A Flight Of Fancy!

When Paul gleaned from a terribly friendly gay couple back at the Mekong that one could take up lodgings on a military airbase in Thailand he knew it would take no persuasion to get Andrew onboard. ‘Wing 5’, a military base belonging to The Royal Thai Airforce, amazingly allowed tourists to stay at a hotel put in place for the airmen and their families.

As long as their was room of course.

Just over the runway and adjacent to the hotel was a gloriously unspoilt beach. Cleaned and swept by the cadets when they were not in the cockpit. In fact, as Paul had only spotted just one very small and very old banger of a plane in two days, he wondered if there was much real action at all.

Paul had always had a penchant for a snug uniform and a peak cap, perhaps due to his early years when being schooled at a naval ‘borstal’ in Waterloo. Most days it had felt much like ‘The Battle Of Waterloo’ He had loathed the violent establishment. But the hang-up for a touch of naval brass still clung to him like a tight flak suit.

Sadly, most of the airmen with whom they’d touched base seemed a little too young and too petite to trigger any flights of fancy.

They were more like fledglings. Aiming high, but quite obviously some had not yet left the ground. There was certainly no chance of shooting a bit of ‘Top Gun’ – but the recruits were very amiable none the less. Paul had been hoping for a touch of Val Kilmer. But on Wing 5 it was more a case of nice man rather than ‘Iceman’.

       He certainly wouldn’t cometh!

The boys had reached Prachuap Khiri Khan, a small Thai seaside town near the border with Myanmar, just a couple of days before they’d got their wings. They had taken a fantastic, if lethargic, sleeper train down to Bangkok. They’d spent a couple of hours at the almost majestic Huamphalong Station, before boarding another choo-choo to chug down the track to Prachuap. This journey had proved a little more turbulent.

Paul had secured he and his husband comfortable seats for the first part of the five-hour trip, the latter section, however, proved less ‘plane’ sailing.

The diminutive guard marched Paul swiftly along the platform of an unpronounceable station in the centre of the country at supersonic speed. He then made a sign for them to board the very front carriage of the train. He showed Paul to a nicely padded seat surrounded by a plethora of miserable Frenchmen.

‘One person here,’ he gestured, and then took Paul to the front of the engine and then disconcertingly pointed to the luggage compartment, into which a small seat, sans cushioning, had been squeezed.

‘You here’, he said.

‘Lovely’,  Paul replied smilingly, not meaning a word of it. It was, after all, just big enough for a small Buddhist monk who’d recently been on hunger strike. Not something Paul had done for a while. Starvation or monkdom, if he were to be totally candid!

When the time came the boys were instructed by the little ‘Hitleresque’ guard to take their luggage to their new compartment. They lumbered clumsily through the train, struggling with their rucksacks and oversized hand baggage, knocking out teeth and removing hairpieces as they went. On their arrival in cabin 1, they were greeted enthusiastically with sour faced contempt and no attempt by anyone to make a gangway through which they could walk. Paul spun sharply a couple of times, in feigned surprise, trying to bash a little bonhomie into the rude bastards – but rien!

All the French they had met this time in the east had, like a bad vin rouge, not travelled well. They were tannic and left a hideous aftertaste. Certainly not giving off the charming Gallic bouquet their French friends at home possessed. Paul assumed that they must have come from Paris! A city known for it’s lack of cordiality, even amongst it’s fellow countrymen.

There was certainly no ‘entente cordiale’ on this railway.

Andrew, (quelle surprise), was then shown to his roomy chair in club class, and Paul was led into the hold, forced to wedge himself between fourteen valises and a mop and bucket.

But he was more than content to be squashed in on his own rather than having to share the malodorous atmosphere of the main cabin.

When they eventually arrived at the little coastal town, frequented mostly by Thai tourists, they had failed to get any of the tuk-tuk drivers to understand them. This despite having the flight plan for their home-share written down in perfect Thai script. These guys were certainly not high flyers when it came to reading and writing.

Paul’s energetic semaphore didn’t help much either, and after ten minutes of polite, yet infuriating bemusement, the boys set out on foot to find their room for the night. They arrived, a couple of miles later and almost collapsed under the weight of their 23 kilo backpacks. Paul cursed himself inwardly for making sure they had both used all of their British Airways allowance. Andrew did the same, but in a less introverted fashion. Much like a bitchy, superannuated air stewardess.

Paul knew he’d overpacked!

A couple of mornings later, after having touched air base, Paul and Andrew made a pre-dawn trip to a Hill-top temple – minus baggage. They usually saw 4am from a vampiric perspective, yet in Thailand they rose as early as monks.

Or rather – monkeys. Because the particular shrine they were climbing towards had been taken over by two types of that primitive primate.

And they weren’t monkeying around.

Paul knew the pack had a fearsome reputation locally, often stealing visitor’s cameras and sunglasses, but he had no idea they were always so ill-tempered. Surely, he considered cheekily, these belligerent little bastards had also been shipped over from Paris!

Andrew managed to bypass the bothersome buggers, but after his third attempt, Paul aborted his climb. A huge, cantankerous git, had blocked his take-off each time, baring teeth and flying at him each time he took a step higher. The aggressive simian had taken an instant dislike to him, it was quite obvious. A clear case of air rage. As Paul attempted to front things out, the affronted ape took umbrage plus a large section of Paul’s curls, torn from his head in what was now an even clearer case of hair rage. Paul pushed the malevolent monkey from his shoulder, avoiding eye contact, which he knew was a no no. He shouted to Andrew for aid, but there was no response. He was obviously on another planet. The planet of the apes!

Only after another hard shove from Paul, and another paw-full of hair later did the monkey business cease.

Paul was slightly shaken. The creature had been in fight mode and he was unashamedly in flight mode. It was a little uncourageous he knew. Whatever, he wasn’t going to end up with a black arm after an unwelcome monkey bite, as he had once witnessed during one of he and Andrew’s previous oriental adventures.

And he wanted some hair left!

He made a sharp descent to ground level and waited on the tarmac for Andrew to do the same.

Once Andrew had made a safe landing, they then headed across the runway and to the stunning monkey-free beach called Ao Manao; Lime Bay in Thai. But there were no sour French faces on this stretch of track.

Just a couple of stunning gay porn stars from that wonderful country, restoring Paul’s faith in the place and providing a little ‘je ne sais quoi’ to the day.

The temperature as well as the libido was literally soaring now. The suffocating humidity practically saturating. Paul could feel what was left of his hair expanding exponentially on Wing 5.

It was following it’s very own flight path and would soon be in dangerous need of some hair traffic control.

But Paul knew there was nothing to be done folically  speaking down in the tropics. He knew he just had to fly with it. Even though he was well aware that his big, bouffant look did absolutely nothing for his husband’s landing gear.

He knew the best he could do was to fly solo.

Although the terribly charming couple of Parisian Red Devil’s made a tandem flight seem most appealing, their bodywork and precision of movement being deliciously aerobatic.

Vive La France !!!

Paul knew it was time to take off before he booked himself a very cute seat on Air France. And this time he would be in club.

Le Mile ‘Igh Club!!!

Wing 5 had certainly lived up to expectations. It was magnifique in every way.

But it was definitely time to take flight.

Thighs Down !

I learnt yesterday that St Nicholas, as well as knocking out a few pressies, is also the patron saint of children, sailors and prostitutes!  So it really is the season to be jolly.

And to sell oneself.  Which is fortunate, as Christmas, for a performer, normally consists of plying one’s trade.  In the past this has usually meant appearing in a rather saccharine family show or slapping a thigh in pantomime.

Andrew was Lily Savage’s right hand man on many occasions . They also did panto together!


Andrew sporting his winter duvet!

A filthy prince, a wicked drag queen, seven over-sexed, boozy dwarves and a ’Snow White’ who had definitely drifted! A wonderful introduction to the theatre for the little’uns.

And so traditional!

I once starred alongside Marti Caine and the fabulously naughty Derek Griffiths in the same story.


Marti and fag.

Whilst singing a love duet with the princess, Mr Griffiths would come up behind me, and, unbeknownst to the audience, commence to do unspeakable things with his glove puppet.

It gave a whole new meaning to the phrase  ‘It’s behind you’ !

This year, our festive offering was a gig at the Bingo hall in Gibraltar.



Sandwiched between the ‘early bird’ and the late session we gave our ‘Lola Boys’ routine to three hundred and fifty of it’s lovely members. It all went terribly well. At one point I thought we had a standing ovation, then realised it was the queue for Christmas dinner at the back of the hall.  Well, I suppose one should never pass up a good stuffing when it’s on offer.

At the end of the performance, and the sprouts, a mother and her charming daughter came to congratulate us. The younger woman, who was obviously a few numbers short of a full house, gave me a kiss and told me how much she had enjoyed the show. Without warning, she then dropped to her knees and made for my very own bingo balls.

’No Kelly’, the mother screamed, ‘not here’!

I shuddered to think what may have happened were we not in the glare of our spotlight and with no parental guidance. It could have been six and nine, your place or mine!  I was most definitely the apple of Kelly’s eye!

I nearly had to explain I was more of a fifty-two – a Danny La Rue!


There was another close call during the show, when Andrew did his two fat ladies routine! As he gyrated and pulsated into the faces of a couple of dumbstruck pensioners, I wondered if this was the moment his number might finally just come up.

I was in a right two and eight.  But no. Luckily, it all clickety clicked. They loved it. And we have been invited back.

No numbers this time. Just ours.


Almost Clubbing On The Rock !

And so we turn to the business side of the showbusiness that is  ‘The Lola Boys’….

As Andrew continues to talk of seating plans, menus and ‘welcome drinks’,  I force myself to try not to, forcefully remind him, once again, that he is an entertainer – Not Gordon fucking Ramsay !!!

But my wonderful partner in rhyme, has a terrible habit of turning into Alex Polizzi – the most famous hotel inspector in the world – whenever he’s negotiating a gig.

Alex_Polizzi___I_feel_no_guilt_at_all_at_leaving_my_daughter_ IMG_0080_Fotor

Estranged siblings, Alex & Andy Polizzi.

I’m convinced they were seperated at birth.

I am of the opinion that when we have a professional engagement at an eating establishment, it is not the job of the chef to sing. Nor is it ours, to instruct him on his culinary art.

Each artist should be aware of his creative responsibilty, be it, sizzling on stage or doing the same in the kitchen, only over a griddle!

And welcome drinks?

dumb bWhy anyone should envisage a glass of warm, ordinary, cava shoved into their palm at entry as welcoming – is beyond me.  But then  I am a champagne blonde!

Still, my husband literally bubbles over when engaging himself in organising engagements, so  who am I to flatten his effervescence?

Each to their own.

I, however, am presently fizzing in a different manner.

Incandescent  over recent events at our recent event.

‘The Lola Boys’ hit Gibraltar Rock on Wednesday and were fairly lucky it didn’t hit us back.

There was a rather stone age feel at the end of our gig in Ocean Village.   Not inside the lovely venue I must add, where our wonderful audience had shared a marvellous night with us, but outside.  Dockside !

As I stepped out, post-show, to take some air, after a particularly rousing ’New York , New York’,  I was first met,  by prehistoric man.   Or rather –  prehistoric men.


Two guys intent on forcing their ‘mate’ to have his picture taken with ‘the poof in the make-up’

I presumed they meant me.

I was  manhandled into a very compromising position, an event I wouldn’t usually make complaints about, but on this occasion, it was most uncharming.

‘Fred and Barney’ roughly pushed me into shot with the reticent drunkard, who kept pushing me away in a most primeval manner. Had he not mislaid his trusty club, doubtless in some musty pub, I’m sure he would have used it.


‘Wilma’ and ‘Betty’ looked on stony-faced , as their primitive partners displayed their antediluvian exuberance for all to see.

It was rather like being at the zoo.

Only as an exhibit!

And the obvious disgust the poor boy displayed at being forced to have his photo taken with a ‘bender’ was so terribly childish.

And spitting?  Really!

This yound man was obviously not in touch with his feminine side, and certainly, even less so, with the masculine part of himself.

The only thing sure about him was his deodarant!  And he wasn’t wearing enough of that!

I have a sneaking suspicion that in a couple of years’ time, this meat-head might be doing just that.  Giving meat – head !

Methinks the youth did complaineth too much, if you catch my drift. There was definitely something a little queer about his ultra aggressive behaviour.

After I assured him, and his over-handy companions, that I would get more pleasure in chewing my own nipple off than even contemplating any romantic entanglement with said company, they got the picture!  Literally!

Although that wasn’t quite how I put it at the time!

Oh well. You always get one cock on ‘The Rock’!

Or in this case, a primordial prick!

Luckily the rest of the place is usually most friendly and  very welcoming, much more so than the aforementioned drink I started this piece with – so we are rarely made to feel unwelcome  when
performing by the drink he1646-aca26b71a1e84279b6e0da111bff3a54re.

And even if we were, in the eloquent lyrics of another song in ‘The Lola Boys’ repertoire,

I am what I am!

Or rather.

We are what we are !

tarts 3

And  if you don’t like it  –  go crawl back under the rock you came from.

Or better still – bugger off  back to ‘Bedrock’!

In the immortal words of William Hanna and Joseph Barbera,

‘You’ll have a gay, old, time!’

You know you’ll  just love it !