The phone rings beside my Bangkok Intercontinental Hotel bed. It’s so loud and so abrupt that as my eyes split open there are several small ‘pops’. That would be every one of my eye lashes breaking the sound barrier. Schools of fish suddenly change direction in the South China Sea. Pluto wobbles on its axis and an ant-like creature in a nearby galaxy spontaneously develops intelligence and decides that the walls and floors of his entire subterranean nest should be painted an off-white and that he has a name and it is Ethan. Such a rude awakening meant Happiness was an emotion I was unable to experience at this time.
“Please open your door. We have for you the chalky map.”
These two sentences don’t help. At my age I really don’t like being told what to do, and I didn’t order a chalky map. And surely anyone up for some nocturnal orienteering (they didn’t have that badge when I was a scout) would ask for a crisp, laserjet print-out. The loudness of the phone and the silliness of their proclamation and the lack of a Nocturnal Orienteering badge when I was a scout annoyed me.
Slowly, and with a tone that would’ve made God apologise, I very clearly state that I did not order a chalky map. They love hearing me say ‘chalky map’.
“Yes! We bring for you the chalky map.”
“I - did - not - ask - for - a …” Whose drug-f**ked day-dream am I starring in right now because I’m about to say ‘chalky map’ again. “… … chalky map.”
“No? No chalky map? I am sorry sir.”
Phone goes in cradle. Head goes to pillow. Eye lids close. Sleep descends. Phone rings. Ant-like creature sneezes and becomes Barbara.
“Hello? You did not order chalky map?” says a brand new voice.
“No you f**king stupid c**ts I did not order a f**king chalky map or a mawky chap or a shark uterus sundae with cashews so please f**k off right now you f**king annoying beautifully polite bowing c**ts!” All I actually said was “No” but the tenor was a cocktail of disdain and slow murder. Buddha appeared before me with a thumbs-up and a wink and was just as quickly gone.
“No. We have wrong room. Very sorry. Very sorry.”
Now I need to go to the bathroom. Too tired to stand, I sit. I’m in that Twilight Zone between sleep and wanting to knife someone in the hotel logo. A few neurons are working the late shift and tell me that, just in case I was interested, someone somewhere had ordered a chocolate milk. I smile quietly as I piss into this rather expensive porcelain mouth of the Bangkok sewerage system. I am too old and too visa’d and too self-consciously PC to laugh at the way other people might pronounce English. But chalky map? I allowed myself a lazy smile and promised to appease Karma and make a tit of myself by speaking some Thai tomorrow.
***
Rewind. Back to the United Kingdom. Back to our five week break as the sets and jump-suits and sheer-joys-of-performing sail around the world to Asia.
No hotels with loud phones of course. We’re talking spare room, then fold-out couch, then spare room. You know…visiting.
I get to vicariously experience three different lifestyles. A) Yorkshire. Partner, no children, two dogs, one cat. B) Cheshire. Married, three children, two dogs. C) Lanarkshire. Gay, single, no children, no dogs, lovely high ceilings. Was one better than the other? Are there observable benefits to partners and offspring and dog hair? Or should I be coveting the obvious and hankering for tall windows, clean sheets and a pantry sans Whiskas?
My friend Adéle in the village of Uppermill, Yorkshire, admits her two Westies and her 24 year old cat, Banana, are a substitute for the children she’s always never wanted. She enjoys the fact there are no Westie-Teacher Nights and when push comes to shove, she can hit them.
FYI, her vet’s chart about cats actually stops at 24 so Banana is headed for the record books or will, in the coming weeks, simply vanish into thin air. In human years, Banana is older than your grandmother and quite frankly, I bet your grandmother can’t hop up onto the kitchen bench like she used to. Banana does it with ease and doesn’t randomly piss in inappropriate places. I will not mention your grandmother at this juncture. In brief, Banana rocks.
Whilst there, Adéle, her partner Tom and I went to a pub and laughed about our freedoms like Bond villains.
My friend Cath lives in the village of Goostrey in Cheshire. On my first night there we attended her 10-year-old son’s end-of-year show. “What A Knight!”. Brilliant! Songs, dancing, shockingly bad puns, and the wizard’s beard fell off but he kept on going. Best thing I’ve seen in years. Surrounded by waves of parental pride and love, it made me want to impregnate something there and then, have a child, rear it, make it do something clever and point at it. I was seriously jealous of all these people who’d made other people to entertain them. I was proud of each and every one of the cast and wanted to give them all a certificate that read “You’re Terrific!” In brief, I was swept up in the delight of being a parent. I suspect there are many times like this when having a kid rocks.
My friend Michael lives in Glasgow, Lanarkshire, Scotland, in a big flat with big, wide, original floorboards, two big bedrooms and a big, big living room. There were no dog or cat hairs aimlessly meandering through the air. Nor anything to pat. No children to stop us from going out. Nor any school concerts to attend. He did, however, have a lot of chocolate.
Michael had to go to Birmingham over the weekend and suggested I have the place to myself. So I did. And you know what?
It frickin’ rocked.
At this point I should draw a conclusion, should I not? Which was the best? Animals, off-spring, or solitude with a northerly aspect? I’d have to say…
***
…Bangkok.
“Thank you. You’re such a lovely boy. Girl. Boy! Girl!!!”
“You didn’t say it like that, did you?”
“I did,” says Rosie, replaying how she thanked our Thai transgender PA, Michelle, for her birthday gift. “Exactly like that.”
“Dear me,” is my sage conclusion.
“I know,” she agrees.
We each bite one of our own lips, raise all four eyebrows and retire to our own dressing rooms to ponder the complexity of life in a society with kathoey (ladyboys). Not all of them do cabaret shows. Some of them simply slip into the river of life and float along with everyone else. Michelle is an example of such a person. To cut Rosie some slack, Michelle does have a boy’s short haircut. This fact clearly overshadowed the eye-shadow and the mini-skirt.
Despite being in the city where the Ladyboy shows originated, I haven’t been to one. Because I went to one in Manchester with Adéle when I was in Yorkshire. They were from Thailand, they mimed to show tunes, and we couldn’t tell where they had put their penises so I see no need to go to one here. The boxes have all been ticked.
So what have I seen in Thailand? I’ve seen a Thai massage business called Madame Puke. One of our number boldly went in and asked her if she was aware that her name meant something else in English. Apparently she looked at him with all the grace and patience of a whipped slave and nodded rather slowly by way of a response. I’ve seen signs in the Skytrain that tell you to give up the seats near the door for the elderly, the pregnant, and monks. They’ve even given him a little orange robe. Cuuuuuuute. I’ve also seen real monks at a service station having a fag while they wait for the toilet. Uncuuuuute. I’ve sat at a bar on the street which was no more than a Combivan with its sides folded down, fairy lights attached and a few stools along the side. All very Blade Runner.
This instalment is far too long. Suffice to say, Bangkok is a lot of tuk tuks, temples and tom kah gai. And there’s nothing wrong with that. It makes England seem a long way away. Which it is. So the question about animals and kids and singledom suddenly seems moot. I’m on tour. Like Buddha said (in so many words) ‘Who gives a flying lotus?’
Hasta Mañana ’til we meet again.
