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!
  • Hair Today – Gone Tomorrow!

    Hair Today – Gone Tomorrow!

    Paul swiped away the decrepit hand at 6 ‘0 Clock and profered his nearest elbow towards the superannuated cheek at just past 9pm. This nifty manouourvre was needed in order to deflect another amorous octogenarian who had decided to lunge, lip first, towards his unmasked ‘eek.

    He needed no kissing.

    Not from any demographic.

    He wasn’t ageist!

    But nor was he a fan of Covid 19. In his opinion it wasn’t a patch on the Chanel version, yet it certainly possessed a heady perfume, and it’s silage was somewhat lingering to say the least. Therefore any maloderorous folk who looked to spray their scent in Paul’s general direction could go stick it up their aerosol.

    Neither did he want to listen to disparate conspiracy theories from drunken ignorami, gobbing their gobbledygook into his gob, unmasking a complete disregard for their fellow man in the process.

    Keep your shit and your spittle to yourself, he thought. (Though kept his feelings masked.) He wasn’t even entirely sure what he was feeling anymore. He just wanted the whole nasty-virus-thingy to blow over.

    Dissipate.

    He most certainly did not want another lock down. A term which sounded kinda fun in a saucy way yet had proved decidedly otherwise.

    The new normal seemed to Paul to consist of a few rather unattractive Draconian laws and an intermittent shortage of bog roll.

    He wasn’t sure why he was required to be masked up like a bandit when out walking the dog and miles from anyone, but he did as he was told. Of course, this made going out far less appealing. Most days Paul stayed home and wandered aimlessly around the apartment with his hair in a scruffy and utterly unflattering man bun. The style leant him a stark resemblance to Princess Anne. He didn’t give a royal shit. He had no public engagements in the near future – King Covid had made sure of that. Tours, overseas or otherwise, were most definitely ‘orf ! But a trip to the hairdressers was definitely in the diary. If not for the sake of the mirror that was practically screaming back at Paul’s barnet as he brushed his teeth.

    Paul thought his refection a touch Fletcher Christian. But his sub conscious was less bountiful and made sure he was blithely reminded of his similarity to the Princess Royal. It was time for one to take a little jaunt to the peluquería – whether one was amused or not.

    Paul had resisted all unnecessary sortees during the pandemic. Masking up, as was the rule in Andalucia, did nothing for his complexion. A quick mooch around Mercadona could result in a mini eruption of ‘Maskne’! Added to that irritating dermatalogical condition he also found it difficult to breath.

    His mother had kindly made he an Andrew the necessary face furniture now required, using material Paul had ordered online after some very brief research.

    The face wear looked fine, but it felt as if one had a struggling beaver strapped arounds one’s ‘boat race’. As appealing as that might sound to some, neither Paul or Andrew had ever been great fans, and therefore struggled with respiration when venturing out.

    So instead, the two of them had become virtually hermetic.

    Sealed and sozzled. Sitting out the Corona chaos ‘neath a smothering blanket of narcotics, nachos and Netflix.

    A somewhat heady combination.

    Paul knew it couldn’t go on forever or they’d both require rehab.

    From booze and ‘The Box !!’

    It was true that they’d been out to a couple of engagements which had proved most engaging, although the social distancing, which was mandated, made them far less social and feeling a more than a little distant. Paul had luckily managed to leave on both occasions just before he felt his mask slipping.

    He had never realised how tactile he actually was.

    Now, he’d noticed, after a couple of gin and tonics, he was apt to behave much like a desperate celephapod, attempting to brush his tentacles up against the nearest living creature.

    A squeeze of the arm to show understanding.

    A gentle shove to indicate mock disapproval.

    A back slap.

    A handshake.

    It felt so difficult to rein in all his limbs once the alcohol had oiled them up.

    And he noticed it in others too.

    Everyone was more social as the vino flowed. Far less distant. Whenever he saw such behaviour he knew it was the moment to make some distance between himself and the party. Before he or anyone else became out of hand. Or worse – hand in hand! Which was obviously the old normal. At least to him.

    A couple of days later Paul had received the royal look of disapproval from Andrew one too many times. At one point he was likened by his partner to the vagabond who begged for change outside the local Supersol. Suffice to say t’was not a good look, so he headed, sharpish, for the chopping block. Princess Anne had to be dispatched pronto, and so it was off to ‘Scabinillas’ and off with her head. He wanted to look like a commoner again.

    The visit to the hairdressers was like something one may have experienced in a small Ukrainian village during the Chernobyl crisis. Paul found himself melting down behind his duvet- style mask as his hair did the same beneath the thick layer of bleach that would take him back to his natural blonde state. His coiffeuse, Javier, wore black rubber gloves and a very serious looking visor as he snipped at Paul’s locks at an arm’s length. In the corner his assistant, Anna, was scrubbing ferociously away for dear life at anything in her path. The entire joint was clean enough to donate a kidney. Not that anyone would consider one of Paul’s organs after the copious Corona cocktails that had been flushed through them for the last few months. Still, he considered those concoctions preferable to necking bleach, as some idiot had once recommended. And a far more effective remedy for Covid 19 – Surely!

    Paul left the salon with wet hair. He always did. It didn’t matter how accomplished a hairdresser was, they always managed to make him look like a decrepit Shirley Temple by the time they had finished styling him. He would always have to head for the nearest water source to drown the perky little performance on top of his bonce. He really didn’t enjoy anybody fiddling with his hair to be honest. Especially as there was now less of it. Any follicular activity was best consigned to the bedroom in his opinion.

    As his curls dried off in the warm breeze Paul enjoyed the cleanliness one can only feel after having their hair washed twenty seven times. It felt good to have lost some of the dead weight. And for once he didn’t mean Andrew. He felt lighter in every way, until he glanced in the mirror and saw a drag race version of Mae West glaring back at him.

    He had always abided by the old adage that Blondes had more fun, but how much fun was he looking for? He was fairly sure he could charge for it if he kept the brassy style he was currently sporting. His husband only made things much worse by pointing out exactly why he looked so terrible.

    In detail.

    At length!

    Paul leapt for the phone. He then realised it was Monday – the salon would be shut – he would have to live on in his peroxide prison for another day. The loose strands that were falling over his face in an unnervingly ‘Stringfellow-esque’ fashion would have to be endured a while longer.

    He aimed to avoid all mirrors until after he’d revisited the barbers. It was the wisest thing to do or he knew he could suffer an attack of the nail scissors again. The last such incident in northern Thailand, a few years back, had not ended well for anyone – least of all Paul’s coiffeur – so he was attempting to eschew all scissor-happy thoughts and this time leave it to the professionals.

    He had no wish to awaken to a huge pile of ringlets and regret.

    The current situation was challenging enough without having to get through endless bad hair days on top.

    He didn’t want it to be his straw-like that broke the camel’s back.

    A fews day later and, thankfully, the hair situation had been remedied. Paul no longer resembled an ‘over-tanned, over-bleached, long haired faggot’, as he had once been described by a famous West End agent, some years back.

    An interview he had never forgotten.

    It was true he had no longer been in his ‘Juve Lead’ prime at the aforementioned meeting, yet he had considered, even then, the agent’s comments to be a touch harsh. Camp with a capital ‘C’. Paul had been fairly sure what the ‘C’ had represented and so had not taken up the ‘gentleman’ on his offer of representation.

    But he had cut his hair.

    And had dyed it the dullest shade of Camel.

    He ended up the split of ‘Mrs Brown’ – without the career!

    It had been an unhappy few months.

    There was bound to come a time where blondes didn’t always have the monopoly on more fun. And Paul knew he was grasping onto every last bleached strand for dear life, but he wasn’t quite ready to let go completely.

    To conform.

    Not back then.

    And certainly not now.

    It was bad enough being compelled to wear a bloody mask by the powers that breathe. It made every aspect of life far less compelling. Apart from sex. Social distancing was, however, certainly not conducive to that particular activity.

    Nothing was as fun as it used to be mused Paul.

    Even writing a sentence felt like serving one!

    Still – it would all blow over soon.

    Wouldn’t it?

    It had better do or he and Andrew would never have an audience again. The smell of the greasepaint was of no use without the roar of the crowd. Unfortunately it was the roar of Corona, King Of The Virus, that was making more of an impact at present and the crowd had well and truly been dispersed.

    But Paul was most confident they would return.

    Someday.

    Somewhere.

    Somehow.

    Just like in the musicals.

    Well – Some of them!


  • The Show Must Go On !

    The Show Must Go On !

    The Lola Boys had quite often played to a spaced out crowd. But by any measure, that was usually down to the Spanish kind, measures that is, not for lack of an audience. Now with social distancing looking to be the norm into the near distance, anybody sitting too near a distance was a no no! Also any performers treading the boards had to do so at least two metres apart.



    What a bloody performance!

    Paul was worried it could be the end of theatre as they knew it. He hoped he was being a touch dramatic. After all, ever since Thespis had stepped out of the ancient Greek chorus to give his solo, show business had survived. Plagues, wars, the censors! The performing arts had always found a way to perform. So a little bit of ‘Corona’ wasn’t gonna bring the curtain down. Paul was almost certain that once again the tabs would be raised on he and Andrew’s industry.

    He just wasn’t sure when that curtain call would come.

    They certainly were edge of the seat times. Who knew when the dress circle would open once again? T’was in the lap of the gods. And they were playing silly buggers at the moment starring in a right old farce. He only hoped he and Andrew could last out until those on high had taken their final bow, and he and his partner were able to slip back into a feather boa and belt out a few show tunes.

    He knew they were much more fortunate than some. They had each other, which was sometimes a blessing, and they had a loyal fan base who they hoped were waiting in the wings to come and rejoin them when the viral madness was over.

    And over it soon would be. Surely.  Paul was nothing if not an optimist. The house was always half full in his mind. Even if, at some of The Lola Boys earlier shows, he and Andrew had played to just two nuns and a whippet, in his mind he was always appearing at The London Palladium – and there wasn’t a seat to be had. Tragically, he was well aware that that most auspicious of venues was remaining closed for the foreseeable future. He’d also just learnt the UK’s panto season had been cancelled.

    Oh no it hadn’t’. Oh yes it had! The seasonal staple was now definitely well and truly behind them. Paul thought it so sad that most kids first visit to the theatre had now gone up in a puff of Corona. The evil genie had been let out of Wuhan and now you see it – now you won’t. What evil sorcery.

    Of course, the show must go on – only how could it? The famous lyric,’There’s no business like show business’, couldn’t have been more pertinent. There was no show business.. And there were no people like show people as most had been cast onto the proverbial scrapheap. Upstaged by a bowl of oriental bat shit and banished offstage due to a penchant for pangolin instead of pantomime.

    It was a real tragedy.

    Still. There was a glint of a happy ending. The pubs were re-opening.

    Paul and Andrew had missed the odd pitstop during their usual power walks around Brighton. It hadn’t been the same crouching in a back alley with a can of ‘Stella’ and a bottle of hand sanitiser. Although it wasn’t the first time they’d done that even before Covid 19 took hold. But it wasn’t as comfortable as sitting in a snug with a bag of pork scratchings chewing the fat with some theatrical company.

    Paul wasn’t sure he’d be rushing to his local though, just in case a local case was doing the rounds as he was buying one.

    He didn’t fancy finding out his pint had been spiked with a sudden spike.

    Although he missed the revelry and camaraderie a good inn could provide, a great atmosphere could often prove infectious. He was no coward. But nor was he that desperate for a piss up in public. Or a public piss come to that. He hated urinals at the best of times, but peeing during a pandemic had already proved most irritating. He’d found himself caught short in some very inconvenient spots. At one stage having to squat precariously between two narrowly parked cars in broad daylight, as there were no public conveniences open.

    Damned inconvenient.

    And terribly common.

    But he’d had no choice, and at least he chosen the gap between a BMW and a Mercedes. It had been a latrine of formula one status – and he’d urinated in a highly teutonic manner. Effectively and with immaculate aim. No bodywork had been corroded in the process, only his ego.

    But it didn’t mask the fact that they were living through strange times, Paul knew he would find it a relief when he could relieve himself in the usual manner. i.e. In private.

    Until then, it was any Porsche in a storm!

    He and Andrew had just been given the green light to purchase flights back to Spain. They were due to arrive almost six months to the day that they’d flown off into the eastern sunset, blithely unaware they would be quarantined as the sun rose on a world which had turned viral. They knew their pooch Lola would be thrilled to see them return.

    They weren’t so sure about some of the other bitches who’d already begun kicking off on social media.

    “Keep the Brits out until they’re clean’, was one of the headlines he’d come across in one of the local online rags, which purported to be purveyors of news on the Costa Del Sol.

    ‘We Don’t Want ‘Em Back ‘Ere’ read another. Written, no doubt, by one of those cheap ex-pat types who sit in ‘Spanish’ bars ruining their livers and lungs and transplanting themselves, at the first opportunity, back to the UK to get the NHS to replace them.

    With clean ones!

    He doubted many business owners felt the same way, realising a little oxygen was required to resuscitate their suffocating tourism industry. Many of the tawdry bars these bitter British folk frequented, as they sat on top of one another socially distancing their country of origin, would doubtless have to close up if they didn’t get some lifeline. Their paltry contribution to ‘Happy Hour’ wasn’t gonna cut the mustard. Even if it was English. It would be ‘Last Orders’!

    Paul knew he shouldn’t vent his spleen, but was sure he could be forgiven partaking of some ventilation during Covid 19.

    Everybody was at it after all.

    But, welcome or not, he and Andrew were determined to return to the life they had created.

    They’d booked their seats. The show, for them, would definitely go on.

    Even if the stage door was locked.

    After all, they had tickets!

  • I Have Always Depended On The Kindness Of Strangers!

    I Have Always Depended On The Kindness Of Strangers!

    ‘I have always depended on the kindness of strangers’ is the heroine’s famous final line of the Tennessee Williams classic , ‘A Streetcar Named Desire.’ Blanche Dubois speaks it to the doctor who gently takes her arm to cart her off to the loony bin in the play’s tragic denouement. Her freedom taken from her – Blanche is forced into lockdown. Much like Paul and Andrew and the rest of the world had been recently.  Like poor Blanche control had been snatched from them, unlike Blanche they hadn’t yet gone entirely mad.

    Well – Not quite yet.

    He and Andrew were both very fortunate that the kindness of strangers had helped them to escape from their paradisiacal prison in the The Philippines.

    They currently had good company hunkering down with Paul’s mum Linda in Brighton. They could be socially  distant and meet with their sister Tina and nephew Bill, as long as they remained two metres apart – physically if not emotionally. This was more difficult than it sounded.

    But the boys had access to wine, women and song. So the lockdown seemed entirely doable.

    Of course, the wine was often Voddy.

    The women often men.

    And the song was not sung.

    Well not live anyway.

    There was nothing ‘live’ in the entertainment world for the foreseeable future. This was already impacting on ‘The Lola Boys’ financial position yet it was their mental stance for which they were most concerned. A world without theatre or cabaret was difficult for them to imagine.

    Paul and Andrew had always worked in the arts in one form or another. They couldn’t really do much else. Nor was anything else something they desired to do. Their world came alive onstage. How would they stay sane without a laugh or a clap? Like so many performers applause sustained them. Paul knew it to be somewhat egotistical but a dose of the clap was better than any pay cheque.  And he knew it had kept he and Andrew afloat through the most difficult of times.

    Being a member of an audience was also an experience much missed by the boys.

    It was wonderful to watch as well as be watched.

    They had always both shared a passion for the stage. So it was brilliant to have ‘The National Theatre’ streaming past productions, which were recorded live, on Youtube.

    Paul had forced his mother and Andrew to sit through their latest offering, the aforementioned ‘Streetcar’, just the other night. Although once it was curtain up, neither had taken much persuasion.

    The piece was brilliant. All anyone could desire from a ‘Streetcar.’ Sex, booze and a obscene measure of steamy tragedy. They had all loved it and been moved by the brilliant Gillian Anderson, who, when not knocking around with aliens, was able to knock out an out of this world performance.

    The three and a bit hours had whizzed by.

    It was almost like being there. A brilliant illusion conjured up by the magic of ‘live’ theatre filmed.

    ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’ had been one of Paul’s dead nan’s favourite films. Before Paul was even big enough to hop onto a streetcar, she had enthused to him about it’s stars, Vivienne Leigh and Marlon Brando.  He’d been too young to understand it’s darker themes then, but he had loved the histrionics of Ms Leigh’s Blanche, and the sight of a smouldering Brando sporting a torn white vest had excited him even more. Although he didn’t let on to his grandmother about that aspect of his artistic enjoyment until years later.

    When he was quite sure what it meant!

    But it was one of his first meetings with a proper playwright – and Paul had been obsessed with Tennessee Williams and the theatre ever since. Eventually becoming a professional actor at the ripe old age of 22.

    Paul’s first job had been at the famous ‘Leicester Haymarket’ repertory theatre. A lead role in a leading venue, he couldn’t believe his luck. Although. he was quite certain he was going to be a star, he hadn’t expected the journey to begin quite so quickly. Decades later, after many years in the theatre and a long stint at doing cabaret as one half of ‘The Lola Boys’, he was not a star. But he knew enough of them to know it probably wasn’t something he really wanted. Not really. He and Andrew were far too naughty, they’d probably never be off of the front page of ‘The Daily Mail’ were they famous instead of infamous. Paul could only imagine the headlines.

    ‘Lola Boys Sex Scandal As Drunken Priest Drowns In Pool During Twelve Hour Drug-Fuelled Orgy!’

    He knew it was probably best if he and Andrew stayed beneath the radar. At least that way nobody could sink them with a tabloid torpedo. Although a couple had tried tossing a few malignant mines in their direction. Relatively speaking that is. They cruised on. If they sank it was entirely down to them.

    Besides they didn’t have a pool!

    Paul had great recollections of being in the ‘legitimate’ theatre before he and Andrew had taken to the dark side, performing cabaret in a pair of five inch stilettos and a gallon of guy liner. He had fantastic memories of meeting up with his partner on Waterloo Bridge post show. Andrew had been playing the lead in ‘Miss Saigon’ and Paul was typecast as a psychotic prison guard in Kander and Ebbs’ new musical, ‘Kiss Of The Spiderwoman’. Unfortunately the show suffered the kiss of death after audiences failed to take to it in the same manner as the critics. They had closed rather abruptly, and very soon afterwards the broadway production garnered seven ‘Tony’ awards.

    Some people have no taste Paul had mused back then.

    But he was unsurprised that, post the recent A.I.D.S. epidemic, audiences were not hungry for a tale of a gay window-dresser and a revolutionary banged up together in a south american jail contemplating banging each other. Still it was a a travesty the show had bombed. It still remained one of Paul’s favourite experiences treading the boards of The West End..

    And one of the best opening night parties ever.

    He had found himself in a ballroom on Park Lane doing an impromptu cabaret with the gorgeous Bebe Neuwirth from ‘Cheers’ fame. Bebe whispered the lyrics into his ear as he regailed the crowd with impressions of Carol Channing and Cilla Black, singing the songs from the show to a drunkenly beguiled audience. Andrew too remembered it as one of the best theatrical ‘do’s’ he had attended. Paul should have realised then that his future was better suited to cabaret.

    Instead, he continued on with his serious career, and found himself in ‘Hair’ at ‘The Old Vic’, cast alongside  the very naughty John Barrowman. He knew it was unwise to talk of all the antics which had occurred during that run, he could easily cause most of the surviving cast to start pulling their hair out. He certainly wasn’t going to mention the incident involving the pot of banana yogurt which occurred in his dressing room during the long break between a sweaty matinee and the evening show. Suffice to say it was the ‘sixties’. Kind of. And everyone was kind back then – with all manner of strangers. Weren’t they?

    So much of his theatrical past was flooding back to Paul during lockdown. He found the stillness made one quite nostalgic. He thought of his first meeting with Andrew at an audition for a show starring Alvin Stardust. The cute auditionee had made such an impression on Paul that when he’d arrived for the first day of rehearsals to see Andrew had also got the job, he’d had butterflies just below his tummy.

    Sparks flew! And after the opening night of the show, at The Theatre Royal in York, let’s just say the seed of The Lola Boys was planted. They were no longer strangers but one of a kind.

    Over twenty eight years later and the seed was still alive. A little gnarled and spiky in places, but definitely still growing strong.

    Paul remembered the occasion he was offered a role in ‘A Christmas Carol’ at a very prestigious theatre in north Wales. He would have to leave Andrew and they would spend their first Christmas together, apart. It was a wrench, but he was promised by his agent that he would have a fifteen minute scene involving  just Scrooge and himself on stage as the show’s climax. How could he refuse such an opportunity?

    He’d travelled in the depths of winter all the way to darkest Clywd to find himself playing the no other than the ghost of Christmas future. Not a role he’d ever coveted.

    It was hardly Hamlet.

    He was fully masked and shrouded in a black cape throughout. His main role was made up of pointing here and there and without a line to speak of. That was his fifteen minute scene. He was quite invisible. Not to mention very hot and unbothered. He’d also played a miner, a philanthropist, and the love rival to Scrooge’s nephew Fred! All of his bit parts unrequiring of any dialogue.

    He’d been in bits!

    And very alone.

    It had not been his happiest moment. Especially as the run had often constituted three shows a day.

    The first at 10am. Humbug!

    Paul was not a morning person.

    He had  hated the director Chris Sanford for bigging up his role. He’d obviously taken a fancy to him. Paul couldn’t wait to escape the depressing ‘Theatr Clywd’ in Mold. A hideous place where the locals resented anybody English arriving to perform at their famous repertory theatre. Ironic really, as the majority of the audience travelled over the border from Chester to pay for tickets. Most of the parochial population stayed in the pub swilling cheap lager and unkindly pretending to speak Welsh when any stranger entered.

    Paul had toasted a huge ‘Lechyd da’ when he eventually escaped the gloomy and unfriendly place.

    It was nothing like performing at The Swansea Grand – which had always been a joyous experience. Sometimes too enthusiastic. He was reminded of one memorable evening when touring in ‘ The Rocky Horror Show,’ the dress circle had almost collapsed as the pissed- up audience did a particularly energetic ‘Jump To The Left’ whilst dancing ‘The Time Warp’! Paul had felt partly responsible as he’d been playing the role of ‘Riff Raff’ so was the one giving the instructions.

    It had been a riot.

    Literally!

    He loved Wales. If not Mold which spored only malcontent.

    Time warped in the present too as the curfew continued, it was difficult to differentiate between one day and the next. There was little else to do. Other than eat, drink and attempt ‘The Times’ cryptic crossword. His waistline was expanding as exponentially as his brain. He, Andrew and his mother had now decided to adopt the 16/8 diet in order to stop them looking like Michelin Men before the end of the vile viral measures.  They were allowing themselves to eat during an eight hour window and then were supposed to fast for the 16 hours in-between. During their fasting period, Paul couldn’t help but notice, all of them were too fast in getting to the cocktail cabinet.  Not quite correct he knew – but it was diet tonic they were using – so it couldn’t do too much harm. And it wouldn’t last forever – would it?

    Paul hoped the now famous ‘R’ number didn’t take a little jump to the right after all of the balmy weather they had been experiencing. The beach had got horribly busy of late and some idiots obviously had no idea what the size of a small elephant was. (One of the ways Paul had heard of gauging the safe two metre distance!) He thought perhaps the length of a coffin would focus folks minds more effectively. When out, he constantly found himself reminding people of the importance of social distance. He usually shouted at any oncomers, but occasionally a bout of coughing was needed it they hadn’t responded to his coffin instructions. That usually seemed to do the trick and the ignorant gits shifted.

    Paul was well aware that if any of them were to get out of the tricky situation in which they found themselves, it was up to everybody to play along with the rules.  There was an honesty that was needed from society in order to get back to normal. People needed to be considerate and caring. It wasn’t just Blanche Dubois who relied on others to get through. In these strange times, with the virus still amongst them, they were all depending on the kindness of strangers.

    As he leapt into the road to avoid a head on collision with a selfish git on a skateboard, he blanched at the thought.

    He still had faith in humankind, but he knew there to be an element who would forever be unkind. Always putting themselves before any stranger.

    Paul hoped in the near future he’d once again be able to hop on board a streetcar named ‘Desire.’

    Or at least the number nine bus!

    But for now he was sure he’d have to wait.

    Doubtless, until three came along at once!

    Until then he and Andrew were entirely dependant on the kindness of strangers.

    And his mum!

     

     

  • Brighton Doesn’t Rock!

    Brighton Doesn’t Rock!

    Paul gazed along the deserted promenade on Brighton seafront. There were a few sun worshippers pebbled along the beach praying metres apart to their god of choice, who repaid his loyal congregation’s faith with a show of pure brilliance. The sky was a cornflower blue and the light breeze barely perceptible. Paul had rarely visited England’s south coast under such perfect weather conditions.

    In normal times the place would have been crowded with day trippers and those just tripping. Awash with paddle boarders or those simply paddling. Beach lovers decked out in bikinis on the striped deckchairs concerned only with their tanlines. Toddlers excitedly jumping the waves assisted by mummy and daddy as they experienced the ocean for the first time. Waves of joy and the screeching of the seagulls. The acrid smell of vinegar wafting from plates of cockles and fish and ships from those who chose to go to sea. The tinny din from the amusement arcade on the pier, and the wailing from the ‘Ghost Train’ towards it’s end. In normal times.

    Yet these were not normal times. They were themselves spectral.

    The times were strange.  

    And since Paul and Andrew’s safe return from their unintended isolation in The Philippines their days had only become stranger.  Perhaps when a person is in a foreign place, Paul considered, t’is easier to accept the exceptional. Life doesn’t seem so odd as almost every experience one encounters is unusual. But when on familiar ground, the unfamiliar can be more unnerving. It can make it shake beneath one’s feet. One knows how normality should feel.  So abnormality can make one quake in their heels.  

    And so it was for Paul and Andrew. Although not in heels, neither of them felt as steady as they usually did when hitting Blighty’s shores. Though they were thrilled to be back on home turf, it was not the green, green grass they recognised.

    The damned virus had made sure of that.

    The carousel was still, her painted horses stabled beneath a Covid proof cover. It seemed as if spring had been sprung. The Bank Holiday on which so many banked had cashed out and made a run for it. But it seems no-one had remembered to inform the magnificent sun, who beat down cruelly, reminding everyone of what should have been.

    A grand holiday for the living and not an unholy day for the dead.

    There was a sadness that caught Paul off guard. He wiped away a tear, and blamed the constant ‘Hayfever’, from which he’d been suffering since his return, when Andrew asked him what the matter was. How could he answer his partner? He had no idea himself.

    Later in the week, Paul and his mother had hit the shops for supplies. At one hideous juncture Paul found himself cornered in ‘The Bargain Shop’ on London Road. His mother had decided that a paint stripper was an ‘essential supply’ she was in need of, so Paul had volunteered for the job.  Although when cowering inside the jumble sale of the retail store he’d entered, he was highly concerned he might purchase more than he’d bargained for.

    It was a frightful establishment!

    An overweight woman in her thirties, sporting almost pink hair and an aggressive demeanour, stomped towards him. Right down the middle of the aisle she came, seemingly entirely unaware of his presence, as she swore loudly at a ragbag of equally rotund children trailing behind.

    ‘Nan – can I ‘ave this?’ shouted one of the kids. The one in the ‘Percy Pig’ velour track suit.

    ‘No you fucking can’t. What ‘ave I told you? Put it dan!’ screamed the woman with the candy floss barnet.

    ‘Epiphany!’ she screeched, even louder this time, ‘get ‘ere.’

    A cute little girl with some type of blue confectionary covering most of her face quickly dropped whatever she was breaking and made her way to nanny.

    ‘Nan?!’ Paul thought. She couldn’t have been a day over thirty five.

    Or she’d had some great work.

    Paul doubted it, as he was fairly sure work was not her thing.

    He flattened himself against the ‘Quavers’, quivering as the disaffected caravan rumbled past. He heard one of it’s younger members demanding a packet of ‘Jaffa Cakes’ to which Granny acquiesced.

    She obviously had a penchant for something seedless at times.

    Paul only hoped none of the workhouse wanted a packet of ‘Quavers’. Thankfully not. The motley crew plumped instead for the ‘MonsterMunch’,  a good Yeti’s foot from Paul. He was most relieved.

    He looked to his mother who was watching through the window with amusement. She was gesticulating furiously in an attempt to reveal the location of the DIY section. She knew the store well – there was nothing Paul’s mother liked better than a good bargain.

    He made his way timidly around the end of the aisle and proceeded towards a set of hammers which were displayed just up ahead. He knew he was getting warmer. He just hoped it wasn’t the beginning of a fever.  

    A tiny skinhead attached to a head mic and holding a mobile phone outstretched was also navigating the tool section. She was using the camera on her phone to show the person on the other end of the line the display of screwdrivers. He could plainly hear the instructions being given to the diminutive shopper, who sported more piercings than a colander. Paul didn’t want to imagine what her and her friend intended to do with the Phillips screwdriver they were after. It didn’t bear thinking about!

    ‘Nah,nah,’ squawked the voice through the speakerphone, ‘it needs to be bigger than that. I fuckin’ told ya that!’

    ‘Piss off’, the colander shouted back into her head mic, ‘that’s all they’ve got knobhead!’

    Paul knew he wan’t in Waitrose anymore.

    Things were rather different this side of the rainbow.

    He was almost certain he wouldn’t be visiting ‘ The Bargain Shop’ anytime soon. He just hoped it was only the language which was toxic. He grabbed at the nearest thing that looked like it could strip paint and made for the check-out. Unfortunately the sieve on the mic was weaving in and out of the queue,  showing her absent mate the selection of bargain bargains which were assembled next to the tils. 

    ‘Need anyfing ‘ere?’ she was yelling.

    She was obviously inebriated.

    Paul made no judgement. He’d already had a small Bloody Mary, to steady his nerves before visiting the particular part of London Road on which he found himself. Yet he would never say ‘anyfing’.

     A fellow shopper, who looked equally as shocked, whispered to Paul that there was another cashier just opening at the other end of the shop, and he was next in line.

    Paul smiled, beneath his mask, and thanked the lady for her politeness. It seemed not every customer in ‘The Bargain Shop’ came from the bottom of the bucket. He paid the gentleman behind the counter and made his escape to join his mother outside.

    ‘Why did you send me in there?’ he asked her. ‘I’ve just risked my bloody life for a paint stripper!’

    ‘It’s usually alright. They’ve got some good stuff in there,’ his mother assured him.

    ‘It’s not the stuff,  it’s the buggery clientele’, Paul responded.

    ‘Don’t be so awful’,  Linda said suppressing a giggle. She went towards Paul to inspect the paint stripper he’d purchased.

    ‘Don’t come near me’, Paul commanded, ‘Social distance please! Wait until I’ve scrubbed down.’

    He was joking.

    But only partially.

    There had been little common sense on display in the establishment from which he’d just escaped – just a lot of common. He really didn’t mind mixing with the Plebeian, only not during a pandemic. He knew he was being a touch snobby, but he wanted to remain a touch alive too. He felt for little ‘Epiphany’, she’d seemed so sweet. What chance did she have? She’d no doubt survive the virus with just a teenage pregnancy and a box of ‘Jaffa Cakes’ to look forward to. He hoped she’d break the viral cycle, but as he and his mum were making off in the opposite direction he heard another shout from the fushia-haired granny,

    ‘Fuckin’ ‘urry up you lot!’

    He only hoped Epiphany would have one of her own one day.

    Although he thought perhaps the cider glass was half empty on that score. He certainly wasn’t full of optimism.

    Shameless he knew!

    On another day Paul walked with his mum through a near deserted park. It felt good to be exercising his right to exercise, especially as outdoors it was much easier to keep a distance socially. There were no little Keanus or Kanyes with parents to avoid like the virus!

    He and his mother ended up in a small, pretty churchyard – it was silent as the grave. Not a soul in sight. At least not any that were breathing.  Paul took a moment to reflect.

    He rested – thankfully not in peace.

    He wondered when he and Andrew would be able to travel to Spain to be re-united with their little Pomeranian.

    He felt sorry for himself for a second but then came across a gravestone showing a family who had coincidentally lost both of their children at the ripe old age of 32. He wondered what were the odds of that happening. Another tombstone showed that ‘Thomas John, Son Of Henry John’ was taken away at the age of just 3. Another bemoaned the loss of Katherine Royston at just seven years old. All this prior to Covid 19. Paul’s perspective was suddenly resurrected. People had gone through so much in the past and had always recovered.

    Well – most of them!

    He was confident their current world would do the same. A little bruised maybe. A touch poorer perhaps. 

    But re-emerge they would from the viral madness that had so recently enveloped the planet.

    And hopefully most of them a tad wiser.

    After all – they only had one!

    They ought to look take care of it. 

    Paul stared across the grass and noticed the children running free. Unfettered by concern for the future. Timelessly having a ball whilst kicking or throwing one.

    He saw no Epiphany.

    Not yet.

    But he still had hope.

     

     

    ‘

     

    ‘ 

  • The Lola Boys’ Great Escape!

    The Lola Boys’ Great Escape!

    Paul sat in his sweaty surgical mask on the Boeing 777 Air Philippines flight wondering just how the operation was going to turn out! The aircraft was packed to the overhead lockers, there was no social distancing to be had. And to make matters worse, there had been no chance of a decent pre-med as everything in Manila airport had been closed. Including the ‘Duty Free’. The staff were too busy distributing alcoholic sanitisers to cater to satisfying alcoholics!



    Andrew and Paul had been on the road for hours. Well actually days.

    And not just the road.

    They had begun their flight from The Philippines on a cargo ship, sailing into the sunset from from the beautiful Camotes islands, positioned, rather unhelpfully, deep in the western Pacific. The remote paradise had been one of the first territories to lock down in The Philippines- it’s isolation and lack of medical facilities making the place both a safe and dangerous bet when attempting to avoid Covid 19. Paul and Andrew knew ‘San Fran’, as their little isle was colloquially known, would be one of the most difficult places on the planet on which to contract the Corona virus. But if the pesky little pestilence made it’s away across from the ‘mainland’ of Cebu, then the infrastructure and simplicity of the region would make it one of the easiest locations on which to succumb to the dreaded disease.

    The choice had been taken away from the boys anyway. Despite some bitchy comments, which had come their way via some catty internet chat group, they were both entirely aware there had been no way off of the island.

    They were under curfew.

    Locked down.

    Cast away!

    Andrew and Paul had made the absolute best of their little pink house and the new friends they had made at the small resort which had kindly taken them in. There were four friendly South Americans living in the flesh coloured house to their left. Opposite in the green residence lived Gerald and the gorgeous Nica, who had started life as Dominic then saw the light. And shone it beautifully so everyone else could see. She was an inspiration. To their left in the blue house was the wonderful Seph. A Texan who curated modern art exhibitions and exhibited a laugh which was a work of art all it’s own. And next door was Ara, a happy Filipino with her friendly Japanese husband Richard and their beautiful daughter Alice. An eighteen month year old angel who loved to dance and didn’t mind the camera. Paul wondered if a career in show biz was beckoning. They were an eclectic neighbourhood, but a community they were, and the spirit was palpable.

    The resort staff too had become almost like family. Catering almost to their every whim. Though their was actually little on offer whim-wise than the odd trip to the half-open market and a couple of outings to the Western Union to score some much needed cash. The vegetable sellers of Pacijan would only accept old fashioned pesos.

    Not everything in life or near death could be paid for with a credit card.

    And two couldn’t live on rum alone!

    Although Paul had tried that once in the past, but to disastrous effect. He now possessed a little more balance even if he and Andrew’s currently marooned state was making them both feel slightly off kilter – they were, at least, coping with their rum situation. And keeping their spirits up without partaking of too many.

    Mostly.

    Even though their temporary home was a paradisiacal ‘Knot’s Landing’ – they were both beginning to tie themselves in knots about landing somewhere nearer to home.

    When their ship finally sailed, this time with them onboard, they were both so relieved Paul shed a tear. (But that didn’t take much. He’d acquired that lachrymose habit from his late father, who’d been an old tough fireman, yet still cried at the drop of a helmet!)

    After disembarking from the cargo vessel mid tars and tar, they were greeted by two armed soldiers. They both packed great smiles as well as admirable pistols – or so Paul imagined, as both were heavily masked. But the glint in their eyes gave away a warmth and a welcome which was most welcoming. After all the other fuck ups that had occurred earlier that day, the boys had not been entirely sure their Houdiniesque flit from the island would be entirely successful. But it was a trick they had to try. As Paul’s sister had pointed out, it could be their last window of opportunity and they would be well advised to clamber through it. Or they could find themselves tied up in the Camotes for months. And over a barrel! But at least not over Niagara!

    The day of their getaway had begun with a visit to the capital of ‘San Francisco’, at some unearthly hour which Paul had just managed to bridge. His golden gates usually didn’t open until the sun was higher in the sky. But in the tropics, she was won’t to wake in seconds – or rather a second!

    The folk of The Philippines rose early.

    Paul wondered that with all the natural disasters which often occurred there, many of them wanted to get as much done before the next typhoon struck or another volcano decided to blow her top.

    It was an energetic place.

    The Philippines.

    And so were her inhabitants. Paul thanked Mother Mary for that, as Tess woke them early, and they jumped into her Toyota. She stroked the rosary beads which hung religiously from the mirror and they were off. Not quite speeding towards their resumption. There was no way Mary would allow that. They drove safely on the archipelago – even if it drove one mad!

    Their first port of call was the municipal town hall, where Marjorie, Tess and the boys waited for over an hour as travel passes were completed in order for Paul and Andrew to have permission to leave ‘San Fran’. These had to be signed off by the mayor of the Camotes, and a glamorous lady in a spaghetti style dress, whose main function seemed to be to swan in and out of the office and up and down the staircase. She did it rather well, but Paul suspected she’d function better if she sat still for a little longer. Eventually she handed Paul and Andrew the necessary papers.

    An inordinate amount of burearatic shit that would have satisfied even the strictest Stalinist.

    They then crossed the now sweltering street making for the health centre, which consisted of an outdoor compound surrounded by various outbuildings with rather worrying names. ‘TB Centre’ was one Paul noticed, along with pictures one usually finds on a cigarette packet.

    Only life size.

    Or rather. Death size!

    After a while he stopped looking at the medical propaganda and concentrated instead on completing the forms which were to provide he and Andrew with medical certificates to show they were fit to travel. He was slightly concerned. He hoped the requirement was physical and not mental. Both he and Andrew’s psychological doors were coming off their hinges by the second. But he was fairly confident they possessed enough DIY skills to keep them from falling off entirely.

    After the medical, the boys were marched back across the road to another government office, swathed in plastic sheeting, in which blew an arctic wind, there they were required to give more information and pay the fee for the certification they were about to receive.

    Hopefully.

    They then sweated back to the health centre and were informed they would have to see the doctor. Paul wondered if someone had noticed something unusual, but the gorgeous Marjorie informed him this was quite normal. Although there was nothing normal about anything in the world at that moment, both her and her beautiful cousin Tes, most definitely were. From where they gained their strength and demeanour Paul had no idea. If he was ever allowed back onto the planet, he decided there a then, he would like to be a Filipino. They may imbibe a less than perfect diet, and die younger than most, but when they lived they did so with grace and joy. Surely a joyous life cut short is preferable to an elongated existence clouded with misery. He knew far too many spoilt people in the west who were long of life yet short on levity.

    What was the fun in that?

    The boys were weighed and measured by a charming nurse, who showed them how she strengthened her PPE mask by padding it out with a panty pad. Paul was rather alarmed when she removed her facial furniture and there were visible scarlet stains on the inside. He’d not remarked. Attempting to suffocate his laughter. Practically choking in a Covid 19 manner. But he was most relieved when Andrew, informed him afterwards, that it had been the poor girls lipstick which had made the towel look unsanitary.

    Paul went in to see the doctor first. He was a fat, morose thing squatting behind a desk looking like a medical Jimmy Cagney.

    He asked Paul a few perfunctory health questions then demanded he inform him of the date of his and Andrew’s entry onto the Camotes.

    ‘Oh, I don’t remember exactly,’ Paul said, beginning to suffer from ‘White Coat Syndrome’, (that horrid complaint that makes every patient’s body heat hit the hospital roof), and he was now getting worried the miserable squat quack wouldn’t sign him off for sailing.

    ‘About seven weeks I suppose’ Paul said.

    ‘Don’t suppose,’ snapped Dr Cagney, ‘Tell me the exact date.’

    Paul wondered if the hoodlum in the white coat was going to pull a machine gun from under his table at any minute and start target practicing. He was so aggressive. His temperature was on the rise – he knew every minute it was getting dicier. He only hoped his temperature wasn’t going to taken.

    ‘I think I have the booking on my mobile, it’s outside.’

    ‘Go get it’ Cagney demanded. Just about resisting the urge to reach for his Bazooka.

    Paul jumped up rapidly, fearing any rapid fire, and went out to Andrew who was waiting beside a ineffective fan just outside.

    ‘Give me the phone babe,’ Paul barked urgently, ‘this Nazi of a doctor is giving me the third degree. It’s like ‘Sophie’s Fucking Choice’ in there! I’ve no idea what answers to give.

    This was difficult for Paul, who was usually able to come up with a response, even at the worst of times. Unlike his husband who could turn into Jerry Lewis at the hint of any verbal threat. It usually served Paul well during any arguments in which he and Andrew participated . Which were, of course, as anyone who knew them well, terribly rare!!!

    Paul returned to the doctor – iPhone in hand, and managed to assure the dickhead that he and Andrew had been on the isle for at least six weeks. What difference this made when there wasn’t a Covid 19 test in sight for love nor peso he had no idea, but Jimmy seemed satisfied.

    He then asked Paul all the usual medical questions to which one usually lies. How much d’you drink? D’you smoke?

    ‘Cigarettes?’ Paul asked.

    ‘Of course’ the doc had replied.

    ‘No’ said Paul. But he didn’t mention the cannabis or the crack. He hadn’t been asked after all!

    ‘Do you suffer from Dyspnea?’ came next in the interrogation.

    ‘From what?’ Paul asked.

    ‘DYSPNEA’ the quack screamed. As if volume would make the meaning clearer.

    ‘I’m sorry,’ said Paul, ‘I don’t know the meaning of that word.’

    ‘You don’t know Dyspnea.’

    Paul couldn’t resist, he was beginning to loose his cool, he just hoped the thermometer wasn’t next, he ripped off his mask and spat,

    ‘No doctor. I don’t know what Dyspnea means. I didn’t go to medical school. Is it something to do with Walt Disney?’

    The doctor took a short breath. And then clarified.

    ‘Shortness of breath?’

    ‘Oh’, said Paul, ‘Yes I know what that is,’ replacing his mask as his breath was shortening by the second.

    ‘No. No. I’ve never had that.’

    Dr Cagney was obviously in doubt. He reached down, thankfully not for a Kalashnikov but a stethoscope and proceeded to make Paul breathe from places he had not done since drama school. He passed, with flying respiration it seemed, as the old quack told him to get out, pronouncing him ‘fit to travel’.

    He probably just wanted rid of him.

    ‘Now send in Andrew Hill’ he said, with a touch less kindness. Paul’s magnificent breath control had obviously put the wind up his white coat!

    Andrew then went in, as the door closed Paul was most concerned. Andrew was rarely fit to travel in the best of circumstances. The lack of nicotine and an overdose of caffeine usually made him look like a junkie at airport security. He was always checked without fail.

    Surprisingly, after only five minutes Andrew exited the doctor’s office unscathed.

    He had been asked if he smoked and he had answered ‘since I was fifteen!’

    ‘Fifteen years?’ The doctor had said.

    ‘Yes’ Andrew had said. By that calculation he was just thirty years old. He had been thrilled.

    When asked if he had any shortness of breath he had answered that he only suffered from Dyspnea when he walked upstairs- this had satisfied Dr Cagney.

    Although when he took Andrew’s blood pressure he found it much more criminal and gave him a gangster rap for being hypertensive, Paul could have told him that without any medical training. The practitioner also issued Andrew with a prescription for blood pressure pills. And on Andrew’s travel certicate it read ‘Hypertension Extensive’ – and the prescription for the pills was stapled to the back. If Andrew didn’t pop’em – he couldn’t pop off. Paul found it hilarious. Mainly because his blood pressure had been considered perfect, doubtless due to the ten milligrams of Olmarsatan he had popped that morning. He’d left that bit out – he wanted to get outta there for fuck’s sake!

    Several more visits to different offices and they were furnished with the diplomatic papers which would enable them to leave the island and reach the rescue flight, arranged, but not paid for, by the British Consulate in Manila.

    Or so they thought.

    After they reached the port and attempted to bribe the coastguard- which he resisted so charmingly,(a trait which Paul had discovered was quite common in the Philippines 🇵🇭 unlike the rest of south east Asia!), they discovered something less charming. The papers they had spent six hours arranging were not sufficient. Apparently they were lacking two little things. Authority to land at Danao, the port to which they were heading, and a test for Corona virus which proved they were negative. They raced back to the resort and Marjorie hit the phones again with abandon. The permission to dock at Danao came from a contact of her father’s who knew someone who knew someone who knew someone else – it definitely seemed to work like that on the great archipelago. Together they then phoned the embassy who assured them the Covid19 test was not essential. 


    Mainly cos there weren’t any!

    But they would have to go back to Dr Jimmy Cagney and get a certificate not only proving that they were fit to travel but to prove the length of time they had been on the island so that they were both virus free.

    They had two hours before the boat sailed.

    The boys had no time to make their farewells to their friends in the rainbow of houses they had made. They threw their clothes into their rucksacks. Shoved everything else into their hand luggage and hit the gas. Marjorie’s intended, the lovely Charles, drove like the wind, missing dogs and chickens by skilful millimetres. They got their new certificates and made the port of Consuelo just in time for the boat’s departure.

    They bid their goodbyes. Paul got tearful again. He could distance socially but not emotionally. These people they hardly knew had been so kind to them, shown them so much love, he and Andrew would never ever forget them. And they were certain when all the viral madness was over, he and Andrew would return to the Camotes.

    The island which had been so kind to them at such a difficult time for themselves!


    Whatever, they were now off.

    The boys waved to their hosts from the port side of their cargo vessel and then collapsed onto their rucksacks, full of port, well, cheap rum.

    They were going to sea after all.

    Paul watched as the beautiful group of islands receded gracefully onto the horizon and he turned towards their destination of Cebu. 

    The pink gin sky beckoned them westward and listening to the thunderous engines and gazing through rope work on the starboard deck he realised why he’d always adored being at sea. There was a calm that rarely surfaced anywhere on land.

    It was only on the surface of the ocean one could feel totally lost and safe at the same time. Paul noticed the unmasked crew agreed with him. Sitting at the helm, swapping playful punches and binoculars. Both erotic and exotic – All the nice boys love a sailor – wasn’t that the song?



    As mentioned, they were met by the army on disembarkation. Then Jinky, another connection provided by the girls at The Santiago Bay Garden And Resort, was there to drive them to her hotel before the curfew kicked in.

    They just made it.

    A heavy supper of cheeseburgers, pizza, fries, full fat coke, and full alcohol San Miguel’s relieved some of the boys stress. They hit the sack – they had four hours before they needed to wake to meet ‘Jupiter’. The driver who’d been recommended by the embassy to get them through the eight checkpoints to the island of Lapu Lapu! They were both nervous – not least because although they were utterly charming, the embassy staff had failed at nearly every turn. And charm never got no man past a guy with an automatic weapon. Well – almost never!

    After a few minutes sleep the boys awoke. Andrew drank all the coffee, Paul shouted at him for doing so, and took a swig of the remaining rum instead. There was, after all,no liquid refreshment available. Other than the taupe water which dripped from the tap.

    Jupiter appeared like a god at exactly 3.30am. And like that magnificent deity of the sky he drove them like thunder along the black roads. Now and then there were bright lights up ahead and stop signs appeared out of nowhere. There were military and officials in masks. Guns and torches surrounded them. Every piece of paperwork was studied and re-read again and again as if an ‘A’ level exam depended on it. At one point they nearly didn’t make it through, the invigilator was not entirely satisfied, and it was only when Paul assured the woman in the black mask that he was a very good friend of the British Ambassador, that they were let through. In fact he thought Daniel Pruce to be an absolute cunt – but he thought it best not to share that information at that particular juncture. The unambassadorial prick had answered none of his emails. Not issued them with a refund for the cash they had shelled out for an impossible flight. And then asked them for more money to pay for the repatriation flight they were now attempting to reach. As far as Paul was concerned the man should be repatriated himself – to hell. But he kept this to himself! He knew it was neither the time or the place.

    The rest of the checkpoints proved less troublesome. Yet the gunmetal increased as did the cases of Covid 19. The boys were well aware they were now driving into the island’s hotspot where thousands of cases were on the rise, in conditions where social distancing was a distant prospect for such a society. It was both frightening and heartbreaking, as they passed the shanty towns on route to Mactan, wondering what was in store for the people they were leaving. There wasn’t much in the stores as it was.

    It was certainly a strange age they were living through. And although they both felt a slight guilt for the people they felt they were deserting – they both knew they needed to get closer to their loved ones. It was a primal urge. Paul had never felt it so strongly before.

    As the airport came into view Paul and Andrew sighed with relief. They wanted to hug Jupiter but couldn’t – so tipped him heavily instead. He probably preferred that to be honest.

    They waited in the empty airport. Paul in blue – Andrew in red. Face masks that is.
    They made it through to the check in and queued, a metre apart from the person in front. It was eerily calm until they approached the check in desk.

    ‘Your passports sirs’ said the smart polite young man who was to issue them their boarding passes.

    The boys handed them over. It was two seconds before Paul just knew something was amiss. He felt it in his rum-fused water!

    ‘I am sorry sir. But we can issue Mr Davies with a pass. But Mr Hill has been added as an infant. He cannot fly.’

    ‘A hwhat?!’ Paul heard Bette Davis coming from his gob, ‘an infant? You can clearly see he is not an infant!’ Although Paul knew his partner to be infantile at moments he was certain Andrew was an adult.

    Most of the time.

    And he was certain the British Embassy had booked them onto the flight’s manifest. Of course, he was less sure they’d done it properly.

    ‘What d’you mean a bloody infant?’ Andrew started,’ just change the ticket!’

    ‘I can’t sir. Not without confirmation from the booking office!’

    ‘Then phone them’ Paul said.

    ‘They are not open sir – if you go and wait over there and be seated we will try and sort it for you’ the ground steward went on.

    ‘No,’ Paul said, Ms Davis was coming to the forefront now, ‘we are not going over there call someone and tell them we are on this flight. You are not leaving us stranded here at the airport. We have tickets – you can see he is not an infant’

    ‘Call your Embassy sir’ the poor guy tried, still polite, but now going into a mild panic.

    ‘It is Six Thirty in the morning – do you think anyone will be at the Embassy?’

    Paul resisted swearing. He knew it rarely got anyone anywhere in such situations, in fact the opposite was usually the case.

    ‘Get that Charmaine on the phone’, he barked at Andrew, who was pacing up and down. Now quite pale and probably imagining the same fate that had befallen the explorer Ferdinand Magellan when he had been stranded in Lapu Lapu. That hadn’t gone too well!

    Surprisingly Charmaine answered. After a brief conversation she assured them she was onto it. Paul assured her that if she wasn’t he would be onto her. Although he didn’t put it quite like that. It was now nearly seven o’clock and the sweeper flight to Manila was two minutes from closing. Several phone calls later, and the poor boy at the desk had lost twice his body weight in sweat, and Paul and Andrew were provided with two boarding passes. Adult ones!

    The boy had done good. The flight had been held up for them. Charmaine must have appealed to those on high. The boys were grateful to them both

    ‘What’s your name?’ Paul asked the poor boy who was still shaking, but smiling behind his mask.

    ‘Kenneth Jo’ sir’ he said.

    ‘Thank you Kenneth Jo – you have been brilliant. We love you. I shall make sure I mention you’.

    ‘Thank you sir’, said Kenneth Jo. Andrew threw him a tip which Kenneth Jo tried to resist, but was forced to accept. And then Paul and Andrew ran to gate 11.

    Two flights later and they were in Manila. Andrew had to again grow up and change himself from an infant into a man. This proved a slightly easier task as the airport had been filled in by the ever helpful Charmaine. The boys then had too pass through three security checks, of course Andrew didn’t pass a single one of them without incident. At the first t’was a lighter which caused him to be stopped. At the second some batteries he’d stashed somewhere he shouldn’t have showed up. And on the third attempt he was reprimanded for having a roll of gaffer tape! And most seriously.

    ‘But how’s that a weapon?’ Andrew queried. The security guard then mimed the binding of a stewardesses wrists together and all became clear.

    ‘Oh, I see’ said Paul. ‘We never thought of that – we use it for something else.’ Which he then realised sounded even worse!

    He thought it best not not to explain further, just glad that he and Andrew were not travelling with the rest of their ‘Lola Boys’ gear. Some of that would be very difficult to explain away.

    They were seated apart, which was not always a bad thing, as they could often fall off a long- mawl flight like Burton and Taylor at their worst.

    Paul sat next to lovely lady from the Philippines called Wilma. And an old English man who had a condition which made him punch the screen in front or the window of the aircraft at three second intervals. Wilma was crying hard, the tears soaking her two masks, she informed Paul between sobs that this was the worst time she’d ever lived through as she wasn’t sure if she’d survive. The flight was to last fourteen hours, Paul wondered if any of them would. He was contemplating oxygen already. Especially as he’d been informed they would not be serving alcohol on board. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d flown without a Bloody Mary. Now he only had a bloody Wilma and a bloke with a Henry Cooper complex to swallow.

    The crew were in full stormtrooper gear.

    They threw food at the passengers, who then lifted their masks to eat the crap in the white boxes. As Paul was always a slow eater he had managed only a quarter of what was on offer before the cyber men returned to throw the rubbish back into their trolleys and retreat rapidly behind a plastic curtain. It was the most bizarre flight he’d ever taken. Especially when looking at the radar information on his screen he could see they were flying directly over Wuhan. He only hoped this would be the place where the crew ejected the waste from the toilets. But he knew that was cruel. And it would no doubt find itself onto a market stall and cause another epidemic.

    They landed fourteen hours and nine minutes later at an empty Heathrow airport.

    ‘You go and smoke – I’ll get the bags’ he instructed his partner.

    This was their usual ritual. Andrew hadn’t gone for fourteen hours without a fag since he was fourteen – he was flagging.

    ‘I’ll see you out there’Paul continued.

    Only he didn’t!…..

    As Paul waited with their friend Wendy, who had offered to put he and Andrew up in splendid isolation with her partner Doug as they lived somewhere just stone’s throw from Heathrow. That stone being a diamond, as it turned out the somewhere was ‘Virginia Water’ in Surrey. The boys were gonna have to slum it for a while in the stockbroker belt as they no doubt would have to loosen theirs – they were so looking forward to some good old English grub. They knew there was such a thing. Despite what the Americans said. What did they know? Apparently they had a penchant for bleach cocktails!

    An hour later and Paul and Wendy were still waiting for Andrew. Paul had searched every smoking section at Heathrow. Which didn’t consist of many as the world had grown cowardly now – no-one took a risk on anything anymore. Except in the state of Georgia where one could go bowling after having one’s nails and hair done, despite the rise of the virus. Those good old southern states – one could always rely on them to resist abolishment- of any kind.

    Paul rejoined Wendy at the arrivals gate. Still no sign of Andrew. Paul was getting worried. He wondered if Andrew had smuggled in too many dodgy cigarettes or even worse someone had planted something plant based in one of their bags. Suddenly Wendy got a phone call. Andrew attempted to speak, but was cut off by a voice in the background telling him he was not allowed to use his phone.

    He’d definitely been apprehended.

    Eventually Andrew emerged. Incandescent and wan at the same time. He told them he had been pulled over by customs who had questioned him fiercely and without humour for an hour!

    ‘It’s your fucking fault’ he spat at his partner.

    ‘What did I do?’ Paul asked. ‘I let you go and smoke – I waited for the buggery bags!’

    ‘Your bloody note book. She read that. Then she thought I was a peadophile!’

    Paul was perplexed. He used his little blue book, a thoughtful gift from his sister Tina, to write down ideas. For blogs. For songs. For any thoughts really. He hoped one day, when he grew up, he would become a writer. It hadn’t happened quite yet.

    Andrew, after a dose of nicotine, was calm now calm enough to explain that the dumb woman who’d pulled him over was unaccustomed to such musings. She found some of them to be obscene. It wasn’t her custom to read such filth. She’d obviously never come across ‘Fifty Shades Of Grey’.

    She’d obviously never come!

    Andrew explained to her that the offending passage was a pastiche on a Barbra Streisand number entitled ‘Come To The Supermarket’. In it Paul had written lyrics pertaining to the dodgy items one can buy over the market counter in a city called Wuhan. Including such incendiary stuff as …

    ‘If you want a two foot bed
    Or a virus you can always spread,
    Why not take it home and knock ‘em dead,
    Why not catch it whilst you can.
    Come to the supermarket in old Wuhan.

    If you want a walking stick,
    Or catch Typhoid fever double quick,
    We can guarantee to make you sick,
    With a cockroach in a can.
    Then come to the supermarket in old Wuhan’

    Then there was a middle eight which Paul thought he would save for The Lola Boys audience – if they still had one when they could eventually go back to show business! But he thought he must share the offensive verse. The lyric which convinced the young girl, especially after learning Andrew was married to a man, that he was a paedophile.

    No longer an infant – but trafficking in them!

    ‘If you want to buy a teen,
    Or a girl, or something in between,
    Or be put in major quarantine,
    Or a pussy in a pan,
    Come to the supermarket in old Wuhan!!!’

    ‘Stupid, dumb cow’, Said Paul, who was even angrier when Andrew told him she had shouted over to her equally obtuse colleague,

    ‘He’s waiting for his husband to bring the bags through!’ in a conspiratorial tone which suggested that as there was homosexuality involved there must be some wrong doing.

    Her colleague continued along the same lines.

    ‘I see you travel to the Far East regularly sir – May I ask why?’ He’d asked.

    Paul knew what his answer would have been. He also knew with his irreverent attitude he’d probably still be in custody. He had little respect for a uniform – unless it was in the process of coming off. Or worn by Richard Gere. But his husband held his cool. Quite marvellous after the ordeal they had both been through.

    Paul was only glad the duct tape had been confiscated in Manila or Andrew could have gone down – and not in the way he was good at!

    How these failed police service applicants from Hounslow had the nerve to rake his partner over their luke warm coals offended him to the core. He was already drafting letters to the foreign office. The airport authorities and anyone else who he could think of. He was determined they would not get away with it.

    The boys finally reached Wendy and Dougs’, and after a beef casserole they hit the sack. Still stewing. But beefed up. And so glad to be nearly home – despite the welcome.

    Paul found it unfathomable that one could be completely comfortable ten thousand miles away in a foreign land with foreign people yet be treated like a criminal alien when returning to his own country. He hoped it was not a sign of things to come.

    And if it were – he’d have something to say on the subject.

    As a loyal subject.

    But for now it was time to eat, drink and be ‘Marys’.

    After all, the friends of Dorothy had made it back from ‘Oz’.

    Just.

    All they needed now was to be repatriated with Toto.

    They’d not seen their little Lola for nearly four months.

    They both hoped that day was just somewhere over the rainbow,
    When the virus flies!

  • Keeping Up Our Holy Spirits!

    Keeping Up Our Holy Spirits!

    Time had seemed to slow to that of the pace of an ancient sea turtle on the tropical island. Paul and Andrew had now been in The Philippines for over two months – far longer than they had planned. Their surroundings had grown so familiar and the company so familial, it felt as if the boys had spent years in the western Pacific.

    Covid 19 may have imprisoned them on the remote Camotes, but it was hardly ‘Colditz.’ Although the boys did have another great escape plan up their shorts!  Sadly, it did not involve a wooden horse or a motorcycle. But there was a dodgy cargo boat and a moonlight flit involved. So there was a touch of ‘The African Queen’ about it. Although that sentence should probably have been pluralised to truly describe their situation.

    Paul couldn’t reveal too much of the cunning escapade, as he knew the best laid plans usually failed when laid bare. But it was to happen the following day. And as he sat early morning already perspiring relentlessly in the empty reception, he contemplated the last evening meal he would be burning over the one gas ring in their room, (which had settings ranging from cremate to Chernobyl’,  he sighed.

    It had certainly been an adventure.

    Culinary and otherwise.

    They’d made new friends, learnt new skills and so far managed not to acquire a hacking cough and a raging fever, which seemed to be the most important thing to avoid whilst not on the road!

    It was all rather alarming though.

    Especially if one digested CNN for breakfast. The U.S. channel’s urgent newscasters,over made up, and completely over the top, gave he and Andrew a dreadful fright each morning.

    It was as if the world was going to end before the kettle had come to the boil.

    Admittedly, there was the regular live press call with the American President, which at least provided some light relief, as Mr Lump chastised the assembled media for asking any questions which he didn’t like or couldn’t answer. Or both!

    And occasionally there was a segment called ’thirty seconds of calm’. Although this element of the programming seemed to be reducing by the second. Paul noticed that the last calming waterfall flowed for only twenty two seconds – it seemed there was less and less tranquility on offer in the world. The world of CNN at least. He and Andrew stood it for as long as they could then switched channels. They had tried Fox News but even at Easter time on Eastern Time Paul found it most disconcerting when the host thanked the angels who had come from above to provide them with their next expert guest.

    He would never expect that of Fiona Bruce!

    But there wasn’t that much which was uplifting from which to choose. They were lucky to have any television at all as most of the simple island simply broadcast seeds.

    One morning had Paul watched ‘An Officer And A Gentleman’, followed by ‘Terms Of Endearment’ before the eggs had been fried or scrambled. His emotions had done the same.

    It certainly wasn’t the ‘Today’ programme.

    He was even missing Piers Morgan!

    But only slightly.

    Everything was tipsy truly. Perhaps that should have read ‘Topsy Turvy’ – but with the amount of cheap rum being sunk, Paul thought the dumb predictive text app on his iPad had probably made the right prediction for once! Earlier when it had suggested, during a letter to the vice consul at the British Embassy, that he ‘eat her out’ he’d hurriedly made corrections. It had probably been the right decision – although he hadn’t yet met her in person so couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it could hurry things along. But he didn’t want to volunteer.

    Not quite yet!

    He sat in the reception contemplating buying a San Miguel, although it was terribly early. But he had risen at five. And it was Easter after all. He managed to restrain himself – he didn’t want to be get too high – not on Easter Monday. He thought he‘d leave that to Jesus! It was surely His day to ascend.

    Paul would wait religiously until evening.

    The day passed over without much happening. There were no Easter eggs to hunt and the only hot cross buns were those down on the beach. And they were going for a thong and were certainly not two a penny.

    The sands were practically empty. Other than the odd stray sea dog – human and canine.

    The boys had been invited to one of the local’s birthday party, the lovely Tess, who was part of their family run resort. Paul thought it so nice of her to include Andrew and himself that he went and kicked Andrew out of bed following a hefty lunch they’d just stuffed at the restaurant. They had not been remotely hungry but knew it was an honour to be invited into the family home.

    It had been fun, even though they had to remain socially distant.

    They had no idea it would be the last time any of them would be able to be as close. So instead of an Easter feast it turned out to be somewhat of a last supper.

    It must have been the most peaceful Easter Paul and Andrew had ever enjoyed. In some ways it had been most welcome. Especially with the drama that was infecting the world’s airways and airwaves.

    Contemplative.

    Spiritual almost – especially with the cheap rum on offer.

    At other moments it was almost crucifyingly dull.

    Paul was very glad he had a good book. He hadn’t realised he’d still be deep into his tome about ‘Cicero’s’ time in Ancient Rome after eight weeks.  He should have known when the volume had been described as a trilogy. But when reading anything via one’s kindle, it was difficult to imagine just how big or heavy the book might actually be. But of course, the clue was in the title.

    There were three of them.

    Books that was.

    And the subject of politics in Ancient Rome not exactly filled with levity! Despite brevity!

    Paul was now finally nearing the end of Caesar’s reign. He thought he would be pleased when the Ides of March eventually approached, but he was beginning to wish the empire would continue for much longer, and he was cursing coming to the end.

    ’Et Tu Brutus you git’, he thought.

    He’d now have to find something else to absorb him.

    There was, of course, some new show material to write, but with the current Corona crisis, it seemed as if ‘The Lola Boys’ may never work again. So inspiration came only sporadically.

    He and Andrew also had a couple of ideas for some new mock movies to try out – but they both had to be in the mood. The constant heat was stultifying. There was no let up. During the day they baked and at night they roasted. Andrew said he felt like a King Edward potato, Paul plumped for a Desiree, it seemed far more glamorous.

    But they weren’t yet cooking with oil. Not creatively.

    At least they had the ocean in which to par boil.

    Paul was contemplating a dip in nature’s giant chip pan mainly to cleanse his sins. It was now the Thursday following Easter. And he’d imbibed enough Holy Spirit to make him a devout Roman Catholic!

    Days later and he was again seated on a mock whicker chair in reception, writing his mock ‘Whicker’ reportage, when Marjorie, the ebullient manageress approached. He knew at once from her sullen expression, the news was not going to be good.

    ‘I have some news Sir Paul’, she insisted on calling him, ‘it’s from the coastguard.’

    ‘Yes Marjorie – Do tell’, replied Paul, who had now begun to talk like a colonial dowager aunt, after having been in the tropics for far too long.

    He imagined he’d be looking forward to ‘the rains’ next!

    He and his partner would probably still be stuck there come typhoon season after all.

    Especially if the British Consulate continued with their ineptitude.

    ‘They inform me, Sir Paul, you cannot go into the water now. The beach is off limits. I have locked the gates. You can remain only on the premises now.’

    Marjorie seemed to take it personally when she imparted bad news.which was becoming more regular by the day. It was almost as though she were going to burst into tears.

    Paul assured her he would cope.

    ‘I’m hardly Aquaman after all’ he joshed.

    She laughed far too hard, he wasn’t sure she’d caught the reference, but she was happy he had not given her any grief. Paul saw no need, what could she do? She didn’t have a direct line to King Neptune – that was obviously the coastguards’ prerogative.

    They obviously knew something no-one else did.


    The news had made Paul a little blue.

    Perhaps Corona could swim through the ocean waves now. Paul wouldn’t put it past the blasted virus! It seemed to be in control at present. Coming wave after wave.

    Marjorie continued,

    ‘I don’t think you can go to Danao tomorrow either. You and Sir Andrew, (Paul stifled a laugh), will be put in quarantine there. You will not make your flight. I am sure. Cebu has been locked down further as there are many cases today following the Holy Week.’

    Holy shit! Thought Paul. Their latest plan had just been blown out of the water which they were no longer allowed to enter.

    Their hope had been to take a car, along with a special letter, hopefully provided by the Embassy. Run a couple of checkpoints and hit the airport on Lapu Lapu. (The island on which Ferdinand Magellan had met his fate – and not a place where Paul wanted to be stranded with any restless natives even in the twenty first century!).

    From there they were to fly, in the opposite direction to home, to South Korea. In Seoul they were to transit, for far too many hours, and spend Andrew’s big birthday in a small departure lounge, before flying on to London.

    They’d had no idea quite what they would do when they got to Heathrow, but they would have had many hours to work it at thirty six thousand feet.

    Unfortunately, it transpired that ‘Holy Week’ had been a rather social event on Cebu, despite a strict quarantine being in place. A few of those under curfew had lifted it themselves and met up to partake of the Holy Spirit – apparently they’d shared more than a few bottles of the stuff! This had caused a large spike in the virus.

    Nearly thirty cases just that morning.

    All in one tiny area.

    It did not bode well. There was no way anyone was going to allow the boys to cross through the unfolding drama that was Cebu City. Besides it was as clear as Holy water they were probably much safer where they were.    

      

    One day we’ll fly away ….


    Despite having no access to hard cash, as the ‘Western Union’ had still not been resurrected, Paul and Andrew could add to their burgeoning bill at the resort in which they were jailed by credit card. Although the confinement was becoming more and more solitary, the inmates were friendly. And they were at least able to go over the wall for the essentials – cigarettes, alcohol and bottled water.

    Andrew was to be fifty on Saturday.

    Paul was racking his brains to make the day special. He had been going to throw him a secret party with the ten other prisoners and their charming guards – but now the new quarantine rules made that well nigh impossible.

    It would have to be an intimate affair.

    Paul was considering throwing a party online.

    A Facebook party – live from the inside of he and Andrew’s little pink house. 

    Fifty was a milestone after all and if Andrew couldn’t be mid air he could at least be on air!

    And with their booty from the outside – they would at least be in good spirits.

    Probably, most unholy.

    Easter was now, after all, just like Caesar,  ancient history!

    They came, they saw, they concurred – a party was just what they needed.

    Even if it were just for two!

     


    Us with Tess – just before curfew proper was imposed. 
    We were able to drop our masks for a moment.

    No longer!

  • Last Mango In Paradise! Chapter 3.

    Last Mango In Paradise! Chapter 3.

    So! The escape plan from the small Philippine island had failed miserably. Mainly due to the miserable consulate who had decided not to get in contact with Andrew and Paul, this despite the fact that the boys had handed over two grand for the privilege of an emergency repatriation flight.

    The plane was to fly them to Manila first, and then they were due to switch aircraft and make headway towards Heathrow.

    Unfortunately the plan didn’t take off!

    On the morning of their intended great escape, the boys headed into San Francisco, the capital of Pacijan, the island in the western Pacific which was now their temporary home. Masked up and with Andrew laying low in the back of the car, they made for the town hall. There was only one quarantine pass per household, and this happened to be in Paul’s name. So Andrew wasn’t really allowed to go out onto the street. Paul thought this a sensible option, even in more ordinary times, but kept it to himself. There had already been a couple of beers ‘spilt’ in anger – the isolation mixed with with the iced hydration had not done either of them any favours. Although they loved each other very much, sometimes one could have enough of hunkering down together. Love could be suffocating too!

    The town hall was quiet. It’s small contingent of civil servants tapped away behind their desks behind their masks as if life were completely normal. Apart from the fact everybody looked like a bank robber.

    It was most surreal.

    Tess, the wonderful girl from their resort, who had driven them to the capital, did most of the talking. Paul was pleased. As his face covering seemed to be thicker than most and even with his drama school training he was finding it difficult to be understood. Andrew, conversely, with his ‘end of the pier’ training, was having an easier time of it. Paul put this down to his partners lack of chest resonance and the fact that he was wearing an old black bandana, as his ‘mask’ had fortunately gone missing. He appeared most glamorous, his aquamarine eyes shining out with intensity as he looked as if he could say ‘stick ‘em up’ at any moment! There was a touch of an old ‘western’ about him. Whereas Paul looked like everything had gone completely south. He thanked Allah he hadn’t been born a woman in Afghanistan – he just didn’t have the eyes for a burka.

    Not without a heavy touch of guyliner!

    Andrew left Paul in the municipal building to go in search of beer. Paul knew this to be a bad move. He was well aware his partner had no permission to go out shopping and even less capacity to deal with the strong ‘Red Horse’ lager which was on offer. At seven percent alcohol it usually made the horse bolt, and Andrew was never that stable at the best of times. When he arrived back, two bottles in tow, he was swiftly reminded that he could not drink in public.

    ‘Come with me’, said Tess quickly, and flung Andrew into the back of a van owned by the lovely manageress Marjorie and her intended, the gentle Charles, who just happened to be in town at the same moment,

    ‘You can drink in there’. She laughed, but Paul had the distinct feeling she thought they were both alcoholics. Maybe she had a point. But they were living through strange times. Even the ‘Grand National’ had been cancelled.

    And he hadn’t bought the ‘Red Horse’!

    Tess managed to work miracles.

    She knew the right people right?

    And that seemed to be all that mattered in The Philippines. Within hours Paul and Andrew had been granted a travel pass allowing both of them to leave the island. This was not the case for anyone else, so she had obviously pulled on the strings that were needed fairly hard.

    Tess was a marvel.

    In fact, the whole family who were taking care of them in their small resort were utterly charming. Even though they must have been scared and insecure they tried not to show it to their ten guests. And if they were bothered by the reality, they were now in peak season and under curfew with hardly any income, they certainly did not let on. They were the kind of passengers one needed on the ‘Titanic’. Proud and full of natural joy.

    They possessed huge dignity.

    Paul would have been happy to share a lifeboat with any of them.

    It had been mooted that their resort was soon to be turned into a quarantine facility, even this, fairly shocking news, did nothing to dampen the family’s spirits.

    Instead they worshipped the Holy Spirit, and visited each makeshift station of the cross on Good Friday, with prayers and hope. Paul watched the little group as they moved from the empty reception towards the small pool and then on to the restaurant. It was all terribly Catholic – but there was nothing terrible about it, despite his lack of faith. The familial spirit was alive.

    Utterly uplifting.

    There was a word in Filipino he had learnt. ‘Barangay’. It meant village. But it was also synonymous with looking after one another. Be it during a tsunami, volcano or earthquake.

    Even a virus.

    The folklore was that people looked after their folk – it wasn’t law – just how the folk rolled.

    The resort had purchased rice for every one of their workers who had been laid off during the Corona crisis. The hotel served as a distribution point for the community. There was still a grain of kindness in the world. Paul and Andrew were most moved.



    However, they did not move!

    After successfully receiving their ‘escape passes’ they then sped to the port. They learnt that there were no boats leaving the island so their only hope was to take the cargo ship.

    Strange cargo that they were – but Tess assured them they could be transported, as long as they visited the coastguard.

    They whizzed along a small lane and came across several men in very tight uniforms. A guard dog span and barked ferociously in his cage at the intrusion. The young seaman were eating their lunch and laughing with each other. They were not at all fazed by the two gringos who had just rolled up. They said there would be no problem with the boys taking the cargo vessel over to Cebu, they did, however, require that they made a contribution to their meal. The boys did so readily, both aware, there was no such thing as a free lunch.

    Especially when it paid for a free passage.

    They galloped back to the resort and cracked open another bottle of ‘Red Horse’ in celebration. All they had to do now was wait for the flight number to come through and organise a car to take them from the port to the airport once they’d docked.

    Paul used the hotel phone to call the official numbers he’d been given by the Embassy. He tried not to think of the official numbers which would be on the bill for such a service, he was well aware calling from a hotel phone was usually extortionate, but he had no choice.

    Each of the calls he made were fruitless.

    The person on the other end of the phone informed them that either they did not have permission to pass through the armed checkpoints or that they could not book a car without a flight number. The latter had still not materialised from the consulate.

    And the embassy  were not answering their phone. Not even the emergency number, there in case a citizen was being ‘attacked, mugged or murdered!’

    Charming.

    As Paul and Andrew watched the clock tick away they had a suspicion their number was already up.

    They were going nowhere.

    Paul woke the next day at 4.30am. He managed to get online to check if the Embassy had sent any more information.

    He needn’t have bothered.

    There was nothing.

    He watched the sun rise and imagined the rescue flight, for which they had coughed up heavily, take off.

    It all seemed rather hopeless for a moment.

    But then he remembered, he and Andrew were marooned on an island with such beautiful people. There were worse situations in which one could find oneself.

    And they had contacts!

    It was getting more ‘Tintin’ by the minute. And Paul had his very own Captain Haddock snoring right next to him. As he looked at Andrew’s handsome face he knew they would both be fine.

    They had each other after all.



    They would roll with the tide.

    And they had so much time on their hands – they had no excuse not to be creative ……

     

     

  • Last Mango In Paradise! Chapter 2.

    Last Mango In Paradise! Chapter 2.

    The boys clambered up the rocky steps leading to the their last resort – the only resort which would accept credit cards -hopefully. They were both well aware if this were not the case they would be sleeping on the beach and fishing for tuna. Either that, or slaughtering one of the cows which were tethered on ‘Diva Street’, risking the wrath of the locals. Neither of them had the skills or the bent for butchering a bull, so they just prayed the place would accept visa!

    They just about made the climb. Paul’s leg was oozing yellow stuff and Andrew’s lungs were doing something similar, which meant they needed several stops on route. It felt akin to climbing’Everest’ except base camp was even more base and camper than usual!  They paused and took five for a fag and a row.

    The rucksacks were taking their toll – and it was a hideous time of day. Paul was never usually awake at such an ungodly hour – not unless he was still up!

    ‘Don’t cough you fucker’, Paul screamed at his partner, who was gasping for breath after fifty steps. He was carrying at least twenty-five kilos, and the climb was steep. But Paul knew the Marlboro man was not helping either!

    ‘They won’t let us in if you’re hacking up like that. They’ll think you’ve got it!’

    ‘Piss…’ cough, cough, cough,  ‘off!’ wheezed Andrew.

    ‘I’ll stay somewhere else. Without you!’

    Paul wondered where his partner had in mind, seeing as this was the only inn available. Paul just hoped they had a room, or Jesus Christ, they’d be looking for a stable. And he doubted if either of them could manage a manger!

    When he got to the reception, after climbing a gate and ignoring several signs warning of ‘Covid 19’ restrictions, urging them to stay away, he was greeted by the most amiable of workers. He later learnt that the chirpy girl was called Marjorie. She was the manager of the resort. By the time Andrew had puffed his way up to the summit, Paul and Marjorie had sealed the deal. The place did accept cards – and homos – Paul and Andrew could at last catch their breath. It was quite a relief.

    ‘Beer then?’ Andrew suggested.

    ‘Rude not to’, said Paul. Who was secretly considering a large gin, but knew that wasn’t sensible. Especially so early on in the day – still it was cocktail hour somewhere. And they were living through extraordinary times.

    Didn’t alcohol kill that damned virus?

    He plumped for a pilsner instead. He knew he had family and friends who would not approve of a dawn Daquiri. Not to mention that very special friend who did so much for him – his liver!

    They sprawled, along with all the possessions they had with them, in the restaurant area of the hotel. They seemed to be the only patrons. It was eerily quiet. Dead, was how Paul would usually have described the atmosphere, though that word seemed inappropriate at present. Seeing as there were fewer people present by the day.

    What was happening?

    The entire planet seemed to be living through an episode of ‘Dr Who’! He only wished he and Andrew could find a Tardis and go back a couple of months, but even he, being the fantasist he was, knew that silly hope to be most capricious. They had to deal with reality as it smacked them in the face like a Tyson Fury right hook. They may have been furious but there was nothing they could do. True, the boys were in paradise – yet it was still a prison. Their rights had been removed, their control snatched away. Incarceration took many forms, he and Andrew’s just happened to be paradisiacal, but it didn’t seem that way when there was no means of escape. Paul couldn’t help but see the irony, under different circumstances he would have wanted a life time sentence in such beautiful surroundings. Now he was hankering for an early release.

    Instead of a room, as the hotel had only five other guests, Paul and Andrew were offered a bungalow. When they reached it they were highly amused to discover it was shocking pink. There were others vacant and painted different shades but for some reason the staff had felt the fushcia toned residence to be most suited to them. They’d been correct – the house was right up their street.

    The boys loved it and prepared to hunker down and see out the pesky Corona virus.

    They spent their days heading to and from the small restaurant. There was not much else to do except eat and drink. Neither could go into the sea as the wounds from their bike crash were still healing. And the hunger games played by the dogs made it a little too much of an adventure. There was nowhere to visit as most places had been shut down, and there were only so many trips one could make to the market to haggle over a tin of spam.

    There was a little Corona cookery Paul could get on with, but, as of yet he had no fuel to do so – so he was hardly cooking with gas.

    Professionally, however, the boys slipped into a different gear. Almost accidentally. All of their foreseeable gigs had been cancelled, ironic, as they had spent the greater part of their trip planning new material for their show. They had found a way to go live on the Internet, via 3G and a smartphone, and had begun doing shows online. No sound equipment, no costumes and no music made it a challenge but it had so far proved rather effective. It had lifted their spirits immensely to see the comments coming back at them. Many viewers thanking them for lightening their lockdowns.

    The boys felt that, at least, they were doing some good. Performing a small miracle here and there – it felt satisfying. And it relieved the boredom in paradise.

    Paul was in possession of the sole quarantine pass. He was allowed to go out for essential supplies, emergency medical help and to ‘put out the garbage.’ He had to wear a mask which looked like it was made out of a second hand pair of pensioner’s knickers.

    It was hot, sweaty and aromatic.

    He hated wearing the face thong, as he walked gingerly along the deserted streets, he slipped it beneath his chin, only putting it back in place when he encountered a lone motorcyclist or reached the convenience store.

    The latter was proving less convenient by the day. At the best of times the stock normally consisted of three tins of corned beef, a handful of pot noodles and few eggs. Now it was even sparser! But hey, the lovely lady had water.

    And rum.

    So things weren’t that desperate.

    Andrew was not allowed to leave the confines of the resort. He was Joan Crawford to Paul’s Bette Davis in ‘Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?’

    ‘Would you be so kind as to get me some Marlboro Lights when you are out?’ He asked Paul on one occasion. Affecting the voice of Blanche Hudson in the aforementioned film classic.

    ‘Might. Might not,’ Paul retorted, giving his best Bette Davis.

    ‘You wouldn’t talk to me like this if I had the pass?’ Blanche bemoaned.

    ‘But ya don’t! You don’t have the pass do ya? Things are gonna change around here from now on. Now there are just empty chairs at empty tables – nobody hwants to hear you you  sing it anymore. I’m the star on this island. I’m going for a light supper of spam and beans with the mayor. Eat ya din dins!’

    The boys went on like this for days. It amused them and there was, thankfully, no-one to witness their theatrics.

    One day rolled into another. The odd blackout puncturing the banality with a touch of drama.

    They still had their little pink house, a gas ring and a bundle of resilience so Paul and Andrew knew they would be fine. Plus they’d had some cash sent over to them by some wonderful friends so they were sure they could pay their way out of trouble if need be.

    Probably.

    The British Consulate had been more than useless so far, and Paul and Andrew were beginning to think paying a pirate to get them home would prove more realistic. And so much more fun!

    But as it was they were shipwrecked. Stranded on the island which was both their paradise and penitentiary.

    There was nothing to do but live.

    Or rather – go live.

    Which The Lola Boys were planning to do again over the weekend, via the’Rock The Lockdown’ site on Facebook. A worldwide phenomenon which had developed during the virus crisis. Paul and Andrews last show had practically gone viral.

    They knew that whilst marooned on the Camotes, deep in the western Pacific, they weren’t just able to down spirits they could also lift some.

    And it made all the difference.

    Certainly to them.

    The weekend came. The power did not. The Lola Boys had to cancel their show for the ‘Rock The Lockdown’ – it was most frustrating. Even more frustrating were the actions of the consulate.

    Paul knew they were probably rather busy, but they seemed to be sitting on their hands. And, at a time when the political situation in the Philippines was beginning to liven up. Rumours were going viral, rumours Paul did not want to repeat. He had already been warned off by a Filipino friend for making a comment on his Facebook page. He had managed to delete it rapidly. Fortunately before it had had a chance to get onto the World Wide Web. After all, the last thing he wanted was to be shot for dissemination! He had a plane to catch.

    Or so he and Andrew had been promised.

    They had been forced to cough up for a rescue flight laid on by the British government. A sweeper flight was to take them from Cebu to the epicentre of Manila. They were then to transfer onto an airbus and be shipped, or rather, flown out to Heathrow. From there Paul and Andrew had no idea whey they would head. They would have to be in isolation for a fortnight before they could get to his mother’s. But Paul knew all of this to be academic. They had to get to the airport first. Which was still positioned stubbornly three hours away by ferry.

    They were still locked down in The Camotes. Under curfew. With major punishments being touted should they attempt to break it.

    As they sat at daybreak neath the rising sun, all they could hear was the crowing of cocks, the birds singing and their own breathing as they both typed manically on various devices, attempting to get a message to the embassy.

    It was now almost six in the morning. They were due to see the mayor at eight. Without a letter from the ambassador proving they were on the flight there was little chance of them being allowed free.

    Paul decided not to panic.

    They had food, alcohol, oh, and water, which was lucky. Not everyone on their island did. When Paul had last gone shopping the market was beginning to get low on stock.

    He had, it seemed, purchased the last mango in paradise.

    It looked likely that he and Andrew could easily turn out to be the last men to go in paradise too.

    They were well and truly marooned.

  • Last Mango In Paradise. Chapter One!

    Last Mango In Paradise. Chapter One!

    Paul took the sharp corner on the exotic island a little too fast! He, as the driver, leant into it but felt his passenger balance in the opposite direction. The bike wobbled precariously and he lost control. He and Andrew then crashed, most exotically, down onto the rock-strewn asphalt, the bike coming heavily down on top of them. Luckily, they had just managed to avoid a tree that would certainly have broken more than their fall.

    As they lay in a mangled heap, Paul knew it weren’t great!

    ‘Are you alright’ he shouted to Andrew, who was behind him, now not riding pillion!

    ‘I think so’ Andrew replied, with little conviction.

    It seemed within seconds they were surrounded by three friendly Filipinos. One who began to lift the motorbike from off of them.

    ‘Ow!’ Paul managed, not quite screaming thankfully, as their hero seemed to manage to press the machine further onto his trapped foot.

    ‘Sorry, sorry, said the poor guy, and let the bike rest briefly on top of them again as he figured out an alternative way to extricate the dumb tourists who’d gone round the bend.

    Eventually, after a protracted struggle, the boys were freed. Paul looked straight to his right knee which now resembled half a pound of fresh mince. He then turned to his partner, who appeared to have sustained the kind of wounds one had as a kid when falling from their Chopper’. (That is if one had been lucky enough to own one.) Paul didn’t remember clambering onto that iconic bike from the seventies until well into the eighties.

    But at least he’d owned one. Even if it was third hand!

    But it was now the new twenties, and he noticed Andrew’s arm. It wasn’t quite as nostalgic an injury. It looked rather contemporaneous, not to mention painful. There didn’t appear to be any skin left and it was already turning a horrible colour.

    ‘Why did you go so fucking fast?’ Andrew snarled.

    ‘I didn’t,’ replied Paul, mendaciously defending himself, ‘it’s you. You’re too bloody nervous – you leant against me. I couldn’t get round the bloody corner!’

    Two bottles of Coca Cola miraculously appeared, and an old lady, smiling broadly with her four teeth, brought out a bucket of water and a small bar of soap. They learnt later that she was the local midwife. Paul was relieved that neither of them had been pregnant. He didn’t fancy going into labour in her very basic establishment – who knew what one would contract mid-contraction?

    He and Andrew stood in the road sipping their cokes like two wounded teenagers.

    Two bloody fools.

    Literally!

    Paul took the piece of soap first and dipped it into the bucket finally producing a lather with his hands. He really didn’t want to but he knew it was necessary. He took a deep breath and slapped the lather onto his bleeding leg. It stung like a nest of malicious wasps. For a couple of moments he thought he’d rather have his kidney infection back.

    But only a couple!

    He rinsed his knee with some water and did the same to a slight graze on his arm and to a gash on his wrist.

    ‘Go on’, he ordered Andrew, ‘you go now.’

    Andrew, who looked as white as an albino hermit, said nothing. He took the soap, and rubbed it directly onto his wounded arm. Paul knew him well enough to know it was probably agonising. Yet his husband made no sound. He was brave when it came to pain.

    Just not when riding bikes.

    They thanked their saviours most profusely and offered a few pesos. But the amiable locals would have none of it. Even though they were dirt poor they had only wanted to help and lift Paul and Andrew out of the dirt. Paul wondered where on earth would you come across such similarly altruistic people. He loved the Filipinos. As he noticed Andrew well up with gratitude, he was entirely sure his partner felt the same way.

    ‘Come on’, Paul said, a little too courageously, ‘we need to get back on.’

    ‘I’m not fucking getting back on with you’ Andrew barked, recovering some of his colourful spirit, although he still looked rather pallid.

    ‘You have to – we have to get to the port!’

    It happened that The boys were on their way to the small quay at Consuelo. There were no cash machines on their tiny island of Pacijan. This made it necessary to risk a ferry trip over to the ‘mainland’ of Cebu, in order to score some wonga. They were dangerously low, and the damned virus, which had escaped out of China, meant a lockdown was imminent. There was a chance Andrew could get stuck on the other side and he and Paul would be separated. Neither of them wanted that – even after such a dramatic incident.

    ‘I’ll go really slow’, Paul assured his nervous to be passenger.

    ‘You’d better’, Andrew said, as Paul climbed painfully onto the bike, his leg complaining more than his husband. But he said nothing, there was, after all, nothing to be said. He had turned the corner!

    They rode, far too steadily, towards the ferry. As they took each turn they wobbled slightly, partly through nerves, but also lack of impetus.

    Paul felt something sticky trickling down his calf and into his trainer. He didn’t look, keeping his gaze transfixed on the road ahead. He knew their relationship could ill afford another crash landing.

    When they reached the little town, after a ride which had felt eternal, they alighted from their machine and limped to the ticket office. The ferry, they were advised had been cancelled, but, luckily, there was another which sailed in three hours time.

    ‘I need a drink’ said Andrew.

    ‘Good idea’, agreed Paul.

    He needed no persuasion.

    He felt like he had the worse migraine in his knee – a panacea was sorely needed!

    He knew Andrew must have been hurting too. But stubbornly, like most gay men attempting to be butch, neither of them said a word!

    As they lurched towards a shack which looked as it it may stock something vaguely alcoholic, Paul could not disguise his limp any further.

    ‘Shit’ he groaned slightly, ‘it does hurt actually.’

    ‘You need a dressing’, Andrew advised, ‘here take this.’ He removed the sweaty neckerchief he’d been wearing round his throat for the past two days and offered it to Paul.

    ‘I’m not putting that on’, Paul assured his partner firmly. ‘I’ll buy something.’

    ‘You won’t – it’s better than nothing’ said Andrew, with an air of confidence that was most unconvincing. ,

    ‘Fuck off! I’ll take my chance. I’m not putting that shitty old rag on’!

    With that Paul limped ahead – determined to find some convenience store which would prove to be, at the least, convenient.

    The first two ‘shops’ they passed, although the owners were most concerned at the boys injuries, could supply nothing, but two packets of fags and a large beer. Which at least went some way to nullifying the situation. The third store still contained little more than a few bananas and some jars of sponge cakes, but at least it’s proprietor was able to direct them to the ‘big, general store’, just around the corner.

    Nothing was ‘just around the corner’ to Paul at this moment in time. Every step felt like a half-marathon.

    After an aeon they reached the general store, which was the size of a small ice cream kiosk. But the guy behind the counter was helpful and he furnished the boys with some cotton wool and a small container of hydrogen peroxide. He possessed no dressings.

    Paul and Andrew doused themselves with the peroxide and swore profusely, much to the amusement of the villagers who had gathered to watch the spectacle. Paul supposed little went on in Consuelo, other than the odd dodgy karaoke. This episode was probably akin to ‘Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid’ to them.

    Minus the glamour!

    They were just about to ride of into the sunset when someone piped up,

    ‘Why not go to medical centre?’

    ‘’Medical centre. Yes. Perfect’ said Paul, a desperate smile fixed on his face.

    ‘Where is that?’

    ‘Here’, the guy answered, and gestured towards a rusty gate five yards from where they were bleeding.

    Paul and Andrew looked at each other. They said nothing, but hysteria was as close to the surface as the plasma which was oozing from their wounds.

    ‘Thanks’, Andrew managed, and he and Paul walked towards a row of tables, set up in a car park.

    In front of the tables were a few rows of chairs. And ladies sat behind each table doling out various medicines to each of their patients, whilst others waited patiently in the room for waiting.

    It was not the N.H.S.!

    Paul felt a pang of sympathy for the good island folk. He and Andrew sometimes did not realise how lucky they were in the west. They were not alone. If Corona hit the Camotes he dreaded to think of the outcome. He tried not to mull it over – it was easy as the pain came over him and his blood dripped liked mulled wine.

    On seeing the two westerners, bruised and bloodied, one of the woman immediately ushered them into a small room beyond the triage. Inside they were treated by three happy woman who asked them to sit down. Paul did as he was told. Andrew walked back into the car park for a cigarette. Paul knew he was still fuming with him for going to fast and needed some fumes. He couldn’t blame him – he knew he’d been a tad overconfident.

    The main medic, who wore a dirty mauve tunic, took out some forceps. Loaded them up with some padding, fuelled it with something yellow and began to wipe at Paul’s leg.

    ‘Oh My God!. Oh My God!’ ‘Oh My God!’ She repeated over and over as she prodded away. Paul did not find it reassuring. Her bedside manner could have been better. But he guessed there were no beds, so he forgave her. She obviously hadn’t had the practice.

    And their obviously wasn’t one.

    There wasn’t a doctor in sight!

    Next she opened up a bottle and with an impish grin she informed Paul of it’s contents.

    ‘Iodine’, she chuckled. ‘Will hurt.’

    She then splashed it all over, much like Henry Cooper in the ‘Brut’ ads of the 1970s. It stung in the same way that Paul remembered that famous cologne doing when, as a twelve year old, he’d accidentally applied some to a sensitive area when learning to masturbate. He’d never worn the stuff again.

    After the lovely lady had finished torturing his leg. She moved swiftly onto his and wrist. At least the ‘Oh My Godding!’ had ceased. She was obviously more confident he may survive these injuries.

    ‘Your friend?’ She said as she finished up.

    ‘My what?’ Paul replied.

    ‘Your friend with you?’

    ‘Oh shit yes’ Paul said. He’d forgotten about his partner of over twenty eight years, pacing the car park, smoking and scabbing.

    ‘Andrew!’ He shouted.’ Your turn babe.’

    Andrew underwent the same procedure, but didn’t suffer the same concerned expressions. She obviously thought he’d definitely make it through the night.
    They laughed with the group of ladies, who were most interested as to where the boys hailed from and what they did for a living.

    It was all rather jolly.

    Andrew suggested that Paul’s leg was bandaged up before they left.

    ‘We have no bandage here’, one of them giggled. Everyone laughed at her joke.

    ‘This is the Philippines’, chirped another, ‘we are poor here’, she added with great mirth.

    They all chuckled as the Corona virus seeped back into Paul’s mind as quickly as the plasma on his leg did the same.

    Suddenly, one of the ‘nurses’ found an old bit of gauze in a drawer. She looked most pleased with herself.

    Paul looked horrified.

    But he politely hid his resistance as the women had shown such kindness.

    She wrapped him up and tied the material rather too tightly. As they bade their goodbyes it was already stained scarlet.

    The boys walked across the car park and Paul noticed Andrew was crying.

    ‘What is it darl?’ he asked.

    ‘They’re just so lovely here. I just love them!’

    ‘For fuck’s sake you’re just in shock!’

    ‘I’m not. They’re the most beautiful people. They’ve got fuck all and they just wanna help’, Andrew blubbed.

    Paul hugged him.

    He knew he was right. They had tried to pay the ladies for their services but they would not accept the cash. They just wanted to give their third world first aid to the boys.

    For free.

    They were true angels.

    Paul was to get some first aid of an altogether different kind later that day. It was also most touching.

    Paul limped with Andrew back to the ferry port and they sat together drinking San Miguel whilst listening to some drunkard murdering John Lennon’s back catalogue, at a level louder than a jumbo jet taking off.

    There was nowhere one could escape karaoke in the Philippines.

    Even in the smallest of hamlets. They were addicted.

    Andrew gave Paul a rare public show of affection and hugged him in front of an intrigued audience, telling him to take care riding the bike back to their lodgings.

    He obviously thought it was the last time they would see each other.

    Paul assured his partner he’d be fine, but he was nervous as the hug had unsettled him and he was starting to stiffen. Added to which, a touch of shock was probably setting in as he felt rather high. Almost elated – he knew this was probably not the correct response to wearing a gauze of the claret colour and sporting a knee the size of a pink grapefruit!

    After a highly trepidatious journey through Papaya fields and coconut groves, Paul pulled up at Villa Marques almost intact. He went straight to the bar an ordered a glass of Jim Beam. The sweet girl behind the bar asked him what he would like as a mixer. ‘

    ‘Jim Beam’, Paul replied with a conspiratorial wink. She laughed, filling his glass almost to overflowing. It went down quicker than a whore’s drawers and he ordered another before she’d had a chance to screw the lid back on.

    He limped back to his room and was met with ‘Schock unt Ehrfurcht’ by his German neighbours. He obviously looked worse than he’d imagined – although the bourbon was bringing a little colour back to his cheeks.

    ‘I have something for this’, said Toni, the pornstar of a detective who was living next door. He dived into his room and returned with a first aid kit that would have put Dr Quinn -Medicine Woman to shame. It contained everything apart from the operating table.

    Why were Germans always so efficient?

    Paul was ashamed for a moment. He and Andrew were travelling with a box of Imodium, some paracetamol and a strip of Diazepam as their emergency supplies.

    They did, however, have three colognes, two eye creams and a very expensive designer soap from their gorgeous cousin Lucy. So they weren’t entirely unprepared.

    Toni made his way over to Paul’s place and knelt in front of him. He then proceeded to massage his ‘special cream’ onto Paul’s wounded knee, with such sensitivity Paul thought he may retreat into shock once again. Toni then dressed the wound like a professional, Paul guessed the German police must get trained in everything.

    He was almost thinking of moving to Stuttgart!

    ‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’ Dr Toni asked.

    ‘Well’, said Paul, with a mischievous glint in his eye, ‘I’m kinda sore everywhere.’

    They both laughed.

    There was a sudden click of the latch and Toni’s extremely beautiful girlfriend came out. She looked with slight surprise at her boyfriend on his knees down in front of the obvious homo next door.

    ‘At last I get your fella to lay his hands on me’, Paul joked.

    She laughed delightfully.

    ‘Oh, you can have him for the afternoon’ she said with a giggle.

    Paul really did like the Germans.

    They could be so understanding when they wanted to be.

    Much hilarity ensued but then Toni had to rejoin Stefanie to search for a flight back to Munich. It was proving well nigh impossible, as one after another were being cancelled. It was beginning to look most troubling.

    Paul watched the clock all afternoon. He did not want his partner to get stranded on Cebu. They would then both be alone to face the impending disaster which was Covid 19. The name that the rampant Coronavirus had now been given. It was all beginning to get a little bit like a science fiction movie. Totally alien to Paul.

    Thankfully Andrew returned. Although Paul had endured a nervous forty minutes as the ferry had been delayed, being one of the last that was to return to the island.

    It looked as though they were now marooned in paradise.

    The following day they discovered the small island opposite, to which they regularly went to swim, had been closed. The local community understandably did not want tourists coming ashore with their germs.

    A worried looking American had checked in to their digs. He told Andrew and Paul of the trouble he had been having with the ‘natives’. He said they were blaming him for bringing the virus to their shores. He said he had been hounded out of the place.

    The following day Paul and Andrew were charged the price of a small scooter to the repairs which had to be made to their motorbike. The wad which Andrew had scored at the cash machine the previous day was more dented than the bike had been. They lost their confidence in their location.

    There was nothing for it, Paul and Andrew would have to get out now. Why they still could. Things were getting messy. Not to mention their limbs.

    They asked the German owner if they could get a tricycle to take them to another part of the island. Somewhere where the locals were less paranoid perhaps. Somewhere with a beach which was at least welcoming.

    They went to Toni and Stefanie to suggest that they did the same, but the young couple had decided to take their chances with the ferry to Cebu, and make for the airport, despite the risk of being quarantined on arrival.

    ‘Are you sure?’ Asked Paul. ‘You could get stuck!’

    ‘But we must try,’ replied ‘Dr’Toni, ‘We must get back to Germany.’

    They bade their Auf Weidersehens, and Paul and Andrew made their way south.

    They prayed they had made the right decision.

    Three days later, when their pals from Deutschland messaged them that they were still stranded at the airport waiting for a flight which never came, they thought they probably had.

    The beach they were on was quiet.

    The people friendly.

    The food fantastic.

    ‘We can ride it out here’ said Andrew, ‘why do we want to go and wait at an overcrowded airport? Besides they’ll quarantine us now!’

    Paul couldn’t help but agree. But he had a primal urge to get nearer to his family. To be with them in this time of uncertainty. He and Andrew were in such a quandary.

    Fortunately a couple of days later the decision was made for them. Toni and Stefanie were still waiting for a rescue flight. No aircraft had left Cebu at all except for Manila. And Manila was now on lockdown. Nobody could travel in or out. Nothing was beginning to make sense.

    Their place was peaceful and felt safe.

    But then the same troubled American rolled into town. He was just as paranoid. With more stories which evoked ‘King Kong’ and the boiling of pots. Paul and Andrew began to wonder if it was him, rather than the ‘natives’ who had a problem. It turned out that they would not be around long enough to find out.

    ‘Good Morning’, Paul said, greeting their gorgeous landlady, Anne, as he yawned his way out of their hut on the beach.

    ‘Morning’, she replied, ‘only not good.’

    ‘Oh’, Paul managed.

    He knew what was coming.

    ‘We have curfew now’, she informed him.

    ‘You can go nowhere.’

    ‘Oh well’! Paul said with a stiff upper lip, ‘we’ll have to stay here with you in paradise.’

    They laughed.

    ‘Can we pay you on our card?’ he asked.

    ‘No. We don’t have’, said Anne.

    Oh, thought Paul. Houston, or rather, Andrew we have a problem. He woke Andrew who was on another planet quite spaced out on the bed.

    ‘We have to get out’ he said, ‘Anne can’t take credit cards here.’

    Ten minutes later they were struggling across the vast white sands with their heavy backpacks, hoping not to be stopped by anyone in a uniform.

    They were heading for another orbit. To the one big resort in Santiago which they were assured would accept cards.

    If not they were buggered.

    Paul’s leg was suffering badly under the weight of his rucksack, whilst Andrew coughed steadily. They looked like two disabled tortoise carrying all they owned across the beach.

    This was becoming a proper adventure.

    They only hoped they would survive it.

  • That Damn Virus!

    That Damn Virus!

    At a time when the world was heading into uncharted territory, Paul and Andrew were doing the same, and heading deeper into a part of the great globe to which they had never been. They were sailing to the remote Camotes Islands, a small archipelago in the western Pacific making up part of the Philippines.

    They left the insalubrious, yet friendly, Cebu City and cruised past the island on which Ferdinand Magellan was killed in the 17th century. Murdered by an angry chief obviously most unhappy with the Spaniard’s new ‘discovery’ of his old world.

    The tiny land of Pacijan, on which Paul and Andrew were to stay, was populated with the luckier members of Magellan’s crew, those who had managed to escape. Here, they made sure Spain maintained a strong foothold in the Philippines, and it was not long before they infected the locals with a fervent Catholicism. A religion which the natives caught terribly quickly by all accounts.

    Pacijan was beautiful. Paul and Andrew fell immediately in love with her exotic charm. Her beaches were pristine. Her body strung with jewel hued flora and her personality alight with laughter and joy. A character that was truly infectious.



    She was the ultimate Miss Philippines.

    A worthy winner of the politically incorrect Miss World title.

    But then the Philippines was politically incorrect in many ways. Not least in the way it was governed.

    The Filipino president was controversial to put it mildly. Paul usually stayed away from politics whilst blogging, but the current situation, which was literally going viral, made it most difficult.

    The ‘man of the people’, President Duterte, had put his people on lockdown in the crowded, over-populated capital, Manila. A city which sometimes struggled to feed it’s people and where it’s poor often lived together in one room without running water. Telling these folk to self-isolate seemed a touch far fetched. And giving the residents of Manila a forty-eight hour window to leave the city before being quarantined – a touch stupid.

    Paul and Andrew were now well aware there was a veritable tsunami of terrified people on the move in the Philippines.

    A wave of desperate humanity heading in their direction. The boys were beginning to get a little nervous. Even though they were in paradise, the Camotes were a place in which to be well, not sick. The hospital was smaller than the Mayor of Manilva’s house and not a ventilator to be seen.



    Although Pacijan was a breath of fresh air, they did not want it to be their final one!

    There were now rumours circulating that they were to be locked-down at any moment.

    The boys were out of cash and out of Tequila – things were looking dramatic.

    Paul climbed onto his bike and hit the road to reach the one and only ATM machine which was situated on Pacijan’s sister island of Poro. This was reached by a land bridge, which had been built by the conquistadors using rocks. It ran straight through a lush mangrove swamp.

    The ride was stunning.

    Paul spluttered along through the countryside as smiling kids came out from their roadside shacks to shout ‘Hi’ and ‘Hello sir.’ By the time he reached Poro Port his smile was as wide as theirs.



    It didn’t last long.

    It was wiped away by the sign on the scruffy cubicle door leading to the cash machine.

    ‘Off Line’ said the scrap of paper stuck to the glass.

    ‘Shit’ thought Paul. ‘Bollocks’ – ‘How will we buy beer?’

    He was then sent, by a friendly tourist information lady, who donned a severe looking nuclear-war style mask as he entered her office, to a small resort at the other end of Pacijan Island.

    It was a bumpy ride along the coast road. Some of the potholes could have swallowed a large dog!

    Paul thought he did rather well to stay upright as his motorbike juddered and banged along like a turbulent twin prop. It was not the most comfortable of journeys, even if the scenery was beautiful, the concentration the road required made most of it redundant.

    He was on the look out for potholes – not nature.

    When he eventually reached the beach resort at Santiago, he was filthy. The dust from his trek had covered him and he looked as if he’d driven through an ash cloud. The fear of coming off the bike had also added to his deathly pallor. The receptionist looked at him with alarm as he took off his crash helmet to reveal a flop of flat yellow hair stuck to a grey face. Paul thought for a second she might call security. But no, she was as charming as most Filipinos that he’d come across.

    Yet she had no cash!

    The resort did not provide that service.

    But she assured Paul that if he drove to the capital, San Francisco, he would be able to withdraw money from a pawn shop there, using his card and passport. Paul was relieved. Enough so, that he used some of he and Andrew’s remaining dosh to buy himself an expensive tourist beer. He needed the edge taken off, and he was just a few miles from being in the money again – so he treated himself.

    It was glorious.

    He climbed onto his bike and hit the road once more. Retracing his tracks and just about managing to avoid the cracks and crevices along the highway. At San Fran, as the locals called it, he could no longer feel his crotch. He thought this a good thing, as it had taken quite a pounding, and he’d only just recovered from his kidney infection.

    He dismounted and made for the pawn shop/come money exchange.

    ‘San Francisco here I come’,  he thought, imagining that he would soon be on the paradisiacal beach opposite his and Andrew’s digs.

    Cash in pocket and beer in hand.

    Unfortunately San Francisco did not open her golden gate! In fact, she kept it tightly shut, as the girl in the pawn shop told Paul she would only except local credit cards. He was beginning to wonder if he and Andrew would eat again – let alone drink!

    Apparently, his only option now, was to drive to the port of Consuelo, on the opposite side of the island, where he could catch a two hour ferry to the larger island of Cebu. There he could probably get to a cash point. He had a half hour window of opportunity before the boat made it’s return passage.

    He sped, much too fast for someone who’d not had a powerful bike between his legs since his early twenties, through the island’s interior, towards the quay at Consuelo. Luckily the load less travelled was easier to travel along. It was the smoothest ride he’d had yet.

    But he was flagging slightly.

    He had been on the bike for nearly three and a half hours now – and he was no Valentino Rossi!

    Thankfully he made the boat office in time and queued for a ticket. He hoped to God that there was an ATM close by on the other side, as he had used his last cash for the ferry ticket.

    He was remaining positive.

    Unfortunately, it seemed that the excited crowd waiting to embark at the quay, thought that he had tested positive. Wherever he moved to, that section would empty . It was very clear his white Western face was not what they wanted to see right now. He was also nursing a heavy cold which probably didn’t help.

    And he was still grey!

    But surely there was no need for such treatment.

    Bloody cheek, he thought.

    That damn virus had started in the east, and now he was getting leperous treatment for being from the west.

    Slightly unfair, as in his opinion, it was the Chinese authorities who should be taking the blame for the audacious way in which the thing had spread. After all, it was their less than meticulous cleanliness and illegal wildlife trading which had allowed the virus to jump species. Plus their hideous government, who’d covered up the disease, allowing it extra time to spread out into the population.

    The heroic doctor, who had tried to break the news about the novel illness, had been silenced by the Chinese authorities and threatened with imprisonment if he spoke out further. The poor brave man had now succumbed to the disease, but at least his message had got out to millions.

    The ordinary Chinese people were most upset when they realised their government had misinformed them, and protests had began to take place, before quarantine was implemented making them practically impossible. Paul wondered what would happen when the good people of China were allowed back onto the streets. Would they still be unhappy with the political machine which had so effectively engineered the cleanup operation?

    The world would have to wait and see.

    They were  living through interesting times.

    So interesting, that the journalist who had broken the cover-up story had now been covered up too.

    He had been missing for over a week!

    Paul was almost certain the Chinese authorities knew his whereabouts, but wasn’t going to over speculate. His blog had a small Chinese readership, which had formed ominously, when he had been banned from blogging in Vietnam, after writing a less than flattering piece on the country’s politics. When he was next able to sign into his site after he and Andrew had left Hanoi, he’d discovered he had eight new Chinese fans.

    He was most flattered !!!

    The ferry bobbed gently, as she slowly made her away across the straits to the port of Danao. The sun was already low in the sky and the breeze blew steadily from the east. When the bow opened, and the bikes and cars began to roll off, Paul did the same and sprinted for the disembarkation exit. He asked a friendly taxi driver for directions to an ATM. Luckily, he learnt, it was positioned just around the corner, and even better, it was stocked with heavenly thousand peso notes.

    The boys were solvent once again.

    To Paul’s absolute delight directly opposite the cash machine stood a ‘Seven Eleven’ store.

    Paul, a lightning-quick shopper at the best of times, was in and out in a flash, furnished with toothpaste, chewing gum, a bag of crisps and two bottles of cheap Tequila. With ten minutes to spare, he was back on the boat and having a crafty swig as he congratulated himself on a mission accomplished.

    He did feel knackered though.

    The voyage back to The Camotes went rather smoothly. Other than Paul being chastised by the captain for looking into the bridge.

    ‘I’m sorry’, Paul said ingenously, ‘I thought it was the toilet.’

    ‘Turn around’, the skipper snapped, gesticulating fiercely with his hands, as if Paul might infect the cabin with his mere presence.

    ‘Twat’, snarled Paul, but slightly under his breath, he didn’t want to end up in the brig.

    They’d been enough drama for one day.

    When he reached Pacijan the catholic night was as black as mortal sin. He had trouble finding his scooter.

    Paul then had to make a fairly terrifying trip across the island with just the stars and the potholes for company. He swerved twice to miss two errant dogs who had trotted straight into his high beam on an obvious suicide mission.

    He just wanted to be back now.

    He’d set off at ten in the morning – it was now way past nine. He knew he was almost too old for all this palaver – but only almost. He had secretly loved the whole adventure.

    When he met up with Andrew he was so high, his partner had had to tell him to calm down.

    The following morning the adventure continued.

    The small island to which they’d been heading, to spend the day, was now under quarantine. The boys’ lovely German neighbours, Tony and Stefanie had informed them that all tourists were now excluded.

    Tony was a detective in his homeland, which Paul and Andrew found ridiculously exciting.

    Especially when they knew he packed a pistol too.

    And he was devilishly handsome, so it was a fatal combination.

    Paul found himself giggling like a schoolgirl each time Tony strode out onto his terrace with his highly toned torso in order to puff on his smoking machine.

    The thought of being on lock down with Tony next door was not altogether unappealing. But neither he, nor his equally beautiful girlfriend seemed very pleased with the idea. They had lives to get back to.

    As did Paul and Andrew.

    The news in the Philippines was becoming more troubling by the hour.

    The rumour was if they didn’t get off the island by the following day then that would be it. They were to be kept there for at least a month.

    Maybe longer.

    Information was coming sporadically. None of them could do anything until they knew the situation for sure.

    ‘Fuck it’ said Paul, ‘let’s think of it as a huge adventure. There are worse places to be quarantined. And we have two bottles of Tequila!’

    Everybody laughed, though nobody looked totally convinced.

    But there was truly nothing they could do. They were in the lap of the Gods.

    They may as well make themselves comfortable there.

    So instead of worrying about repatriation, the group, now joined by Tom, a very affable lad from Bavaria, headed to a small hotel which had a pool, and a decent bar.

    It seemed like the wisest thing to do.

    On arrival they were told the pool was full of chemicals and they wouldn’t be able to swim until late afternoon.

    They all shifted uncomfortably in the gods lap.

    It seemed nothing was going entirely smoothly.

    ‘Perfect’ said Paul, ‘the sunset here is beautiful! Tequila anyone?’



    He would think about their dilemma tomorrow.

    And as for that damn virus ….. Frankly, he didn’t give a damn.

     In the immortal words of Scarlett O’Hara,

    ‘Tomorrow is another day.’



    With their present fortune – Paul just hoped she was right!