Read The Devil Rides Out Online
Authors: Paul O'Grady
Tags: #Humor, #Form, #Anecdotes, #Entertainment & Performing Arts, #General, #Personal Memoirs, #Biography & Autobiography, #Fiction
The Devil Rides Out (33 page)
I was eaten alive. Mozzies were dancing the Rose Adagio on my flesh, zipping in and out of one of the many convenient holes in the net like dive bombers for a quick Bloody Mary, forcing me in the end to get up and douse myself in another gallon of the noxious but ineffectual mozzie repellant. I went outside to escape from the choking fumes of the spray. It was cooler out here with a hint of a breeze, the air alive with the noise of a million chirping crickets. Sitting down on the step to enjoy a fag and admire the myriad stars in the night sky, I
heard footsteps approaching along the boardwalk. I turned to look. The manager was slobbing along with a couple of pubescent boys in tow. He knocked quietly on the door of a room a few doors down and after brief negotiations delivered the boys to the unseen occupant as if they were nothing more than a room service snack.
I went back to bed before the grease-ball noticed me and felt obliged to offer his wares again. I seriously wanted to kill him. Just as well we were leaving for Manila in the morning.
It was hotter than mooching through hell in a pair of gasoline drawers and I’d been walking along Roxas Boulevard for what seemed like hours until eventually I came across a signpost pointing me in the direction of the recently opened Metropolitan Museum of Art, an oasis in the desert. I quickly headed for it, more with the intention of escaping from the heat and availing myself of the café, if there was such a thing, than to gaze upon the artworks.
For the last couple of hundred yards I’d been aware that a boy on a bike was trailing me.
‘Hi,’ he shouted after me, ‘hi, are you Australian?’
I quickened my pace, refusing to be hustled or to engage in any sort of conversation whatsoever, but I’d underestimated this one’s persistence. Ignoring my cold shoulder, he dismounted and chattered away incessantly as he walked his bike alongside me. He was small and wiry and couldn’t have been any older than sixteen. His coal-black hair, shining in the sunlight like an oil slick, looked as if he’d used gloss paint to comb it back with and his top lip bore the scar from a harelip, which far from marring his good looks seemed to enhance them.
‘You mind if we talk?’ he chirped. ‘My name’s Joselito, pleased to meet you. What’s your name, buddy?’
‘Look, I’m not interested,’ I snapped, hoping he’d go away.
‘OK, OK, I only wanna talk. Say, are you Australian then?’
‘No I’m not, I’m English.’
‘Ho! I have a cousin who lives in Birming-ham, maybe you know her?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘In a town called King’s Heath, you ever been?’
Jesus, would he ever take the hint and bugger off?
‘Look, I’m going in here now,’ I said, stopping outside the museum. ‘Nice to meet you but I have to go now.’
‘You want me to come with you? I can show you where the Picasso is.’
‘No, I’m all right, thank you.’ I sniffed, aware that I was beginning to sound worryingly like my mother.
‘Hey, I don’t want sex with you, oh, no-noo sir.’
‘Good, I’m glad to hear it because I don’t want sex with you either.’ Cheeky little sod. What did he mean by that? What’s wrong with me then?
‘So, buddy, you want me to come with you?’
‘All right,’ I said, worn down by his doggedness, and instantly regretted my rash decision.
‘I’ll put my bike away,’ he shouted, running towards the car park. ‘Wait for me. Hey, what’s your name?’
‘Paul,’ I called after him, causing him to stop and turn round and shoot me a quizzical look.
‘Pearl?’
‘No, Paul, it’s my accent, I’m from Liverpool.’
‘Wow!’ He suddenly became very excited. ‘Liverpool! The best football team in the world!’
You could write what I know about the beautiful game on the nipple of an amoeba and I seriously hoped that he didn’t want to strike up an in-depth discussion about football as I
wouldn’t be able to participate. I needn’t have worried; I wouldn’t have been able to get a word in, Joselito did all the talking. Sat in the café drinking his Coke that I’d had to force him into accepting, he told me that Kenny Dalglish and Jimmy Case were gods and his greatest wish was to see Liverpool play at Anfield one day. He looked at me as if I’d slapped his face when I let slip that although I’d only lived a train and a bus ride away I’d never been there.
It turned out Joselito was twenty-two and not sixteen as I’d previously thought. He lived with his mother and numerous siblings in one of Manila’s many shanty towns and to help support his family he drove a Trike, a taxi motorbike with a covered sidecar familiar on the streets of the capital. He and his brother rented it, sharing the workload. He’d been on his way to visit an uncle recovering from an illness when he’d spotted me and was now asking if I’d like to go with him.
‘I’ll take you on my bike.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so.’
‘Yes you will, c’mon, c’mon.’
Ten minutes later I was sat on the back of a bike that was two spokes away from being classified as a deathtrap, weaving in and out of the heavy traffic with Joselito pedalling hell for leather as if we were taking part in the Tour de France.
‘You OK, buddy?’ he shouted over his shoulder, turning to look at me.
‘I’m fine, just keep your bloody eyes on the road, will ya.’
Please God, let me survive this bike ride and I’ll never be bad again
…
Joselito’s uncle lived in a shanty town that ran either side of the railway tracks. There seemed to be as many mangy dogs about as there were people and the children, oblivious to the
dangers of oncoming trains, played happily among the railway sleepers. The squalor that I frequently found myself in with some of my Camden clients bore no comparison to the shack where Joselito’s uncle lived, no bigger than your average garden shed and constructed entirely out of debris – corrugated iron, bits of wood, roofing felt, lino, cardboard, anything considered suitable for housing material that had been scavenged off the rubbish tips.
His uncle slept in a makeshift bed behind a shower curtain that divided the solitary room. I thought he was in his sixties at least and was shocked when Joselito told me that he was only thirty, prematurely aged by the ravages of cancer. It was all very depressing and I found it hard to comprehend that people were forced to live like this. Despite his obvious pain, Joselito’s uncle greeted me warmly, reacting with the same delight that Joselito had shown when I told him I was from Liverpool. ‘Ah, Liverpool,’ he exclaimed, ‘Kenny Dalglish!’
I was glad to get out of the fetid air of the little room and into the open again. A crowd had gathered outside, curious to see who the foreign visitor was. A young girl, another of Joselito’s relatives, held out a baby for me to see. She was beautiful, no more than a few days old and wrapped in a snowy-white shawl, shining like a pearl in the midst of such squalor. What chance did she stand? I wondered, growing up in the face of such adversity.
‘I’d better go home now,’ I said to Joselito, anxious to get away from this place. He instantly offered me a lift on his bike. Despite my protestations there was no turning this persistent kid down and reluctantly I got on the back again.
‘You seen the sunset over the bay yet?’ he asked. ‘It’s very beautiful. I’ll take you, yes?’
‘When Madame Marcos had a party on her yacht in the bay, she floated barrels alongside filled with Chanel No. 5 so the air would smell nice for the guests,’ Joselito told me proudly, throwing his empty can of Sprite in among a mound of rotten flotsam and jetsam gathered on the shoreline. ‘Isn’t that clever?’
No, I didn’t think it was clever at all. How could he speak with such pride and affection of a woman who showed so little regard for her people, floating barrels of expensive perfume in the harbour when the citizens of Manila existed in abject poverty all around her?
‘She loves the people,’ he said simply, ‘and they love her.’
It seemed pointless to argue so I said no more on the subject. I’d already got into trouble in a shop for making remarks about the Marcoses and I didn’t want a repeat performance. I’d laughed at a highly romanticized portrait of the lady, which looked like a crude attempt at emulating a Pierre et Gilles photograph. There were pictures of the Marcoses, Imelda in particular, all over Manila but this one took the biscuit. Here she was, depicted as a latter-day Madonna – by that I don’t mean she was bumping and grinding in a conical bra, no, I’m talking about the Virgin Mary, who, to the best of my knowledge, didn’t go in for such a carry-on, that being more in Salome’s line of work. Anyway, here’s Imelda complete with halo sitting on a gold throne gazing adoringly towards the heavens and cradling a sleeping child in her arms. That was comical enough but what really set me off were her eyes. They were crossed, giving her a pained expression as if
she were sat on an elaborate lav, badly in need of a heavy-duty laxative.
‘This has got to be a send-up, surely?’ I said to Ryan.
‘Leave it, will you. Stop taking the piss.’
‘But look at her, she’s got a gozzie eye.’
‘Will you shut it.’
‘She wants shootin’.’
Ryan could see that the two men behind the counter were becoming increasingly agitated at my reaction to what was obviously a prized possession and, hastily paying for his ciggies, he dragged me out of the shop.
‘You can’t say things like that about her within earshot,’ Ryan admonished me. ‘She’s a saint here. The Filipinos won’t hear a bad word about Imelda or her old man, so keep your bloody gob shut in future or we’ll be the ones getting shot.’
‘But they’re a pair of gangsters,’ I protested.
‘Even so, that kind of talk will get you arrested. This country will eventually come to its senses, but until then do us a favour and keep your bloody big trap shut, eh?’
By the time we got back to the hotel I was in agony. Every part of my body ached from the journey home on the back of Joselito’s bike, the saddle of which had been whittled away with age to the width of a pencil. It was akin to sitting on a blunt axe. Outside the hotel a young Australian walked by. You could tell he was Australian, blond, tanned and healthy, sunshine in a pair of shorts.
‘Phew,’ Joselito whistled, ‘there’s a hot-looking guy. Oh man, look at those legs.’ He was salivating, licking his lips appreciatively as Bondi Beach Boy swaggered past. ‘Oh, I love Western boys,’ he drooled, ‘Australians, Americans, English, Dutch, you name it.’
‘Oh no,’ he said, horrified, ‘you’re too old.’
Over the hill at twenty-three! Oh well, I did ask. With that we parted, him to his job driving his Trike and me to consider plastic surgery, pulling the skin of my face back in the bathroom mirror to assess if a facelift was in order.
Tension was mounting between Ryan and myself and we argued at every opportunity. I wanted our relationship to revert to the way it had been in the early days, just me and him. Unfortunately a lot of water had passed under the bridge since then and Ryan had moved on, taking the cold shoulder that I’d given him back in London as a sign that the feeling was mutual. I accused him of having it away with everyone from the room service boys to the doormen, until inevitably our verbal spats led to a full-blown fight, wrecking half of the kitchenette in the process.
Having had enough, Ryan vanished for three days on a trip with some friends to one of the islands. I headed for Gussie’s and got drunk.
I poured my heart out over the bar to Gussie. ‘Why does he make me so angry?’ I moaned. ‘Why do we always end up hating each other?’
‘The answer is simple, you love him,’ said Gussie, topping my glass up. ‘Perhaps you should tell him.’
Oh Christ
.
I got so drunk that night that I got up and ‘sang’. The only number in the band’s extremely limited repertoire that we both knew was ‘Summertime’ and telling the bemused drummer to ‘give it plenty of welly’ I took off around the
dance floor, murdering that lovely song in a voice that my ma always compared to the sound of a lump of coal caught underneath a cellar door, slowly stripping off down to my underpants as I went. I’m cringing with shame as I recall it. However, at the time the fact that I was standing on the dance floor of a busy club wearing nothing but my underpants didn’t faze me in the least. Oh, the curse of the demon drink!
On the plus side, the crowd (it would’ve had to be packed that night) went wild. Westerners didn’t normally throw caution to the wind and behave in such a manner, especially in a place like Gussie’s, and as my new-found confidence grew, fed by the applause and cries for more, I gave them a bit of patter which, in my drunken haze, appeared to go down very well. Wisecracking with the crowd, I even managed a comeback to an American who asked me why I wasn’t taking the underpants off.
‘Because I’ll catch cold,’ I replied coyly, a feeble retort and one nicked from Gypsy Rose Lee, I know, but very effective nevertheless at the time. Asking my audience if they would be so kind as to return the clothing that I’d tossed among them with such gay abandon, I left the dance floor to a tumultuous roar of appreciation. Flushed with the sweet smell of success, I drank every drink that was bought for me and had to be poured into the sidecar of Joselito’s Trike when Gussie eventually managed to persuade me to go home.