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!
The five-hour ride through Laos was striking, but as the mini-van juddered and bounced along some of the worst roads he had ever ridden, Paul arrived in Vang Vien stricken!
Admittedly, there had been a rest stop on route, when Andrew had smoked eight cigarettes and Paul had emitted eight pints of something brown from his gullet. He thought he had done rather well, as he had managed to hold back the vomit for at least an hour and a half on the bus, no mean feat, considering as there was a young Korean seated behind him who had filled two ‘Seven Eleven’ carrier bags with something most oriental.
When they eventually arrived at their destination he and Andrew staggered through the staggering landscape to find their tiny hut on ‘The Other Side’ – the imaginative name given to the piece of land they were staying on across the seasonal bamboo bridge. The welcome from the manager, ‘Can’ was cool to say the least – Paul couldn’t stomach him at first sight. The place, however, was astonishing – scenery of the highest Karst.
Andy -Tuneful and tanless!
A backdrop only Akira Kurosawa could have imagined.
Magnificent.
An azure river meandered gently through town and all at once the boys were at peace. They felt just like the beautiful Jim Morrison, they too had broken on through to the other side.
That was until a flotilla of motorised kayak made a sharp starboard turn and came whizzing noisily past.Dozens of chattering and screaming Chinese invaded their head space like a Red Armada. Most jousting with selfie sticks to capture themselves instead of the beauty surrounding them.
Morning, and the silence, had definitely been broken.
After flinging down their rucksacks into the one corner of their ‘bungalow’ which could accommodate them, they headed down to the river bank for a beer or three.
It was then the music began!
A hideous concoction of eastern rhythm combined with screeching lollipop vocals. Suddenly the entire riverside was awash with what sounded like Kylie Minogue on Crystal meth. It was awful!And so incongruous with the bucolic setting. Paul could sense Ratty, Badger and Mole, scarpering for the hills, the wind right up their willows!
He found yet more incongruity as he gazed along the bank. Massive concrete monsters, horrible prison-like hotels loomed over the water, obliterating the view to all of those who were not their inmates.
These gargantuas could not outdo the majestic mountains entirely, but they were having a good go. As Paul looked at the craggy geographic magnificence that had been part of the place for hundreds of thousands of years, he imagined what the spirits of the mountains must be thinking. They were probably not too concerned, for just as they had been holding court for many millennia before the Chinaman came along, they would no doubt be doing the same when he eventually disappeared.
Paul knew it was a western condescension to automatically oppose progress. But to him, this was not progression. Vang Vien was being spoilt. Cash from China and Vietnam was flooding in, yet the difference between the ‘haves’ and ‘have nots’ was as wide as the Mekong Delta. The locals were not benefitting entirely from the big leap forward. They had been shunted to the other side of the tracks.
Literally!
Paul wanted to throw the little red book at the short sighted idiots who were looking to their abundant wallets and not at the wonder which abounded. Unsympathetic and greedy as they were.
He had avoided the riverine building site on his and Andrew’s last visit to Laos four years ago. He had read that the town had become a Mecca for a young and swinging party crowd who were imbibing far too many drugs and falling fatally from rope swings onto the dry river bed.
The infamous ‘death swing’ had taken on an altogether more literal meaning.
He didn’t judge, as the locals back then had made themselves a fortune supplying young ‘Aussies’ with bucket drinks, amphetamines and more. Unfortunately, the young tourists had perished by the bucket-load, until the Australian government stepped in and demanded the Laotian Authorities do something to protect their ‘youngens ’!
Paul was glad he and Andrew hadn’t made the journey that time, for he knew he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from swinging – despite the inevitable danger. And as Andrew constantly reminded him, most irritatingly, he was very liable to be accident prone. So he had considered it a wiser decision to visit the place in the smaller hours, after the party had died down somewhat!
The Laotians had listened to the Australians and the many bars and clubs offering the twenty-four hour party people rest stops with no respite had been shut down. The hippy vibe had definitely almost been killed off. Yet now, it was the Chinese and Vietnamese who were committing murder. They were building ridiculous structures that didn’t belong in such a paradise. Banana pancakes and ‘Happy Pizzas’ could still be found, yet they were in the minority. Signs for Chinese and Korean food papered the shack walls, and coach-loads of packaged touring parties emptied by the hundreds, marching militarily into the utilitarian blocks on which the great mountains frowned.
The place, Paul considered, was what was proverbially known as a shithole!
He and his partner usually enjoyed such a location, but here the meeting of the last die-hard hippies and the first die-casting Chinese was an uneasy cocktail, pleasing to no-one.
On their fist night Paul and Andrew sat on the riverbank at chairs designed for Munchkins, and munched on a meal which could only have been concocted by Macbeth’s three witches. The rice looked to contain several eyes of several unfortunate newts. The massive cauldron of soup contained things of unspeakable horror, and the noodle dish, which mysteriously appeared, resembled an unsavoury creature from the BBC’s ‘Doctor Who’–only still living! Paul momentarily wished for a tardis so that he and Andrew could travel back to Vang Vien’s simpler days. Yes, they may have had to deal with the odd unpalatable riparian splat, but the cheese and bacon toasties would certainly have been edible. The cuisine in Vang Vien was by far the worst they had discovered on their latest experience out east.
The beverages, however, proved to be an altogether more interesting affair.
On Christmas Eve, Paul and Andrew hit the high-street, in order to get in just that condition. T’was the season to make folly after all, and they had been recommended a scruffy pizza joint in which to to buy one. Perhaps a couple of magical mushrooms to top things off.
They were not disappointed.
As they knocked back two horrible fungus flavoured shakes they knew that this Yuletide they would probably be rocking around more than just the Christmas Tree. In fact, on route home to ‘The Other Side’, Paul turned to Andrew and said,
‘Hark’, heralding the moment at which he thought he could hear the angels singing,
‘Fuck off’, Andrew replied festively, ‘let’s just get back!’
Paul heeded his partner’s advice, and when back at their own stable environment, he was very glad he had done so. For five minutes later Andrew was well away in his manger. Not only was he seeing the star of Bethlehem but their were others shooting all around.
For a moment he became very angry and accusatory towards his husband. Paul was concerned that Andrew wouldnot be such a fun guy on the fungi. So he moved himself to the empty hut ten yards adjacent to theirs, a journey which felt to him, as long as that undertaken by The Three Kings. He sat, eventually, on the wooden steps and gazed at the wizardry nature had thrown up in front of him.
An ancient world full of Christmas spirits and hobgoblins. He made the acquaintance of two very sexy trees who introduced themselves as Daphne and Phylis.
They were the most attractive plant life he’d ever met.
A bush named Esme took great care of him as he listened to Andrew chucking up in the hut next door. A young German backpacker travelling alone was screaming Teutonic seasons greetings into her iPad. Paul bid her the same over Andrew’s all too audible retching, but was unseasonably greeted with a fearful, filthy look.T’is the season to be bloody jolly love, Paul thought. Fuck you! He then turned back to Esme, who advised him to let his anger go, after all, the shrewd shrub advised, these millennial saplings don’t always travel well. Don’t let her soil your experience she intoned.
So he didn’t.
He took photo after photo as the psilocybin did it’s work. Everyone a masterpiece to his eye. Unsurprisingly, the next day, when checking his psychotic shoot, he discovered most of them to be as unfocused as he had been. Except, strangely, for Daphne and Phyllis,who had proven themselves to be models of the highest order.
Phyllis and Daphne – with Esme in the foreground!
Positively blooming.
If he’d learnt anything on his Tolkienesque trip, it was that he should take a leaf out of their book when having his next photo session.
Andrew, having now found his composure, and, of course, the meaning of the universe, later joined Paul, and they spent a wonderful night together listening to the nine songs they had on their Spotify playlist. Eighteen times!
Christmas Day morning, Paul was less than present. A dizziness of astounding alacrity arose in him and he realised the hippie shake had left him quite shaken. As Andrew continued to converse with the ancient Gods in the landscape beyond, Paul began a conversation with the toilet bowl.
It lasted for a full five hours!
Unnervingly, the cistern answered him back. And alarmingly with much more wit.
As Paul’s sickness mushroomed, Andrew made his escape and headed down to the river. Not before several litres ofbeigeness had exorcised itself from his insides did he feel ready to join him. Still wobbly and seeing stuff he’d rather not, he found his partner on the noisy riverbank, and they made their way towards the Christmas Dinner they had unwisely booked at the local Irish Bar.
They sat, amid the cool and hip, clad in Christmas headwear which Andrew had insisted they both adopt.After ashort while Andrew removed his, citing sweat as the cause. Now, amongst the hundred or so travellers, Paul was the sole arsehole sporting a ‘Lola’s’ hot pink Santa hat. No-one seemed to be amused. Paul kept it on during the meal, for fear of looking embarrassed if he removed it. In for a sixpence he thought. And he was struggling so hard to get through the rock hard roasties and the stringy stuffing, so for a while, just like the old-fashioned ‘Playtex’ bra, he forgot he had it on. He was soon horribly reminded though as he hit the washroom, glanced in the mirror and caught an unsightly glimpse of a geriatric, drug-addled ‘Noddy’ gormelessly gazing back at him.
Get Stuffed!
He removed his chapeau immediately and fluffed his flat hair before returning to the party.
But he and Andrew were both far too shaken to party on. The mushroom nonsense had been one thing but the stuffing quite another. Paul thought he was coming up again, this time on sage and onion. It was time to leave.
Boxing Day came and Paul felt as if he’d just stepped out of the boxing ring! He was still punch drunk and hadn’t gone near any punch!He went down to the river and informed the manager, ‘Can’, that he and Andrew would like to stay another night. ‘Can’ really was a miserable affair who couldn’t run a tap let alone a hostel. On one occasion he had attempted to charge Andrew for ice with which to cool the boiling soda water he had sold them. Andrew had chastised him in effervescent fashion and ‘Can’ had backed down.
Paul has considered giving him a bad review on ‘Trip Advisor’ – but then remembered, when it came to tripping, he was hardly the best person to give advice. Even though ‘Can’ certainly couldn’t, there was no need to have him canned.
Besides which, whether Can could or couldn’t was meaningless to Paul, as he was quite certain he would never ever return to ‘The Other Side’.
Paul was out of cigarette papers and so lazily tore a couple of the dryer pages from ‘The Lonely Planet’ – they weren’t hard to find! He rolled a herbal cigar and lay back in the boys’ shabby bedroom . A wonderfully tawdry chamber. Lime green cornicing skirtedthe ceiling and faded lemon plaster soured the walls. A mouldy wash basin and a pea-green en-suite one wished wasn’t there completed the design. T’wasfull of Indochine class and Laotian filth!
He and Andrew loved it.
So much so thatthe UNESCO World Heritage town of Luang Prabang had screwed up their itinerary once again. Years before they had visited the sublime Asian setting and had become landlocked, just like the country itself. There was something they equally found hypnotic in it’s geographic opulence. The meeting of two rivers, the majestic Mekong and it’s equally pretty consort, the Nam Khan, surrounded by verdant peaks, made it magical.
Not to mention the faded glamour of Gallic colonisation that clung to the place like garlic on one’s breath next morning.
Luang Prabang still had that whiff of class.
The small town in Northern Laos was of important spiritual significance. Famously the Buddhist monks walked out each morning before dawn to collect alms from the townsfolk, and the tourists! Paul and Andrew had risen at an unbuddhaly hour on their last visit to the place, to catch the ceremony. They had both been appalled by the spectacle!
(See the Blog – ‘The Lola Boys Do The East – ‘A Call To Alms’!)
They would not be doing it this time, neither would Paul be documenting anything more of the tragic charade it had become!
He had learnt, from a local storyteller, that the young monks were most unhappy about the paparazzi-like conditions they were forced to endure, yet had been told by the authorities to continue with their spiritual procession or be replaced by actors! Spirited away into the wings as it were.
Cruel – surely.
Paul concluded the future in Luang Prang may not be completely bright and orange. Especially as the main line from China was due to pull into Luang Prabang’s spanking new railway station at sometime in 2021. Doubtless thousands of Chinese would then alight, light up and obscure the ancient setting in a haze of smog and smut. He suspected the timetable for visiting this special place was probably coming to the end of the line. He knew he would advise anyone with style to get there now, while the old girl was still on the right track.
He and Andrew were staying, ominously, in room ‘666’, on the upper floor of an old Laotian mansion. As mentioned, their quarters were aptly devilish in decor.But at under ten quid a night one could not complain. Even when the bathroom flooded twice nightly. And not with their own effluence!
It was definitely a room with a phew!
‘Hot’, the ‘proprietor’, was cool. He possessed eight teeth and a prepossessing manner. He sang tonelessly most days, and when the mood took him, chucked a couple of dead salmon-hued towels onto their bed. Sometimes the bin was emptied. Occasionally, the bath wiped clean. Almost. And on the odd day, two bijou bottles of water appeared on the dresser. It was a kind thought Paul thought. Yet he had no intention of touching it. Let alone drinking the stuff. The ‘Absolut’ vodka he and Andrew had smuggled with them was much safer for brushing one’s teeth.
And at least absolutely palatable if swallowed.
It was clear that the misnamed ‘Mojo Guesthouse’ had slightly misplaced it’s mojo. But when exuding such charm,Paul wondered who gave a shit. Besides, he and Andrew were low on bucks. He thought they may have to consider passing the charity bucket round at the next ‘Lola Boys’ gig, seeing as one of their main employers had unfortunately kicked one earlier in the year. So as economic refugees they could hardly complain. And, after all, the quality in Laos was priceless. He knew such authenticity could not usually be bought so cheaply.
They were certainly making the most of all the town had to offer, and it was all to easy to fall into the same somnolent rhythm of the riverine paradise. Even the people worked on a slower current exuding peacefulness and bags of ‘om’, despite some murky undercurrents eddying through the place.
Paul noticed that it was now a little harder to find the authentic serenity he’d discovered before. One had to wander further afield. Of course, going too far off the beaten track in Laos was never recommended – seeing as it had the dubious epithet of being the most bombed country per capita in the world.
From 1964 to 1973 the US dropped two million tons of ordnance. That equals about a plane of bombs every eight minutes for nine years. Over 270 million were of the hideous ‘cluster bomb’ variety, with 80 million failing to explode.
Making a walk in the park not quite a walk in the park!
By the time the war ended in 1975, an estimated tenth of the population had been killed.
America’s latest gift was now the multi billion dollar railway project, doubtless with financial rather than spiritual well-being being it’s driving force. Paul considered that instead of passing the buck, the U.S.A. might want to spend a few, and clear up the shit they’d left behind. Rather than laying down more metal nonsense.
Clearly, one could not blame the United States for everything, even if it was quite fun at times. Especially with President Lump in power. The Chinese, with their obsessional materialistic notion of weaving a new automated Silk Road, were lending Laos the money for the scheme, at a price. And it was quite obvious The Laotian authorities had their part to play as well. Sadly, they seemed to be getting it slightly wrong. Instead of lessening traffic in the historic city they had cleared some of the charming terraces from the riverside replacing them with concrete car parks. White mini vans now blocked the river view from many a boutique residence.
Of course this deconstruction didn’t currently affect Andrew and Paul, as they were residing in the less salubrious part of town. But Paul found it sadder than their accommodation. He only hoped good taste would win the day, but then, he’d been to China! And having seen development in other parts of spectacular Laos, he wasn’t gonna put a bet on it.
The odds were not in Luang Prabang’s favour.
But for now the town continued to mesmerize with it’s evocation of ancient esoterica. Paul decided it may even be his favourite town in Asia. And he’d done a few!
He lay back and puffed on the traditional herbal mix he’d rolled with a piece of page 492 and a section concerning Deep Vein Thrombosis. He hoped it wasn’t an omen.
As the smoke took him to a more pensive place he wasn’t concerned for himself. It was the beautiful little town whose lifeblood he feared for most. It was her arteries which were becoming blocked. The bloody pressure on her to modernise was sky-high. He only hoped on his next visit, for he knew he would return, that she wouldn’t be in need of resuscitation.
But he wouldn’t hold his breath.
He exhaled.
The bathroom gurgled loudly and a piece of spore ridden plaster fell from the ceiling onto his bed. Andrew, hit the antique wooden floor with a great thump as he attempted to do the ‘tree of life’ pose. Paul had warned him that yoga and vodka were not the best mix. His balance was precarious at the best of times. Just like that of the town in which they were staying.
Paul hoped that, unlike his beautiful partner, Luang Prabang may just discover hers before it was too late. Otherwise, she too, would most certainly come crashing to the ground with a huge Luang Prabang!
The ‘ Bangkok Express’ trundled northwards as Paul expressed himself onto the tracks, from the cramped and steamy ‘Western’ lavatory in coach ‘D’. He knew that the high-octane lunch with which he’d fuelled himself prior to boarding had probably not been the wisest of culinary choices. Especially as he hadn’t visited the little boys ‘ room for days.
He knew he shouldn’t have laughed at the sounds Andrew had made earlier in their trip, when his digestive system had been going down the pan. For Karma had struck and now it was his turn!
He knew chilli to have a naughty habit of biting back – yet he had refused to listen to his gut instinct. He didn’t want to reveal too much information, suffice to say the two monks seated just outside the convenience appeared rather inconvenienced by his piquant visit.
Hardly forgiving!
Surely even The Buddha, Paul contemplated, had had to lift his robe at some point during his teachings. After all, he had found enlightenment under a fig tree, and we all know what a couple of fig rolls can do to one’s meditation schedule.
Many hours later Paul and his husband arrived at Bangkok’s Hualamphong Station, negotiated the ubiquitous hawkers and urchin and fell, greyish, into a pink taxi.
They then proceeded to travel at formula one speed in the wrong direction, courtesy of a driver who’d obviously just come off baby formula!
‘Boy Racer’ would hardly have fit as a description for this tearaway. He had a little too much fuel in his tank and Paul suspected it wasn’t just petrol. After forty minutes, when their Bangkokian Lewis Hamilton had realised he had taken them to quite the wrong suburb, they took a pit stop. He turned to the boys, his wild eyes full of contrition, and admitted he’d gone way off track. They doubled quickly back to the station where he honestly restarted the meter and they raced off again, this time towards their destination. Andrew complained that it was forty minutes of their lives they would not see again.
Paul only hoped he had another forty minutes to live!
They eventually screeched to a halt on the Khao San Road. Andrew paid their driver and gave him a tip – along the lines of ‘do go in the right direction next time and a little slower please’.
Only not in those exact words!
They arrived at the small, scruffy guesthouse which had earlier on in their trip been the cause of such drama.( See previous Blog!) Paul knew they were chancing it, but it was near to their drop off point, and after their drag race across town, his pulse was racing faster than Donald Trump’s on a ‘Stormy’ night in!
He and Andrew had only planned to hit the capital city for a night, but were once again entranced by it’s sheer audacity. ‘Bangers’ was as bonkers as ever. And both being in the same frame of mind, they decided to stay a little longer.
On the recommendation of some internet guru, Andrew had persuaded Paul to adopt a diet known as the 16/8. Apparently if one only ate during an eight-hour period, and then fasted for the remaining sixteen, weight would fall off like a stone. Regardless of what one swallowed. Paul was dubious, especially as he suffered from that most irritating of diseases – ‘Hanger’. If he didn’t get something down him regularly, something usually came up.
Like an axe!
Still, he was giving it a go as he wanted to shed a few pounds, and, so far so good. Little was he to know that it was to be his partner who was to lose his calorie control.
After a particularly humid day trekking across the city to find a special facial, (not that kind!), Paul and Andrew had come across ‘The Bully Bar’ on the Sumkhumvit road. An establishment with cheap beer and even cheaper ‘waitresses’! Paul had sunk a few, but Andrew, being in high spirits, and high on them, was in quite an altogether different bullring.
On leaving he seemed quite fine and looked to hail a taxi. Paul, instead, fancied a tuk-tuk ride through the vehicular madness that was known as rush hour. In fact,to him, every hour seemed to be rush-hour in Bangkok! He waved to a tiny man who had just pulled up in his tiny vehicle and did a deal. A rather good deal for such a journey. Especially in Bangkok. Where, puzzlingly, a rickety rickshaw often cost five times the fare of a comfortable air-conditioned cab. With egotistical abandon he had persuaded Andrew to jump in. They had only gone about half a mile when they hit one of Bangkok’s infamous traffic jams. It was then that the journey took a turn.
Or rather, Andrew, had one!
He had been tipsily studying the bill from the shady bar that they had just spent time in and the total seemed to be equally dubious. The ‘Bully’ had overcharged. And by quite some distance.
Paul’s attempts at pacification fell on deaf ears, Andrew was having none of it. He fumed and snorted, Paul thought he could make out steam coming from his nostrils. Andrew lit a cigarette and continued to rant.
‘And why the fuck have you stuck us in a bloody tuk-tuk in this fucking traffic? It’s bloody dangerous, all these fucking fumes. You’re an idiot. Think what we’re breathing in you twat’, he said, whilst dragging heavily on a Marlboro light.
‘Andrew lighten up’ Paul said. ‘And for God’s sake you’re smoking!’
‘So’, Andrew retorted violently, ‘this isn’t half as bad as this!’
He gesticulated wildly to what seemed like hundreds of cars, bikes, lorries, buses, and tuk tuks which were belching quite unregulated smog , quite regularly from their exhausts.
Paul noticed that their driver was glancing at them too regularly in his rear view mirror, mesmerised by the dramatic contretemps between the two ‘middle aged farang’ on his back seat. Paul attempted a reassuring smile, but their chauffeur looked away fearfully. If he had learnt anything about the Thais it was their hatred of confrontation. Andrew was proving, however, that the British suffered from no such fear.
‘I’m getting a fucking taxi’ he screamed.
‘Don’t be an idiot’ Paul yelled back. ‘This guy drives in this every day and he’s ok.’
‘You haven’t seen his fucking lungs’ Andrew shouted, and lit another fag.
To Paul’s relief they moved forward. But before they could approach any kind of decent speed they had come to another choking halt. Paul momentarily wished they had gotten into the taxi driven by the ‘Speedy Gonzales’ the previous night. They would have at least been at their destination by now. Instead they were again sitting in a noxious cloud and stationary.
‘That’s it’ Andrew exploded, ‘I’m out of here you dickhead!’
And with that he jumped from the tuk tuk and swaggered drunkenly across three lanes of battling traffic.
Paul sat back amid the acrid exhumation. Exhausted! He rarely saw Andrew so incandescent.
The driver was in complete bewilderment and stared at his remaining passenger.
Paul felt he should offer an explanation.
‘Too much beer’ he said with a fake laugh, ‘not your driving.’
This meant nothing. The guy looked blank.
‘Don’t worry’, Paul continued, ‘big tip for you’.
This did mean something.
The driver beamed with pleasure and all at once the traffic seemed to part like the Red Sea. Green light all the way and they were back at the guest house in twenty minutes. Long before Andrew, who arrived a good half hour later still fuming. Paul couldn’t help but smile smugly.
Andrew joined him and they argued well into the night until Paul left him to meet a friendly Finn, who coming from a country where alcohol is consumed like tap water, was more able to cope with Andrew’s excess.
The next morning as Paul sat in the torpid heat and watched five dogs fucking, Andrew came down from their room to join him. He leant down, kissed him on the head and in true Justin Bieber style said sorry. It had been the heat, the beer, and yet again the bloody hotel. Perhaps it had a hold over both of them – like the one in ‘The Shining’. Andrew had a look of Jack Nicholson at the worst of times.
Paul accepted his apology. They sat together and laughed. They drank coffee, and soda water, but ate nothing. They had seven hours before they could eat a thing on the diet they’d self imposed.
Paul was finding life in the fasting lane rather difficult.
He could feel himself sharpening his inner axe.
The canine screwing came to a noisy climax and the horny hounds went their separate ways. Probably for a spot of breakfast Paul imagined.
His chopper came to mind once again. Not the one used for dogging!
It was time to hit the State railway tracks. Probably utter lunacy, he thought, what with the state of his digestive tract. But he knew it was move or chop. His inner axe rose further under the shining sun. He was hangry for travel.
Best head north he thought. Laos here we come.
The boys donned their back packs and hit the already packed back streets in search of a taxi.
A fuschia cab sped immediately into sight and Andrew flagged it down. They threw their luggage into the boot and clambered into the back.
‘Hua Lampong – Krap’, said Paul, in terrible Thai. And then nearly choked on his fisherman’s friend. For he immediately recognised the wild eyes of the bloke behind the wheel. Before he or Andrew had time to change their minds, they were doing sixty down the centre of the road. Paul squeezed Andrew’s marvellous right thigh and they both had a fit of hysteria.
Probably the hunger as well as the coincidence of meeting Mr Gonzales again.
Still, they arrived at the station, safe and unsound and in two pieces.
It had taken about four and a half minutes.
No detours this time. Just pure speed!
They were both still laughing as their fleet friend did a wheel spin carrying off a new terrified passenger onto the city’s highway, his only code being acceleration.
Paul smiled.
Life in the fasting lane was definitely interesting.
But it was now time for some languidity, whatever that meant, and then lunch.
After a stormy start to their travels, Paul and Andrew had now made their way down the eastern coast of Thailand for a ray of sunshine or two.
They had arrived at the small seaside town of Prachuap Khiri Khan, just a few miles from the Burmese border, sun cream in hand and sandals on foot. Unfortunately the famous south-west monsoon had other ideas. Unlike Paul, her climactic tears were not yet over and she sobbed incessantly.
The sun had got it’s mac on and it wasn’t out to play.
Not for days.
The blue was grey. The humidity sky-high. And at times the firmament fiercely fiery, as lightning flashed like exploding light bulbs in the hellish heavens. As the boys lay beneath the thunderous ceiling there was nothing much more to do in their steamy abode than reseal their friendship.
And, of course, make new ones.
The small guesthouse they had found was run by a fabulously eccentric Australian miner and his lovely Thai wife. ‘Pancake House’, appeared to Paul, a little flat on arrival. He thought perhaps the owner didn’t give a toss, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. The lovely couple could not do enough to make Andrew and himself welcome. They sat for hours, drinking beer and regaling each other with past exploits. Rob and Pan took the boys out to dinner and encouraged them to sample fermented crab and fresh shrimp cooked in soda water.
Cold soda water that is!
Paul wasn’t truthfully that keen on the raw prawns. He had trouble with sushi at the best of times, yet there was nothing fishy about the proprietors at ‘Pancake’. They were bone dry and utterly charming.
The boys also had the pleasure of meeting another antipodean couple under the canopy, one of them being an old friend of Rob’s. Scott, was half Scottish and the rest of him came from Fiji. He had once been a famous underground fighter in Japan and fascinated Paul and Andrew with his violent tales of ‘throat palming’ and other equally terrifying techniques. As his lovely girlfriend, Mon, refilled their glasses well into the wet night it turned into one very long bout. They knew they should have thrown in their towels, but they were sodden too. Paul and Andrew’s heads were quite split the next day – much like one of Scott’s opponents. Only there was no real blood – just a violent throbbing after one too many rounds. They were most definitely on the ropes, but it had been fun.
The tropical torrent continued for days. The rain came in oodles as the boys went for noodles – drumming tribally on their umbrellas and making speech impossible. Paul knew this quietly pleased his husband, for he was well aware his conversation to be torrential too at times. He knew he liked to reign when it came to a war of words.
There was also something so soothing about precipitation, he thought. After all, it precipitated life. And he and Andrew had come away to weather a perfect storm, not for the weather to be perfect. This, being rather fortunate as it continued to pour. And pour. And pour!
There was really not much to do in ‘Prachuap’ during such inclement times. Paul threw himself into a deluge of classic literature he’d ignorantly rain-checked, and Andrew hit the Ipad, immersing himself in the rather aptly named game of ‘Fishdom’, by which he was horribly hooked.
Paul imagined they would both grow fins before the finish. He, certainly, had never known such a downpour. And he hailed from London!
Day four and the cats and dogs continued to howl down. Paul wondered if they would ever be reined in. It was now sending him slightly barking and Andrew a touch catty. They couldn’t dry their washing, and the one pair of trainers Paul had packed remained sodden. He was worried trench foot may take hold if the old ‘currant bun’ didn’t start to bake the landscape soon.
On the fifth day, Paul had learnt at Sunday School, God created the fish – apparently. He found it easy in ‘Prachuap’ to see why. The town was now practically an aquarium. He was literally drowning in letters. There was little to do but read whilst Andrew sung scales.
Lunch!
Paul knew, like President Trump, that Stormy could be fun, but only for a short while. He was definitely ready for some celestial brightness to return. He picked up his Ipad and looked to the weather map for help. Up north the sun was in her sun hat and he knew there was an Ark heading that way fairly soon.He and Andrew decided to be on it. To head, two by two, in that direction. Away from any more monsoonal monstrousness.
They knew they’d return. It was so beautiful along the eastern gulf of Thailand, and they would love to meet up with Rob and Pan again. But whilst ‘Pancake House’ was taking a battering they would head upwards and wait for the biblical waters to depart.
The deluge would surely give up sometime. After all, even God took a nap on day seven!
The boys couldn’t wait that long, so decided to head
One of Paul’s favourite films had always been ‘Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf’, starring the inimitable Elizabeth Taylor and her then husband Richard Burton. Paul had no idea that years after seeing that masterpiece he and his husband would be giving a frighteningly similar ‘tour de force’ on a shabby Bangkok rooftop at midnight.
Unfortunately there were no ‘Oscars’ awarded for this performance. Which was probably quite a good thing, as Paul had held one once, and knew the things to be rather heavy.
It could easily have been ‘Death By Statuette’. So he knew he wanted to thank the Academy for not awarding him best performance by a bleeding actor.
The heat, the jet lag and the beer had all taken their toll and the show just happened to come to a head in an explosive finale at a dodgy hotel, come knocking shop, off the Khao San Road.
Thank Buddha nobody had noticed!
Despite the boys’ drama, the other guests had performances of their own to be getting on with, and at times even Paul’s wild rant was drowned out by the animalistic sounds coming from the rooms below. Although Paul knew he’d behaved rather like ‘The Beast Of Bangkok’ it obviously hadn’t bothered the other residents. They were doing something far too bestial to care.
When Paul awoke, groggy, grey and alone, he had a gut feeling he had been the one in the wrong.
At least by the end.
From what he could remember!
He recalled that Andrew had waved a couple of red flags, but it was he who had become bullish. He looked at the one sad ruck sack splayed out on the floor and remembered the ruckus. He realised at once that Andrew had left him to stew.
Or rather, boil!
As he stepped out onto the sizzling rooftop and the smouldering cauldron of polluted sky he began to do just that. His temperature rose sharply.
Andrew was no-where to be found.
The following day Paul sat at a shabby table at an old restaurant in the southern town of Hua Hin. He watched as a gaggle of fearless Thai boys jumped from a dilapidated fishing pier into the murky water below. He envied them their carefreeness. They had only just dipped their young soles into the ocean of life. To them every channel seemed swimmable. He knew he and Andrew had swum much further out into the deep. Now dangerously far from the shallow. Were they now out of their depth ? Paul hoped not, but recognised, after having spent several early years drowning at a strict naval school, that it was now sink or swim. He was almost sure he would not be able to reach the shore alone, and he was well aware that Andrew possessed only a limited ability to crawl. It didn’t look good.
The boys spent a second night apart.
Hua Hin, the southern town on the gulf of Thailand, had yet to impress Paul. Although the late and popular king had made his summer residence here Paul found it less than majestic. To him it seemed quite an ordinary Thai town with far too many foreigners to have any authentic character. The townsfolk were friendly enough but the magnificent beach, though a natural beauty spot, had been sullied by overdevelopment. Much like an aged movie star after too much surgery. Liz Taylor leapt wolf-like into his mind once again.
Paul preferred a more bucolic beach. One where the budgies weren’t smuggled by the thousand!
A good friend in Spain held called Hua Hin, ‘Bangkok On Sea’. She had been correct. And as Bangkok was not herself the prettiest of damsels, it was no wonder this town was also in distress.
Heavy touting and hefty tarting were omnipresent.
As were the giant jellyfish!
The dinner plate sized globules spattered the beach regularly like extra-terrestrial dung, turning a pleasant stroll into an alien assault course. What with all the creatures and the vendors it was all too easy to get stung. In fact Paul had learnt that,recently, several tourists had been hospitalised due to these little monsters – that is the sea life not the street life!
The original part of town, an almost pretty tangle of jetties and jetsam, where Paul was boarding, appeared to him the only neighbourhood of any true distinction. This district, unsurprisingly, was now being threatened with demolition to make way for high-rise, low taste settlements.
It was clear that pier pressure was being applied.
And Paul was fairly confident which side would win.
Towers usually trumped!
Paul could only hope it was fake news. Though he doubted he would ever return to find out.
As far as he was concerned it was ‘Hua Has Bin’!
Although the beach was more ‘Hua Din’ during the day, at dawn her chorus was definitely muted.
And he had found a part of town, away from the hustle and bustiers, that was actually Thai and rather charming. So perhaps he wouldn’t write the place off quite yet. Besides, he was hoping to bump into his fella.
The boys spent a third night apart.
The next evening, after another day on his lonesome, Paul turned onto the small Soi running to the front of his guesthouse, parallel with the old seafront. This, with the intention of taking some photographs. To his shock, exactly as he turned the corner, there was Andrew.
What a picture!
Paul’s legs turned to jelly, just like the little marine monsters on the beach. He and his partner had had no contact since arriving in Hua Hin. Their double act had practically split up and neither were really sure if it would make a come back tour. But Paul hoped they had both been on the road long enough to overcome a few bumps and the odd puncture on route. They locked eyes for what seemed like an age. Paul suggested a drink – Andrew agreed.
They sat in a scruffy gaff with fabulous seafood overlooking the horrible ‘Hilton’, the ‘80s’ building which had spawned the spate of overdevelopment in Hua Hin.
The Horrible Hilton
Paul smiled, he couldn’t blame Liz Taylor for that one, even though she had been married to hotel entrepreneur Nicky Hilton for a short while. He was sure she wouldn’t have been seen dead in the palace of concrete crassness. Then again ….
He ordered a beer for himself and Andrew, a soda water, and they talked. And talked.
The rest, Paul thought, is his story.
He had no intention of washing their dirty smalls in public, nor in the filthy waters of Hua Hin come to that. Frankly, he couldn’t be bloggered!
There was really nothing much to do in Hua Hin but eat, drink, surf, and get a massage. Eating he was rather good at. Drinking too. Surfing, he could only manage via the internet nowadays, and as for fishing. Well, Paul knew, ashamedly, that the only thing he’d ever truly fished for were compliments. And he didn’t think he’d be getting too many of those in Hua Hin. Not after he’d been such a naughty boy. Except, of course, from the ‘girls’ in the many massage parlours, who adored his ridiculous hair and who were, at least, going to offer him a happy ending.
It was definitely time to move on.
Paul had assured Andrew that he needn’t be afraid. His inner ‘Woolf’ would not be making another appearance at the door any time soon.
After a particularly harrowing ‘long-maul’ flight on ‘Swiss Air’ via Zurich, Paul arrived in Bangkok wanting to burn every shitty Cuckoo Clock in the world. Slit cute little ‘Heidi’s’ throat, using a Swiss Army Knife of course, and then kick her into a boiling pot of Fondue. (more…)
The sun forced it’s way through the slate grey sky mottling the almost hallowed ground for just a brief second as the modest coffin made it’s way to it’s final resting place. Two Spanish council workers hoisted the box unceremoniously onto a scruffy mechanical lift and Peter Nette made his final ascent.
Andrew and Paul felt lost.
Peter had been their good mate for over a decade and his sudden departure had left them reeling! As his tomb was sealed, by way of a dodgy glue gun and a sheet of something unidentifiable, Paul separated from Andrew and turned far away.
The silence was fittingly deathly.
To Paul the banality of the moment was overwhelming. The ordinariness of non-existence confounded him. He stood unsteadily and wondered morbidly,
‘Is this it? Is this what it comes to?’
Stuck, literally, into an anonymous wall with a half used tube of ‘No Nails’! Charming. It was far too mundane for a man who could never have been described as that.
Paul screamed silently towards the distant mountains. Edvard Munch would have been proud. Were he not dead too!
He scoured the part of himself he thought he knew for an explanation.
He wanted the great all-knowing universe to tell him why the older ‘brother’ he and Andrew had found, and eventually loved, had left them.
The hills had no answer.
Yet Paul found their purple majesty and benign stillness comforting, even as his salty tears dripped embarrassingly from his chin. His face stung with a profound lachrymosity. He felt as though he’d just taken a quick dip in The Dead Sea. He was sticky and saline, and not in a fun way! He clumsily wiped his eyes, and focused again on the reliable landscape. That miraculous stuff that was ancient. He knew that there was always a perspective to be gained from nature.
Even during the most unnatural of times .
Paul had always had the ability to lose himself entirely in the hills, as well as his heels, and he suspected that now, it was time for him and his partner to do just that. Not that his handsome husband often clambered into stilettos. With a voice like his he didn’t need to. And besides, when he did drag up, Andrew looked like he should have a ‘Yorkie’ bar in one hand and a set of HGV keys in the other. He looked a right trucker!
But now wasn’t a time for performing. It was a time to pause their act for a moment.
To get lost!
Paul was sure he wasn’t the only person who felt the same.
He knew of quite a number of blinkered ex-pats, whose miniscule minds would doubtless shrink further with the disappearance of ‘The Lola Boys’. They would feel a touch safer in their small world. But those mindless types, those poor beings whose brains had already made an intellectual Brexit, didn’t bother him. Or his equitable husband. For Andrew, to Paul’s grudging admiration, had always had a marvellously healthy disrespect for those who were unhealthily disrespectful.
Whoever they happened to be.
During their theatrical years he had told many a celebrity, producer, and agent exactly where to go if any of them dare exhibit the type of behaviour which he considered ignorant. He had no care for their opinion of him. He knew himself far better than those people who could only live of the breath of others.
And now Paul, had finally, after far too many years, learnt that he wasn’t everybody’s cup of gin either. But he also knew he had never knowingly forced anyone to take a sip. Not unless they had wanted a taste!
And he was also gratefully aware that there were many more wonderful and open-minded folk living on the ‘Costa Del Crime’ who would miss him and Andrew very much. So it would be almost criminal to leave.
However their minds were made up.
Almost!
Paul was quite certain he needed more Goa than boa! He was certain he had plucked his last cock feather for a while. And he had a more than sneaking suspicion that Andrew still had to discover what to do with his unique talent. So it really was the perfect moment for the ‘The Lola Boys’ interval – only without the overpriced beverages!
It was time for ‘The Lola Boys’ to quit the stage and head for the stagecoach! Not Doris Day’s ‘Deadwood Stage’. They were both weary of dead wood and did not want to drift onto that same beach themselves. Geographically for them it was all too easy, what with a plethora of sunny ‘Happy Hours’ for the not so sunny within staggering distance. Flying too close to the sun like a melancholic Daedalus and Icarus was not the curtain call Paul had in mind for Andrew or himself.
Instead, ‘The Boys’ had decided to head East. This time, quite, quite unexpectedly.
Tourists once more. Both accidental and occidental.
Paul was convinced that nothing soothed the wounded soul than an expedition with a dash of ‘Dr Livingstone’ on the itinerary. Andrew, he presumed, felt the same way. After all it had been his bright idea to go travelling in the first place.
Of course, that was after six pints.
Each!
Before sobriety laboriously kicked in, Paul had managed, far too capably, to book two terribly cheap tickets with ‘Swiss Air’. He’d once heard the alpine airline was unsurprisingly incredibly efficient, if a little boring! At least he was confident the chocolate would be good and that they’d almost definitely make the runway at the other end.
Always a plus!
He was also well aware that any flight with Andrew would be an assault course. The hefty nicotine chewing gum combined with a pint of ‘Bloody Mary’, that was de rigueur for Andrew at thirty thousand feet, often had a challenging effect. The flight crew never seemed to notice, but Paul was always over conscious that Dr Andrew Jekyll may have to give up his seat at any minute, and he may have to go hide!
But it was done.
Booked.
He and his golden boy were heading for ‘The Golden Triangle’, oddly via the land of triangular chocolate and triangular trees. And of course, a load of old bankers. Switzerland. Zurich.(Ironically cos it was the cheapest route).
The boys were to ultimately make landfall in the now, not so bawdy, Bangkok. Then attempt to make their way northwards – through Laos, towards China! Paul knew it definitely wouldn’t be boring. Just like his ‘pretentious’ idol Dorothy Parker, he was sure that,
“The cure to boredom is curiosity”.
He also agreed with her wholeheartedly when she went on to complete her phrase with
“There is no cure for curiosity”.
He was also certain that his courageous husband had no idea what he had planned! But Andrew was nothing if not curious! And somewhat bullish! Especially when donning a ruck sack. For Andy had, yet again, made a cunning plan to give up the evil nicotine. Only this time whilst traversing third class across southeast Asia !
His most recent attempt at this feat had been in India, much to the chagrin of carriage ‘G’ on the 28 hour sleeper train from New Delhi to Old Helli, otherwise known as Chennai(or Madras in old currency).
Paul recalled with a whiff of apprehension that it had not been fun.
Yet interesting.
But he was more than ready, once again, to inhale deeply as Andrew did not.
God help both of them!
And all who happened to be in carriage ‘G’!
Paul knew it wouldn’t be easy for Andrew. After all, everyone appeared to smoke in the East – even the toddlers!
But he genuinely wished him strength to beat the evil weed! He was almost sure it was possible. In the wise words of another witty dead poet. ‘Carpe Diem‘.
Either that – or a seizure!
Their honorary ‘Lola Boy’, the charismatic man whose tragic demise began this short tale had also puffed like a battalion. And it was his exit stage left that had prompted their hasty dash from melancholia. Mr Peter Nette, may not have learnt Latin. With his humble beginnings, he had never been fortunate enough to be in that privileged poetic society. That elite clan familiar with Horace. He’d never been given such a leg up, despite his brilliant intellect.
But he certainly knew more than most how to seize the day.
And now ,’The Lola Boys’ felt more than ready to do the same. Before they seized up themselves.
They knew that they would never forget Peter. The classy, talented beach bum who had recognised their own special talent of getting classy bums to his special beach. But they knew that they probably should – at least for a moment. They needed to forget for a while in order to remember.
To remember all the good times! The naughty times. The wild times!
And who knows?
Perhaps one day do ‘The Time Warp’ again!
After all one must always ‘Carpe Diem’ whilst one is still able.
When Paul knew of ‘The Lola Boys’ Summer Season Andrew had carefully thrown together, he was so severely shocked he went blonde overnight!
Work! Surely not!
He realised he must have habituated to the vagabond lifestyle they had both adopted intermittently for the past few years. He and his partner split their time between continents and condiments. Straining their palates and patience adventuring in Southern Europe and South East Asia. Now, the very thought of staying put for even a relatively short period, appalled Paul. He still dreamt of visa runs and dodgy bus trips.
He knew this to be a highly capricious trait!
He’d first recognised this fervent wanderlust, which trekked doggedly ‘cross the rocky terrain of his juvenile brain when he was in that very state.
Doggedly juvenile !
He could vividly remember his thirteen year old self laying in bed. Unmade. T’ween teenage sheets. Fantasising of volcanic eruptions and highway robbery, (both preferably involving Adam Ant !)
Paul could remember standing and delivering on many an occasion during his fruity salad days, his inner highwayman robbing him of many an hour on the hairy road to manhood!
But adult he now was, and ‘grown ups’ were meant to work for a living.
They should ‘man up’. Slip into the leatherette hot-pants and head for the heels – rather than the hills.
Even if the latter might sometimes seem more appealing!
Since ‘The Boys’ return from the Far East Paul had yet to plant his feet anywhere near a surface which could be firmly described as firm-ish.
His step was a touch tentative.
He was conscious of not wanting to settle too comfortably on any one spot.
Not quite yet.
He wasn’t really a one for roots. Follically or geographically. He found solace in a change of scenery. He knew there was something terribly fairground about his attitude. He wondered if, amongst the gnarled branches of his twisted family tree, there lay a lost relative who’d once worked the ‘Waltzer’.
He wouldn’t be surprised.
His late father had always had a whiff of toffee apple about him and had never been shy when it came to throwing for coconuts! Raymond had also been somewhat itinerant, having dragged his young family from an Australian apartment in Sydney to a tiny caravan in an aunt’s Cornish back garden. Then on to a small council house in south London followed by a spate full of spats running a hotel in Bournemouth and then onwards, or rather, upwards, to a rather unfashionable part of The Lake District to become landlord of ‘The Greyhound Inn’. A local pub, for local people!
Very local people!
All this mileage, and before Paul’s teenage years had ended. When he looked back, it had been quite an itinerary! Along with his father’s penchant for wandering, he had, admittedly, undertaken a couple of outings under his own dubious steam.
A brief sojourn in southern Greece as joint proprietor, along with his sixteen year old sister, of a mafia owned guest house. Their tenure had ended in horribly dramatic fashion as Paul and Tina were pursued across europe by the employees of a small time greek Godfather. They had to avoid detection by taking an antique, snail-paced night train to Belgrade in what was then communist Yugoslavia. Their entire bundle of well-earned cash, which they had accrued over a long, hot honest summer, was stashed in Paul’s sweaty plimsole. It had been scary, smelly and thrilling. A darkly comic adventure.
There was also a short, tawdry love affair that saw Paul flee to Paris to briefly cohabit in an attic with a french drama student he’d met in Bournemouth. The bed sit was claggy with the pungent gallic smoke of a million ‘Gaulloise’ and Piaf screamed mercilessly of regret from the wifi. Not a cliche in sight!
Rien!
Paris had been fun – even if the drama student had eventually disappointed. Paul had already learnt that in the theatre not everybody got the big part. His Frenchman had turned out to be nothing more than a bit player! A veritable flop! It had definitely been time to make his exit, but Paul, like Edith, had no regrets. Onwards and downwards he had thought back then. No wonder, years later, he still had itchy feet.
He’d had far too much rehearsal.
Along the rugged Andalusian’ Costa Del Sol the Summer burnt mercilessly on. Sometimes a welcome sea mist would envelop the very lip of the coastline as the gracious Atlantic blew her cool breath towards home. But on most nights, lacking an air conditioning unit that actually functioned, The Boys would lay together as far apart as possible. Mid-way between swelter and cremate!
It made for a most uncomfortable night.
T’was on such a sultry occasion, when Paul was awakened by excited shouts from his partner at three in the morning.
‘Paul. PAUL! Get up. Look at this!’
Paul shot up immediately. A talent he had doubtless inherited from his late father, who had been a London fireman. Like his dad, Paul was always more than ready to slide down a pole when asked. He could be up and out within minutes – and with a well stocked overnight bag!
Paul went out onto the balcony where Andrew was standing. Before he even turned his head he knew immediately why Andrew had shouted to him. For behind the silhouette of his partner the entire eastern sky was a warm hazy hue of blood orange. It was alight!
‘Jesus!’ Paul exclaimed.
‘I know’ Andrew replied, ‘I think it’s bad. We should go and see.’
Paul made no hesitation,
‘I’ll get some clothes on.’
Minutes later the boys were marching across the parkland near their home towards the almost biblical scene which was unfolding in the near distance. There was fire everywhere. Towards the top of the valley a whole ridge was aflame, whilst further down pockets of fire fluttered from bush to bush as if alive. A group of spectators and some of those evacuated from the adjacent homes stood together transfixed by that most elemental of shows. The fire, though destructive, possessed a majesty which provoked terrifying awe. The wind was blowing hard now. A hot dry wind which did nothing to help the firefighters who fought bravely on to contain the blaze. Every now and then a gust would bring a new cloud of choking ash towards the onlookers and they would feel the heat surge.
A woman screamed for her child,
‘Kelly!’
A large shrub caught ablaze just feet away.
It was time to leave.
There were panicked shouts. Urgent screams as a policeman was yelling at an idiot who had got too near and was standing on the burning scrubland attempting to take photos with a mobile.
‘Loco! Loco! Cono!’ Paul heard the copper screaming.
The man by the burning bush pulled back through the smoke and made his way towards the main crowd. Paul saw at once that it was Andrew.
‘What the fuck were you doing?’ he screamed.
”Trying to get a good picture’ Andrew screamed back.
‘Let’s go’ Paul barked.
Andrew didn’t argue.
They turned and hot-footed it away from the near inferno which was still raging behind them. It did so for many hours afterwards.
Andrew, who had been fired up by the whole adventure, stayed awake throughout the night, should an evacuation be deemed necessary.
Paul went straight back to bed. Another trick he’d probably inherited from his old man.
There was after all, no need for alarm.
And if one did happen to go off – Andrew would surely hear it and wake him.
Paul woke in paradise at 1.30am, his entire body stinging from the bites of a tropical squadron of insects. The little buggers were buzzing around him like miniature Messerschmitt, each keen to land and pick up their bloody payload, punctually puncturing him every seven seconds, or so it seemed! Added to the critters fighting trench war fare amid the folds of the ancient mattress, Paul wanted to commit insecticide, but had neglected to pack any!
It was interminable.
There was a mosquito net but it resembled a moth-eaten piece of Victorian lace as it hung,spectre like, from the bamboo ceiling, only serving to disturb Paul and Andrew’s sweaty slumber even further. Andrew had twice been violently caught amongst it’s billowing grey mesh, the first time nearly garrotting himself, and on the second occasion falling heavily to the floor, swaddled like an overgrown infant. Paul had had to untangle his partner swiftly from the errant material, making even more holes in the useless piece of rag.
Andrew struggled proudly to his feet and went out onto the silken beach, the Indian ocean splashing just feet from the balcony of their overpriced bungalow on the underdeveloped island. Paul lay inside under the ragged remainder of the mosquito net, listening to the mercurial generator, which was coughing and spluttering it’s way through the night, drowning the sound of the ocean with one mechanical wave after another. The only other noise heard during the early eastern hours was the incessant coughing and spluttering of the friendly Berliner in the hut next door, who might have been auditioning for the part of Violetta, in ‘La Traviata’ – hourly.
It was a most productive disorder.
In fact, the entire nightly soundscape of stunning Koh Kradan reminded Paul of a touring fun fair. He imagined, during numerous bouts of torrid wakefulness, stepping onto the dove white sands outside, riding the ‘Waltzer’ and grabbing a quick Toffee Apple.
It was not the sound of paradise.
And he most certainly could not sleep.
But sadly there was no fun fair. Just the gigantic, archaic generator and the sanatorium next door.
Koh Kradan was paradisiacal during the day. Other than the day trippers who polluted the near pristine beach with their screaming and floating.
It was pure hell at night.
Paul only hoped he had not contracted Dengue Fever. Especially as the eccentric owner of their prefabricated resort was regularly holding court across his average restaurant, endlessly talking of his recent recovery from the killer disease!
There was no local food. There was no local flavour. There were, in fact, no locals!
The boys had come to the final island on their Thai odyssey, arriving from the striking Koh Bulon.
Bulon, too, had had it’s own share of drama.
Not least, a jungle which the locals dare not enter for fear of the many ghosts who they swore resided there. Paul and Andrew had just happened to take lodgings on the edge of this forbidden place. They’d heard strange voices in the night, but had not been nearly killed by a malevolent mosquito net as on Kradan.
Koh Bulon was also an island stalked by giant lizards, some three metres long. Paul had got a shock early one morning as he saw a large reptilian tongue, which he was pretty sure did not belong to his husband, appear from behind their jungle hut. The magnificent creature passed majestically by, quite disinterested in the two goggle eyed tourists who watched astounded just feet away. It had been a magnificent sight.
A rare co-existence between fauna and those fawning over it.
There was incredible nurture as well as abundant nature on the charming island. A tiny school where the teachers rented out tourist huts, in which Paul and Andrew had briefly boarded prior to discovering their broody jungle abode, catered to travellers and pupils alike. It was a great lesson in how to use tourism to enable the local community. ‘A’ plus, Paul had thought.
There were also two very friendly squid fishing villages full of equally elastic locals. Locally generated solar power to provide for the resorts.
And a reggae bar!
Paul wondered if it could be bettered.
It was true their next island, Koh Kradan, where they were now residing, was a veritable Eden, but she had a vicious sting in her tail!
She was an Island of expensive resorts. No true inhabitants – only poor food and inflated prices. Together with the BBC’s ‘TENKO’ style hut, in which the boys were now staying, it was a touch disappointing. Paul considered it to be the last resort. He decided he would never again choose to stay in such a place. Although Kradan was certainly a beauty queen, she was somewhat lacking in the personality department.
One would have a much better time, Paul knew, with the slightly sluttish Koh Mook who lay brazenly to the east. He’d always preferred a bunch of scruffy locals puffing away, rather than a division of armoured push-chairs from Potsdam!
Koh Kradan’s beach had recently been voted eighth best in the world by ‘Conde Nast’. Paul could not disagree, but thought it unlikely he and Andrew would return anytime very soon.
They would probably leave it to the honeymooners and the snorkelling toddlers.
And the beautiful fish.
Shame.
Especially as Paul quite suited a snorkel. Or at least that’s what Andrew told him, no doubt hoping for a quieter life!
The next day the boys were to leave for the big polluted smoke of Bangkok, but not before they had to endure another night in their over priced ‘Deer Hunter’ shack. Paul wondered how Robert de Niro would have coped. Then thought better of it.
It wasn’t a night for ‘Russian Roulette’.
That would no doubt occur in Bangkok.
Besides, the tangled mosquito net in the beautifully twisted Koh Kradan would probably get them first!
He lay back and drifted away to the soothing rhythm of The Straits Of Malacca, as they elegantly lapped the silver shore like slithers of mystical mermaids. The sound of the sea was a soporific shanty down in Thailand’s Trang Islands. An intense aquamarine lullaby. Paul let himself drift aimlessly away. But soon enough he felt a sudden tug back towards the shore. A distant rythym drummed steadily in a far off lighthouse. Or rather, a far off generator house. It thudded pleadingly. Gradually bringing him, involuntarily, back to land. He was once again marooned. Beached in his bamboo cell. A landlubber dreaming of the sea, and instead being deafened by the bloody generator all night!
Crunch! Thud! Screech! Boom!
The sound of paradise! Lost!
Well, almost.
Paul was more than ready to return to the real Thailand…..
Paul would like to say he had never been touched up by a female pensioner before but that wasn’t the case! It was, however, the first time it had been by a lady of Thai persuasion, and a Muslim to boot. It was also a novel experience to have it happen on public transport during the day’s first call to prayer. It was almost as painful as the flat imam who shrieked to his flock quite tunelessly and far to regularly.
He and Andrew had been squeezed onto the truck as if they were being transported to Smithfield meat market.
Twenty people had miraculously squashed onto the tiny Song-thaw and that was before Madame Weinstein had rolled up. Using Paul’s inner thigh as a hand rail she dragged herself up into the vehicle and collapsed heavily onto his lunchbox. By lunchtime itself she had already greedily partaken of his sausage roll and had had a bloody good go at his scotch eggs. Paul was shocked. He’d always thought pork was off limits to those of the Islamic faith. Madam Weinstein was obviously an exception.
When they arrived at an unpronounceable little town rather too near to southern Thailand’s Islamic insurgency, Paul clambered from the vehicle with the leg that stilled worked, happy to escape the Muslim fundamentalism that had been happening onboard. He bade the woman a smile as he left, he didn’t want to appear ungrateful. It was a characteristic he was ashamed of, but he could do nothing about it.
He was a natural tart.
He and Andrew then struggled across an unsafe road bridge with their lumpy rucksacks to get to the bus station on the opposite side of the highway. They were greeted with broad smiles by the locals and, as per usual, much hilarity. There seemed to them to be no hostility here towards unbelievers, not on the surface at least. Everyone from pancake pedlars to paternal pedallers, cycling their kids to school, were utterly charming. And, all seemed incredibly happy.
After an obligatory stop at the local ‘Seven Eleven’ in order to furnish Andrew with enough cigarettes to kill a laboratory Beagle, The Boys doggedly trudged towards the pick up point for their bus south.
The small building was not so much of a bus shelter, more a shelter for the homeless. A few elderly looking vagrants peopled the place with their roguish charm. One of the old boys was most insistent that Paul take his plastic chair. Paul was unable to refuse, even though he was very concerned the tiny piece of furniture might buckle accidentally beneath his occidental weight!
He sat for a while with the gentleman, smoking cigarillos and chewing the fat as Andrew looked on most amused. The main reason for Andrew’s delight was the fact that his husband was now being felt up once again. Only this time by one of the old geezers who was dressed as a 1970s pimp!
There was more than a whiff of ‘Huggie Bear’ about the cheeky chappie. Paul was well aware that if he didn’t move swiftly away his lunchbox could be on the menu again. He’d have to join the growing throng of performers using the hashtag ‘Me Too’ soon.
He posed for a quick photo, the retouching only occurring during the sitting! He assumed it must be down to the Penhaligons ‘Oud De Nil’ he’d sprayed on far too liberally that morning and absolutely nothing to do with his far too liberal appearance.
He did wonder sometimes if he’d had slut tattooed onto his forehead without his knowledge. He made a mental note to check when he next came before a looking-glass.
After a mercifully short while Andrew and Paul found themselves in a surprisingly comfortable air-conditioned mini-van heading towards the Malaysian border. Paul did a deal with Leh, their driver, to take them on to the actual border post and to wait for them as he and Andrew did a visa run in and out of the country.
After driving through mountainous jungle they reached the imaginary line between the two nations. Machine gun wielding soldiers smiled at them as they alighted, their fingers resting disarmingly on the triggers. Paul and Andrew smiled back wanting to stay on the good side of the seriously armed soldiers. There was obviously sometimes a touch of trouble at this particular post thought Paul, hence the armies posting. He wasn’t sure whether the heavy armoury mad him feel safer, but he knew he would be most pleased when the whole diplomatic affair was over.
It actually went very smoothly.
The Boys stamped out of Thailand, walked across the strange no-mans land that always fascinated Paul when they crossed an international land border, and stamped into Malaysia. Whilst in that marvellous country Andrew had a fag and Paul visited a public lavatory, then they then they hit the duty free shop.
There was a splendid array of cheap branded alcohol which surprised them both, especially as they had found it difficult to even get a beer on their visit to the country a few years back. They then stamped out of Malaysia and back into Thailand and were given a further thirty days on their visa.
Completely gratis.
There were a few times when being a UK citizen had it’s benefits. This being one of them.
They then found Leh and motored on to the small town of Satun, which nestled steamily in a jungle valley deep in south-west Thailand. They had not expected the place to be so charming. Yet it was like travelling back in time. As the boys headed into one of the rural suburbs they were transported to a riverine oasis of laughing children and their equally contented parents.
Hens clucked as mother hens mucked out. Dads mended fishing nets. One man was washing his cock! One of the feathered varieties of course. All going about their daily life in a timeless and effortless fashion. It was as if time did not exist in the pretty dwelling. Other than the odd mobile phone, which now seemed to Paul, disappointingly ubiquitous across the entire globe.
As the heat of the day peaked at an astronomical high and the fecund grey clouds threatened to discharge their abundant moisture, the boys headed back to their guesthouse to avoid a good soaking. They partook of a brilliant yellow curry, which was as good as the one made by their great friend Stella. She was always the benchmark when it came to Thai cuisine, having once managed an extraordinarily successful Thai restaurant in London. Her ears must have burned as hotly as the dishes they sampled on their travels,as each time they would gauge a curry’s appeal.
‘Not as good as Stella’s’ one of them would often remark. On this, their latest excursion, their friend’s ears had probably not burned quite as often, as the food had come up trumps. Paul had even learnt to replicate a couple of the stranger dishes in order to cook them for her on the their return. If he could get hold of the inordinate variety of aubergine that existed in Thailand. He thought he may have to sneak some into his rucksack on the flight home. Surely BA couldn’t be sniffy about a touch of excess eggplant! Then again…
But it was not quite home time yet. Andrew and Paul were to make their merry way from the roasting town of Satun the next morning, and head out to another lesser known Island the latter had discovered.
The next morning the call to prayer blasted zealously into their furnace of a room at a rude 5am. There was really no need to set an alarm in Thailand’s Deep South. The mosque very thoughtfully did it for you.
Thankfully, thought Paul, this fella was in tune. He really didn’t mind the exotic alarm call at all, but wholly disapproved if the holy man was religiously missing his top ‘B’ flats!
After an intensely bitter coffee (Apparently! A local brew!) they waited for the bus which was to take them to meet their Song-thaw, which would then head off for the small port of Pakbara. Paul took his cologne from his bag and went to spray himself. He stopped suddenly, changing his mind. Perhaps he’d give the Penhaligon’s a miss today. After all, one never knew who their travelling companions would be, and Madame Weinstein and her equally fruity brother, Harvey, who he’d met at the bus-top the previous day, were fresh in his mind. Too fresh!
When the bus arrived the boys climbed awkwardly between the pots and packages looking for a free seat. Paul spotted two towards the rear, he also locked eyes with a hulking German Adonis with eyes like cerulean pools. He flashed a blindingly flirtatious smile towards Paul, who did a little giggle worthy of that of an embarrassed schoolgirl. ‘Shit’ he thought mischievously, ‘Why didn’t I apply my ‘Oud De Nil ?’ But his ego had been well and truly touched up by the naughty moment.
He collapsed into his seat next to his soporific partner and then caught sight of a stunning young fraulein who was boarding the bus just behind him. She smiled longingly at the godlike creature to his rear. He realised immediately it had surely been her who had elicited the smile from the handsome Teutonic passenger, and not him. He knew he’d smelt a rat. He was losing his touch!
‘Now’, he thought, ‘where’s that bloody perfume?’
He turned and gave a cheeky smile to the young lovers behind him.
She was certainly a very lucky girl.
‘# Me Too Please’ he thought, sinfully, to himself.
To him it seemed quite an ordinary Thai town with far too many foreigners to have any authentic character. The townsfolk were friendly enough but the magnificent beach, though a natural beauty spot, had been sullied by overdevelopment. Much like an aged movie star after too much surgery. Liz Taylor leapt wolf-like into his mind once again.
Paul preferred a more bucolic beach. One where the budgies weren’t smuggled by the thousand!
The original part of town, an almost pretty tangle of jetties and jetsam, where Paul was boarding, appeared to him the only neighbourhood of any true distinction. This district, unsurprisingly, was now being threatened with demolition to make way for high-rise, low taste settlements.
THE LOLA BOYS ABROAD ! 