Pa Ranoid they might call me, if my name was Pa, Paddy, Pat or Patrick. Thankfully, it is none of the above. But I am paranoid. And I’m in a hotel lobby. On my final morn in London. Waiting for a car to show up to take me to the airport. Wondering whether I should just eat all this paper? Or… Can’t see any other option really.
“Want some skunk geezer?”
Pardon? “Some skunk?”
Do I want a skunk? “Yeah. Want to buy?”
Why would I buy a skunk? “You being funny?”
Am I being funny? “You is being funny, pretty boy.”
So I get out of the tube. East London. Not sure what part. But already it looks dodge. Balls. Never considered this when booking stand-up gigs. Presumed central-ish would be grand. Anywhere close enough to Picadilly. This seemed close. And it was. Just also dodge. Hmm. Not sure which way to go either. East? Which way did I come out? I’ll head to that Starbucks, do some sussing. Oh right, just up the road a bit? Cheers boss, and an espresso to go. So I’m back strolling up the street. Convinced Starbucks guy pointed me in the right direction. Looking for a venue whose name is now eluding me. King’s Arms? King’s Cross? Queen Bishop? No clue. Oh yeah, the Goat’s Head? I think that’s it. Hang on, what does this dodgy looking hooded dude want… Pardon? Oh right, I think he’s trying to sell me some skunk. No clue what the funk that is but- He’s getting angry. Time to walk faster. Hey hup. Quicken the pace, hang 0n, giddy up, the Shepherd’s Cross, found the place, in I go, skunk, back up away to funk! Continue Reading »
Merry Christmas RanDummies and mighty blogaruu readers! Hope you are still getting your turkey sweats on. While you do, why not enjoy this piece which I wrote for an Irish paper recently. Pants off. Trifle. On!
A Hollywood Christmess Story
Is that Slash? Hmm. Is he looking at me? Hmm. Not sure. Is it him? Is he real? Am I drunk? What’s going on? Hmm. I’m going back for a kip.
Next morn. Stephen’s Day. Boxing Day? Not sure what they call it here in L.A. Eyes open. I’m on a couch at Robbie Williams’ house. Awake. Alone. Alive. Stiff back. Slept awkwardly. No sign of Slash. No sign of anyone. All left. Or upstairs. Sleeping. Sensible folk. Unlike me and my dry mouth. Tastes like glue. And so this is Christmas. Continue Reading »
What do you call a ponder pipe that just lays around all day? Mopey Dick. Badum. My first day in London, I was moping like no other. Woke up early. Phoned the prison. Spoke to Kailand. Told me her news – “They keep giving us bananas and milk for meals, I’m hooked on the milk.” Slurp. Filled her in on my news – US Embassy said there’s nothing they can do, magistrates decision so just have to sort it out when you get home. Some dose. Slurp. Kailand is upset. But still. Her spirits are high. Night’s sleep always helps in fairness. Or else they were spiking the milk.
It was then realised that it must be hard to keep conversations flowing with people in prison. Both had filled the other in in detail what had happened since we saw each other last (about 24 hours ago). After that, our news seemed insignificant or non-existence. I’d phone back and Kailand would tell me she had a nice non-English speaking conversation with an Indian woman about milk. I’d inform Kailand that the hotel room was nice but all the TV stations seemed to be showing was the Big Bang Theory. Then Kailand had to go to get more milk. I’d phone back. Find out if the milk was really cold or room temperature. Called off again to go brush her teeth if she wanted to. Phone back again and then… I was told Kailand had been taken away. Being brought back to the airport. Put on a flight. Which flight? Wouldn’t tell me? What time? Hung up on me. Dose. Wouldn’t speak to Kailand about milk again until she was back in L.A, eating some Thanksgiving turkey and egg nog. So that was a balls. Continue Reading »
Cab’s outside. My clothes are still wet. What. The. Funk. Dryer mysteriously died the night before. Damp garments strewn all over my abode. Dry, funkers, dry!! Need to pack you, you and you. Need ye all for my trip to London. Vital I have that white t-shirt and that white t-shirt and that pair of socks, vita- Actually. I’ve over packed as is, so, I, don’t. Ha. Cab man’s beeping. Com-ing! And out the door I go. Flustered little whure. Still on time. Just leaving packing until the very last minute. But. Not to worry. On the road! Just swing by Kailand’s house. Swoop her up. My mighty London trip partner in crime. Honk honk. Out comes Kailand and her smaller suitcase up. How is hers smaller than mine? Maybe a more ergonomical packer? Is ergonomical even a word? Who knows, who cares, I’m sweating, lugging luggage, my top’s now off, panting in the back off the mini bus, Jesus, L.A is hot today, and now we are actually on our way. Off to England for a spot of tea and crumpets. LonDumb, here we… Ahem.
Check in. Air New Zealand. Bumped up. Premium. Oh Betsy. Mighty. Notice Mischa Barton checking in one ahead. Moving up to the C-List of the world. Security. Sandwich. Wait. Board. Dancing. Suss out our seats. Appears we have done well. Premium means pod. As in instead of a cramped row of seats in the mule class behind, we are now swimming in space in a pod like container. Buckets of room. Kind of like First Class. But just not quite. Still. Pod class all the way. Flying like winners across the Atlantic. Mighty. Highly recommended!
For reasons unknown, all names shall be culled from this blogaruu. Except for mine. I’m going full on narcissistic. Tropical Hayes all the way!
So it’s the day after Halloween. Actually, the night. Limo pulls up outside my abode. It’s time. Put on my private jet pants. Grab my bag. Scuttle out. Hop in. High fives. Hello’s it going. And we’re on our way. Bob Hope airport. Here we dumb. Get lost en route. Find it again. Arrive. Punch in a code. Drive through a gate. Get out of the car. Look at our jet. Say hi to the pilot. And just walk on. The mightiest way to travel. No lines. No queues. No security. In. On. Out. Mighty!
Must say, this jet was the best I’ve been on. Leather here. Plush there. King size bed in the back. Pardon? What do you mean? A bed? In the back? Yes. A big old bed in the back. Mile-high-ty! We sit down. Hostess brings us a round of champagne. When in a Rome… Cheers! Wheels start rolling. You’re getting comfortable. And then suddenly you’re up, up and wahey! Way faster than a regular jet. Almost goes up like an elevator. Shwooop. Air born again. New beginning. On our way to an island in the Caribbean. Pants off. Caribb on! Continue Reading »