by Paul O'Grady
On the plus side, the crowd (it would’ve had to be packed that night) went wild. Westerners didn’t normally throw caution to the wind and behave in such a manner, especially in a place like Gussie’s, and as my new-found confidence grew, fed by the applause and cries for more, I gave them a bit of patter which, in my drunken haze, appeared to go down very well. Wisecracking with the crowd, I even managed a comeback to an American who asked me why I wasn’t taking the underpants off.
‘Because I’ll catch cold,’ I replied coyly, a feeble retort and one nicked from Gypsy Rose Lee, I know, but very effective nevertheless at the time. Asking my audience if they would be so kind as to return the clothing that I’d tossed among them with such gay abandon, I left the dance floor to a tumultuous roar of appreciation. Flushed with the sweet smell of success, I drank every drink that was bought for me and had to be poured into the sidecar of Joselito’s Trike when Gussie eventually managed to persuade me to go home.
The following afternoon I awoke fully clothed. It seemed ironic that I had been happy to take them off in a club but apparently hesitant to do the same when it came to bedtime. It was a hot afternoon and I was as dehydrated as Tutankhamun’s mummified corpse but after a couple of gallons of bottled water and a cool shower I felt as good as new, which, unfortunately, isn’t the case these days. Now I’ve supposedly grown up, a hangover nearly kills me. I just can’t do it any more and, sadly, nor do I want to. After a heavy night on the lash I found that I was having to lie down in a darkened room for at least forty-eight hours with a sign saying ‘Do not resuscitate’ hanging at the bottom of the bed. Hangovers are self-inflicted and a waste of time, so I don’t bother and on the rare occasion I do, boy, do I regret it the next day.
But back in my early twenties a hangover was easily shaken off and I tottered out into the sultry afternoon sun in search of breakfast. Outside the Holiday Inn, Joselito pulled up alongside me on his Trike.
‘You OK?’ he asked. ‘Phew, you had plenty to drink.’
‘I don’t care, I enjoyed myself.’
‘Hey, you never told me you were in showbiz.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Well, you should be, you’re very funny.’
‘Nah, I wasn’t. I was drunk, I made a bloody fool of myself.’
‘No, you were good.’
This was music to my ears.
‘Well, the singing maybe not so hot …’
OK, no need to nit-pick.
‘But you’re a funny man, you made everyone laugh.’
Right, that was it, as soon as I got back to London I was going to get an act together. I was bursting to get on a stage and show off and didn’t care in what capacity as long as somehow I got to scratch this persistent theatrical itch and achieve my ambition.
‘You like to watch the striptease?’ Joselito asked.
‘No I don’t, thanks,’ I said, recalling the cabaret at the Oddball club, ‘I don’t want to watch some lad sitting on a coke bottle.’
‘No, this is ladies.’
‘I don’t want to watch ladies sitting on a Coke bottle either.’
‘No, this is the striptease.’ He mimed taking off an imaginary glove. ‘Very classy club. I’ll take you tonight, yes?’
I was aware of a street of clubs that was popular with men looking for a ‘girly show’. And so that night I found myself in a seedy little club, transfixed by the unimaginable sight of a young woman smoking a cigarette, and not with her mouth. Ryan had told me that what few sex shows there were in Manila were tame in comparison with the Patpong dives in Bangkok. Even so …
‘Let’s go,’ I said to Joselito. ‘I don’t want to watch this kind of thing.’
‘No, wait,’ he said, pulling me back down into my seat. ‘Wait till you see the big lady, she’s very good.’
The big lady turned out to be a portly redhead of indeterminate years, who one moment could’ve passed for twenty-five until suddenly, before our very eyes, she’d transformed, as if we were catching a glimpse of her through the mirror of Dorian Gray, into a haggard old lady who really shouldn’t be taking her clothes off in public. Judging by the size of her heavily lacquered bouffant hairdo that refused to move an inch as she swayed across the stage in time to the three-piece band’s version of ‘Rock Around The Clock’, throwing her head back defiantly every now and then, she must’ve shared the same hairdresser as Imelda. Clinging to the side of it like a dead bird caught in a hedge was one of those strange confections of feathers and net that women wear at weddings and are called fascinators.
Her heavily made-up face was swollen and strangely out of shape. I realize now that this was due to the work of an inept plastic surgeon but then I thought she’d been fighting. She certainly looked like she’d gone a couple of rounds with David Haye, especially around her puffy eyes. Parading about the stage, waving the side of her green sequin dress back and forth suggestively, she fixed us all with an unnatural smile that instead of having the desired effect of being seductive came across as slightly unnerving.
I wondered if she’d had one too many as she seemed a little unsteady on her feet. She clumsily unzipped the dress and struggled out of it, revealing a pair of sagging buttocks and wobbly thighs pitted with cellulite and threaded with varicose veins. Turning to face the audience she proceeded to gyrate and violently bump her hips, thrusting them towards us, making little snake-like movements with her tongue, darting it swiftly in and out in what she must have mistakenly believed to be a provocative manner. Unhooking her bra to reveal a pair of rock-solid breasts that might have been augmented with two substantial grapefruit, she slowly got down on the floor, naked now apart from a tiny G-string, arching her back to reveal a bird’s-eye view of her crotch which she proceeded to slowly stroke.
Here it comes, I thought, expecting the inevitable array of merchandise worthy of the conveyor belt on The Generation Game to come streaming out of her. Thankfully she suddenly changed position, leaning towards us on all fours and unsuccessfully attempting to jiggle her rock-hard breasts by a series of violent shudders and shakes of her shoulders which gave the impression that she was in the middle of a violent fever. Nothing short of an earthquake could get those cement-packed puppies to move, nevertheless – to give credit where it was due – she certainly persevered. She was still giving it lots of tongue action, thrusting it furiously in and out, perhaps a little over-enthusiastically for her own good as in her pre-orgasmic state she managed to dislodge her top set of false teeth. Momentarily she lost her composure as she hastily shoved them back in her mouth before they fell out completely. She concluded the act by whipping the G-string off, giving us a quick flash and then daintily skipping off the stage to muted applause. I whistled approval for this brave old girl with the ferocity of a steam train because thanks to my cousin Marjie, who taught me how to whistle with two fingers in my mouth, I can shatter glass and I am deeply indebted to her for this much-envied skill.
‘She’s very old,’ Joselito told me as the brave lady left the stage, waving. ‘It’s said she danced for General MacArthur in 1946 when Manila gained her independence.’
I had no reason to disbelieve him. We went on to Gussie’s for a drink afterwards. I was a little apprehensive at first about showing my face in there again after my impromptu strip, concerned that I might have gone too far and committed the cardinal sin of ‘making a show of meself’, but I had no reason to worry as I was given a hero’s welcome. It was a Saturday night and the joint was jumping. Gussie seemed very flustered as one of his waiters hadn’t turned up and he was running around behind the tiny bar like a headless chicken, trying to keep up with the demand for drinks.
‘I’ll help you,’ I offered. ‘Pass me a tray and a notepad and pen and I’ll take some orders for you.’
Without hesitating he handed them over and I set to work. Soon I had a tray piled high with drinks and was hopping from table to table serving customers as if I’d been working there all my life.
I’d noticed two w
omen who always sat at a table by the door, two unremarkable middle-aged ladies dressed in short-sleeved cotton blouses and black slacks, their hair pulled neatly back from faces devoid of any make-up. Above the club there was a hotel of some sort. Certainly there were rooms for rent as these two ladies seemed to be doing a roaring business taking gentlemen upstairs for a quick ‘massage’. I soon learned to point in their direction any customer who asked me if I knew of any action going, wink-wink. Here I was, working in a whorehouse again, albeit temporarily, but long enough to put me ma in hospital if she ever found out. Personally I relished the notion that I was peddling drinks in a salacious bar and only wished the job was permanent. It certainly beat the Showplace or the RAFA club back in Birkenhead and it was infinitely preferable to wiping arses for Camden Council.
I helped Gussie out over the next couple of nights, earning a considerable amount in tips. Having a Westerner wait on tables, especially a gobby one, was virtually unheard of, so the customers tipped the novelty act heavily. I even plucked up the courage to say a few words and introduce the band. Oh, I was loving this job but unfortunately all good things must end, as they did when the usual waiter came back. He happened to be Gussie’s nephew and because blood is thicker than water I regretfully handed my tray over and went back to civvy street.
When Ryan returned from his trip I was secretly gratified to see that he was the colour of an overboiled beetroot. ‘Had a nice time?’ I asked, slapping him hard on the back and making him leap into the air with pain like a Looney Tunes cartoon character.
‘Listen, let’s call a truce and start again,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we go somewhere together, just you and me, see if we can’t work things out, eh?’
And so for my birthday Ryan very generously took me to Hong Kong. I’d heard so much about this place from my seafaring uncle Hal and cousins John and Mickey who made regular trips there that I felt instantly at home. Mickey had been engaged to a Chinese girl he’d met there and they were about to be married but at the final hurdle she jilted him by letter, breaking his heart in the process. He was killed in a car accident not long afterwards. The girl was from an extremely wealthy family who lived on the Peak, Hong Kong’s most exclusive residential area, and I can just imagine their reaction when she told them she wanted to marry a merchant sailor from Birkenhead. It was doomed from the start. Poor Mickey.
In the only gay club in town, a place called Dateline, Ryan was surrounded by a bevy of oriental youths who clung on to him like a litter of Siamese cats from the moment he set foot in the door. They left me well alone, probably sensing my hostility towards them, and instead I sat on my bar stool enveloped in an emerald green haze, jealously watching Ryan lapping up all the attention.
‘Excuse me.’ I turned to find a young Malaysian at my side. ‘My friend likes you and would very much like to say hello to you.’
I knocked back what was left of my hideously expensive whisky and Coke and slid off my stool, shooting Ryan a look that said, ‘Curl up and die, shithead,’ as I mooched off to meet the friend. He was sitting at the back of the club in a dimly lit booth. The Malaysian go-between introduced us and I held out my hand to shake his but he ignored the gesture.
‘Oh, by the way, he’s blind,’ the Malaysian said, motioning me to sit down.
I didn’t want to ask the obvious, like if he was blind then how did he know that he fancied someone at the other end of the club, so I shut up and sat down, grinning uncomfortably. Ryan was going to love this, the only offer I get all evening is from a blind man and an elderly one at that with a face that could stop a clock.
‘Hello,’ I said in a voice that reeked of forced joviality. ‘My name’s Paul, pleased to meet you.’
‘He doesn’t speak any English, Pearl.’
‘No, it’s Paul.’
‘Yes, that’s what I said, Pearl.’
‘No, it’s PAUL, P-A-U … Oh, sod it, what’s the point?’
We sat in silence. Eventually the Malaysian leaned across the table and asked me if I’d like to come home with them.
‘What for?’
‘For sex, of course.’
‘What, with him?’
‘No, with me. He likes to watch.’
‘How can he watch when he’s blind?’
‘He uses his fingers to see.’
‘No thank you, I’m with my boyfriend and I’d better get back.’
‘Bring him as well,’ he shouted after me as I returned to the bar.
Ryan was on his own, his harem had vanished elsewhere, and so we sat down and got very drunk. When I told him about my encounter with the Malaysian and his blind sugar-daddy he predictably roared with laughter. He was still laughing when we got back to the hotel, telling me that I should have gone back with them as the blind old man might have mistaken my myriad mozzie bites for Braille and he was curious to know what they might spell out.
‘Probably “For Sale”,’ he laughed as I jumped on his back and dragged him to the floor. We rolled around the hotel corridor play-fighting until eventually we lay in a heap, too drunk and exhausted by our exertions to move.
I could hear Gussie’s voice in my ear: ‘Tell him, tell him how you feel.’
And so I did.
He lay there in silence for a moment and then suddenly got up, brushing himself down before offering me his hand and helping me to my feet.
‘I used to love you,’ he said quietly, ‘once upon a time back in Liverpool, but that was a long time ago. I was in bits when you left to live in London and even more so after I came down to see you and you didn’t want anything to do with me. Well, it’s too late to go back now, things can never be the same. You do realize that, don’t you?’
I nodded.
‘Now get to bed and I’ll see you in the morning,’ and planting a chaste kiss on my cheek he went off to his room, leaving me alone in the corridor. It seemed our Mickey wasn’t the only one to have his heart broken in Hong Kong. Must be a family tradition, I reflected, making my way to my own bed.
On my return to Manila there was a letter from my mother. I wrote lots of letters back then, phone calls were expensive and so I was busy writing to almost everyone I knew on a daily basis. She’d sent me a clipping from the Liverpool Echo. Aunty Anne had entered a competition to write a poem about Liverpool and had won. There was a photograph of her, smiling proudly at the camera on the Prince’s Landing Stage in her best coat. Her poem had been printed in quite a large column alongside her picture:
Oh dying Port of Liverpool,
No more your liners sail,
The Prince’s Stage deserted now
Could tell us many a tale
Of rich and poor and emigrants
Who sailed with hopes so high
Of a brave new land in another land
But leaving with a sigh
As they gazed their last at the Liver Birds,
Soaring to the sky,
And the homeward-bounders’ hearts that thumped
As the stage hove into view
Oh Liverpool, my Liverpool
What have they done to you.
Hopelessly sentimental, but enough to reduce me to tears of homesickness. Maybe it was time to go home? Ryan was moving on to a new job in Jakarta anyway so I had no choice. In the short time that I’d been in Manila I’d gone from loathing the place to falling in love with it. I’d even managed to get over my revulsion towards the food, happily wiring in to lumpiang bahay, a sort of Filipino egg roll, and a bowl of pancit molo, a dish similar to won ton soup, although I still fled in horror at the sight of the dreaded balut.
I learned that the people were very special indeed, hardworking and resourceful, enduring life’s many hardships with a smile and a song – a cliché with a Disney twist, I realize, but true nonetheless, and the more I got to know these people as individuals the more I admired and respected them. I was really going to miss all the folk I’d made friends with – Gussie and his customers, the manager of our hotel and his heavil
y pregnant wife, an elderly expat who lived in the apartment below us and occasionally invited me in for tea, the kids in the street who greeted me every day, but most of all I was going to miss Joselito with his enduringly optimistic outlook on life and sunny good nature.
As fate would have it, the day I was due to fly home all DC-10 aircraft had been grounded following a major accident in Chicago and the airways were in chaos. Manila airport was heaving with people trying to get home as I joined one of the seemingly never-ending queues to check in. Ryan slipped a twenty-dollar bill inside my passport, hoping that a little bribe might just guarantee me a seat. It didn’t. The Philippine Airlines steward behind the desk was above such blatant corruption and slid the bill across the desk with a sniffy but pointed ‘I think you’ll find you’ve left some money in your passport, sir.’
After a wait of over ten hours I was finally allocated a seat on a Pakistan Airlines flight to Bangkok. It was time to say goodbye to Ryan. He hugged me self-consciously.
‘Try to keep out of any trouble, eh?’ he said. ‘I’ll see you around.’
I grunted in reply as it was all that the lump in my throat would allow. I gave him one last wave as I entered the departure gate and then he was gone. As I’ve said frequently, I’m hopeless when it comes to saying goodbye.
No sooner had the flight taken off and we’d all settled down to read the in-flight magazine than I found myself in trouble. The plane had developed engine failure and was falling from the sky. The cabin shook violently, sending luggage in the overhead lockers flying into the aisles, all the oxygen masks popped out and from somewhere over the screams of panic a voice was telling us in broken English to adopt the brace position.
A group of Italian women in the row behind me cried out like the Wailing Women, clutching their rosary beads and appealing hysterically for divine intervention. I was strangely calm; nothing to do with nerves of steel, I just firmly believed that I was invincible, confident that my time wasn’t up yet and convinced that even if the plane were to crash then I would undoubtedly survive.
