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!

  • A Teardrop In The Indian Ocean.

    Paul and Andrew had arrived in a country to which they had never been before, a paradisical  place which made them both feel they didn’t want to leave. Her beauty and culture held them spellbound. Her nature kept them entranced. But most of all it was her people which kept them prisoner. 

    The Lola Boys were now inmates on the Island of Sri Lanka.

    And willingly so!

    Surely there was nowhere on earth accommodating such an accommodating population.

    And Paul and Andrew had been around!

    The sheer joy which exuded from the island’s population was as infectious as the dull Corona virus which had so blighted the world for the past couple of years, making the theatrical life the boys had once known practically impossible. They had both been forced to re-evaluate their lives. Change them perhaps. 

    Paul had decided to ditch the heels! He was the wrong side of fifty for six inches and he knew all too well that he could behave like one to his partner at times when wearing them! It was part of the character he put on but he’d grown tired of ‘him’, along with his hips and calves which had recently decided to kick back.  As most women know there is usually a high price to pay for constantly elevating oneself – eventually. Unless, of course, one is Naomi Campbell, although Paul suspected she too would need some kind of crutch when she became superannuated rather than a super model! 

    He and Andrew had both adored their time as cabaret artistes but they felt it was time for a change.  Covid had thrust it upon them but sometimes an unexpected thrust could be a good thing. Especially if it came from the right direction.  And Sri Lanka definitely seemed to be just that.  They were both re-invigorated.

    Inspired.

    Energized.

    And they had only been in the country for two months! But what an eight weeks it had been. 

    They had experienced so much love and adventure, two of their favourite pastimes, than they had over the last two years!  Of course they missed their family but they were used to that having been fairly itinerant for most of their lives. ‘Born in a trunk’ was a phrase one of their great show biz friends used to describe herself. Paul sometimes wondered if he and Andrew had shared the same piece of luggage as they never seemed to stay still for too long. Life was a tour. And there were so many venues to play. Now Ceylon was their new stage. Exactly their cup of tea!

    They had already made a small circumnavigation of her southern parts. Beginning in the heady beach city of Negombo on the west coast and then heading south on a packed and sweaty seatless train to Galle, an old colonial gem of a city crumbling charmingly into the Indian Ocean.  In truth, they had found the old fort of Galle a touch Disney.  A few too many avocado shakes and rude Russians invading the narrow lanes.  But at dawn before the ‘Eat, Pray, Wank’ brigade arrived it was a special place.

    Quite lovely.  It’s old Dutch ramparts shared only with the odd cappuccino monkey instead of the cappuccino set!

    The Lola Boys had then moved on to the small beach town of Unawatuna.  A very close drive in a tuk tuk – though their hapless chauffeur had no idea where they were going and had driven them round and round the paddy fields until Paul felt as though he’s been working in one of them for a day and a half. They eventually rolled up at the ‘On Time Villa’ thoroughly not on time. He and Andrew feeling almost late!

    Andrew and Paul had chosen to stay with a family, eschewing any modern hotels for reasons of finance as well as taste.  The best way, after all, to get the flavour of a place was to reside amongst her people.  And they were not disappointed.  They had intended to stay with the family at the ‘On Time Villa’ for just three days but they ended up extending their stay to sixteen instead. 

    Their small room with just a rickety fan looked out across a paddy field through which peacocks fluttered clumsily, blue avian flashes mid the verdant rice crop.

    Bliss

    A colourful crew of six or seven workers picked the harvest during the sweltering midday sun still finding time to joke amongst themselves and smile at the lucky lazy tourists who looked on in amazement whilst swigging cold beer.

    The Buddhist temple across the way would ring out prayers and covid advice at dawn for two hours and the bread man would appear at a most unBuddhaly hour every morning to the mechanical strains of Beethoven’s ‘Fur Elise’. This was a sound to which Paul and Andrew were to become very familiar. The German composer’s tune rang out with such frequency across Sri Lanka, that Paul thought it lucky the old boy had gone deaf before snuffing it, or he’d be spinning in his grave interminably. It was rarely in tune!

    Although the bread was good.

    And most importantly the family were so welcoming and warm that they both felt they’d become a part of it. They had breakfast in the house each morning with whomsoever else happened to be staying.  Most guests only stayed a night or two, preferring to move on to a hot shower and some air conditioning. But those for whom the conditions were just right stayed much longer – just like the boys. There was a charming English musician whom Paul and Andrew got to know quite well named Anton – who had a passion for converting every new resident to the pleasures of ‘Marmite’! He found it hilarious to try it out on any naive German or Russian girl that would give it a go and laughed uproariously when they showed there displeasure at first taste.  Of course, Paul had been a fan of the tar like spread for decades and was thrilled when Anton presented him with a gift of a large jar of the stuff at breakfast one morning.  Apparently it was a hit with the Sri Lankan’s and was sold in almost every establishment – a colonial hangover Paul wondered, although his history of the spread was rather thin on the ground, as it should be on toast, so he couldn’t be sure. 

    Another guest was Reiner, an affable German who had discovered the place during the lunacy of Corona virus the previous year and had been locked down.  He had now returned to be voluntarily locked down again after succumbing to the family’s charms but unfortunately had also been knocked down! A bike accident had left his left arm swollen and discolored. He sat in a chair for most of the day and attempted to read a John Grisham novel with his good arm as the bad one grew worse.

    Or simply grew.

    After a few days Saman and Rassica, their beautiful hosts, took him along to the hospital.  He returned with a strangely bandaged and bloodied limb.  Paul thought it looked somewhat dodgy but said nothing. 

    Unawatuna was quite charming. It had three beaches – his and Andrew’s favourite was the least touristic and picturesque, clinging scruffily onto the motorway and frequented by wannabe surfers.  They spent several days at a hip cafe there making rude jokes with the rude boys.

    It had been a laugh. 

    The town itself was nothing really special but had a great feel. The popular ‘Good Karma Hospital’ was filmed on it’s main drag – and Saman had taken great pride in showing Paul and Andrew the exact location – which was in reality a college and not a medical centre at all. 

    ‘The Good Karma Hospital’ – not!

    As Paul was driven by the ‘Good Karma’ for the first time he knew he’d feel much calmer were his chauffeur older than ten!  Saman’s son, Vishwa, was a very good driver, but both Paul and Andrew suffered a few nerves as they pulled out of the country lane on which they lived and onto the main thoroughfare. Sri Lankan roads were busy to say the least. Tuk tuks, taxis, trouble and ten year olds.

    He clung on tightly to Andrew’s arm until they reached home and alighted the vehicle bidding a ‘Guten Tag’ to Reiner and his arm as they passed him and his latest John Grisham on route to their room to recover.

    A few days later and Reiner’s forearm had doubled in size! The family suggested another trip to the hospital, to which Reiner agreed.  Although he was very tough with sky blue electric eyes, making Andrew liken him to Daniel Craig, he knew he didn’t have Mr Bond’s ability to self heal. He needed attention. He returned one evening with an altogether novel dressing and a different novel.  None of it looked readable.  Both the book and the arm were a profound mystery.

    Paul and Andrew reluctantly moved on from the family they’d got to know quite well.  They had visited their relatives in the jungle and been ferried around, at no cost, to anywhere they’d wanted to go.  They had eaten together, drank together, smoked together.  And on leaving, when Paul attempted to pay the bill, Rasica was having none of it.

    ‘Saman says no bill’ she said.

    ‘’What D’you mean?’ Paul asked.  After all, this had never happened on any of his and andrew’s previous travels.

    ‘’You friends – no pay!’

    ‘No no’, Paul insisted, ‘we are friends yes – but we pay.’

    He was now speaking in clipped English with a Sri Lankan accent. An unfortunate habit which he’d noticed many a traveller adopt in order to make oneself understood. He knew he sounded quite ridiculous.

    But he was almost moved to tears by the show of generosity which was entirely genuine – Rasica was quite happy to let he and Andrew walk away without paying a rupee – and during the extreme economic crisis the country was currently undergoing. It was a revelation to him.  He had never, on his various foreign adventures, encountered such humility. Such kindness.

    In the end the only way he could make Rasica accept any cash was by leaving it on the kitchen counter and insisting it was for the three kids of the house.  For their studies.  He knew this was important to Saman and Rasica, as even though their children were on school holidays they were each sent to private class every day for some subject or other.  Rasica reluctantly accepted and hugged him.  Although she didn’t count any of the cash.

    As they said their goodbyes to Anton the Marmite King and the rest of the ‘On Time’ family Paul couldn’t help but notice Reiner’s arm had begin to grow again.  It didn’t look swell.

    Or rather – it did!

    He refrained from shaking it as they bid farewell for fear it may fall off. 

    They said their goodbyes. Paul shading his tears behind a pair of outsize shades. He’d always been useless at farewells – even with strangers on whom he’d depended for kindness. T’was a lachrymose fault in his nature he was aware, but he was too old to change it now. No use crying over spilt tears!

    He and Andrew jumped into a tuk tuk and headed for the tiny railway station of Thale to make their way to Tangalle in Sri Lanka’s Deep South.  Sri Lanka at her most sultry.  A new experience was about to begin – one that was to take Paul entirely by surprise.

    Or part of him!

    On their arrival Paul’s ‘Tintin’ ringtone rang out a the bottom of his rucksack. He fumbled his way through the mosquito coils and beer cans to answer.

    It was Saman. Just calling to make sure he and Andrew had arrived safely at their next destination. He was at the hospital with Reiner. His left hand man for the umpteenth time. Apparently the German’s arm had grown even bigger. Paul was now quite pleased he and Andrew had left the ‘On Time Villa’.

    There would never have been room for the three of them!

  • Getting Kandie Caned!

    Getting Kandie Caned!

    The Lola Boys said farewell to Negombo with heavy hearts – and even heavier heads.  They had certainly made some new friends via Andy, an old mate who had once booked them for a few gigs in Gibraltar. 

    He had got them acquainted to locals of every kind. 

    Wineshops, women and song. 

    A marvellous part of the delightful company to whom they’d been introduced was Jason – or rather, ‘Kandie’, Negombo’s resident drag queen.

    Paul and Andrew were all too aware that fellow performers could sometimes be less than generous when it came to their fellow men – or ‘women’!  But Jason had been thrilled to meet ‘The Lola Boys’ and immediately invited them up to join his show at ‘Lords’, a rather trendy downtown nightspot, to do a couple of numbers.  Neither Andrew or Paul had any intention of hitting the stage whilst in Sri Lanka, unless it was one drawn by horses and heading West.  But they were easy to coach once the ‘Lion’ beer had done its  trick.  Paul only hoped that everyone else had been roaring drunk too and therefore had no memory of his rendition of ‘The Way We Were’! Or his partner’s take on ‘Sway’, which he’d obviously decided to sing in Swahili.  A language Paul had no idea Andrew was familiar with. Still, it had been diverting.  And the boys had, surprisingly, been offered a gig the following day performing for a Swedish couples’ wedding at one of the posher resorts in the resort.  

    Something they chose not to resort to.  

    Not yet.  

    They were in ‘traveller’ mode after all and had both thrown lazy larynxes into their backpacks. But sometimes they just couldn’t resist a Mike when it was offered up and they were face down!

    A couple of days later, as they walked along a languid lane of small guesthouses perspiring fiercely, they came across an ‘Ayurvedic’ centre.  Ayurveda being the traditional medicine of the island of Sri Lanka.

    ‘I could really do with a massage’, Andrew said on seeing the dubious signage.

    ‘What? Now?’ asked Paul,’ perspiring profusely, I thought we were heading to that coffee place for wifi and a waffle.’

    ‘No. Not now. I’m just gonna see,’ Andrew answered, whilst deviating from their chosen path and wandering onto the drive of the small and shabby looking house.

    Before he had reached the entrance there was a horrific shriek which came from inside the establishment.  Andrew took no notice and maintained his snail’s pace towards the entrance.  Then it came again – a howl of agony that sounded much like a fox fornicating.

    ‘I wouldn’t touch that place with a bloody barge pole’,  Paul shouted to Andrew, ‘not if they’re gonna do that to you.’

    With that note of wisdom he continued to stroll on not wanting to involve himself in his partner’s masochistic affairs.  If he wanted pain that was up to him.  There were times Paul understood that a little discomfort was rather pleasing – but he wasn’t gonna pay for it.  Besides the screams emanating from the massage parlour sounded more excruciating than exhilarating.

    Suddenly there was another shout, only this time from Andrew.

    ‘Paul’, he yelled,  ‘ it’s Jason!’

    Paul turned back towards the shaded compound and followed where Andrew had lead.  Once inside the venue he knew Andrew’s words to be true.  It was Kandie the cabaret queen who was giving the pained performance. A.K.A. Jason.  He was seated uncomfortably on a treatment table whilst an elderly but strong looking practitioner was attempting to manipulate his arm.  No wonder poor Jason was in agony.  Paul was no expert but it didn’t take a medic to see that one part of the poor guy’s arm was facing North and the other, due south.  It was quite clearly fractured. Hence Jason’s fractious tones as the healer attempted to put it back into place.

    ‘Ow, ow! Oh fuck!’ he screamed , ‘no I can’t let you do that.  You’re a lovely lady, but I think I need a hospital.’

    The ‘doctor’ looked confused, and tried once again to see if there were a way she could make Jason’s torn limb look something like an arm again.

    ‘Fuck!’ Oh I’m so sorry,’ spat Jason, attempting politeness whilst clearly in agony, ‘I can’t let you do that. You are lovely though. You’re a lovely lady!’

    He turned to Paul and Andrew for their advice.

    ‘I need a hospital don’t I?’

    The boys couldn’t help but agree.  Kandie looked like she’d never lift a microphone again!

    ‘Yes. Definitely’ Paul assured him, ‘I think you’ll be in plaster later.’

    With that he searched through his trusty traveller’s pharmacy of emergency medical supplies in an attempt find something to get Kandie plastered. 

    She needed something for the pain. 

    Eventually he found something to get Kandie caned and shoved them into her gob.  It was only a couple of strong aspirin and ten milligrams of valium that he had kicking about – but he thought it may stop her from doing the same.

    ‘Can you stick ‘em in me gob for me?’ Jason asked, he had no hands after all as he was using the one good one to hold the bad one  in place.

    ‘I need something.  I mean this is all ‘olistic innit?’ stated Jason in his best south London accent. ‘I need anaesthetic. I need to go to the hospital.’

    Paul and Andrew both agreed with his diagnosis. 

    Yet still the practitioner looked highly confused.  She took Paul’s arm and demonstrated what she had planned for Jason’s. It looked like a rather tortuous treatment. And somewhat experimental!

    It was enough to convince the poor bugger that the emergency room was definitely the better option

    Paul and Andrew’s last sight of Jason/Kandie was as he/she rattled off in a tuktuk to make make his /her bumpy and painful journey to the hospital.

    The following day the boys left for Galle.  An old Dutch colonial settlement on Sri Lanka’s south coast which was famous for it’s historic fort and culture.  On arrival the only culture Paul had recognised was that in the yogurt ice cream! All flavours were available at the overpriced trendy parlours abutting the pretentious art galleries and spa shops!  The fortified old town was akin to Sri Disney. 

    Fraudulent but effective. 

    Crumbling colonial architecture serving crumble!

    And pizza! 

    T’was galling to say the least.  

    European tourists traipsed around in silence and satin not a smile between them.  Paul thought it dry and archaeological. Nothing like the time they had spent with Kandie.

     It took a day or two for Paul to fall for Galle’s charms.  

    Or rather, an early morning.  

    He and Andrew had woken at 4am, a danger ever-present in the East when the sun rises with a vengeance , and walked her decrepit city walls.  As the Indian Ocean crashed noisily into the battlements and the solar orb decided to peak through the rude early morning cloud, Galles’s beauty was there to behold.

    It was still lovely – despite the avocado smoothies.!

    And still! 

    Other than the odd Sri Lankan jogging by or doing press ups against a defunct Dutch canon. 

    They were both mesmerised.

    The real Galle, out side of the old city walls, was altogether quite different.

    Paul and Andrew had left the safety of their fortress one morning and headed into the melee on the search for beer and flip flops.  They’d endured the asphyxiating heat, whilst suffocating in surgical masks, and negotiating proper south asian traffic. Mechanical and human.  It had been exhilarating. Less deathly than what lay inside the privileged walls in which they’d shacked up.

    Eventually though, the torpidity got the better of them and they tuktuked it back to their digs amid the dig.  The air was more tolerable there even if the atmosphere was stuffy.

    They ate ten dishes of curry for the price of a pilau rice in London, and jumped under their mosquito nets to sleep – unperturbed by not joining the melee of millennials enjoying their vegan falafel!

    The next day Paul and Andrew  jumped into another three wheeler and headed further south.  They were to stay in the home of a family who resided in the less fashionable jungle just behind the the tourist resort of Unawatuna. A tropical paradise, apparently, which had been discovered yet retained an ‘appeal’.

    As they trundled further inland, away from the main drag and over the railway tracks, they had no idea  just how much appeal.

    Or the nature of it.

    But they were about to find out.

    And they had no idea they were going to fall in love with Sri Lanka.

    Paul and Andrew were at the crossroads!

    But they were both unsure of which side of the tracks they might choose?

    They really had no idea!

    But the candy was good.

    And they were both like kids in a sweet shop!

  • Cluck Off!

    Paul had witnessed a few birds in the bush before but had never espied a chicken up a mango tree avoiding cock!

    He knew it to be one of those odd things one comes across when travelling in South Asia.

    The sub continent never disappointed. 

    He and Andrew had once seen an unfortunate man’s brains frying steadily on a scorching highway after an accident their vehicle had narrowly avoided – but that was an altogether darker scene.  The avian antics now unfolding  before him were far more comic. He chuckled as he watched the harried chuck cling on to an unripe fruit for dear life whilst the desperate clucker beneath stalked her mercilessly, egging her on to descend so that he could do much the same. 

    Only on her! 

    They were quite the lovebirds.

    Paul turned to his partner and asked what type of chicken it was.  He usually hated the creatures finding them preferable in a bowl to them scrabbling around his ankles with their putrid dinosaur feet.  However, this little bird possessed feathered bloomers which stylishly disguised the normal nasty talons – and a feathered hat. She was almost charming. Almost ‘Chanel’.

    Andrew had no idea.

    ‘But you know about birds’,  Paul quacked, ‘ that was one of the first things that impressed me about you.’

    ‘Only cos I read an ornithology of garden bloody birds when I was eleven!’ Andrew retorted.

    ‘I never professed to be an expert!’

    ‘No, I know’ said Paul, ‘Actually that has disappointed me ever since.’

    With that the two sat in silence for just a moment – it was to be their thirtieth year together the following day!

    Silence came easy.

    As did conversation. 

    And song.

    The pair of them had just been belting out Cilla Black’s ‘ Something Tells Me Something’s Gonna Happen Tonight’ with such force that Paul imagined the only something on the cards that night was being chucked out of their room.

    Presently, positioned at least eight bars from his partner, Paul could still ascertain Andrew doing a  swinging Tony Bennet number!  He wondered what their hosts would think – but then everyone in Sri Lanka up to now, at least,  had seemed so laid back he was fairly sure they’d just swing along.  As for the other guests, well there were very few.

    A gargantuan and garrulous German Paramedic from Hamburg with his equally rotund and jocund wife.  Their niece and nephew who both clearly followed their uncles dietary advice – him being a medic after all.  And a ‘houseboy’ who looked after a very ancient Canadian gentleman.  Apparently he was very good with an Anthurium according to their landlady.  Paul had subsequently explained to Andrew what one of those was, but they had both sussed immediately that Jeeva  was in the growing business. And why not? He seemed terribly happy and appeared to have many a string to his fiddle. 

    Not just arranging flowers.  

    And then, for a brief moment, there was a pair of young Russians, but they had left almost immediately on account of the Wifi not being up to ‘Russian standard’.  Which made Paul laugh, as he’d always thought of that as a brand of vodka!  And he was more than aware that the internet connection where they were staying had no such kick! 

    Unfortunately he’d noticed several young Russians being rather uncharming on many an occasion now and wondered what they were taught about travelling abroad.  His mother had visited their impressive country very recently and assured Paul that the people were the most friendly.  When abroad, however, Paul couldn’t help but notice  they tended to follow the Putin rulebook and invade with little grace!  Paul knew he shouldn’t mention it as his blog could be monitored by The Kremlin, if he were lucky.  Or some ‘no-one-nik’ working out of a Vladivostok basement more like, much like it was still read by some mysterious followers in China and Vietnam.  And Canada come to that – due to a gem scam incident involving the ex newsreader Jan Leeming in Jaipur! (Feel free to read back if your not familiar – The Lola Boys In India blog. I’ll be charging for them fairly soon, so I’d be quick!)

    Paul didn’t want to start all that up again – he was more than aware his blog could be Shanghaied  as it  was in Hanoi!  

    But he also took it as a compliment – after all, he loved to be noticed. Even drama was good for his ego. He knew it to be a flaw of character but what was an ageing homosexual to do?  Change???!!! 

    He thought not.

    He knew at times his pants to be a touch  too hot for his years but he weren’t changing them not for no man! 

    Or ‘President’! 

    Stick that in your pipe and pretend to inhale Mr Putin!

    Paul knew he’d gone off track.  Asia always did that to him. Expanded his thought process.  It was both exhilarating and debilitating at the same time.  But he wouldn’t have it any other way. And he thought ‘The Buddha’ would approve. Duality and all that. Plus they were in Sri Lanka which was predominantly Buddhist.  An argument that he’d definitely leave ’til later. He didn’t want to be banned from another country!

    ‘So you don’t know?’, he continued to peck at Andrew, ‘you don’t know what that chicken is!’

    ‘I was in the young fucking ornithology club for one year’ Andrew squawked, ‘how the fuck should I know? Anyway, I’m not even sure it is a chicken.’

    Paul was impressed, his partner had obviously retained some ornithological knowledge.  He was not as bird-brained as he professed to be.

    ‘Thank you’ Paul chirped.  And buggered off down to the small pool to leave Andrew alone in his melodious nest of broadway melody. 

    He could still hear him. It was now Cole Porter’s ‘Night And Day’! 

    And then the Russians returned, as they always do.

    Apparently a night and day at an alternative establishment was not up to ‘Russian Standard’ either.  Paul imagined the young couple had dropped their standards when they realised the price of them.  He smiled over at them as they checked in but was met with a Soviet glare.  

    He was never xenophobic. Yet he was still unconvinced!

    He decided to give them the cold shoulder and  raised his leg clumsily to rest on the table in front of him. A habit he despised, but the swelling from the injury he’d sustained on his early morning power walk to the wine shop was giving him real gip. Even though, according to his stupid smartphone app, he’d burnt 586 calories.  Most of them, doubtless, from his brain!   He knew he should never have done ten kilometres the previous day. Sometimes, he mused, smartphones were just for the dumb.  They certainly had the power to push one beyond their natural endurance.  Making the user believe in the information on the screen rather than listen to the clues their body provided. The stupid fitness app made him apt to do fitful bouts of exercise for which he wasn’t quite yet ready.  He knew he’d pushed himself too far.  He blamed it on the stilettos. He never learnt his lesson – however painful!

    He had wanted to avoid the slightly scruffy beach and it’s mash of ‘Mohammads’ pestering him with their wares. None of which he wanted to wear. So he had taken the back streets of Negombo.  They were peaceful and pleasantly tropical, Bouganvillea vied with coconut palms and climbers which Paul didn’t recognise to create a tranquil and bucolic walk.  It was only when he hit the main drag that things became just that!  

    The ancient Romans would surely have executed whoever was responsible for the paving. And in a very concrete manner.  Hopefully.  It was not just uneven, it was dangerous. More akin to the ‘Cakewalk’ ride Paul remembered negotiating as a child at Putney Fair than a pavement.  There were also missing elements, or rather, slabs, which meant a pedestrian could drop into sewage if they were absent minded.  If one didn’t keep one’s wits one could land in the shits. 

    The assault course known as the sidewalk, added to the unrelenting heat, made for a most unpleasant perambulation. And when both of the plastic bags containing the cans of beer split and the contents tumbled into the road, after Paul had insisted on being double-bagged but was refused due to lack of stock, in a country which seemed to abound in plastic, he was not amused. He dodged tuktuks and trucks as he attempted to salvage his booty. He limped as fast as he could to escape the traffic, beer sodden and embarrassed. His achilles tendon smarting!

    T’was an old war wound he’s picked up whilst pretending to parachute into Vietnam during The Old Vic’s flop of ‘Hair’. ‘The Musical!’ – as if anybody needed telling.  Suffice to say, during a dress rehearsal, Paul’s shute hadn’t opened as expected and his big break became just that. But of the ankle.  Not ‘The Business’! It still bothered him to this day. Andrew always reminded him that it was his own fault as he wasn’t kind to himself – but that was a touch of potty-kettle coming from a singer who smoked more than Bette Davis once had! So Paul rarely took any notice.

    But it was horrible to lose one’s footing. And for a vain Paul even worse than most. When he fell from his pedestal it was usually from the height of a Sri-Lankan deity. Pride comes before a fall – or so they say.  But Paul hadn’t yet partaken of the pride of ‘Lion’ beer he was hauling back to the digs – so they could hardly be blamed.

    Back in the grounds of the guest house and uncomfortably resting on a concrete chair with foot resting awkwardly on a cold beer, Paul cracked one of them open. He thought he’d earnt it. Hysterical laughter abounded from the balcony behind him. His own. It was Andrew, of course, conversing in boundless merriment with their wonderful landlady, Vijai.  She had lived in Swansea for 45 years so Paul was almost sure she could cope with a touch of his partners bawdy cheek.

    The chickens were fucking now!

    Paul didn’t want to look. The cuteness was wearing off. His favourite Chanel’ clad bird was looking more and more ‘Primani’ by the minute!

    She now looked cheap and plucked!

    Just like that pun, Paul thought, as he tapped away on his laptop, avoiding the toxic stares of the kids from Chernobyl, who had now made their way down to the pool. Suddenly the temperature had dropped – it was how Paul had remembered The Cold War as a child.  He imagined that the pool might freeze over should the icy couple decide to take the plunge.

    He thought it time to leave.

    He knew he was chicken. But he didn’t care.

    But then the Islamic call to prayer drifted through the palms. That beautiful incantation that is both hypnotic and ice cream van like at the same time. Paul remained until the Imam, or the sound engineer had finished their work, entranced, reminded of Madonna’s ‘Frozen’. 

    ‘You’re frozen – when your heart’s not open!’

    He wondered if she’d met the Russians who were now preparing to take a dip.

    He decided to cluck off!

    The turgid couple had found their deep water port.

    It was definitely time to go home to roost !

  • Mohammad’s Craft!

    Mohammad’s Craft!

    Mo’s Vessel – The big brown one.

    ‘My name is Mohammad’ said the desperate catamaran captain for the eighth time.

    ‘ You come on my boat with me, I give you good time. I like everything. We not here in this life for so long so good to enjoy everything. Me I like all – I like your body. Very nice body.’

    ‘Thank you’ Paul replied, he loved a compliment after all, even if it was being proferred by an old man in a stained loin cloth sporting just one incisor.  

    Paul had heard about the infamous ‘Beach Boys’ of Negombo but he hadn’t expected them to be quite so superannuated.

    Of course he declined the offer.  After all he’d only been in Sri Lanka for one day and he wasn’t that keen of the cut of Mohammad’s gib.  In every respect.  The mainsail looked as flimsy as the piece of material the old fella was nearly wearing and Paul feared the proposed trip could lead to them both going down.  

    He assured Mohammad that there would be no frigging in the rigging as he suffered from severe sea sickness.  Mohammad said he had just the thing for that particular malady but Paul shot off before he discovered exactly what the cure was.  He wasn’t swallowing any of Mo’s soft soap – although he did thank him again for the compliment as he stumbled rather uncoolly across the searing sand towards Andrew.

    Except he had no idea to where his partner had disappeared.  He’d only been chatting with his shipmate Mohammad for five minutes and Andrew had vanished into hot air.  

    Paul took the path along the beach and made his way through some fishermans huts among a clutch of waving palms.  The motley crew taking the shade were also very obliging – although Paul was most unsure quite what it was they were offering.  It certainly wasn’t their catch – but there would be one he was quite sure of that.

    After ten minutes he found himself on a gorgeous stretch of truly golden sand which seemed to stretch for miles.  The sky was clear and the sea a surprising shade of Cerulean, as Paul had often noticed the water to be quite murky a few miles away on India’s west coast. But not here it so it seemed.  But despite the clarity Andrew was still no-where to be seen.

    Paul doubled back on himself.  It was the usual ‘Mad Dogs And Englishman’ hour during which he and Andrew were invariably found dripping with sweat whilst trekking through a shadeless environment sans agua! They never seemed to learn.  Noel Coward had obviously seen them coming when he penned the classic.  

    ‘’At twelve noon the natives swoon and no further work is done,

    But mad dogs and Lola Boys go out in the midday sun!’

    Paul found himself back where he had started.  He steered well clear of Mohammad as the over friendly Captain waved furiously to him from his vessel.  He certainly didn’t want to put wind in the poor guy’s sails by giving him the wrong impression that he’d changed his mind and returned for the proposed maiden voyage. He stared unconvincingly into the middle distance pretending to be blinded by the sun, which happened to be behind him.  But it seemed to work – Mohammad stayed anchored to the spot.

    Paul then heard a familiar ‘Oy’ which emanated from a scruffy little beach restaurant about fifty yards away, he turned to see Andrew sitting nursing a cold bottle of the local ‘Lion’ brew.

    ‘I’ve been bloody looking for you.  Where did you go?’ he said, a little too irritably.

    ‘Here’ Andrew replied.  Which was fairly obvious.

    ‘You didn’t get far.’

    ‘No I needed a drink it’s too hot’ Andrew explained, ‘Where have you been?’

    ‘Nearly all the way!’ said Paul and recounted what had happened to him in the quarter of an hour they’d been separated.

    ‘I’ve had a bit of that too’ said Andrew and pointed to a muscular masseuse who was sitting close by under a tree.

    ‘Well yours is certainly an improvement on mine’ Paul said.

    Paul and Andrew had heard about the famous friendliness and charm the Sri Lankans possessed, but they hadn’t expected them to be quite so amiable.  Still – it was nice to be admired – even if there was a price tag attached.  Paul was happy for any bit of buttering up he could get now he was knocking on.  But that was where the grease stopped.  

    He and Andrew had never visited Sri Lanka before. And so far they had found the island a delight.  Their hostess in the guest house where they were residing had come out to greet them on their arrival and knew their names.  And when she offered them a drink Paul knew immediately he was gonna like the place.  Suddenly, amid swaying palm fronds and the tropical sounds which emanated from everywhere around them the boring pandemic seemed miles away.  Distant in time and distance.

    It felt wonderful. 

    Of course,  there was still mask wearing to be done but the atmosphere seemed very chilled.  If only the beer came the same way.  So far it seemed a struggle to get anything approaching cool – but as they’d only been in Ceylon for a couple of hours Paul knew that could be an anomaly.  Besides, they had a rather large antiquated refrigerator in their room and there was a beer shop round the corner so there was no need to panic. 

    Also, much to Paul’s pleasure, the tea was rather good too. 

    Obviously one expects great tea from Ceylon but in Paul’s previous experience when travelling other tea-growing nations of the planet it was sometimes quite hard to find a good brew.  It seemed as though all the decent cha had been exported. Especially when travelling throughout India.  Not so in Sri Lanka.  No dodgy old yellow Lipton bags to be found.  Just proper leaves.

    In the evening after a ridiculously cheap dinner consisting of a variety of different curries and rice, Paul and Andrew made their way back towards their digs.  Of course they were stopped constantly by the ubiquitous tuktuk drivers who were able, it seemed, to offer them anything they desired.  Paul began to wonder if anything was off the menu. But he wasn’t sure he’d be sampling any of their wares. Not unless a George Clooney clone pulled up in his three wheeler with a decent wine list! But he considered that to be highly unlikely.

    The following day Andrew was unable to move. 

    He put it down to some herbal tobacco he’d accidentally inhaled the previous evening, although Paul thought the pride of ‘Lions’ he’d sunk during the day was probably a better bet. It was an ale that certainly got one roaring! But again – very quaffable. And cheap!

    Paul was beginning to think think that there may be a few tears when it came to leave the gorgeous teardrop in the Indian Ocean. Or perhaps he may not even leave.

    Although there were shows to perform.  And a Pom to pamper!  The boys were missing their little girl already and it had only been two days.  

    But Sri Lanka was tightening her glamorous grip on him already.  He couldn’t wait to get out and explore as much of the island as he could.

    He just needed to get Andrew out of bed first.

    Perhaps a cold flannel would do the trick.

    Or better still – a hair of the lion?

  • Two Pricks In Brighton!

    Two Pricks In Brighton!

    Paul was still waiting to be pricked for a second time, not a situation he found himself in that often, but he knew until the pop up vaccination unit came again he was not safe.

    Not entirely.

    The damned ‘Delta’ variant had truly burst it’s banks and in Brighton there was a veritable flood of infections incurring. He did not want to be paranoid, yet he also wanted to start working again as soon as possible. It had been a year and a half now since the damned virus had stopped ‘The Lola Boys’ in their tracks and they were more than ready to get back on the train – if not the heels.

    They, for the moment, seemed a step too far.

    Perhaps he was getting respectable in his middle age – he really hoped not. He’d always planned to grow older in a wholly outrageous manner. Surely doing what one wanted was one of the only advantages in one’s advancing years. He took a swig of his morning Bloody Mary before puffing on a joint and made a wish never to become too straight – in every way. Life was for living, not being timid and conventional. He had no plans to conform. Only perform. When he next got the chance.

    And travel.

    But all these traffic lights made the thought of that rather unappealing.

    He and Andrew had already locked down in three countries, the thought of being in a green lit country which then turned amber was anathema to him. He was certain he and his partner would end up in a place that was red lit. It had happened too often in the past. Mind you – it hadn’t always been a jam.

    Sometimes they’d rather enjoyed it.

    But for the moment any red light experiences would be happening nearer to home – it just wasn’t worth the risk – not yet.

    It looked as if East Sussex was to be their home for at least the rest of the year. And Andrew and Paul loved Brighton. Her heady cocktail of arty sophistication and grittiness, with a dash of hippy and a twist of the dippy was right up their High Street. She was up and coming and down and out all at the same time. Very neighbourly, even if, at times, one wanted to avoid the neighbours. She had a sense of community. There was a pride Paul pervaded through the sea air which he had only encountered in a few other British cities. Liverpool and Glasgow both sprang to mind, both dangerously appealing. Fun, frightening and fabulous in equal measure. He found it to be a world away from the small village in which he and Andrew had resided in Spain. That had had it’s dubious charms too, but Paul was a city boy at heart. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the siren’s call.

    He was thrilled to be back.

    Though he knew he’d be even happier when he could get out properly. There was a lot to explore. So much to learn. A wealth of adventure to be had. He could feel his mojo coming back, which was most odd, as he wasn’t aware he had lost it. Didn’t someone once say a change was as good as a rest? And he’d been resting for far too long. Covid and The Costa had made sure of that.

    He took another glug of his flavoured tomato juice and began research on where he and Andrew could go to be jabbed. It had been three weeks since their last injection and he was hoping to inject a little haste into the proceedings and not wait the eight weeks which was now being proposed. ‘The Lola Boys’ had gigs to be getting on with and they were hardly able to socially distance during their act – even if some of the audience would like them to.

    Paul had it on good authority that after three weeks it would be effective for himself and Andrew to have another dose of Pfizer. So he was on the hunt for a pop-up centre which would agree to prick them in order to save their career from having a major puncture. He was hoping for a green light at the LGBTQ etc centre in Kemptown. He was sure he and Andrew came under one of those letters.

    They had to be good for something.

    He’d always hated the idea of being labelled, but was more than ready to be a hypocrite when it came down to things medical. He hyperventilated at the thought of Andrew being on ventilation and was therefore happy to try anything to avoid the possibility.

    Plus they were knocking on just a touch now, so were surely a priority.

    They had both been lucky enough to escape a certain virus years before…. although some of their friends had not. In he and Andrew’s late teens, when everything is blossoming, AIDS was the evil which plucked the young plucky fruit from the tree of life. Luckily Paul had done no plucking himself at that time, but he knew he was more than fortunate to have escaped HIV’s insidious clutches. Yet as the fairly jobsworth nurse stood in front of him and his partner at ‘The Rainbow Centre’, explaining why they were both unable to have their second doses of the Pfizer vaccine, talking on and on about T-cells and blood counts, he was right back there.

    The ‘80s’.

    The scary advert on telly with the falling tombstone. The ghoul-like faces of the poor bastards who’d contracted the thing. The hoo-hah of Princess Diana shaking hands with a patient minus gloves. He sat in the family front room night after night terrified he would never be able to tell his parents he was gay. He didn’t want to terrify them. It had been a difficult time.

    And now he felt almost the same anxiety. What were he and Andrew to do without being fully protected?

    Jeni, the rotund nurse, with too much information and not enough consonants, suggested they wore visors during their act. That neither of them go near or touch any of the audience and mask up between songs. When they finished a set, she advised that they quickly replace their masks and rush to the khasi to scrub their mitts. She also recommended that ‘The Lola Boys’ made sure all of their punters took a Lateral Flow Test before coming along.

    Paul thought laterally that it might just be easier if he and Andrew had their second vaccine instead.

    Jeni disagreed! It would provide them with no further protection she said – not unless they had an eight week gap.

    Paul asked why the rest of the world were giving the jab after three weeks – Jeni shrugged.

    ‘Are they all doing it wrong then?’ Paul asked with genuine interest.

    ‘I can’t say’, said Jeni, who up to that point had been full of answers.

    The boys thanked her, and walked away, they knew they were barking up the wrong syringe.

    Paul knew that obviously it was not Jeni’s fault. She was only following orders. But it was her Generals he was becoming less patient with. The Covid waters were getting muddier by the day. And he and Andrew were having to go over the top soon – in more ways than one!

    That evening Paul stared in disbelief at the news that the British Health Secretary had contracted the dreaded Corona virus after having had two vaccinations.

    Fuck it he thought. What can we do? We may as well go down singing.

    He decided to refuse to worry about it and wait his turn. He hoped luck would be on he and Andrew’s side once again. And he was sick of talking about the bloody virus. It seemed everyone one met was an expert. He’d never met so many epidemiologists – and he’d only learnt the word last year.

    The boys walked down to the prom. It was the hottest day of the year and Brighton was buzzing.

    Peerless Brighton!

    The old carousel, which Paul and Andrew had ridden years ago on their wedding day, was blasting out show tunes.

    A man was fiddling on a tight rope – using a violin of course – it was a matinee!

    The gargantuan seagulls hovered menacingly above looking for an opportunity to swoop down and nick some unsuspecting tourists fish and chips.

    And the beach was pebbled with a plethora of peoplekind! Girls in bikinis – actually – not just girls! Young men dressed as ‘Ali G’ or ’Scary Spice’. And frightening flocks of not so youthful hens, replete with ‘L’ plates, staggering by in bridal veils and pleather mini-skirts.

    It was a perfect British summers day!

    Brighton certainly put on a show.

    As Paul watched, from a distance of course, he felt in his blood, that it was time for he and Andrew to do the same.

    The carousel burst into a tinny chorus of ‘There’s No Business Like Show Business!’

    Paul could not have agreed more!

    It was time to go on with the show!

    Showtime!
  • Ferry Cross The Biscay

    Ferry Cross The Biscay

    The infamous Bay Of Biscay, which was so often a turbulent grey soup, turned out to be a placid  aquamarine mill pond. As blue as the Carribean sea and with an air temperature to match. 

    On deck of the Brittany ferry Galicia, Paul  looked towards the picturesque and ever diminishing port of Santander and wiped away a maudlin tear. 

    Adios Santander.

    He blamed it on the cheap lager, but he knew deep down that he was just very bad at Adios. Goodbyes to him had never come easy. It was an over sentimentality he had inherited from his late father – and quite a number of his experiences lately had proved to be just that.  

    As the boat edged out of the harbour he felt himself edge away from the life he had known for more than a decade , after all, he and Andrew, The Lola Boys, were heading in a different direction. Although they would, no doubt return to Espana soon -ish, it was time for new challenges. Neither of them  had plans to get trapped in the alcafrolics on the Costa – besides they’d been there – done that. They were not quite ready to let that infamous undertaker Señor Larios send them to an early grave – not quite yet!

    Poor Lola had been forced to bed down with the other pooches in the kennels area of the vessel AND wear a muzzle whilst traversing the public areas on board. She was not best pleased. The boys thought the facial furniture slightly ridiculous – ‘Hannibal Lola’ sprang to mind. But she had been known to draw blood if she came across a complete twat. And one never knew who was lurking on the Starboard bow. 

    Actually it was the port side of the boat which was to prove to be the most mutinous.  

    After meeting a charming bunch of blokes, one of whom had offered Paul his trendy hoodie to wear as the evening chill set in, Paul and Andrew had partied much harder than they had intended. Beer and banter abounded as the boys headed towards The English Channel. Unfortunately one of their crew was more than a bit strange. He’d interrogated the group individually and managed to clear the table one by one. Eventually it was only he, Andrew and Paul remaining. After the dickhead and Andrew had a stand up row due to a bout of homophobia they also took their leave. The man had gone completely overboard. He was quite lucky he didn’t literally go the same way as Andrew was fuming.  Paul sat and observed. The idiot hadn’t really pressed his buttons, he was quite used to fools like him being a touch more visible than his partner. He felt only pity. However, he was most pleased he didn’t bump into the git on deck the next morning.  He was far less patient A.M. sans lubrication. 

    When the boys met up again with the friendly bunch from the night before, they learnt that they had also told the ignoramus to fuck off.  It appeared he hadn’t made any shipmates during the crossing. Serve him right for being so shallow and going off the deep end! It was almost shocking that such Trumpian idiots were allowed out on the public decks – but only almost.

    In the middle of the night Paul went to visit Lola in her lodgings.  He saw at once that there were no other dogs in the kennels and no-one was walking a pooch in the exercise area either. That was it – he thought it most unfair that Lola was the only Pom in the canine village.  He smuggled her down to he and Andrew’s cabin and she spent an illicit night under the bed on her special blanket.  

    Early in the morning there had been a rat-a-tat-tat on the door.  The flouncy Frenchman who had been utterly charming when they boarded, stood on the other side with a bright red face.

    ‘Do you ‘ave your dog in your cabin?’ he raged in Napoleonic fashion.

    ‘Oui’, said Paul, attempting some cross-channel charm, realising swiftly that lying was out of the question as Lola was standing behind him bidding an enthusiastic Bon Matin to her angry Gallic visitor.

    ’Take ‘er up – Now!’ Barked monsieur.

    Paul did as he was told. 

    He knew he and Andrew were in the doghouse!

    He met the Frenchman later the following afternoon and apologised profusely for letting the dog out of the bag. He was met with a smile only a frenchman could get away with and then a doey-eyed,

    ’Sank you for apologising. It is just that my colleague went to ze kennells and saw there was no dogs there at all – I ‘ad to make a point.’

    ‘I quite understand’ said Paul smarmily, hoping to avoid a petit fine.

    The two smiled at one another on the staircase and there may have been a  secret look they shared, which Paul suspected meant the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime would remain just between them.  Sometimes there was a certain advantage to being part of the gay mafia. There were definitely some plusses as long as one didn’t wake to find a horses head on the pillow. 

    Although at times even that could be fun!

    The boys reached England on an early June evening. The sun was shining and as they drove through the countryside the whole place smelt of a country garden. It felt good to be back. Natural.  Apart from having the steering wheel on the wrong side of the car! It was now time to channel their English.

    They pulled up outside Paul’s mum’s charming little house in Brighton with their quite epic journey nearly at an end.  All they had to do now was empty the automobile, sell it, self isolate and find somewhere to get their jabs.  It didn’t seem that big a list.  

    A new adventure was about to begin.

    Paul went to bed with a sense of excitement, dread and weariness.  He knew he really had no real idea what was around the corner but it was great to be amongst family – even if he wasn’t meant to go near them!

    He and Andrew hit the pillow and readied themselves, or perhaps steadied themselves, for the ten days of quarantine which lay ahead.

    Freedom was not to be theirs – not quite yet.

    But hey, in the weird Covid world in which they were now living, they had done it all before.

    Twice.

    And with mum’s bijoux garden beckoning and bathed in June sunshine, they knew it could be so much worse!

    They had to learn to walk upon England’s mountains green once again.

    It was ’School Brittania’!

    The Queen Mary welcomes us back to British shores.

    Well, for one term at least.

    And then ……

  • The Second Coming!

    Paul sat in the verdant garden of an old Cantabrian house which had obviously been transformed into a knocking shop for middle ranking coppers and dodgy MPs. As he watched Andrew smoke a cigarette he took a long, deep breath.  

    In. 

    Pause. 

    And then out. 

    Just as he’d read how to do in the countless self-help books he’d read and re-read over countless unhelpful years. 

    It made absolutely no difference. He was still pissed off after being snubbed by a couple in white linen, quite obviously unmarried, who had both sneered at his apparel whilst conducting an insidious affair over a bowl of green olives. They’d not even given him a nod as he bade them Buenos Tardes, both far too busy betraying their kids and their partners and whispering their sweet somethings. 

    Nothing!

    Not even a slight smile.

    Paul didn’t care. 

    Much! 

    After all, he had  just driven nearly halfway across Spain, lost he and Andrew’s passports,(allegedly!), driven back the other way, sorted the emergency travel documents which were now needed and then raced back across The Iberian Peninsula.  Carmen and Carlos conducting their sordid little liaison behind a Mimosa, minus manners, were certainly not going to prove the proverbial last straw that broke his donkey’s back. Paul was far too determined to get back to Blighty without any more hitches – so any rudeness from some unhitched blighters was easy to ignore. Besides, he and Andrew’s journey during these strange Covid’ times had turned into somewhat of a questionable road trip.

    Much like ‘Thelma And Disease’. 

    Only The Lola Boys were hoping for a more uplifting ending.

    Of course, there had been some dramas and adventures on route. They wouldn’t be named Paul and Andrew were it not so.

    And just a few detours. 

    When the boys learnt that the next boat on which they were able to smuggle a Pomeranian was in another three weeks they had to think on their heels. They knew they couldn’t stay on the road – it had already proved difficult with Lola and they’d be completely skint by the time they hit Portsmouth. Luckily, a few friends had come up with offers of accommodation, which Paul and Andrew accepted with gratitude and apprehension. After all, one never knew a person until they lived with them.

    Feeling more than Fino on the sherry!

    Think ‘Big Brother’ thought Paul. The tv show, not the novel. He was fairly sure he and Andrew didn’t have any friends that were that controlling. But only fairly!

    He and Andrew first drove south to Jerez, the only town on route they’d heard of which was willing to accept Lola. They spent a night on Sherry, the drink, not the woman, and attempted to focus on the end of the Eurovision Song Contest, which Andrew decided to blast from the decrepit tv which was almost attached to the wall. 

    It had not been worth it. 

    The United Kingdom – nil points! 

    Paul wondered if he really wanted to turn back, but a sense of compassion and musicality allayed any fears. The winning song had been dreadful after all. The whole charade had become quite political, Paul wondered jf the UK shouldn’t just make another Brexit from the competition and leave it to the likes of those famous European nations such as Australia and Azerbaijan to fight it out. It all seemed most unfair. 

    As did the fact that he and Andrew had to vacate their room the following day. Jerez seemed to be a vibrant place which deserved more time,  but of course, they were not on a jolly. They were heading back to sort out their replacement passports and their’s and Lola’s Covid checks. 

    But before that came Tarifa. 

    Paul and Andrew had heard tales of a Tarifa for years. It was found just around the corner to the ‘Costa Del Crime’ on the Costa Del La Luz, but Paul and Andrew had yet to see the light.

    Paul did not want another long drive following he and Andrew’s ‘Cannonball Run’ to the centre of Spain and back, so Tarifa, with her cool winds and vibe to match seemed the perfect place to chill. The boys also had a friend who resided in the town, Naomi, whom they had messaged the previous evening. She had not yet got back to them so instead they had checked into a small hostal which had been recommended by another friend. Paul knew it was good to have friends. It made the journey through life,(and Spain), a little easier – unless they were full of bullshit of course!

    The hostal was most odd. After taking over an hour to find somewhere to park their packed car they eventually found the place. No name, no number and one entered up the stairs to find only a stark white corridor with several white doors also showing no indication of numbers. The keys in the doors provided the clue. And after Paul had called the absent owner and read the booking instructions correctly,  he worked out that it was one of the keys that was the key.  The room number was found on on the key fob. Fab! Finally they were in.  They had three nights of sun, sand and speedos and more importantly Lola had a place to rest her weary, yet fussy little head.

    After finding their bedsit, they collapsed onto a table and chairs at a small cafe which occupied the corner of their alley and the main drag. They managed to sink a couple of beers rather too quickly and were discussing whether Naomi had been in touch when around the corner she suddenly appeared. Like the shopkeeper from Mr Benn! Only more glamorous!

    It was a crazy coincidence. As it came to pass she had spent a rather crazy night – the details of which had to remain entirely confidential – and had therefore not got their message. But she was thrilled to see them both – and Lola. Suffice to say, their relationship rekindled, the boys and Naomi spent a terrific few days and nights in Tarifa. 

    A Night With The Girls

    Paul and Andrew loved the town.

    The beaches knocked the flip flops off any others they’d visited in Spain and the hippy/party atmosphere was right up their street.

    Literally!!!

    Heading away from Tarifa, towards good friends in Sotogrande, they were both nursing evil hangovers. But it had been worth it. They would certainly return. Naomi had shown them the ropes – even though they now felt as if they were on them!

    Sotogrande proved just as fun. The boys’ mates, Darren and Paul, were wonderful hosts. Generous to a fault and the three days they spent at their gorgeous house was just the tonic they needed – of course, it was infused with more than a touch of gin, so Paul and Andrew left feeling much the same as they had when saying adios to Tarifa.

    Completely buggered! 

    Not literally!

    ‘The Bad ‘Ol Days’!

    Marbella was the next stop they had been offered – and absolutely perfect, being close to Malaga, from where their emergency travel documents were to be couriered.  Their old friend Jan had been house sitting for a rich bird who had flown off to Australia and Jan was now residing in the mansion with her charming daughter Lily Rose. Jan had known The Lola Boys from the days of their showbar, when she had appeared in many of their shows. It was great to spend time with her and reminisce about the bad old days – they had a great time. 

    Losing their passports had turned out to be rather fun – if not a touch expensive.  But with both of them now delivered, in Tiffany Blue coverings, it was time to breakfast somewhere else.  

    They hit the road yet again.

    This time they eschewed Naomi’s offer of a return to Tarifa, fearing they may never leave the place. Even Lola was chilled out in it’s sexy environs. Instead they headed for Merida – the town in which their passport had gone missing in the first place. 

    At least Paul knew the way. 

    And this time, he thought, they may get a peek at the magnificent Roman ruins which studded the town.

    No such luck. 

    After arriving at the Hostal Imperial, which was unfortunately Imperial only by name, they set out for the ancient roman theatre. The extramaduran heat beat down with such ferocity that they had no option but to perch themselves under the first umbrella they came across. Lola snored in the shade whilst the beers flowed, mostly due to relief that the unlucky trio were now well on their way.  All they had to do now was head further north to the old university city of Salamanca – where Paul had organised Covid tests for the humans and another health check for the dog. 

    It had seemed far more sensible than completing them in Andalucia and then bombing it towards Santander.  He thought it better that they had some leeway – should any further drama occur. They had booked an extra night in Merida so they could take in the culture before hitting the highway.  Unsurprisingly, what with the ale and the addling heat, they managed to see even less of the town than they had on their first disastrous visit.  And when the guides at the Roman Amphitheatre explained to Paul and Andrew that they would have to decant Lola into their man bag before being allowed inside,  they both knew they wouldn’t be seeing very much more.  They were sure that in forty degree heat poor Lola would end up more ruined than some of the statues they’d bumped into. 

    And probably less lifelike! 

    She may have been a Pom, but they didn’t want her to end up like a Pompeian!

    So they acted like complete Philistines, hitting the Roman cobbles and sating themselves with beer and berenjenas instead.

    Surely the citizens of ancient Rome would have approved.

    When Not In Rome …..

    The following day and another sweaty drive, sans air con, to Salamanca, saw them pulled over onto the side of the motorway and questioned by the Guardia Civil.  A six foot six specimen in exceptionally tight trousers questioned them first.

    ‘Do you have any alcohol, tobacco or drugs in your car?’ he asked.

    ’No’ Paul lied, attempting to look as innocent as possible, which was never an easy look for him to pull off. He blamed that on the act, although even he wasn’t even entirely convinced.

    ‘Step out of the vehicle please sir’, the giant in the fitted pants continued.

    Paul and Andrew were both beginning to wonder if they would ever get out of Spain.  It felt as though she had them in her latino clutches and was refusing to let them go!

    Nearly an hour later, drenched with sweat and reeking of panic, after having to remove all of their suitcases and place them onto the hard shoulder to be searched, the boys were back on route.  The Guardia had been incredibly polite, especially when, which much amusement,  they had clocked the size eleven six inch stilletos.  

    And so very thorough. 

    As Paul and Andrew continued along the long Spanish highway , Paul knew the first thing he would do when he reached Salamanca was open the one bag the Guardia had not. He was sure there was some herbal tobacco nestling indiscreetly inside an blue Indonesian box of his that would take the edge off ! 

    Ten minutes later and a convoy of six Guardia cop cars, sandwiching a plain white van, came speeding past them.  The boys in green had obviously found what they were looking for. Although Paul doubted the illicit cargo had been of that colour. There had been far too many automatic weapons around – the force had obviously had a tip off. Which had paid off. But also caused him and Andrew considerable delay. 

    They pulled into Salamanca during that unnaturally quiet time in proper Spain when the death in the afternoon was just about to become evening and life would soon begin again. It was all very Hemingway. And was actually rather good timing. The motionlessness serving as an antidote to their constant motion.

    What followed was an evening of tapas and treats for Lola and the boys.

    And an early night.

    They were all exhausted, and the next day they had to complete all of the boring Coronavirus swabbing and worming which was required of them before they could get back to their country of origin.

    The following morning the GPS on their mobile managed to take them to the wrong hospital for their tests. They were directed by a charming woman to the second floor where they wandered around the Intensive Care department, Lola in tow, searching to be swabbed.  Paul asked a doctor where they were to be tested. He appeared rather confused.

    ‘For Covid’ Paul had reiterated in his best Spanish, ‘you know Covid?’

    ‘Yes’ replied the poor medic sardonically, ‘I know Covid!’

    Paul suddenly felt ridiculous. He’d obviously not meant to impute the Doctor’s medical knowledge, he was simply very tired. 

    The driving was driving him crazy. The heat making him hot under the collar. And the rapid Spanish making his pulse race.  He did manage to get directions, from a wonderfully friendly nurse, to the clinic at which they had arranged appointments . Mercifully,  it was a fairly short walk away, although Lola had to be carried neath the merciless sun. 

    They were poked and swabbed yet again – and yet again they were found to be negative. Which made them both very positive.

    Next, the vet for Lola. Hopefully to receive the all clear.  

    Paul went alone as Andrew could no longer walk properly.  An old injury from a pair of high heels during a performance of ’The Rocky Horror Show’ had reared it’s ugly cartilage. His cruciate was excruciating – so Paul offered to locate the surgery in advance of taking Lola, leaving one man and his dog to rest under another large sunshade with another cerveza grande.  

    Unfortunately, Paul had managed to find the wrong establishment, and when he later returned with Lola in his arms the friendly, young veterinarian had no idea why he and his feisty Pomeranian were even there. Luckily , Paul had recalled, in quite an abstract fashion, that the vet at which he’d made the initial appointment was named ‘Picasso’. As soon as he mentioned this he was directed, very kindly, to the vet in question. Which was thankfully on the same street, hence the mix up. 

    Lola sailed through her examination, mostly coz the wind had been taken out of her sails and she had little energy to bite back. She had never before visited two vets in one day. Or been wormed quite as frequently.

    Nor had Paul!

    The boys and their bitch spent another night in the stunning city of Salamanca which proved to be a revelation. Her ‘Plaza Mayor’ was stunning – her basilica even more so,  along with the university freshman who were working as waiters to fund their studying. Getting fresh with some of them proved as enticing as the dishes these dishy guys were serving. But Paul knew he was too old for them – and if not, certainly too knackered!

    He retired before Andrew that evening knowing he had another drive to do in the morning.  Andrew had come up to the room a couple of hours later waking Paul whilst mumbling something about the ‘fucking police’. 

    Paul made the pretence of being asleep. 

    He really didn’t want to know. 

    In the morning it transpired that his partner had got into trouble for smoking without a mask whilst keeping one leg on the terrace.  It seemed rather pedantic, and Paul wondered how one could fumigate with a face covering, but chose not to get into semantics. It was far too early and it was going to be a another marathon drive in their Ford with little focus!

    And so they motored into the relative cool of Cantabria in northern Spain.  At least this time they had no enforced stops and no swabbing to do on arrival.

    This time the journey was fairy uneventful, except for a dizzy spell at 100mph – Paul chose not to share this with Andrew. He was a nervous enough passenger as it was.

    By four 0’clock they had pulled into the car park of their final resting place before they took to the high seas.

    Andrew hit the pillow for a coupleof hours and Paul went down into the garden to try and appreciate the semi-luxury they had for at least one night.

    As he took a selfie in the Cantabrian countryside Paul could not help thinking he looked a complete, he didn’t want to use the word, but he certainly felt like it! 

    His hair was too blonde. He looked like he’d stroked, and he was clearly showing every one of his fifty three years! 

    Hideous!!!

    He wondered why he loved to travel so much – as it was quite clearly not so keen on him! No wonder the stuck up bitches in the white linen conducting the affair had snubbed him. He would probably have done the same. 

    Or handed over some loose change. 

    It had never seemed a big issue to be terribly casual on an Indian train or a Cambodian mini-bus, yet it was clearly not so when staying in a semi posh brothel full of semis ! 

    There was a certain snobbery abounding which Paul chose to ignore – after all the surroundings were astounding and the staff pleasant – ish!

    Dinner was that boring combination of being both expensive and crap. Raw lamb chops and a steak which looked as if it had been dissected! Paul would like to have done the same to the chef, but his energy was too low. And he knew the clientele hardly came for the cuisine. The privacy and the coming were quite enough!

    Besides, he, Andrew and Lola were on the home straight. Even if they weren’t going home and they weren’t straight!

    They needed no more drama.

    No more Covidness.

    In fact, no more anything.

    But, of course, being The Lola Boys, that was not to be the case!

  • A Spring Nativity!

    A Spring Nativity!

    You’ve still got the passports haven’t you?’ Andrew asked Paul, who was currently pushing their twenty year old Ford Focus to breaking point on the A66 somewhere in the middle of Extramadura; somewhere in the middle of Spain.

    ‘You had them last’ Paul retorted brusquely, already pissed off he’d done all the driving for the last ten hours!

    ‘I gave them to you at the last place – when you went into that hotel’ said Andrew.

    ‘I’m sure you didn’t’ answered Paul, taking one hand unwisely away from the steering wheel to check his pockets.

    The car swerved slightly towards the central reservation, never a good thing at 130km an hour,

    ‘’Don’t look now’”, Andrew snarled, ‘pull off the road. Here, look!’ he said, gesturing to an exit just a few yards ahead. A small paved hillock ending in a confusing junction which enabled them to exit the motorway.  When they reached the top they parked up on an inexplicable grass verge which seemed to serve no purpose, but was a perfect spot for he and Andrew to have a contretemps.

    Paul whacked on the hand break far too violently and began to search his many pockets for a sign of the missing passports. He cursed the fact he was wearing combat shorts – there were too many places to put things in such a garment. Especially things of importance.  After a frantic pat around the buttock region he knew the missing passports were nowhere to be found.

    ‘I’m sure you had them Andrew. I didn’t need them – I only went in to that hotel to see if they accepted pets.’

    ’No’,  Andrew continued, now with a raised voice, ‘you snatched them from me in a mood and sashayed off!’

    ‘I did not. And I don’t sashay  you fucker’, spat Paul, sachaying out from the car to check down the side of the driver’s seat.

    After several tense minutes on the roadside checking every pocket, and anywhere in the car they could think of they realised their documents were still nowhere to be found.

    ‘You’ll have to drive us back to that last hotel’, suggested Andrew, with no hint of suggestion. It was more of an order.

    ’But it’s miles!’

    ‘It’s the only place they can be’, shouted Andrew.

    With that, Paul headed back onto the highway in the same direction from whence they’d come. He was so bored behind the wheel now and the sun was setting. Driving in the dark, was one of his pet hates, especially with a pet and an angry gay onboard. But he had no choice. After all, maybe he was the culprit. Perhaps he had left the passports at the hotel whilst asking for accommodation. He thought not. He knew not. 

    But he couldn’t be sure.

    Half an hour later and they were back in Merida – the once Roman town which Paul had realised disconcertingly was an anagram of Mierda. The Spanish for shit! He hoped it wasn’t an omen. The Romans had been so keen on them. And they were never that good!

    He and Andrew retraced their steps – which was no mean feat on their tired feet as they had visited four hotels throughout the winding roads and with no 4G to help them out.

    ‘I’m sure it was the Hotel Apollo’,  Paul piped up hopefully as they meandered hopelessly around the town, ‘

    I’m fairly sure it wasn’t a Roman God’s name, that’s why I remember it.’ (Sometimes his pretension even annoyed him – but at least it had etched something into his mind.)

    After a short while searching for Apollo, Paul had an epiphany.  No, it hadn’t been ‘Apollo’ – the hotel had been called ‘Zeus’! That’s why he’d thought it odd. Of course most of this was Greek to his partner, but at least they now had a chance of finding the place.

    Eventually, after several heated debates, and an incident involving a superannuated pensioner dressed in traditional dress at a set of dodgy traffic lights, they found the place.

    The ‘Hotel Zeus!’ Thank the Gods!

    Paul jumped from the car with everything crossed, praying to every God and Saint he could think of.  He envisioned the two scruffy passports laying nonchalantly on the desk unnoticed by the  equally nonchalant receptionist to whom he had spoken earlier.

    Sadly not.

    ‘No’, said the serious hotelier when Paul asked if he had mistakenly left their IDs at the hotel. ‘No’ he said again, and then again, a little louder this time, with absolutely no doubt, 

    ’Seguro. No’.

    Another search of the Ford Focus ensued, this time with a little more focus as things were getting a tad more serious. Without their passports, especially during these strange days of Covid, they knew there was no way for them to ford the English Channel.

    Paul called the British Consulate, which were, as always, sort of helpful. He was told that he and Andrew would probably not get an emergency travel document in time to travel. Especially as it usually took two working days and they had managed to misplace their documents at the beginning of the weekend.  Paul wanted to shout at the other person on the other end of the telephone, asking why the weekend mattered under such urgent circumstances, but knew it would get him nowhere.  Everybody wanted their days off after all – even those well paid gits at the British embassy in Madrid.  No doubt they also took a bloody siesta he thought. But he wisely held back!

    ‘We’ll have to drive to the next town’ he said to Andrew, who was now entirely miserable, ‘Otherwise we’ll have nowhere to sleep tonight.’

    ‘’Me and Lola can sleep in the car, you take the hotel as you’re driving’ said Andrew.

    ‘No – I won’t do that. You can’t sleep in the car – there is no room!’ 

    Paul was right, as their vehicle was packed to the hilt with clothes and breakables. Although it was their spirits that were nearing breaking point, Paul had no intention of smashing any of his sister’s pottery which had been almost carefully packed around the other bric-a-crap they were transporting. All of her work would end up looking like the ruins in Merida if he allowed Andrew to lay back and stretch out his legs. Besides he knew it wasn’t fair – they had been on the road for a whole day and all three of them needed a decent place to sleep. 

    Paul hit the motorway again and continued north. The sun was beginning to set fast and Paul was beginning to worry that Andrew’s idea may be the only one possible, then suddenly a sign came upon them. A motorway sign showing a a knife and fork, a gas pump and a bed. Hallelujah! There was apparently food and shelter ahead. They came off at the next exit in hope of finding somewhere to rest their weary heads.

    Three old men with five teeth amongst them were sitting outside of a small shack purporting to be a motel.

    ‘Keep her out of sight’ Paul hissed, as they pulled up outside the hovel which advertised lodgings. He got out of the car and attempted to look as respectable as possible as he headed towards a building that made ‘Crossroads Motel’ look like The Dorchester.

    After a terse conversation in terrible Spanish Paul felt relief.

    Finally, they had come up trumps. 

    The suspicious owner said they could have a room for the night for fifty quid. They were also able to have a bocadillo and one beer before they retired. They were not allowed to leave their room after ten-thirty, which was in three quarters of an hour,  as the alarm would sound. They would also have to agree to be locked inside their room until until 8 am due to something which Paul had lost in translation. Toothless Extramaduran Spanish was not his forte, but he readily agreed, as the whole evening was beginning to take on a shade of Bethlehem.  And he thought it may be their trios last chance to find anything remotely stable.

    The deal was done. 

    And then , without warning, Andrew alighted the car with Lola in his arms. The three unwise men looked as if they’d seen Lucifer himself.  Paul knew immediately the deal was off before they had even spoken.

    ’No Perros’ said the man with two teeth, ’no, no !’

    But where do we go, at this time of night, asked Paul, in his finest Extrameduran accent.

    They were directed charmlessly and toothlessly to the next town. Caseres!

    Paul, Andrew and their little Lola hit the road again, as the sun set and their nativity began to play out like a nightmare.

    ‘I’m driving to the next town’ Paul said urgently to Andrew, he was taking control now, ‘and we shan’t be mentioning the dog! We are not sleeping in the car – I shall get us in somewhere!’ He half expected to see the Angel Gabriel for directions, but knew it would probably be a hallucination – only probably. The whole place was incredibly Catholic. He wasn’t actually sure of anything.  Jesus Christ! He and Andrew had travelled through the wilds of Cambodia and the less popular regions of India with less trouble. He was going off Spain by the second!

    The firmament’s orange glow faded to an indigo nightlight as they eventually pulled into the next town of Caseres.  It seemed rather modern and Paul could see a neon light in the distance which he thought to be the ‘Hotel Gabriel’ – he knew it was time to stop. Mercifully , t’was an Inn. He parked outside leaving Andrew and Lola hidden in the dark and went inside to speak to the innkeeper.

    It was a four star hotel, which was a good three stars more than any he and andrew were used to, but he didn’t care, he was far too exhausted.  The gorgeous receptionist informed him that there was a accomadation available and that he could park his car in the garage for an extra fee and then he would have direct access to the room.

    ‘Perfecto’,  Paul responded, knowing he and Andrew would be able to smuggle the baby Lola into her manger with minimum trouble. Fuck knows what they would do with the donkey!

    They parked the car beneath the hotel and then Andrew swaddled Lola in an old show jacket he’d once been given from a West- End flop in which he’d appeared, and smuggled her into the elevator, avoiding the scrutiny of a lone security guard and what seemed like a hundred cameras.  They’d both known that jacket would come in useful someday.  

    Lola was the quietest she’d ever been. Perhaps even she realised it was silence or the Ford Focus for the night. 

    It was a true miracle. They’d found their manger. Now all they had to do was keep her quiet – another miracle was certainly required! 

    They entered the room at The Extramedura Hotel, which certainly did not allow ‘mascotas’,  exactly twelve hours from when they had set off from what had once been their pet friendly home.  They were all physically and mentally exhausted – not to mention passportless! But the baby Lola was in her manger and they had something better than straw on which to sleep. Thank Heavens!

    They even managed to sneak Lola out again through the garage door to give her a much needed walk and obtain some much needed refreshment for her parents. Of course, she then had to go back into her swaddling clothes in order to get back into the room. But it was worth it!

    The night passed without any drama. Save a small poo, which Paul cleaned up from the fake wooden floor in the morning. It had belonged to Lola of course. Or so Paul had hoped!

    Then he and Andrew went to breakfast separately in order to deter any barking. It was hardly worth it. A tawdry affair of raw bacon and something called Migas, a speciality of the region made with breadcrumbs and something unrecognisable. Also cold! It made ‘Paxo’ look like Chateaubriand! 

    Then, they escaped. None of them were in the mood for a long car journey so they made their way into the charming old town where they had booked themselves into a crumblingly beautiful guest house for the night. Finally they could rest.

    And bark!

    The old town of Caseres was a delight. A medieval square packed with restaurants – sadly though, with medieval service. In fact Paul assumed a few wenches from back then may have been quicker – and certainly more saucy. The desayuno was just as disappointing as that in the new town the previous morning – but at least the scenery was spectacular. And Lola had no need to be swaddled.

    The lady who had run their establishment had sported pink hair and a broad smile. She had been charmed by Lola as well as Paul and Andrew, it was rare all three of them were a hit. It had been such a good idea to stay another night before burning any more rubber. They were at least partly refreshed. Even if their travel plans had gone up into fresh air.

    Now, with no passports – and no ferry with a kennel available until mid June, the boys and their bitch had no choice but to head back south. The motley trio could not afford to stay on the road until mid-June. They’d need to find some charity. And luckily some unsuspecting friends had offered them lodgings should they be needed. Which, unfortunately, they now were.

    It was all most unsettling. And everything had started out quite well.

    He and Andrew had left Andalucia  early-ish  the previous morning after handing their apartment over to the agent and saying their goodbyes to their good friend and Lola’s little brother who lived up the road. It had been somewhat emotional and tiring. 

    They had had their sodding ‘Covid’ tests – which had luckily come back negative. And Lola, their feisty Pomeranian, had past all her veterinary checks and been wormed publicly, (a strange ritual Paul thought- almost Roman), so they were under a tight schedule to get to Santander before the certificates became invalid. There really was no time to lose.

    They had got to Seville in good time, although they had not reckoned on being stuck in heavy, impatient, Andalucian traffic for an hour due to the sat nav on their phone sending them in the wrong direction and then dying completely at an overcomplicated junction. Paul had never been that keen on ‘Miss Movistar’ – she was a ‘D-lister’ if that. He could quite happily throw the phone onto the proverbial red carpet and crush it with a red stiletto! It was that useful!

    But they had managed to continue on by feel towards the next town Paul had remembered was on the map. 

    Merida. 

    Later named by himself, Mierda! (Shit in Spanish).

    Thank God Paul had once attended naval school and therefore map reading had always come fairly naturally to him. That and semaphore – although neither were bothered with much anymore. He doubted if any of the ‘Woke’ brigade were awake enough to study a real map as they were genetically attached to their googles. And they surely detested flags!

    Finally though. A place. Merida. From the outside she appeared most accommodating.

    Of course the rest of the tale is ancient history. 

    Or rather, written above.

    Two days later and The Lola Boys were currently back on the road, heading in the opposite direction to the one which they had so uncarefully planned.

    This time they thought it a good idea to use the ancient art of booking ahead. That way they may at least avoid another Nativity scene. One more of those and there could be gold, frankincense and murder involved!

    They drove towards the southern skies of Jerez.  At least there were lodgings there that would let them in.

    And rather good Sherry apparently.

    They were all in great need of a chalice or three of that.

    Even Lola.

    So far it had been a journey of which even the magi would have been proud. Although the three of them had had a star to follow, not a crappy sat nav that one could never take as gospel, twinkling intermittently in Andrew’s sweaty Sunday palm.

    Paul decided to follow the orthodox signs instead. 

    It felt more traditional. And it worked.

    They entered the city of Jerez in the late blazing afternoon.

    He paused for contemplation as he studied the maze of one way streets which now encompassed them.  

    This was gonna be another trek he knew it. And no star to guide the way. 

    He knew, just as in the last city in which he and Andrew had been lost, he’d just have to follow his Roman nose!

    Mierda!

  • Spexit Stage Right.

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

    And a load of Jackson Pollocks by the fifth! 

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

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

    Covid 19 had put pay to that. 

    One year on and The Lola Boys were still stranded. 

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

    Cabaret untenable. 

    Theatre dark. 

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

    Paul especially. 

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

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

    The Lola Boys just needed a crowd!

    Or maybe not!

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

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

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

    It was time to make a ’Spexit.’

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

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

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

    They knew they would return to Spain.

    But not quite yet.

    The novel virus made for novel adventures.

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

    But Paul and Andrew were most excited to find out.

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

    Hopefully …

    And so –  let the blog commence …..

  • Barbra The Boa And Other Tales Of Covid.

    Barbra The Boa And Other Tales Of Covid.

    It had been months since Barbra the boa had last enjoyed a night out. In fact she hadn’t been given an airing from her carrier bag for months. The conditions were hot and moist, she longed to feel the sea breeze finesse her feathers in the manner to which she had become accustomed. To shed her plumage cross the beach whilst draped on a camp, melodious arm. Oh how she ached for a shimmy and the whiff of her old friend Maisie Mascara. But she knew it would be a while before either of them would be allowed out again to flutter an eyelash or shake a fuschia tail feather.

    It was the same for all of ‘The Lola Boy’s’ accessories.

    They were all on the scrap heap now.

    The stupid ‘people virus’ had made sure of that. It was every old boas nightmare to be eventually cast onto life’s existential jumble sale. Or worst still, to be donated to charity. If Barbra had known, for just one flick of a feather, that she might end her once glamorous nights strung up and moulting from a wire coat hanger in a back-end Barnardo’s, she would have taken flight much earlier in her career.

    Lord knows she’d had the chance!

    Many a drunken ‘Lolaboy’ fan had tried to snatch her from the back of her master mid-performance. He had, of course, been too wound up in his own show to notice her struggle to stay attached. But Barbra had valiantly clung to her owner even when feeling totally plucked. She thought such loyalty would have a least granted her keepsake status. But now she was no longer sure. All her master ever spoke of lately was ‘lock down’ and curfew. Barbra was worried she may never be worn again. Every quill of her being was telling her it might be this old boa’s turn to bow out.

    She quivered.

    She was not yet ready to retire from the stage. She knew she had never been one of those terribly expensive appendages crafted from pure Ostrich or even Peacock. She might only be made up of plain old cock feathers but she had pluck, and staying power. She’d clung around much longer than most of the other tawdry drapery in the show. Most of which had wilted long before its time – beer sodden and limp.

    Or worse – missing!

    While there was still a pink feather left to her bow Barbra knew that this boa was gonna go out and shake it.

    She just had to persuade her master to throw her back on again.



    Mickey the mic was also cranky. He hadn’t been turned on for what seemed like an age. He ached for the dust to be blasted from his foam. To be released from his case and feel the inevitable feedback once again. Sadly, there had been very little singing in his vicinity for quite a while. His dark master broke into song more often. He sang like a shy nightingale in the early morning as if his life depended upon it. But he never turned Mickey on like he once had. He didn’t need him now. There was no need for amplification if there was no crowd.

    His other master, the strange one with the blonde bush of hair, rarely sang these days and therefore never came close to switching him on. Occasionally Mickey heard Paul lazily prodding a few piano keys and humming an old showtime, but he never got to the chorus.

    Not anymore.

    T’was as if he’d run out of steam.

    Mickey was worried they may all grow rusty.



    Penelope the piano had been notably under-fingered over the last year. She was terrified she would become one of those third hand pianos that just stood to lifeless attention against a damp wall. Never to be played.

    Or touched.

    Growing more tuneless as time’s song sheet rolled ineffably by.

    Oh how she yearned for this human virus to be over. It was beginning to infect her – like woodworm. But she knew this to be ridiculous. She knew that inanimates were not susceptible. It was only her masters who were in danger. But this didn’t help. The ‘people sickness’ had caused a leaching of joy. Her masters seemed to be possessed of less happiness than they had once exhibited. Their need to express themselves artistically seemed somewhat diminished. It was therefore obvious that Penelope would be receiving far less attention than usual. She knew this would be difficult – she had a terribly musical temperament after all, but she continued to pedal away. It was true she was now missing a few keys here and there and her bottom end was not what it once was, but she could still bang out a good tune when needed. She was confident her time would return. It always had. Even when the mad general had been in power and music was a No No! She was prepared to take it very lento until then. Keeping pianissimo for a bar or two longer. At least she wasn’t locked up in ‘The Lola Boys’ store room with Stella and the other equipment.


    Stella the stiletto hadn’t stepped out in nearly a year. She had so been looking forward to stretching a tendon or two on the cabaret stage over the summer but Corona had brought her to heel. She had been unceremoniously squeezed into a plastic Lidl bag and put on a pile next to an absolute slut of a pink boa and a rusty old radio Mic. Had she known she would end her days cast onto the shelf in such unceremonious fashion she’d have snapped years ago. She had worked her twelve inches for all they were worth for years. Night after night struggling under the weight of the bleach blonde hefferlump who had strutted in her quite , quite mercilessly.

    Show after show.

    She felt as if she’d strutted to the buggery moon and back with that old fool onboard and what thanks did she get?

    Bagged up and tossed aside like a charity slingback. She’d like nothing more than to break his ankle. She swore she would when she next got near enough.

    That’d be an interesting ‘Time Warp’!

    Did he not realise he was nothing without the height and glamour she offered? She’d made him and she could break him just as easily.

    Or at least part of him.

    Stella The Stillie felt stifled. Flat-footed and useless. She longed to step out of the storeroom once again.

    ************************************************************************

    ´Look at the state of these’ said Paul, swinging a dilapidated pair of red stilettos in Andrew’s face, ‘they’ve been round the bloody block.’

    ‘More than once by the look of ‘em’ said Andrew cheekily.

    But he wasn’t wrong. The offending footwear looked more than tired. The heels were clinging on for dear life and there were blotches of orange on the patent leather where Paul had attempted to patch up the scuffs with a mismatching nail varnish. It hadn’t been a total success but it was good enough. They were shitty shoes anyway.

    ‘They look ready for chucking’ mused Andrew.

    ‘Yeah you’re probably right,’ Paul responded, grudgingly, ‘maybe we should have a proper sort out. We could probably throw half of this stuff out. Give some to the charity shop as well. Look at those old boas they’ve well and truly had it!’

    ‘They look like shit’ said Andrew less poetically. ‘We should sort everything out now while we’ve got the time,’ he continued, ‘buy new.

    ‘Yeah I know we should but is it worth it?’ Paul chimed in. ‘I mean we’re not gonna be able to work yet, we don’t know what’s going to happen. We may as well just hang on to all this stuff just in case. We don’t need anything new yet.’

    ‘But what about your heels?’ Andrew queried.

    ‘They’re fine. I’ve used them for years. They’re comfortable – sort of! And they hold me up. Better the devil you know.’

    ‘Yeah I suppose’ Andrew replied, besides he just wasn’t in the mood for a big sort out, not unless it was absolutely necessary, ‘let’s just leave it all for now.’

    ‘Let’s’ said Paul, feeling strangely self conscious as he closed the door to ‘The Lola Boys’ store room.

    ************************************************************************

    In the darkness of the store room Barbra the boa was all of a quiver.

    ‘Bloody Hell’ exclaimed Mickey that was a close one.

    ‘I thought I was off to Cudeca’, simpered Barbra, her few remaining feathers standing on end, ‘I just know I’ll be snapped up by a portly pensioner with a pension for Zumba. Ooh the sweat!’

    ‘And I’ll be going up the coast for some dodgy Lady Gaga tribute’ Mickey said. ‘Imagine the spittle!’

    ‘Don’t be ridiculous’ shouted Stella the Stillie sharply, she had never been a stiletto to evade the point, ‘didn’t you hear them? They are going to keep us all for now. Better the devil you know he said – whatever that means. Besides they are both too lazy to change us. We are part of the show too. We have been for years. You watch – those bloody’ Lola Boys’ will be tossing us into the back of their Ford jalopy before you know it.

    ‘Oh I do hope so’ said Barbra. ‘I’ve missed being me.’

    ‘Me too’ intoned Mickey the mic.

    ‘Courage mes amis’ sung Stella pretentiously, she was her master’s shoe after all, ‘ it won’t be long now. Soon we shall all be back where we were made to be be. Yes – with one jab we’ll be free!’

    The Lola Boys’ props agreed that there was no point in panicking. They had to wait for this ‘people sickness’ to end before they could do anything. They may as well just loiter in the wings for now until the audience returned.

    They just hoped their masters would be able to do the same.