THE LOLA BOYS ABROAD !

The trails and tribulations of a dodgy duo!

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Paul is one half of ‘The Lola Boys’ – an international an almost acclaimed cabaret. Paul writes about ‘The Lola Boys’ experiences whilst working and travelling around the globe – joined by his partner, Andrew, both front of house and way backstage! Sometimes voyaging first class. Yet most often not ! But always going in style! The Lola Boys’ Blog follows the trails and tribulations of a dodgy double act!
  • A Long-Brawl Trip!

    A Long-Brawl Trip!

    After a mammoth long-brawl journey involving three flights, two taxis, a rickety shuttle bus and a near emergency landing due to some old git having a panic attack at 37,000 feet, The Lola Boys arrived in Chiang Mai in northern Thailand. Neither of them felt or looked their best.

    In fact Paul literally had no eyes!

    This happened to be an irony, as had he used his irises, when he still possessed them, he may not have booked he and Andrew into the ‘VIP’ room at the ‘Iris Hostel.’

    The establishment was clean, and very friendly, but it’s proprietors had neglected to point out on their website that their balconies overlooked a busy dual carriageway.

    ‘VIP’ had not been a lie but had obviously referred to their lodgings being in a Very Irritating Position!

    There was a 13th century moat to be seen, but nestled between countless lanes of roaring traffic, it was hardly romantic. In fact, the only romance about the place was the brothel opposite, which seemed to be doing an equally roaring trade as the traffic below.

    As he attempted to bed down for the night he was serenaded by eager punters opposite attempting to do the same. But Paul wanted more than an hour and the only happy ending he was after was to wake up.

    Refreshed.

    It didn’t happen!

    What with the knocking shop, the all-night fast food joint next door and the constant flow of party buses which came screaming by, causing a stream of insomnia as they sped past each establishment, Paul’s sleep was never established. He fell vaguely in and out of consciousness only to be woken jarringly by a bus load of Buddha knows what,  it’s occupants singing tunelessly along with the vehicle they were riding.

    Twenty-four hour mobile karaoke was not his thing! And knowing how the Thais showed such respect for others privacy he was surprised the practice was allowed, but then Thailand was a wonderful country of contrast – which was exactly why he loved the place. He had no complaints.

    But equally – he had no sleep.

    He had been tempted to pop a couple of pills a la Judy Garland, but after just having seen the recent biopic of her later life, he had no intention of flying over the same rainbow. He decided to leave any imbrication to the revellers below as he listened to their troubles melt like lemon drops not quite far enough below the chimney tops. It was akin to a Blackpool hen night. Although he imagined, from the quality of some of the vocals, some of the hens may have been cocks!

    Andrew seemed to hear very little of the boisterousness below – even when a juggernaut juddered by shaking the very walls within which they ‘slept.’ Paul was almost sure his partner would find it quite possible to sleep through a nuclear exchange – a talent of which he was most envious. He was woken by even the drop of a knicker, most unhelpful when being in close proximity to a house of ill-repute.

    When morning broke – he felt the same way.

    Chiang Mai had changed since their last visit. It seemed a touch more vibrant to say the least!

    The following day, he and Andrew made their way through narrow alleyways deeper into the old town. The traffic abated and the working ‘girls’ and their punters were now resting. As the lanterns strewn across the streets remained colourfully sedate in the windless air, he was reminded of the charming settlement they had first visited nearly eight years earlier.

    It had been their honeymoon and they had both been charmed by northern Thailand’s grand dame of a city.

    After a healthy breakfast of blistering noodles and a rice soup to which Andrew added a lewd amount of dried red chilli, the old girl’s appeal was beginning to re-emerge. Things were heating up. Mid the market stalls outrageous abundance and the gentle chirping of her vendors, they were once again entranced.

    Only knackered!

    It had been a tough and strange year for The Boys for many reasons, and as they wandered the ancient city they had only enough energy to mumble compliments to one another regarding the food. Indeed, at one point, Paul asked Andrew if he even remembered what a consonant was.

    It could have been their first argument of the trip if either of them had possessed enough energy.

    Paul himself had never felt so let-jagged! He could hardly tell his earse from his albow what with the Dickapilly Circus neath his loom.

    It didn’t bode well for his blag!

    He could partly blame his current abode for that – but then he’d written nonsense in the past so he doubted any of his avid readers would care. He realised most of them were only in it for the drama, not his literary flare, which he knew had yet to spark. Especially as he was off the sauce for a few days after a pretty fluid festive period.

    It wasn’t going to be a dry January, he knew that. He came from the Hemingway school of writing and usually found it best to write drunk and edit sober, but he thought he could at least manage forty eight hours!

    He would see!

    That evening the moon rose royally above her fairly unmajestic surroundings as Paul sat soberly on the rickety balcony of he and Andrew’s ‘VIP’ room.

    He tapped away rather unproductively on his iPad, wondering what the medieval warriors who’d once defended the place would have made of the siege going on beneath him. Perhaps they would have found the battle below reassuring, although instead of chariots and champions making the constant racket, it was now Tuktuks and tarts!

    Andrew had hit the sack, once again overcome by the time difference, and probably the fact that he hadn’t slept at all the night before their departure. Over-excitement and a bottle of Havana Club had seen to that!

    Paul, on the other hand, was attempting to go through until midnight  or he knew he would definitely be off to see The Wizard later. He couldn’t do a second night of baubles, bangles and needs! He’d probably develop a tin heart – either that or the poor organ would give up on him. And although he was certainly a friend of Dorothy’s, he didn’t want to get to know her that well.

    Not just yet.

    As he watched another battalion of drunken, young Russian lads making their way across the busy junction – all man buns and machismo, he wondered if he were getting old. No, he rebuked himself at once, he just had taste! But he also made a mental note to purchase some decent earplugs from ‘Boots The Chemist’ next door.

    Later that evening The Boys made their way to the night bizarre. An eclectic mix of food stalls, haystacks and drunks that was truly -bizarre!

    A Thai band played, rather flat in tone if not in spirit. They enthusiastically belted out ‘Uptown Funk’ as those who were downtown fucked span and punched the air as if attempting to dance.

    One particular young gentleman with an orange beard and a far away look went even further. He jumped and stumbled across the haystacks, lit fag in hand, attempting to grab partners to join in his ribald revelry. Paul and Andrew were concerned that they could be burnt to a crispy noodle at any moment. It was, after all, a none smoking area. The abundance of straw kind of gave it away. Even Andrew, who was still an avid fan of tobacco, resisted the urge to light up – fearing any such action may see the whole place lit up. The silly arse with the red facial hair eventually took himself to oblivion, whirling like a crazy dervish and falling onto a haystack in front of a horrified older couple. He then vomited quite spectacularly onto their table. Paul thought it time to leave.

    Besides, Andy wanted a fag!

    That night they both succumbed to a couple of beers, without them, they knew, the land of nod would be impossible to reach.

    Paul was still woken regularly by heavy bouts of traffic coming from the road and the whorehouse! At precisely 06.18 he was roused from his light slumber by a severe bout of copulation followed by an equally severe bout with the cops downstairs. Sirens blared and a melee occurred on the street with some pissed up Englishmen. Paul wondered if one of them sported an orange beard – but he was too tired to focus.

    He sat on the balcony and listened to the harsh music of the rush hour as the sun made her own golden noise rising quickly, as she was wont to do in The Tropics.

    Andrew had not yet done the same. He was inexplicably sleeping soundly mid the many street sounds, Paul thought it cruel to wake him. Mr Marlboro would do the job before long anyway. He knew nicotine to be an equally as effective alarm call as any thundering lorry.

    As he sat and finished his first blog, he had no idea what he’d written. He must have achieved about five hours sleep out of seventy two. He was looking forward to walking into the quiet part of town, finding a temple, and sitting.

    Or laying down.

    There were reclining Buddhas after all. Paul wondered if some of them had stayed in room four at the Iris Hostel.

    He knew how they felt!

    He wished he’d not booked and paid a whole week in advance.

    ‘Chiang Mai My My!’ He tried to think above the constant din.

    Entirely jet-shagged!

  • Recognition At Last !

    Recognition At Last !

    Paul stood in a West London branch of Tesco’s attempting to deflect the ardent admiration of a bespectacled oddball who was quite convinced that he was a member of a famous rock band.

    ‘It is you isn’t it?’ he said, in a clipped South African accent, whilst reaching into his pocket for the ubiquitous mobile camera phone.

    ‘I know who you are!’, he continued.

    ‘Really’, replied Paul, rather kindly, as he stretched for a Canteloupe.

    ‘Yes. You’re with that band. Not ‘The Stones’. The other one. Wow! Yeah! Do you still have two kids?’

    ‘No.’ said Paul laconically, ‘I don’t have them anymore.’

    His mistaken assailant, not remotely concerned with what had become of Paul’s two imaginary children, went on,

    ‘It’s ok – I won’t let on to anyone’, he said.

    ‘Thank you’, Paul replied, with mock magnanimity. He then held his index finger to his lips and gave the guy a conspiratorial ‘Shhhh’, as if it were their secret. He didn’t want to ruin the moment by letting the bloke know he was really a has-been West-End performer who now travelled the world doing a slightly tawdry cabaret.

    The realisation could dampen both their evenings!

    The gentleman had begun to follow Paul around the aisles, now with video-cam high in hand, as Paul fumbled through the booze section and toyed awkwardly with a Christmas Party Pack of Petroleum Jelly.

    They were beginning to attract attention.

    A small group of customers had begun to take notice of the amateur auteur and were all now staring, attempting to figure out just who this mysterious, frizzy-haired figure was parading around their local Tesco Metro.

    They had now begun to check out his basket too – as if for clues. Paul immediately regretted the three-pack of Vaseline. He had only picked it up it for his lips – but Joe Public could be terribly cruel!

    ‘I’m South African’ the unwanted documenter continued.

    ‘Never’ said Paul, with just a hint of facetiousness.

    He made swiftly for the ‘ready meals’, attempting to put a little culinary apartheid between him and his new found fan. Not to mention the other ten or so people who were now heading towards the Chicken Kievs – all with their beady eyes on Paul’s tired ‘eek. He began to feel a little disconcerted.

    He and Andrew had only just arrived from Gibraltar, after a particularly turbulent and horribly early ‘Sleazyjet’ flight. Added to which, the overhead lighting in Tesco’s was certainly not conducive to a good complexion. Paul knew he was probably near florid neath the fluorescence.

    Or green!

    Certainly not camera-friendly.

    Or ready for a supermarket sweepstake!

    Just before he could find the gentle version of ‘fuck off’ he was looking for, the manager of the small store came rushing up his aisle. He looked at Paul with slight panic, and a little puzzlement, then turned to the little man who had started the melee at the melons.

    ‘Please,’ he said firmly, ‘we like our customers to have a little privacy. I’d like to ask you to leave the premises now sir?’

    He then turned to Paul, and with a slight dip of the head, he apologised,

    ‘I am so sorry you’ve had to go through this sir’ he said.

    ‘It’s quite alright’ said Paul, ‘really it doesn’t matter.’

    He then couldn’t help himself,

    ‘It happens from time to time!’

    The crowd who’d gathered around fingered the odd Shepherd’s Pie and averted their eyes, they quite obviously did not want to suffer the same fate as the poor South African who had now been ejected by a junior member of staff.

    Paul continued his shopping. This time accompanied by the manager who even placed items into his bagging area on his behalf.

    And there was a ten percent discount.

    The price of fame Paul thought!

    The last time he thought he’d actually be recognised for real had been on the Costa Del Sol just days earlier.

    Paul and Andrew had been attending the inauguration of a bench for their dead friend.

    Paul had turned up turned out in an Ecuadorian poncho, a thick scarf, bobble hat and sunglasses. He had the look of an Andean Llama farmer combined with that of a Moroccan/Mexican drug baron.

    El Ponso perhaps!

    His fashion had been necessitated by the fact that the skin on his face was shedding  like that of dead python, due to an acid solution he had applied earlier that week.

    He made his way towards the widow of their friend, dropping his ridiculous disguise to greet people here and there, making his ‘get-up’ quite pointless in the first place.

    ‘What have you done?’ she said, looking with slight concern at Paul’s scabby visage.

    ‘Acid love’ Paul replied. Then qualified the remark swiftly, ‘face acid that is!’

    She laughed.

    Literally at his face!

    ‘There are no press here are there love?’ Paul asked.

    ‘No’ she assured him, ‘they could not come.’

    He now knew that he had both over-applied and left the solution to work for a little longer than necessary. It was a ’No Photos Mr De’Olive Press’ kinda day. One on which to stay home perhaps. But it was too late. The damage had been done. He also knew he should never have purchased the stuff over the internet.

    Especially from Kingston.

    Jamaica!

    And he had always known one could never trust ‘The Press’. Even when it seemed they weren’t there.

    El Ponso – Second from stage left! Courtesy of The Olive Press!

    The Boys first show in Twickenham had been a riotous success. Family and old friends had joined with their fans and the atmosphere was most convivial. Paul had found it refreshing and was quite elevated. Not only by the crowd, but also – a stage. It felt wonderful to be lifted a few feet into the air once again. And oh so natural!

    The following night’s performance was an altogether a different affair.

    It was to be a charity night for a fantastic organisation supporting mental health through music. The charity was aptly named‘Tonic’. The only tonic Paul usually worked for was that which diluted his gin, so it felt good to do some good. Especially as his late father had had more than his fair share of less lucid moments, having been ‘sectioned’ on many an occasion during Paul’s childhood.

    And adulthood come to that.

    His father’s musical taste during bouts of highness had been less than a tonic. Barry Manilow had blasted relentlessly throughout Paul’s ’O’ level’ revision!

    Even now he wondered how he had made it through the rain? Could it be magic?

    It was clear he’d been scarred!

    Paul and Andrew arrived for their show in their full ‘get up’. Mascara and guyliner galore. Glittered and preened to not quite perfection – and freezing their bloody rocks off.

    As they arrived at the ‘Stage Door’, which also served as the main door to the pub, a small blonde, toothy presence bounced out of a flash car parked at the kerb,

    ‘Hello you’, said the perky little gent as he looked towards Paul.

    ‘Hello’, Paul gushed, ’How are you?’ He had assumed he was greeting one of their punters, until the guy got closer and he realised immediately it was the British television comedian Bobby Davro.

    ‘I’m good, yeah great. You two the turn tonight then?’ he said looking towards Andrew, who was standing with his mouth only slightly ajar.

    Bobby didn’t wait for an answer,

    ‘Is Graham still doing the bookings here then?’ he went on, ‘great guy, and is Mark still around?’

    ‘uummm….’ Paul almost said.

    Bobby didn’t wait for an answer,

    ‘This is Ronnie. Russell Brand’s dad,’ he said introducing a chirpy fella with a heavy cockney accent and teeth to pay for!

    ‘You’re looking good fellas,’ Bobby continued’ I’ll ‘ang around and watch your set for a bit!’

    Bobby didn’t wait for an answer!

    After several beers at the bar which involved a stand-up involving as many gay and muslim jokes one could muster into two minutes, Bobby took a breath,.

    ‘We’d better get on’ Andrew said.

    ‘Yes’, said Paul, too urgently.

    Paul offered Bobby and Ronnie a drink but they would not accept Bobby had bought all the sherbets. Paul thought that made him a very generous comic.

    A few minutes later and he and Andrew were blasting out their opening number.in the spotlight.

    Paul began a monologue regaling the audience with his experience the previous evening in ‘Tesco’s’. He then made a joke about being mis-recognised again, only this time by the famous comedian Bobby Davro. Mr Davro, who was still at the bar, laughing a little too loudly, took his moment.

    ‘Ladies and gentleman’, Paul trumpeted, ‘Mr Bobby Davro.’

    The audience applauded. Bobby took his bow.

    Then, in a moment dripping with surrealism, Paul heard his partner in rhyme announce on the microphone,

    ‘The fabulous, amazing Bobby Davro ladies and gentlemen. Bobby, don’t you wanna come up and do five mi…..’

    Bobby didn’t wait for an answer!

    Ten minutes later he had got through three of Paul’s better impressions; one of Andrew’s best numbers; plus the boys’ finale!

    It was truly time for a ‘Bexit’!

    Andrew kicked ‘The Lola Boys Applause’ music into play, (they always travelled with their own applause, it made life so much easier!),

    And Paul pushed Bobby Davro, very kindly, yet firmly, off the stage,

    ’The irrepressible Mr Bobby Davro’ Paul screamed.

    It had been great fun.

    To have an old pro was not a first for Paul, but one joining their show unexpectedly had been.

    It had been thrilling. If not a little unnerving.

    Although Mr Davro’s jokes had not all been politically correct, his timing and stagecraft were exemplary.

    His knowing when to get off – less so!

    Later, Paul and Andrew learnt from their good friend Julia, who had been organising the event, that she had once performed in pantomime with Mr Davro some years earlier.

    Playing Dandini to his Buttons! (Apparently that wasn’t a euphemism!)

    It had been pure coincidence that he had rolled up in his Roller that night. Ironically he hadn’t recognised her, yet Paul and Andrew were most familiar. Julia seemed rather relieved that Mr Davro had left the stage when he had, she was, of course, more than familiar with his antics.

    ‘The Show was great’, Julia said generously. ‘Hilarious! D’you wanna drink ?’

    She didn’t wait for an answer.

    The following day after two shows, Andrew and Paul were somewhat jaded. The feeling grew even worse later that evening when they went to the cinema to see two films back to back.

    ‘Joker’, followed by ‘Judy’.

    Not a lot of laughs!

    They were now truly Jaded!

    In fact Paul was developing a look of Joaqin Phoenix.

    They had one more show to perform on Sunday night – he reckoned that was about all he had left in him! Or he may end up like Ms Garland. One ‘J’ or the other!

    On Sunday afternoon Paul and Andrew walked aside Old Father Thames and reminisced of their London history together. They’d spent many happy years in the great metropolis. Up both ends – East and West!

    Andrew took an age buying a pint as Paul gazed into the murky water, the river’s current running as fast as his thoughts. He had grown up in London and memories re-surfaced.

    Paul bought the boys second pint in under two minutes. He was ‘recognised’ at the busy bar and therefore served first. It was hilarious. Paul made a mental note of what ‘After Shave’ he was wearing (even though he hadn’t shaved!)  For some strange reason, everyone thought they knew him.

    A star not born!

    Later, post shave, and after a lunch of epic proportion, cooked by their wonderful hosts, K.P. and Julia, the boys were back on stage.

    They had a fabulous time.

    Another wonderful audience.

    Another late night!!!

    The next day, with a Bloody Mary on the rocks, they were heading at thirty-two thousand feet for a similarly sited Gibraltar.

    When Paul eventually fell back onto his and Andy’s faded red leather settee he caught sight of himself in the mirror, just above the television. He really did look like a cross between the Joker and Judy Garland – Jaded in every way!

    Their gigs at ‘The Turk’s Head’ –  in the same room where ‘The Beatles’ had played  and  partied, after wrapping up their movie ‘A Hard Day’s Night’, had been most successful.

    But for ‘The Lola Boys’ it had been a hard three days’ night !

    ‘Are you ready for bed babe?’ Paul asked Andrew, as he fell up the stairs.

    ‘I’m coming up in a min…….’

    Paul didn’t wait for an answer!

     

     

     

     

  • They Call Me Miss Ross !

    They Call Me Miss Ross !

    Paul closed the front door after making peace with he and Andrew’s upstairs neighbour.

    There had just been a slight debacle on their terrace after she had objected to Diana Ross having a diva moment at just before 10pm! Andrew had pointed out that anyone was allowed to play music until midnight!

    Especially when it was live from ‘Ceasar’s Palace’!

    However, the lady upstairs had not agreed, and it had turned all too quickly into a bilingual slagging match.

    Paul wondered if his neighbour was a tad racist.  The last time she’d complained, (this time at just after 9pm), he had been listening to Shirley Bassey. Perhaps she wasn’t fond of black, female singers he’d mused. But there was really no excuse to swear over the balcony.

    It was most unseemly.

    And also showed she had very little taste in music!

    During the argument between her and his irate partner, Paul had stepped up to the plate, instead of throwing one for once, and he had politely, but firmly, asked her to meet him outside the front door to discuss the supreme problem. It seemed by far the best idea – and much less common than a scene from an Andalusian version of ’Eastenders’!

    Stop in the name of decency Paul had thought.

    He had just hugged and made up with their upstairs ’vecino’ and was locking the front door when he heard her step back out onto the terrace. It took him eight steps to cross the room to the balcony where Andrew was still sitting, during which he heard their neighbour apologise – quite magnanimously. Then, as he stepped out onto the verandah, the situation had suddenly reverted into a spirited,

    ‘Fuck you’-‘No fuck you’ – ‘No fuck you’! All ending with a slightly xenophobic,

    ‘Why did you even move here?’ from ‘er upstairs, to which Andrew responded,

    ‘You are invading my space. I don’t want to see your fat face leaning over that balcony again!’

    Paul arrived just in time to see his neighbour above retreat sharply – her rotund visage fading into the darkness.

    He loathed confrontation.

    Yet he knew he and Andrew were not in the wrong.

    There had been parties in the valley below all summer which had made the ‘Ministry Of Sound’ akin to a kindergarten. Not to mention the summer school down the road, which seemed to adore a loudspeaker every other minute. Much like an Andaluz version of a Butlins holiday camp.

    Or ‘Frederico Pontinso’ perhaps!

    The strange noise that drifted up nightly from the establishment for the underprivileged was fairly incessant. And the whole neighbourhood were privileged to hear it regularly. So he knew that a little holiday camp on he and Andrew’s side was certainly not out of order.

    They hadn’t even thrown a housewarming yet.

    God help her!

    A few days later Paul had stepped away from a table of empty beer glasses along the paseo, he couldn’t possibly imagine how so many had been emptied, but then imagined that was the very reason why he couldn’t possibly imagine!

    He headed for the little boys room, leaving Andrew in deep discussion with a big South African boy they had met a couple of hours earlier.

    He was one of those people one would describe as an acquaintance, rather than a friend – one of those types with whom one didn’t want to become over-acquainted. It later transpired  why that had been a good idea in the first place. For as Paul returned to the table, the enraged Springbok was banging his immature fist on the table, in King Kong fashion, and raging at Andrew.

    ‘Not again’ thought Paul. Could he not leave his husband for two minutes without returning to a heated debate? Which, doubtless, he would need to extinguish!

    The big African stood up in a rather aggressive fashion and bashed another dumb fist onto the table professing his intention to leave.

    ‘Great idea,’ Paul said, ‘I don’t think that kind of behaviour is called for.’

    Andrew wisely stayed silent and snarled as the superannuated adolescencent marched petulantly away.

    ‘Arsehole’ he spat.

    ‘What the buggery bollocks was that about Andrew?’

    ‘He’s a dickhead’ Andrew continued.

    After his partner explained how the conversation had become so incandescent, Paul knew immediately that it had not been Andrew reactlng unduly, rather another idiotic gossip-monger plying their loquacious trade. Full of bullshit!

    They had both had it up to their eyeballs with the amount of ‘fish-wifery’ which had surrounded them of late.

    From all sexes!

    Chinese whispers and parochial prattling had made them seriously consider their future in their current surroundings. And an over-testosteroned Durbanite banging publicly on public house furniture did nothing to alter their reasoning.

    They had almost had enough.

    A couple more days and the decision was well and truly made. As Andrew made his way back from what had begun as a power-walk, he stopped off in a local bar for some rehydration. Not having readies on him he was generously given a tab only to notice a local tradesman he recognised sitting in the corner.

    ‘Don’t worry’, he assured the landlady loudly, ‘he owes me seventy quid,’ gesticulating towards the unsuspecting culprit.

    ‘I finished that job for you’ the ‘oik replied.

    ‘No you didn’t’ said Andrew, remembering the episode all too distinctly.

    ‘It was fuckin’ eleven years ago,’  the plumber/builder/wanker shouted back.

    ‘So?’ said Andrew with drunken amusement. His victim, the con man who had not returned to complete a job for the boys at their show-bar, (admittedly about ten years before), did not look so amused.

    He rose sharply to exit and with a pathetic macho swagger he snarled abuse into Andrew’s ear as he was leaving.

    Andrew had told Paul the story in detail on his return home. And repeated the exact charming phrase.

    ‘He told me to keep my mouth shut and called me a shit-stabbing cunt!’, he said.

    ‘Oh’ Paul had replied’ I’ve never heard that expression. He’s no doubt right! But how rude!’

    Not to mention a touch homophobic Paul had also thought.

    But he was never one to make a big deal out of that. The lad probably didn’t even mean it that way. His schooling had obviously been somewhat rudimentary.

    Paul was glad he had been absent for the latest of Andrew’s dramas. But he knew the cast and the setting well so he could imagine the unpleasantness. He considered packing some pepper spray into his combats on their next sojourn into town.

    Just in case!

    He’d had enough of thugs, fishwives and fried fish! He was starting to yearn for another adventure. A different challenge before he and Andrew became drawn, drained, desiccated and drunk. It was all too easy to settle into a life on the ‘Costa Del Crime’ that was criminal in itself.

    At least with regard to one’s organs!

    The boys had decided that was not meant to be their life-sentence. It was time to plan an escape route.

    What fun!

    Paul adored a map – and the thought of charting his and Andrew’s next heading made him bubble over. They had been far too still for far too long – it was time to put some effervescence  back into their lives – or how could they tell if they were alive or not?

    Paul was aware he’d become maudlin and slightly pretentious. It was yet another nail in the coffin for he and Andrew’s boxed-in existence. They, just like Freddie, wanted to break free. Either that – or become killer queens! The former seemed, to Paul at least, the more sensible option! He would rather, after all, write sentences than be given one!

    An early Halloween gig took them to Gibraltar.

    Andrew crooned whilst Paul tarted around the decks of the ‘Sunborn’ – they fell into their cabin at some point during the early hours, exhausted by their performance. Paul wondered, as he sprawled on top of the covers, how they had ever managed eight shows a week in the legitimate theatre. But then he imagined illegitimacy made one more tired. It was, after all, much harder to constantly prove oneself. And not only did he have to concern himself with  the act, but sometimes the cuisine! Many a time a member of their audience would complain to him about the food they were swallowing – even though he hadn’t bloody cooked it!

    Luckily this was not an issue onboard the Gibraltar ‘Super Yacht.’ The staffing and the stuffing had been exemplary.

    After breakfast they struggled with their titanic speakers down the gangplank onto the cobblestones of ‘Ocean Village’. This was the least glamorous part of the job. Invariably they were always caught by a punter.

    Breathless.

    Hair afrizz.

    And the residue of Paul’s guy liner slipping it’s moorings and running down his tired old ‘eek!

    This morning was no exception. They met quite a few of the previous night’s crowd – all very complimentary. But some looking a little shocked at the state of the pair.

    ‘We had a fantastic time. Thank you,’ had been one of the quotes.

    Followed by,

    ‘You were both obviously very talented once!’

    ‘How kind,’ Paul had replied. He knew what the guy meant! There was a compliment to see somewhere – if one squinted hard enough through the stale mascara.

    On arrival home, Paul sat on the terrace – make-up free. He looked towards the Mediterranean and the shores of North Africa and hit the play button on his iPad. An old ‘Supremes’ number shuffled on. He imagined he heard some shuffling from the balcony above. Surely not again he thought – it’s only 6pm.

    He looked to the iPad wondering if he should press pause.

    Then he had second thoughts.

    Actually,  he had had a hard day. And a harder day’s night.

    There was nothing for it but to pump up the volume!

    He closed his eyes, resisted the urge to check if he was in trouble or not. And pumped up the volume.

    Diva behaviour he knew.

    Fuck it!

    Sing out Miss Ross.

    While you still can!

  • Crossing The ‘Chanel’ or Up Yours!

    Crossing The ‘Chanel’ or Up Yours!

    Paul’s week had begun and ended in a rather similar fashion – most bizarrely.

    The first incident had occurred at a swanky party in Sotogrande, at which ‘The Lola Boys’ had been performing. It had been a roaring success apparently.

    The boys had been joined by ‘Burly Chassis,’ ‘Tina Turnoff,’ and ‘Amy Crackhouse’! It had been the first time Paul had clambered into a mini skirt and an overstuffed bra for quite a while. Secretly he found the whole dressing up thing a bit of a drag. He was getting far too old to hide his meat and two veg under a tight pair of knickers and an equally snug pair of nylons.

    It was most uncomfortable. Not to mention sweaty.

    So on this occasion, Tina et al. had a few more bulges than they’d sported on previous outings. Although Paul hoped ‘Joe Public’ had not spotted anything protruding.

    One jolly hockey sticks lady had most definitely not.

    For as Paul stood in the kitchen, post-show, coming both down and up, he was approached by a terribly pleasant girl with at least half a pound of plums in her mouth.

    ‘May I ask you a question?’ she politely said..

    ‘Of course,’ Paul responded, unaware of the shock that was to follow.

    ‘Have you had hormone therapy?’ she went on in the best queen’s English.

    Paul answered as an English queen,

    ‘For what?’

    ‘Well, you know,’ she said, now quiet brazen. She was obviously on that scale!

    ‘You mean have I …. am I transitioning?’ Paul stuttered on.

    ‘Yes – of course’

    Paul went as white as three sheets to the wind.

    ‘Which way?’ he asked.

    ‘Well, obviously – you know …’ she began to falter slightly.

    ‘Into a woman?’

    ‘Yes’ the girl said, ‘most definitely.’

    This dumb bitch had most definitely not seen the protrudence he had been most concerned about earlier. Nor did she notice that although he was sporting a touch of guy liner he was now dressed quite obviously as a man – and unless he was smuggling a chatter of budgies in his pants, it was more than clear any hormone treatment this strange woman thought he was undergoing, was proving severely ineffective.

    ‘No’, he heard himself say politely, but he wanted to punch her in her plum-filled gob,

    ‘I’m rather happy as a man. I just do this for cash. You know – like a cheap hooker’.

    He wanted to add ‘Much like you bitch!’ But held back. Besides there was nothing at all cheap about the daft cow and she was so plain she could have caused accidents on the Estepona roundabout. So the insult wouldn’t have worked.

    Instead he should have glassed her !

    Paul transitioned as quickly as possible to a different conversation and was eventually saved from the ignorant toff by the charming lady of the house.

    He had to laugh. In over ten years of dressing up, (and down), he had never ever been asked if he had female genitalia. What a twat!

    He and Andrew left the party at 11.30 the following morning, after almost no sleep. The boys returned to pack their bags as they were to leave for England far too bloody early the next morning.

    They just about woke and were driven by Csaba, their Hungarian roadie, otherwise known as ‘The Lewis Hamilton of the Costa,’ at speed to Malaga airport.

    Their eye-baggage only just meeting weight requirements.

    They were to perform in a private show in Cambridgeshire and then head south to the coast to visit family and friends and attend their sisters ‘gallery’ opening.

    Luckily there was no-one who mistook Paul for Paula at the next show in the lovely Fulbourn, just a lecterns throw from Cambridge. It had been hard work and a ‘jolly’ all at the same time. Paul was more than aware professional partying could take its toll, especially with such charming and generous hosts.

    The only major issue though had been Andrew dropping a leaf-blower onto his face during the charity auction. He’d taken on the job of modelling the prizes, rather like a masculine Debbie Mcgee, working as an assistant to Paul, who had obviously bid for the role of auctioneer. Andrew said he didn’t feel it at the time , doubtless due to the copious amount of methylated spirit he had necked. However, the next day, it was more than obvious he’d been injured by the blow job. His eye was terribly swollen and turning an odd shade of violet by the minute. Indeed it looked like it could blacken in the blink of an eye.

    The morning after the show before the boys made their bedroom look less like one in which ‘The Rolling Stones’ may have stayed during some of their wilder years, and they bade goodbye to their hosts.

    It was time to take the Brighton line.

    They were both tired and slightly ragged but looking forward to what was to come.

    It didn’t last long.

    A monumental argument erupted on the train, over Andrew feeling he’d been deserted whilst searching for a cheese sandwich in M & S. Paul had told him that he did not have time to make a complicated selection but to just bloody grab and go. When Andrew began looking at labels Paul looked towards the door.

    ‘I’ll see you on the Platform’ he barked.

    They had just eight minutes to make platform eight and Paul had been warned of the journey, which apparently involved a horribly long footbridge.

    Paul made the platform. He boarded the train standing by the door, well aware his partner could often be less than premature. There was no sign – Paul was just ready to alight with the luggage when just in time, his husband stumbled down the stairs with copious baggage, including bags of M & S baddies. He clambered onto the train dumping his wares most unceremoniously on the seat next to Paul.

    ‘Why did you fucking leave me?’ He screamed. ‘I had no ticket – I couldn’t get through’

    ‘The luggage gate thing was open – that’s how I got through’ Paul snarled, all this in front of a poor American woman seated opposite who looked appalled,

    ‘Well it wasn’t fucking open when I tried. I had to get this bloke to let me through. Luckily he did. No thanks to you.’

    ‘Fuck you!’ Paul responded, rummaging through the M & S bag for a chicken and stuffing sandwich.

    ‘Fuck you!’ Andrew blew.

    He rose sharply.

    Then petulantly stalked off to another carriage.

    A good move thought Paul, as he had been considering blackening his partner’s other eye at any second.

    Paul watched as they pulled out of Cambridge Station. He noticed, as they passed the ticket hall on the wrong side of the tracks, that the luggage barrier was still open.

    ‘Moody bastard Andrew bastard!’ he thought loudly.

    But then again, it was true it had been he who had ran off with the tickets!

    He loathed missing trains, boats or planes. It had only happened to him once. He was travelling to Amsterdam with Andrew and his sister, Tina. Not only did the three of them miss the first plane’s departure, being bogged down in the duty-free shop, but they also missed the second flight on which the lady from B A had so kindly put them. She was far less kind when she told them not to miss the third flight. They made sure they were onboard – but it was still a close run thing!

    Bloody airports – so many distractions!

    Paul looked towards the American woman in the train seat opposite. He smiled. She stared back blankly. She looked as though she was possibly in shock.

    The boys sat well apart for most of the journey down to Brighton. The weather was sunny – Andrew’s disposition not so. But by the time they had changed trains in hideous ‘East Concrete’ and swigged on a pre-prepared bottle of ‘Bloody Mary,’ supplied by their previous hosts Phil and Amanda, the overhead clouds lifted. They were both looking forward to catching up with the family for the opening of Paul’s sister’s gallery.

    Tina had decided to rent an arch under the prom on Brighton beach. Paul and Andrew thought it a great idea to get her work out to people directly, rather than only relying on galleries, which often took more than 50 percent of any art that was purchased. Paul had always thought this a rather high figure. Even the dull agents he’d ‘employed’ in the West End had only taken twelve and a half – and he had thought that sum extravagant. Especially for the little work some of the lazy theatrical gits actually did.

    As he and Andrew hit the beach in Brighton the sun’s boater was most definitely on – and he was out to play, and hard. It was absolutely baking.

    The beach was pebbled with deckchairs and parasols and scores of sunbathers. The promenade was packed with every form of human being imaginable. And some who, to Paul, were quite unimaginable. He never failed to be surprised by the wonderfully colourful city down on the Sussex coast. It was one of the only towns in the world where one could sit having a posh french meal and have a campsite of junkies just two foot away jacking up.

    Hardly appetising.

    But the splendour of the place always outweighed it’s seediness. And a little tawdriness wasn’t something to which Paul was entirely averse. Nor Andrew. It often got them into some trouble. But they were never that naughty.

    And ’Smack’ and Pork Belly on the same menu were a sure recipe for indigestion! Surely.

    For the boys it had been brilliant catching up with their family and old friends who had made their way down to support Tina in her new venture.

    The little gallery looked great. Tina’s work had always been vibrant – yet the brilliant location seemed to enhance it’s vitality – perhaps because it was her very own space.

    Paul and Andrew were wowed – especially by the wooden entrance doors which Tina had decorated by hand – not a brush in sight.

    Quite beautiful !

    Before the evening drew to its final close, Paul was slightly dismayed to find Andrew laying on his back snoring and farting inside the arch. He was oblivious to the last of the customers as they stepped across him to peruse Tina’s work and grab a glass of vino.

    It was true neither himself or Andrew had achieved much sleep over the last couple of days – but there was a time and a place thought Paul.

    Although he had to admit Andrew did look rather handsome, black eyed, huffing and puffing away on the floor, and everyone else thought it cute.

    He made a mental note not to tell Andrew that when he woke.

    He didn’t want his lover developing narcoleptic tendencies whenever he felt like it. He knew he had the capacity to drift off at the drop of a nightcap already.

    Brighton was great fun as per usual – if a little hectic.

    The boys had stayed at Paul’s mother’s, with his mum, the fizz left over from Tina’s opening and their Aunty Carol. Aunty Carol was as effervescent as the leftover wine – wonderfully entertaining, yet one could wake with a slight hangover. Paul and Andrew loved her – their were very few people around with such ebullience.

    They left the town with heavy hearts and rather heavy stomachs after too many a pub lunch. It felt very sad to leave their peers on the pier – simply because it had been fun carousing through the town with everyone. As familiar as a stick of rock. Yet real life seemed even sweeter. They adored their time in Brighton.

    It was always too soon to make a ‘Brixit’!

    Paul’s mum drove them to the airport through the back roads of the South Downs. It was enchanting.

    Verdantly splendid. Or splendidly verdant. Paul knew he was rather green when it came to such descriptions. He’d never gone to university after all. Just ponced about at Mountview Theatre School, where one was taught drama not grammar,

    They were cruising without turbulence until they reached Gatwick and were then informed there was a delay to their flight of at least an hour. Oh well, thought Paul, more time for shopping. Retail therapy at an airport was a terminal illness from which he suffered. He nearly always purchased an unneeded ‘eau de perfum’ to add to the countless bottles he had stored in the bathroom. He had scented it was a habit that did not endear him to his partner – yet he also knew Andrew was partial to a spray or six –  so he could hardly complain.

    The boys ‘Miss Moneypenny’, Stella, met them from Gibraltar and they unwisely spent the night getting thoroughly pissed on duty-free ‘Stolly’ on their terrace. Stella left at one-thirty and Paul and Andrew continued to burn the candle at any end it had – high on life. And a little Voddy!

    It was two days later when that glorious moment, one sometimes has, of cruising through life on a bubble of contentment was pricked. Or rather punctured. By a squat frenchman with big ears!

    ‘The Lola Boys’  were performing at a chiringuito called Dieguichi down on a small bay on the Costa Del Sol. A place they loved, with great food and a touch of the mafioso.

    Or so they liked to imagine.

    Literally just as they arrived to start their pre-show ‘meet and repeat,’ Juan Jose, the owner, called Paul over and asked if he could have a word with a french family who were having a revolution of their own at one of the front tables. Paul went immediately to the family to ask whatever was the matter.

    ‘Hello, I’m Paul, I’m the better half of The Lola Boys,’ he smooched, he hoped with a twinkle, ‘how lovely to meet you.’

    ‘If you do not turn off your speaker now  I am going to break it’ came the charming response.

    ‘I’d rather you didn’t do that,’ Paul said, realising these really were revolting people, ‘I can have you moved.’

    ‘If you are going to speak to me, speak only in French or Spanish’ the short dick-head continued. Two of the woman at his table looking somewhat mortified. Bullied perhaps!

    Paul felt as if he might be decapitated at any moment. There was so much ire coming from across the negotiating table he imagined sorting out ‘Brexit’ would be an easier ask.

    ‘Bien sur’ replied Paul, and then in near perfect French continued , ‘but if you break my speaker, I will break your head!’

    From where he had trawled the future tense of ‘to break’ from his schoolboy french, he was unsure. Perhaps his time with a miserable Parisian lover he’d briefly endured had paid off.  But he’d impressed himself with his latent francophone talent, although obviously not the diminutive, napoleonic git to whom he was speaking.

    ‘I do not want to move tables. This is our table. I have a problem with my ears.’

    Paul took a purposeful moment. He looked very carefully at one of the frenchman’s ears, and then let his mascara-clad eyes stroll laconically across Monsieur Miserable’s ‘eek until it reached the other. Which was equally unattractive. He then said,

    ‘Oui. Je Vois. Ils sont terribles. Je suis vraiment désolé pour vous ‘

    (Translation-ish – ‘Yes. I see. They are terrible. I am truly sorry for you!’)

    There was a horrible silence through which the overture of ‘Hello Dolly’ blasted relentlessly. Then the frenchman relented,

    ‘We move then’ he spat, olive oil and saliva flying from his fat gallic gob into Paul’s visage.

    ‘I shall go and speak to the waiter to get him to prepare your table’, said Paul, with utter control. He was surprising himself.

    ‘Thank you darling,’ drawled his cross-channel adversary in a mock camp English accent, dripping with vituperation, as he fluttered his eyelashes sarcastically. It was clear this ‘petit fou’ not only had terribly ugly ears but was ignorant, anti-english and homophobic. Paul’s gut instinct was to tell him to stand up on his short frogs’ legs and ‘Encouler’!

    Either that or smack him in the ‘bouche.’

    But it wasn’t his establishment.

    And he knew the chiringuito would not want to miss out on ‘Le Bill’.

    Yet he sensed trouble.

    He was quite correct.

    As soon as he and Andrew came out to sing their first number, the French number rose to their feet from their new table, just as if the Lola Boys were doing the ‘Marseillaise’. They then made a huge scene of leaving. The whole thing was most unsavoury and tasteless.

    Much like ‘L’escargots!’

    It took a moment for Paul to gain control as the rabble charged for the exit gates, as if storming the ‘Bastille’, making a very disorganised ‘Frexit.’

    Paul noticed that after he’d done a couple of french gags, and Andrew had said something probably less subtle in English, the angry little man was being restrained by three of the waiters just outside the entrance. It was clear he was making a retreat and wanted to come back in and see the show.

    Maybe even join it!

    Paul made it obvious to the remaining audience from many nations that neither he or his partner were anti-french. Jamais! They both adored the cheese and, of course, the champagne was magnififique.

    ‘Do we have any other french friends in this evening’ Paul asked. In both languages.

    There was no response.

    ‘Oh well then,’ he said cheekily, ‘Bon Fucking Nuit!’

    It got rather a big laugh.

    Nobody likes rudeness. From any nationality !

    He then gave a salute, one which any frenchman would certainly have recognised, that is had they bothered to look back into recent history before threatening to put heads onto spikes.

    The ‘V’ sign.

    Or in any language,

    Up yours!

  • Memory – All Alone in The Moonlight !

    As Paul sat on a hot day in southern Spain dreaming of his next foreign adventure, a random Facebook post by a friend had made him instead  harken back to a time he’d put far aside!

    His time as a ‘resting’ actor in London.

    It had come in intervals, much like his theatre work.

    At times it seemed, to him at least, as though some of those intermissions were as long as the entire Musical! Some kind of employ was eventually always a necessity,  and so Paul took on a horrible number of jobs to make end’s meet! On his first bout of unemployment his end was definitely met, as he took a gig as a ‘Life model’, in a posh house in Chiswick .He knew it sounded better described that way. Yet he suspected it probably had a touch of the ‘glamour’ world about it, wrapped up in some arty shite.

    But then again it did pay 25 quid.

    And he wasn’t shy!

    After his first session he was semi-sure he’d been right about the porno element. There was too many an artist trying to finger his sponge finger mid custard-cream during the tea-break! It was hardly the renaissance – but almost the start of something.  He had, however, noticed some of them could actually paint. So he stayed on posing for some weeks longer.

    He had then been offered a role in ‘A Christmas Carol’ at a terribly auspicious repertory theatre in North Wales. Paul thought the whole thing an anomaly, a decent theatre in the middle of nowhere,  but went along with his agent when she assured him he had a twenty-minute scene with Ebenezer Scrooge as the piece’s finale.

    It was only whilst suffering three shows a day, staying in a very bleak house, outside a shithole called ‘Mould'(or something like that!), that Paul realised he longed for ‘unemployment’ again.  His lauded ‘big scene’ between him and the star of the show, had seen him draped from head to foot in a heavy black blanket and a Darth Vader mask, as he pointed a gloved finger to various plastic grave stones. He was nothing more than the ghost of the future.

    No number.

    No lines.

    No face.

    Not even his own fucking fingers!

    It had not been his favourite time treading the boards – in fact, he’d grown quite bored of treading them.

    His next ‘resting’ job was the one that had started his reverie. His employment as a rider of a ‘Monkey Bike’. His job was drive the motorcycle to  pissed-up posh folk, take it apart, stow it in their boot  and return the  drunk people home in their expensive motors.

    It had been a dreadful idea from the start. But Paul had practically grown up on a moped, and despite a couple of gashes here and there, had not come off that badly.

    Well, maybe once!

    So he was ready for a challenge – especially after having just survived as a deathly spirit for three months. He longed to feel alive.

    He was trained in a scrapyard in north Clapham for half a day. He was taught how to take the motorbike apart in three minutes, store it in the boot of the car one was to drive, then unpack it and re-assemble after having dropped off one’s merry crew.

    It had all seemed kind of simple to Paul at the time. Besides, he and Andrew needed the cash. They were certainly not able to survive on his partner’s shitty  ‘West End’ wage — despite him playing one of the lead roles.  It never ceased to amaze Paul that despite getting to the top of one’s profession the wage never merited the experience one brought, unless you’d appeared in ‘The Bill’ or ‘Casualty’. It had been one of the reasons he’s decided to abscond from that world.

    That and ‘Monkey Bikes’!

    The company had promised Paul that he would not be called on until he had time to familiarise himself with his machine.  He rode stiffly back home, dwarfing the tiny motorbike with his gangly limbs. Andrew laughed hard as he saw him pull up outside their flat.  They both found it amusing, but Paul suspected Andrew was secretly a little impressed that he was giving it a go. After all, the traffic in ‘sarf’ London was somewhat notorious.

    Paul sat familiarising himself with the bike’s manual as Andrew devoured some shit television. It was his one night off — the rest of the time he was at work. The theatre was unforgiving in that respect as well.

    The phone rang. They still did back then. Paul answered with trepidation, he already knew who it was….

    He was given an address near Battersea Bridge from he was to pick up a drunken crowd in their huge car and take them to somewhere near Kingston.  Paul knew he couldn’t refuse — the job would be over.

    ‘On my  way’ he said in his butchest biker tone.  He went downstairs and mounted the pygmy machine with as much aplomb as he could muster and pootled off down the road. He turned to look at Andrew briefly, but his over-tight helmet and the look of terrified amusement on Andrew’s face made him turn back swiftly to the road.

    Half an hour later he had taken the bike apart and stashed it in the boot of the client’s very, very expensive car. His passengers were wasted, yet charming, and driving them ten miles down the A3 had been the easy part. Especially as they had tipped him three times more than he was going to earn.  The difficult moment had come three hours later when Paul was still attempting to fix the shitty thing together in a pitch black lane outside Surbiton! He had no mobile — no-one did then. Apart from wankers with briefcase-size penis extensions and much too much to spend.

    He was alone.

    Just him; a wrench; and a ‘Monkey Bike’ in five pieces! And he was certain it was meant to be just three. Wasn’t it?

    Finally he’d got it into a shape that looked rideable. Even bike-able! He had owned a ‘Mechano’ set after all – his paranoid father had insisted on that.  But he knew the machine neither looked or felt entirely how he’d been shown the previous afternoon.

    He turned the ignition and the machine lurched forward, to Paul’s surprise it continued going, and soon he was on the busy dual carriageway known as the A3 – on his way back into town. His only concern, as he glanced at the handlebars, was that they were turned more towards Londonderry than London.

    ‘Mechano’ had never been his forte!

    He rode with confidence. Adjusting all the way – turning left wasn’t easy, but then it never had been! Eventually he made it back to the depot. With all five pieces of the bike and most of himself intact.

    Inside – he’d crashed.

    Get me back to stage he thought – before I end up in a different kind of theatre!

    When he got home to Andrew, who had waited up nervously, he was amused to see that his partner was more scared than himself.

    ‘I think I’ll get it babe’ Paul said,’eventually’.  He then told Andrew of his experience on the A3.

    ‘No darl,’ Andrew answered, ‘I don’t want you doing that. It’s too bloody dangerous. Tell them tomorrow you’ve finished.’

    Paul reluctantly did as his partner suggested.

    It had been a good move.

    Just under a week later one of the guys who had undertaken the ‘training’ alongside Paul, came off his bike and suffered severe brain damage. The company lasted just another month. They realised one could not simply pay peanuts – for that, all you got was monkeys.

    And it certainly required more than one of those to take apart and re-assemble a ‘Monkey-Bike’ all alone in the moonlight. Especially on one’s first gig! Paul had found it much easier to point at gravestones!

    He knew he’d had a lucky escape. But he’d had a go. Even with no great expectations. So he felt a little brave.

    A few weeks later he got a job with ‘Lionel Bart’, the genius that produced ‘Oliver’! It was only a three week workshop. Oh well, but it was still back to the boards and off the wheels.

    So Paul thought, ‘What the Dickens!’ Let’s go for the ride. And there won’t be time to get bored!

    –

  • Gay Pride!

    Gay Pride!

    Paul sat.

    He stared closely at the motorway which paraded as a promenade in a small, nearly charming town north of Malaga!

    He and Andrew had performed the previous night – in more ways than one !

    The manager of the ‘Hotel Estacion’ (which was nowhere near a fucking station!) was most disturbed. Paul knew he could add to the squat proprietor’s malaise by telling him that the food he had served up at his tawdry establishment was what one might call – ‘mierda’!

    Pero – no!

    It was the day after the night before. Paul knew he had created enough of a disturbance with the little night-time drama that had occurred at an unholy hour in quite ungodly circumstances. His husband, with good reason,  had left him sitting in a one horse bar, in a no horse town. He was not proud of himself. He had no idea if Andrew would return. His partner, after all, had slept in a skip. Not for the first time Paul had thought -surely! But it was still unedifying – for both of them.

    He apologised profusely to the small man who owned the hostel.

    But deep down he cared not.

    He found it terribly boring to be the one who forgave all the time. Or so he thought.

    And he wasn’t sorry.

    And he wasn’t wrong.

    Or so he thought!

    Fuck ‘em all!

    Especially the idiot who’d posted anti gay propaganda on their website that morning.

    And the squat, sour-faced hotelier.

    Paul had been thrown out of better places!

    He lounged, partially shaded ‘neath a dodgy parasol along with an equally questionable ‘Cognac’, waiting for his partner to return.  It had been a while, and Paul was starting to suspect his husband may never come back.

    A bicycle passed.

    It’s rider stunning.

    And coolly puffing on a huge joint!  Paul saw at once that there were plenty more in fish in the reefer – he just wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to cast out his line!

    Not just yet.

    After all – a Cod in the basket is better than two in the bush!

    Or something like that!

    Even if the Cod could be rather ‘Cod’ at times.

    Even the grumpy waiter was starting to look appealing.

    Paul assumed it was just panic. He and Andrew had ridden such tempests before. They always had their worst rows in small hotel rooms. The confinement and the cheap bedding suited neither of them.

    As Paul sweltered ‘neath the moth-eaten brolly, feeling more contrite by the minute, it dawned on him that he remembered very little of the previous night’s events.

    He knew this to be a very bad sign!

    Perhaps he had been a tad to blame for the early morning fireworks!

    But then again, in Andalucia one can hardly complain of noisy explosions at 3am.

    There would, after all, be no ferias!

    Some weeks earlier ‘The Lola Boys’ had travelled to England to do a couple of shows. The weather had been surprisingly glorious and the verdant surroundings made both of them feel a touch poignant.

    As they awoke on the morning of their first show, it was not difficult to imagine those feet in ancient time may actually have walked across Surrey’s golf courses green.

    It was wonderfully bucolic.

    Adding to the frondescent appeal were a couple of sexy golfers whose pitch and putt action was most attractive! What swingers ! A hole in two came to mind! It had been a marvellous way to tee off.

    This was good.

    As usually, the day of a ‘Lola Boys’ show did not imbue Paul with the sunniest of dispositions. He was well aware of this and put it down to nerves, but at times it was almost debilitating.

    For him and his partner.

    He now made a conscious effort to not play the diva  – at least not until the spotlight came on. But he found it difficult – especially once he’d applied a touch of ‘guy liner’! At times it was as if the monster had taken over.

    ‘Lolastein’ was loose! There was nothing anyone could do.

    Thankfully any real drama in the homeland was avoided. Both shows went swimmingly and no-one had to endure anything offensive – other than a dreadful lunch on the river at Richmond.

    ‘The Pitcher And Piano!’

    Yuk!

    Not a piano to be heard and the only pitcher had been the memory of Phil Tufnell, who’d been at the boys’ gig the night before. Most disarming he was too. Despite Paul making a couple of rather dodgy cricketing jokes at his expense. Mr Tufnell creased up and played ball, so at least Paul knew he wouldn’t be batted out.

    Not quite yet! Not even with such dreadful puns!

    The audience were also bowled over at the second show in Twickenham. Two in a row felt almost like proper work. And as Paul vomited privately into his sweaty shirt after the second encore, he couldn’t help thinking it wasn’t a good idea.

    This working lark!

    He found it hard to believe he’d once managed eight shows a week in the West End.

    And gone clubbing afterwards!

    The only theatre he could think about stepping into now was one which did facial surgery! He made a mental note to hit the gym on his return to Spain.

    He wasn’t even middle aged for goodness sake! Not in Victorian terms.

    Back in Espana ‘neath the moth-eaten parasol and Paul sat some more.

    He ordered a final brandy for what he hoped would be the final time, and then caught sight of his husband. He necked the methylated grape juice, threw too much cash towards the petulant owner, and he and Andrew got into the car. They then drove the two hours home – in deathly silence. (Other than a tirade of Donna Summer emanating from the radio).

    On their arrival Andrew hit the pavement. He obviously had no intention of joining Paul indoors.

    The boys spent a night apart.

    The next day Paul was slightly concerned. He looked towards Lola, he and Andrew’s Pomeranian, who herself was looking to the door, waiting for her other daddy to come home.

    Paul wished he would too.

    But he wasn’t holding his breath. He poured a gin instead. It seemed wiser than pining!

    He wasn’t Pomeranian!

    A couple of weeks later, after he and Andrew had made friends again, (which, in truth had taken all of ten minutes), Paul was again shaded ‘neath another bargain brolly. This time in deep contemplation.

    Quite penumbral.

    He wondered if he even wanted to continue with ‘The Lola Boys’! He knew, at times, his voice was as ragged as his fishnets – and no amount of slap could disguise a completely worn out ‘eek’! But he still enjoyed performing, and he could never imagine Andrew ever wanting to give up singing.

    In fact he’d warned his partner, the one with the forty a day habit, that it could be the voice that gave up on him. But Paul understood addiction – there was no use in preaching. Besides, Andrew still sung like a dream despite Paul warning him of the nightmare which could follow – so his remonstrations only fell on deaf lungs!

    That evening ‘The Lola Boys’ performed at a charity gig in the affluent enclave of Sotogrande. Or as they liked to cheekily call it – ‘Snottogrande’! It had been a great success. Despite two ignorant homophobes making their affliction clear by marching out during one of the boys’ more raucous numbers. Paul knew he could not chastise them for their taste, that was their prerogative. But walking across his spotlight was unforgivable.

    Especially when he and Andrew had mics in hand!

    Send in the clowns   !

    Andrew began first,

    ‘Oh, I see we’ve lost a couple of you already – obviously off down to Gay Pride in the port.’

    ‘Yes’, Paul heard himself say, ‘you’ll be much happier down there – there are hundreds of homosexuals for you to party with.’

    Paul knew he was pushing it when he continued as the miserable pair left the premises,

    ‘I wouldn’t mind really, but I think I was slightly more attractive than her!’

    He knew it was cruel.

    But it was funny.

    And it got a big laugh!

    ‘Fuck ‘em,’ he continued with aplomb and more laughter.

    But underneath it was always a struggle to suppress the rage he felt for being judged by how he made love. He knew Andrew felt the same. But he’d learnt the best way to fight half-wits was by using one’s full wit.

    And it felt so good!

    Surprisingly the uncomfortable couple returned about an hour later. They took seats further towards the back of the stalls, but Paul couldn’t fail to be amused that when it came to the end of the evening they both knew the ‘YMCA’ by heart.

    Andrew was sure the ignorant duo weren’t able to get a taxi, especially on ‘Gay Pride Night’ in Manilva, and so were forced to return. But Paul was more suspicious.

    Methinks the couple doth protest too much,  he thought.

    They were quite clearly village people !

    On route back from their show, Andrew asked their trusted ‘roadie’,  Csaba, to drop Paul and himself off at the remains of the party which was still smouldering in Duquesa Port. Unfortunately there was still some proud fire alive in the fiesta’s embers and the boys stayed up burning their candles at all ends!

    At dawn, they were walking, still clad in guy-liner and glitter, up the steep hill home! As cars drove past them, on route to respectability, Paul attempted to look as proud as possible. It was difficult in a crooked sailor’s hat and running mascara but that was the point wasn’t it?

    ‘Pride’!

    He felt neither proud nor gay –  just tired.

    He knew, as he marched uphill past the golf course, much like Ingrid Bergman as ‘Gladys Aylward’ in his favourite ‘The Inn Of The Sixth Happiness’, that this old man would not be playing one.

    Not on anyone’s drum.

    Let alone two. Or attempting to buckle a buggery shoe.

    He was heading for the shade – yet again.

    Knick-knacked and paddy whacked! He’d be giving no dog a bone!

    Being gay could be so tiring!

    Where was that dodgy parasol?

    He needed to sit.

    And regain his pride!

    And so.

    Paul sat.

  • Days 12,13 & 14. St Vincent, Grenada and Home!

    Days 12,13 & 14. St Vincent, Grenada and Home!

    At first sight St Vincent looked pretty spectacular. Majestic cliffs soared upwards from an emerald sea and pretty multicoloured rooftops studded the verdant hillsides.

    The guys hit the shore minus a Bill and Grace who had confined themselves to their cabins following a night watch involving a Gary Barlow tribute act and a barrel load of alcohol. Both of them felt more than a little sea-sick. Take That  and party thought Paul. Always a bad move.

    But that wisdom came from age.

    As Paul, Andrew, Tina and their mother made preparations to face the gauntlet of tour operators and taxi drivers that worked as a press-gang on the dock, they took a deep breath of oxygen. It was always their least favourite moment of a day ashore.

    However, St Vincent proved to be a breath if fresh air. There was no hard sell. A polite ‘no thankyou’ was all it took and was often answered with an equally genteel, ‘no worries – enjoy your day on the island’. It was as refreshing as a Caribbean breeze as they breezed through port and into the town.

    Kingstown, the capital of St Vincent proved to be just as charming. It was market day, and the locals were far more interested in buying yams and knickers than in the cruise invaders marauding their away around town.

    This was a Caribbean town for the locals, not the passengers, and it was so much better for it. It was clear there was much poverty, but there was also much mirth as the market farmers and lingerie sellers plied their wares. For the first time since his arrival in the West Indies Paul felt almost invisible. Apart that is from the many townsfolk who just wanted to say hello. Even a tough gang of builders wanted him to take their picture.

    Of course he’d obliged, but he wanted one too. They were great fun as they struggled to break up the ground with their rudimentary pickaxes in heat that could have baked a potato. Paul marvelled at their thick skins. They just got on with it. It was a times like these, when he and Andrew went travelling, that he considered himself most fortunate. He was very glad he were not a builder working under the noonday sun – it would play havoc with his Barnet!

    They searched for what seemed like hours for somewhere to sit and have a coffee. As they walked further and further from the boat, they suddenly found themselves in the slightly dodgy area of town. They were offered all sorts of things they might ordinarily have tried, but being a passenger aboard the only mega ship in the port made one an easy target for a quick scam. They weren’t complete dopes!

    They asked a girl who was gracing a petrol forecourt with her presence, whether she was being paid to do so was dubious, but she was terribly helpful. She directed them towards a small alley which had what looked like a house of ill repute at one end. Apparently it was the only place to grab a beer.

    They went inside and found an uncomfortable table and some expensive local ale. After  a swift bottle or three, they discussed the rest of their day.  Andrew said he would probably stay where he was, perched like Long John Silver in the grimy corner of a lesser known Caribbean drinking hole.  The rest of them had other plans.

    Paul, Tina and their mum then hit the road towards Kingtown’s famous botanical gardens. there was apparently a breadfruit sapling from Captain Bligh’s original batch still growing on the plot. The mutinous Fletcher Christian had not managed to stop his Captain spreading his seed after all. It seems Captain Bligh had a rather more fruitful existence after being cast adrift in the Pacific than one might imagine.

    He certainly managed to get about a bit.

    The gardens were cool and verdant after the climb through the town in the soaring heat. They met a busker who crooned gently to them as they took shade beneath a ‘Canonball’ tree.

    He told them that the flowers fell to the ground and exploded like the aforementioned artillery before letting off their scented payload. The minstrel also informed them the bloom had been used to create ‘Liz Taylor’s’ perfume – ‘Poison’. Paul knew that particular cologne had come from a tree planted by Mr Dior and not Ms Taylor, but said nothing. He was glad they hadn’t invested in a guided tour though. The information on offer concerning the gardens was somewhat shady. Like the park itself.

    They walked back down to the town and met Andrew where they had left him. He hadn’t moved at all, except for his drinking arm that is.

    Paul suggested they have another beer, his mother resisted at first. She wanted to make sure they didn’t miss the boat.

    ‘You’ve got three hours mother’ said Paul bluntly, ‘you won’t miss it.’

    ‘Well I know – but i’m worried after last time’ she went on.

    They were happily back on the Britannia with at least an hour to spare before sail away. It was lucky as it meant they were in time for afternoon tea. Paul’s bounty consisted of a plate of sandwiches, two scones with jam and cream, a bowl of rice, dhal and vegetable curry and a chicken and ham pie. He could feel his digestive system beginning to grow mutinous within. It was always man going overboard when it came to the ‘Horizon’ buffet. It was always much more than one’s horizon that had been broadened after a visit.

    Paul belched audibly but his indigestion was disguised by the ship’s horn which sounded simultaneously. The ship began to make her way south towards the spice island of Grenada. Their circle from St Lucia was almost complete. One more port before they disembarked and said goodbye to Britannia.

    Paul felt a sudden pang of regret. He was having such a good time on the ocean waves among his crew he didn’t want it to end. But as he stood on his balcony and watched the nautical miles being eaten up by the leviathan he was riding he knew one couldn’t stop time. One was always moving forward even if one couldn’t always feel it. Of course, on a ship, the motion was obvious. Paul found the movement moving.

    Profound even.

    He looked to sea and belched again. A cauldron of strong flavours corroded his palate as he unwittingly called for afternoon tea once again.

    He made a mental note. Day 13.

    Grenada.

    Stop eating!

    Day 13. Grenada.

    After three sausages, three bacon, eggs, beans, fried bread, hash browns and a plate of kedgeree, Paul disembarked the ship in Grenada with just a little hesitation. (And just a touch of indigestion).  It had been twenty years since he’d last visited the capital of St George’s on Grenada and he had mixed memories of the place to say the least.

    He had last come to the famous spice island with Andrew whilst still in their early twenties. They were accompanied by a young actress and her pop star boyfriend with whom Andrew had been working.

    The north of the island had been charming.

    The company had not. 

    They eventually parted and the young green couple became enmeshed in something not so green in a rather sordid area of the island.

    When Paul and Andrew met up with them for the return flight they almost didn’t recognise the glamorous pair with whom they’d arrived. Instead they were met by a grey couple of listless, dead eyed party animals who’d obviously been slaughtered the entire time.

    Financially and physically.

    Paul had made a mental note back then to never get in that state before a flight. A note he wished he’d remembered ten years later on a flight from Tenerife Norte to Gatwick via Hell!

    But he didn’t want to think about that.

    It still made his blood run cold.

    So instead he remembered Grenada. The beautiful beaches and the friendly villagers with whom they’d bonded all those years back. Bingo in ‘River Sally’ and limboing  into the tropical night whilst spilling Campari and orange everywhere.

    Thankfully, the lovely island of Grenada was just as welcoming as Paul and Andrew remembered. The town had a confident strut without being too ‘in yer face’, and her inhabitants maintained  a friendly swagger. It was an easy place in which to spend a lazy afternoon – somewhere near a beer pump! 

    In fact the latter, Paul had discovered, was not that easy in the Caribbean.

    There seemed to be very few hostelries or the like spread throughout the part of the tropics they were visiting. The ‘local’ seemed to be on a street corner or a steamy porch. It was interesting if not a little frustrating when one had worked up a thirst.

    Tina and Grace had a day on the beach and the rest of the gang found a cheerful German couple who had set up a small beer house on the harbour.

    That was after they had madly climbed far too many steps during the fierce heat of noon to see a pointless fort.

    There had obviously been a point once, when the English and French had fought over Grenada in the eighteenth century. And in the early 1980s when the United States invaded to in order to ‘restore democracy’ after a military coup. Apparently the ex-leaders were banged up in the bastion before being bumped off. 

    Now there was just a cobblers and a banged up gym crumbling amid the ramparts. It was a pity the Grenadians didn’t take care of such a piece of history, but at least there were phenomenal views. 

    And a great walk down to the harbour through colourful and historic lanes.

    It reminded Paul and his mother of Cornwall – only with better weather.  

    Day 14. St Lucia – Home!

    St Lucia came around again all too quickly. Like a slap in the face from a jealous lover.

    It was Paul and Andrew’s real anniversary.

    The one on which their relationship had been consummated in a seedy guesthouse in York twenty-seven years previously.

    It felt, to Paul at least, like a lifetime!

    A cruise around several worlds.

    It had not all been plain sailing. There had been stormy seas to weather and many times their ships had passed in the night.

    Literally – on one occasion! 

    During a ‘resting’ period ‘The Boys’ had been working on separate ship’s cruising the Caribbean. They had been assured by an unscrupulous producer that their boats would dock beside one another each week in Miami. Suffice to say they didn’t catch a glimpse of one another’s telescopes until the end of their respective voyages. More than once they had missed each other by just hours as Paul’s ship sailed away from the port of Aruba and he could see the port lights of Andrew’s vessel making her way to the harbour.

    It had been a particularly rocky ride for Paul who had also been hospitalised in Curaçao, feeling more than a little blue, after contracting Hepatitis!

    Looking yellow and feeling green, he lay on a colourless ward feeling quite sick of the sea. He yearned for his leave, which he eventually took early after jumping ship.  It was one of the first of many a dramas on and off the ocean waves. But he and Andrew had remained afloat. And twenty-seven years later they were still adrift together in their little life raft. Feeling almost safe and secure despite some raging seas surrounding them.

    They had, however, not come across any stormy weather on the ‘Britannia’. It had been plain sailing all the way. 

    Linda’s love boat had taken them all on a fabulous journey of fun and familial frolics. They had laughed. Laughed. And laughed some more. Gained a couple more years, and a few extra pounds.

    And farted for England!  

    Well the Britannia was registered in Southampton. So it only seemed appropriate.

    The entire family had had a ball.

    At lunchtime on day fourteen they sat slightly forlorn amid luggage on a deck they’d not even discovered awaiting their instructions to disembark. 

    It felt to, Paul,  rather sad.

    One never knew when the ones you loved would cruise in and out of your life. And maybe it would be a while before they all shared the same itinerary again. But it was so important to meet up in the same port now and then.

    Life is, after all, short.

    And the oceans of time – vast.

    When we have a chance to come together amid the gigantic waves of our existence we must take every opportunity.

    Sharing a raft through life is always preferable to drifting alone.

    And Paul couldn’t think of a crew he would rather have shared the last two weeks with.

    It had been his mother’s idea to bring them all together and it had been she who had financed the voyage.

    The sea passage had been a great success and had served to mark Linda’s own passage through time perfectly.

    Paul imagined the ‘Britannia’ in seventy years time. Would she come through as relatively unscathed and as ship-shape as his mother? Would she still sail the planet’s seas with dignity and grace? (minus the bikinis!) – he thought perhaps not.

    His mother was of a special vintage.

    One of a kind.

    God bless her, thought Paul, and all who sail in her. Or rather, with her!

    Happy Birthday mum.

    We love you.

    xx

     

  • Day 11. At Sea!

    Day 11. At Sea!

    Paul had decided that on the next day at sea aboard the Britannia, instead of knocking back Mai Tais and massacring his epidermis neath nuclear fission, he would instead massacre his opponents in a few of the onboard competitions.

    He threw the suggestion onto the deck and the rest of the family sort of agreed to the wager. Paul said he would look  through the day’s programme when their ‘Horizon’ was delivered to the cabin and see what activities dawned upon him.

    Andrew even came up with a name for the day’s activities.

    ‘Paul’s Camp’!

    Paul was well aware that it was the apostrophe which had prompted his partners inspirational title. It was clear to all that ‘Paul’s Camp’ could be either an association or a description. He was quite aware that it was the latter which the newly enrolled members of Paul’s Camp found more amusing.

    Early on the morning of the inauguration of ‘Paul’s Camp’, Paul sat on his balcony devising the daily routine. Even writing his own quiz for cocktail hour.

    He knew he was tragic at times.

    But as he was up at 6.15am yet again, and so it passed the time until the sun made his lethargic entrance! Everything in the Caribbean seemed to be misted in a heat haze of lethargy. Except him! He never rose with the lark normally – well, not all of him!  Yet at sea he couldn’t help it. His body clock was in a whole different time zone. Perhaps having to be on parade for three years during his time at naval school had scarred him for the voyage. Normally it was only his privates on parade pre-dawn these days.

    When the hour was a little less rude he called his mother’s cabin and told her of his plans. She was more than up for the planned activities. She passed his itinerary onto the other members of ‘Paul’s Camp’.

    But first there was breakfast.

    They met on the smoking deck for some smoked haddock which hopefully was meant to taste that way, and made plans.

    Tina and Bill had not yet surfaced. Paul had the sneaking suspicion they were having a change of heart, perhaps they were not to enrol in his association after all. He didn’t mind. The fewer members the more chance he had of winning.

    He’d always been horribly competitive.

    He’d been known to throw his toys violently from the pram if he didn’t win the chance to buy Park Lane or Mayfair. As a child he assumed he possessed the monopoly on winning! Later in life he had realised this was not the case. At times, he now knew, it was necessary to get the boot. He couldn’t always be the top hat!

    Post brekkie the team made their way to deck 17 to participate in the ‘Silent Quiz’. This took the form, literally, of a piece of paper on which they were to fill in the answers. The theme of the day was ‘Cryptic Groups’. This was a little too cryptic for their group at such an hour until Andrew spotted the clue ‘Bible’s Beginnings’ and unsilently shouted ‘Genesis’.

    The starboard side of the ship now knew how the quiz worked and began to complete their forms. Paul’s mother decided to scream out the next answer most succinctly, which enabled those on the port side of the vessel to make headway too.

    Paul wondered if his camp had been a good idea, but it was up and running now and couldn’t be disbanded at the first hurdle.

    The team jumped next onto the ‘Quoits Competition’. This was taking place further along deck, now minus Grace who had decided to leave the camp in order to sunbathe on the Serenity Deck. The ‘Silent Quiz’ had already dampened her enthusiasm, unsurprisingly seeing as most of the questions referred to music that had been in the hit parade before even Paul had been unthought of!

    As the three remaining members approached the ‘Quoital’ arena and heard the screech of the lisping, plump adjudicator laying down the rules, Andrew immediately threw his hat out of the ring.

    ‘There’s no way I can listen to that fucking voice all morning’ he said,

    ‘I’ll see you both later.’

    He left Paul and his mother amid a horribly keen and professional looking group of golden oldies who had arrived early to throw in some practice. Paul turned to his mother and they both decided they’d change events. Paul was certain that joining a serious group of hoop-tossing pensioners was neither he, nor his mother’s idea of fun.

    Instead they made their way to the ‘Crystal Ballroom’ to participate in line dancing. Paul had danced with a line before so was fairly confident he wouldn’t make a fool of himself. His mother had trained in ballet during her formative years, so he imagined the bar would not be set too high for her either.

    Andrew had decided he was too tired to line dance and retired to his cabin. ‘Paul’s Camp’ was now down to just two members.

    Paul and his mother!

    As Paul did the ‘push your tush’ amongst a gaggle of octogenarians he felt a rush of that particular sea-sickness known as hysteria.  He didn’t care. He and his mum had too much fun, whooping and lassooing with the rest of the possessed on the dance floor.

    They left on a sweaty high and made their way to the to the ‘Lido Deck’ and a well-earned cocktail. Well, Paul thought, they were on holiday, and had already worked off the calories. 

    After a light buffet lunch of cottage pie, Singapore noodles, fish fingers and a banana cheesecake, Paul aimed towards the ‘Adult Archery Competition’. He was now the last remaining official member of Paul’s camp, his mother having dropped by the quayside in order to hit the spa.

    As he held his bow upside down and struggled attempting to load the arrow, he knew for sure that ‘Paul’s Camp’ was now only a description! He was shooting solo!

    Two overweight friendly ladies, wearing terribly comfortable shoes, gave him advice on his archery technique. The taller of the two admitting she’d once instructed in the ancient art.

    She didn’t hit the target once.

    To Paul’s surprise he did. He was actually on target twice and finished joint second! He was thrilled, feeling a little less Maid Marion now and a touch less scarlet. His will had seen him through. He was a very merry man.

    Later that night the ex-members of ‘Paul’s Camp’ rejoined him in ‘The Live Lounge’ for a tribute to Gary Barlow. Paul wasn’t that keen as he couldn’t stick the real Gary Barlow, let alone a cockney singer wide boy with very few high-notes attempting to replicate him.

    It was, to him, very dull. Dry and vanilla, much like the real thing! He couldn’t muster even a little patience. 

    He looked towards Andrew and gave a nod towards the stage indicating he couldn’t take that any longer.

    He was decamping earlier than the rest of his crew.

    He felt no guilt, after all, he’d had a long day being the only surviving member of the team.

    He retired to G deck to relight his fire!

  • Day 10. Aruba.

    Now as they were closer to the equator, Paul and his motley crew were feeling terribly tropical. They’d fallen in love with their vessel and were always happy to get back aboard after a trip ashore.

    Paul’s mother had described her as ‘home’.

    At the close of play in the Margarita-infused capital of Oranjestad however, she nearly didn’t make it home!

    Shortly after docking in Aruba Linda, Tina, Bill and Grace took the local bus to the beach, whilst Uncles Paul and Andy opted for a sedate walk about town. The boys had visited the island many times, be it a good few years back, but they were aware of her charms. They were also aware that there happened to be a cheap casino at the other end of the jetty, and they were both partial to a little flutter now and then. Aruba being more of a now rather than a then.

    After flirting with the handsome gentleman in the ‘Tag Huer’ duty free shop, they made their way towards the garish place of sin. It was just as Paul had remembered it over twenty years before. Scruffy, loud and incredibly friendly.

    He sat and played two sessions of Bingo with some local ladies from the island, their Spanish patois was just about logical enough for him to understand and the conversation flowed freely.

    Even if the numbers didn’t.

    He didn’t win.

    Not even one line. But the buxom bevy of bingo girls laughed at all of his, so it was a full house socially. And Paul was rather comfortable between the two fat ladies.

    Andrew had disappeared into the electronic ether and was no doubt pressing buttons until his fingers became raw and his wallet leather more so. Paul decided there was probably no hidden treasure to be found on this island of iniquity today.

    He found Andrew amid the bars and aces, stupidly gave a few bucks to the machine adjacent to his partner’s electronic piece of banditry and then bid his farewells. He was off to meet the rest of the family at a dockside bar which were serving Margaritas for three dollars a pop. And pop it certainly wasn’t!

    In fact the cocktails at ‘Lucy’s possessed all the kick of an epileptic donkey and they all managed, somehow, to quite forget the hour.

    When Andrew met them and they ordered a round for the road they should have known they were in trouble.

    They weren’t travelling by road after all.

    Paul happened on a moment of clarity and made a purposeful glance towards his novelty watch, he could just about decipher that the family had about twelve ‘Snowies’ to get aboard the ‘Tintin’!

    Or something like that.

    Otherwise they would surely be marooned on the lovely Aruba, sans money, passport, or more importantly for Grace,

    Bikinis!

                            (Graceowers@instagram dot something or something like that)

    They rushed towards the port full steam ahead, none of them wanted to be castaways, especially as mother had booked the posh restaurant on the boat that night.

    As Paul turned to make sure his family were alongside he saw at once they were not a complete outfit. Two of their company had gone absent without so much as a by your leave!

    ‘Where’s mum and Bill?’ Paul barked in a most bossy manner towards his sister.

    ‘Looking at the fish’ replied Tina calmly.

    ‘Looking at the fucking fish!? Paul bit back with even less patience. ‘They are not gonna make it aboard the bloody boat!’

    With that, himself, Grace and Tina went on ahead, hoping in vain that they could prevent the 150,000 ton Britannia from sailing without the rest of them. Andrew had already made headway as he knew from old days cruising the only cardinal sin was missing the point of departure.

    Paul also knew from his days on the hideous ‘Splendour Of The Seas’, (or the ‘splenderous disease’, as he’d re-named the old tub!), that big boats rarely waited for small crews, it cost them far too much.

    As Paul reached the gangway, breathless and bleached blonde, he explained to the first mate who was ashore that his family were following close behind. His mother had ‘turned’ her ankle he said.  He had no idea where that hackneyed phrase had sprung from but was rather glad it had as it turned the officer’s head, he thought for a moment and then,

    ‘How many of them are there?’ He bellowed.

    ‘Just two’ puffed Tina, as she arrived on the jetty after her sprint along the pontoon.

    ‘Shall we wait here for them?’ Paul asked.

    ‘No’ the first officer said sternly, ‘go on-aboard. The Captain is getting worried.’

    ‘Yes sir’ Paul heard himself respond. He was horrified. His nautical years were coming back to haunt him.

    Tina had slipped the officer’s mooring and gone running back to get Bill and Linda to put some spring into their step before the Britannia slipped her moorings completely.

    Paul was now aboard the vessel and had completed the security check, the friendly Filipino asked him for whom the ship was waiting?

    ‘Oh my mother’, Paul confessed.

    ‘She has turned her ankle terribly badly – I do hope she makes it.’ He had now turned into Mr Darcy what with the stress of it all.

    ‘So do I sir’ said the security officer. With not a hint of irony. Or Austen!

    It was at this moment that Paul’s mother and nephew speedily turned the corner, on ankles quite unturned, and raced, giggling, towards the gangway.

    Paul saw from inside the boat some words exchanged between the late arrivals and the Captain’s mate down on the gangway.

    Billy later told Paul that the officer had chastised he and his grandmother quite severely. He had told them in no uncertain certain terms that the chief wasn’t happy about burning fuel and they were costing money.

    He’d used a most un-nautical tone.

    Of course, Paul thought, it had to be financial more than anything. Everything on the boat came at a price.

    Even the water in the cabin!

    But thank bloody Neptune they’d managed to all get aboard.

    As his mother came towards him at security, Paul observed her singing of ‘Margaritas and then dancing a little jig towards the same man with whom he’d been discussing her turned ankle just minutes earlier.

    She’d just blown that story out of the water.

    ‘How is your foot?’ The friendly Filipino wryly enquired.

    ‘Fine’, replied Paul’s mother, almost giving her best pirouette.

    Right out of the bloody water!

    The security guard smiled. He looked, to Paul, like he knew how it felt to have one too many sherbets, especially when the sweet shop was so reasonable.

    And so close ‘to ‘home’.

    Thank the ‘God Of Large Cruise Ships’ for that.

    One ‘Margametre’ further and they would have completely missed the boat!

     

  • Day 9. Bonaire.

    Day 9. Bonaire.

    The flat little island of Bonaire proved to be a delightful surprise.

    The touting and conning ubiquitous to most of the ports so far was obviously in evidence. The family was quoted the price of a small car to take a tour of the tiny island and less than politely refused. They were alive to the rip off merchants and tore into them for their unjustified behaviour – Andrew especially. Telling one taxi driver he could buy his car a new engine for the price he’d quoted to take them to see a couple of flamingos and a salt flat!

    The would be driver was not amused.

    None of the family cared.

    They’d discovered that away from the ports the Caribbean was an altogether friendlier place. But whilst near the ship it was drive away or be driven off. At a price!

    They all realised the good island folk needed to make money, but mafia style price-fixing was unnecessary, and rudeness, quite uncalled for. Paul knew they were now anchored just off of the coast of Venezuela but that was no excuse to behave with such undemocratic con merchantry like the almost incumbent government of that unfortunate country.

    As they argued with a friendly lady in the official tourist office, who assured them that Bonaire was the cheapest of the ‘ABC’ islands, (Linda’s crew all knew their ABC and were aware she was having them on), a friendly American came forward and whispered in their ear explaining that the family could walk to see the famous, leggy pink birds.

    He said it would take about fifteen minutes and save them one hundred and twenty-five dollars.

    They thanked him profusely and set off on route, quite in the pink what with the small fortune they’d just saved. They were off hot-foot, to visit the famous avian inhabitants of Bonaire. Apparently!

    After a short argument at a deserted road junction under a blisteringly hot sky, Andrew insisted they take a right. Paul thought him wrong, knowing Andrew’s geographic skills to be highly debatable, and plumped for a left. Their feet were more than hot now as the sun reigned her equatorial rays right royally down on the six gringos on the look out for flamingos.

    Paul thought he may go slightly hysterical as he surveyed the barren landscape. He had always suffered from a ‘Lawrence Of Arabia’ fantasy. In which he, as Peter O’Toole obviously, would be discovered half dead, desiccated amid dunes, by a mustachioed Egyptian in Arab Black silk robes coming from a long way off.

    He knew it was a long shot.

    He blamed his mother. She’d always dreamt of an Omar Sharif to come along and rescue her. Sheltering her from life’s sandstorms in deserted bliss. Safely hareemed amid his billowing robes and a pack of camel.

    But he kept it to himself.

    There was no room for his morbid fantasy as they sweated their way along the road surrounded only by salt flats and the odd speeding jalopy.

    Paul thought he saw one of the pink bird like things in the distance. Everyone stopped and scoured the heat haze of a horizon.

    But nothing.

    It had been a mere mirage.

    Just like Omar Sharif!

    After trekking a little further the clan heard a vehicle pull up beside them and a familiar voice call ‘ahoy’. It was Doug, the American who had provided them with their itinerary earlier that day.

    ‘Hop in guys’ he said, ‘I’ll take you there. My wife says it’s a little further than I made it sound’.

    Apparently the birds Doug had recommended had de-camped and decided to set up nest somewhere else. They flew apparently. Who knew?

    The family jumped into Doug’s roomy four by four and made their way south hoping to pick up some birds on route.

    Doug hailed from Ohio, he wintered in Phoenix, Arizona, and in just ten minutes he had restored Paul’s faith in his American cousins. Doug was polite, fun and self effacing. He had no agenda, just a duty, he felt, to show the best of Bonaire.

    He dropped them near to the airport to where a flock of pink flying machines had made landing.

    After the group had got their shots Doug generously offered to drop them at one of the less touristed beaches. Nothing but coral and a beached van which sold beer and local food.

    It’s owner was quite a catch of the day himself.

    Both Grace and Paul voiced their approval – Grace said she’d fallen into his eyes. Paul’s gaze had fallen a touch lower.

    Each to their own he’d thought.

    He so loved a good chin!

    The family spent some time shacked up with a few beers and plate of tuna three- ways! Each proving to Paul that he really only enjoyed that fish one way.

    Tinned!

    But, he maintained, when one is in Bonaire it’s always worth having a flamin’go!

    The gang walked along the salt flats back to town. A taxi had been the desired choice of the ladies but their were none to be had. So a sweaty hike along the road was the only route back to the port.

    On arrival they hit a bar run by a most effusive Dutch couple.

    Paul and Andrew had many Dutch friends and knew that those hailing from that no-nonsense country were generally open and non-judgmental. There seemed to be no difference in the Dutch Antilles.

    The atmosphere was most gay.

    Even the gift shops differed from those in the rest of the Caribbean. Paul doubted he would have found a statuesque merman draped in a rainbow flag in Barbadross.

    He decided he liked Bonaire.

    The ship let go her lines at 17.30 and the Britannia made headway in a westerly direction towards Aruba – the closest the she would get to the South American continent.

    Paul could sense a samba coming on.

    Ironically his ship’s company began with a ‘Can Can’. Well the three of them that still ‘could, could’ at least.

    After late night cocktails in he and Andrew’s cabin, Paul, and his mother introduced Gracie May to the delights of the inimitable Shirley MacLaine. They watched the old movie ‘Can Can’ on the ship’s tv, as Andrew lay in bed doing the ‘Can’t Can’t’!

    He was most patient as the film took several hours to watch, with pauses for Linda to teach her grand-daughter the more intricate steps of the naughty French dance.

    And Grace and Paul sharing the odd illicit fag on their verandah.

    When Paul eventually bid them bon matin the Can Can Girls kicked their way messily aft along G deck and almost towards bed.

    South America in the morning.

    Well – nearly.

    Ooh La La!