by Sue Perkins
‘Hello, boys!’ roared Liza, who had not yet seen the machetes.
‘Oh God, help us,’ I muttered, because I had.
The men leaned through the open window into the car. I could smell fresh sweat. I could hear my heartbeat. Time to die.
And then, suddenly, the atmosphere changed, moving from proper peril to utter calm. The reason? Well, the two tribesmen had just caught sight of Liza’s breasts and were now transfixed by them. Why wouldn’t they be? They are, after all, the best breasts in show business.
‘So, lads … Huang’s nuts?’ she said breezily, proffering the deep tub of cashews.
Fifteen minutes later, after a lot of gawping, nodding and eating, we finally left. At our next pit-stop the producer sauntered over to us, somewhat surprised.
P:
Gosh, they were friendly!
Me:
What do you mean?
P:
Well when we came for the recce, they came after us with knives! We had to put our foot down and get out of there … didn’t think we’d make it!
Much to the disappointment of those around us, we completed the Ho Chi Minh Trail safely. We didn’t get blown up. We didn’t drown. We didn’t get macheted by rogue hill-tribe warriors. After another seven hours of driving, we hit a tarmacked road, and from there we cruised to GOD KNOWS WHERE. I do know that by now we were back in Vietnam, propelled by the promise of a final night’s sleep in a proper hotel. It had only been a fortnight and yet it seemed like an eternity since I’d slept on something that didn’t look like an exhibit in an episode of CSI Asia.
The spa hotel was brand new, with polished slate and waterfalls and stuff. I looked around – paranoid – for someone selling their body or their sister’s body or their daughter’s body. Nothing. I looked for mould on the wall. Nothing. I listened for the sound of blaring transistors or the scream of chickens. Nothing. Just the faint whisper of pan pipes and the light scrape of muslin on toned thigh as a receptionist walked past. If Kelly Hoppen did prisons, this was the sort of place they’d be. Incarcerated. In taupe.
I read through the list of treatments and chose their Vietnamese Massage, which was, apparently, ‘famous’. I was led into a cool room, where I peeled off my clothes and lay on a bed, face down, placing my head in what looked like a large cotton polo mint.
Two hands pressed either side of my spine.
Heaven.
Then four hands.
Interesting.
It didn’t matter.
Finally, a happy ending.
Epilogue
I am sitting in my parents’ garden. The grass is warm. Parker is snuffling beside me, occasionally shooting me a cloudy, sightless glance.
I have returned from months away travelling in Asia. I am a gyroscope of stress, still adjusting to the sheer luxury of my surroundings – the calm, the cool, the peace.
The kitchen door swings open and Dad stands in the doorway. Behind him hangs a grey plastic mask that looks like something out of Halloween. It’s a relic of his radiotherapy sessions for yet another bout of cancer – this time in the throat, poor sod. He is looking a little worn, and his voice cracks when he speaks, but amid the agony of recuperation there is an unexpected gain – Dad is joyful again. Finally, after endless dances with death, after sixteen years with the black dog, he wants to live.
He wanders out into the sunshine, brandishing a fitness tracker armband.
Dad:
Breaking news – I’ve done my stats for the year. I’ve walked exactly 1,056 miles.
Me:
Not bad!
Mum:
[from within] Bert! Careful on those steps! You’ll fall, and that’ll be your hip shattered again.
Dad:
I’ve never shattered my hip!
Mum:
Yes, well, you’ve shattered everything else. It’s just a waiting game.
She follows him outside, Marigolds on. They lean against each other. I don’t know who is supporting who. Dad continues …
Dad:
I’ve walked 2,790,361 steps in total. Do you know what that averages out at?
Me/Mum:
No.
Dad:
7,645 steps per day.
Mum:
That’s very good.
Me:
Very good.
Dad:
It’s amazing to see how far you’ve gone, isn’t it?
I let the weight of that sentence settle a little before answering.
Me:
Yes. Yes, it is.
And then it hits me. This travelling, this endless momentum – it’s for them – for my mum and dad, who haven’t been able to go anywhere for such a very long time. Finally, after years on Pause, they are moving again. Now, finally, maybe I can stay still.
Me:
You should put those on your graph, Dad. On the computer. Just think – by the time you’ve walked into your study, you’ll have walked a couple of dozen more steps.
Dad:
Good idea. I’ll do that.
Mum:
I’m coming with you. I don’t trust you not to do yourself a mischief.
And off they go, the pair of them. This weird, two-pieced jigsaw that looks like it couldn’t possibly fit together as neatly as it does.
I love you, I think as they disappear from view.
I think it, but I don’t say it.
I love you.
Acknowledgments
There are an awful lot of people to thank. Because I am my parents’ daughter, I have catalogued them for easy reference.
Shit-Kickers
Louise Moore, who made me do this, Saint Jess of Leeke, who turned patience into an art form, and Jess Jackson, who now understands that my interpretation of ‘media ready’ is ‘I’ve managed to put my trousers on the right way round’.
My agent and friend, Debi Allen (gives one hundred per cent, only takes fifteen – bargain).
The Fantastic Four – Charlene, Jess, Lucy and Linda at DAA.
Good Samaritans
Joshua Reznak at Mill Lane Vets, and his wonderful nurse Lindsey, for helping me make one of the hardest decisions of my life.
All the brilliant, battle-worn souls who work in the NHS, with particular shout-outs to the doctors and nurses of Mayday, Treliske and West Cornwall hospitals.
Shelley Silas, who once saved me in the rain.
Game Changers
The teachers who inspired me: Lora Sanson, Clare Boyle, Mrs Green, Carol Schroder, Professor Janet Reibstein, Jan and Dennis Cassidy, Neil Cowley and Paul Lewis.
Those at the BBC and beyond who’ve mentored me and gifted me inspiring and life-changing adventures, with special thanks to Janice Hadlow and Charlotte Moore.
Rufus Roubicek and Pauline Law, who gave us our first breaks in telly.
Dawn and Jennifer, who gave us our first proper writing gig.
Kith and Kin
My surrogate families: the Giedroycs and the Szilagyis. I make a point of only hanging out with people with unpronounceable surnames.
Mary Berry, Paul Hollywood, and the entire Bake Off team.
My dearest friends; Emma,
Nicola, Sarah, Gemma, Neil, Andy and Michele.
Lord Donald and Master Noggin.
Mel, my partner in crime – specifically crimes against comedy.
And lovely Spanner, for not minding me spending hours at my desk in my pants screaming ‘WHHHHHYYYYY’.
But most of all, it’s for The Family Perkins, whose story this is – even though they might not recognize it.
Permissions
‘19’ (Nineteen)
Words & Music by Paul Hardcastle, Jonas McCord, William Couturie and Michael Oldfield
© Copyright 1985 Oval Music Ltd / Stage Three Music (Catalogues) Limited.
Stage Three Music Publishing Limited.
All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.
Used by permission of Oval Music Ltd / Music Sales Limited.
‘19’ written by Paul Hardcastle, Jonas McCord, William Couturie and Mike Oldfield published by Oval Music Ltd and Stage Three Music
‘Help Me Make It Through The Night’
Written by Kris Kristofferson
Published by EMI Songs Ltd
‘Love Hangover’
Written by Pamela Sawyer and Marilyn McLeod
Published by EMI Music Publishing Ltd/ Jobete Music Co Inc.
If you enjoyed
SPECTACLES
you might like to read the following titles by the same author …
THE BEGINNING
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First published 2015
Text and images copyright © Sue Perkins, 2015
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-1-405-91857-2
THE MUSEUM OF ME
* Including a bad drawing of a wizard, a poem about corn on the cob and a series of pressed flowers Copydexed to pink cardboard.
* To my great surprise and delight he has read this. His comment? Good, but a few spaceships would have livened it up no end.
OPENING NIGHT
* Dad is notoriously clumsy. Notable accidents include: falling out of the loft head first, severing his finger on a ham tin lid and leaping backwards into a greenhouse while playing catch.
PETS
* Don’t believe that anyone could actually look like that? Turn to the next page.
* Me: Mum? How many catastrophizers does it take to change a lightbulb?
Mum: Change it? Are you out of your mind, Susan? You need a qualified electrician to do that. Sandra Harvey tried that and she was in hospital for a week.
* Me: Mum? How many catastrophizers does it take to change a lightbulb?
Mum: Change it? Are you out of your mind, Susan? You need a qualified electrician to do that. Sandra Harvey tried that and she was in hospital for a week.
BITTEN
* This is a lie. We did Homer’s The Odyssey.
GO EAST
* One employee, Stephen, ran the Business Books section downstairs. We were all a little in awe and in love with him. He was older, in his early twenties, and a graduate. Impossibly cool. He introduced me to the short stories of a new writer called Ian McEwan, who he suspected would go on to great things. Stephen now runs one of the most august publishing houses in the world. I’m so proud one of us at least has gone on to do something decent with our lives.
NEW HALL
* This has not been fact-checked.
MELANIE
* Because I’d not had the time, skill or indeed motivation to craft anything in advance, this ‘routine’ mainly consisted of wry observations about the journey from college to clubroom that I’d taken some thirty minutes beforehand. On the plus side, no one could say it wasn’t fresh material.
AULD REEKIE
* This was our first genuine review. You can’t fault it for factual accuracy.
* She’d had two sips of sherry. This is enough to get my mum hammered. Once she had a full glass of Cointreau and couldn’t get out of bed the next day. ‘My head and my body hurt,’ she wailed. ‘Is it Lyme’s disease?’ We had to explain gently to her that it was a hangover.
* This also includes five new-born puppies, a Clairol Foot Spa and a wheelie bin full of Reese’s Pieces.
THE BALLAD OF PICKLE AND PARKER, OR HOW I FELL IN LOVE
* OK, Mel did once, but it was a long time ago now.
MUSIC, MAESTRA, PLEASE
* I don’t have a separate phone for work. Separate phones are for criminals, billionaires and Batman.
† And yet I readily agreed to be the voice of cluster-fuck omni-flop Don’t Scare the Hare. I really am a proper cretin.
* One at a time. I am too tired to be polyamorous.
THE END OF THE LINE
* Later that night I wrote a letter to my dog. It is here, at the end of this chapter, exactly as I wrote it.
A LETTER TO PICKLE
* I say alongside, you’re a beagle. More like 400 yards to the right. In a thicket.
IT’S ALL OVER THE FRONT PAGE
* According to every DVLA examiner I came across 1986–99.
* It really, really does.
* She does.
* I do.
† I do.
* There is no punchline to this story. Sometimes life doesn’t give you one. I’m as sorry as you are.
I AM BECOME CAKE, THE DESTROYER OF MIDRIFFS
* I believe this is now in production.
* I am now braced for an onslaught of livid, gastronomically blessed Barrys.
THE DALTON HIGHWAY
* I thank God every day that I am not responsible for my own career.
