I’d been here for nearly a week when I had an amazing epiphany! Which was this: I couldn’t give a flying duck f**k about being in Malaysia. Am I a bad gypsy? Am I really that blasé about being somewhere else? I’m thinkin’ maybe I am. Maybe it’s the sum of the heat divided by air-conditioning. Maybe it’s too much sun after so little in England. Maybe it’s doing two shows a day for four days in a row. Maybe I’ve been possessed by a Qantas flight attendant.
I’ve seen the view from their big telecom tower (about 100m higher than the AMP tower in Sydney, so yeh, high) and I’ve been to the night markets and haggled over a pair of sunnies (105! 30. 50! Okay.) and I’ve had my feet nibbled on by small fish in a foot fish spa (who knew reversing the food chain would be so beguilingly intimate?) and I’ve eaten at a random street-side naff caff with the locals and I’ve had two beautiful silver monkeys run across my path in the park (nearly shat myself) and I have a brand new tan and I’ve met the Malaysian King and got the phone number of a Malaysian queen (that’ll be Ralph) and the locals are friendly and just lovely but quite frankly, my dear, I just don’t give a ringget. I’d rather read my book and pretend I’m in a nice Flag Inn in Nowra. I have no idea why this sudden malaise. I really don’t.
And for a country that’s supposed to find Christianity about as interesting as ironing, let me just say that most of KL is like being in a giant Westfield Plaza as far as the trees and the Santas and those f**king piped-in carols go. Haaaaaaaang on. That’s why I’m a bit down in the mouth. It’s Christmas! I’m not a fan of this ‘festive’ season and just quietly I think I was looking forward to a bit of Muslim/Hindu Jesus who? oh yeh him nonchalance. No such luck. There’s a tree in the middle of the Petronas Towers’ shopping mall that’s five stories high. Five, I tell you! That’s bigger than anything I’ve seen on the other side of Mecca. Speaking of which, there’s a shiny metal arrow head on my hotel room ceiling pointing to that exact spot. So what’s with all the frickin’ snowmen?
Excuse me while I re-read the first part of Dicken’s A Christmas Carol in which Scrooge is still likeable…
Some days later…
Okay. That’s over.
Me and three of the other gayers went to a club called Blue Boy the other night. There was a drag show on at one in the morning, and the first one that came out had the miming skills of a breadboard. It was some Celine Dion up-tempo number but the trannie may as well have been mouthing “I’ve never listened to this song” over and over again. It was a little like watching a Manga cartoon dubbed into braille while wearing thick gloves. And the choreography was pretty much walking either across the stage or up and down the stage. Nifty. But I think she knew that the performance was all happening on her head, because the hair was The Lion King directed by Grace Jones. She must have started doing it in October.
After all of us had had a go at politely rejecting the same young man who’s come-on line was to smile very shyly and then squeeze your package which was using another level of shy altogether, we stumbled along to McDonald’s where the alcohol and language barrier inspired one of our number to ask if they did ‘RightUpToTheHairyBit Burgers’. A slow and confused - and fortunately unoffended - ‘no’ was the response, and although this is not the way to conduct modern international relations in a multicultural world, I begrudgingly appreciate the utterly straight gay face with which this line was delivered.
Of course, it hasn’t all been hating Christmas and watching ladymen. Oh no. There’s loads to do in this country and I’d be doing it if I hadn’t spent three days weeing out my bum. Remember that random street-side naff caff I mentioned? Nuff said. But two days ago I raised the white flag and took some Imodium and now I’m capable of doing two scenes in the show without needing to channel the Ganges through my arse in between. Happy New Year.
Indeed, the ailments rippling through the company have had us throwing not only understudies on stage, but understudy’s understudies. We’ve had the usual eruptions from various sphincters, but we’ve also seen some crazy throat infections, extreme ant bite reactions, severely sprained backs and one girl’s feet became über-swollen after an allergic reaction to I know not what. I’ve been half-expecting someone to spontaneously burst into the Elephant Man, but I’ve been left disappointed. Nonetheless, the show must go on, and so it has.
The chances of me being offered any jobs with the Malaysian Tourist Board are right up there with people starting to genuinely like the Pope, but don’t let my bloggette put you off coming here. Or do. I don’t care. F**k it. I guess we don’t have to like everything ... as the actress said to Benedict XVI before drinking the local water and shitting her arse off.
Hasta Manana ‘til we meet again.
