Monday:
From my balcony, I see Action Man and The Basilisk loading supplies into their camper van. The Basilisk looks up and spots me, but I’m too quick for her and dodge back to avoid her deathly gaze. I imagine that they’re going on a trip. The thought of sharing a camper van with The Basilisk makes me shudder.
My first wife once persuaded me to go camping. At the time, we had an old banger and we loaded it up with a borrowed tent, sleeping bags, Primus burner and all the paraphernalia attached to spending a night or two unnecessarily exposed to the elements. To say that I was less than enthusiastic would be an understatement, but I went along with it and we made our way to a campsite in West Bay, Dorset. Putting up the tent was my first trial, which was made more difficult by a freshening breeze and diminishing daylight. Each time that I thought that I’d gotten one section secured and I moved on to the next, then the first bit was blown from its moorings and I had to start all over again. I’ll give my wife her due though. After she’d got over the hysterics caused by watching my fumbling efforts, she lent a hand and we managed finally to get the wretched tent up. Then it started to rain. We went to a local pub, where I consumed enough alcohol to fell an ox and we returned to the tent and settled down for the night. Thankfully, the rain had ceased.
I awoke in the early hours feeling cold and for a moment I imagined that I could see stars. I blinked a few times, but the stars remained and I realised that we were no longer sheltered by a tent. It had blown away. My wife, clearly made of sturdier stuff than I, slept soundly. After searching around, I eventually found the tent wrapped around some bushes. By then, Pocahontas was awake and seemed to find our predicament hugely funny. Somehow, we managed to get the tent back up and while I fumed until dawn, my wife once again fell into a peaceful sleep.
In the morning it began to rain again and my mood darkened further. My wife set up the Primus burner inside the tent and cheerfully began frying some sausages, all the while trying to get me into the pioneer spirit. I wasn’t having any of it and I glowered and grouched. One of my bare feet was sticking out of my sleeping bag, in close proximity to the Primus. Whether I inadvertently kicked it, or it became unbalanced, I’ll never know, but the upshot was that the sizzling contents of the frying pan were deposited on my foot. I leap up with a scream and exited the tent, hopping on one leg, clutching my throbbing foot. This war dance attracted the attention of some passing children, who were hugely entertained.
My swollen toes were now indistinguishable from the sausages that had caused the damage. While my wife scurried off to take a shower, I dismantled the tent and loaded it and all the equipment into the car. On her return, she accepted this as a fait accompli and we headed for home. She hardly said a word during the journey back, but every now and then I noticed that the corners of her mouth turned up in the beginnings of a smile and I could tell that she was having a lot of difficulty stopping herself from completely cracking up. Thus ended my one and only camping holiday. After a few days, when my toes had returned to normal, I was able to see the funny side of this incident. It was only then that my wife felt safe in giving full vent to her mirth. However, she laughed a lot longer than I did and I’ve often wondered whether she might have “accidentally” tipped the bangers on my toes to repay me for my grouchiness and inability to share her enthusiasm for the great outdoors. Perish the thought.
Tuesday:
There’s a leading politician on the TV apologising for failing to deliver a manifesto promise. He is Bambi-eyed with contrition and palpable insincerity. I almost expect to see a message flashed on the TV screen:
“… FEELINGS OF NAUSEA ARE QUITE NORMAL. DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SET...”
These public displays of remorse have become quite common among politicians in recent years. While still in office, Tony Blair apologised for the Irish potato famines. How touching, but I expect that I’ve got more chance of becoming Helen Mirren’s sex slave before I ever hear him say sorry for the Iraq War and the subsequent bloodbath.
How far back can one go before such apologies are meaningless? Perhaps Silvio Berlusconi, in between shagging anything with a pulse, might apologise for Pontius Pilate’s condemnation of Jesus – although I think that he’s probably got a lot more to be sorry for in his own recent history before he dredges up the distant past. I do, however, think that Alex Salmond, the current Scottish First Minister, should definitely express contrition for his country inflicting Robert Burns, bagpipes, Lulu, The Bay City Rollers and deep-fried Mars bars on the world.
Wednesday:
Going out to the minimarket, I see two very dodgy looking characters lurking outside Kryten’s flat. As he’s a police officer, I imagine these two are probably his narks, or may indeed be undercover cops. What do I know?
At the minimarket, Satan’s Sister, ghoulish as ever, is on the checkout. Before she processes my purchases she whispers to me out of the corner of her mouth like a Chicago gangster.
‘’Hang about dearie. They’ll be marking down the chickens in a minute.’
Given my hearing loss and my reluctance to lean toward her as she speaks, I have to ask her to repeat this.
‘Chicken,’ she says. ‘They’ll be changing the price. ‘Ave a walk round for a minute or two and you might get a bargain.’
I do as she says and sure enough a spotty youth who looks as if he was bored before he got to work starts sticking price reduction labels on the chickens. I hover and then pick up a reasonably sized bird for two pounds fifty. Returning to the checkout, I thank her for the tip off.
‘ No sweat’, she says, ‘I like to look after you pensioners.’
Thursday:
A bit of body maintenance. The usual things: nails, eyebrows, nose hair and a squirt of fungus killer between my toes. I recently read that Mick Jagger always uses a moisturiser on his face and neck, so I do likewise in the vain hope that this might at least arrest the steady advance of wrinkles and creases. Not very rock’n’roll. I imagine that Keith Richards probably sand blasts his face in order to achieve that dried prune, reptilian look. When he eventually pops his clogs, there’ll be no need for embalment.
Friday:
A pub gig with a blues band. In the interval, I’m accosted by a woman who enthuses about my performance. I’m flattered of course and begin to wonder whether she might be a prospect. I offer to buy her a drink and as we move into the light of the bar, I realise that she’s about forty years my junior. When she tells me that she went to school with one of my daughters, lust deserts me.
Saturday:
And so to the residents’ barbeque this evening on the lawn. The food is crappy as is the unspeakable country music that Reg has laid on. I’m losing the will to live when Reg calls for attention and after rambling on about the merits of neighbourliness and the timely positioning of rubbish bins, announces a special treat.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. It gives me great pleasure to introduce two young men of considerable talent. I give you Tutankhaman’s Dream.’
Reg activates his CD player and some cod Middle Eastern music blares out. Eugene and Sandy prance across the lawn. They are mostly naked apart from a loin cloth, a tasselled fez and ballet pumps. They also have black Groucho Marx moustaches. Eugene carries a roll of matting and Sandy holds a large pottery jar which is covered in hieroglyphics and pictures of intertwined asps. He thrusts this aloft as if it’s the Holy Grail. Eugene unfurls the matting and with some mysterious hand signals Sandy empties the contents of the jar on to it. This turns out to be sand. I’m immediately taken back to being about ten years old. I was at a working man’s club where my parents, billed as The Amazing Albert and Violetta, were doing their mind-reading act. On the same show was a sand dancing act, two men and a woman. They were called Wilson, Keppel and Betty and their piece was entitled Cleopatra’s Dream. They were brilliant.
Once Sandy has spread the sand, he and Eugene take up their positions on the mat. They begin a sinuous dance, weaving around each other like cobras. Then they go into a kind of shuffle where their feet make a rhythmic scratching sound on the mat. I can feel the hysteria welling up inside me and it’s not long before I start chortling. Glancing around me, I can see that the rest of the guests are only mildly amused. The Basilisk stares unsmilingly at them, which only makes me laugh the more. I’m certain that nobody realises that they are actually witnessing a recreation of a now long-forgotten part of show biz history.
As the dance progresses, it becomes more suggestive, with Eugene seemingly rogering Sandy. Then they move apart, flapping their loin cloths as if to cool their over-heated nethers. Throughout the whole routine, they maintain a deadpan expression. A long-suffering look that I’ve noticed over the years that some gay men and ham actors of either persuasion seem to adopt. A sort of Lional Blair and Una Stubbs do tragedy, the show must go on, end of the pier desperation.
At the conclusion of their act, they receive only polite applause. I congratulate them and mention Wilson, Keppel and Betty. They have never heard of them.
Sunday:
After a fairly abstemious week, I feel fully justified in cracking open a bottle of fourteen percent Fair Trade Bolivian Chardonnay this evening. As I sit on my balcony, I reflect on getting old. In many ways, it’s not too bad if one ignores existential angst, hearing difficulties, ingrowing toenails, irregular pulse, penile dysfunction, nose and ear hair, shortness of breath, fungal invasions, swollen ankles, creaky joints, patchy and selective memory, fear of dying in a supermarket and the increasing condescension of the young.
But, I’ve lived a charmed life. I’ve travelled extensively as a musician and worked with people of awesome talent. I survived the excesses of the Nineteen Sixties, continue to have just enough breath to play the sax and despite the odd lapse into unreasonable grouchiness and paranoia, I still have most of my marbles, a full head of hair and enough teeth. I’ve also been lucky to have been blessed by the love of some wonderful women. That I didn’t always repay this with fidelity is a matter of great regret, for which I’d like to apologise. Unreservedly. While I’m at it and before it’s too late, I’d also like to say how sorry I am to Brenda Alcock for stealing her sherbet dip when we were at primary school together more than sixty years ago. I think that’s called closure.
© David Sherrington 2012 Davidsherrington@aol.com www.bwildr.net
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