Wednesday 30 November 2016

Sleepless in Shanghai

It was the kind of hotel where the rooms are charged by the hour and the sheets are changed by the week, if you're lucky. I don't normally share rooms on business trips, but my company had thoughtfully provided me with a roommate in the form of the biggest badass cockroach you ever did see. The cockroach was cocksure. He no doubt pimped his female cockroaches out to out of town bugs, like the machos in reception did with their girls. I watched my roomie strut across the bed while I took refuge in the armchair that had more stains on it than the Turin shroud. I was sleepless in Shanghai. Outside the temperature nudged a steamy autumn twenty-six degrees, inside the air-con coughed and choked and spluttered. it was going to be a long night. 
If New York is the city then never sleeps, Shanghai is the city that never comes down from a coke high. It hustles and bustles, sirens wailing, horns blaring, people shouting and reversing vehicles gabbling a sing-song warning. It is a fantastic hubbub of aural sensations. But tonight it was even louder, the sirens were piercing, the shouts coming from inside my own head, the screams a little too close for comfort. 
It was obvious that something was afoot, doors banged, men shouted, women screamed, but I wasn’t about to open my hotel door to find out what it was. I’d just sit and watch the cockroach strut and try to ignore the kerfuffle in the corridor. But then it was my door being knocked, being kicked, being destroyed. The uniformed men came in like bullets from a gun. Grabbing me in a firm hold before I’d had the chance to move. 
“It's him you want, not me,” I said, trying to use my eyes to point them in the direction of the cockroach pimp on my bed. But it was me they had come for, I was under arrest, for what? Well, I wasn't quite sure. 

I sat opposite the man in the dark blue uniform wondering what the hell he was saying. He spoke quickly and angrily, never once looking at me. The interpreter was some kind of joke. I would have then better off with the cockroach interpreting for me, at least he had attitude. This guy had the personality of a three-year-old and the English skills of a baboon. He laughed nervously each time the police officer stopped speaking and spoke back to him without ever once trying to tell me what was going on. 
I'd already been held for three hours in a cell which can only be described as grim, but then again was slightly better than the hotel room that I'd been dragged from. At least the air conditioning worked and my cellmate was not as threatening. Now I was in an interrogation room that had smears of blood on the walls and a smell of death. 
The policeman babbled again, the interpreter giggled, I was none the wiser. 
It wasn't just me losing patience with the kid. I could tell the policeman was not exactly enamoured by him and was getting grouchier and grouchier which could only spell bad news for me. 
Finally, a knock on the door and in walked the man from the embassy. He didn't have to introduce himself. He walked and talked and looked like the very embodiment of the British government. 
He gabbled something in Chinese and then listened to the policeman. Finally, he turned to me. 
“He thinks you're a male prostitute,” he said, with a look of contempt that suggested he believed the Chinese policeman. “And that means you've broken the terms of your Visa. You'll be deported tomorrow.”
It all made sense. 

“You going to need to prove you not in order to stay.” he said.
 How the hell do you prove you are not a prostitute? Then I saw a chance, a chance to escape that hell hole of a hotel, a chance to get home to my wife and kids, a chance to leave the business deals undealt,  a chance to eat some cheese. 
“He's got me banged to rights,” I said. “I'd better start packing.” 

Tuesday 29 November 2016

The Toilet 2

Hope I didn't put you off your breakfast yesterday and hope I don't put you off your lunch today. 
Ma Yen had never seen a toilet like it in his life. It was some kind of raised bowl about half a metre off the ground. What in the name of God was he supposed to do with that?  His stomach gurgled and grumbled as it had been doing since he’d eaten that dodgy meat and pastry thing from the street vendor. He let out a groan as a cramp grasped his insides and wrung them out like wet washing.  He knew there was no time to look for another establishment. It was now or never. He unbuckled his belt and undid the top button or his jeans, still trying to figure out just how you were meant to use the weird contraption. The relief of undoing the jeans made him wonder if he could make it to another loo. But the constraint rumbling of thunder from within suggested he had to stay put. He assessed the alternatives. 
Sit on the bowl, stand on the bowl, hover over the bowl, it all looked wrong. Sitting on it would be so unhygienic, but balancing so precarious. If he stood on the bowl, would he pull his trousers down before or after?  He had lots of options but no idea as to which one to use. 
Make up your bloody mind, his stomach screamed in the form of a mother cramp. He wanted to stand on the bowl  but his limited knowledge of physics suggested he was courting disaster. He dropped his jeans and tried to step up on the rim. Impossible. . Ready or not here I move, his bowels yelled. Instinct took over now. He did it the other way around, taking the step up and then slowly pulling his trousers down and then gradually squatting towards the bowl. He used one hand to steady himself on the wall of the toilet. 
He was just in time. One second longer and it would have been a disaster. 
He sighed the sigh of a relieved man. 
He felt around for the toilet paper. New problem, it was too low down, he couldn't reach it. He tried to crouch lower but no, it was no use. He had tissues in his pocket. He felt around for them but the effort of pulling them out upset the status quo. He heard a creak and a crack and a crash. His right hand tried to grab something, anything to stop him from falling but it could only capture thin air. His the bowl disappeared from beneath his feet and  he followed it, his bum landed with a rather disgusting splash.

Monday 28 November 2016

The Toilet 1

Please do not eat and read at the same time . It might put you off your cornflakes. 
Andre had never seen a toilet like it in his life. It was just a hole in the floor. What in the name of God was he supposed to do with that? His stomach gurgled and grumbled as it had been doing since he'd eaten the radish and prawn cake thing from the street vendor. He let out a groan as a cramp grasped his insides and wrung them out like wet washing.  He knew there was no time to look for another establishment; it was now or never. He unbuckled his belt and undid the top button of his jeans, while still trying to figure out just how you were meant to use the weird contraption. The relief of undoing the jeans made him wonder if he could make it to another loo. But the constraint rumbling of thunder from within suggested he had to stay put. He assessed the alternatives. 
Squat? Stand up? Hover? Take the jeans off completely, or just pull them down? He had lots of options, but no idea as to which one to use. 
Make up your bloody mind, his stomach screamed in the form of another cramp. He wanted to squat, but his limited knowledge of physics suggested the flow would be straight into his jeans. Ready or not her I move, his bowels yelled. Instinct took over now, he dropped his trousers and crouched down. Using one hand to pull the fabric forward so as to ensure there were no mishaps. He was just in time. One second longer and it would have been a disaster. 
He sighed the sigh of a relieved man. 
He felt around for the toilet paper. New problem. There was none! He looked behind him, looked above him, looked from side to side, nothing. He had tissues in his pocket. He felt around for them but the effort of pulling them out meant his left foot slipped from under him. His right hand tried to grab something, anything to stop him from falling but it could only capture thin air. His body tilted backwards and his bum landed with a rather disgusting splash.

Friday 25 November 2016

Poetry Friday 21

For audio click here 

Twenty one that's coming of age. Poetry Friday is an adult. Some grown up poems then. 

The hierarchy of fear
What am I afraid of?
That I forgot to turn the oven off,
or that I left my front door unlocked?
The footfall of a stranger on an ill lit street?
Hearing my lover cry in the night,
when she thinks I’m asleep?
Or being jailed for a crime I didn’t commit?
The feeling that I’m wasting my life
that’s more than half gone?
The tiny hole between the wall and the floorboards
where a penny rolled and I can never get it back?
The utter inexplicableness
of our place in the universe?
Why here? Why now?  Why us?
Is the truth out there?
Or Stephen King novel
that sends shivers down my spine
and is kept at the bottom of the pile
to stop the demons from escaping?



the hierarchy of grief
You're the first to hope the star rests in peace.
You top the hierarchy of grief.

You share a video of your favourite song
And hope the star rests in peace
You top the hierarchy of grief.

You claim the star touched you (but not in that way)
You share a video of your favourite song
And hope the star rests in peace
You top the hierarchy of grief.

You share a video a day for a week,
You claim the star touched you (but not in that way)
You share a video of your favourite song
And hope the star rests in peace
You top the hierarchy of grief.

Your bouquet is the biggest, your name etched in blood
You share a video a day for a week,
You claim the star touched you (but not in that way)
You share a video of your favourite song
And hope the star rests in peace
You top the hierarchy of grief.


You throw yourself beneath the bus,
I look on in disbelief.
I'm hear to tell you
There is no hierarchy of grief. 

Receive, open,
Stand, gather dust,
take down,
Throw away.




Join me next week for Poetry Friday 22
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