Wednesday 10th July

WIMBLEDON

The journey to Wimbledon took up most of the morning. In the end we had to take four trains and a taxi. It should only have been two trains and a long walk, but Wombat made us get off the second train because there were too many blacks in our carriage. We then boarded the third train which turned out to be on the Circle Line and we ended up back where we had started in the first place. We finally arrived at Wimbledon and discovered the longest queue in the history of mankind. Dad tried to push to the front of the queue but was forced out by an angry woman with a yellow umbrella. Dad skulked back to us and said the Poms were a ‘miserable race of people’.

Then Wombat became disorientated and seemed to think that we were queuing for war rations.

After a few minutes of trying to reassure my grandmother that the war had ended nearly half a century ago, a tall man in a grey suit approached us and offered us black market tickets. Wombat asked him for a case of tinned sardines and a gallon of drinking water. The man in the suit ignored her completely and asked for a hundred and twenty pounds for three tickets. Mom haggled him down to eighty quid and took the money out of Wombat’s handbag. Dad graciously said he would miss the tennis and said he would rather check out the town of Wimbledon instead. Mom gave him a big kiss and Wombat gave him his thirty-five quid pocket money. We arranged to meet again at five o’clock in a pub down the street and Dad set off in high spirits singing the Wombles of Wimbledon Common song.

Unfortunately, things went downhill after that. Turned out our black market tickets for the Men’s Final were fake and that Wimbledon had finished last weekend, the queue we were standing in was for a Ladbrokes betting shop, and a light rain was starting to fall.

We wandered off to take shelter in the pub where we discovered Dad at the bar with three very loud South Africans from Pretoria. They were all dressed in Northern Transvaal rugby jerseys and kept chanting insulting songs about England and shouting rude comments at the barman in Afrikaans. Dad’s face dropped when he saw us come in and he quickly threw his cap over his pint and said he’d been sheltering from the rain until the museum opened. Mom, Wombat and I sat in a booth and Wombat tried to order strawberries and cream for five pounds but the waiter said the tennis special was over and brought us dry scones instead. The only tennis we got to see was a rerun of a boring game of ladies doubles on the pub’s TV. The only player I recognized was Arantxa Sánchez Vicario who I’m sure must be a lesbian. Her thighs are bigger than both of mine put together! She also grunts like a man every time she hits the ball. Sánchez Vicario and her pretty blonde partner embraced after they had won the match and I then had a dark fantasy about what might go on in the change room after the match.

Dad ordered a round for the whole pub, taking the money from Wombat’s handbag while she was hunting for her serviette under the table. After shaking hands with everyone in the pub he turned to me and said the South Africans had told him that living in England was worse than living in South Africa. He repeated this three times in case Mom didn’t get the message.

Thursday 11th July

A long day walking and sightseeing, including Big Ben, Houses of Parliament, Trafalgar Square and various pubs.

Friday 12th July

CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY

What a beautiful place to study! I’ve decided that I’ll have to win another scholarship and study English literature at Cambridge University. (And then after lessons I’ll row beautiful women up and down the river Cam and recite love poems to them before taking them back to my rooms for some passionate kissing and fondling.)

I found Christ’s College where The Guv said John Milton studied. In fact there was a bronze statue of him in one of the quads. He may have been a great poet but he was only the second best looking John Milton in Cambridge today!

The boats being rowed up the river Cam are called punts. Wombat refused to hire a punt because she said she was worried about getting seasick. Instead we watched a small gang of students on Clare Bridge, a beautiful bridge with three huge concrete balls on it, who seemed to be planning some sort of practical joke. They were holding a giant soccer ball and were all pointing at a punt of Japanese tourists who were slowly drifting down the river and snapping away at everything with their fancy cameras. The students waited until the Japanese were just below the bridge and then hurled the giant football over it. The next minute there were screams and shouts and a huge splash. Obviously the Japanese tourists thought a huge concrete ball was about to crush them and they leapt overboard like lemmings. The crowd cheered and Mom and Dad gave each other a high five. The students then scattered in all directions, whooping and shouting. Dad thumped me on the back and said, ‘Bloody Japs – they’re not the only ones who can do kamikaze!’

Sunday 14th July

The Miltons (dressed in their Sunday best) strode into the massive St Paul’s Cathedral for holy communion. Wombat burst into tears when we walked down the aisle and said that this was where she got married in 1981. Mom handed her a tissue and told Wombat she was confusing her own wedding with that of Princess Diana and Prince Charles. Wombat pretended not to listen and made out she was deep in prayer. I didn’t recognize any of the hymns although I couldn’t have sung even if I had.

There’s a very pretty brunette staying in our hotel. We locked eyes in the lobby and she gave me a smile. I tried to smile back but my lips were stuck to my gums.

Monday 15th July

Brunette must have checked out because there were five bald men sitting at her breakfast table this morning.

11:45 Express train to Brighton to visit Wombat’s sister. Everyone was nervous. Wombat was nervous because she was seeing her sister for the first time in twenty years. Dad was nervous because Mom wants us to emigrate to Brighton. (She hasn’t told us this but Dad overheard her telling Wombat that she wanted to live in Brighton and has even started checking out possible schools for me.) Mom was nervous because Dad was looking twitchy and a bit manic. I was nervous because fear is catching and I don’t like the thought of leaving my home and my country and settling somewhere cold and miserable.

12:04 Wombat and Mom have a loud argument with the train’s barman because the bar is meant to open at noon.

12:07 Wombat starts knocking on the bar door with her umbrella and shouting, ‘The sun is over the yardarm!’ The barman continues cleaning glasses without opening the bar.

12:09 Dad says, ‘Bugger this,’ and presses an emergency button above his seat.

12:11 The conductor arrives, looking pale. He has a fire extinguisher under his left arm.

12:12 Mom abuses the conductor for not opening the bar on time.

12:13 The conductor apologizes and orders the barman to open the bar.

12:17 Sulky barman opens door.

12:18 The Miltons file into the bar with the entire carriage watching in fascination. Wombat continues crapping on the conductor and the barman.

12:22 The barman loses his patience with Wombat and tells her it’s Monday morning and suggests that she might have a drinking problem.

12:23 Wombat hits the barman with her umbrella and calls him a vagabond.

12:27 Very pale conductor calms everyone down and offers the Miltons a free round of drinks.

12:28 Dad accuses the barman of bribery and of being prejudiced against South Africans. The barman offers him a double round. Dad accepts and the three men shake hands.

12:29 Dad orders a double round of Johnnie Walker whisky for all four of us.

12:30 The barman refuses to serve me liquor.

12:31 Dad changes the order to a double round of three triple Johnnie Walkers and a tomato juice.

12:32 I tell Dad that I don’t drink tomato juice. He says tomato juice is four times the price of a Coke.

12:35 Pale conductor and sulky barman have to push two tables together because our drinks don’t fit on a single table.

12:40 A small group of people watch us from the door and shake their heads. A large woman with red hair turns to an even larger woman with even redder hair and says, ‘Course it’s always the child that suffers, isn’t it?’ The even fatter woman nods and shakes her chins in dismay.

12:42 Dad stands up and orders us to raise our glasses for a toast. He then shouts, ‘South Africa 1, England 0!’ and sits down again and knocks back one of his triple whiskies. Wombat calls Dad ‘uncouth’ and then sets off on a long story about the dangers of rail travel during the war. Dad takes the opportunity to steal one of Wombat’s triple whiskies.

I spend the last eighteen minutes of the journey watching Miltons getting pissed with the compliments of British Rail.

THE BRIGHTON BALLS-UP

Bad news is that Wombat’s sister Eunice (Dingbat) is madder than Wombat. You can tell they’re related because Dingbat slammed the door on us at first because she thought we were Jehovah’s Witnesses. Dingbat’s husband (Neville) then opened the door again and invited us in. Neville’s accent was so strong I couldn’t understand a single word he said. We followed Neville into the house and found ourselves in a living room that smelled of cat’s pee. The culprit was a big fat red cat that lay on the couch with its legs open and a smug look on its face.

Then Dingbat became confused again and told us all to leave. Wombat told Dingbat we couldn’t leave because there was an air raid under way. There was a moment’s confusion before Neville took Dingbat into the kitchen and explained to his wife in a loud voice that we weren’t Christians, we were Miltons. Poor Dingbat returned and started crying and apologized for not knowing who we were. Wombat eyed her sister shiftily and leaned towards Mom and began whispering rather loudly. ‘She was always odd, you know – I once caught her canoodling with a girl.’ Dad choked on his scone and Neville quickly ran off to the kitchen saying that he needed sugar cubes. We then sat down to a very awkward tea where the conversation ran dry every minute or so. Every time there was a pause Wombat would whisper nasty comments so loudly that everyone could hear. After tea the conversation broke down completely and everyone looked around trying to think of something to say.

Then Neville turned to Wombat and said, ‘Look, I don’t wanna mess about here, and the old girl’s not been her best lately… so um… have you brought the money?’ Wombat’s whole body jerked back in her chair and she grabbed her handbag. Mom looked startled and asked Neville what he was talking about. Neville looked at Wombat and said, ‘The money we’re owed. Our inheritance, luv.’ Instantly Mom’s lips disappeared. Wombat leaned forward and asked, ‘Are they begging for money?’ Suddenly Neville stood up and started shouting. The next minute we found ourselves on the pavement outside Dingbat’s house staring at a freshly slammed door. Mom suggested we head to the local pub for a drink to settle our nerves.

WOMBAT’S MURKY HISTORY

Contrary to rumours circulating at school, Wombat didn’t kill and eat her family. According to Mom, in 1938 Dingbat married Neville, who was a plumber. Wombat’s and Dingbat’s parents refused to accept Neville into the family because he was from the working class and their parents thought themselves to be just short of aristocracy. They forbade Dingbat to marry Neville, saying he was a working class thug who was only after Dingbat’s money and status. Dingbat didn’t listen to her parents and married Neville anyway. Their parents refused to go to the wedding and disowned their elder daughter. As a result Wombat inherited everything and Dingbat didn’t get a penny.

Mom finished telling the story and we all looked at Wombat who refused to show any remorse and said that Dingbat didn’t deserve the money because she didn’t even bother to attend her parents’ funerals. Dad shook his head and looked depressed – no doubt he was thinking about inheriting a station wagon instead of a farm. After a long silence Dad went off to book us two rooms in the hotel above the pub while Mom and Wombat drank in silence.

Mom must be serious about emigrating to Brighton because she’s set up a meeting with a real estate agent tomorrow. Dad looked pale and ill and hardly touched his dinner.

Tuesday 16th July

Was kept up all night because Wombat kept moaning in her sleep and crunching noisily on her false teeth.

We met up with the Brighton estate agent after breakfast. Dad mumbled about the weather and sulked in the back seat of the car. Thankfully Wombat stayed behind at the hotel because she said she had gout problems and blamed the hotel’s pork sausages.

The estate agent had the ability to talk for ages at a time without stopping to take a breath. She also had a very short miniskirt that crept up her thighs every time she changed gear. Dad called her the Energizer Bunny. He nudged me in the ribs and whispered, ‘And you know what they say about bunnies…’ He then stared at her legs with glassy eyes and his mouth open. The Energizer Bunny told us that she had three places to show us that were more or less in our price range. Dad looked pale and lost interest in staring at the lady’s legs.

The first place was a one and a half bedroomed hovel that smelt worse than the school bogs. It was dark, poky and miserable, with a partial view of a large rubbish dump where crows were picking around looking for something to eat. The crows obviously sit on the roof because the window ledges were stained with white bird droppings. The Energizer Bunny did her best to emphasize the good points. (Within a mile of the shops, secure parking and a recently renovated lift.)

Dad said the place looked like a morgue. I went to the bathroom and noticed that the toilet was leaking. The kitchen window had been boarded up and the carpets were stained and showed signs of cigarette burns. Mom looked on the verge of tears, especially when the Energizer Bunny admitted that this was the best flat of the three.

Dad and I exchanged a very low key high five in the back seat.

Once the Energizer Bunny dropped us off Mom looked grim and said, ‘Well, I suppose now you two are satisfied.’ We didn’t say anything but Dad looked so happy that his face was shining bright pink. The Miltons are returning to Africa and all emigration plans have been cancelled!

Thursday 18th July

After the dodgy trip to Brighton it was great to be back in London. It’s such an amazing city that you get exhausted just by watching the traffic. Feeling a little sad that there are only a few days to go and there’s still so much I haven’t seen and done. The folks bought us some theatre tickets because I made them feel guilty about spending half their holiday in pubs. We’ve booked for Phantom of the Opera for Saturday night and Wombat and I are off to Stratford to watch Hamlet this evening. The Hamlet at Stratford was a slice of sheer luck. Somebody handed Wombat a pamphlet advertising the show. When Wombat saw the words STRATFORD PLAYERS written across the top she knew immediately that it meant quality and booked two tickets on the spot and told me she would show me where Shakespeare lived, died, and wrote.

18:00 Wombat handed the cab driver the Hamlet pamphlet and told him to take us there immediately. The driver looked at the pamphlet, shrugged and said, ‘As you wish, ma’m.’ Stratford wasn’t exactly what I was expecting from Shakespeare. It was in a terrible neighbourhood of council houses and other dingy looking buildings. I asked Wombat if we were in the right place. She nodded and told me that this is how the people used to live four hundred years ago.

As it turned out, we were nowhere near the place of Shakespeare’s birth. In fact we were in Stratford East, which is one of the poorest suburbs in London. The Theatre Royal wasn’t quite what we were expecting either and neither was the Hamlet. The show was set in a bathhouse and men played all the women’s parts with huge fake breasts attached to their costumes. Also the words of Shakespeare were mixed with strange song and dance numbers which the cast would lip synch deliberately out of time. After Hamlet sees the ghost he tears off his shirt and sings I Will Survive. The audience, of which Wombat was the only woman, clapped and sang along to all the songs. There was also a nasty scene when Hamlet and Horatio had a shocking kissing moment in Hamlet’s bedroom, with Hamlet’s mom watching from behind the curtain.

Wombat called the East Stratford Hamlet an abomination and made us leave in the middle of Hamlet’s ‘To be or not to be’ speech which the actor performed with a large jar of Vaseline in his hand. Outside we hailed a taxi and set off for home. Somewhere near the Tower of London Wombat turned to me and said, ‘You’re not a homosexual, are you?’ I blushed and shook my head.

Wombat stared at me for a moment and then looked away with a worried look on her face.

Back at the Kensington Palace Hotel, Wombat stormed into the bar and announced to the Miltons (and the other fifty drinkers) that I had dragged her off to a play about sodomites and that I was most probably a homosexual. I staggered backwards out of the bar and tried not to look at the sea of faces that were looking at me and turning away to snigger. Thank God Dad quite literally stood up for me and shouted, ‘Over my dead body is my boy a moffie!’ Wombat didn’t look convinced and said she refused to sleep in the same room as me in case I tried something. Mom ordered Wombat a double J&B and told her to settle down.

Wombat had two doubles in a row and had forgotten everything by the time her third whisky arrived.

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 579