Category: Visitors

Mrs Madrigal’s Visit

Karen is Mrs Madrigal

Flush from her Thelma and Louise road trip of Dixieland, jet setter Karen parachuted in for a few days of rest and relaxation. Our London landlady and I became acquainted at work and our attachment is one of the few that has endured in civvy street. Chrissy was were obstinately keen to meet her and dropped by for coffee. The encounter didn’t go too well, nor had I expected it to. Chrissy will never rub along with any female friend of ours for she is determined to be top fag hag.

Mrs Madrigal lookilikee Karen is a superb cook and threw together a culinary tour de force. Liam tried to wrest her from the stove. “Bugger off and get me another drink” she insisted. Our livers took a royal pasting as we chatted into the small hours. The next day we all had wine flu and the kitchen resembled Sarejevo during the Bosnia War.

Crisis? What Crisis?

It’s Cold Outside

Clement popped by for tea to meet Clive. Alluding to the ceaseless storm clouds of recession that just refuse to budge, his provocative first words were “I’m so sorry, things must be so awful for you in England” barely concealing his ill-judged glee with fake concern. Predictably, Clive’s hackles rose like an angry porcupine and a prickly exchange of political, social and economic views ensued. I’m afraid it became rather heated. Clive gave firm assurances that he wasn’t queuing up at the local Sally Army soup kitchen just yet.

After an indecently brief stopover, my cherished Clive departed with happy promises to return. He left us sad and melancholy.

Oh Woe is Me

Laugh and Cry
Screen Dames
A Real Weepy

A chill night wind conspired to trap us inside most evenings so we amused ourselves with a delicious mix of gossip and the silver screen, liberally lubricated with increasingly less cheap plonk as wine prices seem to rise by the week. We amused Clive with our sorry emigrey tales of the mad, the sad, the bad and the glad. We watched Beautiful Thing and Tea with Mussolini; two of my favourite films. Seriously sentimental Clive just loves a weepy so I kept a box of autumnal shades to hand.

We ventured out  to a village morgue bar just the once and really wished we hadn’t. We’d hardly taken our first sip when a despondent, drunken emigrey called Fergus from Falkirk was working his pitch at the bar and looking for a stooge. He collared us to impart his hard luck story. Fergie is a big man with a greasy ginger toupée and a disproportionately hefty lower torso, giving him the look of a bewigged weeble. He had married an attractive tender-aged Thai girl who he had picked out of a catalogue. She was delivered by post and married for security. After a couple of barren years, the Thai bride divorced fat Falkirk Fergie, kept the security and moved south to warmer climes. He now drowns his sorrows in the bottom of a beer glass frittering away the meagre income left to him. A dismal tale of woe too far, we headed for the door, taxied home and chucked on Steel Magnolias to lighten the mood. It was not the best selection. Clive was inconsolable and emptied the autumnal box.

Bodrum Blues

We rushed Clive around the peninsula to provide a tasty titbit of our foster home. He took to Bodrum even in mid makeover mode and adored the castle, camera-clicking like a man possessed. Unhappily, despite the glorious, cloudless skies, the rest of the midwinter yarımada is distinctly unprepossessing – scruffy, neglected and vacant. I think he finds Turkey’s rough, ramshackle patina rather unappealing. As man of certain age, cultivated habits and mature sensibilities, Clive is more drawn to the coiffured charm of the Home Counties.

It wasn’t always so. Clive’s salad days were filled with audacious spirit as he criss-crossed the globe in search of adventure and discovery; even floating up the Irrawaddy on a Sampan to smoke opium in the jungle with the natives (I know a sampan is a Chinese flat bottom boat so highly unlikely to be found in Burmese waters, but no matter). Alas, we must all grow up eventually and get a sensible job in sensible shoes. These days Clive’s favourite holiday destination is refined Madeira – Surrey with a little more sun.

A Star is Born

Burger-star, Clive, landed after sundown at a wind-chilled, sodden Bodrum Airport, jetting in via Istanbul. We waited outside the domestic terminal without realising that internal Pegasus passengers disembark from the International terminal.

Plonk

As my first-born friend of 38 years, it is fitting and proper that he is our maiden caller. I am truly gladdened that he made the effort to join us, exhausting his air miles to do so. We hurried him home, hit the sauce to rejoice and chatted into the wee small hours. Over-drinking is fine for a couple of old reprobates like us but poor Clive suffers terribly from hurricane-force hangovers. The next day he scrambled out of his pit in time for afternoon tea, mumble-mouthed, fuzzy-eyed and ashen-faced fumbling for the paracetamol.  It took him another hour or so to string together a few coherent words which were “What’s for dinner?”

My Drag Days Are Over!

Clive in Costume

Word has reached our storm lashed shores that principled vegetarian Clive has won the lead in the latest Hollywood blockbuster Mcdonald’s, The Advert. ‘It’s a meaty role’ he gushed. ‘And after years treading the boards in am-dram productions of dubious quality, my sad, drab drag days are over.’ Clive deservedly won the role after impressing the director with his haunting performances as the bi-polar Pepper Grinder in A Man for All Seasonings and as shot-putting Brunhilda, the pre-op East German transsexual in a post modern production of Wagner’s infamous Ring. We sent a congratulatory Moonpig card and an online voucher for a free Whopper.

We will be hearing more of his breakthrough starring role when he visits next week as our maiden caller from Blighty.