Goulden Moments

Posted 10:22 AM by Gobbler
Behind Blog

Afternoon. not going to write much here other than the story. got about another week here and then home, as things are more or less coming to a conclusion re el bookio. and so to get on with it (some has been pucblish4ed before but thios is noew in order so what the heck)

Pint of Stella, Please

Heathrow Airport, England

June 8th 2003

"Pint of Stella, please," said Paul.

A pint of Stella. Thank the good Lord above. How much did it cost? No idea, it really didn’t matter. Paul took up his drink, took a long draught, retreated inside to a table, took another long draught, sat down, took out his cigarettes and took another long draught. Safety. For a while at least.

Three minutes earlier things had looked like they were heading for disaster as Paul had searched the terminal for a bar. How could there not be a bar? He had to find a bar, he needed a bar, yet somehow there didn’t seem to be one. "What am I going to do? What’s going on here?" He had desperately questioned himself. The thought of getting on that plane without being able to sit down quietly somewhere and gather himself. He wasn’t ready, it had all come to soon, he needed preparation. He had banked on the one last, final, relaxed pint. But it had seemed there wasn’t a bar anywhere and he was going to have to get on the plane as he was. No, no, it was all wrong! He had promised himself he would get to a bar and buy himself a drink and sit down, and then everything would be alright. But if there wasn’t a bar, what then? He hadn’t figured on that, he wasn’t prepared for that. His whole plan revolved around a bar and if there wasn’t a bar then his whole plan would lie in ruins from the start. What would he do then? It was perspiration time. Then he had spotted the bar and the world seemed a better place. Everything was going to be all right. Yes. Crisis averted. It wasn’t so bad after all, and the flight was twelve hours and that was a long time. He was safe for now.

Three pints, five cigarettes and forty-five minutes later he left the comfort of the bar and made his lonely way to the departure lounge. He still didn’t feel all that prepared, but the flight was 12 hours and, yes, that was a long time.

The first steps had been endured and he was now on the plane. His first most pressing engagement upon boarding the plane had been a trip to the toilet. As he sat down in his window seat, squeezing past his two seat mates, he realised with apprehension that insufficient time had been allowed to facilitate the complete processing of three pints of the dreaded Stella Artois, the ‘beater’, that the tank was rapidly re-filling and that, despite his recent endeavour in the toilet department the time would soon come when he’d have to return to the lavatory and syphon the python once again.

After about an hour the situation was approaching bursting point so he troubled his what he had now learned to be pleasant Swedish seat-mates to get up so that he could once more try his luck. However, whoever had found their way to the cubicle before him was enjoying an extended conference with his one-eyed trouser snake. Whether or not he was perhaps partaking in a five knuckle shuffle or had perhaps elected to weigh anchor in poo bay Paul was of course not at liberty to speculate on, although that didn’t stop him from doing so. Minutes went by and it occurred to him that it might after all be a female shitter sitter that was keeping him waiting. After five minutes his musings were interrupted as a block of turbulence was met and he was called back to his seat. This did not seem to please his Swedish comrades. They were not remotely impressed. They had stayed erect in waiting for his return and, as he had returned empty handed and full bladdered, the news that they would shortly have to get up again to let him try his hand once more did not appear to enthrall them.

Paul sat down with an apology, but the Swede next to him did not look happy. He looked, in fact, as if he was considering the various methods by which he could gain revenge on his evil neighbour the serial pisser. Paul looked away. He knew that the Swedes knew that he still needed the toilet and they weren’t happy about it. But what could he do? The Swedes began busily talking to one another. Paul pretended to be heavily engaged in studying the views outside the window. But as it was pitch black outside this ploy didn’t carry much credibility, so he absorbed himself in his really-extremely-interesting-inflight-magazine instead. Then he checked his inflight computer, which told him they were somewhere over Belorussia. The pressure continued to build.

After his failed attempt to get inside the toilet he resolved to hold on until after dinner had come round, which it did a little time later. This ploy didn’t really work however as both of the Swedes tucked into coffee after their meal. Things were getting very serious. They might be supping coffee for hours! Who could tell what these crazy foreigners might get up to. As he was close to rupturing something he decided that he might as well go for it, that then was as good a time as any. It turned out to be not the great stroke of genius he had hoped it might be and did not appear to go down especially well with the Swedes. Thankfully neither of them spilt their drinks as they tried to accommodate him while he slithered ungainly past them. Any such display of free-flowing liquid might have prompted something similarly unfortunate in Paul’s internal systems and that certainly wouldn’t have cheered up the Swedes. Thankfully nothing else went wrong and the lager was finally removed from his system. If the turbulence sign had come on and he had had to sit down again the Swedes might just have cracked and attacked him with meatballs that they inevitably had stashed in their hand baggage. Rumour has it the Swedes never go anywhere without an emergency supply of meatballs. Returning to his seat, Paul was finally able to relax.

He checked his inflight computer thing. The plane was passing over a place called Perm in Russia. Maybe it was the Russians, back in those wacky Commie days, who had invented the perm? No, that was just about the stupidest thing he had ever heard. He switched off the inflight computer. There was little chance now that he was going to be disturbed by conversation and he closed his eyes and relaxed; Thailand was still a long, long way away.

The Deep End

Bangkok, Thailand

Monday, June 9th

The door was opened by the small girl in the unbecoming green uniform and Paul entered his cell at Sawasdee House guest house. He looked behind him but the girl had already scuttled away. The room possessed a disturbing smell of urine. It wasn’t very big, there was room for his bed and a wooden box and that was about it. It had no windows. Not facing outside anyway. There was a window with slats of glass next to the door, covered by a thick, ripped anti-mosquito gauze. Nice.

He had to admit that he had expected a little more for his two pounds fifty, 180 baht, though perhaps he should not have. He sank into the bed and looked around him, dripping with sweat. It wasn’t all bad. The room did have a mirror, a fan, a coat rack or rather, at least, half a coat rack, a couple of smashing pictures of small girls in unbecoming green uniforms, a light, an ash tray, a bin and a slatted window with smashing view of the dark corridor with a metal gauze over it to keep out the mosquitos, which had a big rip in the corner.

It was a day for looking on the bright side. He had arrived, he was alive and he hadn’t been ripped off too badly. He was alone in a tiny box that stank of urine but there was a bar downstairs full of potential friends. Soon Paul would have to go downstairs and talk to total strangers. The urine odour was nasty though, and he combatted it with tobacco smoke.
Sitting on the bed trying not to think about when he would have to go downstairs and find a friend, he noticed the graffitti on the door, instructing him in large block letters to ‘STOP THINKING’. Slightly worrying. His interest roused he searched the walls for other such useful life tips. He found some anti-American statements including one comment proclaiming that its author had slept with one and that the author hated Americans. In response someone, presumably an affronted American, had written ‘Hatred is ignorance. Sad, very sad.’ These comments did not fill Paul with much confidence, and he was glad when he thought of something else he could do before he went downstairs: brush his teeth. He unpacked his things to get at the necessary equipment and realised his first clear mistake of the trip;

Smashing brand new tooth brush with a special swizzle end.

No sodding toothpaste.

What else to do? Paul began to think of other things that might take some time. What about his valuables? He’d take them downstairs to the safe. What about his stuff, it might all get stolen. He had brought a load of padlocks and chains with him, should he padlock his door? There was a latch on the door that he could use his padlock on, but should he or should he not put it on? The door had its own lock anyway. Imagine standing there outside the already locked door putting on an extra padlock, with people walking past looking at him thinking what a paranoid idiot he was thinking that he needed an extra padlock for his door. This was a guest house full of tourists, for heavens sake, who was going to rob him? But still, he should put it on, you can’t be too careful. He looked again at the wall. STOP THINKING. Come on Paul, he said to himself, do you or do you not put on the padlock. It seemed the most difficult question in the world. Bah, there’s already a lock on the door, unless you’ve got a key or you’re inside the room you can’t open the door. It was not necessary. No padlock. There were no other decisions to be made and he had run out of excuses for not doing downstairs. He got up, gathered himself and walked down to the mysterious world below.

There was nothing in the bar to suggest that the rooms upstairs were in fact tiny boxes complete with hint of urine; the bar was pleasant and spacious. Paul noticed that there were a few computers in the bar and he decided to check his emails. Perhaps his uncle had written, or someone else. It would be nice to know that someone knew what he was up to. He was pleased to discover that his uncle had indeed written.

Dear Paul,

Are you dead yet?

Probably not. By now you are, most probably, somewhere known as ‘abroad’. Only now do you realise your mistake Paul, only now do you see what madness this whole idea was. I can see it now, Paul. There you are in your shitty guest house in Bangkok sweating your bollocks off because the weather is so intolerable, wishing you were at home where you actually know someone. You’re in it now sunshine, up to your neck. You silly sod.

I know I’m being a little harsh but I did warn you, don’t say I didn’t. Did I warn you, Paul, did
I? I did. Fight the madness.

I have a plan, Paul, which will I think help to stop you from perishment and, feasibly, madness too. You must be honest with me Paul and tell me how you are doing. It’s not for my own benefit Paul, you know I don’t want to know anything about foreign places, Normalton is quite enough for me. But I am a lot older than you and know more than you do so I can help you avoid perishment. So keep me up to date with the details and I shall see what I can do.

Yours,

Uncle

KAt: hopefully it'll be less confusing when it's all in the correct order. and anyway, its only a story...

Evil Uncle: did you hear about the story of young freddie bloor?

Mum: perhaps... see you in a few days!