THE LOLA BOYS ABROAD !

It’s always handy to know a top, German surgeon, and an equally beautiful German, top surgeon, surgeon’s wife – especially when you’re throwing a Thai dinner party and you need something rather unsavoury cut away from the lower part of your leg!

It gives one a chance to  show off one’s more exotic knife skills  – whilst they perform theirs – without anaesthetic !

After the starter, the cutlery was almost cleared, and I was sitting in the kitchen like an extra from M.A.S.H.

Minus the Hollywood lighting.

At one moment , under our harsh kitchen ambience, I nearly went under, until I heard the Tuetonic comforting words of,

’In the hospital, normally –  this takes one minute.  Here, in this kitchen, with these tools – a lifetime!’

As the massamum curry was bubbling away on the stove, I had a strange recollection of being on the ‘Victory’ mid-battle – below decks !!!

Kiss me Andrew!

It was a most unusual experience.

One not to be repeated soon, not without something to dull the senses!
Heroin perhaps!

But I must thank my beautifully sharp and very kind medical pals for helping me out   –     between helpings!

The pork loin with chilli and holy basil, (home-grown), went down as well as it could have, given the post- op scenario.

The massamam was in the dark so no-one could discern it’s contents.

But the green curry was hardly touched. Thanks mainly, I’m sure, to the Florence Nightingale drama that had unfolded in the kitchen a few minutes earlier.

‘It’s much deeper than they thought’, whispered our friend Stella, audibly, as I sat in the chair mid-scalpel!

After acquiring a pair of tweezers from our harmful neighbours across the road,  (‘Make sure you sterilise them Andrew!’ said Terri sternly. The mind boggles!),  We were able to continue with the operation!

Apparently, I was very brave.

Which I put down to the four vodkas and the four courses I had on the go at the time!

No-one wants to pass out when there’s the port still to pass out!

Still, I felt a discolouration in the visage area, which I attempted to colour, so as not to alarm
my guests. But I must say,  I was most pleased when I had been exorcised – or excised, I can never remember.

The rest of the evening went without any patients needed.

In any way.

We spoke, we dissected, we ate. The operation went well.

But as my shin began to throb beneath the table, after the  badness that had been cut away began to make it’s absence felt – I made it a promise to myself …..

Even when in social mood – no more ‘shindigs’ like this!

This week we returned to our old stomping ground of Sabinillas, the ‘wild west’ of the Costa Del Sol. A place we describe, with tongue firmly in cheek, as ‘Scabinillas.’ and we are reminded once again why we made the joke in the first place.

This was the little town where we once had our ‘Lola’s Showbar’. An experimental concept that failed in almost everyway, due to many factors beyond our control, including a European financial crisis, a volcanic ashcloud and not to mention a rent more akin to a property in Belgravia rather than an underground dive in the back end of a small Spanish town.

It was in this charming vicinity that we were once chased from our bar one night by two drug crazed gypsies, with eyes glinting as manically as the blade they later produced. Earlier that evening they had attempted to ram the locked glass entrance door with a ‘Mercadona’ shopping trolley filled with lumps of concrete. Like two crack-crazed toothless vikings! This was after Andrew had inadvertently wound them into a frenzy by indicating we were closed by drawing his hand across his throat. The highly educated young chaps took this as a threat and decided they would slit our gizzards instead. They waited until we left the building much later and pounced. Beer bottles whizzing past our heads in a scene reminiscent of the classic movie ‘Deliverance’.

I can still hear the banjo playing when I think of Andrew, Lola and I running for our lives into the local kebab shop, where the lovely owners, equally appalled by the unattractiveness and looniness of our pursuers, locked us all inside until the nutters had dissappeared.

The whole incident was quite unsavoury, I have never touched a kebab since!

It was also the town, where the charming owner of the bar we were renting refused to return our ten and a half thousand euro deposit, citing the dissappearance of a few plastic chairs as the cause. Dickhead!

I can also re-call some sparkling homophobic repartee in some of the bars we rarely frequented that was too obvious to go unnoticed. Of course, subtlety is never the premise of any wit used by idiots.

So when a fight broke out recently during one of our local performances, I can’t say I was completely surprised.

I must say, it is the first time that a head waitress has taken the proprietress by the tresses during our cabaret. It was like being back at The Old Vic in ‘Hair’ The Musical! Most eventful. However, I was rather pleased the said waitress went screaming off into the night, after all, there is only room for one show when ‘The Lola Boys’ are in town – and even
though I’ve heard our act described as criminal by some, (mostly criminals!), ’Prisoner Cell Block H’ is not the best backdrop for a few showtunes!

It was like an episode of ‘Bad Girls’ with Carpaccio!

Some of the diners unsurprisingly found the incident a little difficult to swallow, and made a swift escape over the wall. Our palate, having been educated by spending quite some time in the area, was not affected. But I can see, the little town can sometimes be an acquired taste!

Today, however, I am reminded of all the good times we have had, and continue to have, in our Andaluz version of ‘Dodge City.’

The ‘shows’ we produced, on more acquired palettes – this time from a disused building site!

The good friends we made in the process and the wonderful acceptance of the local Andalucian community who seemed to enjoy a couple of theatricals camping out in their midst. Literally!

At times it was all very ‘Priscilla, Queen Of The Paseo!’

This town is also where our beautiful little Pomeranian, another crazy bitch, started life.

I can still remember the patter of tiny paws as we walked her along the seafront, stopping only to growl at a child or terrify a pensioner. Ahh – Guapa!

And this week is her birthday. She has reached the grand old age of seven, and is just as irrascible and defensive as she has always been.

Very few people are allowed to venture through our front door and even fewer are able to leave the property without being seen off by our own ‘Hound Of The Baskervilles.’ She’s just adorable.

Mad dogs and Englishwomen eh?

Only in good old ‘Scabby’.

We’ve both grown quite fond of the old place – it even has it’s own soundtrack.

‘Da Da Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum !’

‘The unexamined life is not worth living’.

Socrates I believe – or was it Oprah?

So hard to recall, amid these times of endless self-examination, to remember just who said what.

No, I do believe it was the famous Greek philosopher who made this observation. True to some degree, but were he around now, he may elect to re-examine his theory, as it seems that almost every event in a person’s life is worthy of such artful scrutiny – in picture form, at least.  A ‘selfie’ for every occasion.
Be it eventful or not!

Breakfast; lunch; dinner: Literally!

The ‘selfie stick’ is the latest invention.

Or as I would have it renamed – the ‘narcissistick’!

You know, those long poles to which one is encouraged to attach something expensive and electronic, then dangle it awkwardly in front of their face and act natural.

Ego wands is another title which would suffice.

Of course, the idea behind these latest ‘must haves’  is to make it possible for the owner to film themselves.  So when a tourist visits say, The Tower Of London, he or she may capture their take on this great piece of British history.

Watch the birdie. I mean, the Beefeater!

And with the extra distance the pole provides it won’t be ‘off with their heads’ when they come to view the footage at the hotel later.

Now, when some lucky traveller gets to see The Eiffel Tower for the first time, we get to see their reaction to the monument and not the mighty erection itself – somewhat akin to soft porn!

Even the word ‘selfie’ meant something quite different when I was a teenager, and it was certainly something you didn’t want to be filmed doing!

Well, not without payment!

It seems as though these ‘selfie sticks’ are just an extension, (forgive the pun), of the way things are going. Now we can all star in our own movies, even if the script, cinematography and casting are crap.

We can shoot ourselves at places where people have been shot, literally, and say, look, I was there.

Bomb – flash, bang, wallop – what a picture!

There is something very unphotogenic about this latest craze. The cheese at a funeral used to come afterwards not during. We are all turning into the despised paparazzi. We loathed these feckless photographic freelancers when they helped to kill Diana, but would doubtless act the same way were a celebrity to stroll into our local for a quiet pint.

Of course nowadays, it would just have to be a ‘selfie’ – us and the celebrity, just to show we were there too.

Are we missing something here?  Who are we trying to impress?  Who do we want to notice us posing with the B-lister at the bar or stuffing strawberries at the Wimbledon final?

Ultimately, these selfies are not for the self, but for other selves. To prove to the outside world that we do have a life. To show them our interesting existence and let it be examined.

I am almost positive this is not what the old Athenian had in mind when he proposed his theory, but hey, unlike the Greek economy, things develop.

Just like photos once did.

And as I come to the end of this pretentious, philosophical short, I am reminded that when Andrew and I go travelling, which we soon shall, we could never be described as camera shy. In fact, with this optical obsession in mind, Andrew has even suggested purchasing one of these evil extensions so we can capture our upcoming adventures in Indochina.

After all, it is very difficult to get both him and I in shot without looking as though we are both gazing into the back of a spoon.

It is also practically impossible to get someone else to take a snapshot when there is no someone else for miles around to do the snapping, other than the odd croc!

And after a rough night, in a rough town, in a rough bed, with a rough git,  any extra distance is useful.

Therefore, I think we may be packing one of these ridiculous rods into our rucksacks after all.

Of course, the last thing we shall be doing whilst using the silly contraption, is examining our life.  For, were we  to,  we would no doubt discover how ludicrous our behaviour was, and cease doing it. Immediately!

No.  Instead.  Stick in hand. Free with our lance.  We shall be living the unexamined life.  Just so that all of our friends and family are able to live  it too.

Socrates would not be happy.

And after this little diatribe, I am convinced, when the cameras start rolling in January, we shall be getting a lot of stick!

But the great philospher also threw in –

‘Beauty is a short lived tyranny’.

Therefore – with just a touch of ’hypokrisis’ –

I’m ready for my close up Mr Kennedy!

Only this time it won’t be quite so close!

And one piece of ancient Greek wisdom we shall try not to ignore.

Never use a ‘selfie stick’ with a camel nearby.

Say cheese!

Just couldn’t resist!