THE LOLA BOYS ABROAD !

One of my master’s more intelligent friends advised him he should try writing in the third person singular when next he decided to compose his blog. Of course, being blonde, well, almost, he didn’t quite understand what was being suggested to him.  I say ‘almost’, only because I am party to all of my owner’s folicular secrets, and have been made to accompany him to his local Poodle-Parlour, on more than one occasion, often being enforced to wait, impatiently lap-bound, whilst witnessing his tousled coat being painted various shades of caramel!

So, that said, him being nearly blonde, it falls to me, the four-legged member of the family, to attempt to make head or tail of the aforementioned erudite advise and set down this particular tale in the said manner.

Whilst he, my master, the ‘blonde’ with the natural curls, and he, my other master, the dark, fun one, with the natural looks, are out shopping for my next meal – I am attempting to put paw to paper in order to demonstrate this technique.

Being Pomeranian, you must forgive me if not all of my written English is up to the scratching post – I am, after all, also Gibraltarian by birth, so my language skills are, shall we say, a touch mongrel!

My masters should be absent for some hours. I am fairly confident of this after having, on more than one occasion, accompanied them on their frequent trips to various purveyors of comestibles. I am often astounded by the considerable amount of time it takes them to fill their trolley with consumables, even though I am well aware of their inordinate ability to consume.

If only they would let me take the lead — we could be in and out of ‘Mercadona’ quicker than one could say ‘dog-sticks’ !

Any dual outing of this kind, usually requires a time consuming argument of some form too. My more easy going master, the dark one, will often load the basket with items which quite obviously give great displeasure to the other. My more discerning master, the ‘bottle-blonde’, will then chastise the former and make remarks akin to

“No wonder those trousers split !”

or

“Oh, you are SO Essex !”

An insult, for which, I am still trying to decipher a meaning. For despite having, surreptitiously, taken in the odd episode of ’T.O.W.I.E’ whilst relaxing of an evening perched languorously on my leopard-print, high heel-shaped chair – I still have no idea to what this mysteriously colourful, yet slightly irritating term “Essex” relates.

I am only sure that it is a condition from which few seem to recover!

Still, I must add that if my master Andrew is an ‘Essex Boy’ as I hear my master Paul so often accuse him of being – I imagine it must also be a colloquial term for some kind of esoteric amusement. After all, daddy Andrew is the more expert when it comes to all kinds of doggy-style fun, he really is in possession of a veritable canine compendium. Whereas daddy Paul wins paws down when it comes to putting food in my bowl, daddy Andrew certainly takes the lead when it comes to a game of ‘Terrier Twister’.

Indeed, there have been moments when I have entered the room unexpectedly and been surprised to see that he has even persuaded daddy Paul to have a go at the same game — although their rules seem to differ slightly to the ones daddy Andrew and I play.

There are times when my masters have to travel abroad, I long to go with them but realise this is not always possible. At such moments I am sent to stay with my twin brother Buffy, and my wonderful great-aunt Stella!

Buffy can be a little insufferable at times, especially when he continuously tries to mount me in order to play, what Aunt Stella calls, ‘The Wheelbarrow Game,’ but all in all, it is a pleasure to spend time with my sibling.

We often spend hours debating what it would be like to visit the old country — although I have a sneaking feeling this might prove somewhat disappointing, as I once overheard daddy Paul explaining to daddy Andrew that Pomerania no longer exists. I have not let my brother in on this particular piece of information quite yet, as, despite what he thinks, Master Paul is not always right, and our country of origin having now disappeared could all be just a shaggy-dog story. After all,  there is more crap spouted about European borders than Buffy and I can excrete on even the longest of walks in the campo !

The other pleasure of staying at Great Aunt Stella’s is the ever changing menu. I am quite sure that  ‘Chez Stella’ must have at least three or more ‘Mutt-chelin’ stars. The fare is beyond compare and changes daily. At most sittings I am given a choice, and sometimes a desert.

My beds are more than luxurious and I have an extensive selection of matching leads and harnesses that would make even an ‘Essex Girl’ foam at the mouth with envy.

Victoria Beckham would be rabid!

When vacationing at Great Aunt Stella’s, I feel much like my ancestors must have felt when another, more exalted Victoria, this one, Queen Of England, treated her Poms in the same royal manner. One, to which, I must add, my brother and I, have become naturally accustomed.

But, ahh, I hear the key turn in the lock, so must draw back from my regal reverie and return to being the noisy, excitable bundle of fluff I pretend to be when my masters return home.

They both seem quite pleased with the character I portray — loving, obedient and cute. If I do say so myself I am really rather good at it, even if I can sometimes let the dog out of the bag when an unexpected visitor rings on the doorbell. There have been several moments when an acquaintance of my masters has incurred my inner cur and almost felt the wrath of my royal bite – I have, however difficult this has been, always resisted, and never drawn blood. Well, almost never!

He knows who he is, and will surely never dare return!

In truth, I really don’t like to share my masters when we are at home.

I am happy when it is just the three of us.

Telly aglow. Daddy Paul pretending he’s involved in some pretentious programme on BBC4. Daddy Andrew, sprawled on the sofa playing a juvenile game on his I-pad.

And me, positioned high on my faux leopard-clad throne, surveying all that is mine…

Queen Lola!

Bliss.

The third canine plural.

We are most amused – Woof !

Well, after our shows at the week-end, Andrew and I were looking forward to resting a little and getting some of those long overdue jobs completed – you know, the little things you neglect until they can’t possibly go unnoticed any longer.  Like nasal hair removal, shaving one’s intimate places and, of course, clearing out the kitchen cupboards.

Sadly none of these petty chores have been possible so far.

Instead,  Andrew is busy painting in his studio – like a manic Matisse, preparing for an art show at which he is exhibiting on Wednesday and I have been forced to take to my sick bed after developing a severe case of ’man flu’ !

( I looked up the definition)

‘Man Flu
noun
A cold or similar major ailment as experienced by an extremely, gifted,
artistic man who is just a little sensitive to criticism’.
(Well, that’s what it said in my dictionary!)

An ailment, which I am sure was passed on to me by a rather noxious, upmarket know-all at our show on Saturday evening.

The said posh pollutant beckoned me to her table, and after presenting me with an unnecessarily, wet, over-familiar, kiss, launched into an unflattering critique of a previous performance of ours she had once witnessed.

It’s always the bitch with the ‘crit’ that is so full of shit!

And now the contaminated cow has passed it on to me – I can only hope she goes down with it even harder – although, judging by her imperious manner, I doubt whether ‘going down’ is in her repertoire.

I could kill her – just look at the state I’m in!

Laying here, surrounded by ungents and potions that seem to be having no effect whatsoever, other than on my wallet!

‘Night nurse’ – more like a night curse!

I thought this health kick we are both on would get us fit – instead I feel like I’m about to have one!

The comprehensive, and may I add, rather expensive, shopping trip I embarked on last week at, shall we say,  a very well known health food store,  in Gibraltar, has done me no favours whatsoever.

I purchased every super-food, super- grain, super-seed and super-nut going – our kitchen currently resembles a super-spoilt budgie’s cage!

Now, laying here, feeling as though death is skulking just around the corner, scythe at the ready with all this grain lurking about, I’m beginning to think this health lark may all be a load of old Goji berries!

I’m sure I’d feel better with ’Stollen & Claret’ rather than ‘Holland & Barrett’ !

Along with my shamless self-pity, I have the added annoyance of old ‘Andy Van Gogh’ in his studio next door.

Huffing, puffing, scraping, brushing (not to mention knocking the easel flying on more than one clattering occasion!). At times, it is hard to imagine what he is doing ensconsed, so audibly, in his little den of oil and acrylic?

But I do know if he wakes me one more time, it won’t be his ear that gets excised!

I do realise that I posess the patience of Fern Britten at a free buffet at the moment and I really should try and calm down – after all, my beautiful partner is making wonderful works of art, whilst all I’m acheiving is the odd mournful fart!  Another state of affairs, no doubt caused by all this virtous living and an overdose of Brassica!

This morning, following a tried and tested recipe from a Wyoming woman, posted on the world wide web, I whizzed up  an unappealing, slime- green sludge using our new – ‘Nutribullet .

One that was intended to shorten and alleviate the effects of influenza.

Three hours later, after imbibing the truly vile bile, I feel more like ‘Stevenson’s Rocket’, with any energy that this concoction has given me puffing rather powerfully and pungently from my rear carraige!

I’ve always disliked Wyoming – not that I’ve ever visited!

I have a feeling my old pal’s recipe for ‘Chicken Soup’ that I knocked up yesterday is doing me more good than any of the bird and rabbit food I’ve been ingesting.

‘Jewish Penicillin’ as it is known – it’s definitely doing the trick – and tastes better too.

Or so Andrew tells me, as at present, I have no taste – although, I am aware I have my detractors, some of whom would maintain that this is not just a temporary malady!  Much like that charming lady critic in the audience on Saturday evening!

Still, one positive act to engage in, whilst on one’s back and not capable of engaging in the other, is reading.

I have now had the time to peruse the whole of the ‘Nutibullet’ instruction manual from start to finish – twice!

I finally feel I have, at last,  grasped the benefits of this machine to a greater degree.

One very useful piece of information I have gleaned is never to put apple seeds into the device – as when blended at such a fierce rate they produce that infamous little potion – known as Cyanide!

Now that fruitful piece of knowledge has done wonders for my brain chemistry.

Next time I spot the aforementioned poisonous woman  at one of our shows – the Costa Del Sol’s answer to Dorothy Parker – I may just have to make a poetic  ‘bee-line’ towards her – a la Ms Parker…..

And if she starts, to completely criticise,
Her glass I’ll fill, discreetly with ‘appletise’.

Home-made, of course!

Now that’s one nutribullet that is certain to be awfully effective!

Cheerio – or should I say, pip-pip!

Our ‘Lola Boys’ gig on Friday just gone was only our second since we had decided to entertain the good folk of Borneo in an old defunct gold mining settlement. On that evening it was all rather ‘Dodge City’ – and the act – just plain dodgy! Still, we secured a few free drinks and I was presented with a branch of cherry blossom by the handsome owner of the establishment, Dylan.

I was terribly flattered and felt almost like Maria Callas until Andrew happily informed me my bouquet was made of plastic – he won the callous competition that evening!

We did have a wonderful night though and it was strangely exciting to perform in front of such an obviously foreign audience – especially one who were not expecting to see the likes of us. They really coped quite well…

As did the fantastic crowd down on the beach on Friday evening in Southern Spain. The sun shone and the beer flowed even if all of our lyrics did not! It was wonderful to see some old friendly faces, by that I do not mean superannuated – only familiar.

Since then, being thoroughly unused to the eight shows a week we were required to perform when in ‘The West End’ and therefore exhausted – we have started what is known as a health-kick. It feels more like a kick to the testicles at the moment but I am quite sure if we stick with it we shall both be looking better than The Beckhams soon – well, at a distance!

My energy has certainly improved without the obligatory mid-morning ‘Bloody Mary’ – now it’s just a virgin – the first I have had any dealings with for quite some time. Andrew and I  are  both awake and alert before 8AM – obviously this isn’t a first but we were usually coming at it from the other direction before. We have invested in what is commonly known as a ‘Nutribullet’ – to my mind, a bloody expensive blender, although I must say it seems to be working. I am waking with the constitution of ‘Snow White’ – obviously without the dwarves (well, most mornings!). The look of surprise on our least favourite German neighbour’s face when he caught me recycling at 7.30am yesterday was one you would usually see in A & E. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a coronary though, as I’m quite sure he would be the main reason for me adding a large slug of Smirnoff to my new healthy morning smoothie. Especially when he begins whistling Wagner in his over-manicured garden at 6am – completely out of key I might add!

The first time I heard him I thought our cat was being sexually molested!

An absolutely vile man – who lives with an equally unpleasant partner – both gay – but only in the homosexual term – they certainly aren’t happy!

I can’t think what we’ve done to annoy them – other than to exist!

Oh, and there was one ‘Taylor and Burton’ moment Andrew and I had once that might have added to their extreme disdain towards us both.

After returning from an extremely lively gig one night. I happened to slightly mis-judge a ‘reversing round a corner’ manoeuvre – an easy mistake, especially as the wall was moving slightly! And bang! The masonry had the better of me. Of course, being slightly dramatic, this sparked a rather loud debate between the two of us, culminating with me throwing the mic stands at Andrew in the middle of the road. Something I’m not proud to admit, especially as they were quite pricey!

But hey, these things happen now and then, and it was certainly more entertaining than the ‘The Ring Cycle’ that Herr Hideous  expectorates each morning – and an awful lot shorter!

This discontented couple even called la policia  to our door one evening when we happened to have a few friends over and were merrily playing the piano. Luckily, this back-fired, as the copper was an old friend of mine from our ’Lola’s Show-bar’ days, for reasons I had better not digress. After all,  we  are  both members of ‘L.A.’  – ‘Lola’s Anonymous’ – and what happened in my dressing room that night can never be revealed! So, of course, the said lawman wasn’t the slightest bit angry, not only did he have fond memories of our brief  ‘cabaret’ but he was also a Gershwin fan and would no doubt have stayed for a drink had he not had other duties to which he needed to attend!

It is just our luck to live next door to the unfriendliest couple of miserable gits on the street.   They have shown absolutely know interest in attempting to be neighbourly.  This doesn’t, however,  prevent them from peeking through their ‘Bottlebrush’ to catch a glimpse of us  sunning ourselves when ‘smuggling our budgies’ attempting to acquire a suntan! They  are  obviously keen ‘birdwatchers’ – which is ironic. Still  – as they say –  ‘there’s nowt so queer as folk’ –  and these two are  even queerer than us! So, with this newfound boundless ante meridian energy and bluebirds buzzing around my head, I decided to take a drive to Marbella.  Actually, I had a doctors’ appointment for, shall we say, a boy’s problem, so it was a trip I needed to take – for once! And any excuse to escape the Teutonic tunelessness of next door is always an excuse for a morning escapade. I took to the road, relaxed and happy, Barbra singing ‘The Way We Were’on the CD player – life was good – for two minutes …. – until I reached the first roundabout! It has always puzzled me, having now spent much time in Andalucia, that the art of negotiating this quite simple piece of road planning should always be so troublesome. Rather than the easy, considerate solution to a junction, every time I use one of these circular contraptions it reminds me of being on a white knuckle ride at Eurodisney – in fact, much worse! Instead of decelerating in the normal manner, most drivers here seem to speed up on approach to the said ‘rotonda’, then choose the most inappropriate lane for the route they wish to take and if they  are  able, cut you up closer than a Gillette razor whilst exiting!

By the time we had managed to get back onto the main road both Ms Streisand and I were breathless – which is quite unusual for her! Heart still pounding, I was then forced to break harder than Lewis Hamilton going into a hairpin bend when a hard-faced ginger woman decided to join the motorway ten feet in front of me. There was nowhere for me to go, as two speeding juggernauts were in the other lane obviously participating in the  Spanish version of ’The Cannonball Run’ and completely blocking my escape route.     

Had our dodgy Opal Zafira had airbags airbags I am quite sure they would have deployed, a la Dolly Parton, and I would have had a face-full –

not for the first time, admittedly, but really, is this how the ‘Highway Code’ works here in Spain – or does such a publication even exist?

Having asked myself this question, I have now done a little research and have been assured there is a Highway Code here – even if most drivers prefer to follow the rules of the highwayman! I came across this diagram posted on the internet by our very reputable insurance company, Ibex, here in Spain – advice that apparently comes direct from the government in Madrid.

There you go – that should be clearer now – in a roundabout way!

On the way back from the ‘quack’ having been furnished with good news, my blood pressure and pulse rate were just about returning to normal and Ms Streisand was back on form – but only for a short interlude. Just after passing  Estepona, a group of fifteen or more cyclists decided to join the dual carriageway, some of them three abreast – laughing and chatting as if they were pedalling nonchalantly down a remote country lane. This idiotic pack forced me to swerve into the faster lane to avoid them – thankfully empty, this time. An evil part of me had a strong desire to just clip the wheels of the ugly fat one at the back of the group and de-saddle him, but I knew this would be immoral – plus, out of all of them – he needed the exercise! What is going on? – The N340 is not part of ’The Tour De Bloody France’ or am I mistaken ? Should these bi-wheeled,blabbering, bastards be allowed to put others lives at risk just in order to strengthen their quadriceps?  By the time I reached home  I felt as though I needed another appointment with the doctor. It was a dreadful and genuinely  life  threatening experience – both Barbra and I felt the same – she’s even thinking of  changing  her lyrics –

To – ‘The Way We Nearly Weren’t?!

Ironically,  the rain in Spain  has not mostly stayed on the famous plain since our return from the rainforest!

Here on the Costa Del Sol when it rains, it does just that –  and only that – for days at a time.

Sometimes the interminable downpours seem bearable only because one knows for sure the surging heat is bound to return – like a wasp to it’s nest – and in the midst of the formidable midsummer, when the sting of this season burns most apparent – these watery April days will seem long gone. A muted memory of a wet season past.

Funny how weather can do that – make a year seem to stretch away into the distance……

Rainy days and Thursdays always get me down.

So I am turning to our new computer for solace.

A generous gift from my lovely mum after she saw the Christopher Babbage model we had been attempting to use.

This afternoon, being wet and windy, seemed the perfect time to have a go on our new futuristic piece of kit, our first chunk out of the Apple! Or Apple Mac to be precise.

Today – I have spent hours unpeeling the way of the apple and I just cannot seem to get to the core of it. It seems to be taking the pith! I’m even resorting to terrible fruit puns. I have them by the punnet!  This Apple is driving me mad.  I’m almost be-cider myself!!

I feel somewhat like William Tell.

Strongbow, I mean, Longbow in hand, I could happily take aim at this plumped up little malformed Malus and fire ! Metaphorically of course.

It is frustrating trying to fathom out half of this technology we attempt to use in order to make creativity easier.

Pretentious, I know, but it does piss you off when you spend three hours attempting to right your wrongs rather than write your songs!!!

Irritating!

Whoever created this little monster needs to be taken by his ‘Cox’s Pippin’ and struck hard on his ‘Golden Delicious’!

Maybe then, he’ll think twice before making the recipe so bloody complicated.

I’m almost at baking point, sorry, breaking point.  I may just throw the thing against the wall – imagine …..

Apple Crumble!

Andrew, who is upstairs, painting George Clooney (not literally sadly), has been forced to listen to my over dramatic huffing and puffing all morning, as I’ve attempted to negotiate the hidden viridian maze that is the Apple company´s ‘Help Centre’.

I’m quite certain it would have been quicker and vastly more effective to send a radio-signal into the depths of space and enlist alien intervention.

Or perhaps just call Mulder And Scully.

The only close encounter we have had with ‘Apple’ has been of the first kind. i.e. The point of sale!

Since then I have been scraping the barrel.  Lost in a wood of widgetry.  An orchard of obfuscation.  Been coerced into taking a byte of a device that is all,simply, too much for me.

I feel just like Snow White.    Had !

Weak!

I thought an apple a day was meant to keep the doctor away – I’m practically jelly.

But as Andrew has advised me, I mustn’t get my knickers in such a strudel   – it will all be apple pie and ice-cream very soon (cue birdsong).

We are to visit the Apple Store next week and meet with one of their fruity experts for some well needed Apple aid.  At which point I have resolved to maintain a calm demeanour.

This maybe quite a stretch, as at the moment, I’d like to have the entire organisation juiced!

Along with B.A.!

A  non-sequeter I realise, but I may as well throw all my current niggles into the proverbial liquidiser whilst it’s still to hand.

This wretched company forced me to fly, long haul, without a seatbelt,  for thirteen hours through heavy turbulence, with nothing but a couple of Smirnoffs and the comforting hand of a friendly steward to stiffen my resolve!

Obviously I have since made my feelings clear to the company and I was thrilled this morning to receive an email from Sally of their ‘customer services’  team – it only took a month!

She apologised profusely for my near pin-ball experience over The Indian Ocean and assured me the belt had now been fixed.  A point I knew I should be relieved at, but I couldn’t help thinking that a bouncing biddy on the return leg would have done wonders for my compensation had the repair not been made.  Still, it was not to be.

Sally also added that she’d also added a few thousand points to our BA Executive account – which came as quite a surprise as we had no idea we even had one of those!

After a little excited research we discovered the reward our little BA booty would afford us!

It seems as though one of us should be able to get most of the way to Dunkirk  but would definitely not be able to make it back.

History has shown us this is probably not the wisest option!

As an alternative to this, Sally has informed me that we could use these limited  points towards an upgrade should we so wish.  Funnily enough, that is something that has crossed my mind recently – an upgrade.

Upgrading to some other airline next time perhaps.

B.A.  Bloody arseholes!

Along with politicians. (I’m ranting I know – I blame the inclementness!)

Since arriving back from the East, these pompous pricks have been littering our TV screen from dusk til dawn. Today seems to be no exception.

Thirty-two inches of screen filled with nothing but Ed Balls!

Andrew and I are rather pleased that we seem to have missed out on many of their shennanigans. Especially the British General Electioneering happening at present.

The same old story of ‘us’ and ‘them’.  A strange social analogy that neither of us have ever fully understood.

After all, both Andrew and I have always been one of ‘them’,  yet we’re more than happy to live in a world of ‘us’  –  highly confusing!

The whole charade is most unappealing.

It is hardly a coalition – more a coalescence!  Of something quite unspeakable.  With most of the participants  treading water in the same stagnant political pond –   generally unelectable!

Still, it is interesting to return to Europe and catch up on some of the machinations here. The ‘EU’ issue continues  to loom large.

The big apple, as it were – with maggots a plenty.

To paraphrase a wise old bard, something is definitely rotten in this continental compote!

Rain, computers and politics! Aghhh!

A truly terrible triptych for such a miserable day – I really could lose my mind.

I should be alert to such things, as my dear, late father suffered severly from such a condition and I often worry about a predisposition  I may have  to do the same at times.

Poor dad  was labelled ‘Bipolar’ and spent much of his life exploring both Poles – extensively.  Sadly, with much less expertise than, say, Captain Oates.

In truth, the only thing father ever shared in common with that  ill-fated adventurist was that, he too,  was also gone for quite sometime!

No I shall not be following in their footsteps today.

Instead I shall remain calm.

Switch off the ghastly MPs.

Turn off the irksome computer and return to a state of almost normality.

And for diversion,  I may be tempted to take inspiration from good old ‘Eve’.  

After all, she had a very different take on the ‘Granny Smith’.

So it’s off up the ‘Apples and Pears’ to help the apple of my eye with his easel, before Gorgeous George pips me to the post.

He’s still unfinished…..

And it is raining……..

I

And finally ……..
The East, the final frontier.

These were the voyages of the The Lola Boys’ Enterprise.

Our three month mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new guest houses, to boldly go where no poof has gone before.

Captain’s blog – Stardate 11/3/15 – The final one tear…..

At times we could have done with ‘Lieutenant Uhura’.

After all, she was always William Shatner’s right hand in times of need!

But we have coped,  without her and any of the other crew on ‘Kirk’s’ ship – we have done it alone.

Or should I say – together.

We have reached the end of our adventure and are on the home straight, or rather, strait, as we are making our way via Singapore and the ‘Straits Of Malacca’.

I cannot help but shed a tear.

Although we are both looking forward to returning to normal ( if that’s the right word!) life – I know we shall both mourn our wonderful walkabout.  It has become almost like a friend. The only certainty we have had for the past three months has been the necessity to move on – to journey forward.

And so we have.

‘Homo’s Odyssey!’  Although I doubt whether Odysseus laughed quite as much on his famous exploration.

We’ve encountered beauty, drama, kindness, cruelty and everything in between.

Not to mention a few bouts of diarrhoea, vomiting and man flu along the way.

But hey, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, apparently.

Although, shockingly, I still look as though I should be tested for Ebola!

As Andrew has said to me, on too many occasions –

‘You love travelling – It’s a shame travelling doesn’t love you!’

I know he doesn’t mean it – or he wouldn’t be my ‘Passepartout’ – but one’s rucksack does seem to get a little heavier as you trek on in life!

We really must pack lighter next time!

So here, on our last leg, literally, we have just left the glorious city state of Singapore. An urban wonder. Which, at times, was a little too controlled for me, but certainly had the good looks to make any visitor ignore that fact.

We leave her as ardent admirers – of her futuristic beauty, at least.

And now Bangkok. How comforting to be in a town we are familiar with after so many alien experiences. Her food, her shabbiness, her downright cheek, have left us feeling ensconced in a warm, friendly quilt – woven in varying shades of naughtiness. Even a foot massage transforms itself into a scene from ‘Carmen’.

At times it seems that everyone is playing the same game here – or on it!

Why do we enjoy these travels? What do we garner from leaving our comfortable existence?

We have a good friend, who once asked me –

‘Why do you stay in those hideous places?’ ( If she’s reading this she’ll know who she is!).

There  have been a couple of moments on this trip I have given her question a modicum of thought – now, I think, I know.

Why do we do it?

Because we can!

By that, I do not mean to be trite or flippant. I mean only, because we are able.

When the day eventually arrives when neither of us is lucky enough to be adequately fit and strong to struggle on with our considerable ruck-sacks; to take the local transport, meeting fantastic characters along the way; to exist, merrily, in places we would never have discovered, or even thought we’d like; to make new friends, with people we would never have otherwise met; to learn; to grow; to change, hopefully, for the better: then we shall be sad!

But, we shall always have our memories.

Funny, ridiculous, stupid and lovely.

And just like Captain James T. Kirk – we shall be richer for it.

Hopefully, with more hair!

And there it is –

The Final Blog –

The Lola Boys Out East –

Over – and definitely out!

I’ve known for years that it’s a jungle out there, but here, it really is!
In Borneo we have encountered more wildlife than in Duquesa Port on a Friday night.

Admittedly, far less dangerous!

Our morning meeting with a group of Orangutans was the undoubted highlight.

We had been advised by our guide to refrain from using flash photography and to be very quiet so as not to offend, in any way, this rather, theatrical primate household.

He also informed us that, ‘Ritchie’, the head honcho of this particular group, had been known to attack visitors – ingesting, at least, three human fingers in recent memory!

So what happens, as the gargantuan fellow ambles majestically into view?

FLASH. CLICK. PUSH. SHOVE. LAUGH. SCREAM. SURGE !

It’s a times like these, I am quite certain, the most daft family in the order of primates must be the homo sapien!

Ignorant, or just plain ‘mutton Jeff’, the small crowd of assembled spectators took absolutely no notice of our trusty guides’ advice.

No. Instead – these wannabe ‘Attenboroughs’. Packing more sensitivity in their obscenely, pornographic cameras – clamoured and clashed for the perfect pitch.

It was akin to the opening of The ‘Harrod’s’ Sale – only with no bargain to be snatched!

I, by this point, had left the melee.

I was sure ‘Ritchie’ had shot me a look, not dissimilar to one I had once received, from a swarthy, bent copper – early some morning in a particularly seedy ‘Scabinillas’ bar.

Actually – I think it may have been our bar!

Things didn’t quite work out on that occasion and I certainly didn’t want a repeat of the incident.

No, having recognised that certain Latin mood ‘Ritchie’  was displaying, I made a sophisticated retreat from the ring.

This proved to be a wise move, as the great ‘Orange Man’ suddenly decided, on a whim, to smash up ‘The visitor’s centre’!  Which, in truth, was an average sized shed, containing a few posters and a very small projection screen.  Presumably meant for those who were not lucky enough to witness such a close encounter with the beast.

Bang! Crash! And then he headed in our direction!

‘Move back, for own safety’, shouted our guide.

The  ‘P’ape’parazzi’ made no response!

‘Back. Back out.’

Nothing.

I’m not surprised. Men seldom pull back for their own safety, hence the world’s ridiculous problem with overpopulation!

A French  couple retreated, unsurprisingly, but most were oblivious to the orders.

I was simply hoping we’d be lucky enough to witness ‘Ritchie’s’ de-fingering trick in the flesh, so to speak.

Sadly, it was not to be.

The old guy seemed irritated, yet bored with his audience and turned, nonchalantly, away from the crowd and towards his ‘brekkie’.

On his first mouthful of coconut – you know it –

FLASH. SNAP.  SHRIEK. WOOH!

I, momentarily, looked away.  I knew how ‘Ritchie’ felt.

I too hate to be observed whilst eating – which is normally why I avoid restaurants in public places.

” I ‘Vant To Eat Alone! ”

‘Ritchie’ had no choice.

Still, for us, it was a small miracle and a priviledge to witness him and his substantial family doing what they do.

I only wish ‘Man’ would halt his accelerating destruction of their natural habitat and just let them do it!

Our next visit was far less moving.

I had talked Andrew into visiting ‘The Sarawak Cultural Village’.  A site where the various tribal groups of this great land, are encouraged to keep their ancient traditions alive and kicking.

Tragically, there was no life to this sterile theme park and I’m sure Andrew felt like kicking me for persuading him to visit.

We started with a show in the theatre.  A production, notable only for it’s lightning quick costume changes.  Which, unfortunately, were not  that successful.  On at least three occasions, several dancers were left to bop aimlessly, gormless and uneasy, waiting for their colleagues do up their pop-studs and enter stage right.

It was quite uncomfortable.

Much like a ‘Bananarama’ concert in the mid-eighties!

We were then treated to two scantily-clad gentlemen with large blow-pipes.  As each of their darts continued to whizz by their pink- balloon-targets, I couldn’t help but think Andrew would be a great addition to their act.

He has always, inexplicably, been in possession of a superb blowing technique and has a much straighter aim!

I nearly suggested this but before I had a chance the two ‘blowers’ had made their exits – red-faced and puffed out!

Next, members of the audience were coerced into joining the troupe onstage, for a little tribal humiliation.

Andrew, who, in my opinion, has always possessed a little too much of the Panto spirit at times, volunteered….

ME !

He explained to the young, ‘native’ girl that he was unable to join the dance because of his dodgy knees.

I was then hauled up onto the unglamorously, over lit platform to take part in a traditional, Malay, celebration dance.  Much to the amusement of a jovial group of Indian lads on the fourth row.

They found much to celebrate!

I shall take my revenge on him at some point.

Post performance, we took an organised trail which lead us into different huts of various ‘tribal-ness’.  In these abodes, we had been informed, we would find the inhabitants playing traditional games and making local handicrafts.

I knew this to be mendacious, when on entering the first ‘Longhouse’ to a traditionally, resounding silence, I heard a ring tone.  Then,from the corner of my eye, I saw a feather-clad tribes woman hastily drop her IPhone out of sight and make busy with a pestle and mortar!

I pretended I hadn’t spotted the device, although she looked a little guilty.

‘Cake, cake’, she smiled and gestured towards the bowl.

‘Yes’, I replied. Grinning right back.

Another beep beep came from beneath her worktop.

I smiled, so did she, and then began to pound the mixture furiously – no doubt to drown out any more message tones from the tradional mobile phone she had secreted.

With all the pounding I forgot to ask her what type of cake she had been pretending to make.

‘Apple’ I should imagine!

It did not improve.

The ancient sword maker was also busy online until he heard a creak at his entrance – he then went into full ‘Excalibur’ mode.  I gave him a little wink to let him know he needn’t bother – I have, after all, never been concerned with the polishing of big weapons.

Andrew, on the other hand…….

And, when we arrived at ‘The Traditional Malay Townhouse’, we were certain we heard ‘Taylor Swift’ blasting out from the kitchen.

Still she is very popular here!

I couldn’t help but shake off the feeling this was all a little native conspiracy.

‘The Iban Show’ instead of The Truman Show’!

I half expected Mickey and Minnie to come trotting round the corner – blow-pipes and all!

When we got back to our guest house, Cyril, the owner, was a little surprised at our early return.

‘You did not like The Cultural Village’ he enquired.

‘Not really’, I answered, honestly, ‘a little too ‘Disney’ for us’.

‘Me too’, he said, ‘just stupid government jobs there.’

I must have looked a little incredulous,

‘Then, why did you take us there?’ I asked.

‘Because you must see for yourself’, Cyril explained.

He’s a wise guy.

‘Ah, yes’, I mused, ‘I suppose some people must love it there.’

‘Not really’, he said, ‘ it’s all just corporate shit !’

We left it there.

The next day, Cyril took us for a traditional breakfast – noodles, prawns, chicken and heaps of chilli paste. It cleared the tubes – he then went on to take us into the jungle, to the mountains, the seaside and even Indonesia, for a quick spot of shopping.

We eventually ended up in a defunct Gold-mining town at a great bar – with music.  Of course, we couldn’t help ourselves and ended up doing a few numbers which, if I say so myself, went down rather well.  ‘The Lola Boys’ could have a future here!

Borneo has emerged to be another mind-popping experience.

Even if the balloons did remain embarrassingly, intact.

Many parts of this beautiful island are so green and wild – huge forests that are, I imagine, reminiscent of England’s primeval landscape – before The Sheriff Of Nottingham had his wicked way with Robin’s Hood!

Singapore’s wild, swampland, before Sir Stamford Raffles initiated the craze for concrete.

Andalucía, with it’s craggy drama and wonderful coastline – before the property ‘over-developers’ bulldozed their way across the land to make a fast buck. Sorry – I mean, Euro.  Or was it the Peseta then?  Who cares!

Perhaps the underdeveloped world could learn from some of these errors of judgment and try not to obliterate all of nature with man-made ‘advancement’.

This place really is an Eden – it would be a shame if there ends up being no room for the apple.

It is not all sunny here though. Not at all. In fact, she rarely makes an appearance.  Therefore, my tan has now completely faded.  Andrew says I have the appearance of the sick, Victorian boy in ‘The Secret Garden,’ – only slightly more pallid!

Borneo – Sunny-no!

But then we didn’t travel all the way here for something as shallow as a deep tan!

We came to discover the ‘Dr Livingstone’ inside of us.

And – I think we’ve just about managed it.

Well – I presume!

‘

I, inadvertently, made a reservation for two nights at a nudist guest house called ‘The Secret Sanctuary – perhaps that was the secret!

After a well needed sleep and a morning tour around the grounds, we found ourselves enchanted and have decided to throw our caution and attire to the wind and extend here …..

By that, I mean our stay!

Cyril, the creator of this fascinating abode, takes great pride in ensuring each of his guests is treated like a friend. That is, if one is allowed through the wonderfully waterfalled entrance gate in the first place!

If Cyril decides he doesn’t like the cut of your backpack – he turns on the tap and the wet stuff gushes,Niagara-like, both surprising and soaking any  unwanted patron.

If, however, he’s not keen on you leaving –  the floodgates are opened once again to make sure that any getaway is sodden.

We love it here – so we’re hoping for a very damp exit!

Nothing new!

The sheer style and and genuine Bohemian beauty of this lucky find belie the fact that the lodging is situated adjacent to a very busy dual carraigeway.

This small irritation does nothing but remind its’ clientele of the absolute haven Cyril has created in one of the once, less salubrious suburbs of Kuching.

‘No Snobs Allowed’ reads the sign at the front door.

I’m surprised he let me in!

But very glad he has.

The staff, the easy ambience, even the other guests, (including the ubiquitous loud, bloody annoying, European family!), are marvellously eccentric and seem most at home here.

As I hear the song ‘It’s All Too Beautiful’ playing via Cyrils’s perfectly orchestrated soundtrack, I remember a distant English teacher, Mrs Carter, reminding me not to use too many cliches when writing.  So I will only put on record – it’s almost too beautiful.

Andrew and I have nicknamed Borneo – ‘Horneo’!

For reasons I had better not go into whilst blogging.  I would not want any reader to be put off their first meal of the day.

Suffice to say there’s a very energetic vibe here – which is probably why we look so knackered in most of the photos!

Maybe there is something in the water – other than the colourful fish in the foot spa!

We have both dipped our toes into this slightly unnerving pool more than once.

The fish, unfortunately, do not seem to have a taste for me.

Andrew, on the other foot, appears to be a veritable fishfood smorgasbord !

Breakfast, lunch and dinner! All at one swimming!

I’ve been lucky if the fussy little tiddlers have bothered to fin their way over to my ‘plates of meat’ for just a little ‘cheese and biscuits’, after they’ve feasted, so heartily, on my partner in brine!

I’m taking this as a compliment.

After all, as long as I get nibbled on by something now and then, I’m not bothered about having my own miniature marine harem.

Andrew obviously needs the attention.

The fish know!