Sir, where's ' toilet?

By John Meadows

A further collection of entertaining short stories to complete the author’s trilogy of world-wide adventures. His intriguing tales are spiced with lively encounters and astute observations, full of humour and wit. His fascinating historical facts are particularly enlightening, and will have you saying, ‘Really? I didn’t know that.’ Each story will leave you wanting more: Teachers’ ghostly prank with a bizarre twist. Sampling local whiskey at a village distillery on the fabled Mekong river in Laos. Two cultures collide when Russian rugby league players invade Wigan, and to complete his experiences, he was proclaimed Emperor of China.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Jan 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781785388118

Book preview

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Chapter One

Carry on Camping

There are two people I blame for my lifelong travel obsession: My dad and Cliff Richard. After watching ‘Summer Holiday’ at the cinema, it was my ambition to travel to Greece in a double-decker bus. As far back as I can remember, my sister and I were sent to sleep with dad’s stories about his National Service in India. When I say, ‘sent to sleep’, I don’t mean just as babies. I think he was the original Uncle Albert, in ‘Only Fools and Horses’, who could clear a room by saying; ‘During the war...’ Dad’s was, ‘It’s hot in India...’

I Can’t Get No Satisfaction

As a student, I became the resident cartoonist for the ‘Leeds Student’, the award-winning newspaper. The University was renowned for its Saturday night concerts: The Who released an album, imaginatively titled ‘The Who Live at Leeds’, and during my first month, the headline act was Deep Purple. One afternoon, an unknown band turned up unannounced in a mini bus and asked the union president if they could play a free concert. I was having lunch in the refectory with some teammates, prior to playing in a rugby league match. The band didn’t have any roadies, so they all mucked in and lugged their amps from the van. The bass player, wearing a 1970 tank-top sweater, flares and a lilac shirt with long collars, asked in a Scouse accent, if we wouldn’t mind helping him to feed a cable under the tables. We just shrugged and shuffled our chairs, and I pushed a tangle of wires to him with my foot. As a gesture to make him feel more at home, I asked, What’s the name of the band?

Wings, he replied, while sorting out his cables.

Never heard of ’em, I commented, barely looking up from my chips ’n’ egg.

We’re new. We’ve only just got together as a band.

Good luck. Hope you get a re-booking.

Thanks.

That bloke looks a bit like Paul McCartney, observed our scrum-half.

Nothing like him, replied the rest of us,

As we were clearing our plates away, word gradually got around that the former Beatle was about to perform. We were very tempted to pull a hamstring or tweak a knee ligament while carrying our trays.

Told you, said the scrum-half smugly as we boarded the team bus, all disappointed at missing out.

Growing up in St. Helens, I didn’t go to a Beatles’ concert at the Cavern, Liverpool Empire or St. Helens Plaza. Something I’ve always regretted, but I often tell people that I was once Paul McCartney’s roadie. Well, I moved my chair and pushed a cable for him with my foot, before realizing who he was. I’m sure he must remember it. Coincidentally, I read somewhere that Mark Knoffler was a student at Leeds University for the same three years as me. I wonder if he began his career as a Wings’ roadie? We never met, and I suppose the only thing we had in common was that we were both in dire straits.

During the winter, the big news was that the Rolling Stones had been booked. They even had their own roadies. When tickets went on sale I queued in the snow for about four hours with Dennis, a flatmate of mine. As we got to the steps of the student union building, the President came out and declared that they were sold out. He tried to appease the screaming mob, before giving up and making a hasty retreat into the sanctuary of his office. Dennis and I had wasted most of our Sunday (not that we had much to do of course) and we were freezing and raging when we got back to the flat. Whatsmore, I still had work to do before Monday morning. When I say work, I mean a cartoon. I sat there, still seething, staring blankly at a sheet of white cartridge paper, and Dennis’s girlfriend Gert, suggested to me,

John, why don’t you draw a cartoon about what happened today?

This ignited a spark of creativity, and I eventually came up with an idea based on the Biblical parable of Jesus feeding the five thousand. Fortunately, for me, if not him, the President of the Student Union had a face that was a cartoonist’s dream; long hair, long face and a flamboyant, drooping walrus moustache. The sort of luxuriant facial hair that a First World War general would have been proud of.

Over the next couple of hours, I produced a picture of him standing at the top of the steps, holding loaves, fishes and Rolling Stones’ tickets. The accompanying caption was sarcastic, vitriolic and satirical in equal measures. I delivered it to the editor’s office the next morning. He took it from the cardboard tube, and gave a wry smile as he looked at it. The newspaper was published next day, and to my great surprise it was on the front page. At lunchtime, I was in the union bar when an announcement came over the tannoy:

If John Meadows is in the building, could he come to the editor’s office.

When I went in, who should be waiting for me, but our President, whom I had never previously met.

Hello John, he greeted me, It’s about your cartoon.

Oh, yeah, I replied in a defiant tone, ready to tell him where to go if he didn’t like it.

I was wondering if the original is for sale, because I would like to buy it.

Momentarily taken aback, I answered,

Yes, I suppose so.

How much?

Four tickets for the Rolling Stones’ concert.

Miraculously, he produced four from his pocket. I let him keep the loaves and fishes. The concert was fantastic, of course, and I got a cartoon out of it for the following week’s paper. No-one was quite sure if my drawings of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards were meant to be accurate portrayals or cartoons.

We’ve Seen it in the Movies, now Let’s See if it’s True...

One day, when I was delivering a cartoon, a student appeared alongside me in the office.

Can you put this ad in the paper next week? he inquired.

The editor took the sheet from him and read it out loud to check the number of words: ‘Group of students travelling to Greece in a VW Campervan this summer. Two places available.’

Hang on, I interrupted, I can save you the price of an ad. Me and my girlfriend will take the places.

We sealed the deal with a handshake as we introduced ourselves. We went for a drink, of course, and exchanged contact details. My new best friend was Carl, a 19-year-old with medium length, light hair, somewhere between blonde and brown. Let’s call it rich mouse. He looked as though he belonged on a beach, which explained his enthusiasm for our trip to Greece. Over subsequent months the group of eight intrepid travellers met up a few times, becoming good friends. Carl was from Newquay, where he worked during the summer as a beach lifeguard. His girlfriend Annette was also a Devonian, but she had decided to stay nearer home and was a student in Exmouth. She visited him in Leeds regularly and got to know my girlfriend Norma, when she was over from Chesterfield College. Phil was a civil engineering student; a thick set, dark-haired Geordie with a great sense of humour. His girlfriend, Bethan, was from South Wales, and they had met at university. Kevin from Nottingham and Matthew from London, footballing teammates, completed our party.

After exams, everyone went home, since all of us were impecunious students who needed to work for a couple of months. We arranged to meet in London at the end of August.

It was with great excitement that we set off for Dover, a few of us sharing the driving. There is an old Bedouin saying that the best way to get to know someone is to travel with them. Travelling for hours in a hot, cramped campervan (or a ‘fried-out Combi’, to quote Aussie band; Men at Work) was a good way to find out if we are going to get on. Fortunately, there was much laughter and banter plus some, but not much, sensible conversation about a multitude of subjects. Our route took us through France, Germany, Austria and Yugoslavia. Five years later, Norma and I would be travelling the same route on our overland trek to Kathmandu. This section was described in my previous book, ‘Ten Camels for My Wife’, so let’s fast forward straight to Greece.

It’s All Greek to Me

At a beach campsite near Athens, I was shocked by the heat of the fine white sands on my bare feet, since this was my first trip abroad. I was reminded of wildlife documentaries in which desert lizards lift-up one foot in sequence to allow it to cool off. That was me crossing the beach on my way to the azure, turquoise blue sea. Diving into the water was the most fabulous feeling, and we had a few more weeks of this to look forward to. Since History of Art was one of my courses, I felt obliged to explore the historical ruins and museums. It’s worth pausing at this point for one or two interesting back stories.

Athens is a sprawling city dominated by a hill called the Acropolis, which translates literally as High City. This provides the spectacular setting for one of the world’s most famous and iconic buildings: The Parthenon. It was built in the 5th Century BC as a temple to the Greek Goddess Athena Parthenos; hence the name. This marked the beginning of the ‘Golden age of Greece’, led by Pericles, the renowned politician and founder of Athens. The Parthenon, and the huge statue of Athena which it housed, were designed by the famous sculptor Phidias, the Michelangelo of his day. During this period, some of the greatest buildings and sculptures the world has ever seen were created.

Almost 2000 years later, in the 15th Century, archaeological excavations in Athens and Rome began to reveal these sculptural masterpieces and inspired the Renaissance, which means ‘rebirth’. The classical period influenced great artists such as Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphael and Donatello. Now come on, I’m trying to be serious here, so I want you to put all thoughts of Mutant Ninja Turtles out of your head right now! Especially those readers who can’t listen to Rossini’s William Tell Overture without thinking of the Lone Ranger.

Here’s something that is hard to believe: Michelangelo was so impressed with Classical sculptures that he attempted to pass off one of his own as an authentic ancient Greek sculpture. He tried to ‘age’ it by smearing it in all kinds of disgusting concoctions from excrement to yoghurt and burying it for a few months. That’s right, the great Michelangelo tried his hand at forgery! It’s like Paul McCartney joining a Beatles tribute band.

Michelangelo managed to sell his forgery, but unfortunately for him it was bought by one of the Pope’s envoys. He was soon rumbled, and the Pope sent for him. Michelangelo’s undoing was his own genius. The sculpture he had created was ‘too modern’ to be from antiquity. It had more expression, and significantly the pose was in contrapposto; a twisting to enhance the body. It’s the kind of things body builders do, or everyone when looking in a mirror trying on new clothes. Michelangelo thought he was in serious trouble, but fortunately for him the Pope recognised his genius and offered him employment.

We left the campervan in Piraeus, the port of Athens, and caught a ferry to Mykonos, while, to quote Sinatra, ‘Making all the stops along the way.’ The group of small islands is known as the Cyclades, and includes Mykonos, Ios, Paros and Santorini, amongst others. The ferry was the only mode of transport and acted as a ‘bus service’ linking the islands, and consequently the demography of the passengers included every strata of Greek society, down to goats, hens and a variety of livestock.

House of the Rising Sun

Once we had docked in Mykonos, we walked along the jetty, deftly sidestepping taxi drivers and vendors touting for business. We boarded a bus to Paradise Beach, simply because we liked the sound of it. The driver negotiated the tight winding roads with the skill of a Finnish rally driver. I’m sure the goat standing next to me on the bus was the same one who had been eyeing me up on the ferry. Paradise Beach was empty, undeveloped and unspoiled with a small local bar at one end and a slightly bigger taverna at the other. We dropped our bags, stripped off and headed straight for the Aegean. It was as calm and clear as a turquoise-tiled swimming pool, and this was to be our home for a few weeks. After a mouth-watering meal at the taverna, we slept under the stars on the beach for the first night. The silence was absolute; this was the life for me. Anticipating our regular patronage, and a healthy profit, the owners of the bar and taverna offered us unlimited use of their bathroom facilities.

The only other residents along the beach were two American students, who were living under an upturned boat, and a Swedish couple who had made a lean-to shelter. We decided to follow their example and we built a beach hut, eight-berth of course. Like the Swiss Family Robinson, we hiked up into the surrounding hills and foraged for building materials; bamboo, grasses, foliage and so on. We spent most of the day on construction, and our new neighbours christened it The Palace. We spent our days lounging about, playing guitars and playing games, and we divided our meals and drinking sessions equally between the two bars. Carl was a good guitarist, I was an enthusiastic beginner, and Phil had a Geordie-soul voice like Eric Burdon. After hearing us on the beach, the taverna owner invited us to play a few times. No pay, just drinks. Perfect.

Whiter Shade of Pale

One or two small islands were located offshore, and one-day Carl suggested to me that we could swim out to explore one of them.

It looks a long way, I observed dubiously.

No, it’s only about half a mile, Carl replied reassuringly.

I’m tempted, but long-distance swimming isn’t my strong point.

"But it’s precisely my strong point, and I will swim right next to you all the way and, don’t forget, I’m an experienced lifeguard."

That was the clincher. We went to tell the others where we were going, and Carl and I set off at a leisurely pace. We even chatted to each other as we swam, but the island didn’t seem to be getting any closer. After a while, my shoulders started to burn, and I don’t mean by the sun. Carl told me to tread water and relax my arms. Eventually, we made it to the beach and my arms and shoulders felt heavy, as though I had just finished a weights session.

We assumed that the island would be deserted as we walked up the beach, feeling like Robinson Crusoe and Man Friday. However, we detected a movement up ahead amongst a rock formation. We approached cautiously and realized that we were being observed by two ladies; probably in their mid-thirties. We smiled and Carl gave them a wave. I couldn’t raise my arms. As we got closer, we realized that they were topless, which I should stress was a very rare occurrence in those days. What was even rarer was to be totally naked on a beach; which they were. We made apologies with submissive body language and backtracked down the beach. We were too shocked to laugh. As we made our way round a rocky out-crop we heard sounds of laughter.

Deserted island? I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a Butlin’s holiday camp round here, I commented with a wry smile.

The source of the laughter came into view. Games of badminton and beach volleyball were taking place. The players, male and female, were certainly energetic and were bouncing about all over the place. When I say bouncing about, I mean bouncing about. They were all stark bollock naked. We quickly overcame our open-mouthed shock and jumped behind a rock before anyone noticed us.

Bleedin’ hell, whispered Carl, we’re on a nudist colony!

Yeah, I spluttered, I never thought I would feel over-dressed wearing just a cozzie!

Ger’em off quick before we’re spotted, he suggested, with a hint of panic in his voice.

Our trunks hit the ground quicker than knickers at a Tom Jones concert. We stood there, wondering what to do next. Two forlorn-looking characters, deeply suntanned with bottoms a whiter shade of pale. It was like a bad dream. You know when you dream that you are in a public place with no trousers on. No?... Perhaps it’s just me then. We hid our swimming trunks in a crevice, (no, not that crevice) and strolled nonchalantly along the beach. We didn’t know what to do with our hands. Fortunately, two beach balls lay nearby so we picked them up and carried them, strategically placed. We quickly discarded them when we realized that we looked like a couple of balloon dancers. We found a secluded place on the beach and lay down, face down, that is, in the sand, forgetting momentarily about the searing temperature. Simultaneously, Carl and I suffered eye-watering testicular trauma, like chestnuts roasting on an open fire. We had to quickly scoop up some handfuls to get to the cooler sand below, like a squirrel burying his nuts, as it were.

We watched the badminton with interest. I’m surprised those women haven’t got black eyes, Carl observed wryly.

Have you ever seen the movie, ‘Carry on Camping?’ I asked Carl as idle conversation to pass the time.

Yeah, I love those films.

Well, we are like Bernard Bresslaw and Sid James when they arrived at a campsite, not realizing it was for naturists.

Naturists? I’ve never seen David Attenborough do a programme naked!

"No, he’s a naturalist. A naturist is a nudist. Anyway, there is a sign that says, ‘All asses must be shown’, and Sid says to the bloke at the gate, ‘Is the boss here?’ ‘No, he’s gone for a pee.’ Peter Butterworth then turns up with a letter ‘P’ and nails it at the front of the word ‘asses’."

They should have a sign up here, said Carl dryly: ‘Beware of Greeks baring asses’!"

There is a scene in the classic movie, ‘The Four Feathers’, in which one of Kitchener’s army officers is trapped lying in the Sudan desert under the dangerous glare of the unforgiving sun, having lost his helmet in the sand. Perish the thought. He dares not move in case he gives himself away to the enemy. He ends up blind, but is rescued by Harry Faversham, the recipient of the four feathers; a symbol of cowardice. Well, that was us, except that we didn’t have a hero to rescue us. As we lay there, face down, I could feel my bottom beginning to blister like cheese on toast under a grill. We noticed a couple of bottles of suntan lotion on a rock not too far away from us. We considered crawling across the sand, commando-style, (in more ways than one), to get them. However, we decided against it. The last thing we needed was to be caught oiling-up each other’s bottoms. We were in enough trouble as it was. As we lay next to each other, like a beach bike rack, I began to have nightmare visions of ferocious sub-terranean creepy-crawlies hungrily tunnelling through the sand in search for food. I just hoped that meat and two veg wasn’t on the menu. The thought of crabs was just too much to bear.

Carl and I decided to make a move, and we sauntered over to the crack in the rocks to surreptitiously retrieve our swimming trunks. We crossed the beach with the same desperation as newly-hatched turtles crawling towards the sanctuary of the open sea. I can’t begin to describe the ecstasy of the waters of the Aegean Sea on a freshly-blistered bottom as I put on my cozzie in the water. With a few water-treading breathers, we made it safely back to Paradise Beach. We felt that it would be quite awkward to explain to our girlfriends that we had spent the afternoon at a nudist colony. We decided that it would be our guilty secret.

Mama Mia

We emerged from the sea, like Aphrodite, and walked up Paradise Beach, sideways like a couple of constipated crabs. We got to our hut, sorry... palace, and Norma and Annette told us that we had all been invited to a wedding reception at the taverna that evening.

I hope it’s a come-as-you-are invitation. I forgot to bring my best suit, I replied, with just a hint of sarcasm.

The taverna was beautifully decorated; bougainvillea, hyacinth (named after Hyacinthus a beautiful young man whom the God Apollo loved), wild orchids and garlands of apple blossom. The bride was a local dark-eyed, raven-haired beauty; a niece of the taverna owner. Her new husband had jet-black curly hair, a swarthy complexion and a shoe-brush moustache. His wedding suit seemed totally inappropriate for the beach setting and scorching temperature. It was purple velvet with flared trousers and extra wide, flapping lapels. His pale blue shirt had more ruffles than a Spanish flamenco dancer’s dress, and the ensemble was topped-off with a huge purple velvet bow-tie. He was the 1970s personified. He looked as though he belonged more in a Berni Inn eating chicken-in-the basket with a bottle of Mateus Rosé. My unflattering description of him notwithstanding, he offered us the most tremendous hospitality. Unfortunately for Carl and me, our group was seated on long wooden benches at a refectory-style table with not a cushion in sight. We were up at every opportunity, and by the end of the evening we were experts at Zorba’s dance. Phil and Bethan danced the night away, while Kevin and Matthew seemed to get on very well with a couple of bridesmaids.

I’ve never known you to dance so much, commented Norma.

Oh, I love Greek music, I replied, unconvincingly.

Eventually, Norma and Annette got the truth out of us and smirked unsympathetically when we told them about our sun-kissed bottoms. Carl and Annette went back to the Palace, while Norma inspected my problem at a secluded spot on the beach. She gasped at the severity of the sunburn. Having studied anatomy and physiology, she told me earnestly,