Jas was still on the phone, nodding like a nodding thing.
Huh, she was probably doing pretend snogging on the phone to Hunky.
I was exhausted.
I went up to the counter and ordered myself a milk shake.
The young chap wanted to talk. Oh dear.
He said, “Now, where are you all from?”
I said, “England.”
He said, “Oh, wow…awesome.”
He was just looking at me drinking my milk shake.
Then he said, “Do you know Prince Charles?”
Oh dear God.
I said, “Yes, I play table tennis with him.”
Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending how you look at it, Jas came and sat down beside me.
I said, “I have spoken to loads of people, pretty much all of them mad, and spent all my money and I have no idea where Masimo is. What about you? How was Hunky?”
“I don’t know, I’ve just been told off for about a million years.”
It turns out that when Jas got through to the farm, it was one A.M. in the morning timewise and the Kiwi-a-gogo farmer who eventually answered wasn’t pleased. Jas said, “When he answered the phone he said, ‘Are you there?’ You know, with that funny accent that goes up at the end.”
“Why did he say, ‘Are you there?’ when you had just phoned him?”
“I don’t know, it is the Kiwi-a-gogo way.”
“Then what happened?”
“I said, ‘Yes, I am here, are you there?’ and he lost his rag for no reason and said ‘Don’t go playing the bloody smartarse with me’ and started giving me a lecture about how hard they worked on the farm and what time they all had to be up. I said, ‘Er, I am in Memphis.’ And he said, ‘I don’t care if you’re in the bloody body of a whale, don’t phone up in the middle of the bloody night.’
And he put the phone down on her.
Crikey.
I never intended to go to Kiwi-a-gogo and now I know I made the right decision. Do you know why? Because they are all mad.
And they think that just gone midnight is late.
I rest my case.
Jas was all miffed, but she agreed to just have a look at the bus station. We shuffled off to find it. Hot as billio. I think I am getting a bit brown though. Everyone is soooo friendly, its vair vair tiring. And all the men wear either Elvis costumes or dungarees.
I said to Jas to cheer her up, “I have never seen grown men wear dungarees.”
She said, “They are not called dungarees in Hamburger-a-gogo land. They are called overalls.”
I looked at her.
“How come you know so much about it? Have you got some?”
She went a bit Jas-ish. “Well, yes, I, er…use them for, you know, er, gardening and so on. They have many useful pockets.”
Yes, I bet.
I had a sudden image of her and Tom cavorting around in her bedroom in their dungarees….
bus station
Do you know when buses go to Manhattan? Never, that’s when. Also, if they did go, it would take five weeks to get there and back.
Sacré bleu.
Jas said, “Look, be reasonable. We are not going to track him down, let’s just try and enjoy ourselves through our love pain.”
tuesday may 24th
poolside
1:00 p.m.
The olds are all in their swimming cozzies drinking cocktails. Libby has made our Lord Sandra a sarong. She seems to have forgotten about the cat plane fandango because she is so spoiled by everyone she meets. If she eats any more, I fear an explosion in the knicker department.
Vati is still being ridiculous about my gun.
When I asked him to get me one, like in Thelma and Louise, he said “What part of ‘not a hope in hell’ don’t you understand, Georgia?”
“I only want a small one, just for the comedy value of it falling out my handbag in a café or something. It could even be one of those cigarette lighter things.”
But oh, no, he is just too busy chatting bollocks to Uncle Eddie about clown cars and beards. Apparently there are more clown cars at the convention than anywhere else in the world.
Vati said, “What a sight: Robin Reliants for as far as the eye could see.”
I said, “Hurrah,” in an ironic way, but he didn’t get it.
Uncle Eddie is allowed to wear his comedy-arrow-through-the-head hat when we go out to dinner.
It is soooo unfair.
evening
When we were in the Live to Rock diner this huge bloke came over also wearing a comedy arrow through the head. I thought he was one of Uncle Eddie’s sad clown-car mates but he turned out to be the waiter.
I said, “Could I have a glass of Coca-Cola, please?”
He said, “Coming right up, ma’am.”
I said to Jas, “I could get used to this ma’am business; it makes me feel like Her Maj.”
As we were leaving the diner the same bloke brought me this mag called Dallas Monthly.
He said, “I thought you would like it because of the cover, ma’am.”
And the cover was of some heavily bearded bloke dressed as Her Maj smoking a cigar.
I just said, “Thank you. What a lovely gift.”
wednesday may 25th
midday
I tried one more time in the phone booth of love, but after speaking to a petrol pump attendant and the mother of twins called Apple and Spaceboy, I decided enough is enough.
On the plus side, we did have a hoot and a half at Graceland, where Elvis the Pelvis lived (and died, as it turns out—he died of a hamburger overdose).
We saw his bedroom and everything and even his grave. Bought some marvy gifts in the gift emporium for the chums. A lovely Elvis mug, which I am sure some fool (Grandad) will cherish, hilarious wigs, and just to show that we can all live in peace and harmony, I bought the Prat Poodles two Elvis dog outfits. One was a little Lurex all-in-one suit from Elvis’s Las Vegas days—it even had a doggy-size quiff. The other suit was based on this film called Jailhouse Rock and was a doggy prisoner outfit with a striped hat. I would have bought Angus and Gordy one each too, but they would have eaten them in minutes. Oh, and I also bought a very elderly man’s CD. That was a bit of a mistake, actually. This old bloke was sitting in the shop dressed entirely in blue Lurex and humming. I thought he was another elderly Elvis impersonator, but then his “assistant” informed me he was a blues legend.
Jas thought the man said “blue,” not “blues.”
“Why is he a blue legend—does he always wear blue?”
She can be incredibly dim. He was called Moaning Clyde or Wailing Clyde or something, anyway some kind of complaining was going on namewise. Sadly, Moaning Clyde took a shine to me and kept patting my head, so in desperation I had to buy his CD. And then he made us get a photo taken with him. He was quite a tiny chap and his head was practically resting on one of my nunga-nungas.
Jas whispered to me, “Moaning Clyde is your new boyfriend. He luuurves you.”
She might be right. I couldn’t make out what he was saying; we may be married, for all I know. Still, as I said to Jas, “I don’t think a hundred-year age difference is necessarily a barrier to our happiness; the fact that I will never see him again probably is, though.”
8:00 p.m.
In our hotel. Alone!!! Dad and Uncle Eddie and Mum and Libby are all at the clown-car evening do with their incredibly sad new mates.
There are twenty-two channels on the TV, which is in a chest of drawers. There isn’t a TV in the wardrobe, which is a bit of a blow. But ho hum, pig’s bum.
Tuning into the local stations. Mostly it is fools plucking away on banjos and singing “I am the son of a preacher man.” Or something about God or grits, etc. But then we found a program with a sort of agony aunt person. She is called Delilah and is supposed to be cheering people up when they phone in with “luuurve trouble.”
She wouldn’t have cheered me up, I can tell you that. She was an alarming
shade of orange and dressed entirely in pink. There was a suggestion of the criminally insane around the pigtails area. Some poor sod phoned in about her second marriage. She said, “Good evening, Delilah, I am getting remarried and my son from my first marriage is having a little trouble coming to terms with my wedding. In fact, he is refusing to come. How can I persuade him to enjoy my lovely day?”
Delilah (looking intently into the camera with a mad/concerned look on her face) said, “So what you are saying is that your son is DEVASTATED by your new marriage?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say devastated, I would—”
Delilah hadn’t finished. “He is MORTIFIED that you have taken another man to YOUR BED who is not his father.”
“Well, he hasn’t mentioned the bed, it was just that he—”
“He CANNOT BELIEVE his own MOTHER would deceive him and LET HIM DOWN SOOOOO BADLY. He is in TORMENT!”
After having reduced the caller practically to suicide, Delilah then said, “But as you all know, music soothes the troubled breast, and here’s a little tune for you to heal the wounds.”
The tune was called “You Are a Drunk and an Unfit Mother.”
I wanted to ring the helpline number to complain about my mutti and vati, but then I would have only got through to Dad and he’s not even in.
thursday may 26th
poolside
only three days till we go back to england
Even if I can’t find Masimo, I can concentrate on becoming brown as a bee in a bikini. Me and Jas had just settled down to heavy sunbathing duties when Vati tried to make us go to the clown-car convention with them.
He said, “What is the point in coming to a new country and then just lolling about by the pool? You could do that anywhere; you should get out and experience the culture.”
I said, “Dad, how many hamburgers can one person eat? And anyway, Me and Jas are soaking up the culture conversationwise poolsidewise. So get real and cut me some slack here because I am sooooo OVER you.”
“Why are you talking rubbish?”
“Well, HELLOOOO, Dad, do not even GO there—that is not rubbish, that is Hamburgese.”
He went raving and grumbling on, but at last they left me and Jas in peace for a few hours.
3:00 p.m.
I said to Jas, “Have I got strap marks?”
“Let’s see…yes, you have.”
Excellent!!!
evening
In the old laughter wagon again on our way to a hotel that everyone has been rambling on about. It’s called Gaylords, which says it all in my book.
I said meaningfully to Uncle Eddie and Vati, “You two are certainly in the right place then.”
Gaylords is “the Western experience under one roof.” Apparently people can’t be arsed to go to the real West, so they just come to this hotel. We went in through the “saloon door.”
inside gaylords
Oh, this is so much worse than you can possibly imagine. There are canyons and waterfalls and deserts all inside a hotel and everyone is dressed in cowboy outfits, or shorts with high heels and gold belts for the ladeez. (Didn’t you know that in the Wild West the ladies wore shorts and high heels?) I said to Dad, “Now can I have a gun?”
But he and Uncle Eddie were too busy yelling “Yee-haa” and staggering around in tight leather jeans. Yes, they were wearing leather. I will just leave that image with you. Me and Jas tried at all times not to be behind them because then we would have to look at their bottoms bursting out of their tight leather jeans.
Erlack.
By the Dodge City cinema there is actually a shop that sells overalls.
I am not kidding.
five minutes later
Oh good, Dad and Uncle Eddie have bought some and they have slipped off to the “rest rooms,” or “bucks’ room” (I know, I know), and come back wearing them….
This is a nightmare scenario.
In the bar area comfort zone they have bucking broncos as bar stools.
Nothing will make me go on one.
two minutes later
I am sitting on a bucking bronco stool, I have a pair of horns in between my legs…so has everyone. We are all sitting at the bar on bucking bronco stools. My dad and Uncle Eddie are wearing overalls. The bar staff are all dressed like Wyatt Earp and crack a whip when you order a drink. Nothing could be worse.
Wrong. Oh, so very wrongey wrong wrong.
The bucking bronco bar stools actually buck. I found this out when “Rawhide” came on the speaker system. I was too late getting off, and before I knew it I was being thrown backward and forward and round and round. I was clinging onto the horns for dear life. Jas had fallen half off hers and was nearly upside down. Libby was absolutely hooting with laughter and yelling, “Giddyup!!!”
God, I feel sick. The stools eventually stopped bucking when “Rawhide” finished, and me and Jas scrambled off and had a rest on a rock.
four minutes later
“Rawhide” came on again, and Libby and Mum, Dad and Uncle Eddie, and everyone else at the bar started bucking about like loonies. It is sooooo sad. Dad fell off. Good.
two minutes later
Dad and Uncle Eddie have made loads of new fat overally mates.
Hoorah.
The fun just goes on and on. From the safety of our rock we were watching a boy with alarmingly big white teeth and those leather things that cowboys wear over their jeans. They are called chaps, for some reason. Cowboys wear them when they are rounding up cattle. White-teeth boy wasn’t rounding up cattle, he was line dancing like a fool.
I said to Jas, “He makes Sven seem normal.”
Then he caught me staring at him, winked, and came over.
“Do you mind if I take a little rest beside you, ma’am, I’m a bit saddle sore.”
I said, “Sadly, it’s a free country.”
He sat down and said, “Hi, you all. Whereabouts in Australia are you all from?”
I said, “I’m English.”
And he whistled and said, “Awesome!”
Is it?
Then he tipped his hat back and said, “Honey, I bet you are a real good kisser.”
What a cheek!
I said with haughtiology and glaciosity: “I’m afraid I don’t do snogging with strangers.”
Jas almost choked on her megasize Coca-Cola (i.e., Coke in a bucket).
Big-teeth boy said, “What is snoggling?”
Snoggling?
It turned out that Mr. Goofy knew next to nothing about the British language. For instance, when I asked politely, “Were you always an arse and a prat, or were you once just a prat?” he didn’t understand what I meant.
Fortunately we were interrupted in our interesting cross-cultural chat by Libby. She came over singing, “Head ’em cup, knead ’em in. Soooooorrreee hide!” and sat on my lap.
She was looking at my new “friend” and then looking at his trousers.
“Georgeee, why is that man so bulgy?”
Then she slipped down from my knee and before I could stop her she went and stood looking and looking at his pouch trousers. He just had time to say, “Well, how are you all doing, little miss?” before she thumped him in the trouser-snake area.
Happy days.
And lovely holiday moments.
friday may 27th
only two more days to go
We were driving to the clown-car convention when we saw a big four-wheel drive car thing, and in the rear window it had a sticker that said HONK IF YOU SEE THE TWINS FALL OUT, which I though was vair vair amusant.
I said to Vati, “We could have one that said ‘Don’t honk if Uncle Eddie falls out.’
Mum said, “Don’t be so rude.”
But she needn’t have bothered, as Uncle Eddie had his headphones on and was singing along (badly) to “I Am Proud to Be a Redneck.”
Which I think is spookily karmic, as his whole head is practically now a red neck, if you see what I mean.
at the clown-c
ar convention
2:00 p.m.
Me and Jas slipped off by ourselves to get away from the overall-wearing fools. And do more sunbathing.
Libby came with us to the ice cream stall and she started her usual shouting. “Me want a big big one pleeeeeeease!”
The elderly man and woman behind us, both dressed from top to toe in gingham, said, “Isn’t she the cute one?”
I looked around, but amazingly they were talking about Libby.
“Hey now, let us get you a treat, little lady.”
And they paid for her ice cream.
She said, “Fank oo ladies.”
They were keen as mustard to know us, and gingham-man said to me, “How are you all enjoying your day?”
I said, “Oh, fab, I haven’t enjoyed myself this much since I injured my ankle at hockey.”
But I said it with a charming and light smile.
Mrs. Gingham said, “Oh, that is a cute accent you’ve got there. Whereabouts in Ireland are you from?”
Then Libby, in between mouthfuls of ice cream, said, “I can sing my song.”
Oh no. I tried to gag her but she bit my hand and went on really loudly and with gusto.
“Poo pooo bum bum. Poo bummy bum bum, arse.”
Oh good.
The Ginghams clapped and laughed.
“Oh, soooo cute. But what is ‘arse?’ That is not a word I know. Is it an Oirish word?” Mrs. Gingham asked.
Libby started smacking her behind, singing, “Bum bum, arse arse.”
And the Ginghams clapped along. I hope they weren’t escapees from the circus-clown-car mental home.
Then Mrs. Gingham said, “Oh, I seee, honey. You mean your derrière! You say arse in Oireland but in the United States we would say FANNY. Can you say that word, dear? ‘Fanny’? Let me pat your little fanny.”
I dragged Libby away quickly. With a bit of luck she would forget all about the fanny business.
As we went off, Mrs. Gingham yelled, “Now you all come back and visit us from Oireland again, begorrah.”
Good grief.
But God bless them—if you can’t beat them, join them, I say.