Night Road To Death (Part two)

But my experience wasn’t over that night. I had more to come. After our encounter with the machete-wielding cigarette saleswoman, the boy taxi-driver restarted the engine and very soon we were bouncing our way along the track to rejoin the main highway. The overhead lights on the main road were a welcome sight, I can tell you. After a few more miles in the right direction, we approached the city. Low dusty buildings lined the streets and the bright lights of the occasional high-rise block glinted in the dark sky across town. I felt slightly stupid to have mistrusted the boy and spread my arms across the back seat and smiled. Then - almost on cue – he turned the car off the main road again. This time he appeared to be heading down a sandy track alongside a broken fence. I could tell that this was unlikely to be the road to my hotel. I queried his decision to leave the main road, but he stayed silent. The road began to peter out and the sand became deeper - it was evident that we were heading for the beach. All light disappeared and it was as if a black mist had descended. I could see nothing in front of the car.
'Turn back,’ I said, ‘this is not the way to the hotel.'

The boy said nothing. He peered into the darkness, but still continued to edge the car forwards. He seemed to be looking for something. Then I began to make out the dark shapes of some other vehicles parked along the beach and out of the darkness in front of our car, I noticed a gigantic ghostly figure dressed in a flowing white gown. The figure remained motionless as we passed slowly by and then another figure appeared straight ahead, and another, this time to the right of us. The silence was forbidding; the darkness oppressive. It was obvious to me that the boy had brought me here to be sacrificed by some weird religious cult.

'Why have you brought me here?' I asked. I could hear the waves tumbling gently onto the sandy beach a few yards away, but the next thing I heard was the grind and smash of a protesting gearbox as the boy struggled to put the car into reverse. We hurtled backwards; sand swirling around us as the tyres span in the shifting ground. The boy looked over his shoulder, his arm gripping the back of the passenger seat, his young face frozen with terror.

'What is going on?' I shouted.
'I don't know,' he said. 'I don't know what this is.'

As I peered out of the rear window, a white-cloaked figure stepped into the path of the car. The boy thumped his foot on the brake and clouds of sand rose up around us, choking the night's blackness even further. A face appeared at the window, smiling.

'Can I help you?'
'What the fuck is this?’ I demanded. ‘What are you doing here?'
'What are you doing here? Are you lost?'
'What do you want?' I called.
'We want nothing from you, my friend. We are Muslims. We have come here to pray and very soon it will be time. That's all. You are lost, right?'
'We are looking for the Eko hotel,' I said.
'Ah, I see. Well, you took the wrong turning at that fence back there. Turn around, go back, and keep the fence to your left. You can't miss the Eko, it's straight down the road in front of you.'
'Thank you. Thank you, sir.' I appeared to be babbling. I felt like an idiot.
'Welcome to Nigeria,' the man said, still smiling.

The boy turned the car around and headed back towards the road. 'Sorry about that,' he said.
'Too fucking right you’re sorry.' I sank back into my seat. 'Now give me one of those fags, will you?’

Night Road to Death

Only once have I ever felt in fear of my life. And no, it wasn’t the time when I was held hostage in the Middle East, nor even the time when I was chased through the streets of Kensington by a man wielding a bag of beef mince. It was the time when I took a midnight taxi ride from the airport in Lagos, Nigeria.

Lagos airport is situated about fifteen miles from the city centre and as we sped along the potholed concrete highway, I felt at first fairly relaxed. All the windows in the car were wound down so that the warm night air (tainted with the smell of raw sewage) could fan through the vehicle to cool us. After a few miles, the driver suddenly turned the car off the main highway without warning or explanation, and we started to head down a dirt track enclosed by high walls of dusty foliage. I asked the driver (who was no more than a boy) where we were going. He didn’t reply.

I felt a chill of tension start to stir in my stomach as the noise and lights of the highway disappeared into the muffled blackness behind us. The car slowed to a walking pace; the mud track became violently uneven and I hit my head on the non-upholstered roof of the car. The foliage brushed the sides of the vehicle; some of the huge leaves flicked in through the windows, almost slapping me in the face. There could be venemous mambas curled around those leaves, I thought.

We came to a small clearing in the jungle and the boy brought the car to a halt alongside a brazier burning by the trackside. Next to the brazier, half in shadow, a fat Nigerian woman sat silently on an upturned tea chest, her skirt around her knees; the sweat on her face glistening in the menacing light of the fire. She stared impassively at me. The boy got out. 'Where are you going?' I asked, trying hard to disguise the terror in my voice.

A stone whistled through the open window past my face and hit the opposite door panel with a sharp crack against the metal. Who had thrown it? I peered into the hot dense night but could see nothing. I could hear the boy talking in a low voice to the woman and saw her glance down at a dirty machete that leaned casually against the side of the crate. I thought of leaping from the other side of the car and making a run for it, but where would I run to in this impenetrable darkness? The noises of the jungle reminded me of Conrad. I felt so alone and I was convinced that this boy had delivered me here - fresh off the plane from Europe - to be killed and robbed to order. I reasoned that it would be easy to hide my body in the dense undergrowth where it would eventually be eaten by dogs, or pythons, or some such other wild animal. My watch, which I now twisted nervously around my damp wrist, would be sold to a local chief.

After a few moments the boy got back into the car and sat there in silence. 'Why have we stopped?' I said, again trying to sound self-controlled but failing. Then he turned to me with a broad smile. 'Sorry sir,' he said, 'I just stopped to buy some cigarettes. You want one?' He waved a packet at me across the seat, hopefully. I declined his offer and dissolved into a liquid mass of sweat amidst my immense relief. Oh, the joys of smoking!

A Life Less Smug

I read ‘Stuart – A Life Backwards’ by Alexander Masters a couple of years ago and was both moved and impressed by it. At the same time, I was also angered and saddened by the wretched waste of a young person’s life through such abuse and neglect. It is rare for me to make an appointment with television (except in the case of Hollyoaks where the standard of writing and acting is, of course, unsurpassable), but last night I cancelled everything so that I could watch the televised version of this book. It was extremely well done and, although it fell short on some of the detail that Alexander Masters included in his narrative, it nevertheless contained enough of the frustration and pathos of Stuart Shorter’s tragic story to make us all sit up and take notice of how failure and heartbreak comes so easily to youngsters such as this young man. I’d gleaned enough of a sense from the book about how Masters felt about Stuart during their unexpected friendship, but the televised version confirmed it and – because Masters wrote the screenplay himself – it was clear from this that he truly, truly cared deeply for that troubled and disheartened man. Cynics might say that Masters viewed Shorter as nothing more than a cash-cow, and it’s true that ‘A Life Backwards’ certainly did no harm to his writing career at all, but there was more: There was love and respect in that relationship too.

Benedict Cumberbatch (as Masters) did very well in his role, but I suspect it will be Tom Hardy (as the frustrated and resilient Stuart) who will walk away with any awards for this drama. His portrayal of the stumbling, mumbling, grumbling (yet strangely articulate and witty) Stuart Shorter was a masterwork, a tour de force. Yes, the programme made uncomfortable viewing – and I felt rather disgraced for earlier having bemoaned my fate because the antibiotics were preventing me from having a drink - but it was a warm and funny programme too. However, the line with most bathos and pathos in the entire story was this: “What murdered the little boy that I was?"

When I think of my small stray cat, that line chills me.

What a Nightmare

Today is Saturday. I’ve had a dreadful night’s sleep – or rather, none sleep. Fitful, restless, anxiety-filled; it’s been awful and I’m now exhausted and have a headache. It’s probably Cold Turkey from not having had any alcohol for 72 hours now, although my theory is that it’s the antibiotics themselves that are crippling me. The side effects listed on the leaflet are alarming to say the least – nausea, vomiting, stomach problems, blotchy skin and the swelling of lips, tongue and around the eyes (to name but a few). To name a few more: bone marrow depression disorders leading to infections, bleeding, paleness, headaches and tiredness. The strange thing is that these tablets are supposed to be making me better. The wonders of modern science, eh?

At one point in the night I got out of bed to watch television, thinking it might tire me. I watched a very strange programme called The Restaurant. What a load of old rubbish these programmes are – and there are so many of them too. This one apparently has a group of restaurateurs who are each (well, each couple) running their own restaurant. They are then set a series of challenges by Raymond Blanc who has the power to close the participants’ restaurants if they fail the challenge. Seemed a bit harsh to me, but presumably there is method in his madness. Last night there were three couples taking part in the challenge and they each had to prepare a banquet for three separate groups of people. To complicate matters (or set the challenge), they had to prepare and serve these banquets inside three separate marquees erected in the grounds of what looked like Blenheim Palace (I missed the beginning of the programme). They had the use of something resembling an army field kitchen, and a staff of inexperienced local yokels. Tough work.

After the various debacles of frantic failures and surprising successes (of the culinary kind), Monsieur Blanc gathered his victims in front of a mirror-topped table to deliver his verdict, Alan Sugar-style. It was all very formulaic, with the usual irritating voiceover trying to get us to guess which couple would fall foul of the Maestro’s laser-like analysis of their efforts (as if we cared).

The losers were two rather sweet young guys (brothers) who together were running a restaurant called The Treacle Tree. It seemed that their biggest mistake in preparing the banquet was to serve pink, blood-oozing roast lamb to a group of Bangladeshi dignitaries. I thought the lamb looked scrumptiously succulent and mouth-watering, but I fully appreciate that it might be a tad insensitive to serve it to a group of people who had requested an halal meal. Silly boys.

“The customer’s requirements are everything,” hissed the gallic chef, “and you totally failed to take them into consideration. I am sorry, but I am closing your restaurant.”

So that was that. The Treacle Tree (wherever it was) closed its doors and the brothers were back on the scrapheap. Apparently there were nine couples at the start of this series, and now only five restaurants remain open. My question is: Why? I haven’t seen any of the rest of this series so I don’t know what’s going on, but has the TV Company (or even Raymond Blanc himself) set this group of couples up in their own restaurants – presumably at great expense - just to close them all down again? Is playing so casually with people’s lives meant to be entertainment? This is outrageous – do it with dominoes by all means, but surely not with people. I despair.

Cor Blimey Guv

Tonight at Buddhism class we learned about the Bardo. The Bardo is an intermediary state usually associated with the time after death and before rebirth; a state when we have lost who we were in life (the characteristics and labels that define “me”), and a state when we can face experiences and challenges that will better prepare us for the next life. The title of the book known here as The Tibetan Book of the Dead is only the English interpretation of a text known in Tibetan as Bardo Thodol (meaning: bardo "liminality"; thodol as "liberation"), or more generously translated as Liberation Through Hearing in the Intermediate State.

There are several other Bardos however; not just the one that describes the intermediary state between death and rebirth. The Bardo Thodol mentions three others: those of "life" (or ordinary waking consciousness); of "dhyana" (meditation); and of "dream". Together they form a classification of states of consciousness where any one state forms a type of "intermediate state" - intermediate between other states of consciousness. Indeed, we learned tonight that we can consider any momentary state of consciousness a Bardo since it lies between our past and future existences. Travelling on the bus home from work is a Bardo; even the time it takes to read this blog is a Bardo because you are existing in an intermediary state between the consciousness you experienced before you began to read, and that which you will attain after you have finished. As I have said above, all of life itself is a Bardo because it lies between two different states: birth and death.

Interesting stuff, and for anyone who thinks it’s all a bit esoteric and impenetrable, just think of this: next time you’re doing the washing up, you’re passing through a Bardo in the tradition of Tibetan Buddhists. There, doesn’t that make you feel better?

I’m about to embark on such a temporary state of consciousness by force. I have developed a small gum infection known, curiously enough, as “Vincent’s Infection”. The solution to this is a course of antibiotics and, whereas my usual reaction to the ‘no alcohol’ rule is to ignore it, the particular antibiotic I have been prescribed is the only one (apparently) where this rule must be obeyed. My dentist, the pharmacist and the leaflet in the box all say (in bold letters) No Alcohol. When my dentist told me about this and said I couldn’t drink for seven days, I asked her: “Seven days? What do you think I am? A Buddhist monk?” She displayed no sympathy for my position.

So, seven days without alcohol will indeed be a temporary state of consciousness not unlike a Bardo - the fact that I will be conscious at all is a shock to the system. However, the worse of it is that these tablets can only be taken – three times a day – after food. Food? I haven’t eaten since 1982, so what’s that all about, eh? Methinks I might have to move the Bollinger out and put a jar of olives in the fridge instead. The horror of it all. This is going to be a right old Brigitte, I can tell you (and that’s cockney rhyming slang, by the way).

Nine Lives

Well, I’ve just had the most fantabulosy weekend. I’ve been yacht sailing down the Cornish coast and it was exactly what I needed. It was quite serendipitous – I was feeling a bit jaded and a bit exhausted after the relentless demands of this random stray cat that seems to have adopted me, and I needed a break. A friend called me on Friday morning and suggested taking the yacht out over the weekend. At first I thought that to escape the vortex that is Broadway was something I couldn’t do, even if I’d wanted to – but then I realized that a break such as this was exactly what I needed.

So, before you could say ‘Living In A Box’ I was on my way to Plymouth, accompanied by a good friend of mine who was also feeling weary of indulgence and likewise needed to get away. This friend is the film-maker who filmed various people's feet the night before, and we’d both been feeling that the excesses of Thursday night’s ‘Unleashed’ experience needed to be erased. We both thought that an escape to the briny sea was just what the doctor ordered. We were excited; we were going on holiday. We had both wriggled and squirmed ourselves free of the Broadway straightjacket and yet we both - umbilically connected to our base as we are - felt that we were each taking a little bit of Nottingham with us too. It felt like therapy; like a comfort blanket; a talisman.

The sailing was excellent – a nice lazy beat down to Fowey in scorching sunshine on the Saturday; a rather hectic run back with a strong tailwind which constantly threatened to gybe the boat without so much as a cat’s blink of notice, on the Sunday. Actually, I spent two hours at the helm coming back and it felt like ten. Continual wrestling with the wheel (as the wind tries to push you in the wrong direction, making it feel like trying to steer a shopping trolley on an ice rink) is hard work I can tell you.

We had a spectacular moment of artistic flamboyance when the film-maker decided to fly his parachute (which he had somehow remembered to pack) from the stern of the boat, whilst filming it. The captain and I held onto the lines while the chute fluttered and cavorted in the wind behind us, like the silver banner in Priscilla Queen of the Desert. We were passing a Cardinal buoy at the time, and the eerie clanging of its bell augmented the pathos and splendour of the scene. We travelled like that for about five minutes (god knows what neighbouring yachts thought of us) before hauling the chute back in, and the camera was switched off. It felt like we had witnessed a great moment in creative mythology.

So, feeling rejuvenated and liberated, we returned home. I felt that a weekend of sleeping and eating healthily (okay, so we failed to cut out the booze, but two out of three ain’t bad) had restored my vitality for life.

But guess who I found lurking outside my flat when I got home? Miaow!

Out of Town

They told me it was a book launch. That doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t have gone if I’d known that it wasn’t - if that makes sense - but it wasn’t. I’m not really sure what it was. We arrived at what was essentially the loading bay and warehouse area of some random industrial unit in the wilderness of Radford. The man on the gate checked our names against the guest list and in we went.

There were some strange people there – it was the Press Launch of an event called ‘Unleashed’ and was billed as ‘bringing together the best of Nottingham creatives in furniture, fashion, arts, graphics, interiors and architecture for a celebration of Nottingham and a gift of inspiration’. It true, that’s what it said on the invitation (which I hadn’t read fully, which is why I mistakenly thought it was a book launch). The dress code said: 'Anything Goes'. One woman with 4-foot long legs wore nothing but a tiny pair of briefs and a basque; someone else wore a piano. Actually, that last bit isn’t true – but there was a piano there which was built as if it were a giant child’s rocking horse and instead of sitting at it in the conventional way, this man sat in it and made the whole construction rock backwards and forwards, weeble-like, while he played classical tunes. Another guy played some kind of weird electric clarinet while perched on a fork-lift truck.

I met some crazy people – Steve, the baby-faced editor of a glossy magazine called Icon (how could anyone so young hold such an exalted position?); Sam, the architect who appeared to break the mould by presenting himself not as an architect, but as the kind of guy who would wash your car at the supermarket. He would have made a good model actually; it’s a pity he wasn’t the one in the briefs and the basque.

A friend of mine was meant to be filming the event. After several glasses of wine (there was a very generous free bar) we reviewed some of the footage. I can’t recall whether shots of people’s feet were what the organizers had asked for, but it seemed to me that this was what they would get. Very dangerous, free bars.

The reason for these kind of events, and for getting oneself on the guest list, is to network. I swapped contact details with several people but I can’t find any of the scraps of paper or business cards now. I think I must have left them in the taxi.

When we returned to the throbbing, mob-pressed streets of the city, I found the stray cat sitting on my doorstep. Oh dear, why did I ever let him in?

Red and Yellow and Pink and Green

I’m a big fan of the writer Geoff Dyer. I particularly like his later works such as Yoga For People Who Can’t Be Bothered To Do It and The Ongoing Moment because it’s from these – in comparison with his first novel (The Colour of Memory) that we can see how a good writer such as Dyer (and this isn’t the case with all writers, of course) continues to develop his/her authority of technique across the years. There’s nothing wrong with his first novel – I’ve just finished reading it and it’s unmistakably Dyer in its style, wit and characterisations – but it’s still very definitely a work of juvenilia; very laddish. Notwithstanding that, I wish I could write half as well as he does.

In this earlier work, his use of colour is extraordinary. It’s everywhere in the novel – on the walls, across the ceiling, on the floor, in your hair, dripping down the side of the sofa; it's all over the fictional world he creates. It’s only when you read something like this that you realise how bereft of colour other writing often is. Dyer creates a huge artist’s palette of throbbing colour which he then hurls at the canvass of his text in great bursts of oily swirls. I did feel from time to time that he was trying a bit too hard to aim the paint too high, but in the main it was deftly applied with Dyer’s customary precision. I’m sure I’ve read somewhere that there’s a medical condition where the patient translates all emotions and feelings into colour (I think that’s what Clare Morrall is also dealing with in her fabulous novel Astonishing Splashes of Colour). Well, I think Geoff Dyer is diagnosing that condition in us all.

On a personal note (not that you’re interested), I’ve just had a curate’s egg of a weekend. I did some very useful writer-ish stuff on Friday evening which was good; I had a jolly rib-tickling evening outside the Broadway on Saturday when I actually laughed out loud (something I never do), and this was also good; but the remainder of the time seems to have been spent looking after a stray cat that wandered into my apartment some time ago. Like all strays, this one is very good at making himself comfortable, at eating & drinking me out of house and home, and at treating me with the lofty disdain that is characteristic of their nature. But unlike most strays, this one doesn’t seem to show any signs of moving on. I think I might have to change the lock on the cat-flap when he’s out hunting one day. Someone else will take him in, I’m sure.

Yes, my little stray was a temporary splash of colour I think (rather than "astonishing"); the memory of which is already, sadly, fading fast.

"Biggest Royal Crisis Since Abdication"

It’s been quite a week. I can’t begin to describe the complexities of my private life – let’s just say that jeopardising my integrity seems to have become standard practice for me these days and that really, you’d think I’d know better (especially at my age). But no, when I say it’s been quite a week, I mean news-wise.

We’ve had Osama bin Laden emerging from the gloaming after years of silence, sporting a brand new false beard; BBC’s Match of the Day’s ‘Goal of the Month’ competition has been dropped in line with the blanket ban on phone-in competitions; US adventurer Steve Fossett has vanished into thin air (very thin air, it seems); Pavarotti is dead; and the McCanns are now suspected of being responsible for the killing of little Madeleine. Quite a crowded week. Is there room for more? Well yes, indeed there is – for how could the week’s round-up be complete without its most grabbing and sensational headline?

"Prince Harry in trouble for making Chelsy wait."

Yes, dear reader, this astounding revelation may cause you to choke on your breakfast kippers with shock and horror, but I would ask you please to contain yourself. However much you might be reeling with disbelief at the enormous implications, ramifications and recriminations of this truly tragic event, you must try (hard though it may be) to retain a sense of proportion. The shocking details of this incident are particularly nasty and upsetting – according to the Daily Telegraph’s Stephen Adams, “Miss Davy seemed not to be amused after arriving at Heathrow on a night flight from Johannesburg at 6.30am to find the Prince was not there. The 21-year-old Zimbabwean blonde had to wait in a branch of Costa Coffee in Terminal 1. She tried calling the 22-year-old Prince but it appeared he had either overslept or forgotten.”

What’s to be done? The despair that the nation must feel on reading this alarming news is of justly appalling proportions. Do these people care so little for the wellbeing of the national psyche that they can put us all through this terrible ordeal so callously? Apparently, the bereft 21-year-old Zimbabwean blonde had to wait almost an hour for Harry to turn up. Yes, you read correctly – almost an hour. Can you imagine the torment and fear that the poor 21-year-old Zimbabwean blonde had to endure during those long, tortured sixty minutes? Sixty sickening minutes during which the very fabric of civilisation was in as much danger of being ripped apart as it was during the Cuban missile crisis of October 1962 (I remember how we all held our breath throughout those agonizing days, fearful that we were facing the abyss). I tell you dear reader, this event has left me debilitated, depressed and devoid of all hope. And also, strangely hungry.

I was listening to the radio recently and was informed that hunger (you can believe this or not) is about politics. Hunger is a result of poverty, not about a lack of food. However, this seems to conflict with the information that by the year 2050 we will need two planets’ worth of food to feed the world’s growing population. Where will it come from? Already, there is talk of something called the 'bottom billion' which is the number of people who even now don’t have enough food to eat and who are living under the poverty level. We have starved the earth’s soil in the celebrated chase for progress, and food – a simple enough requirement - is apparently not being planted because of the desire to keep the Lexus on the road, and the plane in the air. The world’s politicians are at fault (surprise, surprise) - they should support small scale farming instead of the great shibboleth of massive agri-business that they adore, and they should do this before the ‘bottom billion’ grows to embrace us all. What do we want? Freedom to fly, or freedom to eat? After all, flying can have its pitfalls – one day you might discover that there is no handsome Prince waiting to greet you from your flight. Surely, we all deserve to be spared from the horror of that?

Home James, and don't spare the horses

An unusual event took place yesterday. I went to catch a train at Birmingham New Street, on my way home to Nottingham, and the display board showed a rather ominous message concerning my train: “Delayed”. Nothing unusual in that you might think, but the message itself was flashing - something which I took to be a bad sign. Normally (and yes, it is normal for Central Trains to be delayed – their timetable is verging on fiction), normally it would say “Expected 17:38” or something similar to indicate the (purely fabricated) estimate of the length of any delay. A flashing “Delayed” message suggested to me that nobody could be bothered to make even a random guess as to how long it would be before the train arrived at Platform 8a. I was fairly confident that the next announcement – from that terribly sombre-sounding but awfully courteous disembodied recorded voice that anyone who has used Birmingham New Street will know well - would be a cancellation. This thought dismayed me.

However, about 15 minutes later, the much-awaited train arrived – hurrah, things were looking up (I was prepared not to be crestfallen that the carriages were in darkness which is normally a sign that further preparation, and therefore further delay, is necessary). Immediately, the lights sprang on and we all boarded with renewed optimism. Indeed, before all of us had even taken our seats, the train began to move and we shot from New Street’s darkness like a bullet (well, a rather sluggish bullet from a slightly tired revolver perhaps). Here comes the unusual bit.

The customer services operative (or whatever ticket guards are called these days) made his announcement. “Welcome aboard the somewhat delayed 17:09 for Nottingham. We’re sorry for the delay – we’ve just had a bit of a manic moment out there when we were stuck in some random place; I can’t explain it. Anyway, the driver will attempt to make up the time and ensure that your arrival is not too late. I’ll keep you posted.”

At Tamworth, he was able to announce that we’d made up six minutes, but that there was still more to be done. We listened, intrigued. As we continued to hurtle through the Staffordshire countryside I couldn’t help thinking that I could almost feel the train hurrying. It reminded me of an episode from Thomas the Tank Engine, or The Little Engine That Could whose motto was “I think I can, I think I can”. I felt myself urging him on. Come on little engine, you can do it!

At Burton we were told that we’d made up even more time, but that there was still a target to be met. This was becoming an odyssey of truly heroic effort. Off we went again; top speed. All energies were being put to getting us to Nottingham on time.

We arrived in Derby three minutes early, panting. The CSA was able to make his proud announcement that the driver had done it! I could feel the train stamping its hooves, bull-like, eagerly waiting for the scheduled departure time like an impatient car driver might wait for a green light. The digital clock flicked over to the departure time and – almost with a squeal of tyres – we were off. Maybe that’s the really unusual bit; I don’t think I’ve ever been on a train that left the station at the exact second it should. This driver knew his onions all right.

Approaching Nottingham, I beckoned to the CSA and asked him to extend my congratulations to the driver on his Herculean endeavour to get us back on schedule. He looked rather taken aback by this, but said he would be sure to let the driver know. As he moved away, I saw the man opposite me look at me with disbelief and contempt. The expression on his face said: “You creep”. But I don’t care; I’ve been on the Little Engine That Could.

Life is a Cabaret Old Chum

I was part of the mob scene myself last night. A group of us went to an event staged by the Pitty Patt Club at The Social – just over the back from where my apartment is. It was a mad, decadent burlesque cabaret billed as 'The Circus of the Dancing Bear' where many of the audience were dressed up as extravagantly as the acts. There was Bearlesque - a male group of hairy overweight gay bears who performed a series of outrageous stripteases; there was Netty Page – a glamorous bearded lady who tantalised us with an erotic ballet accompanied by the music of Marlene Dietrich; The Eager Beavers – an astoundingly good rockabilly/psychobilly band that belted out raucous stylish music of the 1950s & 1960s.

There was much more – fabulous cabaret-style music played by Lord Ivor Hardshafte (Gramaphonic Jukebox Master); sideshows like the Laughing Clowns and Circus Freaks; a cake stall; even a mini-mart. The whole event was choreographed by a Joel Gray look-alike as the deliciously androgynous Master of Ceremonies, and we all had huge fun. It was as camp as a field of tents, as kitsch as a Fabergé egg, but we loved it. It was like being in the crazy decadent whirl of pre-war Berlin where everyone could forget the horrors of life and where men dressed as women, and women dressed as men dressing as women (I was reminded of Julie Andrews in 'Victor Victoria'). Nothing was real, everything was fantasy, and we all wore false beards to prove it ('No Beard – No Entry').

It was a far better way to spend an evening than just sitting in a bar or a conventional club. Yes, we drank and yes, the rabble noisily spilled out onto the fire escape and down into the yard to smoke and cavort with the mob, but it was an evening of humour and variety and of course, everyone loved everyone else.

When I reflected at one point that I could count several friends amongst the performers, and many more amongst the audience, I realised that at last – having travelled through several incarnations of disguise throughout my sorry life – at last, I have come home. Wilkommen, Bienvenue, Welcome!