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!
Paul woke in his cabin after a hilarious dream in which Gracie had been thrown off the ‘Brittania’ due to her revealing outfits. Hordes of disgruntled pensioners cheered her as she was made to walk the plank in a minuscule yellow bikini.
She wasn’t at all bothered.
She walked with dignity giving a stylish finger to the jeering crowd. Paul imagined the dream had something to do with the reception he’d received the previous day in Bridgetown. But wasn’t sure – he was no Carl Jung. He made a note to ask Tina when they met for breakfast, as she had an esoteric bent and would no doubt be able to divine the meaning of his vision.
One thing he was sure of, that despite the ship not sailing until the evening, he would not be parting company with her. He had no yearning to be a landlubber in such a disenchanting place. He thought instead he may head down to the docks and sit among the crew, who were always utterly charming, and take advantage of the free WiFi and their good nature.
There was, after all, always fun to be had perched on a barrel surrounded by a bunch of friendly dockers!
The ship sailed south at a knat’s knot towards the island of Bonaire. Nobody had heard of the island – it wasn’t the usual place one would book with Thomas Cook when contemplating a tropical trip to the Caribbean.
It was situated fifty miles off the coast of Venezuela – Far enough away, Paul was relieved to discover, to escape the madness that was presently unfolding in that beautiful country.
Caracas was crackers it seemed.
Revolting behaviour!
To him, what with Presidents, Lump, Putrid, and Maduro in power, the world was becoming a crazier place than normal. He was quite glad they were all at sea. Land was growing less appealing by the day.
Onboard Britannia events were much calmer. The decks were full of happy, sated passengers – some a little over-sated.
Paul had always considered buffets to be weapons of mass digestion!
Butthere was always room for a torpedo roll or two during afternoon tea or Elevenses.Two quite unessential eating dates he never made at home.
At sea however one seemed to be ravenous most of the time.
He was glad he wasn’t on a world cruise or he could possibly return looking like Shelley Winters in ‘The Poseidon Adventure’.
Dead fat.
And as for Andrew!
The day was a series of short breaks between meals. Both laborious and delicious. Punctured only by the odd cocktail and a very odd Cajun Salmon and feta sandwich.
Later, after Paul had retired to his cabin to quietly explode, Andrew had served him up another surprising dish. He had brought one of the West End’s most famous musical directors into their cabin at 1am that morning.Paul was draped across the bed in his birthday suit when the said Maestro, who must for contractual reasons remain nameless,burst through the door. The last time Paul had seen the man was when he’d been wearing a catsuit in the musical ‘Cats’!
The conductor had many a hit musical under his baton, and whilst on a short break had made his way westwards for a brief interval in the West Indies. It was quite a coincidence.
The three show boys hit the balcony, ‘Evita’ style, and gave a captured audience a litany of showbiz anecdotes. They regaled each other with theatrical tales concerning many a mutual friend. It was quite over top and hilarious. Mr Johnny Walker Red Label conducted the evening, and was responsible for many an encore.
The cast didn’t take their final curtain call until four in the morning.
What a swell party it was! The room had seen quite a service!
Andrew, however, did not come off well in the reviews the following day. It was lucky the boat was at sea, as he was in exactly the same condition. Paul had warned him not to invite Mr Walker to the cabin but he’d not listened. Johnny had disappeared into thescotch mist by the morrow – without even a tatty-bye, leaving behind an empty bottle, a banging headache and an aching regret in his place.
Surprisingly Paul felt remarkably perky considering the previous evening’s performance. He even felt he had a matinée in him.
He met the girls for Mango Margaritas at the ‘Serenity Pool’.
Or the quiet zone!
It was a little less so as Paul introduced his family to the famous musical director. More theatricality ensued and a matinée of the same show that had seen Andrew panned earlier that day began again – much to the chagrin of two snobby passengers who obviously didn’t share their love of musical theatre.
Some people just can’t take their Cole Porter Paul thought.
The tropical heat wave continued as Paul got complete plastered whilst precariously perched on a bar stool heading for Bonaire.
He felt no guilt – he was on holiday after all.
And on the high seas – anything goes!
He looked and struggled to interpret his Tintin watch. Through his myopia he couldn’t determine whether it was two forty-five or ten past eight. Everything looked like a Tintin past a Snowy to him. But he knew it was academic. Whatever the hour, it was surely time to eat again – wasn’t it ?
He made his way aft to search for Andrew amongst the scones and Bream.
Paul’s mother, Linda Thrussell, had been born exactly 70 years ago on the 1st February 1949, in the London borough of East Sheen. She had met Paul and Tina’s father, Raymond, on a caravan park in the exotic Essex resort of Jaywick Sands. From there she set sail on stormy seas on a journey that was to last nearly thirty years.
T’was called being married to Ray!
Paul and Tina’s father had possessed great charm but had not been the easiest of men. Perhaps being diagnosed as a having bipolar disorder didn’t help, but there had been other complications. Paul had always had the sneaking suspicion that his late father had quite enjoyed being labelled as a nutcase. It gave him carte blanche to behave how he had wished, which was often quite badly. But Linda had loved him so had naturally followed him to the ends of the earth.
Sydney, Australia to be specific. The young Davies family had resided in an unfashionable suburb replete with giant stick insects on the balcony.
Paul was just a toddler in ‘Oz’ and his sister had been born there. So when his mother and father returned to Blighty they carried a little more baggage than when they’d left a few years earlier. Not to mention the emotional heft that Ray carried with him throughout his up and down existence.
Now, many years later, Linda had been extraordinarily generous in bringing her close family to cruise the Caribbean. But Paul had a sneaking suspicion there was someone missing. He knew his father would have loved to have been aboard celebrating his ‘old woman’s’ seventieth.
But it was not to be.
Paul felt a pang of regret and then remembered his mother’s sordid tales of Ray’s terrible behaviour aboard a liner when crossing the Indian Ocean. The poignancy he’d felt did not last for long. He was quite sure, with his father present and incorrect, there would have been a man overboard moment at some point during the trip. But he looked towards the starry night on deck and gave his dad a maudlin salute.
He blamed the Dominican rum!
On his mother’s birthday the family headed into Bridgetown, Barbados’s scruffy, colonial-era capital. They hit the beach under cloudy skies and dipped in water as clear as any they’d yet swam across. It was a most relaxing day.
The evening, however, became much darker.
As the three boys left the girls beached and made their way back towards the docks, they decided to hit the downtown area of Bridgetown in order to find a bar in which to sink a local dram or three.
As they made their way through streets which reminded Paul of the less attractive parts of south-east London, the trio grew uneasy.
It was like Catford without the gentility.
Paul and Andrew knew this, as they had resided in that most salubrious of London suburbs for over nine years, but never did they experience anything like the hostility which greeted them in the dump in which they were presently at anchor.
At first Paul wondered if they were experiencing racism, they were, after all, the only white folk in this part of town, and he had a good idea that the former British colonialists had not always played ball fairly when it was they who wrote the rulebook. But it wasn’t long before he realised there was another reason for the filthy looks and black humour.
He heard the word ‘batty’ repeatedly and knew immediately that the good people of Bridgetown were not referring to his cricketing ability.
It was blatant homophobia.
The like of which Paul had rarely come across.
He, Andrew and Bill had travelled extensively, and to very dangerous places. Paul and Andrew had a penchant for a seedy City, and Billy had just returned from an extensive trip of South America, taking in some of the toughest towns in Columbia, yet none of them had felt the discomfort Bridgetown offered.
They decided they would forego the local for which they’d been searching and therefore avoid the locals. None of them felt at all welcome.
‘Let’s get a pint on the ship’ Bill suggested.
Paul and Andrew were more than ready to agree. They decided not to take the bus – the queue was too long and the lines unpleasant!
This was ‘Barbadross’ – there was no way Paul wanted to spend his tourist dollar in such a rude place. He’d rather wait until he got to an island where there was at least a little charm, be it fake or not.
He knew there was a major problem with ‘queer bashing’ in the West Indies, but had stupidly thought it was confined to the rougher parts of Jamaica. Sadly, it seemed, the outdated attitude was still prevalent in Barbados’s capital too.
He had never had a chip about preferring Dick to Mary, he couldn’t care less what people thought. But walking through Bridgetown depressed him!
When it came to the evening, he was dubious about going back down the gangway, but it was his mother’s birthday and the family were going to celebrate no matter what.
Paul wondered what he should wear for the occasion.
He was rather sorry he hadn’t packed his red stilettos, that would have given the ignorant heels something to really whistle at. Doubtless strupsing suggestively as Paul strutted down to the wharf.
As the family left the confines of their cabins they were literally accosted by surely the most fervent of taxi drivers in the world. Despite the fact their landing party had done the walk in just ten minutes earlier that day, these rip-off merchants were asking for thirty US dollar for the short trip. Linda’s crew knew they were being taken for a ride.
It would have been cheaper in a Black cab!
When they tried to negotiate they were laughed at and ridiculed. Again with more than an edge of malice.
It was quite horrible.
‘You are so cheap man’ one of the toothless gits shouted to Paul.
‘Fuck you!’ Paul replied. Unfortunately beginning to abandon his cool.
He was growing tired of the ‘badass’ attitude in Bridgetown.
‘Fuck you too man’ came the reply.
Paul had wanted to come back with a quip along the lines of,
‘well, if you have the time darlin’,
but not being completely batty – thought better of it.
He didn’t want to end up like so many other poor souls in the Caribbean, being kicked to death by arseholes. He settled instead for a polite,
‘You will be the reason that I shall never come back to Barbados!’
‘Don’t!’ replied the rude pig with no teeth.
Eventually, a thoroughly decent chap named Kamal came to their rescue. He said he would do the journey for the regular price of twelve dollar. The family jumped into his mini van double-quick and were driven to the waterfront. Three minutes later they pulled up, they thanked Kamal effusively, and paid him fifteen dollars for his services. He offered to return and collect them giving them his card with a smile. He obviously wanted to give them a different impression of his island.
Fortunately, the staff in the restaurant were much friendlier than the majority of the townsfolk they had met. Bridges were at last being built in the town.
Unfortunately the food was average.
The price expensive.
And they were kicked out at 10.15pm.
Despite this, they had a great time. Not least because of the art exhibition currently next to the ladies toilet.
A portrait of Harry and Meghan, in the ‘naive’ style, along with an angelic Princess Diana hovering in the background, had them dying with laughter. It was an absolute snip at three hundred dollars.
More miserable and ill-mannered people met them at the docks, by now the entire family were used to the sullen behaviour and therefore ignored it. Paul knew that there had to be some more Christian-like behaviour somewhere on the island, or Sir Cliff Richard wouldn’t be so fond of the bloody place. Surely not everyone in Bridgetown was a picaroon or a buccaneer.
But he also knew he would not be coming back to find out.
As he boarded the ‘Britannia’ ahead of his family he sang a well-known tune strutting up the gangway,
‘Hey – Not Going To Barbados – No – Not Going Back To See’!
After all there were far too many friendlier places in the world. Where at least they ripped the cash outta one’s hand with a smile! As Rihanna might have sung,
As the ship sailed towards the rugged island of Dominica, Paul stood on his balcony keeping watch and marvelled at the ‘King Kong’ landscape which revealed itself as the ship got closer.
Apparently, as a way of describing the island’s formidable topography, Christopher Columbus had crumpled a piece of paper in his hands and tossed it onto the King of Spain’s table. As Paul gazed at the spectacular geography before him he wondered if this old anecdote might actually be true. He even imagined a pterodactyl might swoop along the starboard side at any minute.
The place was beautiful.
Sadly, the weather was not. As a band played on the quayside, in between songs the singer intoned far too often,
‘Welcome to the beautiful island of Dominica. Don’t worry about the rain it’s what keeps us beautiful!’
He repeated this at least thirty times before Paul and Andrew joined the others in the manic buffet.
After going ashore, they did a deal with a man named Peter to take them to see the island’s highlights. He sat them in a large bus and then went off to collect another two passengers he said were joining them. After fifteen minutes sitting in the old jalopy the family grew bored. Especially as they could see Peter trawling the dock attempting to net potential customers. They knew they would be trapped in his rigging until he’d greedily found enough of a catch with which to embark. As the old pirate turned a corner, they all jumped ship and took an easterly heading out and away from Peter’s horizon.
They made the fortunate acquaintance of a small, chirpy man named Jerome. He packed them like sardines into his bijou bus and off they headed driving carefully through driving rain.
The weather didn’t dampen their enthusiasm for the place. Despite the recent devastation of ‘Hurricane Maria’ the island was still the most beautiful Paul had ever visited in the Caribbean.
And the lovely Jerome stopped at every port of interest.
Great waterfalls and bubbling hot springs abounded as Jerome navigated the winding roads with skilful knowledge. His moral compass was also to be admired as he looked after all their belongings whilst they trekked out into the rain forest in their teletubbie inspired macs. They all looked ridiculous – Paul especially, who was sporting a vivid turquoise number which did nothing for his sallow complexion. He looked as if he’d imbibed three barrels of grog and knew he was unnerving people who passed him on route to the attractions.
Most unattractive.
Especially as Tina and Grace were rocking the plastic look.
Paul sometimes found it tedious to be the least attractive of an attractive family – but at least he had humour!
At the finish of their tour Jerome dropped them back in the capital of Rousseau and they hit a local bar for some rum that certainly packed a punch.
One was quite enough.
Even for Paul and Andrew who could often drink like a shoal of haddock!
Later Paul did a short photo session with Grace in front of a green wall she had artistically spotted and considered a suitable backdrop to show off her yellow bikini. The locals obviously approved of the setting as quite a few took their own snaps of the photo shoot which was developing.
Paul thought he even noticed one gentleman get a real money shot as he sat fiddling with a gadget in his car.
He was well aware that, in general, Caribbean men were not shy in coming forward when it came to courting the ladies. His mother, Tina and Grace had been hit on more times than a hooker on the Estepona roundabout.
He felt quite left out.
Like the ‘batty boy’ who’d been batted aside.
Piqued, he was secretly glad the West Indies had done so badly in their recent test series.
It was the 29th of January. The day of Paul’s sister Tina’s birth. She was forty-something and the boat docked on the Dutch side of the beautiful island of St. Maarten.
The family made their way to ‘The Peninsula’ restaurant in the bowels of the ship for a birthday breakfast.
It was no mean feat.
The ‘Britannia’ was not easy to navigate. Whoever had designed her had made it quite impossible to go from front to back and side to side in a logical manner – it gave one irritable bowel syndrome when trying to make even the simplest of journeys.
The ‘Britannia’s’ lifts didn’t help either – they had a mind all of their own. Paul thought he might do better in Ronald Dahl’s Great Glass Elevator – at least he knew he’d travel in the right direction and it had more chance of turning up!
When the family eventually assembled at table, Tina opened her cards as they ate a cold fry-up amongst the miserable staff. It was the second time they had eaten breakfast in the restaurant and they all decided it would be the last. Although Paul loathed a buffet, even he thought it would be preferable to negotiate the hungry hoards than attempt to charm the stern waiters on the back of the ship.
They seemed most unhappy. Quite unlike the staff in any of the other parts of ‘Britannia’ in which they had dined.
It was obviously the job not to have!
Perhaps, Paul thought, one was put on deck five as a punishment, he for one, wouldn’t be going again. It lead to indigestion and a terrible gut feeling that the waiters were not treated that well. Or why else would they take their dissatisfaction out on their punters?
It left a very bad taste in the mouth.
From now on they’d risk the ‘Horizon Buffet’ – it may broaden their waistlines, but their appetite for rude service down below had been more than sated.
Tina’s birthday shower began with a rainstorm of tropical proportions. There was simply nothing to do but take cover under and umbrella and drink the local ale.
When the inclement weather eventually dissipated the motley crew made their way to the capital Phillipsburg and trundled along the promenade; the sun now fully in command of the watch.
They were feeling hot, hot, hot.
For lunch they found a little Mexican establishment which mixed Margaritas of such ferocity that old Father Time became a little confused as to the hour of embarkation.
They all arrived back at the ship panicked and an hour earlier than need be. Still, the brisk stroll had at least burnt a few of the nautical calories which they’d been ingesting onboard.
Paul had lost a stone over the last couple of months in preparation for the marathon eating session that was known as cruising. He knew from past experience that a few visits to the ship’s gym and the odd power walk around the promenade deck would not make up for the greed one usually succumbed to whilst onboard. With menus that read like a gastronomic Booker Prize novel, he had already booked his diet for his return from sea. He had no intention of curbing his appetite whilst onboard – it would be a waste of the epical epicurean experience ‘Britannia’ offered.
Other than in the shitty ‘Peninsula’ restaurant of course.
After the excitement of the day they hit the sail away party, which was a rather muted affair, thanks mostly to the weather which had now closed in again. Paul only hoped it would brighten up overnight, as he was known to get quite seasick even with conditions flatter than the calmest millpond. An irony seeing as seafaring was one of his favourite pastimes. Still, he knew he shared the talent to vomit at the drop of a cap with Admiral Nelson. So considered himself to be in good ship’s company!
Luckily life on the ocean waves proved to be calm and the ship headed south towards the ‘Nature Island’ of Dominica.
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Day4.AtSea.
After all the birthday excitement a sea day was just what the family needed.
Paul and his mother rose before dawn’s crack and performed that very Teutonic practice of grabbing a sun- lounger pre- breakfast. They did not, however, clip their towels to the chairs with the giant plastic pegs which were ubiquitous on their vessel. Instead they sat and waited to be joined by Tina and Grace, casually throwing the odd flip-flop and a dodgy book from the ship’s library across the extra beds they had reserved.
Other passengers were not so considerate.
They’d obviously cruised before and had it all pegged. They would just clip their towels over their desired position and bugger straight off to brekkie. Despite many announcements from the Captain to desist in such mutinous behaviour the ship’s company didn’t take a blind bit of notice. Paul thought some of the other cruisers quite selfish and wondered if the ancient naval art of keel-hauling shouldn’t be employed in order to dissuade them.
There was one particular family who were quite over keen on the buffet who would obviously need bigger ropes attached to them for this practice ….
But it could definitely be done.
Or perhaps a little walk of the plank, Paul mused, as he looked towards a scurvy Irish couple who had just returned from a two-hour sojourn in the dining room.
He just hoped the ship didn’t go down, as the ill manners shown by a significant number on the boat made abandoning the ship with any dignity very unlikely. Paul imagined some of them had already pegged out their seats in the lifeboat – the ones with the best view!
The sky was azure and the ocean cerulean as they steamed toward Dominica and there was little to do aboard but navel gaze.
Well, this wasn’t quite true, there was a full ship’s programme, but they were all fairly exhausted, so sunning oneself with a cocktail around one of the ship’s pools suited Paul perfectly.
Even Andrew’s hunger for deck activity had waned and he confined himself to his cabin for most of the day. This pleased Paul, who knew if his partner’s mania continued unabated he would have no option but to deck him himself.
Another Pina Colada. Another odd buffet lunch. Salmon fish cakes, beef madras and and a stea’ and kidney pie!
When Tina was just twenty-one, she had left chilly Blighty to begin her career as an artist on the stunning island of Antigua. She had stayed for more than a year on the island turning tricks at a local pottery as many a Caribbean boy attempted to turn tricks on her.
As Linda’s crew hit the island almost thirty years later not much had changed. The place was still gorgeous; the weather wonderful; the men quite insatiable!
They headed away from the main crowd – always a good idea on a cruise. Paul knew that to do the obvious meant that one would usually be joined by a few thousand passengers jostling for photo opportunities.
Or just jostling.
He hated to be herded, it made him feel like a cow in an abattoir. A sad creature on route to the slaughter! He was well aware he could manage the latter in a quiet bar somewhere minus the bovine melee. Besides, Tina knew the island well, and so at her behest their group made their way to one of the less fashionable beaches- Runaway Beach to be precise.
It was perfect.
They ran away from the three and a half thousand passengers aboard the ‘Britannia’ and found paradise – at a price.
They swayed beneath the palms as buckets of local beer made their way mysteriously towards their expensive parasol. Paul knew that Andrew probably had something to do with the alcohol on tap, but he wasn’t complaining – it was such fun. Suffice to say it was a liquid lunch.
Grace, being Grace, immediately caught the attention of a young life guard. In fact Paul’s attention had been pricked initially, after he spotted the handsome, smiling native lurking at his stern earlier in the day. It was more than obvious he had an interest in his beautiful niece, and it was more than obvious Paul was more interested in the lovely Travis than she was.
He was terribly sexy, despite the fact that he found it necessary to wear knee length black socks in 30 degrees. A rather dubious look Paul thought. But who was he to judge. He’d packed some rather dubious outfits himself, much to the chagrin of his husband. Bugger it he had thought. We have 23kg each and we’re not carrying backpacks for once.
He was gonna dress to distress when he had the chance.
On the beach his mother had the time of her life. Floating in limbo in the crystal clear waters, her current age receding like a spring tide. It was wonderful to watch. Paul could not comprehend that she would be seventy in a few days. His own vanity made him not believe it. After all, if she were to be that old, what did that make him? It was quite hideous.
He had visited Tina in Antigua many Caribbean moons ago. He had stayed for a whole month and had fallen, like her, in love with the island in the sun.
Just like Harry Belafonte.
He had a clear image of Tina collecting him from the airport back then. She had appeared driving an open jeep and wearing a sun-hat – it was all terribly Meryl Streep.
He had just finished ‘Little Shop Of Horrors’ at Leicester Haymarket and had been offered the part of Benjamin in ‘Seven Brides For Seven Brothers’, so he had a little time to ‘rest’ before retreading the boards.
It was his first time in the tropics and he’d been so impressed with Tina’s driving skills, not to mention the driving rain and the bath-like ocean.
He had lived in Australia previously, but had few memories. Probably quite a good thing as his parents had emigrated as ‘ten-pound Pommies’ to Sydney, cruising all the way. His father had apparently walked the handrail on the promenade deck whilst crossing the Indian Ocean. He had been cheered on by a drunken mob who clapped and sang ‘Hava Naguila’. Paul was glad he had no memory of that performance. His knew his mother must have been terrified. His father had had a terrible habit of going overboard, luckily this was not one of those occasions. Although there were many to follow in later life.
The day on the beach went swimmingly and as it neared completion Travis, the lifeguard, with whom some of the family had shared a herbal cigarette, admitted that he found Grace smokin’! He approached Paul and asked if she would mind having a picture with her for his Instagram account.
‘It be good for her, and good for me’ he had sung sexily in his lilting Antiguan accent.
‘I’ll have a word’ Paul assured him. Knowing that these young ‘grammers’ never resisted the opportunity to raise their profile. Grace had a highly successful Instagram account, having many more followers than ‘The Lola Boys’ tawdry affair.
Gracie reluctantly agreed. And a photo shoot, directed by Paul, took place on the beach just before the taxi arrived to take them back to the capital of St Johns.
It had all seemed terribly innocent to Paul as he snapped away. Directing his models to turn this way and that.
‘I think take the tee-shirt off Travis’ he’d heard himself saying far too lasciviously.
‘It’ll be so much better for the picture’, he lied.
Travis, of course, readily complied. In fact he couldn’t wait to show off his six-pack and the equally impressive ivory he sported in his mouth.
It was only on route back to the ship that Grace told them all that Travis had not quite behaved as the gentleman he purported to be. He had apparently been whispering unsweetened nothings in her ear as Paul had clicked away. Grace had handled the situation with balls whilst wanting to kick Travis in his. But she did not want to make him feel daft. And also, Paul knew, wanted a good shot for her Instagram account- @ Grace Owers.
When she discovered Travis had just twenty-four followers she realised she needn’t have bothered.
On route back to the ship, Tina asked the driver to stop at the pottery at which her artistic life had first wheeled into action. Initially it seemed that the place didn’t exist anymore – then all at once the little blue and white house in which she had once lived came into view. Paul recognised the charming little cottage too and both of them shared a poignant moment. They were suddenly in their early twenties again and the tears flowed – lachrymose lager streaked their cheeks with a golden hue. Paul knew that Tina had spent a special time on the island. Both brilliant and tragic, and he knew her memories must have bitten hard – it had been incredibly moving for the whole family.
A truly special moment.
As they made their way back to the ship the whole family reminisced and talked of the fantastic day they had shared together. Then out of the Caribbean blue Grace turned to Paul and said with a just a hint of irony,
‘I can’t believe he only had twenty-four followers!’
Paul knew that life could be a bitch sometimes. Or rather – a beach!
Andrew woke before the rest of the family and made his way towards the gym via the smoking deck and the coffee machine.
By the time the rest of the gang met up with him he was higher than Daniella Westbrook on a night in!
The rest of them were lagging behind somewhat – Paul was most definitely not yet on ship’s time. His mother was in a slight daze. Tina had yet to cast off the flight and Bill’s brilliant brain, which had won him a top notch maths degree at King’s College, was completely tied up in nautical knots. It was only Grace who seemed to be able to navigate the ships endless corridors. Infinite gangways which made Hampton Court’s famous maze look like child’s play.
Paul knew, all too well, his bow from his stern after two many years at nautical school, but at present he couldn’t tell his aft from his midships!
As the Britannia sailed on a north westerly heading away from St Lucia and towards Antigua, there was nothing to do but relax. The family found sun beds on the top deck and began topping up their tan.
They were quite incapable of anything else.
Other than Andrew that is.
Who, before the ship rang her six bells had already knocked eight bells out of her entertainment programme. By mid afternoon, he’d line danced, sat halfway through a dodgy cabaret and come second in a shuffleboard competition. He also had a go at quoits, acting like a bit of a tosser and finishing last.
But then he’d never been one for a quoit!
He was literally high on the high seas.
Paul knew that this wave of enthusiasm would probably come crashing down and that his husband would no doubt have to confine himself to his cabin for a few hours. But before that Paul knew there was a ‘boat building competition’, ‘adult football’, and a fashion show on offer, so he doubted Andrew would run aground just yet.
As it was Andrew eschewed the aforementioned fashion show. Mercifully thought Paul, as he, his mother and Tina perched on bar stools watching the superannuated passengers who had volunteered to model, stagger around the ships atrium in stilettos and Ralph Lauren. He could only imagine Mr Lauren spinning in his grave as this group of misfits made sure nobody spectating would ever dream of buying any of the outfits.
‘Well’, his mother said far too loudly, ‘they are ordinary people. People like that! They can see what the clothes look like on ordinary people!’
Paul could not look at his sister for fear of growing hysterical. The only thing that could make it more extraordinary was if Andrew hit the catwalk in a little black dress and a pair of Jimmy Choos.
And he wasn’t writing that off quite yet!
Dinner was a fabulous affair and afterwards the family drank cocktails on deck before Paul bullied them all into going to see the magic show in the impressive ‘Headliner’s Theatre’.
Grace managed to escape as Paul had a quick visit to the little boy’s room, and made hastily for her cabin on G deck. She’d obviously had some magical foresight. For the show, entitled ‘Astonishing’, was only that because it was astonishing that P & O had the nerve to put it on in the first place. It consisted of the same trick done badly about fourteen times using fifteen dancers.
There was no a magician to be seen, let alone disappear.
As a couple from Northern Ireland had a blazing row next to them during trick number thirteen, their antics became far more interesting as the irate husband did a genuine disappearing act and left his wife alone and gin soaked for the finale.
Andrew followed suit and made his escape, along with a few choice comments, a la Harry Houdini. There was a casino tournament to join after all, followed by a Samba class.
Paul turned to Tina inside the ‘Headliner’s Theatre’ and the hysteria began to re-surface.
When the rest of the family eventually made their exit stage left and met with him outside the theatre they all agreed on one thing.
The show had certainly been fucking astonishing!
Debbie McGee would have been disgusted!
When they recounted the tale to Grace the following day she was quite sorry she had missed the spectacle.
So, hey presto, they all made plans to be astonished the following week. It was far too bad to miss!
Their first day onboard the Britannia had been almost magical.
The Lola Boys set sail on the titanic ‘Britannia’, P & O’s impressive flagship, shortly after arriving back from a marathon trip to the Far East.
They had managed five flights in eight days – two of them ‘long maul’! A feat, Paul imagined, which would tax even the toughest of trolley-dollies.
And he’d met a few hard ones in his time!
Even he and Andrew would normally avoid such a full on itinerary, yet there was a special reason to head to the far west. It was Paul’s mum’s birthday.
Linda was to be seventy.
Although one would barely believe it. Her youthful approach to life and her sheer vivacity made people think her much younger. But a septuagenarian she was about to become, and to celebrate she had gathered her family around her to cruise the Caribbean on a monolith of a ship.
It was not the first time Paul and Andrew had been cruising. They’d also been to sea! Both having worked as production singers whilst ‘resting’ from the legitimate theatre. Paul had always wondered why professional performers were so snobby about working on liners, especially those actors who were hardly given a line when employed in the theatre. He maintained that it was working the boats that had sharpened his cabaret tools – not appearing in shows such as ‘Cats’, where one was a mere feline puppet.
Purring on cue!
He’d hated that!
A year of frisky dancing was not, at least to him, the cat’s whiskers. It had been more like working in a litter tray. But he knew he was being catty.
Miaow!
Now, over twenty years later, he and Andrew were back at sea, and this time as passengers. It was utterly fabulous.
Paul’s gorgeous Sister Tina was onboard too with her lovely children, Will and Grace.
(No kidding!)
Paul knew a sit-com could be in the offing! They were not what one would describe as an ordinary family. He was almost sure that their motley crew of six were gonna rock the boat. He only hoped none of them would end up in the brig.
Not before his mother’s birthday at least.
They arrived in St Lucia quite jaded and bloodied by Mary after a long flight and an excessively bumpy bus trip. St. Lucia had more twists and turns than an Agatha Christie novel, and they seemed to take them at a rather high-speed.
Eventually they turned the final corner and there was an audible gasp as the ‘Britannia’ came into few. None of them had thought she’d be quite as large as she now appeared.
‘Jesus!’ Tina exclaimed, ‘she’s massive’. There was more than a little trepidation in her voice.
Andrew also added that he’d never seen one quite as big, the entire family knew he was prone to exaggerate, and Paul, for one, definitely knew he was being quite disingenuous!
After embarkation, they were subjected to a photo shoot, to which they all unreadily agreed. After all, no one ever looked their best after an arduous journey. But Paul had insisted they catch the moment. He knew he’d regret it when he saw the shot, as it was usually him that came off looking like Ken Dodd, whereas the rest of the family were rather photogenic.
They eventually hit their cabins and prepared for the compulsory lifeboat drill which all passengers must endure before setting sail for the first time.
Paul’s mother got entirely confused with the strap which went under the crotch and made herself rather popular with the ship’s crew before the boat had even set sail. The long journey and the growing realisation of seventy steaming up upon her had obviously taken it’s toll.
There was much hilarity!
After they’d untangled themselves the family headed for their respective cabins to prepare for their first meal aboard. It was, Paul was relieved to discover, suitably impressive. He’d read some dodgy reviews before embarkation, but so far none of them seemed to be accurate. The staff were friendly and the boat ship-shape – although he had a horrible feeling that some of his crew may change their shape during the voyage. There appeared to be a lot of eating to be done.
As the ‘Britannia’ proudly sounded her horn, they moved majestically into the Caribbean Sea and toward the lovely island of Antigua. The ‘sail away’ party was fun and the water smooth. Paul was glad. He’d once been on a ship in the mid-Atlantic when a rather large American woman had thrown up her Lobster Thermidor all over the dining room in a force seven gale. She’d managed to put quite a dent in the appetites of those surrounding her, yet hers had not been touched.
‘Bring me another Lobster’ she said loudly to her waiter, ‘I just lost the first one!’
Terribly shellfish behaviour Paul had thought at the time.
Thankfully, the following day onboard ‘Brittania’ was a Sea day. Calm waters on which they could all recover from their marathon journey.
Paul had always loved sea days when previously on the ocean waves. They often forced the passenger into contemplative mood as the vastness of the sea and sky dwarfed those aboard. Suppressing all ego.
Or so Paul had thought.
He was soon to learn otherwise.
The next morning started with a bang. It was the cabin door slamming at 6am as Andrew made his way towards one of the ship’s few smoking sections and the gym!
At last Paul and Andrew made it to the beach and the sun had finally made a visit to the milliners.
The island on which they found themselves was as splendidly underdeveloped as Paul’s suntan. He now looked like the proverbial milk bottle – and dairy was quite unfashionable in Thailand.
Not amongst the Thais of course, some of whom painted themselves daily with a strange powder in order to make themselves fairer. Paul desired the opposite effect, but laying beneath the sun was not really his thing. Besides which , the upshot was usually a touch of redness with a few uneven freckles for company.
Not the most attractive look.
But there was no use crying over burnt milk.
Added to which he had no intention of looking like a crocodile handbag in old age. Should his straps even make it that far!
Andrew, on the other hand, only needed to glance in that great orb’s direction and he would burnish readily. Much like a common field worker in a Thomas Hardy novel. Paul accepted long ago that this would never happen to him.
He was far from the tanning crowd!
But the island had numerous alternatives to sunning oneself.
Distraction far deeper than a tan.
The wildlife was incredible and abundant. In truth, Paul found there to be a little too much of it in their outdoor, cold water en-suite.
On one evening he was greeted by a rather large frog who stared at him most intimidatingly from a neighbouring tile as he attempted to urinate. Paul that is, not the amphibian!
Paul had always hated, (unlike some husbands he wouldn’t mention), to piss in public. He hardly ever used a urinal unless he’d been caught short or found himself fortunately standing next to Bradley Cooper. This perverted little creature glued to the ceramic had no such aversion.
His eyes never left Paul’s penis.
He felt his bladder grow more shy by the second.
The following day he was joined by some more little critters in the bathroom, this time in the form of a couple of dozen sadistic ants. As he sat on the loo the red army marched directly from their dug out, beneath the toilet seat, and made straight for his manhood. It was excruciating. He wished he’d not been wearing a helmet! He stood writhing and brushed them away with difficulty, having to squeeze most of the little bastards to death in the process.
Quite accidentally of course, but it’s not often one has five creepy crawlies heading for one’s urethra.
Well – not that often!
It was now beginning to feel like he and Andrew had spent a couple of nights in ‘I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here’. Paul wondered if he might meet Ant and Dec on the pan at any moment.
On second thoughts, Ant was more likely to be at the bar.
Paul didn’t necessarily want to get out of there, but he certainly wouldn’t have minded a bathroom ceiling.
The next night yet another native spectator came to pay a call. In the early hours, as Paul made his ablutions, he turned to see a huge ‘Huntsman’ loitering just two feet from his face. Usually Paul wouldn’t object to this kind of encounter, but this was not a huntsman of the sexy Snow White Chris Hemsworth variety, more the kind that had eight legs!
Sadly not this huntsman!
The voyeuristic arachnid was staring at Paul with what seemed to him a lecherous intent, and Paul was surely not simply imagining the grin it had webbed across it’s golf ball sized face. Paul got up slowly and moved towards the exit. He’d find some paper somewhere. And he wasn’t quite prepared to risk the bum gun whilst caught between the cross-hairs of such a beast.
He closed the dodgy door which adjoined the hut as best he could. He noticed that a small terrier could probably squeeze through some of the gaps, but it gave him a little false confidence for which he was grateful. He climbed beneath the mosquito net and lovingly warned a snoring Andrew about the gentleman crawler in the bog. He was treated to a couple of grunts which he took to as an acknowledgement.
In the morning he was most amused when Andrew recounted his arachnoid introduction to their extra guest.
They were, Paul had warned him during the night, in a ‘family loom’. And there was definitely a great deal of weaving going on.
Andrew had not seen the great spider at first, so had summised that Paul had been exaggerating it’s proportions.
It wasn’t the first time his partner had added an extra inch to something.
But as he made use of the bum-gun he suddenly saw the leggy giant legging it along the wall. He was startled, and even being an avid naturist, had no intention of spending any further time unclothed with such nature. He made for the bedroom and the relative safety of the mosquito net. Which mostly failed to keep out any mozzies, but could hopefully handle something larger.
On waking, Paul asked Andrew if he’d heard his tale of the spider. ‘Yes’ Andrew answered, with far too much animation for 7am,
‘I saw it! I thought you’d exaggerated – but it was fucking huge!’
Paul agreed, and after hearing Andrew’s story, was most glad that at least on his visit to the little boy’s room, the little boy had stayed still, and not chased him out through the door!
‘Is he still in there?’ He asked.
‘No’, replied Andrew confidently, he’s gone now.’
Later that morning Paul reached down for a small bag to take to the beach. Mostly full of unneeded sunblock and a camera he’d yet to learn to use. As he did so he caught sight of a familiar face watching him from the corner of the room.
He’d recognise that leering grin anywhere.
The ‘Huntsman’ had hunted him down once again.
Paul ditched the bag. He knew he’d look terrible in pictures that morning anyway, and the sky was as dull as ditchwater yet again. He shut the door briskly and went to meet Andrew at the beach.
‘He’s back’ He said curtly to Andrew. ‘In the room now!’
‘Is he?’ said Andrew, slightly amused.
‘Shall we do that glass thing and get him out?’ Paul suggested.
‘We’ll need a bloody big glass’ said Andrew.
‘Yeah –I suppose’. Paul was never at his most lucid in the earlymorning. He much preferred the early hours. Only usually with less fauna fawning over him.
‘I’ll ask Pittani’ he suggested. Pittani being the proprietor of the bungalows in which they were residing.
‘They’ll know what to do. They must see loads of them’ he continued.
Pitanni promised with a smile that she’d ‘clean loom’. Paul thanked her effusively and went on with his day.
He sat on the beach under leaden skies hoping both they and he would become less grey.
Neither occurred!
PART TWO
Later that night he and Andrew hit the hippest beach bar with which they’d hit it off. A driftwood cacophony of Tolkienesque proportion. One could get lost in it’s boughs, indeed it’s bow, as she had been modelled on a pirate ship.
Crow’s nest and all.
People could man or woman the decks whilst chilling out in the most pleasant of ways.
Two eateries nested within it’s twisted form. One serving traditional Thai, the other branching out into more Western fare – Cheeseburgers and Banana Pancakes. Paul was not surprised by the one which did the fastest business. There was Heinz ketchup after all! And the clever folk of this magnificent tree-house on Crocodile Beach had twigged on.
A great shame though, Paul thought, that they hadn’t managed to weed out the type of clientage who frequented the woody bulkheads of the ark during sunset hours. At this time every cabin was filled with toddler and their highly stoned parents. Mostly German Paul couldn’t help but notice.
It was akin to a psychedelic kindergarten.
Little Helmut and little Herman broke apart into splinter groups to run amok across the bridges and gangplanks that had been haphazardly created.
There was many a splinter!
Far too many a screaming child.
And not enough sunset!
The parents were so off their faces none had deemed to face the prospect that such a sophisticated vessel had been designed, quite obviously, to be a place of adult recreation, and was not an adventure playground. It was quite unsafe. Half of it had fallen down already. And what was remaining was hardly shipshape.
Paul knew it must be a huge adventure for the kids, who could blame them?
It was just like ‘The Famous Funf’ – only without the umlaut!
He knew, he, his sister and their cousins would have adored it too in their youth. But their parents had not been consistently off their tits.
Well.
Not consistently.
Not both of them!
Weed, wine and whippersnappers were not a pleasing mix.
Not to Paul.
Who had now been sitting in the wooden vessel for over two hours waiting for Andrew, who had obviously been marooned somewhere else. If he didn’t arrive soon, Paul was sinking so much Singha, Andrew would find him quite shipwrecked!
He really wasn’t sure he could take much more of ‘The Sound Of Mewsick!’
Luckily, as soon as the sun went so did mutter and vatar; it was obviously time for nappy changing. The ship rang eight bells, thankfully before Paul had the chance to knock seven out of the stupid gits, and the boat sailed into the night and into much calmer, sophisticated waters.
Smoke billowing from her rigging as Mary Jane remained onboard.
The following day, nursing a groggy head,Paul bumped into a couple of fellow ‘artistes’ on the beach, as one normally does in the most remote of places.
Once, during a brief sojourn, on one of the more far-flung Maldivian atolls, Paul and Andrew had bumped into Paul’s second cousin once removed. So far yet so near he had thought then.
The charming Englishwoman on the sands nowwas the drummer with a rather famous band. Her beau, named Thomas, was equally lovely and worked as a filmmaker, having just finished filming his girlfriend on her latest tour. They laughed with Paul and formed and easy friendship.
Not solely alcohol based; there was always a camaraderie between those who jumped into the arena to perform, all be it be it gladiatorial at times. It was only those, Paul knew, who faced the lions, who knew what courage it actually took to take to the stage. The critics could harp on from the Gods, but they were mere spectators.
Fuck’em!
Paul had learnt this swiftly after his first bad review in the West End.
He also currently knew there were those more than ready to mock his musicality, people who knew only three chords! And there were those just as content to nullify any talent he had for writing. But what did he care? He knew he had a tendency to bang the old ‘Joanna’ a little to hard, and was well aware he liked to mix his metaphors. But there was no use crying of spilt blood. Milk was thicker than water after all.
Paul knew he was probably very very good at something – he just hadn’t discovered quite what it was yet. But he was most intrigued to hear their new friend play, as it sounded like she had most definitely discovered her rhythm.
The following night, the boys made their way to Long Beach. There was always an ‘Ao Yai’ in Thailand, and they were all invariably just that – long.
Paul made his way along the beach, stinging in the early evening heat. He was looking for Andrew who had made his own way to the gig earlier in the day. Paul had opted to go back to the shed and change, and had arrived instead, windswept and winded, on the back of a Burmese boy’s bike.
‘Wen’ was what appeared to be a skinny, fifteen year old ‘Hell’s Angel ’.
He drove at such speed, imbibing much weed, Paul wondered if, not ‘Wen’ they may arrive.
But arrive they did, much sooner rather than later, even though Paul had blondley given his required destination as ‘Easy Hut’ rather than ‘Lazy Hut’!
A mistake to which he knew some friends would react wryly.
He found Andrew staggering on the beach, looking sullen and sunburnt. He was almost wearing a red bandana and had more than look a of Christopher Walken in ‘The Deer Hunter’.
‘I walked all the way to the wrong fucking Beach’ he snarled.
‘Hi’ said Paul. ‘I brought the stuff you wanted.’
‘When I got there’, Andrew continued, ‘I couldn’t even get any water; not even a bloody beer!’
Paul couldn’t help but sympathise. It had taken him at least twenty minutes to go half the distance his partner had covered, and that at break-neck speed. Andrew had done it on foot in the fierce heat of day. Paul had warned him, but as one knows, mad dogs and Englishman etc.
They sat and knocked back a couple of Singhas which seemed to ease Andy’s ire somewhat.
The boys were joined later joined by their new friends, Cherisse and Thomas, and his wonderfully eccentric Sister Lucy, who worked as a voluntary teacher on the island.
Evening fell with a bong as it does in the tropics, and Charisse took to her drum kit.
She was bang on it!
Paul and Andrew were mightily impressed. Andrew even went backstage to tell her so during the performance, embarrassing Paul knew, but he was also pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to hear him. And were he that irritating, she had sticks!
The band played for a good few hours, alternating musicians as they went. Paul and Andrew were encouraged to perform, but Paul maintained that if the guys knew nothing from ‘Hello Dolly’ it was best they didn’t.
They both, thankfully, resisted.
It felt good to be in the crowd for once, rather than apart from it.
The joints were jumping.
A miserable, cute European who had sat himself next to Paul turned to him during a moment of applause.
‘This is shit’, he said, ‘just karaoke!’
‘You don’t like it? Paul asked.
‘No’!
‘Are you a musician?’
‘Yes’, the moody chap responded. ‘Are you?’
‘Of sorts’ Paul said.
‘I think the drummer’s rather good’ Paul continued slyly, ‘don’t you?’
‘She’s ok’ said the guy. Clearly unimpressed.
‘She plays in quite a good band’, Paul went on, ‘professionally.’
‘Would I know them?’ the arrogant prick asked, his interest now piqued.
‘Perhaps’, responded Paul wickedly, ‘maybe not.’
He paused dramatically.
‘Simple Minds?’
With this the simple-minded fool, who quite obviously didn’t know his arse from his high hat, almost dropped his bottle of Chang. He was literally aghast. After some diligent work on his iPhone he went back to spectating, now quite enraptured, tapping away out of time on the driftwood table.
Touché Paul thought.
Or rather, drum roll please!
He struck an imaginary cymbal with an amused ‘ta-dah’. He hated those who who thought they could but didn’t.
And Cherisse certainly could!
They carried on dancing and drinking into the night. Along with Thomas, Cherisse and Lucy, they had befriended a Russian couple from Moscow.
The Muscovites were great fun.
Andrew insisted on doing spy gags all night. They took it in good grace. Even playing along at times. It was only towards the end when Lev, the gentleman of the two, began to grow weary of the joke. Paul kicked Andrew under the table. The last thing he wanted was another ‘Hunstman’ in their bathroom.
Paul awoke groggily in the shabby, beige hotel room and for far too long remained in the nightmare he had been suffering. He was still trapped in Barcelona’s Sagrada Familia as it crumbled around him. Andrew looked on, dressed as a Cardinal, smiling devilishly, delighting in the masonry falling freely onto his parishioner. It was all terribly Catholic.
Paul decided immediately to read no more Dan Brown!
Although the author’s novels were admittedly page turning, their ideas could be head spinning when it came to getting any kip. Light reading perhaps, but it made for heavy dreaming. He shook his head, attempting to clear the Gaudiesque grotesque brilliance from his brain.
He sat up on the edge of the bed and crossed himself.
Jesus Christ!
He wasn’t even religious.
It had been a strange trip.
He crossed the room to grab the iPad, knowing that some ‘Fox News’ would be sure to provide him with some comic relief, ameliorating his nocturnal musings. Andrew, he was relieved to notice, was not in Scarlett after all, but crumpled among off-white bed linen in the corner of the room. There was, however, still a touch of claret about him, it being the blood splattered pillow, doubtless caused by his tooth being ripped out the previous evening. Paul decided not to wake his partner leaving him to bleed in peace – due to his missing piece.
He attempted to connect to the internet, already feeling more cheery, guessing at what more banal nonsense Mr Trump had dreamt up overnight. He was sure the idiocy of the American President would give him a chuckle. Either that or throw him into a nightmare of the waking kind.
He knew it was a risk.
He watched as the device attempted to sign onto the hotel’s WiFi system. The tiny cart-wheel at the top right of the screen span manically, but to no avail – the room was offline.
Not for the first time.
The internet had been most intermittent since their arrival in Ranong a week ago. He and Andrew had been planning to just overnight in the scruffy city, then head to a tropical island. Tropical Storm Pabuk had blown those plans way off course as there were no boats sailing anywhere. There was nothing for it but to hunker down until the cyclone passed. Fortunately by the time it reached them it was nothing more than a depression, matching the mood of the meteorological captives in room 4010.
Ranong was a typical border town – Myanmar lurking ominously just across the water. But Paul and Andrew rather enjoyed living on the edge, so her amiable seediness had naturally won them over. They had rarely been to anywhere in the Far East where the people went so far to be friendly.
The food was good.
The atmosphere authentic.
And there was hardly a foreigner in sight, apart from the two middle aged homosexuals strutting through town, one with hair which was yellowing under the equatorial sun. Paul knew he should have packed toner, but his hairdresser Javier had advised him it was too complex a job for him to manage. Paul had wondered at the time how hard it could be to whack a bit of paste onto one’s barnet but bowed to his coiffeur’s greater knowledge on the subject. He was now quite jaundiced about the whole situation.
The spinning icon on the iPad was still doing it’s work, as of yet, there was still no internet. Paul headed instead for the lavatory- the embers of the previous evening’s coal fired barbecue beginning to fire up dangerously once again. He hoped it wouldn’t be another incendiary day, for finally, they were to catch a ferry to somewhere beachlike. After all the drama he could do with a dip in the ocean.
Begin afresh.
Baptise himself in saline with his new found Catholic leanings!
He longed for a drama -free day. He hit the light switch to the bathroom and nothing. All at once the situation was illuminated. There was a power cut. That was why the poor iPad was trying so hard to connect to something that wasn’t there. All of the power in the entire hotel was out.
The sun was up and the room was heating up fast. He knew with room 4010, being in direct sunlight, that in half an hour, he and Andrew would be sweating like a couple of glassblower’s arses. He reached into the fridge and contemplated the remaining ‘Singha’ beer staring at him with vicious intent. But thought better if it. It was 7.30am and even he wasn’t that desperate. Besides, he knew that Andrew probably would be on waking toothless.
He’d need something to plug the gap.
Paul opted for a lukewarm soda water instead and sat down to read.
The previous day he had also been reading when he heard an excruciating yell from the then lit bathroom. Andrew’s nerve had finally failed him. The tooth with which he had been battling with for the entire trip had just won. The war was over, Andrew could do nothing but surrender. He was in utter agony, uttering expletives by the mouthful.
‘Fuck! Fuck! Bastard! Fuck’ he went, as if his foul mouth would cure his sick one.
‘We need a dentist now!’ Paul suggested gingerly.
‘Fuck off. Don’t fucking talk to me!’ Andrew screamed.
He was definitely suffering badly.
Paul knew his partner was usually quite good at coping with pain, sometimes even enjoying it somewhat. But this was an altogether different scenario. Toothache, he considered, the worst of all ailments, especially whilst marooned in a one-tooth town.
Paul consulted the internet, which thankfully happened to be working that morning, and found a dental clinic which looked a little less Victorian than most of the others. He screenshot the information and headed for reception to make the arrangements. The girl on the desk, although terribly sweet, spoke about eight words of English, and even the electronic map Paul thrust towards her failed to produce a spark.
She had no idea what he was on about.
That was until an incandescent Andrew appeared and did a mime worthy of Marcel Marceau being tortured by ‘Olivier’ – a la ‘The Marathon Man’!
His Hoffmanesque acting skills swiftly paid off and the poor frightened girl tapped the dentist’s phone number rapidly into her cellphone. There was an agonising wait, as both Paul and Andrew could hear the unanswered ring tone coming fruitlessly from the receiver. Eventually the timid creature who had tried to connect them gave up. She looked towards Andrew fearfully as his face grew redder and just – grew!
‘Wait moment’ she said, slightly panicked now.
She then made what seemed like four phone calls using five phones and proceeded to scribble something onto a piece of paper.
‘For fun clinic’ she said. ‘You can walk.’
Paul knew the visit wouldn’t be for fun, as he rarely liked to see his husband in such an uncomfortable situation. There were times perhaps, but this wasn’t one of them.
‘Come on’ he commanded, ‘let’s go now.’
The patient whose patience was wearing as thin as a piece of dental floss could only follow. The boys marched through the searing heat, dodging chickens and cavities as they went and eventually came to the place listed on the scrap of paper they’d been given. Rusty, grey shutters barred their entry – the establishment was obviously closed.
Andrew looked most forlorn. And swollen. Paul was secretly pleased – the place looked like something out of ‘Little Shop Of Horrors’, the first show he’d ever appeared in professionally. Ironically as Orin, the sadistic dentist. He thought it better not to remind Andrew of his critically acclaimed performance at that moment, for fear of another critical performance from his partner.
The day was decaying by the minute.
‘Let’s go back to reception’ Paul said quickly, he was thinking on his heels,’ ‘I’m sure the one that I found is better than this, and it’ll probably open at ten’.
He was clutching at toothpicks he knew, he wasn’t sure of anything in Ranong. Who could be?
Back at reception, after another sweaty and painful perambulation, Paul insisted the receptionist look for another clinic, or direct them to the hospital. She tried the hospital first, then informed them that it was full that day but tomorrow they could be seen. Charming Paul thought. Andrew sighed audibly, the wind whistling through his decayed crown tarnishing it further as he exhaled. Then, out of nowhere, the young woman produced another piece of parchment with yet another name, this time in Thai.
‘This good clinic. Open, five 0’clock!’
Silence.
The boys looked at each other glumly, they had a ferry booked and paid for to head across the Andaman Sea. It left at 2’0’ clock!
‘You Go’,Andrew said magnanimously, even though he would never have been able to pronounce that word. He now looked like he had a mouth of Willie Wonker gobstoppers stuffed into his right cheek.
‘I can go at five and then meet you tomorrow’.
‘No babe I’m not leaving you like this’, Paul answered through gritted teeth. He was more than ready for some sand. But there was absolutely no way he could leave his partner in agony – stranded in a no-horse town. There was no option but to re-arrange the boat and stay yet another night in Ranong. They’d done it six times before, so once more wouldn’t hurt.
Well not as much as Andrew’s gob.
At exactly five to five, after a day of liquid anaesthesia, they raced east across town to sort out Andrew’s ‘North And South. On entering the clinic Paul felt a rush of trepidation. Again there was no English spoken and the wallpaper was screaming as loudly as some of the patients! The clinical staff, however, were gorgeous. Affable and more than ready to help the swelling‘farang’ who now looked like a homemade incendiary device.
Paul accompanied Andrew into the surgery and the young dentist began to prod and poke.
Paul had never spectated at the dentist before and he found it macabrely fascinating. He began having a Princess Diana fantasy, remembering her famously sitting in on operations.
All he needed was the mask.
There was shriek from the chair. Bingo – the clever lady had found the scene of the crime! Now all she had to do was pick up the murder weapon.
Paul sat on a bench as a loud Thai quiz show screeched from a television in the corner. It was putting his teeth on edge, he couldn’t imagine how Andrew was feeling. But as he watched his partner recline uneasily in the chair and noticed his toes curl northwards he had a fair idea.
Bucketloads of anaesthetic was injected and Andrew visibly began to relax – just a touch.
‘You tell me if you feel my pleasure’, the dentist requested.
‘What’ Andrew garbled.
‘Tell her if you feel any pressure’, Paul shouted, attempting to outdo the excited toothsome presenter on the tv for volume.
The dentist turned to him and thanked him for his oral skills. As she did Paul made a motion with his hands. T’was the universal sign for ‘just yank it out love!’ Behind their masks the dentist and her assistant giggled charmingly and then turned back to their patient.
A few minutes later Paul was fascinated to see that she did just that. It was hardly technical, looking a lot to him like the rudimentary metalwork at which he’d never excelled at secondary school.
First she plied her trade with a heavy pair of pliers, giggling once again as half of Andrew’s tooth came away. She shared a comment with her assistant who also seemed most amused. The nurse then passed her boss what looked to Paul like a Philips screwdriver. Then for several minutes Paul watched with twisted fascination as the dentist screwed away with abandon. Once her task was complete she reached again for the pliers. She then launched them this way, then that, this way again, then that! Paul was tempted to look away towards the screaming television set but was morbidly transfixed by the mouth job he was observing!
And then. All not at once. Out the little bastard came.
In two pieces – root and all.
She stuffed some gauze into Andrew’s cavernous gap and then warned him of a wisdom tooth she’d seen in the x-ray, explaining it would cause him future problems.
‘But he has no wisdom’ Paul interjected.
They all fell about in hysterics at the hackneyed gag. Andrew, no doubt, with relief.
On their way out of the clinic a young French girl sat looking terrified in the waiting area.
‘Was it ok?’ she asked nervously.
‘Perfect’, Paul replied confidently, having undertaken no treatment himself.
‘Look’ he said, producing a small plastic bag containing Andrews rotten old tooth and the blood splattered root.
The girl looked horrified and went the colour of an anaemic frog.
‘But I need my crown refitted’ she spat, ‘I was told it was good here.’
Paul had obviously given her the impression she would have to surrender some of her dentalware. There was a xenophobic French joke to be made there but he resisted.
‘It’s so much better when you get inside the surgery,’ he lied, gesticulating to the hideous wallpaper and feeling guilty he’d produced Andrew’s bloody fang.
‘Truly?’ She asked. Looking un peu relieved.
‘Vraiment’, replied Paul , mendaciously. He knew he’dbeen cruel enough.
And he wasn’t about to mention the fact that Andrew had just told him that the dentist had plumped for the wrong tooth at first and that he’d had to direct her to the offending part of his ‘Hampstead Heath’!
The girl smiled.
‘I am so glad to see you ‘ere’, she said.
With that they bid adieu, Andrew’s bag of tooth in hand, and made there way towards the liquor store.
Vodka was to be the order of the evening. Paul only hoped that when the numbness wore off, Andrew would be fighting fit and in shipshape condition.
He wanted to get on that bloody boat.
He’d had quite enough of room 4010.
And he didn’t want to wake in the Sagrada Familia once again.
Paul said goodbye to Laos’s deliciously debauched capital of Vientiane, and headed back to Thailand for some debauchery of his own.
When the sun came out!
He and Andrew were heading to a small lesser known island on the border with Burma, hoping that, finally The Indian Ocean would provide them with some sunshine. They had so far seen precious little of the yellow stuff during their latest Far Eastern sojourn, so had had to make up with a little more of the amber stuff! Life was certainly a beach without it!
They had made a reservation with a so-called ‘wizard’, who ran five wooden huts on a hippy resort directly on the sand. Before leaving for the airport, Paul fortunately checked the weather forecast for the boys next destination. It was disastrous. Any decision to carry on with their plans would have been most wet – in every sense.
No amount of wizardry could save them from the spell of bad weather the planet had apparently conjured up for their special island. Paul quickly went into his best Phileas Fogg impersonation, and a la Jules Verne, hit the internet to research some drier climes. Unfortunately, there did not appear to be any. Every part of southern Thailand looked to be covered in a blanket of angry, unseasonal storm cloud. He sighed and explained to Andrew, his reluctant Passepartout , that it was probably better they sit it out in Bangkok, at least until the weather looked more favourable to weather a dodgy ferry crossing. They were, he remembered, quite rocky at the best of times. Andrew, thankfully, didn’t rock the boat, and agreed. So they hit Bangkok, for the third time during their trip.
They arrived in an angry rainstorm of thunderous intensity. He and Andrew found shelter, drowned themselves in beer, and watched the small Soi Rambutri, the district in which they were staying, flood to calf level within minutes. Paul knew they had made the right decision for once. A small desert island during such weather would be deserted and quite depressing. Not to mention a touch dangerous. So they decided to stay on in Bangkok. Though as it transpired, their was still danger to be had!
When the deluge ceased after two days, they walked out along the choppy Chao Praya river, it was a part of the city with which neither of them were entirely familiar, and it was always a thrill to discover new parts.
They came across a small park amid the maelstrom of traffic and noise that is the Thai capital and espied a small bridge crossing one of the many canals. To their joy, on the other side of the water, existed a small district of backpacker hostels, funky, cheap, and intoxicating.
Just how all of Bangkok had once been. The seedy little place they stopped at was named ‘The Flapping Duck’ – it was charming and hideous all at once, a combination Paul had always adored. He and his partner sat and drank cheap beer, before Andrew went off onto the back lanes beyond to search for some street food to bring back.
During his absence Paul discovered some street life!
The first vagabond to come along and join him was named Remy, he was a terribly engaging Frenchman. At just twenty-six Remy wanted mostly to discuss sex, drugs and Jonny Halliday. Mostly sex actually. Con les femmes bien sur. But he was most endearing and not brash at all. Paul was worried, that on Andrew’s return, his husband would not be best pleased, as quite often he showed his displeasure when he began conversations with strangers. Especially those with Gallic breath! Yet, just Blanche Dubois, he had always depended on the kindness of strangers. For him, it was stranger not too. To his relief, when Andrew met Remy, he was equally as engaged, the guy was most agreeable after all.
They were later joined by a young half American/ Hawaiian who called himself Jamie. He possessed a haunted look, with doleful eyes and battle scars to die for. He explained he had been to Afghanistan and Syria as a marine, not quite the special forces, although he hinted he had been special. Paul took this as an exaggeration, but it was clear to him this boy had been to war at some point. He knew other soldiers who exaggerated their missions in order to garner attention. He’d always found the habit unnecessary, after all, one tour of duty or ten, they were brave enough.
Jamie had apparently completed eight!
Each time the subject became uncomfortable, or Remy would say something only a Frenchman could concerning La guerre, the ex-marine would leave the table with a quite unnecessary mixture of rage and upset. He would then return a table, take another beer, for which he never paid, and continue on. To make matters worse he had apparently just tragically discovered that he had a brain tumour and was to fly back to The States the following day! The Philadelphia fire department, the brigade for which he now served, were allowing him time out to recover. Paul explained that his late father had been a fireman, it was one of the more heroic things he did during his difficult life. Paul asked if they still used poles in ‘Philly’? Jamie looked confused and left the group once again, to contemplate his dead comrades on the bridge opposite, in quite Checkovian fashion.
Paul began to find it all rather disconcerting. His inner fire alarm went off. Remy said plainly, ‘
‘I sink this man is an arsehol’!
Paul replied that he probably agreed, yet neither of them had been to war, well not on the battlefield at least, and so advised patience as the best option. He knew from his past what a mad firefighter was capable of!
Andrew, being the one flashing the cash, kept Jamie in ale all afternoon, and well into the night. Paul, being far too drunk to stop himself, sang with the Thai band as nighttime and the mosquitos fell. It was great to be amongst youth who were open and for once intrigued by the tales of ‘The Lola Boys.’ Even if he was out of key at times – of course, he blamed the guitarist!
By the end of the evening they had been joined by a gorgeous Dutch girl called Siggy, and two enchantresses from the Czech Republic, who they later discovered gave the false names of Natasha and Sasha. Their reason for such duplicity eventually proved to be most wise! Girls travelling out east had to keep their wits about them. Boys too!
The party was in full swing and Paul headed for the restroom to do something most unrestful. Lunch had been challenging! On his return to the fiesta he was shocked to see the most violent of contretemps had erupted. Everybody seemed to be involved, Remy, Andrew, the girls, and especially the landlady of ‘The Flapping Duck’ – she seemed to be in the biggest flap of all. And it was the twenty-nine year old war veteran, Jamie, who seemed to be ducking the flak.
‘You go. You leave. I give you money back. I no want you in my guesthouse’, Cat, the proprietress was shouting. Harsh, definite and shrill – doubtless she wanted the American to be yanked out. At once!
‘I knew you were full of bullshit’ said George. A quiet Englishman who had been nothing but gentle and unassuming all evening. ‘Three nights I’ve listened to your crap!’
The atmosphere had become febrile at ‘The Flapping Duck’! Paul was worried someone might be quackers. He adored a pun, even during a dangerous moment. He now had more than a slight suspicion that Jamie the marine was nothing more than pond life.
‘Hey man’, Andrew interjected bravely, with a slightly phony vernacular, ‘you’ve been rumbled mate. You’re all over the internet. Just leave.’
Jamie looked appalled. He then looked to Paul for some support, but by now Paul knew the others were aware of something beneath the surface that he was not. One of the Czech girls flashed him a glimpse of something on her iPad. Paul, being shortsighted in every way, could not make out all the information, but he could definitely decipher one word.
‘WARNING’! ⚠️
His real name is Udomsak Klakong!
Along with the alarming instruction was a photo of ‘Jamie’ and a list of his many misdemeanours some of them most serious. He had been kicked out of many a Thai town and was quite obviously a grifter – and a dangerous one at that!
He was not 29.
Or part Hawaiian, in fact the only hula-hula it seems he’d been guilty of was getting into travelling girls beds and threatening them.
He was in fact a 21 year old Thai boy flung up in ‘Philly’, with a Thai identity card and a penchant for theft and violence. Andrew had kindly given him twenty-five quid out of sympathy. Perhaps thinking that would go some way towards his airfare to fix his tumour. He didn’t admit that to Paul until somewhat later. Paul didn’t mind – the guy had been most convincing; his stories obviously well rehearsed.
The incident soon began to flare slightly out of control. The Thai con man lifted a small Belgian chap who had bravely stood up to him and cast him three feet to the left.
‘I get police – now.’ Cat screeched.
‘No need’ Paul heard himself say. Surprised at the masculinity of his tone.
‘Jamie’s leaving now.’
It was not a request!
He looked at the fella who had fooled everyone, well almost everyone, and gave him one of his hard stares,the one he’d learnt from his Aunty Glo. It seemed to work.
‘I’ll get my bag’ Jamie said.
Paul followed him down a narrow corridor, not sure whether the cornered idiot was going to go to collect something else to make even more trouble. He too was angry especially because this fool had pretended to be a war hero, and worse still, a fireman like his dad. Bloody nerve!
The atmosphere was now quite incendiary. When he had him alone there was one moment of physical contact as ‘Jamie’ attempted to re-join the battle.
Paul shoved him backwards – much harder than he had meant too. His heart was racing but his voice was steady, he’d had years of drama school training to thank for that.
‘Just leave Jamie! These people don’t know what you’ve been through. How can they understand? Just leave with some dignity. Be cool!’
Of course, he didn’t mean a word of it.
There was a moment of stillness between them, and the fire in ‘Jamie’s’ eyes extinguished itself. He said nothing. Paul stood aside and the young Thai walked straight by him, tiny plastic carrier bag in hand. Silently he walked past the nervous group standing angrily outside.
There was an unwise shout of ‘don’t come back’ from Cat, the manager, as Jamie crossed the bridge, but thankfully, he knew better than to respond. He’d been rumbled, even if he didn’t know what that word meant.
There was a collective sigh of relief, and Cat thanked Paul and Andrew for helping her put out the blazing situation. Paul thought proudly, we may be two big old poofs, but we’ve fought mightier battles than that.
He was very confident the unknown warrior would not return.
‘You come – stay in my guesthouse. Always welcome’ Cat said kindly.
‘That’s so nice of you’ Paul replied, but tomorrow we head south – to the islands’.
To Paul’s surprise, Cat looked at him with even more alarm than she had shown to the fake marine!
‘You go where? You know there is storm coming!’
Paul hadn’t bothered with the weather forecast – not since they’d decided to avoid the inclement islands and stay in Bangkok. As far as he knew the sun had got his hat on once again. After all, it was peak cap season.
The next day the boys flew to Ranong. On landing they knew at once the error of their ways. There was an eerie calm, and most other ‘farang’ we’re heading in the opposite direction. It was clear that the old ‘currant bun’ had still not visited the milliners.
Sunny Thailand!!:
The open bus took him and Andrew, along with six Germans and four toothless Thai workers towards the pier from which they were to take their boat across the Andaman Sea. As they rumbled towards the coast the precipitous air became more obvious. The wind had picked up and Paul had now learnt that ‘Tropical Storm Pabuk’ was heading their way.
‘Pabuk’ meant Catfish in Lao – Paul knew some of those river monsters to be rather big, if fact, it was reported to be the largest tempest of it’s kind for thirty years. Not to be taken lightly. Thousands of tourists were being evacuated and typically he and Andrew were heading in the wrong direction. They were nothing if not contrary. As they arrived at the pier, their affable driver turned and made a big rocking motion with his hand.
‘No boat’ he said. ‘Take hotel – better’ he advised wisely.
Paul, having been to naval school, and worked on the QE 2 around Cape Horn, knew all too well that twenty-two foot waves were not fun – unless the crew were extremely accommodating. He doubted this to be the case on a fairly crappy twenty-six footer packed with far too many tourists.
He didn’t even consult his partner.
‘We’ll take the hotel’ he said with a wink. Their driver looked relieved.
The serious Fräulein seated opposite however looked far less happy.
‘No, we have ticket. We go’, she shouted.
She then looked at Paul, ‘They take our money, so we go. We have ticket!’
And you still have your life Paul thought, but take the chance if you want you rude cow. Had the stupid woman not heard of the ‘Bismarck’?
The party left the bus and headed for the pier which was obviously closed. Our driver, being the kind soul he was, reversed back to the German group to convince them yet again of their folly. But they would not hear of it, especially the Eva Braun lookalike who was growing angrier than the current tides.
‘Leave them’ Paul said to the driver, ‘they want to go. Let them’.
‘But no boat’ our driver repeated forlornly.
‘Oh well, perhaps they’ll swim’, Paul retorted.
He was beginning to lose patience now. The weather was closing in fast, it had been a long night, what with the mock marine, and he had no intention of going to war with a few Teutonic tourists who had obviously not read the news. Or were just ignorant.
Tropical Storm Pabuk was strengthening and he now had his own cyclone going on with his hair. It was enormous and out of control. Besides which, Andrew needed a cigarette which would only increase the growing tempestuous conditions if he couldn’t light up soon.
The driver gave in, and they made a sharp Brexit, Leaving their six European cousins, standing adrift on the defunct pier side, glaring with indignation.
‘Twats’ Andrew said. Paul couldn’t help but agree. And usually the Germans were so sensible.
Minutes later he and Andrew were dropped off at a large hotel in an unfashionable part of town. The rain came down hard and steady, and the sky put on a show of such theatricality, one could not help but be impressed.
The next day as the cyclone got nearer, Paul had some apprehension. The thunder rumbled ominously from the east and the eye of the ‘Catfish’ was threatening to seek them out. But hey, they had supplies. Enough beer to water ‘Jamie’s’ whole battalion. For the entire eight tours!
And there was a small sauna. So a least they could take shelter somewhere dry, and sweat it out!
They were the lucky ones.
As Pabuk bore down on them, he felt great sympathy for those stuck on the islands, it couldn’t be fun. He knew there had already been loss of life.
He only hoped their German friends had made it.
He and Andrew had no idea what to do next. It wasn’t their decision after all.
The giant ‘Catfish’ had them in it’s net – and he wasn’t letting them go.
THE LOLA BOYS ABROAD ! 