...........Last time, on the search for funny....
........Okay, I’ve got it sorted now. I get so engrossed in the writing I just don’t even realise I’m doing it. Enough about that. I’m here on a mission so I’m going to see if there is anything humorous on this here plane. First I’ll need my ninth beer. Following the embarrassment of recent events, I figure if I throw a few back I can retro-fit my apparent loopiness as simple drunkenness in the memories of those aboard, thereby becoming “the party guy” rather than “the crazy guy”. It’s worth a shot.....
- Aaaand, continuance initiated:
Sep 15
I’m still in prison. The Portugese policia have no sense of humour. Nor do the hosties on Japanese Airlines flight 666. And they certainly don’t understand the concept of “the party guy” and how anything he does while under the influence can easily be laughed off with a simple-yet-endearing “you’re an idiot”.
Free food and water here though.
Sep 16
I’m out of prison. Spoke to my embassy, threw some money around and now I’m free. I now find myself in a charming little coastal village called Ericeira. I like it, so I’ve booked myself into The Gay Pelican, a local backpackers, the name of which, I am told, harks back to days past when gay meant happy, it probably still does for some. Which reminds me, here’s a true story from my childhood in WA. I attended a primary school in a small suburb called Eaton.
Established in the 70’s the school song proudly proclaimed that “Eaton children are so gay, as they work rest and play, Eeeeeaton our schoooool.” Needless to say, those of us who participated in interschool carnivals in the 80’s were not served well by our innocent-yet-proud declaration of gaiety in this not-so-liberal-minded corner of the world. In 1986 the song was amended and the students are no longer gay.
- CHAPTER DEUX -
Sep 19
It’s Friday. I’ve been out of jail for three days and really am enjoying my new-found freedom. Doing time really changes your perspective on things. I didn’t get institutionalised. Strong in mind.
I met an Irish girl this morning. ‘Are you finished with the toaster?’ she politely asked. ‘No’ I politely replied, ‘but you can use it’ I said with a smile. Very nice of me. She thought so too and joined me for brekky. She was intrigued by the notion of a search for funny and found the whole concept to be hilarious in itself.
Her name is Penny and she’s a waitress back in Ireland where she has left her boyfriend to travel for two months. She hasn’t “left” her boyfriend. He simply remains in Donegal patiently awaiting her return.
There are some friendly travellers here at the backpackers, though Penny is my favourite. She’s quite funny and has a glint in her eye that tells me she knows more than I do. She can’t be trusted. Tonight a few of us are heading out for a bit of a knees-up.
Sep 20
What a night! Big night on the sauce, starting with a few Westmalle Tripels on the porch here at O Pelicano, followed by a swag of La Trappe Quadrupels at A Cabeca de Cavalo, before stumbling into O Unicornio Frustrado to sample Samuel Smith’s Taddy Porter. Only Penny, the French lass Marie, the Swiss fella Matteas, and myself made it to that bar on the beach of which the name escapes me. This is where things got funny and just a little bit bizarre.
The funny bit relates to this old Portugese piss-head I got chatting to when we first arrived. He seemed a bit loopy, a bit alcoholic and a little bit fun too. He was short, round and wore a holey old grey jumper with faded green cords and fingerless woolly black mittens. He looked like Bill Oddie and I’m not entirely convinced that he wasn’t. His English was better than my Portugese and he laughed hard with wheezy diaphragmal intensity and slapped his thigh a lot when I informed him of my mission. He continued to laugh as the conversation progressed and slapped something different every time a new bout erupted – the bar, my back, you name it. His squinty green eyes were watery with glee. Then he huddled us up and said “Hey! You guys wanna see sometin’ really funny? Huh? You wanna laugh like me?” His eyes darted excitedly around the group. “Watch this”. And with that, the crazy old short drunk round fella proceeded to tickle me! And in no short measure! He keeps saying “tickle, tickle, tickle, tickle” as I try to fend him off with efforts rendered weak and ineffective through laughing too hard. Tears are streaming down my cheeks. Penny is in hysterics as she tries to drag him off me.
“Tickle him!” I manage to squeal through a larynx seized with laughter. Her tickle efforts render the man completely defenceless. He drops to the ground wriggling and writhing in a mad giggle-fest; this 58 year old stranger. Good times
The bizarre bit happened when I woke up this morning, and this really has me intrigued. In my rear dancing pants pocket was a mysterious message scrawled on a beer mat:
“What you seek exists, I know
In a place where it doth ne’er snow
A clue for you it be in France
I hope this beer mat fits in your pants”
Ph: 0405 509 238
It’s probably nothing.
.........to be continued.....(para ser continuada).....
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