Dunces with Wolves: The third volume of the Bernard Jones Investing Diaries

by Nick Louth

  “Ah well, there’s a method in my madness.” Russell straightens his jacket and puts his old Costain photo ID badge round his neck. He then walks up to a large group of moustachioed businessmen at the other side of the bar, some with Polish newspapers, who have just bought a large round of drinks.

  “Excuse me gentlemen. Anyone here flying to Poland?” he says, leaning over the table.

  They nod, and Russell asks for boarding passes, and reads back to them the flight number printed on each. He nods and then tells them that the indicator boards are no longer working and due to a security alert they should go straight through to the gate. One man starts to drain his drink, but Russell says they should please go straight away because flights may leave early. The businessmen rush off, gesticulating at the boards and each other in frustration. Once they have gone around the corner, Russell calls us over to the table.

  “I can’t believe you,” says Chantelle.

  Russell sniffs each drink in turn. “Harry, Martin, untouched pints of Carling. Ladies, two double vodkas, one with orange, just a sip missing. Mike, no real ale I’m afraid. How about most of a pint of lager shandy?”

  “I’m not drinking that,” Mike says. “There’s slobber on the glass. It’s disgusting.”

  “Your loss,” says Russell, draining it in one. “Besides, all of you, knock ‘em back quick. We’ve got about ten minutes before them Poles come back looking for me.”

  “Christ, I thought Harry was a chancer,” says Chantelle. “We’ve reached new depths today. Still, Riga here we come!” With that she and Stef knocked back their ill-gotten vodkas.

  Friday 21st March: Rigorous Riga

  Blearily I opened one eye. A wave of pain swam forward from the back of my head. A grey half-light filtered through thin curtains, accompanied by the distant drone of traffic. My watch, still on UK time, said 7.17am. Nearby I could hear breathing. Raising my head slightly, I scanned my surroundings. My attention was immediately hijacked by two brassieres lying on the bedroom floor. One large, white and very lacy, the other small with yellow flowers. There were other items of clothing scattered around, including a black high-heel boot, crumpled on its side, and a Spandex jacket. There was also something else, which after considering every other possibility, I decided really was a leopard skin thong. Despite the hangover, I felt a frisson of excitement, not for the moment recalling how I came to be in such an interesting position. I turned over, and reached out a hand with some trepidation. All I felt was a wall. Ah, yes. A single bed.

  Last night seems a bit of a blur, but gradually it started to come back to me. I recall landing at Riga airport in the small hours, and all seven of us piling into a minibus. The driver had trouble finding the hotel Russell had booked. Chantelle and Stef had already bought themselves a bottle of vodka from God-knows-where, and were drinking it with a straw. It was passed around, and I took my turn. Only Mike and I had been prepared to pay Ryanair for a sandwich (salmonella and cucumber), so everyone else had been drinking on an empty stomach. The hotel when we eventually found it was a darkened doss-house behind the city’s food market.

  “This no good hotel,” said the driver, peering at the cracked sign and grimy windows.

  “No, it’s alright,” Russell said, starting to get out.

  “No, not good. Very bad people here, make rob of you. You get proper hotel. You nice tourist, like nice hotel.”

  “Oi, Russell, have you booked us into a dump,” yelled Harry. Eventually, much to Russell’s protestation, we persuaded the driver to take us the two-minute drive to a decent hotel. The trouble was it worked out about £35 per room, and they had only two family rooms, each of which slept three, and a single, for the seven of us. Tightwad Russell wanted to find somewhere cheaper but the rest of us, dog tired, would have none of it.

  “That’s all right,” said Harry, quick as a flash. “I’m happy to chaperone the girls and sleep on the couch.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Chantelle. “Nice try Harry. But that would be like putting Dawn French in charge of a Mars Bar warehouse.” She and Stef had a quick whispered discussion and then chose me. “Bernard’s the only one of you we can really trust to be a gentlemen. Well, sorry Mike, you are okay but you smoke.”

  Harry then demanded the single room, which Russell would have to pay for, while Martin Gale, Russell and Mike Delaney ended up sharing the other family room. Harry soon discovered the hotel bar, but only he, Martin and the two women had the energy for more drinking. Eventually, though I was persuaded on the grounds that I might as well drink with them, because if I turned in now I would only be disturbed when they came back drunk, as they were determined to be. So the evening had gradually dissolved away.

  Someone in the room yawned and stretched. I turned my head gradually, and heard a body emerging from the bed near the window. A dark shape detached itself from the shadows, and gently slid the curtains a foot apart. There in the dazzling gap was briefly displayed a naked silhouette of womanly perfection. I drank in the smooth round bottom, breasts like inverted bells and the neat dark triangle at the top of Stef’s rangy thighs. After a luxurious stretch, she turned from the window to scan the floor, lifting various items of clothing. I forced my eyes almost shut. Within a foot of my bed, so close that I could detect her delicious sleepy scent, she bent down and picked up a towel, which she quickly wrapped around herself. My heart was hammering, and a raging and undeniable lust was drawn towards the centre of my body. Stef padded to the mirror, ran quick hands through dishevelled hair, and then on into the bathroom. While Chantelle snored blissfully on, my head swam with erotic thoughts about her friend. A few minutes later Stef emerged wearing a bathrobe, drew back the curtains, and I felt able to offer her a feigned sleepy greeting.

  “Got a bit of a thick head this morning,” she said, grimacing. “How about you?”

  “Slight headache and a bit stiff, otherwise okay,” I replied, struggling to sit up in bed. “I’m ready for some breakfast though.”

  “I think we might have missed it,” Stef said.

  “I don’t think so. It’s only half seven in Britain and Latvia’s two hours ahead, so it’s 5.30am now.”

  “No, if Latvia’s two hours ahead that’s 9.30am. There’s a bit too much daylight out there for 5.30am isn’t there?” Stef said, displaying the kind of mental agility that today was well beyond me.

  “Hmm. I think breakfast finished at 9am.”

  “So let’s go out and get some.”

  While I took my turn in the bathroom, Stef got to work repairing her Mohican hair. By the time I’d emerged she’d stiffened it with gel to form a crest from her forehead right down to the nape of her neck. While I slipped on my blazer and brogues, Stef applied a touch of mauve eye shadow, grabbed her suede jacket and whispered goodbye to the still-sleeping Chantelle.

  We emerged from the hotel into the genial warmth of a spring day. A church bell tolled in the distance as we set off into the cobbled streets of the old town. These medieval causeways were enclosed by gabled, heavy-roofed buildings but at the far end beckoned an open square, bisected by a tramline. There, near a large Orthodox church we found a bakery, and bought some extremely cheap blackcurrant tarts which we ate while sitting on a bench. We got quite a few stares from the locals. I suppose it’s not everyday they see a crusty old duffer and a green-haired gothic beauty sharing breakfast.

  “So tell me about this share club,” Stef says. “Do you make much money?”

  “No. I can’t say we do. We sit around and argue about what to do. Half the time we act rapidly and decisively, and it turns out to be completely wrong. The other half the time we’re too late to do the right thing. It’s a bit frustrating actually.”

  “Right.”

  “So do you invest yourself, Stef?”

  “No. Haven’t got the cash. What I do have is just in the building society. I think the stock market’s a bit of a casino.”

  “That would explain why we’ve lost most of our chips then,” I r
esponded glumly.

  Friday 21st March: Off Your Trolley

  11am. Back at the hotel another argument is brewing, this time about beer. Harry is fuming at the cost of drinks, and it is Russell once again who is in the firing line.

  “You said that the beer was 30p a pint, you lying toe-rag,” Harry said. “I paid 2.8 lats for a half litre last night. That’s nigh on three quid.”

  “I know, I know. I was just going on what the guidebook said,” Russell replied. “Prices have obviously gone up a bit.”

  “A bit!” Martin exclaimed. “At that rate I’m only going to be able to drink a tenth of what I planned.”

  “It’ll be cheaper away from the touristy bars,” Russell said, perusing his well-thumbed copy of the Rough Guide to Latvia.

  “Let’s have a gander,” said Chantelle, prising it from his hands. “Is this all you’ve got?” she said. “It’s bloody ancient. Published in 1996! No wonder the prices are out of date.” As she held up the book, a great sheaf of pages slid out.

  Russell grabbed for them, but Stef was quicker. As she scooped them up she found some other papers that had dropped out. “Well, well. Look what I’ve found.” She showed around a flyer that had been concealed in the book. It had a woman on the front, naked except for a strategically placed Latvian flag, knotted into a pair of knickers. Russell made a grab for the flyer, but Stef quickly passed it behind her back to Chantelle.

  “You dirty bugger, Russell,” Chantelle said. “Listen to this everybody. ‘Riga stag experience. Lovely ladies to your liking. Sauna and strip, sensuous, no-holds-barred massage...”

  “Oh my God,” she tittered. “They’ve even got topless paintballing! And someone’s written a little asterisk against it!”

  Russell again grabbed for the flyer, but Chantelle handed it back to Stef who raised it high over her head. With her 4 inch heels it was beyond Russell’s reach.

  “Come on, gissit ‘ere.” muttered Russell.

  “Now I begin to get the idea of why you’ve all come here,” Chantelle said. “Were all you perverts in on this?”

  “Well I wasn’t,” I added, truthfully.

  Mike Delaney shook his head.

  “First I’ve heard of it,” said Harry, trying to look innocent.

  “But it was you who told me,” said Martin.

  Harry looked heavenward. “For God’s sake! Why can’t you keep your mouth shut for once?”

  “There’s nowt wrong with having a bit of fun,” Russell said. “We work hard and we play hard. It’s as simple as that.”

  “You don’t work hard,” said Martin. “You skive off when no-one’s looking, and sometimes when they are.”

  “What about your budget?” asked Stef. “This’ll cost you more than you expect if you’re still working off 1996 prices. Strippers don’t come cheap.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Harry. “There was a girl I knew in Naples in 1961 who’d let you feel her up for a Woodbine. For a full packet she’d take off her wooden leg and show you...”

  “That’s quite enough, Harry,” I said. “Ladies present.”

  “Where?” said Harry, scanning the hotel lounge. “I thought it was just us.”

  Stef giggled. “You really push it right to the limit, don’t you?”

  “Well I don’t know about you, but I’ve got plans,” said Mike Delaney, waving a much more modern Lonely Planet guide around. “Anyone fancy coming with me to the Museum of the Occupation?” Mike described the 50 years that Latvia was controlled by foreign powers. From 1941 to 1945 it was the Nazis, and from then until 1991 the Russians. Chantelle and Stef opted to go with him, while Russell had other plans.

  “That’s too depressing for me,” he says. “There’s a motor museum. That should be a laugh. What d’yer reckon Harry?”

  “I’ve heard there is an ethnographic museum,” said Stef. “That would be right up you’re street.”

  “What’s ethnographic? Is that like ethnic pornography?” Harry asked, then whispered to me: “I like girls of every colour, even green,” he said, inclining his head towards Stef.

  “Well, ethnography can be stark, confrontational and explicit,” Stef said. “It’s a raw and naked look at who we are and where we came from. I did it as part of my degree.”

  “She’s a bit of a girly swot,” said Chantelle.

  “Well,” said Harry, rubbing his hands with glee. “I’m up for a bit of raw and naked looking.”

  Russell gave him a thumbs up, and they both looked quizzically at me. I nodded in agreement. I just wanted to be there to savour their disappointment.

  Friday 21st March: Jab At The Hut

  4pm. Back at the hotel, both Harry and Russell are feeling hoodwinked. We’d taken a tram and two trolleybuses in order to get to the ethnographic museum, and twice ended up in the wrong place. By the time we had found the museum, in a wooded area by a large lake, it was clear that ethnography wasn’t quite what Harry and Russell imagined.

  “It’s just a collection of wooden shacks,” said Harry. “I don’t believe we’ve come all this way to see that load of old cobblers.”

  “You must admit it’s quite pleasant though, seeing all the different types of wooden houses that make up the country’s architectural heritage,” I said.

  “You were in on this, weren’t you Bernie?” Russell said. “You knew what ethno was, dincha?”

  “I knew it was about culture and society, so you were likely to be disappointed. I’m afraid she’s made a monkey out of you both.”

  Saturday 22nd March: Disco Queen

  Recollections are hazy. Four bars, a Russian restaurant, more bars. Lots of dark beer, then whisky, then vodka. Good grief. I recall being in a disco. I don’t know how we got there. Most of us were comatose at a table. Martin Gale was unconscious, slumped forward with his head sideways on the table. Mike Delaney had gone back to the hotel. Russell was wobbly, and had the still-wet stain of an entire bowl of beetroot soup down his best shirt and jacket. I don’t recall how it happened, but it looked like he’d been shot, and had delayed us getting into the night club as the doormen tried to steer him to the nearest hospital. Only the two girls had any energy. Stef and Chantelle had been dancing with two drunken Russian businessmen for the last hour.

  Stef was quite a sight. Tonight she’d avoided the gel and the heavy make-up and let her shoulder-length hair hang loose (of course, it was still bright green, and matched her high heels.) She was wearing a skimpy singlet and short skirt, which showed off her fabulous legs and sinuous curves as she gyrated to the pulsing sound. Chantelle, who’d been to school with her, said she was known as ‘Stef the body’, in the sixth form. I could see why. Chantelle, who must be the only person who ever pogoed to Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive, was having more trouble keeping with the pace. However their partners, grey suits patched with sweat under the armpits, were the first to give up. The two Russians thinking their chances were good, followed the girls back to our table, and insisted on buying rounds of vodka. They introduced themselves as Yevgeny and Valeri.

  “Valerie? That’s a girl’s name in England,” said Harry.

  “Nyet,” said Valeri, the beefier of the two. “Not Val-urry. V’leery. Man’s name. Means to be strong, healthy.” He thumped his chest for emphasis.

  “So you’re on the pull, like?” said Russell.

  “Pull?” said Yevgeny. “What is pull?”

  “Is pill, Yevgeny,” said Valeri. “He wants know you have pill.”

  “It’s alright, darling,” giggled Chantelle, putting her hand on Yevgeny’s hairy forearm. “I promise you won’t get pregnant.”

  Until this moment, I hadn’t noticed either a) that Chantelle was even drunker than most of us, or b) that she seemed to like the hairy Russian, despite his moles. Fearful for Chantelle’s honour, I intervened: “So, are you fine fellows married? Do you have kids?”

  “Married, no,” said Yevgeny, with a sly look at his colleague. “Kids, nyet. However, Yevgeny, he have Ket. Puss
y ket, called Katerine.” At this point he dissolved into sniggers.

  “Not Ket. Is dog,” said Yevgeny. “Is bitch.”

  “Don’t listen to them lot,” said Chantelle, pointing at us. “They’re just trying to spoil my evening.”

  “No, we’re trying to stop you spoiling their evening,” laughed Harry. “When they find out what’s underneath.”

  “Not that you’ll ever find out what’s underneath,” Chantelle said, hands on hips. “You’re just jealous of them.”

  “No, I’m not.” said Harry.

  Chantelle took her Russian beau onto the dance floor for a smoochie number, repeatedly sticking two fingers up to Harry behind her partner’s back. Stef, meanwhile, wobbled off to the loo.

  “Hey, Valerie,” Harry said. “You’re doing alright there.”

  “Beautiful green-hair girl,” Valeri said, his bloodshot eyes going wistful. “I want make love from her.”

  “The only trouble is,” Harry whispered. “She’s got clap.”

  “Klep. What is this klep?”

  “Disease,” Harry said, pointing to his groin. “Down there.”

  The Russian’s face contorted in disappointment. “This klep, is AIDS?”

  “No, it’s even worse. It’ll gnaw your todger off in five minutes.”

  “Todger?”

  “You know. Cockski, St Petersburglar,”

  “Huh?”

  “C’mon mate, y’know. The old turnip trumpet, the meaty Mig, the beetroot baton, the Smirnoff javelin.”

  Valeri looked utterly baffled.

  “He means your virile member,” I interjected, pointing at his trousers.

  “Ah,” he said. “My buj. Is bad for me?”

  “But he’s lying. It isn’t true. He just being vile,” I added.

  “Now the other girl,” said Harry. “She’s actually a tryborg.”

  “You mean cyborg, Harry,” I said. “Half human, half robot. Is that the joke?”