Friday 24th June
Bloody Sandy.
Before I went out into town last night, we (not Mrs Muck, who was still a shade of green) took tea on the terrace. It was all very civilised, and Mandy was pouring us earl grey from a brightly coloured locally made teapot. Sandy passed round a tray of pastries that he said he’d picked up at the patisserie in town, and we all took tiffin together as if it were normal- and as if we were too.
As always, whenever the word tiffin is mentioned we all think instantly of Sid James’ partiality to it in Carry On Up The Khyber, and launch into our favourite running joke- our own impressions of the Carry On cast. We all know our roles, and slip effortlessly and obviously into them everytime, which always ends up with us rolling helplessly around with laughter. Here is a quick run down of our individual roles, including those absent:
Handy- Kenneth Williams (obviously)
Me- Sid James (hwah hwah hwah)
Mrs Muck- Elkie Sommer (the saucy eastern European Professor Vrooshka in Carry On Behind)
Fifi- Barbara Windsor
Scul- a scarily true likeness to Bernard Bresslaw
MC Check- Charles Hawtrey (also scarily accurate. No need for method acting here)
Ecaked- imagine a young Jim Dale, but completely bald, and again, it’s uncanny.
Sandy- Windsor Davies
And I’m going to get my head cut right orrf, but:
Queen- Joan Sims (….er, because they’re both blonde. Yes, that’s it, yes, blonde…)
At this point I would like to remind you of the Muck FM disclaimer, and point you towards the small print, which clearly states that we are covered in the case of any breach of the laws of the land including libel, slander, treason, and cussing your friends. As we have paid for the deluxe disclaimer on this holiday, I’d also like to draw your attention to the clause that states “that by reading this blog you forfeit your right to indemnity, and have been cussed because you love it, and deserve it.”
I’ve digressed again haven’t I? I’ll stop alienating myself from everyone and get on with the story. Now, where was I…?
Ah yes, Sandy and his pastries. The bloody bastard lied- it was his dodgy mate that grows the weed who made the batch of ‘Lisbon Lights lemon lovelies’, not the patisserie in town. Each one contained an eighth of genetically modified, hydroponically grown, mindbending local weed, picked, apparently, by virginal gypsy girls in traditional costume. I may have just added the virginal myself, but let’s face it, Sandy’s claims about the harvesting methods are hardly likely to be true anyway, so if I want to garnish them with my own sordid imagination I will, ok?
Anyway, as I was saying…
I’d eaten two cakes which meant I had a quarter of an ounce of high grade, fucked up sensimilla in my stomach, that unknown to me was fermenting and about to launch my poor brain skywards, out towards Uranus (insert gag here. Or there, if you prefer…)
I had left the dead and the dying back at the apartment and strolled into town as I was feeling strangely hungry. I went back to Joao’s to eat, a little restaurant whose titular owner is a gruff but very welcoming chap, and the food exquisite. I was pleased to have some time alone if I’m honest, and I sat at a table outside and reflected on our holiday with a sense of satisfaction.
I hadn’t realised how much I had needed to get away, and despite the antics of the usual suspects trying to ruin everything, our stay here in Lagos ticked all the boxes necessary to make this holiday a good one. Our apartment was amazing, beautifully furnished in tradional wood, and a near perfect location overlooking Dona Ana beach. Lagos is beautiful, and now the season is picking up I have high hopes for the Palace, and that Luis will be rocking a packed dancefloor before long.
Which brings me on to the fantastic people we’ve met here, who have all made us feel very welcome. We’ve made some true friends, and intend to come back again sooner rather than later.
I spread the Muck FM word, and managed to play a couple of sets in the local club, which was brilliant, and has left me hungry for more… Add fantastic weather, food and drink, and it’s been one of the best holidays ever.
I sighed, and sat back in my chair. I had feasted well, and as I was finishing I was surprised to get a call from Mrs Muck who had finally risen from her sickbed, like a phoenix from the flames of Barry Island. She told me she was on her way into town and asked where she should meet me.
I told her I would see her at Joao’s, and chatted to the proprietor while I waited.
I had started to feel a little lightheaded but simply put it down to the carafe of house red that had accompanied my lamb. By the time Mrs Muck had arrived Joao had a worried look on his face, and looked pleased to be able to hurry back into the kitchen as she took over.
I was wearing a expression so glazed that you could have dropped a feather behind my eyes in a gale and it wouldn’t have deviated from it’s path to the ground. Mrs Muck told me later that I had such bad red eye that she had had to prise my eyelids apart with a teaspoon which Joao kindly fetched for her from the kitchen.
I started to become more incoherent, and apparently thought that Joao and Mrs Muck were my mum and dad who had come to pick me up from Xavier’s. I’ve no idea who Xavier is, and to my knowledge have never met anyone by this name. Maybe I lived a past life in France, and in my deranged state regressed back to my Gallic roots. This would explain why I’m so partial to cheese I suppose..
Anyway, I remember none of this, and the next thing I can recall is finding myself at Ana’s bar, with a beer in my hand and in the company of Mrs Muck, Luis and Carolina. It was as if I had been hypnotised and then woken up somewhere completely different with no memory of how I got there. I looked around, blinking, half expecting Derren Brown to slip out of the shadows with a smug grin and a microphone, and tapped Mrs Muck tentatively on the arm, needing some reassurance that this wasn’t a dream, and that I wasn’t losing my mind.
She paused in her conversation, and asked me if I was “back in the room then?” with a sympathetic smile on her face.
As I came round further I asked her what had happened. She told me that after I had left the apartment she had managed to rouse herself from her sickbed because she could hear a commotion out on the terrace.
She went outside to find Sandy whooping, wearing a cowboy hat (Handy’s I presume) with the gun in his hand riding Fifi like a rodeo pony, his free hand slapping her rump, which was as bare as the day she was born. Fifi was making neighing noises and loving every minute of it, and Handy was directing operations from the wicker chair in the corner. He was wearing nothing but a purple paisley cravatte around his neck and Mrs Muck’s pink sarong draped over his thighs, which Mrs Muck said kept slipping down over his knees, exposing himself to all and sundry. Mandy didn’t seem to mind and sat watching events cross legged on the floor with saucer eyes and a smile.
Mrs Muck was about to go back to bed, when her instincts told her that something was amiss, and that the scene that greeted her sleepy eyes was even a little crazier than usual.
After a few minutes of patient enquiries she finally managed to ascertain that they were all stoned out of their minds after eating one of the magic cakes each. Thankfully Sandy couldn’t help but brag between snorts of laughter that I’d unwittingly eaten two and was now somewhere in town fending for myself as my poor brain was being launched into outer space.
Well, Mrs Muck is my hero, because despite still feeling horrific she got changed immediately and came looking for me, concerned for my welfare, and unconcerned for her own. By finding me so quickly she managed to prevent an Uncle Jamal type incident, and although I embarrassed myself, I wasn’t arrested, committed, or worse.
She reassured Joao that we’d be fine, and managed to guide me to Luis’s house, holding me at the elbow, as if leading the blind. Well, apart that is from the last hundred yards which I apparently crawled like a caterpillar, while making squidgy noises to indicate the slime trail I was (in my mind) leaving behind me. I’m glad I remember none of this, for I would die of shame.
On opening his front door, Luis had found the whole thing hilarious and made some hot sweet coffee for me, once I’d been persuaded to sit down and stop pacing around his flat muttering under my breath. After some time Mrs Muck and himself decided that I was calm enough for us all to venture back out into public without me causing some kind of scene, and by the time I started to come round we were, I was told, all on our second beers.
After that I perked up surprisingly quickly- I’m still hardcore you know- and we had a really cool last night with the others. Our friendships were cemented and we all left vowing to see each other again soon.
Mrs Muck recovered quickly too once she had got some hair of the dog inside her, and was well (and hungry) enough to get a kebab down her on the way home- which isn’t a euphemism, before you ask.
It’s now about half past five in the afternoon, and we’re all on the train from Lagos to Faro, to the airport and a flight back to reality. It’s really hot and we’re all sleepy and subdued.
The twins are asleep, their heads resting together as the train trundles along, their peaceful faces a betrayal of their waking chaos. All the girls are looking as glamourous as ever and drawing envious looks from everyone as they chatter gaily and preen themselves in their make up mirrors.
And me? I’m feeling relaxed and happy, and actually don’t mind the fact we’re on our way home.
If you discount the arguments, fights, illegal hustling, spiked drinks, hospitalisations, weapons, drug binges, international smuggling, manic episodes, attempted assassinations, all day hangovers, deportations, arrests, and lashings of fermented camel sperm, it’s been a pretty good holiday really…
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