Ante Establishment

Randomly flicking through the TV channels I happened upon a show called Child Genius, a programme whose aim is to discover which children in Britain have never been allowed to climb a tree, drink Fanta and make friends their own age. Contestants range in age from 8 – 12 in Earth years and from what I gather there are only two eligibility requirements: they must dress like Puritans and manage their own hedge fund. As for the parents, alas, there are no rules otherwise these same kids would be attending birthday parties and dancing to K-pop.

One distinctive family comprised Calliope (the child genius), Octavia (her overbearing mother), Peregrine (her hipster father) and 4 year-old twin brothers, as yet unnamed.

“We’re waiting for a Labour government first because then the whole ordeal will be less traumatic for them,” Peregrine explained.

“Watch out for the fat one – he’s a biter. He ate three of the gerbils in my control group,” Calliope warned. “Octavia, it’s 3 o’clock.”

Interviewer: What happens at 3 o’clock?

“I give Calliope her feed.”

Interviewer: Her what?

“She’s still on breast milk,” Octavia stated matter-of-factly, now fumbling underneath her burka. “Excuse me for a minute. I’m afraid these are more form over function.”

Interviewer: I was going to ask you about that, actually. Isn’t that a Peperami in your bag?

“Oh, I’m not Muslim,” she grimaced. “I don’t even believe in God. It’s more of a statement.”

Interviewer: Got it, but getting back to the feed: are you telling us that Calliope has lived on nothing but breast milk since she was born?

“Oh, no. I add my own juices to it as well.”

[viewers stopped eating at this point]

Interviewer: Please, God, tell me we’re talking about lemon grass.

“I have a juicer for vegetables and fruit,” Octavia confirmed, “but I also have all their placentas in the freez-“”

It was a shame really because Calliope seemed like a nice kid who wasn’t bothered whether or not she won Child Genius. Octavia, however, was on a mission. After years of subjecting her first born to stem cell shakes and hyperbaric chambers, this TV programme would vindicate her once and for all. After all, it wasn’t about the children; she was the true genius and, by her own calculations, Calliope only needed to make it to Week 4 before TV producers and the viewing public realized this. After that it would be book deals, speaking tours and Oprah.

Interviewer: Calliope, do you have any regrets about coming onto the progreamme? Did you ask to come on it?

“To be honest, I’d rather be doing something else,” she wrinkled her nose.

Interviewer: Playing with your gerbils?

“Gambling online. Every minute I’m in this stupid studio I’m losing money.”

Interviewer: I beg your pardon?

“My game’s Poker. Last night I was about to beat the bubble until my Aces got cracked. I ended up folding faster than Superman on wash day. I looked like a total fish,” she rolled her eyes.

Interviewer: Uh, okay. So you won’t be going to Oxford then?

“Oh, I’ll be going to Oxford,” she arched an eyebrow, “but it won’t be Flash Cards I’ll be playing with, if you catch my drift.”

Interviewer: How will you balance gambling with your studies? And is it even legal? You’re too young to gamble, aren’t you?

Calliope discreetly opened her Frozen II pencil case to reveal a wad of crisp one-hundred dollar bills. Drawing one out, she folded it expertly with one hand until she’d fashioned a small fish, which she handed to me.

“Why don’t you go buy yourself something pretty and leave the legal stuff to me? After all, who’s the genius here?” she asked, morphing from Girl Guide to Al Capone before my eyes.

Interviewer: What about your mother’s plans for you?

“Octavia’s seeking validation but it can’t come through me. Her insecurities stem from a lifetime’s inability to rise above her own mediocrity. The whole breastfeeding thing’s a manifestation of it: she believes she’s passing on matriarchal wisdom when she pumps that junk which, for the record, I pour straight down the drain. I prefer a single malt – it keeps me clear-headed.”

Interviewer: Won’t she be disappointed though?

“When isn’t she? Look, do you want me to wrap this up nice and neatly for your viewers at home? Give them my take on life?”

Interviewer: Please, do.

“Okay, here we go… in life, you need to play the hand you’re dealt. If you don’t like the dealer, switch tables and if you don’t like the odds, switch games. Then again…” she said coyly, throwing a piece of popcorn into the air and catching it in her mouth, “I’m just a kid, so what do I know?”

Model Behaviour

“I’m being sued by the Catholic Church again,” Laverne announced in the midst of reorganising her purse.
“I have no words for that.”
“How unlike you,” she mused.
“Hold on, I thought you were working on a piece about the East African Lion,” I suddenly remembered.
“Turns out all they do is sleep. My son can do that.”
“Have you ever been to Africa? I haven’t.”
“Yeah, went with my sister for her fortieth. A safari in Malawi.”
“So is that where …“
“… my people come from?” Laverne zipped her purse and placed it on the chair next to her. “Couldn’t tell you; the furthest back I’ve been able to trace our roots is to The Shirelles.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny. I was actually going to ask if that’s where your sister went with the Peace Corps.”
“Oops, sorry,” she giggled. “No, that was Mozambique.”
“I’d like to ask you another question though: when you were there, did you feel any connection to it?”

“Funny you should ask that,” she became more pensive. “I expected to feel ‘African’ from the moment I arrived, but the whole time we were there I felt like just another tourist. People are people wherever you go, so we had that in common. Culturally, however, I struggled to make a connection and that bothered me. I think maybe we’ve been gone too long.”
“I felt the same when I met my Scottish relatives for the first time,” I concurred. “We shared the same name, same sense of humour and some even looked like me but culturally we were raised in two very different worlds.”
“Not even close!” Laverne screamed with laughter. “Honestly, are you kidding me with that? Your parents emigrated using Air Miles!”

“But their journey to The New World was horrific. First, they ran out of headphones and then they gave my mum’s gluten-free meal to someone else,” I explained. “Anyway, cut me some slack – you’re my only ethnic friend.”
“Hey, I’m your only friend. I’ve got more in common with those lions than I do with you.”
“How so?”
“They don’t like to cook either.”
“And we have our connection!”
“Okay, but back to this business with the Church,” Laverne lowered her voice. “It’s over a certain someone I told you about at Christmas.”
“Is this the same someone with the thing?”
“Yup.”
“And are you telling me they’ve now found the thing?”
“Oh yeah, they found it alright,” she confirmed.
“Was it on him?”
“No, up him.”
“Whoa!” I leaned back in my chair. “And the monkey?”
“Still missing,” she arched an eyebrow.

I love secrets and Laverne knows plenty. A freelance journalist, she moved to the UK from Seattle over thirty years ago after meeting and marrying Elliot, a sound engineer at the BBC. The three of us first met at The Pu Pu Pot, our local Chinese restaurant, after she’d overheard my Canadian accent.
“I need some human conversation. I need someone who doesn’t talk about Bobby Charlton in his sleep!” she blubbered into her chop suey.
“Who’s Robby Carlson?” I asked.
“Exactly!” she cried. “And do you know where I can score some Fruit Loops because the last people to eat porridge were the Vikings.”
That was twenty years ago.

Tonight we were out for our weekly meal at The Pu Pu Pot but without Elliot, who begged off to attend a Bolton Wanderers match.
“What’s the viral load of the Szechuan Chicken today?” Laverne asked.
“Slightly elevated I’m afraid, so my grandfather would be happy to pee on it for you. We Chinese believe that urine possesses magical properties,” the waitress took her on. “Or if you’d prefer, you can bring in a pet and we’ll cook that for you,” she smiled, sweetly.
“We’re going to need a few more minutes,” Laverne smiled right back at her.
Just then, the kitchen doors swung open to reveal a tiny, sinewy man lifting the lid off a huge cauldron. As he did so, he stepped back to avoid the rush of steam.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“We’ll be cooking shrimp in it once we take the shirts out,” our waitress explained. “Would you excuse me for just one moment? I need to inform on my neighbours.”
“She’s good,” Laverne nodded her approval, as she watched the diminutive figure disappear behind the bar. “Is she still in med school?”
“Fourth year.”
“She’ll have them in stitches.”

At one point during the evening Laverne made a visit to the Ladies’ Room. While she was gone, a young woman breezed into the restaurant and joined a waiting friend at a table nearby. Tall, elegant and stylishly attired, she quickly attracted the attention of her fellow diners.
“I’m back,” Laverne announced, resuming her seat. “They have the nicest hand lotion here.”
“Uh huh,” I replied, looking past her at the young woman.
“What’s up with you?” she shot me a quizzical look.
“It’s what’s behind you.”
“What’s behind me?”
“A girl walked in while you were gone and she’s got to be a model. She’s absolutely stunning. Definitely a model.”
“On a scale of 1 to 10?” Laverne asked.
“Ten.”
“Hair?”
“Lustrous.”
“Make-up?”
“None.”
“Height?”
“NBA.”
“She’s got to have a flaw, everyone has a flaw.”
“If she does, I can’t see it.”
“Maybe it’s hidden,” she chewed on her bottom lip. “Slug feet?”
“Killer farts?”
“Fifty bucks says she uses disconnect as a noun.”
“Another fifty says she plans to name her first daughter Chandelier.”
“Hmm… not even a split end?” Laverne wasn’t having it.
“Turn around and see for yourself, if you don’t believe me.”
“Have I taught you nothing?” she reached for her purse. “Watch and learn, my friend… okay, which shoulder?”
“Left.”
She took out her compact and opened it, angling the mirror until she caught sight of her quarry over her left shoulder. At that very moment, the young woman put on her reading glasses to read the menu. Closing the compact with a snap, Laverne chuckled to herself, leaned across the table and whispered, “Four-Eyes.”

Aisle Stand By You

“I feel like a Stepford Wife.”

“That explains the outfit then.”

“No, I’m serious. I no longer feel comfortable buying just anything, only what’s needed,” Laverne complained, as she headed down the cookie aisle. “I suppose we’re being reprogrammed to become more altruistic.”

“Toilet paper’s back there,” I gestured behind her.

“We’ve got over a hundred rolls in the garage, don’t worry.”

“You’ve got a heart as big as your feet. Did you know that?”

“Call me in six months when you’re wiping your ass with a Shih Tzu,” she opened a pack of Oreos and placed it in her trolley. “And don’t look at me like that. Do you think Downing Street is cutting the Daily Telegraph into little squares and hanging them on a nail? Is it, heck.”

I began constructing a mental picture, then stopped just in time.

“The point is, we’re not in this together. I mean, we are but they’re not. It’s all a façade,” she bit into an Oreo, frowning. “Anyway I’m seriously thinking of moving to North Korea when this whole thing blows over. At least there you know where you stand.”

“Up against a wall wearing a blindfold?”

“You Un Funny.”

“What about their state-approved hairstyle, The Hair Helmet?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that… don’t let me leave today without buying a hat.”

“And don’t let me forget laundry detergent. It’s top of my list.”

“We’ve got at least six months of that as well,” she put a finger to her lips.

“You know these eco-friendly washing machines?” I segued slightly. “Does yours use enough water because my clothes don’t even look wet when they’re being washed. They’re damp, at best.”

“I agree, they don’t use nearly enough water. I top mine up.”

“Me too. After all, we don’t shower using an atomiser.”

“That’s because we’re not from LA. Hey, did you read that Gwyneth Paltrow steam-cleans her noo-noo?”

Gwyneth Paltrow's Goop Lab: From vagina candles to steaming the 10 ...

“Her website’s called goop so I’m thinking hygiene may be an issue,” I winced. “Sounds like a waste of water though. She needs to think about the whales.”

“To hell with the whales,” Laverne scoffed. “How much more water do they need? Maybe if they’d lose a few pounds there’d be less displacement.”

“Uhh…”

“It’s true; it’s the fat ones who are causing sea levels to rise. Whales are so selfish. I hate them,” she fished another Oreo out of the bag.

“You can’t argue with science. And while we’re on the subject… what do you think of Greta Thunberg?”

“Bride of Chuckie?”

“She certainly hates us, that’s for sure. Anyone over 40 is in that little witch’s crosshairs.”

“If she could burn us, she would,” Laverne shuddered, “along with every member of ABBA if it helped her cause. Want an Oreo?”

“Will it make me as smart as you?”

“You’re asking the wrong person.”

“How so?”

“Because yesterday after reading The Guardian, for a moment I thought it had actually expanded my mind.”

“Why on earth would you think that?” I was intrigued.

“I was looking into one of those magnifying mirrors you do your eyebrows with.”

“Were you in Tesco yesterday?”

“We’re low on toilet paper.”

Meandering through the aisles we found it increasingly difficult to maintain social distancing and not be overheard. While this rarely presented a problem, on this occasion it did, resulting in some blowback.

“How’s little Edward doing?” Laverne enquired after my youngest nephew.

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“He’s enjoying being off school, if that’s what you mean, but it’s all about the Xbox with him. He gets up at 6am to do his schoolwork just so he can go on it right after. Don’t ask me when he last kicked a ball around.”

“A man with a plan,” she laughed. “When he visited us last weekend he was such a delight. I really think I got through to him.”

“He thinks you’re a dork.”

“What?”

“Don’t get me wrong; he liked you. He just thought you were a bit of a dork. Don’t take it personally.”

“But he’s autistic!” Laverne protested.

“So what? Autistic people are entitled to their opinions,” I reminded her.

“Yeah, but not about normal people.”

“Don’t ever go into teaching.”

“Don’t worry.”

It was then a young woman in her twenties made her presence known. She was sporting a blue surgical mask which perfectly matched the colour of her hair, half of which had been shaved off to reveal a tattooed verse in Arabic. Both earlobes could have been budgie swings and her t-shirt declared This Is What A Feminist Looks Like.

Is Social Media Eavesdropping on Your Conversations? | News and ...

“Excuse me, but I couldn’t help overhearing what you just said,” she stated, earnestly.

“Oh, here we go,” I muttered.

“Excuse me,” she persisted. “EXCUSE ME!”

“Listen, Sky or Goop or whatever your name is, can I just say that the cookie aisle is our safe space so we’d like you to respect boundaries,” I lobbed one over the net.

“Until I decide to give you rights, you have none,” I was duly informed, “and I don’t much appreciate what you said about people with autism,” she turned to Laverne. “It’s a very serious disease, sometimes fatal. I know because my friend has it.”

“Let’s try this again,” Laverne began. “First of all, it isn’t a disease, it’s a neurological disorder although even that’s disputed. Secondly, it’s none of your business what we talk about.”

“Well, you made it my business when your words committed an act of violence against my friend,” her voice was quickly rising.

“I don’t believe that for one moment,” Laverne replied, coolly.

“I’ve taken courses in it, so I think I know what I’m talking about more than you do.”

“No, you misunderstand me,” Laverne stated calmly. “What I meant was: I don’t believe you have any friends.”

Laverne put her hand behind her back and counted down from three.

“Could somebody get the manager? There’s a hate crime here!” the woman began yelling. “Security! Somebody help me! Help!”

“So you’re what a feminist looks like,” Laverne read her shirt and sized her up. “I feel so over-dressed.”

After staff anxiously listened to both parties’ version of events, the young woman was asked to leave the store.

“She also came within 2m of me during Covid,” she complained. “That’s attempted murder!”

“You’re clutching at straws with that one,” Laverne warned her. “Now, why don’t you go find a police car to urinate on because you don’t want to see Mommy angry.”

“No, you knew more than anybody what you were doing because you’re a nurse!” she accused Laverne. “They let her jump the queue outside because she’s a nurse! Call the police! She’s a killer nurse!”

That’s when we started laughing.

“Don’t touch me or I’ll sue! I’m streaming this! And I expect a taxi home!” she continued her rant all the way to the exit.

“From obnoxious busybody to demented hysteric in less than 30 seconds,” Laverne stopped laughing. “Makes you wonder what else is out there.”

“Can you imagine ten thousand of her?”

“Gives the rest of us a bad name, that’s the problem,” she was now watching her remonstrate with shoppers in the queue like a street corner evangelist.

“Laverne, ten o’clock. Here comes Round Two,” I gave a heads-up.

Making his way towards us was a tall, young man kitted out in black leather boots, matching leather trousers, a Black Sabbath World Tour t-shirt and a full-length, black leather coat.

“Good God, we’re in the Matrix!” Laverne whispered, as he made a beeline straight for her. “If he’s packing heat I want you to take him out.”

“Cagney, I thought you’d brought your gun,” I gave her a worried look.

“I think you dropped this,” the man now stood before her, holding out a ten pound note.

We both smelled a set-up.

“I don’t think so,” she replied.

“It was before, over by the cereal when you were talking about how much money they’d have to pay you to be in a porno.”

“And that’s what you think it would take? TEN POUNDS?” she disarmed him in an instant.

Completely taken aback by the accusation, he struggled to find words.

“N-n-no,” he stammered. “You dropped this. It’s yours. I just picked it up.”

“Relax, I’m joking,” Laverne smiled. “Thank you for your honesty. I didn’t know what to expect when you first walked up. I’m afraid I don’t meet many gentlemen these days.”

“That’s the porn industry for you,” I shrugged. “Hi, I’m her agent, Johnny Salami.”

“Hi,” he shifted nervously.

“That was so nice of you to return the money but I want you keep it. After what we’ve all just witnessed you’ve more than earned it,” Laverne insisted. “Please allow your good deed to be rewarded by another.”

“Um…” he was still struggling. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

“I’ll tell you what,” she was ready to deal, “you tell me what you think I should be paid to appear in a porno and if I like what I hear, you can keep the tenner.”

“Would you be playing a nurse?”

“Whoa!” I hollered. “How long have you been following us?”

“That girl was pretty loud,” he gestured to the lunatic now staging a one-woman protest in the car park.

“Laverne!” she extended her hand, but then withdrew it just as quickly. “Sorry… I keep forgetting about that 2m rule.”

“Dale,” he extended his hand. “You really had me going there.”

“Dale?” I checked I’d heard correctly. “Dale? You walk around dressed like that and you’re called Dale?”

“Afraid so,” he shrugged.

For the next few minutes the three of us chatted and snacked on Oreos in the cookie aisle. Dale was polite and well spoken, a local lad who still lived at home but hoped to buy his own place soon. The more we got to know him, the more uneasy I felt about prejudging him.

“He’s quite good looking,” Laverne admitted. “Lovely blue eyes and that thick, black hair. Kind of Irishy. Plus, I like ‘em tall.”

“I read him completely wrong,” I reflected. “I know it was in the heat of battle but still, I should have known better.”

“Hey, you read her right which was more important. That’s a survival skill we’re needing more and more these days.”

After making our purchases the three of us said our goodbyes in the car park.

“Dale, it was nice meeting you. All the best, buddy,” I gave him a thumbs-up.

“You too, Mr Salami,” he delivered with a straight face.

“Dale, I’m sure we’ll meet again,” Laverne told him. “Don’t know where, don’t know when but this is a small town. You run into people eventually.”

“In your case it’s usually because of your driving,” I reminded her. “She has her own cubicle in A&E.”

“We’ll definitely be seeing each other then,” Dale brightened, pulling out his wallet.

“Why? You’re not a personal injury lawyer, are you?” Laverne asked.

Number of male U.S. nurses triple since 1970 - CBS News

“Not exactly,” Dale pulled out his work I.D. “I’m a nurse.”

Comet me, Bro!

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“Trump’s building a Death Star,” Laverne announced whilst reloading. “Good for him.”
“For building a Death Star?”
“For keeping busy during lockdown.”
“Is it a family affair?”
“He’ll fly it and Melania’s going to serve the drinks.
“I imagine there’ll be a launch…”
“By invitation only in the Space Force Lounge at Mar-A-Lago Int’l Airport.”
“Tickets won’t be cheap.”
“You could just buy a hat.”
“There’s a Space Force hat?”
“And a ring.”
“How do you know all this?” I was amazed.
“Forewarned is forearmed,” Laverne replied coolly, smelling the air. “They’re coming for us, so you and me need a plan.”
“Two tickets?”
“One-way.”
“I just have one question.”
“Shoot.”
“Why are you firing anchovies into that tree with a catapult?”
“Because the squirrel currently residing in it ripped open our garbage bags during the night and left a putrid mess for me to clean up this morning.”
“And?”
“Two can play that game, my friend. Now get me Mar-a-Lago on the blower because he’s going to need a Rear Gunner.”

Thank Queue

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“I’m watching you,” the voice came down the phone.
“Where are you?” I asked, pulling into the car park.
“Drive straight on until you see a yellow Smart Car. I’m just past it on the right.”
“Did you say yellow?”
“I know, don’t even-”
“-who in their right mind drives around in a yellow Smart Car?”
“Banana Man.”
“Who’s Banana Man?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe Big Bird’s in town.”
“Big Bird couldn’t drive a Smart Car with those toes. They’re the size of fire extinguishers.”
“Maybe it’s an automatic.”
“Again, with feet that size, I’d say: still too dangerous.”
“Yet it’s perfectly okay for a banana to get behind the wheel?” I queried. “I’m appalled and yet intrigued.”
“Bananas are good for you.”
“I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
“Good because I need you to shut up anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because our yellow friend is sporting a bumper sticker.”
“NO!”
“Oh, yes. Would you like to know what it says?”
“More than I need toilet paper.”
“It’s contains an axiom for all of humanity,” I was baited further, “written in glitter.”
I slammed on the brakes to avoid an accident.
“Kittens are angels with whiskers,” Laverne purred down the phone.

smiling kitten pictures | image courtesy of google images | Animal ...

“So are grannies,” I argued, as the vehicle in question came into view. “Jesus, they’re driving a two-door lemon!”
“Dog-hating weirdos,” Laverne muttered, watching me park. “Long time, no see. How are you?”
“Fine,” I started walking over to her.
“Stop right there or I’ll activate my Social Distancing Alarm,” she stretched out her arm like a traffic cop.
“Sorry, I’m still getting used to all that,” I backed away slowly.
“Luckily, I’ve been practising social distancing since I was a five,” she sniffed. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

We’d arranged to meet at ASDA because our respective households were running low on essentials, plus, we wanted to catch up with each other in person. Crossing the supermarket car park, we were soon greeted by a queue that curled out of the entrance and along the entire storefront before disappearing around a corner.
“Good God!” Laverne stopped dead in her tracks. “They’re lining up the infected and shooting them!”
“More toilet paper for us then.”
“Quite right,” she pressed onward. “Every cloud and all that.”

Directed past countless, evenly-spaced shoppers by a team of brightly attired Queue Coordinators, we began to lose hope when one of them waved us over. Jean usually worked the cigarette counter but had been commandeered to keep customers orderly outside.
“John, what are you doing in the queue?” she asked. “You’re an essential worker. You can go straight in. Who’s this?”
“I’m the help,” Laverne winked.
“Not with those rings, Sweetheart,” Jean laughed. “Go on then, if you’re together.”
“These two are essential workers!” she hollered to a colleague guarding the entrance and, as if on cue, the queue burst into spontaneous applause.
“What the-”
“You’re the new Harry & Meghan,” Jean cackled. “Work that red carpet!”

“I was going to be a nurse,” Laverne whispered, before addressing the queue. “Remember, 2m apart! Social distancing means more nurses on the job and fewer ill at home.”
“Would you shut the hell up?” I whispered back.
“Not a chance,” she smiled and waved to her subjects. “Look at how happy they are. Anyway, it could have been worse: your friend could have said we were the new Donald & Melanoma.”
“You mean Melania.”
“What’s the difference?”
“You’d know if you were a nurse.”
“Hey, I’ve got a husband and three teenaged sons which means I’ve been on call since 1978,” Laverne said, lifting up a baby.
“Five minutes ago you were passing yourself off as my housekeeper.”
“And now look at me. John, my mere presence is filling the great void within these peoples’ lives. If there’s one thing I learned in school it’s that nature abhors a vacuum.”
True, but not as much as the help.

Ain’t No Hairdo High Enough

After work I thought I’d venture into Manchester to check out the city’s annual Mardi Gras shenanigans. Caught up in the spirit of goodwill, I ditched the 4×4 and opted instead for public transport to help save the Himalayan Poop Bat which, I’ve been reliably informed by my 16 year old niece, is hunted to make Poop Soup. This led to my boarding a bus only recently decommissioned by the Pyong Yang Transit Authority and shipped to Britain by sampan in the dead of night. Now glancing down the aisle at the human roadkill sprawled across each seat, I decided to remain standing and endeavoured to engage the driver in lively banter. This, however, proved a non-starter because life had kicked him in the nuts not once, but several times that shift, reducing him to a series of unintelligible expletives and questionable hand gestures. Backing away slowly, I retreated upstairs where I was immediately overwhelmed by an aroma you won’t find in any Laura Ashley candle.

Unexpectedly offloaded at the corner of Kidnap and Tetanus, I happened upon an old timer in a doorway balancing a few coins in his outstretched hand. Well, behind every face there’s a story so I asked him to start from the beginning. What unravelled was a sorry yarn indeed and at its end my raconteur summed up his lot, “I have a wooden crate for a seat, I have to beg to use the toilet, people brush past me as if I’m invisible, I can’t afford to buy myself a hot drink because a brew around here costs £5 and, worst of all, I have no idea where I’ll end up tomorrow. Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

“Yes,” I commiserated, “I’ve flown Ryanair.”

I then cut through the Gay Village where I had a deep and meaningful conversation with a 7ft woman. Thelma Mahogany Jr initially stopped me to ask for a light and yes, I will admit that for a brief moment I was outside of my comfort zone, however I would like to state for the record that it had nothing to do with her station in life and everything to do with the knife down each leg-warmer. I’ll talk to anyone and, as luck would have it, it turned out Thelma just happened to be going wherever I was.

As we strolled through The Village I marvelled at the outrageously extravagant decor adorning every building and asked her to pass on my compliments to the Mardi Gras Committee.

“Oh, those aren’t Mardi Gras decorations,” Thelma corrected me.

“They’re not?” I queried, taking a closer look. “Then what are they?”

“Isn’t your neighbourhood decorated all year round?”

“Nope.”

“Then what’s your street like?” she looked puzzled. “Is it just blank space everywhere?”

“Uh, I guess so,” I murmured, now giving it some thought.

“That’s a bit of a waste, don’t you think? Why not jazz it up? Honey, you gotta live a little!”

The lady had a point. And while I might not have gone in for the winged butt-plugs, I was starting to come around to the idea of a themed neighbourhood, in principle.

And our Thelma has dreams. She informed me that she is, among other things, an artiste who will soon be appearing at The Manhole in her one-woman show, a tribute to women of colour, past and present, entitled From Motown To Ho-Town. The production sounds very edgy because in the opening number she appears onstage as a black Elizabeth I, head-butting Pilgrims while twirling fire batons pre-soaked in poppers the night before. Other members of the cast include three Shih Tzus on hoverboards, an ABBA tribute act from Korea and Thelma’s own mother who will be throwing Bibles at the audience during the interval. As for the big finale, a final homage to those who went before her, Miss Mahogany Jr will lip-sync to her self-penned, glitch-hop track Ain’t No Hairdo High Enough.

You’re all invited.

Note From Management: All performances will be matinees only until Thelma’s ankle monitor comes off

Emotional Baggage

Several years ago while travelling around Ukraine, I entered the only shop in a remote village to buy a couple of cold drinks. Placing my purchases on the counter, the elderly shopkeeper tallied my bill on an abacus then pushed it toward me. Not entirely up to speed on ancient counting tools which predate our own numeral system, I played it safe and handed him the equivalent of $5 in Ukrainian money. This, apparently, posed a problem and he asked if I had anything smaller. I replied, regrettably, that I did not. Thinking on it, he disappeared into the back before returning with a duckling which he duly handed over as my change.

The problem with holiday brochures is that they rarely cover an abacus/duck scenario. The pictures in them are enticing but the language is, at best, euphemistic and at worst, a flat out lie. And while it’s true that every situation can’t be covered, a bit of a heads-up regarding waterfowl as legal tender would go a long way for novices like moi.

Here then, is a list of terms from holiday brochures with their true meanings:

in-flight meal: UN ration with complimentary poppadom

in-flight entertainment: the sequel to the remake of the original, only this one’s set in the future where everyone can fly and stuff

short transfer to hotel: bring earplugs

car rental: how are you at replacing a head gasket?

bus service: you may be seated next to a goat in labour

local delicacies: if we can catch it, we’ll cook it

chef’s special: cake with a fly on top

all-inclusive resort: local excursions aren’t worth the risk of being kidnapped

in-house entertainment: an old man who takes out his artificial eye for the kids

cultural sensitivities: lose the MAGA hat

conservative: lose the rainbow flag beach towel

stunning wildlife: pack an anti-venom kit

365 days of sunshine: locals view redheads with suspicion

steeped in history: when in doubt, tell them you’re Canadian

friendly locals: a warlord wishes to marry your daughter

vibrant nightlife: gunfire

local amenities: you’re sharing a well with the next village

stunning scenery: ignore the oil refinery

exotic spices: stick to ketchup

unspoiled wilderness: don’t go in unarmed

tranquil setting: abandoned due to an ebola outbreak

health clinic: the vet will see you now

museum exhibits: those artefacts our country forgot to cart off when we left sharpish 150 years ago