wrong on three counts!
The poor woman’s husband spent a fortune on the fluorescent signage before flitting off on the proverbial slow boat to China.
I think it got him as far as Marbella.
Then the dineros dried up and he was forced back to ‘terrachino’ and reality. The latter being an empty restaurant, an underlit spouse, and an overweight child called ‘Wing’, who, one suspects, may never take flight!
Harsh, I know. But in my defence, one slow afternoon, I happened to be browsing the dreary shelves of Wing’s parents’ oriental establishment, when the sour adolescent, loomed suddenly, (and largely) , from behind the Oyster Sauce display, and informed me, with far too much gusto,
‘Me, one hundred percent boy, yes, me, one hundred percent – me, sure. Yeah – sure !’
The angry kid then glared at me as if I had pilfered his prawn balls!
I realised at once, that his dreary, neon-obsessed, father must have indoctrinated the chubby youth. In this poor kid’s fat head, I was nothing more than some predatory poof looking for a bit of Chinese Chicken Wing!
I chose to ignore the slight, and also elected not to point out that, even were I suffering from that peculiar perversion, he would be the last Eastern morsel left in my basket.
More ‘Dim Son’ than ‘Dim Sum’ !
Bloody cheek!
So, in order to fill her child’s more than ample rice bowl, poor Anna is having to diversify.
Not only does she already provide everything, from prawn to Christmas crackers, she is now having to go even more hands on – and into massage.
She is now ‘Dr Anna’. And Andrew is undergoing his first course of treatment.
I had a cruel hunch that ‘asisar’ meant to roast, as Andrew made his initial appointment this afternoon.
I, disappointedly re-discovered on returning home, that that word was actually ‘asar’. Asisar does not exist.
He’s been a long while.
But marvellous to have time and space to ruminate whilst he roasts.
For all I know, whilst I reminisce of private parties she could be dismembering his private parts!
He does take his life in his hands.
Or rather, her hands!
Just because someone rolls a good duck pancake!
He’s still not back!
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Despite Andrew and I sensibly moving our show forward a day to miss an oncoming storm that had widely been predicted, the storm arrived late. Well, the one that was forecast. Another tempest, a mercurial moment that was not on the horizon, made itself felt instead, as temperatures rose sharply during our act and extremely high pressure dominated the scene!
Andrew, who had decided to sup as much ale as Oliver Reed on an Irish stag do, decided to ‘tap’ me on the head with the microphone stand, during one of our numbers. ‘Cry Me A River.’ He neglected to consider that the chunk of metal was rather heavy, and so the chunk went clunk!I thought I’d gone on with the show with complete dignity, considering my head could have been bleeding a river. Or a least a rivulet. I thought Ethel Merman would have been proud. Until my partner informed me later, backstage, in the style of an incandescent Jack Nicholson in ‘The Shining’, that I had actually acted like a soccer player.
“You’re like a fucking, poofy, fucking footballer’, were his exact words.
Before I could stop my hand from moving, it had slapped him in the kisser.
Goal!
I turned dramatically and made for the front table, full of revellers, still buzzing post show. As I reached the melee and began conversing, Andrew, as a demented ‘Bill Sykes’, came striding intently towards me.
He then chinned me!
I kept my composure. As any proper Nancy would.
One all!
Still channelling Oliver Reed, Andrew broodily skulked back to the bar.
Most impressive.
It was a proper backstage drama – only front stage!
The two swedish pensioners sitting close-by absolutely loved it, chortling away as if it were all part of the show.
In a way they were right.
There is always a bit of a twist somewhere during our performances. Admittedly, not always called Oliver!
Things cooled down a bit later, after Andrew/Olly, had, metaphorically, slapped a few more revellers hard in the face. Some, more than once.
And explained rather forcefully to the proprietor, what he might like to go and do with himself, were he lost for time!
The night went well.
The following day the inclement weather still didn’t show itself – it was most frustrating. I spent most of it doing a rain dance in the garden, attempting to magic up some precipitation, so as not to feel too wet, should our decision to re-arrange the show prove unnecessary.
It didn’t come.
The next day – the skies opened.
Too late!
We have still not found a reliable meteorological source here. It seems just as effective to lick one’s finger and hold it in the air to establish whether the weather will do as you’d like it to.
As a result of these nebulous clouds, my mother and my aunty carole, were recently stranded in a restaurant during the starter, as a river burst it’s banks.
At least it was a good establishment and they were able to partake of the owner’s hospitality until the waters abated.
They were well tanked up by the time they were ferried home.
Not the only disastrous gastronomic incident this week though, as the poor family had to suffer yet more food related stress when I was sick during a lunch in Marbella.
I vommed my carbs all over ‘Marbs’. Very Essex!
Actually, Andrew and I have both been struck down with a sick, buggery bug, sodding, thing!
After all the weather, we’re now under the weather.
He seems to have been suffering with a pneumonia/gastroenteritis kinda thing and I seem to have contracted Ebola. Which I know cannot be the case – unless it’s rife in Manilva? One can never be too sure. Whatever, it is it is most unpleasant.
A Dickensian type affair.
Ghastly.
Of course, Andrew is now better.
Always a little more resilient than I – thanks, no doubt, to his inner Olly Reed. He has bounced back onto his feet looking and feeling like a youthful Clarke Gable.
Whilst I look like a poor extra from an adaptation of ‘David Copperfield’. Wan and fetid.
Everyone has gone out to take the air – and the dog has gone too.
I am not surprised. I resemble a very grey member of the Les Miserable cast!
Whilst outside the sky is blue.
Andrew couldn’t wait.
‘Come on Bullseye, I mean, Lola. We’re off out.’
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Our gig in Liverpool was almost a home derby. We have entertained the restaurant several times before so there is something almost comforting about returning. Although we are both well aware that the crowd expect a proper performance on pitch. Anything less would be an own goal. I am glad to report that the score was a good one.
The Lola Boys – 2. Liverpool – 0.
We scored twice in a game of two acts.
The spectators, as always here, were brilliant. Witty, loud, and responsive, if a little predisposed to a little handball at times!
There were moments I felt more than one hand on my tackle – some veritable fouls from behind too!Still – we love the place.
The show always seems to level out at somewhere between a party and a pitch invasion! We look forward to the return game sometime next year. That is if we’re not on the bench!
After our Merseyside fun, we headed briefly to Brighton to catch up with our gorgeous family before motoring into the unknown for our next gig – back into another skirmish in Sussex.
Our tour was never planned to be so circuitous. The intention was to begin south and head north. But when we realised Andrew had double-booked us, and had arranged for us to perform by the Solent and cross the Mersey on the same evening, we had to re-arrange our itinerary, or rather, I had to rearrange our itinerary, to make sure we were in the relevant city on the correct day. Up and down the country quicker than a whore’s drawers! Suffice to say, we were a little jaded come our final performance.
And what a performance !!!
On arrival at the beautiful venue at which we were to perform, we both suffered mild shock, when the initially snooty manageress informed us we were to perform in two rooms – simultaneously.
Please don’t mistake me – there are moments I happily relish being in an entirely different space to Andrew, but not usually during our act. It is after all, a double act.
Clue is in the title!
We made our concerns known, in only a slightly ‘diva-ish’ fashion, but to no avail. The powers that be were adamant , we should split the show, via an old narrow corridor, between the lounge and the library. My heart sank – this was going to be a disaster. A criminal attempt at cabaret. Moving rooms like a theatrical game of Cluedo, I was convinced it was going to be murder. Andrew battered to death with the mic stand in the main room and me, stabbed with the stiletto amid the bookcases.
A bright red one!
As the show began, every now and then, I dashed like a demented Miss Scarlett, through the corridor into the anteroom. Shaked and shimmied for a couple of seconds, to let them see what they were missing next door, and then tottered back through the back passage to rejoin Andrew in the main auditorium. A term I use loosely, as I think it’s possible we had more leg-room on the ‘Sleazyjet’ flight over !Intermittently, Andrew would desert me to join the small crowd on desserts through the corridor, and he would then become intermittent himself, as his voice cracked and broke, the signal from the radio mic disintegrating .
There was moment I thought the show might do the same. But then something happened.
That ineffable, indefinable spell that is ‘showbiz’ cast itself across our path once again and the magic occurred. The audience came together, both physically and psychically, and the joint was jumping.
We did have one blip however. The moment where Andrew failed to recognise that one table consisted of some lovely, enthusiastic lads with special needs. Andrew, always one to supply a special need, decided he would pick on one of the guys in a saucy slapstick manner. The gentleman in question decided he’d had enough of Andrew’s stick and proceeded to give him a slap – with the heavy oak chair on which he was sitting !
The audience and I looked on with slightly amused horror as the confused youth blithely lifted the heavy furniture above his head and made to give Mr Kennedy learning difficulties all of his own. He was stopped from doing so, just in time, by his carer. Otherwise it could have been Andrew’s most wooden performance to date.As it turned out the night went terribly well.
The guys that ran the place were charming and the audience charmed – we were pleased – if not a little relieved, and bloody knackered!
And now we have returned to Spain with my mother and our ebullient Aunty Carole – to relative quiet. After all it is never completely quiet when one has a relative to stay.
We were hoping to be entertaining the good folk at our favourite chiringuito on Saturday for a Halloween special, but it looks as though there’s a storm a’ coming ! So we have had to move everything a day forward.
Oh well. No rest for the wicked.
And it’s gonna be a wicked night!
Hopefully, with no more musical chairs !!!
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Back in ‘Blighty’ for the first time since spring and Andrew and I seem to have brought the spanish sunshine with us. As torrential storms batter the Costa Del Sol, we have been more fortunate – basking in the warm glow of a beautiful british autumn.
We are returning to our home shores for a mini UK Lola Boy tour – Seddlescombe, Hastings, London, Liverpool, Emsworth and Brighton.Beyoncé eat your heart out !
We began our trip in Battle. That famous spot where good King Harold famously came unstuck, or rather unseated.
We had a booking for a private show to celebrate a wonderful lady’s 70th birthday at a quaint village hotel close to the town.
Of course, as is always the case when Andrew and I are preparing for a performance, we had a little skirmish all of our own. A sort of, ‘Lola Boys’ Battle Of Hastings !
One of us had forgotten to pack something or other, as is usually the case, once we’ve opened the case! Andrew blamed me, and of course, I was certain it was his fault.
Fortunately, there was no bow and arrow nearby, or one of us would have no doubt suffered the same fate as that of poor King Harry.
It could have been one in the eye for Andy !
I was still angry with him for flirting outrageously with a handsome frenchman on the flight over – one Norman invasion he was far too keen on in my opinion.
The show went without a hitch or an injury however, and we then moved on to visit our old friends who reside nearby.
Peacetime resumed and we spent a wonderful time reminiscing and recounting bygone drama school dramas. All terribly theatrical – and theatrically terrible later on, after we all consumed a little too much of the wine of friendship!
It is always so good to catch up with old amigos that know you far too well – Juliet is truly a touchstone. And in this case, a touch stoned. Marvellous.
Then to our old stomping ground – London Town, and a brief stopover with lovely Cousin Lucy in S.E.6.
Pie and mash with lashings of liquor – followed by more lashings of liquor, only this time in pint glasses.
When we first arrived in Catford a few years back, this part of London had literally gone to the dogs.
Now the dog track has been put down and replaced with trendy ‘affordable’ housing – a two bedroom apartment, a mere snip, at four hundred grand !
Kennels for the posher pooch !
Wednesday evening saw us taking a taxi to Pinewood Studios to see the filming of a great british sitcom, starring our great friend Lesley.
Unfortunately the green room was awash with free beer prior to the programme, and being unable to resist, Andrew found himself cross-legged for much of the recording, just managing to nip out during a quick hiatus in filming for a ‘Jimmy Riddle.’
The biggest riddle to me is why he always manages to imbibe so much liquid prior to situations where he knows there will be an inconvenience when ready to expel it!
Aircraft are a common problem for him .
Although he may suffer from water retention post-flight, there is certainly no retaining it whilst belted in up onboard!
After the show we attended a small gathering in celebration of the last episode of the series, and twenty six years of the show’s first airing.
More hops drinking ensued and Andrew was forced, (the facilities now closed), to relieve himself round the back of the famous set where the latest James Bond flick, ‘Spectre’, has just been filmed, making a right ‘spectre-cal’ of himself !Lesley and I pretended not to notice and made for the car quickly, fearful of being chastised by ‘M’.
And now we head for Liverpool.
On route, I find myself most amused on the train when using the lavatory. The recorded announcement reminds me that along with nappies, paper towels and sanitary pads, one should refrain from chucking one’s car keys, old jumpers and lost hopes and dreams down the pan too.
It seems as though someone on Virgin Rail has a sense of humour. But then I should have realised that when I saw how much they’d charged us for a bloody ticket !
The same price on a budget airline could have got us to New York’s east side – as opposed to the north west’s Merseyside !
But hey, I shan’t complain, as it is always a pleasure to ride on a smooth Virgin engine, and even more of one to spend time in ‘The Pool’.
A crafty puff !
We find the ‘Scousers’ unremittingly welcoming, so we always look forward to our shows here.
During this little trip we shall also be celebrating a big anniversary – that of our spanish nuptials.
We cannot believe that it is three years since we held the occasion down at our favourite haunt on the beach with our friends and the family that could make it.
T’was a blast.
We shall be celebrating in Brighton next week with a rare trip to the pictures to see Daniel Craig strutting his stuff as the gorgeous James Bond goes into action once again.
Like Mr Bond we have been both shaken and stirred over the years, but we remain true birds of a feather. Still sharing the same nest, albeit rather small and prickly at times !
Hopefully we’ll be flocking together for some time to come.
I shall let you know – the rest of the tour ain’t over yet.
Time to get to work. Feather the nest.
And, as they say, it’s not over til the Lolaboy sings – or something like that !
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And so we turn to the business side of the showbusiness that is ‘The Lola Boys’….
As Andrew continues to talk of seating plans, menus and ‘welcome drinks’, I force myself to try not to, forcefully remind him, once again, that he is an entertainer – Not Gordon fucking Ramsay !!!
But my wonderful partner in rhyme, has a terrible habit of turning into Alex Polizzi – the most famous hotel inspector in the world – whenever he’s negotiating a gig.
Estranged siblings, Alex & Andy Polizzi.
I’m convinced they were seperated at birth.
I am of the opinion that when we have a professional engagement at an eating establishment, it is not the job of the chef to sing. Nor is it ours, to instruct him on his culinary art.
Each artist should be aware of his creative responsibilty, be it, sizzling on stage or doing the same in the kitchen, only over a griddle!
And welcome drinks?
Why anyone should envisage a glass of warm, ordinary, cava shoved into their palm at entry as welcoming – is beyond me. But then I am a champagne blonde!Still, my husband literally bubbles over when engaging himself in organising engagements, so who am I to flatten his effervescence?
Each to their own.
I, however, am presently fizzing in a different manner.
Incandescent over recent events at our recent event.
‘The Lola Boys’ hit Gibraltar Rock on Wednesday and were fairly lucky it didn’t hit us back.
There was a rather stone age feel at the end of our gig in Ocean Village. Not inside the lovely venue I must add, where our wonderful audience had shared a marvellous night with us, but outside. Dockside !
As I stepped out, post-show, to take some air, after a particularly rousing ’New York , New York’, I was first met, by prehistoric man. Or rather – prehistoric men.
Two guys intent on forcing their ‘mate’ to have his picture taken with ‘the poof in the make-up’
I presumed they meant me.
I was manhandled into a very compromising position, an event I wouldn’t usually make complaints about, but on this occasion, it was most uncharming.
‘Fred and Barney’ roughly pushed me into shot with the reticent drunkard, who kept pushing me away in a most primeval manner. Had he not mislaid his trusty club, doubtless in some musty pub, I’m sure he would have used it.
‘Wilma’ and ‘Betty’ looked on stony-faced , as their primitive partners displayed their antediluvian exuberance for all to see.
It was rather like being at the zoo.
Only as an exhibit!
And the obvious disgust the poor boy displayed at being forced to have his photo taken with a ‘bender’ was so terribly childish.
And spitting? Really!
This yound man was obviously not in touch with his feminine side, and certainly, even less so, with the masculine part of himself.
The only thing sure about him was his deodarant! And he wasn’t wearing enough of that!
I have a sneaking suspicion that in a couple of years’ time, this meat-head might be doing just that. Giving meat – head !
Methinks the youth did complaineth too much, if you catch my drift. There was definitely something a little queer about his ultra aggressive behaviour.
After I assured him, and his over-handy companions, that I would get more pleasure in chewing my own nipple off than even contemplating any romantic entanglement with said company, they got the picture! Literally!
Although that wasn’t quite how I put it at the time!
Oh well. You always get one cock on ‘The Rock’!
Or in this case, a primordial prick!
Luckily the rest of the place is usually most friendly and very welcoming, much more so than the aforementioned drink I started this piece with – so we are rarely made to feel unwelcome when
performing by the drink he
re.And even if we were, in the eloquent lyrics of another song in ‘The Lola Boys’ repertoire,
I am what I am!
Or rather.
We are what we are !
And if you don’t like it – go crawl back under the rock you came from.
Or better still – bugger off back to ‘Bedrock’!
In the immortal words of William Hanna and Joseph Barbera,
‘You’ll have a gay, old, time!’
You know you’ll just love it !
Yabadabadoo!!!
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Source: A Real Shindig!
THE LOLA BOYS ABROAD ! 