Flights of Fancy...
WASP has spent a relaxing week buzzing about the eastern shores of the Mediterranean, irritating German tourists and supping the local wines. Cyprus is an island of considerable charm, and in many respects it is still quite 'British': one drives on the left hand side of the road; the currency unit is the 'pound' (albeit divided into cents); and the English language is widely spoken. Red telephone boxes, much missed in the UK, proliferate.
But there are many differences, both subtle and glaring, that elevate a holiday abroad above, say, a week in Devon, even though customs in the more isolated parts of the British Isles may be just as diverse. For the visitor to Cyprus, one of these is the discomfitting and insanitary request, made upon arrival, that used lavatory paper is binned rather than flushed. This can make a visit to the 'smallest room' unpleasant and unsatisfying; and by Sunday evening it becomes a nightmarish excursion into a feculent pit of ordure!
The siesta is another custom alien to the Anglo-Saxon way of life, although one that could catch on if there are many more summers like '95. Unfamiliar, too, are some methods of food preparation - why, for example, is it seemingly so difficult to make toast; and where does some of the meat come from...a preserved dinosaur? Nevertheless, it is these quirks and idiosyncracies that excite the frisson of danger and fear of the unknown that so many travellers seek.
I have never really understood the attitude of holidaymakers who, wherever they may find themselves, seek out bars and restaurants which most resemble those they frequent at home. Ensconced near a satellite television, surrounded by the trappings of home, these moronic malcontents squint suspiciously around them, as though desperate to find fault in anything vaguely 'alien'. There is a memorable Monty Python sketch that caricatures the timidity and stupidity of such people, whose only solace abroad is "...Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps".
In Cyprus, this trait was exhibited to perfection by a grotesque Northern couple: he of squat build, his greasy hair, though thinning, arranged in what I presumed to be a 'perm'; she equally squat, nay hunched, with the pursed lips of the perpetual complainer. As we passed by, or occasionally ventured into, a bar near the hotel, ironically named The Travellers' Rest, this dysphoric duo appeared an immovable fixture, propped against one end of the bar in the company of glasses of lager and packets of Embassy No.1. Their only excursions were to the pool table or the odoriferous loos. They might as well have saved a lot of money and simply bribed their local publican in Rotherham (or wherever) to play '20 Cypriot Folk Songs' or 'The Ballads of Stavros Xharhakos' and disconnect the plumbing, for all the difference it would have made.
Their loss! Not for the Uglies (as we named them) the delightful cruise in a "glass-bottomed" boat around the bays and points that comprised the coastline of Protaras and Cape Grecko, skippered by an enormous gentleman who bore an unnerving resemblance to Oliver Reed. The illusion was complete when, on returning to harbour, our Ollie look-alike crashed the vessel into the quay with a barrage of bellows and curses, dislodging the landing stage and scattering fishermen and bystanders in all directions. Far from exhibiting either sorrow or contrition, he proceeded to vent his not inconsiderable spleen upon a hapless assistant, despite the fact that the assistant had been handling the bar receipts rather than the wheel at the time. The passengers, edging warily past them, were left to disembark as best they could. Presumably the Uglies would have found this well nigh impossible, unless they had been prepared to beach themselves like whales on the foreshore of the fishing shelter!
Continuing the aquatic theme, another trip that seemed popular with young and old alike was to the local Marine Park. While WASP must express reservations about the incarceration of animals (and insects!) for the sake of the public's amusement, the sea lions and dolphins on display did not seem in any way distressed.
The entertainment was introduced by a Cypriot Rastafarian with a Greek accent that would have seemed unbelievable in even the most surreal sketch show. "An' so put yower 'ands together farr Meester Carlos," he implored the audience as a sea lion flopped across the stage area, grunting. Mr. Carlos proceeded to perform an impressive range of tricks until the trainer laid a fish across his snout and announced that he would not eat it until instructed. Alas, nature got the better of him! "Verry bad, Meester Carlos...!" admonished our bizarre compere as the sea lion munched, "...but ah know what 'e wanns...'e wanna play ball!" Whereupon Mr. Carlos, perched on the rim of the pool, proceeded to violently head footballs at the crowd, causing panic in the first few rows.
Proceedings calmed down somewhat with the introduction of the dolphins, but our host still managed a few interjections that could scarcely be imagined at Windsor Safari Park. As the two males, Freddy and Max, slithered out of the water to lie at the trainer's feet, leaving the solitary female in the pool, the strange commentary continued: "...loook at them naughty boyce, showin' off their naked bodies an' gettin' Lady Kara all 'ot and excited...lucky she's still in the poool..."! Later on, as Freddy leapt a full twenty feet out of the water and over a taut rope, he announced "How I lurve thees dolphin!", which brought a whole new meaning to the expression 'Greek customs'.
I can recall fondly the hours spent lazing on sun-drenched beaches, with the cool, crystal clear seawater rippling at one's feet; the slightly deranged moped trips around the rutted tracks of deserted headlands, ending at a welcoming taverna; and the simple grandeur of the ancient Venetian monastery in the centre of town. I also recall, much less fondly, the chilly arrival at Gatwick airport in the early hours and the depressing train journey to Victoria through the drab, grey suburbs, whereupon the previous week instantly seemed like a brief, intense, wonderful, crazy dream.
Ah, well! There's always next year!
It was unforunate that WASP's return from foreign climes (via a 3 a.m. flight on Friday 13th!) should have coincided with the Prime Minister's speech to the Conservative Party Conference.
In a state of dazed inertia, a combination of sleep deprivation and a week's exposure to cheap beer, I sat through Dear John's interminable address to the fervent flag-wavers feeling numb and sickly. At one point I became convinced I was dreaming - was John really banging his fist on the lectern? Oh, yes...he was, you know! How the blue-rinsed hordes loved that!
The Tory press, presumably realising that it's time to stop taking the p***, heralded the oration as Major's 'best ever speech to Conference', which is a bit like a doctor telling you that you have 'the best ever disease' of your medical history.
But the passage during which Dear John got all emotional about his old man was so cloying and twee that it had me grasping for the proverbial bucket. Even a Cypriot lavatory would have seemed an attractive refuge! I am sure Mr. Major Senior was a wonderful man who, as befitting a former circus trouper, could tell a good joke and dance a jig at parties, but to describe him as a "risk-taker of Britain" is a trifle far-fetched, if one considers that he ran a (very) small business in the backwoods of Brixton and not I.C.I.
Furthermore, I am concerned that when Dear John refers to his father's company as making 'garden ornaments', he is glossing over the reality somewhat. It is now apparent that Mr. Major Senior was, indeed, heavily involved in the 'garden gnome' trade, which is a long way from the vision of fluted terracotta urns and marble statuary that the word 'ornaments' suggests.
I believe it is the nature of the gnome, rather than any disrespect to John's dad, that had people falling around with mirth in the rarified (and gnome-free) atmospheres of Hampstead and Islington. The garden gnome has always been a target for mockery, and not only from the 'chattering classes'. One can almost imagine our future Prime Minister as a boy, clad in short trousers but sporting an identically limp haircut, playing politics with his little painted friends in the garden. "Who wunts to be Party Chairman?" he might have piped, to deafening silence from the assembled Sleepies, Happies and Grumpies. "You have my complete support," he could have vowed, before callously tossing some tiny transgressor into the garden pond.
It is a shame that John's dad was unable to make a success out of the gnome trade, but the world is full of failed small businesses, few of which ever attempt to take on the might of established industry. Let's face it, 'Major's Gnomebase' (or whatever the venture was called) was never going to make the FTSE 100 or declare a hostile bid for General Motors. While any private enterprise should be applauded, Major Senior hardly comes across as Richard Branson, and it is disingenuous of Dear John to suggest otherwise. Let us hear no more of this maudlin twaddle, please, and get back to policy initiatives...how about 'Gnome More Taxes'?
Mr. David Bowie once released an excruciating record containing every bad pun on the word 'gnome' that was possible in three and a half minutes. As a fellow boy from Brixton, I wonder where David could possibly have found such inspiration?
For the benefit of readers who have never heard of this gallant fellow, his story is as follows: after 12 years of marriage, during which he and his wife Julie had tried unsuccessfully to produce offspring, she eventually had a 'test-tube' baby. Although the treatment cost all their savings, it seemed a small price to pay for a healthy daughter. Seven months after the birth, Julie became pregnant naturally and another daughter appeared in June of this year.
At this delicate time in the family's development, Garry abandoned all three of them, is now 'co-habiting' with a divorcee two miles up the road and hardly ever visits his former home. One shudders to think of the impact his desertion will have on his young daughters.
I am no great fan of the Child Support Agency but, in this case, I hope they take the bastard for every penny!
Nominations for æ***t of the WeekÆ to: WASP@londonmall.co.uk
In our search for the vanished stars of yesteryear, we pose this crucial question:
Whatever happened to comic singing genius Joe 'Shadduppa Your Face' Dolci?
Last week's most plausible suggestion, relating to the disappearance of Norman Whiteside: "...George Best's personal glass-holder".
Suggestions to: WASP@londonmall.co.uk
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